He forced himself to think about the work he had in Middlesex, where he was involved in half a dozen different projects, all in various stages of completion.
The Elizabethan manor house, whose grounds had all been swallowed up by a small estate of smart new homes, and would be a conference centre soon, didn’t need replacement chimney pots. But the budget would allow for it, and he had seen the very ones in Barry Chapman’s salvage yard.
When Cat let him into Chapman’s yard at ten past five – the traffic had been terrible, and he’d wondered more than once if she would have locked up and gone home by the time he got to Walthamstow – he saw at once that she was looking good. A little tired, perhaps, a little pale, but she’d probably had a busy day.
She’d done something different with her hair, had pinned it up with pretty golden combs, and some of it was falling down in graceful, dark blonde curls.
His fingers itched to loop them up again.
She wore a pale pink top and smart black trousers which showed off her long legs, and her arms were dusted with light golden down, and around her neck she had a pretty silver chain which looked Victorian or Edwardian perhaps?
Why was he bothering to notice?
‘Mr Lawley?’ Cat was looking at him curiously. ‘I assume you want to see the chimneys?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said, and told himself to get a grip.
‘Okay, let’s go out into the yard.’
Adam took a good look at the chimneys, satisfied himself that they were genuine sixteenth-century Tudor terracotta, not from B&Q, and told her that he’d take them, if they could agree a price.
Cat was chewing at her lower lip in a way he’d noticed some girls did when they were worried, anxious, nervous or preoccupied.
But why would she be anxious?
Well, they were alone together out here in the yard.
Perhaps she felt intimidated, even scared of him?
She didn’t need to be.
‘Something wrong, Miss Aston?’ he enquired.
‘No, Mr Lawley, nothing’s wrong.’
She turned to walk back to the office, so he followed, trying all the time to think of something safe to say, something to defuse the tension he was sure he couldn’t have created, but which was getting tighter by the minute.
The wedding – girls loved talking about weddings and engagements, or in his experience most girls did, even though he’d got it wrong with Maddy.
Gwennie was forever going on at Jules to get engaged, leaving wedding magazines and wedding venue brochures lying round the flat. She and her girlfriends were always going off to wedding fairs, coming home with goodie bags and catalogues and samples.
Then they’d sit for hours on the sofa all soulful-eyed and wistful, talking about corsages and cupcakes and table decorations – which were better, real flowers or high-end artificial, not orange plastic roses, obviously, and had little pots of lavender been done to death?
‘Did you enjoy your trip to Dorset?’ he began.
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Lawley,’ Cat replied. ‘I had a lovely time.’
‘It’s a very attractive place, the Melbury Court Hotel.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Cat said tonelessly.
‘You and you fiancé must have a lot to do, organising something like a wedding at long distance, sorting out the guest list, working out who’s sitting next to who, deciding on a menu?’
‘Yes, it’s quite a challenge,’ she agreed and went back to chewing at her lip, gnawing at it hard enough to draw a bead of blood.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ he continued heartily. ‘I’m sure everything will work out fine.’
But she didn’t comment.
‘There’s still a lot to do at Melbury Court. The whole project – house and grounds and outbuildings – it’s one big work-in-progress. But the interior of the house itself is nearly finished, and I’m sure the health club will be up and running in good time for your big day. You might decide to have your hen night there?’
She turned and glanced at him for half a moment. Then, to his astonishment and dismay, her eyes filled up, spilled over.
‘What did I say?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘You—you didn’t say anything at all.’
‘But what’s the matter?’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Cat groped in her pocket for a tissue. She found one, wiped her eyes with it and then she blew her nose. ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she added. ‘It’s—please, Mr Lawley, don’t take any notice. Let me have a moment and I’ll be all right again.’
‘Perhaps I should come back some other time?’
‘R-really, it’s okay,’ choked Cat. ‘Come into the office and I’ll sort out the paperwork for you.’
Although she did her best to get a grip, Cat found she couldn’t stop crying. It was as if someone had turned a tap on in her head. She sat there sobbing like a child who’d had its lolly snatched or lost its comfort blanket.
As Adam Lawley waited while she sorted out his paperwork, he looked as if he wished he could be anywhere but Chapman’s Architectural Salvage yard, and Cat thought – who could blame him?
When she’d named a price, he had agreed to it at once, even though on reflection it was somewhat on the high side, and he could have haggled, and he must have known it.
‘What time do you finish?’ he enquired, as she screwed up yet another tissue and lobbed it at the bin.
‘Ten m-minutes ago,’ she sobbed. Then she started shutting down computers, pulling down the blinds, collecting mugs and taking them into the little kitchen.
‘Where are all the other guys who work here?’
‘B-barry and Tess have gone to see some people who have stuff we want to buy, or who want to sell their stuff to us,’ she told him, knuckling her eyes. ‘But we don’t have any other appointments. So when I’ve s-sorted out your chimneys, I’ll go home myself.’
She blew her nose again. ‘Do you want to take the chimneys with you now?’ she asked. ‘If you do, I’ll need to go and find some straw or bubble wrap. Damn – I’ve shut the payment system down. I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight today. I don’t suppose you want to pay with cash?’
