The doubts had been circling round for a while now and she now knew that she had been pushing those doubts aside too often, unhappy at facing up to them. It had taken this to bring her to her senses. It would have been, to all intents and purposes, an arranged marriage and she and James had just conveniently fallen in with the wishes of their respective parents. All four of them were absolutely thrilled but getting married to please them was ridiculous and maybe James had done her a favour by offering her a way out.
Why then did she feel quite so miserable?
Because, however you put it, she had been let down, that’s why.
The temperature really had plummeted these last few days and there was even the beginning of a night frost on the path. She was glad she was wearing flat-soled suede boots, her trousers tucked into them. She could see clearly into the downstairs room as she neared the door. Lights were on and there seemed to be nobody in it but the first impression was good. He had no doubt been tidying up for her, rushing round like a fool since he got in. He probably hadn’t had time to eat but then neither had she, so their tummies could rumble together.
The door was painted dark blue, a solid rectory-like door with brass door furniture. Beyond it would be a porch, she assumed, leading into the hall. Inside, there would be rooms leading off the hall to right and left with the kitchen and pantry at the rear, a traditional Victorian design unless they had knocked all the walls through.
She rang the bell and waited, pinning a confident smile on her face as the door opened and a man stood there.
‘Miss Bond?’ He smiled at her as behind him a grandfather clock chimed the hour. ‘Right on time. Come on in.’
They shook hands and she followed him through the porch into the hall. There was a tiled floor in keeping with the period of the house and the original coving she was pleased to see although the lantern-style modern light-fitting seemed a touch incongruous. A smell of bacon drifted from what would be the kitchen. Ah … then he had had the time for a sandwich.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Chandler,’ she said, unwinding her scarf and ruffling her hair.
‘And you too, Miss Bond, although I’d rather you called me Rory. I do appreciate you taking the time to come to see me. I really didn’t feel up to discussing it all over the phone nor did I have the time as I was already late for a meeting. As I said to Miss Barton, I’m sorry it’s such short notice but it’s something of an emergency. I need serious help with this.’
‘That’s what we’re here for. I’m Adele …’ She let him take her coat, watching as he hung it up unceremoniously on an overcrowded hook on the coat-rack. For a single man, he had an awful lot of coats.
‘Come on through to the sitting room and then we can chat,’ he said. ‘Would you like a coffee before we start? Will instant be all right for you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
He bounded off, a dark-haired man casually clad in old faded jeans with frayed bottoms and a loosely cut white silk shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Nice. Her hand was not quite steady as she took out her notepad and one of their hastily scrambled together leaflets with a basic choice of menus. At the beginning, she and Emma had argued about their business name. Emma had wanted ‘Truly Scrumptious’, which Adele had discounted as unbearably naff. She had suggested ‘Cakes R Us’, which was arguably worse, so they were left with the boring if grimly correct ‘Bond & Barton: Catering For All Occasions’, which did not exactly roll off the tongue. She glanced at the leaflet in her hand. Printed off on her father’s computer, it looked awfully amateurish and it really would pay them to go for a more professional look. How often had she told Emma that presentation was everything. She took a deep breath, trying to control a sudden panic. What was the matter with her? Get a grip, for goodness’ sake.
In all the years she had known James, he had never affected her in the way that her first contact with this man had. He had a firm handshake and striking ice-cool blue eyes that were quite mesmerizing. Good heavens, what was she thinking of? He was probably in his mid forties, rugged looking, nose a bit bashed – rugby accident, maybe? He certainly wasn’t as classically handsome as James, and she knew nothing about him at all, so why on earth was she considering him as a potential lover?
She knew why.
It was the look he had shot her way that had done it. Subconsciously, she had caught it and batted back a visual reply before she had time to think and now she was regretting it. She wasn’t at a cocktail party, for heaven’s sake, and, as James’s fiancée – albeit for not much longer – she was not in the flirting business either, even if Rory Chandler was. It did give her a little warm feeling, however, and she was glad now that she had re-done her make-up before coming out.
‘As I explained to your colleague when I spoke to her, the reason I’ve contacted you is that I’ve landed myself in a bit of a mess. I’ve got an old friend coming up on Saturday,’ he told her, once she was settled with her cup of coffee. It was strong and black as she had requested, in a nice cream mug and, for instant, surprisingly good. She had taken stock of the room whilst he was making the coffee, a generally good impression, and she particularly liked the off-white sofas although the elaborately draped windows struck her as over-fussy. On the wall facing the window there was a large, striking painting of a half-naked woman, arms almost hiding her breasts, beautiful blonde hair caressing her face. It reminded her uncomfortably of James’s woman. Rory caught her looking at it but made no comment.
