So why was it different with Mr Coffee Shop?
* * *
By five o’clock, Libby was still sweeping the yard, her list of jobs far from finished. When Robbie came out of the house, she leant on the brush handle, barely able to look at him. This was it, the moment she’d lose her perfect job. She’d arrived twenty minutes late that morning, hung-over to hell after way too much Jack Daniels and exhausted after a largely sleepless night, most of it spent throwing up takeaway pizza. Since Robbie was usually so bloody grumpy in the morning, she’d expected him to sack her on the spot, but he’d closed the Land Rover door, merely frowning at her as he drove away.
‘The yard’s clean,’ he said quietly. ‘Come on.’
The fact he was carrying two glasses of wine suggested he wasn’t sacking her – at least, no one had handed her a glass of red with her P45 in the past. Taking a deep breath to summon a little bravery, she hung up the yard brush and followed him.
He bypassed their usual seat on the herb garden wall and led her round to a small, perfectly idyllic, if a little unkempt side garden. Robbie sat on the chair-swing beside the French doors into the living room where he could keep an eye on his daughters who were watching TV and eating berries. One day, Libby would live somewhere like this. Although she’d mow the lawn and the scarecrow wouldn’t be at forty-five degrees to the weeds he protected. One day.
Robbie patted the swing beside him and handed her a glass. ‘Okay, out with it. What’s up?’
She curled up, hugging her knees. ‘Boy trouble.’
‘Who?’
‘None of your business.’
He stretched out his long legs. ‘Who?’
‘You’ll only say he’s inappropriate and not to be trusted.’
‘Been playing hard to get?’
‘I don’t play. I am hard to get.’ She paused to sip her wine. ‘Jack.’
His face darkened with blatant disapproval and the little muscle in his jaw twitched. Why did he look like he wanted to yell at her? Was he protecting her like a daughter? He shouldn’t; he was only five years older than her. Or was he... she gave a little shake of her head, dismissing the stupidest of ideas. He was looking out for her. That was all.
‘What happened to his girlfriend stopping you?’
‘He broke up with her.’
‘To go out with you?’
She nodded. ‘She laid into me yesterday. She’s devastated.’
‘Understandable. You’ve been messing around with her boyfriend.’
‘I didn’t mess around with him. I told you. Cheating’s wrong.’
‘But, if you didn’t do anything wrong, it’s not your fault.’
‘I still feel guilty.’ A fat tear fell down her cheek.
‘Why?’
‘Because... I caused a problem in their relationship.’
‘If they had a decent relationship, he wouldn’t be chasing you.’ He fiddled with her lighter, frowning again. ‘Now will you listen when I tell you to stay away from unsuitable, untrustworthy types?’
She wiped her eyes. ‘Know any suitable types?’
He laughed a little, but didn’t offer any suggestions.
‘You don’t have any single friends?’ she asked.
Grinning into his glass, he shook his head.
‘Really, not any, half-decent single friends? No chefs at the restaurant?’
‘All completely unsuitable and untrustworthy.’
She swatted his arm, smiling for the first time that day. ‘Sorry for being late this morning.’
‘Obviously it’s never to happen again, but under the circumstances, I’ll let you off.’
She lit another cigarette and sighed. ‘Life must be so much easier when you’re married with kids.’
He laughed, but with no humour.
‘What?’ she asked. ‘You have the perfect life.’
His smile fell as he leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. The silence grew, but Libby refused to break it. What the hell was wrong? She sipped her wine.
‘I think Vanessa’s shagging the viola player in the string quartet. And if she’s not, then it’s only a matter of time until she does.’
Libby took a slow breath. ‘And why do you think she’s shagging the viola player in the string quartet?’
‘How come you took Shakespeare out today? I asked you to take Storm out.’
‘Shakes cheers me up.’ She shifted to sit cross-legged, her knee an inch or so from his thigh. ‘You’re avoiding my question.’
‘I am.’ He still stared at the grass.