‘I’m about fifty short in ready cash,’ admitted Adam. ‘But I’m in no hurry. If you’ll mark them sold, I’ll come back and pay for them and take them later on this week. Miss Aston, please don’t think I’m being nosy, and I know it’s not my business, but why don’t you—’
‘Get a grip?’
‘I was going to say, why don’t you come and have a drink? You sound like you could do with one.’
Cat looked at him again and saw he was concerned – that although he looked so serious and had clearly never learned to smile like other people did, that his dark eyes were kind. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘Yes, perhaps I could.’
‘Do you know any decent pubs round here?’
‘There’s a very nice one round the corner, quite s-smart for Walthamstow.’
‘You think they’ll let me in?’ Adam glanced down at his torn and faded jeans and at his workman’s boots, which were scuffed and crusted with yellow Cotswold mud.
‘There’s a scraper in the yard,’ said Cat. ‘If you get the worst off, I’ll finish locking up, and we can go.’
‘Okay,’ said Adam and went to find the scraper.
As Cat pulled on her coat, she thought, I shouldn’t be going drinking with this man. What if, as she and Adam Lawley came out of the yard, Jack himself came walking up the road?
What if he was on his way back home, to tell her he’d been stupid, and say could she forgive him, and that of course he loved his darling Cat, of course they would get married?
What if he saw her with another man – would he have a fit?
Yes, he just m
ight.
Jack always liked a drama – a fight, a scene, a row.
But Adam Lawley had been so sweet, so kind, and she so didn’t want to be alone. The company of an undemanding stranger she probably wouldn’t ever meet again – she’d send Tess out to see him when he came to fetch his chimneys – was somehow very appealing. After all, he didn’t know that over the past day or two he’d been filling up her psychic void.
What the hell, she thought. She grabbed her bag and shoved the office keys into her pocket.
The Red Lion was an old Victorian pub which hadn’t been done up, and Cat loved it to bits. She especially loved the beautiful ceramic tiles and the well-polished wood and gleaming brass. Barry had had his eye on all the fitments for more than a decade, but the current landlord had said he’d never sell.
‘What must you think of me?’ said Cat, as she and Adam Lawley walked into the saloon.
‘I think you need a drink,’ said Adam calmly. ‘I was also thinking it was time to have a pint. But I don’t like going into pubs all by myself.’
‘Why, do lonely ladies sidle up and bother you?’
‘All the time,’ said Adam. ‘I have to beat them off. How are you feeling now?’
‘A little better, thanks.’
‘What would you like to drink?’
‘A tonic water, please, with ice and lemon,’ Cat replied. ‘Diet if they have it, doesn’t matter if they don’t.’
‘What about a slug of gin in it?’
‘I don’t like gin.’
‘Or a shot of vodka?’
‘Just a tonic water, honestly.’ Cat thought, I’m not going down that route. I’m not going to be one of those women who weeps pure ethanol. I’m done with weeping, anyway. What happened in the yard was just a blip, a little aberration, and now I’m fine again. ‘But don’t forget the ice and slice.’
‘Okay,’ said Adam. ‘You go and sit down.’
When he brought the drinks, Cat found her purse and asked how much she owed him.
‘I don’t remember what he charged me,’ he replied.
‘All right, I’ll get the next ones.’ She took a sip of tonic water. ‘Thank you, Mr Lawley.’
‘Adam.’
‘Thank you, Adam.’
‘You’re more than welcome, Cat – if I may call you Cat?’
‘Of course you may.’
‘So what’s the problem? Your mother giving you grief about the catering arrangements, the wording of the wedding invitations? Mutiny among the pageboys, bridesmaids disagreeing about their outfits? Or just pre-wedding nerves?’
‘No pre-wedding nerves, because there isn’t going to be a wedding!’
Then, in spite of making a big effort not to cry, Cat found she was sobbing all over Adam Lawley, all over again.
Adam was silent for a minute, then he said, ‘Why don’t you have a handkerchief? Those paper things are useless.’
He offered her a clean blue cotton one, which Cat took gratefully. She thought, so Adam Lawley has a wife who washes handkerchiefs?
It took a while, but finally she managed to stop crying. ‘I haven’t used a real cotton handkerchief for years,’ she told him, dabbing at her eyes. Then, screwing up the scrap of sodden cotton, she stuffed it in the pocket of her coat. ‘I’ll get yours washed and give it back to you.’
‘You keep it, I have dozens.’
‘Goodness, have you?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Adam shrugged. ‘My mother thinks I’m still eleven years old. So, whenever I visit Mum, she makes me eat enough to feed a dozen body-builders for a week and I always leave with a clean hankie in my pocket.’
‘She sounds sweet, your mum.’
‘She’s very sweet. But she’d like to mother me to death.’ Adam drank some beer. ‘I’m not trying to force you, but if you want to talk about it?’
‘You’ll be bored.’
‘I won’t.’
So Cat told Adam about Jack, about how he had gone to find himself, about the wedding competition, about how any minute Fanny Gregory would be pressing Cat for dates.
‘So now,’ she concluded, ‘I have my wedding sorted, everything is going ahead, and Fanny’s trying to get me in Hello. But there’s no bridegroom. Go on, laugh – it’s funny.’
