Sheer Mischief

by Jill Mansell

  “But it’s still hard?”

  “It is getting better,” she admitted. “But the not knowing is the worst part of all. The awful limbo of not knowing what I am.” Pausing for a moment, she added bleakly, “A widow or a deserted wife.”

  Chapter Two

  They were married on the first of May, the happiest day of Janey’s life.

  “I’m sure there’s something I’m supposed to be doing today.” Alan, emerging from beneath the navy-blue duvet with his blond hair sticking up at angles, sounded puzzled. “What is it, the dentist? Ouch!”

  But Janey didn’t let go of his big toe. “Much worse,” she mocked. “Much, much worse.”

  “Aaargh, I remember now! The Registry Office. And you should be covering your eyes, you shameless female. You aren’t supposed to see the blushing groom on the morning of his wedding.”

  “Too late. I’ve already seen you.” Whisking back the duvet, she surveyed him solemnly. “All of you.”

  Alan grinned and reached out for her, pulling her back into bed and unfastening the belt of her flimsy robe. “In that case, we may as well have a quickie. One last, glorious, premarital quickie. How many hours before we’re married, Miss Vaughan?”

  Janey glanced at her watch. “Three.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, rolling on top of her and kissing the frantically beating pulse at the base of her neck. “In that case, we might even have time for two.”

  Once they’d torn themselves away from the bedroom to complete the formalities, Janey found she adored every moment and every aspect of being married. Each morning when she woke up, she almost had to pinch herself to check that it was all real. But it always was, thank God, and the sheer joy of being Mrs. Sinclair showed no signs of waning.

  She enjoyed looking after their tiny flat, experimenting with new recipes, and socializing with his surf-crazy friends. And because she was only twenty-five years old, she enjoyed above all else knowing that they had the rest of their lives to spend together. Nothing need ever change.

  • • •

  No body was ever found.

  “But something must have happened to him.” Janey, grief-stricken yet dry-eyed, simply couldn’t believe that it hadn’t. In an effort to convince the police, she uttered the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. “He’s my husband… I know him… He wouldn’t just disappear.”

  The police, however, while sympathetic, were less convinced. Every year, they explained, hundreds of people in Britain with no apparent problems or reasons to disappear did precisely that, leaving behind them distraught families, endless unanswerable questions, and countless shattered lives.

  Janey’s life was certainly shattered. On a sunny afternoon in July, after just fourteen months of marriage, her beloved husband had vanished without a trace. Nothing had been taken from the flat and there were no clues as to the reason for his disappearance.

  During the first few frantic days, she’d pinned all her hopes on an accident, not serious enough to be life-threatening, just a bang on the head resulting in temporary amnesia. At any moment, she had fantasized helplessly, the phone would ring, and when she picked it up she would hear his dear, familiar voice.

  But although the discovery of Alan’s body was what she’d most dreaded, as the weeks dragged into months she found herself almost beginning to wish that it would happen. She felt like a murderer even thinking such a thing, but at least it would be conclusive. The torture of not knowing would be over. And—most deeply shaming of all—she would be spared the humiliation of thinking that her husband had vanished because he could no longer tolerate his life with her.

  Nobody else had ever voiced this possibility aloud, of course, but whenever she was feeling particularly vulnerable Janey was only too easily able to imagine what was uppermost in their minds. As time passed she found herself, in turn, the object of macabre curiosity, whispered gossip, and pity. And it was hard to decide which of these was worst.

  • • •

  Maxine drifted into the shop at ten thirty the following morning, yawning and clutching a mug of tea. “God, your sofa’s uncomfortable,” she grumbled, rubbing her back.

  Janey, who had been up for over five hours, lifted an armful of yellow irises into a bucket and slid them into position between the gypsophila and the white roses. The shop had been busier than usual, and she still had three wreaths to make up before midday.

  “Sorry,” she replied wryly. It would never occur to Maxine to bring her a cup of tea as well.

  But Maxine was still massaging her back and pulling faces. “I’ll be a cripple by the end of the week.”

