‘Yes,’ said Adam. ‘Perfect.’
But he wasn’t looking at the spindles. He was looking straight at Cat. In the dusty artificial light of Barry’s shed she was so lovely that it made him catch his breath. ‘How much does Barry want for them?’ he managed to ask at last.
‘I’ll have to check the book,’ she said.
She looked at him and smiled.
It was the smile that did it, the small white perfect teeth, the rose pink lips, the dimple in her cheek.
He took her by the shoulders.
He pulled her close to him.
‘Cat,’ he whispered, willing her to kick him, punch him, slap his face, at least push him away. ‘You have to stop me now.’
But she didn’t do anything at all.
So he drew her closer, closer, closer.
He looked into her eyes and saw himself reflected there. He saw her pupils had grown huge, so that they looked like pools of ink in which a man could drown himself. He thought how very much he’d like to drown in Cat’s green eyes.
But, before he drowned, did he dare to kiss this woman?
Did he have a choice?
When he kissed her on the lips, she didn’t seem surprised – in fact, after a moment’s hesitation, she began to kiss him back, flicking her tongue across his teeth and tantalising him.
Then she put her arms around his neck. He felt her long, cool fingers in his hair. He felt them stroke his face.
Then he was in the real world again. It was as if he’d woken from a restless, troubled nightmare, had realised he’d been dreaming awful dreams. But now – thank God – he was awake, and he was kissing the most beautiful, the most gorgeous girl he’d ever known.
The minutes ticked on by, and he was still kissing Cat, and she was still kissing him with ever hungrier, more urgent passion, as if she couldn’t get enough of him.
Then her hands were on his waist, first outside his shirt, and then inside it, stroking his bare flesh. She ran her fingers up and down his spine. She made him shudder with desire.
Then his hands were underneath her top, and her skin was smoother than the smoothest, softest silk, and her back was curved and sinuous, like a violin.
Then his mouth was on her neck, against her beating pulse, and he could almost hear the heavy thudding of her heart. It was banging like a marching band against his chest, and then, and then, and then—
A pickup dumping twenty tons of bricks, two vehicles colliding in the street – he didn’t know and didn’t care, but the crash brought Adam to his senses. Opening his eyes, he stared at Cat in horror, appalled by what he’d done.
‘Adam, we—we shouldn’t have done that,’ she stammered, as she took her arms from round his waist.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m engaged.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m in love with Jack.’
‘I know that, too.’ Adam raked his fingers through his hair, trying in vain to smooth it flat again. He tried to tuck his shirt back in as well, but he found his fingers wouldn’t do as they were told. ‘You’re going to marry Jack.’
‘Yes, and what’s more I want to marry Jack.’
‘Of course you do. I don’t know what came over me just now. Cat, I’m really sorry. I can’t apologise enough. Let’s go and sort out the payment for the spindles, then I’ll leave.’
He turned and walked back down the aisle.
She followed him.
Then she was sitting at her desk again, doing her sums and working out the VAT on Adam’s Georgian spindles.
‘W-what are you doing now?’ she asked him, as she tapped away. ‘I mean, where are you working these days?’
‘I have some bits and pieces to finish here in England,’ he replied. ‘I need to go to Melbury Court again and check up on the next phase of the stables. I ought to go to Cornwall soon, and I have to sign off a few things at Redland Manor and make sure the owner’s satisfied.’
Then he wished he hadn’t used that word, because now he noticed Cat’s red lips were bee-stung, swollen, and her cheeks were red as roses, and her neck was red as well, and he could see the imprints of his kisses on her throat, red, red, red, red.
‘But then I’m off to Italy for a week, or maybe two. Italian craftsmen are way ahead of us with conservation, especially in marble. So I’m going to pick up a few tips. Then I’ll be able to advise my clients here on marble, alabaster, gilding – all that sort of thing.’
Adam knew he was gushing like a geyser.
But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He had to say something, anything. The girl who worked with Cat was staring at him curiously now, her gaze scorching his skin, and he could hear her thinking – I know what you did in Barry’s shed.
‘That Italian fountain at Melbury Court, for instance,’ he continued desperately. ‘It’s in urgent need of conservation. It’s been stuck outside in our cold climate for more than half a century, and it’s full of cracks.’
Just like my heart, he thought.
Or should that be my head?
‘The Venus in the centrepiece, that’s what I’ll tackle first,’ he added. ‘There has been a bit of restoration, but whoever did it didn’t do it very well. I’ll never have the cash, time or resources to make the whole thing look like new, but I want to make the Venus beautiful again.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Cat. ‘I’ve never been to Italy,’ she added, her green eyes wide as they gazed up at him. ‘I’ve heard it’s very pretty?’
‘It’s more than merely pretty, it’s absolutely gorgeous.’ Adam gazed back at Cat and wondered where they went from here.
Nowhere, idiot, he told himself.
‘What were you doing in the woodshed?’ Tess demanded, as Adam left the yard, as they heard his engine firing up and heard his ancient Volvo drive away, with the spindles safely in the boot.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You and Mr Spindle, when you came back in here you both looked furtive. Why was his shirt untucked all round the back? Why have you got red marks all down your neck?’