‘Hey, misery adores company. Out with it.’
And then he did something that surprised her. He sat back and told her everything. He explained how Vanessa had taken up the cello again, twelve years after she’d stopped playing, and seemed to lose interest in everything else around her. First, the garden suffered, then her friends, and eventually, her family. And when she landed a place in the string quartet, the constant practice, the frequent evenings at rehearsals and the never-ending calls to Jason for advice, drove her further and further away.
‘The worst of it,’ Robbie said, lighting yet another of her cigarettes, ‘is how happy she is. It’s as if I bore her and only that wanker who plays the viola can make her smile.’
‘Have you spoken to her about it?’
He gave a derisory laugh. ‘Argued about it? Yes.’
‘Then why did you let her go on tour?’
‘It’s her dream. I’m not going to stop her.’
‘But you have no evidence, just paranoia?’
He nodded.
‘You should trust her,’ Libby said. ‘She must be trusting you.’
He turned to face her, his frown growing, and Libby’s cheeks burned. Crikey, she hadn’t meant herself. Surely, he must know loads of beautiful women. He could have his pick of the single women. And probably most married ones too. The moment passed and he resumed his study of the grass.
‘I’m not sure she cares anymore,’ he added quietly.
‘What’s he like, the wanker who plays the viola?’
‘One of those talented, good-looking, charming sorts. And he’s French.’
‘Sounds awful.’
‘Yeah well, he has a ponytail.’
‘Is it a very long ponytail? Do you think he’s compensating for something?’ She elbowed him and to her delight, he laughed.
How the hell could his wife be even considering playing around? Robbie was… well, he was perfect. Libby drained her glass, wishing there were another tall, dark, funny, sexy guy in the village – one just like Robbie, but single.
‘I should go,’ she said, her mood sinking as she handed Robbie her glass. Wouldn’t it be lovely to stay and polish off a bottle, drowning her sorrows with him? But they both stood up, the moment over. ‘Thanks for the shoulder.’
To her astonishment, he wrapped his arms around her and Libby fought the urge to hug him back, scared it might be taken the wrong way. Wrong way? He was being friendly, not trying anything on. Now, why did that idea depress the hell out of her?
‘You’ll be okay, Lib.’
The muscles in his arms tensed as he kissed the top of her head and when he released her, she focussed on her boots, unable to look at him. If she did, she knew what she was feeling would be written all over her face. It was official – I fancy the pants off him.
‘Night.’ She walked away, reaching the far side of the garden before she dared to peek back. She’d intended to shout goodbye or thank you, but he was sitting on the swing again, his hands behind his head as he stared at her, frowning slightly. She stared back. Oh god, did he feel the same? Had she done it again, accidentally summoned the wrong man? Robbie was twenty-nine, ridiculously good-looking with the best eyes in the world, he’d been brutally honest and now, if his wife were having an affair, he was bordering on being single.
No, no, no.
Grounding. She needed to do the grounding exercise again and get back in-sync with..
. well, with whatever had gone so astray because Robbie was married and regardless of what his wife was doing, he wasn’t fair game.
* * *
Zoë took a very different view. Quite frankly, Libby had to be insane for not seizing Robbie by his belt buckle and screwing him until he forgot his errant, cello-playing wife. He could give Libby everything she wanted - the idyllic life in the countryside.
She drummed her nails on the steering wheel of her BMW. Her bloody clients were late. People who were selling a house were never late. People wanting to buy a house were never late. People who were too bloody lazy to look for a house themselves, like Jemima and Charlie Harington? They were always late. And tedious.
The week before she’d endured an eye-gougingly boring lunch, but in those hellish two hours of her life which she’d never get back, she’d grilled them on budgets, top lines, dream homes and absolute no-gos. And eventually, she had them nailed. Really, they wanted a house on millionaire’s row – the prime stretch of Windermere lake frontage, but their budget was half that of the cheapest property on the market.