  “Are you really planning to stay?”

  “Of course!” She looked surprised. “I’m not going back to Maurice the Righteous, and there’s nothing to keep me in London. Besides,” she added dreamily, “I’d forgotten how lovely it is down here. Much nicer than smelly old London. I think a summer by the sea would do me the world of good.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Oh come on, Janey. Don’t look at me like that! It’ll be fun; we can cheer each other up.”

  Having consulted the notes on her clipboard, Janey began sorting out the flowers for the wreaths. “You’ll be too busy complaining about your back to have any fun,” she said brusquely. “And having to listen to your endless whining is hardly going to cheer me up.”

  “You don’t want me to stay?” Maxine looked hurt, and Janey experienced a twinge of guilt.

  “I do,” she protested as the shop door swung open and Paula, having completed the morning’s deliveries, dropped the keys to the van on the counter. “Of course I’d like you to stay. It’s just that the flat’s so small, and I don’t have a spare bedroom.”

  “I see.” Maxine shrugged. “Well, that’s OK. I’ll go and see Mum.”

  Janey looked doubtful. Their mother would only complain that nothing cramped one’s style more effectively than a stray daughter hanging around the place. And Thea Vaughan’s highly individual lifestyle didn’t take kindly to cramping. She wasn’t exactly the slippers-and-homemade-sponge-cake type.

  But Maxine knew that as well as she did, so Janey didn’t bother to voice these thoughts. Instead, she said, “And you’d need some kind of job.”

  “Oh God.” Maxine was looking gloomier by the second. Working had never been one of her strong points. “I suppose I would. But what on earth can I do?”

  Paula, who was a lot more thoughtful than Maxine, returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea.

  “Paula, this is my sister, Maxine,” said Janey, seizing one of the mugs with relief. “Now, take a good look at her and tell me what kind of work she might be able to cope with.”

  Maxine, perched on the stool next to the counter with her long, brown legs stretched out before her, gave the young girl an encouraging smile. But nothing fazed Paula.

  “Here in Trezale, you mean?” As requested, she studied Maxine for several seconds. “Well, selling your body’s out for a start. Too many giggling girlies on the beach at this time of year, giving it away for free.”

  Maxine burst out laughing. “That’s too bad.”

  “Seriously,” protested Janey, weaving fronds of fern into the circular mesh base of the first wreath.

  “Bar work?”

  “Ugh.” Maxine cringed, rejecting the idea at once. “Too hard on the feet.”

  “Hotel receptionist?” suggested Paula, unperturbed. “The Abbey’s advertising in the paper this week.”

  But Maxine shook her head. “I’d have to be polite to ghastly tourists.”

  “Nannying.” Paula looked pleased with herself. “The family my mother cleans for is losing theirs. You could be a nanny.”

  Maxine looked amused. “Oh no I couldn’t.”

  But Janey’s interest was aroused by this item of news. “That’s an idea!” she exclaimed, temporarily
abandoning the wreath. “You’d be able to live in. That way, you’d have a job and a place to stay. Max, it’d be great!”

  “Apart from one small problem,” replied Maxine flatly. “If there’s one thing I hate more than tourists, it’s children. Children and babies and nappies. Yuck!” she added with a shudder of revulsion. “Especially nappies.”

  “These two are a bit old for nappies,” said Paula, ever practical. “Josh is nine and Ella’s seven. I’ve met them a few times. They’re nice kids.”

  “And they’d be at school during the day,” put in Janey, her tone encouraging.

  But Maxine, sensing that she was being ganged up on, pulled a face. “I’m just not the nannyish type. I mean, for heaven’s sake, do I look like Julie Andrews?”

  Losing patience, Janey returned her attention to work. “OK, you’ve made your point. You probably wouldn’t have gotten the job anyway,” she added, unable to resist the dig. “Most people prefer trained nannies, and there’d be enough of those lining up when they realize who they’ll be working for.”