‘Adam was reaching for the spindles and he had to stretch. So that’s how his shirt became untucked.’
‘Adam, is it now? What happened to Mr Lawley?’
‘I meant Mr Lawley, obviously.’ Cat frowned at Tess. ‘Barry had put the good stuff at the back, and Adam – Mr Lawley – had to climb over a pile of other things to get at them. I had to help him, and I grazed myself on those rough bits of planking Barry’s stacked against one wall.’
‘I reckon Mr Spindle was climbing over stuff to get at you.’
‘Well, that’s because you’ve got a dirty mind.’
‘Well, you’ve been doing dirty things.’ Tess shook her head. ‘Look at the state of you, as I expect your mum would say. Your lipstick’s been licked off. Your hair’s a right old mess, all tangled up and coming down. Your top looks like you’ve slept in it. So something rough’s been grazing you all right, but I don’t think it was a plank.’
‘You’ve finished, have you?’
‘No, there’s plenty more. When I said you needed to find yourself a man, I didn’t mean you had to get the old one back and also grab a spare.’ Tess looked hard at Cat. ‘You and Mr Spindle are playing dangerous games.’
‘I don’t know what you’re going on about.’ Cat realised her cotton top was rucked up at the back, so now she pulled it straight. Then she smoothed her hair back from her forehead and clipped it up again.
She glanced down at the diary.
‘You have an appointment with a Mr Walton at half past ten this morning,’ she told Tess. ‘He called to ask if we’d like half a dozen stripped pine doors with stained glass panels, which we would, and so I think you’d better get a move on before som
e other dealer beats you to it.’
‘You’ve clearly got it bad for Mr Spindle,’ Tess persisted as she fiddled with some ballpoints on Cat’s desk. ‘What will he be after next, I wonder? It’s just occurred to me that it’s quite interesting how he’s been to buy the sort of stuff which also sends a message, I mean subliminally.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ asked Cat and snatched her ballpoints back.
‘Chimneys, spindles – think about it, phallic symbols, aren’t they? Mr Spindle’s obviously telling you he wants—’
‘Please could you go and psychoanalyse Mr Walton, Tess? If you don’t leave straight away, you’re going to be late, and Barry definitely wants those doors.’
Cat got through the day by doing the most tedious, boring work, by sorting out the stationery cupboard and ordering new printer cartridges, by sharpening the pencils, getting all the filing done and throwing out the useless, dried-up pens.
She walked back home determined not to think of Adam Lawley any more, to blank him from her mind.
He’d said he was about to go to Italy, and this was just as well, because she knew for certain they must never meet again.
When he had kissed her, she’d heard angels singing – in fact, whole heavenly choirs had started up. There’d been trumpets, there’d been strings and there’d been flutes and harps. The London Philharmonic Orchestra, right there in Barry’s shed.
As Adam’s strong, blunt-fingered hands had stroked her face and body, as he had kissed her mouth, her ears, her neck, she had felt unreal, unlike herself, as if she were a goddess and she could do anything. As his mouth was on her throat, she’d been in ecstasy. She’d never, ever felt that way before.
If she’d stayed in that shed a few more minutes, she’d have probably ripped his shirt off, and started pulling off her own clothes, too. Yes, it had been that good.
Or rather, bad.
But she wasn’t engaged to Adam Lawley.
She was engaged to Jack.
She pushed her hand into the pocket of her coat, hoping there would be some change to buy a magazine. Marie Claire or Cosmo would do nicely and would keep her occupied while Jack watched sport on Sky, as he would probably do tonight.
Or maybe she’d get Glamour, which was always good for fashion, shoes and wish-list handbags. She wouldn’t find Adam in it anyway, his dark eyes burning, stoking her own desire.
But she didn’t find any change.
She found Adam’s handkerchief instead.
She must wash it, she decided, post it back to him. She could easily find out where he lived. It would be on his paperwork back at the yard.
Or could she deliver it in person?
What? You should drop it in a litter bin, she told herself. Pretend you never had it in the first place!
She held it to her face a moment, breathing in his special Adam smell, a blend of soap and wood-shavings and him.
Then she imagined she was kissing him again.
‘These summer colds, they’re awful,’ said a woman, who had stopped to cluck in sympathy. ‘You want to get an Olbas oil inhaler, darling, that’ll probably shift it. My Henry swears by them.’
‘I don’t want it shifted,’ muttered Cat. She shoved the hankie back into her pocket and walked quickly home.
As she went upstairs to her familiar little flat above the fruit and vegetable shop, the most delicious smell of dinner cooking floated down. Jack was a brilliant cook – that was on the very rare occasions when he could be bothered – and this evening he was clearly pulling out a hundred different stops.
She set her face to smile mode and then she pushed her key into the lock. Come on, she told herself, you’re home. Your man is cooking you a lovely dinner. You’re a very lucky woman.
You’ve been such an idiot today. You’ve given in to an absurd infatuation which won’t lead anywhere.
Adam doesn’t do relationships.
So what if he kissed you and it felt like you’d been born again? It didn’t mean a thing to him. The man who really loves you is a couple of feet away.