‘I could take her out for dinner but she’ll just have had a long train journey and I should imagine she’ll be shattered,’ he went on, sipping his own coffee before placing his mug on a coaster on the big coffee table. ‘In her line of work, she practically lives in hotels and eats there all the time, so I thought a nice homely sort of meal would be more appropriate and it will give us the opportunity to chat a bit more than we would in a restaurant. She was thrilled when I suggested it. The problem being …’ He grinned suddenly and it just about floored her. ‘I can’t think why on earth I did. I can just about boil an egg so the nice meal becomes a bit daunting for me. I can’t cheat with a ready meal and I really don’t want to do takeaway because I haven’t seen her for a while and it’s all a bit special. It’s a way of saying thank you for what she’s done recently and I would like her to think I’ve made an effort. Will you be able to help me?’
‘Of course. You can leave all the worrying to us. Have you any ideas for the main course?’
‘No.’ He looked horrified. ‘I was hoping that you …’
‘Of course. Might I suggest a cold starter, cold pudding and some kind of casserole? We do have a lovely recipe for guinea fowl with Madeira and tarragon. That will really impress. Can you boil some new potatoes to go with it? And peas or spinach.’
‘Just about but I’d rather not have to deal with pans. I tend to burn things.’ He frowned. ‘Guinea fowl, eh? Sounds good but I’m a simple bloke. I like chicken myself.’
‘Just as you like. We can easily do a chicken dish. And for pudding …’ She was getting into her stride now. ‘I recommend a gorgeous lemon cream dessert, deliciously light, with lavender shortbread.’
‘Lavender?’
She smiled. ‘It’s the edible variety, don’t worry, and it gives such a distinctive flavour, perfect with the tang of the lemon.’
‘Done.’
She jotted it down. ‘We can serve the meal if you wish but you did say you wanted to do that yourself?’
‘Yes. I’m not going to pretend I cooked it myself,’ he said. ‘Although I might.’ His smile was brief. ‘I don’t think she’ll be fooled. She knows me better than that.’
Lucky lady.
By the time she left shortly afterwards, having inspected the kitchen and found it to be small but perfectly adequate, the menu was decided and she had a key to the property. She and Emma would be along on Saturday afternoon to prepare the meal, lay the table and by the time his visitor arrived they would be long gone, leaving him to dish u
p and entertain his guest and what happened after that was really none of her business.
Her mother rang directly she got back.
‘Thank goodness you’re all right,’ she said. ‘When I told your father what you were going to do he was appalled. It was all I could do to stop him driving round there.’
‘How old does he think I am?’
‘That’s nothing to do with it. You’re still his little girl. Never do that again, he says. You’re much too trusting, darling. This man could have been anybody. What was he like, by the way?’
‘I rather liked him,’ Adele said, choosing her words carefully. ‘He’s in his forties. I think he has grown-up daughters,’ she added, remembering the framed photograph on the alcove by the fire. A picture of Rory with his arm round two young ladies, one of whom looked a lot like him.
‘I haven’t said anything to your father …’ Her mother paused, lowering her voice. ‘About you know what. But Jennifer was on the phone just now and she obviously doesn’t know a thing. It was all I could do to stop myself from telling her. Promise me you won’t do anything drastic. You could be making a serious mistake here. Try to be reasonable.’
‘Reasonable?’ She laughed. ‘It’s not my fault, Mother.’
‘I know that but sometimes you have to make allowances. Men …’ She clicked her tongue. ‘With the possible exception of your father, they are a law unto themselves.’
James rang later, much later, from the hotel in Manchester, apologizing but saying that he hadn’t been able to get away from a couple of elderly colleagues who had insisted he join them for a late-night drink.
‘Where are you now?’
‘In my room.’
‘Is the room OK?’ she asked, wondering when he would get round to noticing her clipped tones.
‘Just the usual,’ he said, sounding puzzled. ‘It would be a lot nicer though if you were here with me.’
‘So you’re alone?’ she asked wickedly, hearing his sharp intake of breath.
‘You’re kidding. Of course I’m alone. Who else would be here?’
She could picture him lolling on the bed as he spoke; could not help wondering if the blonde was around, smiling secretly at him as he did so. Even worse, she might be beside him on the bed, running her fingers through his hair even as he talked to her. That image would not go away and her silence made him ask if something was wrong.
‘Should there be?’ she asked tightly.
Over the phone, the strangeness in his voice was noticeable and when he said that there was something he needed to talk to her about when he got back, she knew it was all over.
Strangely, she felt composed and, having prepared for it, strangely relieved too. She would be dignified about the whole thing for, as her mother had always told her, being graceful was all, even if she might be seething inside. She was not seething, in fact, and it occurred that perhaps this was something they had been moving towards for some time now, hence the hesitation in confirming a wedding date.
It had, quite simply, gone off the boil. James had changed a lot over this past year but then so had she. He was trying to mould her into something she was not. He liked it that she could cook but she knew he was not so keen on her using her skill in business at the expense of home. She rarely had time to cook a proper dinner for them and she knew that it grated on him.
Well, tough.
Long term, it would never have worked.
Plans needed to be made. She might have to move back in with her mother for a while until things settled for she would certainly not be remaining here alone.
And that night, getting to sleep at last after an hour of tossing and turning, who should creep into her dreams but Rory.