  Needled by the insult, Maxine’s brown eyes glittered. “Why, who is it?” she demanded, ready to find fault with any prospective employer who wouldn’t choose her.

  “Guy Cassidy.” Janey shook droplets of water from the stems of a handful of yellow freesias. “He moved into Trezale House just over a year ago. He’s a—”

  “Photographer!” squealed Maxine, looking as if she was about to topple off her stool. “Guy Cassidy,” she repeated faintly. “The Guy Cassidy? Janey, are you having me on?”

  Bingo, thought Janey, exchanging glances with Paula and hiding her smile.

  “Of course not.” She looked affronted. “Whyever should I? And what difference does it make anyway? You hate kids. You just said so yourself.”

  “What difference does it make?” echoed Maxine, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. “Janey, are you quite mad? It makes all the difference in the world. That man is gorgeous…”

  Chapter Three

  “God, this is hard work,” complained Guy, crumpling up yet another sheet of paper and lobbing it in the general direction of the wastepaper basket at the side of the bed. Fixing his son and daughter with a stern expression, he added, “And it’s too early in the day for this kind of thing. I don’t know why you two can’t write your own advertisement, anyway.”

  Ella, squirming at his side, nudged his arm. “Daddy, I can’t spell!”

  “And you hate those kind of advertisements,” chided Josh, who was sprawled across the foot of the bed. Running his finger down the Help Wanted columns of the slim magazine in which the finished advertisement would be placed, he found a shining example and began to read aloud in an exaggerated baby voice.

  “‘Hello, my name is Bunty and I am two yearth old. I need thomebody to look after me while Mummy and Daddy are working. We live in a big houthe in Thurrey, with a thwimming pool. You muthn’t thmoke…’”

  “OK, OK,” said Guy with resignation. “So it wasn’t one of my better ideas. Maybe I’ll just put ‘Two spoiled brats require stern battle-ax of a nanny to feed them cold porridge and beat them daily.’ How about that?”

  Ella giggled. “I don’t like cold porridge.”

  “You should say ‘Widow with two children needs kind nanny,’” suggested Josh, who had been giving the matter some thought.

  “Widower,” Guy corrected him. “Widows are female. Men are called widowers.”

  “I know why you’re a man,” Ella chimed in. Josh, at the foot of the bed, grinned.

  It was too early in the day for this too. Guy, closing his eyes for a moment and mentally bracing himself, said, “Go on then. Why am I a man?”

  “Because you haven’t any bosoms on your chest,” declared his daughter with an air of importance. “And you don’t wear a bra.”

  • • •

  It was four thirty when the doorbell rang. Berenice, the soon-to-be-married departing nanny, had taken Ella into Saint Ives for the afternoon on a shopping trip. Guy was busy in the darkroom, developing black-and-white prints, when Josh knocked on the door and informed him that he had a visitor.

  “She said it was important,” he told Guy, his forehead creasing in a frown as he struggled to remember. “I don’t know who she is, but I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

  Maxine was standing before the sitting-room window, admiring the stupendous view of cliff tops and sea. When she turned and smiled at Guy and came toward him with her hand outstretched, he realized at once why his son had thought her familiar yet been unable to place her.

  “Mr. Cassidy?” she said demurely. “My name is Vaughan. Maxine Vaughan. It’s kind of you to see me.”

  She was here in his house, thought Guy with inward amusement. He didn’t really have much choice. But he was, at the same time, intrigued. Maxine Vaughan was an undeniably attractive girl in her midtwenties. Her long, corn-blond hair was pulled back from her face in a neat plait, her makeup carefully unobtrusive. The dark-green jacket and skirt were a couple of sizes too big for her, and she was wearing extremely sensible shoes. It was all very convincing, very plausible. Guy was impressed by the extent of the effort she had made.

  “My pleasure,” he replied easily, taking her proffered hand and registering short fingernails, clear nail polish, and—oh dear, first sign of a slipup—a genuine Cartier wristwatch. “How can I help you, Miss Vaughan?”