As she took her coat off, she could hear Jack humming to himself. He sounded very pleased with life. When she went in the kitchen, he dropped his wooden spoon into the sink along with all the other pans and plates and cutlery and dishes, and gave her a big hug.
‘Good day, honeybee?’ he asked, and kissed her lightly on the cheek, a lovely, friendly, glad-to-see-you kiss.
‘Yes, it was fine,’ she said, while making sure she kept the happy smile glued on her face. ‘What have you been doing with yourself, apart from cooking something wonderful?’
‘I went to see a guy who organises gigs and got myself some dates in pubs in Essex. Then I went to Billingsgate, bought seafood, and I’m making a paella.’ Jack took her face between his hands. ‘Poor honeybee, you’re looking really tired. Barry Whatsisface works you too hard.’
‘I’m okay,’ said Cat. ‘Do I have time to take a shower?’
‘Yes, if you’re quick.’ Opening the fridge, Jack took out a bottle of expensive white Rioja. ‘Off you go, get showered, and then we’ll have a great romantic evening, just the two of us.’
‘Lovely,’ murmured Cat, doing her best to sound as if she meant it, but hearing she was failing miserably. She hoped Jack wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t ask if anything was wrong, wouldn’t spot those red grazes on her neck.
Or, if he did, he’d think he’d put them there himself.
But luckily he didn’t seem to notice anything.
He sauntered back into the kitchen and carried on creating his paella, crashing pots and pans around and letting things boil over on the hob.
‘By the way,’ he called, as she kicked off her office shoes and stuck her tired feet into her bright pink Hello Kitty slippers – a present from her mother, to whom she would always be thirteen – ‘that Fanny Gregory woman called this morning, while I was still in bed.’
‘Why did she ring here, when she knows I go to work?’
‘She rang you on your mobile.’ Jack picked up Cat’s BlackBerry and grinned. ‘When you went off in such a rush this morning, you left your phone behind.’
‘Oh,’ said Cat, and wondered if he’d looked through all her messages and contacts – was Adam Lawley there? She thought he must be. ‘What did Fanny say?’
‘She’s sorry that she hasn’t been in touch, but she’s been busy, busy, busy. We had a little chat, and she wants to see us at her office.’
‘Where’s her office?’
‘Somewhere off Oxford Street, she said. She gave me the address. I told her fine. It’s all fixed up for Saturday at three. She had a very sexy voice, did Fanny. What’s she like?’
‘She’s terrifying,’ said Cat, and then she shuddered, thinking of how close she’d come to having to top herself. ‘I’d hate to get on the wrong side of Fanny.’
‘Oh, she’s just a woman,’ Jack said airily. ‘I can deal with women.’
‘You couldn’t deal with this one,’ Cat insisted. ‘She’s not a woman, anyway. She’s the wrath of God.’
‘I’ll twist your Fanny round my little finger,’ promised Jack. ‘Go and have your shower and make yourself all fragrant and relaxed, and then it will be time to eat.’
Tuesday, 7 June
At eight o’clock that morning Adam drove to Gloucestershire where he signed off the work at Redland Manor.
Then he drove on to Cornwall to make sure the project he was managing there could get on without him for a week or two.
All the time he worried about Cat, about what he had done. What had he been thinking, or not thinking?
But he also thought about what she had done. She had not been faking, he was absolutely sure of that.
Those kisses had been real.
When he got back to London,
he started reading Gwennie’s magazines, taking them to bed with him and studying them in detail, especially the features and the problem pages, trying to work women out.
But he only managed to confuse himself some more.
Soon he was wondering if there might be something wrong with him, because he was astonished by the things these magazines insisted most men thought (but didn’t say to women), most men did (when women weren’t around), and most men wanted (from a woman, especially in bed).
Position of the month – he turned one illustration round and round and tried to see how it would work in practice. But it defeated him. Whoever had cooked that one up didn’t know a thing about anatomy, let alone hydraulics and suspension.
Now he could understand why Jules was grumpy and moved as if he’d done himself an injury some mornings, if Gwennie had been making him try weird stuff like this.
But he did get something out of all his in-depth study.
He read an article called sexy signals – tell him what you really mean and he concluded if a woman pulled your shirt out of your trousers, if she kissed you like she couldn’t get enough of you, she meant she really wanted to be kissed.
But, all the same, Cat was in love with Jack.
She was engaged to Jack, and she was going to marry Jack, so he must never see that girl again.
‘Adam?’ As he was checking out a beauty feature on waxing as opposed to sugaring – ouch, both sounded hideously painful, he was glad he was a man – Gwennie came knocking on his bedroom door. ‘Adam, are you decent?’
‘Yes, come in,’ he called and pushed the magazine he had been studying underneath the duvet. Then he picked up a paperback about restoring and conserving marble and tried to look absorbed.
‘Sorry to disturb you. I know you’re getting up at six tomorrow, but I wondered if you’d got my magazine?’ Gwennie frowned at him – suspiciously? ‘I haven’t read it yet. I know I left it on the kitchen table, but it’s not there now. I can’t think where it’s gone, unless we put it out with the recycling by mistake.’
The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) Page 11