THIRTEEN
ADELE’S BUSINESS PARTNER and friend Emma Barton looked as if she sampled the food she cooked rather too vigorously. A short squat bossy brunette with a cropped hairstyle, she was a breath of fresh air, cheerful to the last and the first person Adele would choose to be with in a crisis.
Emma was indisputably queen in the kitchen, Adele happy to take on the role of second-in-command.
Emma never panicked.
Even now, following a comical misunderstanding with the state-of-the-art oven in the kitchen of Rory Chandler’s home, she was perfectly calm, insisting that they had loads of time and everything was under control.
The kitchen was newly fitted out, grey slate floor tiles contrasting with the cream fitted units, with the original pantry adjoining, a good set-up so far as Adele was concerned although the temptation to knock down the pantry wall when the kitchen planners were in must have been huge. Good on the man for not succumbing to that. Old-fashioned cool pantries were perfect for rows of bottled fruit, marmalade and chutneys and it was her dream that one day she would be the sort of woman who had the time to faff around and do things like that. She thought of the cramped cupboard of a kitchen in her flat and sighed.
She and James had once talked about having a house like this one day, a lovely house that befitted the hot-shot consultant he would be by then. Although recently they had talked about future plans less and less, as if they knew it was just a dream.
‘He’s a bit of a dish, don’t you think? I like blue eyes with dark hair. Interesting combination,’ Emma said, chopping vegetables with aplomb before sliding them into a large earthenware pot. Considering he had been at pains to point out he was no cook, Rory had an impressive collection of cookware but they had brought along their own knives because most people had knives that could barely cut butter. For the main course, Emma was doing a chicken and mushroom hotpot, the basic fare Rory had requested but enhanced by one or two special ingredients like ginger, garlic and white wine. In other words, a posh hotpot if that was not a contradiction in terms. It was a one-pot meal to make it as easy as possible for him.
‘I assumed you would be letting yourself in. Are you saying that he was still here when you arrived?’ Adele asked, for she had been late in getting here herself and Emma was already well entrenched in the kitchen when she finally made it. Adele had been in charge of making the starter, which she had prepared earlier – blue cheese and walnut tartlets, which just needed a small garnish.
‘He was ready for off, looking good, smart suit, swinging his briefcase, keys in hand, but we managed a quick word,’ Emma said, glancing at Adele, who was now in charge of making the dining table look beautiful, at present engaged in arranging the flowers she had brought along. ‘He needed a bit of reassurance, I think, that we knew what we were doing. I must say, he’s going to a lot of trouble to impress her. Who do you think this woman is? This woman who’s coming along tonight? A lover from way back?’
‘How would I know?’ Adele asked, uncomfortable to be talking about him like this, in his own kitchen at that. ‘He’s divorced so he’s perfectly free to do what he likes.’
‘Exactly. Poor man.’ Emma sighed. ‘Don’t you feel sorry for them when their wives walk out?’
‘It depends. We don’t know the circumstances.’
‘I bet she walked out on him. He has a lost look about him.’
Adele laughed. ‘I didn’t think that at all. Did he flirt with you?’
‘God, no. Did he with you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t think so?’ Emma gave her a look. ‘The way I see it is that your long-term bachelors are usually pretty well organized but the guy who’s been married is hopeless. He’s made an attempt to keep on top of it, I’ll give him that.’
‘Perhaps he has a cleaner?’
‘He said not,’ Emma told her.
Adele drew a sharp breath. ‘You didn’t ask him, did you?’
Emma grinned. ‘As for food, well, he’s got bugger all in the fridge of interest and hardly anything basic in the cupboards and his pantry is bare. He couldn’t knock together a quick nutritious meal if his life depended on it. I bet he lives on ready meals but I must say, aside from that, I’m rather impressed by him. He’s a sales
manager apparently….’
‘When did he tell you that? I thought you said he was ready for off?’
‘He was but I managed to wheedle that out of him,’ Emma said, slicing through the air with the knife as she spoke.
‘What must he think? I wish you wouldn’t quiz people, Emma. It’s not our place to do that.’
‘He didn’t mind. He was very polite. I ask the right questions, Adele. Sales manager could mean anything although, judging from this house and the furniture and that suit he was wearing, he’s not selling door-to-door encyclopaedias for a living.’
‘I don’t think they do that any more,’ Adele said, scrunching up the tissue paper the flowers had come in and depositing it in the kitchen bin. When they departed, mission accomplished, this kitchen would be left in a pristine condition with everything done for him.
‘I love Victorian properties like this,’ Emma said. ‘I love them, even though the kitchens leave a lot to be desired. He should have had the pantry knocked through then he would have had the space for a kitchen table.’
‘I like it as it is,’ Adele said.
‘It’s OK. When I can afford it, when I find Mr Right and get married, I’m going for a house like this, though. New houses are too poky. You should see the master bedroom, upstairs, first on the right. The ceiling is dark brown, the walls cream and it works. It looks fabulous. No feminine fripperies, of course, but he’s managed to fill up all the wardrobes with his stuff. My God, he likes clothes.’
Rumours and Red Roses Page 10