  Maxine took a deep, steadying breath and hoped her palms weren’t damp. She’d known, of course, that Guy Cassidy was gorgeous, but in the actual flesh, he was even more devastatingly attractive than she’d imagined. With those thickly lashed, deep-blue eyes, incredible cheekbones, and white teeth offset by a dark tan, he was almost too perfect. But the threat of perfection was redeemed by a quirky smile, slightly crooked eyebrows, and that famously tousled black hair.

  He exuded sex appeal without even trying, she realized. He possessed an indefinable charisma. Not to mention a body to die for.

  “I’m hoping we can help each other,” said Maxine. Then, because her knees were on the verge of giving way, she added, “Would you mind if I sat down?”

  “Please do.” Having concluded that she must be either a journalist or a model desperate for a break, Guy gently mimicked her formal style of speech. Either way, he would give her no more than ten minutes; he was all for a spot of personal enterprise, but her unexpected arrival wasn’t exactly well-timed. He had work to do, phone calls to make, and a nine-year-old son demanding to be taken for a swim before dinner.

  He glanced at his watch. Maxine, sensing his veiled impatience, took another deep breath and plunged in. “Right, Mr. Cassidy, I understand you’ll shortly be requiring a replacement nanny for your children. And since I myself am an experienced nanny, I’d like to offer my services.”

  It was a good start, but the rest of the interview wasn’t going according to plan, she realized several minutes later. And she hadn’t the faintest idea why not.

  On the surface, at least, Guy Cassidy was asking the appropriate questions, and she was supplying faultless replies, but at the same time, she had a horrible feeling he wasn’t taking her seriously. Worse, that he was inwardly laughing at her.

  “They’re in Buenos Aires now,” she continued valiantly, as he studied the glowing references that she’d slaved for an entire hour to produce. “Otherwise I’d still be with them, of course. The children were adorable, and Angelo and Marisa treated me more as a friend than an employee.”

  But her potential employer, instead of appearing suitably impressed, was glancing once more at his watch.

  “I’m sure they did,” he replied. Rising to his feet, he shot her a brief smile. “And it was thoughtful of you to consider us, Miss…er…Vaughan. But I don’t think you’re quite what we’re looking for.”

  Maxine’s guard slipped. “Why not?” she wailed, remaining rooted to he
r chair. “I’ve shown you my references. They’re brilliant! What can possibly be wrong with me?”

  Guy, enjoying himself, maintained a serious expression. “You’re too dowdy.”

  “But I don’t have to be dowdy,” said Maxine wildly. She knew she shouldn’t have worn Janey’s horrible suit. “I’m not usually dowdy at all!”

  “OK.” Gesturing for her to calm down, he continued. “You’re too prim and proper.”

  “I am not prim!” Maxine almost shrieked. “Please, you have to believe me. These aren’t my own clothes… I’m not the least bit proper either and I hate these shoes!”

  But Guy hadn’t finished. Fixing her with his deadpan gaze, he said remorselessly, “And you’re a liar, Miss Vaughan. Which wouldn’t set a particularly good example to my children. I’m afraid I can’t employ someone who is dishonest.”

  Maxine felt her cheeks burn. He was bluffing; he had to be. Stiffly, she replied, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?” This time he actually smiled. “In that case, wait here. I’ll just go and find my son.”

  He returned less than two minutes later with the boy in tow. Although Josh Cassidy had straight, white-blond hair in contrast to his father, Maxine was struck by the similarity of their extraordinary dark-blue eyes.

  “Hello, Josh,” she said, dredging up a brave smile and wondering why he was staring at her in that odd way.

  But Guy was handing his son a large brown envelope. “Here,” he said casually. “I developed that film you gave me earlier. Take a look at these prints, Josh, and tell me how you think they’ve turned out.”

  Maxine spotted the offending item a fraction of a second before Josh. Having tipped the photographs out of the envelope and spread them across the coffee table, he was still studying them intently, one at a time, when she let out a strangled cry and made a grab for it.

  Guy, standing behind her, whisked the photograph from her grasp and handed it, in turn, to his son.