It was a tall order, finding them something they could afford and persuading them it was the right property to shell out three quarters of a million on. But if she pulled it off, she’d earn half a percent of the final sale price – the best part of four grand. And Christ did she need it. What with Sparky’s rewiring bill to pay, and the repayments on her car, and how the hell had she managed to rack up a two grand Mastercard bill anyway? She’d read the balance twice before poring over every purchase, certain that someone had cloned her card. Sadly, they hadn’t. All genuine purchases, all her own work.
Maybe she should’ve sold the bloody cottage and kept the flat in Manchester. No. Why should she pay stupid amounts of money in tax when all she had to do was live in the middle of nowhere for a few months? It would all be worth it. She just had to keep her head above the poverty line until she was free to sell the cottage. Zoë narrowed her eyes, staring at the Victorian manor house before her. And this was the house that would do just that.
Highfield House is a beautifully renovated Lakeland country home surrounded by three acres of garden and woodland. The house dates from 1861 and has retained its period detailing.
Ideally located between the adorable Lakeland village of Hawkshead and Windermere’s West Shore, the property is set amongst the lower fells of the south-eastern Lake District with easy access to M6 and the west coast main line at Oxenholme.
But what really puts this place into a league of its own are its neighbours. To the north is a boutique hotel rumoured to be getting its first Michelin star come January – its clientele reads like a BAFTA guest list. But to the south–
A deep red Jaguar rolled onto the driveway. Jonathan? What the hell – was he checking up on her? Then again, who cared? This was her chance to wow him. And dear god, did she need to wow him. So far, seeking his advice, asking him about him, all the usual tricks for making a man feel awesome, had done rock all to earn her anything more than a professional half-smile from him. Would it hurt for him to flirt, just a little? If she undid any more buttons on her blouse, he’d be able to see her navel, and twice she’d caught him checking out her arse. So why wouldn’t he flirt back?
As he walked across the driveway towards her, Zoë pressed her thighs together, enjoying the buzzing in her pants. The guy might be fifty, but he was put together beautifully. Perfectly cut grey trousers showed off his long, muscular legs and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his blue and grey striped shirt, showing how toned his arms were. If she ever got the opportunity, she wouldn’t play coy like Libby – she’d screw him in his office chair in a flash.
Carefully, elegantly and what she hoped was seductively, she swung her legs out of the car, taking the hand he offered to help her out of the car.
‘This is a surprise,’ she purred.
‘I was in the area and the Haringtons are friends. How are you, Ms Horton?’
Smiling, she smoothed her red pencil skirt over her hips. He watched. ‘I’m very well. They’re your friends?’
Laughing, he held up his hands. ‘Okay, they’re acquaintances I try to avoid wherever possible.’
Aside from today. Why was that? But the question would have to wait as the Harington’s blue Range Rover trundled into view. Game on.
‘Jemima... Charlie...’
Zoë kept the pleasantries to the bare minimum, everyone’s eyes already on the house. Disdain dripped from Jemima’s Harley Street nose, Charlie yawned and even Jonathan’s pleasant smile didn’t hide the doubt in his eyes. But none of it fazed Zoë. She confidently delivered her spiel, knowing she’d win them all over. Highfield House had a blinding card in its pack.
‘And to the south...’ Zoë paused, glancing over to her left where the chimneys of the nearest neighbour could just be seen over the tops of the ancient woodland separating the two properties. ‘A certain duchess’s parents have a second home. It’s not something many people know. It’s all very discreet.’
‘Do you mean–’ Jemima’s eyes lit up and she clutched Charlie’s arm.
Doing an imaginary power salute, Zoë nodded. ‘Apparently, William often puts the kettle on himself when the National Trust people are in doing maintenance.’