‘It’s not funny.’ Adam looked at Cat, his dark eyes serious and concerned. ‘This man of yours, he sounds as if he’s—’
‘Charming, handsome, smart,’ insisted Cat. ‘Yes, he could be difficult at times. Artistic temperament and stuff, you know? I loved him, though, I really did. I love him still. If he walked in now, I’d be delighted. It would make my day, my year, my life.’
‘Or maybe you would look at him and wonder what you ever saw in him?’
‘No, that would never happen!’ Cat insisted as she shook her head. ‘Or – well, perhaps it might?’ she added, meeting Adam’s calm but searching gaze. ‘I’ve always known I wouldn’t have had an easy life with Jack. But you see, I thought he was the one. I thought he’d be the father of my children. I’ve always wanted children, and I’d like to have some soon. Or before I’m past it, anyway.’
‘You’re nowhere near past it.’
‘Do you want to bet?’
‘You can’t be more than thirty.’
‘I’m almost thirty-two.’
‘Oh, I see your point,’ said Adam gravely. ‘You’re practically an old age pensioner. You’ll qualify for free prescriptions soon, a set of NHS false teeth, elastic stockings and a hearing aid.’
‘Only a couple more years to go before I get my bus pass.’
‘You’ll have a Senior Railcard and get your hair done cheap on Thursday mornings, like my mother and her friends.’
‘Old age and decrepitude – they’re looking more attractive by the minute.’ Cat fished her slice of lemon from the bottom of her glass and started chewing it reflectively. ‘Adam, I’ve been wittering on for ages. You’ve been listening so patiently. Why don’t you tell me something about you?’
‘There’s nothing much to tell.’
‘Go on, there must be something. I know a little bit about your work. But are you single, married? Leisure interests – origami, bridge, calligraphy, or something more exciting like arson, robbing banks?’
‘I’m single.’ Adam shrugged again and gazed into his almost-empty glass. ‘I don’t have many interests outside work, which takes me all around the country and occasionally abroad. I’ll be off to Italy when I can snatch a break from Melbury Court.’
‘Oh God, Melbury Court,’ said Cat and winced. ‘I’m going to have to talk to Fanny soon.’
But Fanny Gregory could wait, at least until tomorrow.
She turned her full attention back to Adam Lawley. ‘You might be single now, but you must have had a lot of girlfriends?’ she suggested, thinking, I’d put money on you not being gay.
‘Yes, but they—I’m not sure how to put it.’ Adam stared up at the ceiling. ‘They don’t tend to stick around. Girls like spending Saturday afternoons in Oxford Street or wandering round some awful, godforsaken retail park. On Sundays they like doing couples stuff, lying in bed all day and eating croissants, watching DVDs and doing – well, you know, and it’s not really me.’
‘So you don’t do relationships? I think you’re very wise.’
‘You do?’ Adam met her gaze, his own eyes dark, opaque but kind. ‘You will get over him, you know.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Cat sighed. ‘But I still think about him all the time, and when I wake up he isn’t there, and that’s when I start hurting. It feels like someone’s sticking red hot needles in my heart. But I won’t start going on again. You must be bored out of your mind. Why don’t you tell me more about your work in Dorset?’
‘You mean at Melbury Court?�
�
‘Yes, if you like.’
‘It won’t upset you?’
‘No, I won’t be going there again.’
‘I’ve been involved with Melbury Court for years. My father was a builder and he knew the people who bought it back in 1990. It had always been a private house and no one but the family and their invited guests had been inside for years. But the new owners were determined they would make it the best hotel in Dorset.’
‘I think they did a brilliant job, don’t you?’
‘Yes, they did their best, but part way through the project they ran out of money and had to sell again. So now the place belongs to a consortium of businessmen. They’ve plans to make it earn its keep not just as a hotel. They want to rent it out for film and television stuff – for adaptations of the classics, Jane Austen and the like, for conferences, parties, weddings—’
‘Yes, of course they do.’
‘I’m sorry, Cat,’ said Adam, reddening. ‘You already know about the weddings.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Cat knew she was colouring up herself because he’d said her name again and somehow this had changed things – she was not sure how or why. ‘Who owned it when it was a private house?’
‘A family called Denham. A hundred years ago or more, it must have looked much as it does today. But in the 1930s there was a disastrous fire. The house – it was plain Melbury House back then, not Melbury Court, that’s just a modern affectation – was very badly damaged. It was left to rot until the owner’s daughter, Daisy Denham, who was a well-known actress, decided to rebuild it and live in it herself.’
‘She must have been quite rich?’
‘Yes, she must,’ said Adam. ‘But she was smart and sympathetic, too. She did things properly. She got local craftsmen to make new doors and window frames. She had that amazing staircase fixed. She made sure the old and new stuff blended perfectly.’ Adam turned to glance at Cat. ‘She bought that marble fountain when she was on holiday in Tuscany and had it shipped to Dorset in 1956. God knows what she paid for it. She didn’t keep the bill.’
‘She wouldn’t, would she? Who keeps bills for holiday souvenirs?’
The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) Page 7