As Jemima and Charlie wandered around, enthusing over Highfield’s original cornices and the magnificent views from the drawing room, Zoë mentally paid off Mastercard, Sparky and bought herself a celebratory pair of heels. Maybe a pair from Hobbs or LK Bennett? From the flush in Jemima’s cheeks, there was a fair chance Zoë could talk them into putting in an over-the-asking-price bid, just to be on the safe side. Four grand commission? LK Bennett it was.
Thirty minutes later, the Haringtons drove away, a sensible offer of seven-eighty sitting with the vendors.
‘Well played,’ Jonathan said, leaning against a vast gilt mirror. ‘Was the duchess part true?’
‘Yes. It always pays to talk to the handyman.’ Zoë ran her fingers over the hand-carved Mahogany banister. ‘They know the flaws of a building and its highlights better than anyone. Did you doubt I’d find them the right house? Is that why you’re here, checking up on me?’
He tipped his head. ‘I know them. And when I heard you’d selected this house, I was a little... dubious.’
‘It’s just a matter of finding out what makes a person tick. And the Haringtons are appalling social climbers, right?’ Had she wowed him?
Jonathan nodded, clearly fighting a smile. ‘We should celebrate.’
She’d wowed him. With her confidence overflowing, Zoë fluttered her eyelashes. ‘And what did you have in mind, Mr Carr?’
His smile dropped. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Ms Horton. The doe-eyed schoolgirl routine might have other men jerking off over your glorious tits, but it won’t work on me.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What would he do, fire her? Mortified, Zoë walked up to the mirror and pretended to check her still immaculate make-up. Her hand shook as she opened her lipstick. ‘I have no idea what you mean. I’m no doe-eyed school girl.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Jonathan’s eyes raked over her body. ‘So stop acting like one.’
Hang on, glorious tits? Taking her time, Zoë applied a generous coat of Chanel Pirate before looking him in the eye. ‘What does work on you?’
Finally, there it was, a filthy smile that said he wanted to screw her right there and then. Slowly, he moved to stand behind her, looking her over through the mirror. It was all Zoë could do to keep breathing. What the hell would happen now?
‘Ms Horton, you use sex as a weapon,’ he said, standing so close, she could feel his heat, breathe his aftershave. ‘As a tool to get your own way. You just need to know what makes a person tick, right?’
If he didn’t like doe-eyed, flirty imbeciles... She fixed her eyes on his, her chin raised defiantly. ‘So?’
‘You’re a young, incredibly beautiful woman, Zoë. You’ve a power, a radiance most women don’t realise they posses
s until they’re much older, if they ever do. This will go one of two ways. The choice will be yours.’
Zoë stared at him, mesmerised. ‘Go on.’
‘I could lift up your skirt...’ His gaze drifted up from her knees, so slowly he may as well have been lifting her skirt for real. ‘What would I find?’
‘Black hold-ups. Red silk pants. If you went further, a matching bra.’
His breathing quickened. ‘I could rip those pants off and fuck you right here, up against this mirror.’
Oh god, yes.
Jonathan’s hand reached for hers, pressing it against her own stomach, pushing her back against him, against his hard cock. ‘I could bend you over, and fist your hair while I sink my dick into you.’
She needed to move their hands, for him to touch her.
‘Does that idea turn you on, Zoë?’
She nodded, biting down on her lip. If he didn’t touch her soon, she’d have to do it herself.
‘I could do that, Zoë. I am so hard for you, aching for you, and I have been since you first kept that button undone so I could see your tits.’ His hand pushed hers a little lower, making the ache almost unbearable. ‘But tell me, Zoë, would you really be happy to let me fuck you, how I like, when I like, where I like?’
Her eyes narrowed.
‘Because I see something else in you.’ He leant closer, his lips hovering beside her ear, his erection swelling against her backside. How big was that guy? ‘How would it feel to get yourself off, to make me watch, to make me stand here powerless and unfulfilled as you come?’
What?
‘Does that idea turn you on, Zoë?’
Turn her on? Her pants weren’t wet; they were soaking. What would it be like to exert that much power over someone, to control their every move? To deny and grant them the permission to come?
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