by Liz Fielding
She focused on him from the depths of her pillow. Blinked. Frowned. ‘Jake? You’re still here? I thought you’d be long gone.’
‘Of course I’m still here,’ he snapped. ‘Did you think I’d walk out and leave you?’ He could have phrased that more carefully. What else would she think? ‘I came here to talk to you. And your doctor assumed I’d be staying.’
‘You called Sally?’
‘I thought you were ill. Having never been in this situation before, I wasn’t aware that morning sickness doesn’t necessarily mean morning sickness.’
‘Confusing, isn’t it? And you didn’t get any supper, either.’
‘I’m not helpless, Amy. I don’t need waiting on. Quite the reverse in fact. I’ll get something for you. She suggested dry toast,’ he added.
‘Yummy,’ she said, unenthusiastically.
‘That’s a thumbs-down for dry toast, is it?’ She made a thumbs-down gesture. ‘What would you like?’
Amy eased herself up into a sitting position and knew exactly what she wanted. Jake had arrived at her cottage, a leather-clad, macho man of the world, determined to put an end to this relationship, certain that it was simply a matter of haggling over how much it would cost him. The idiot. Now he was hovering anxiously in her bedroom doorway, trapped by his own conscience and clearly wishing he was anywhere else.
There was something utterly endearing, she thought, about a man totally out of his depth. That look of helplessness was irresistible.
Controlling an errant sigh, she resisted the urge to tell him what she wanted most in the world. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t do a thing that would give him cause to accuse her of entrapment. Not a thing. But keeping him at arm’s length was proving more difficult than she had anticipated—considering she’d just been very, very sick. So she concentrated instead on food. That was a surprise, too.
‘I’d like a sandwich.’
‘I can handle that.’
‘Plain wholemeal bread, no butter,’ she began. ‘Pile on the lettuce—not cold from the fridge, get it from the garden. You’ll find some I’ve brought on under a cloche.’
‘Amy, it’s the middle of the night,’ he protested.
‘Is it?’ She glanced at the window. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll find a torch by the back door.’
‘Oh, right. No problem, then,’ he said, with only the faintest suggestion of irony.
‘Then cover the lettuce thickly with mayonnaise—’
‘Mayonnaise?’ This time he did look concerned.
‘You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Mayonnaise,’ she repeated firmly, ‘topped with a layer of sliced dill pickle.’ And she smiled. ‘That would be perfect.’
Terrific. Morning sickness, closely followed by food fads. All in one evening. He should have listened to the voice of reason and stayed in London, Jake decided as he toured the pitch black garden looking for lettuce. Except Amy would have been alone when she’d been sick.
There would have been no one to make sure she was all right. No one to call the doctor. Okay, so he’d panicked unnecessarily. But what if it had been something more serious? He wouldn’t have been here.
He didn’t want to be here.
But as he constructed her nightmare sandwich it occurred to him that there was finally something that he could do to help, something he could organise that would allow him to keep a safe distance between them and at the same time ease his nagging conscience.
CHAPTER THREE
THIRD MONTH. All your baby’s organs are now formed and most are beginning to function. Movements develop, such as wriggling toes and pursing lips. You will have probably gained about one kilogram in weight. It’s time to visit the dentist.
THERE was a woman sitting on the small bench in her porch, Amy realised as she got home. Not anyone she knew.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Miss Amaryllis Jones?’
‘I’m Amy Jones,’ she said, getting out her key and hoping this wouldn’t take long. Her feet ached and she was desperate for a cup of tea.
‘Dorothy Fuller.’ The comfortably built middle-aged woman offered her hand. She had nice eyes, a warm smile. A motherly look. She also had a much-used suitcase. ‘How d’you do?’
Amy found such formality from a casual caller on her doorstep slightly unnerving. ‘Are you selling something?’ she asked, glancing at the case.
‘What?’ Then Dorothy Fuller laughed. ‘Oh, no. The agency sent me.’
‘What agency? What for?’ Amy asked, deciding that it might save time if she doubled up on questions.
‘The Garland Agency. I’ve been engaged as your housekeeper.’
‘Housekeeper?’ A housekeeper with a suitcase. The suitcase was beginning to seriously bother her, but she slid the key into the lock and opened the door. She’d been rushed off her feet all day, the bus had been late and crowded, and if she didn’t sit down some time soon she was going to crumple up on the floor. ‘I think there must be some mistake.’ She glanced up at the small cottage, as if to underline the fact that anyone with half a brain could see she didn’t need a housekeeper. ‘Are you sure you’re in the right place?’ she asked. ‘This is Upper Haughton. People sometimes confuse it with Lower Haughton—’
‘No confusion, Miss Jones. I know my Uppers from my Lowers,’ she said, unoffended by the doubt cast on her navigational skills. ‘Miss Garland called me into the office to brief me herself and she said I was to give you this.’ She handed Amy an envelope and while she was opening it picked up her suitcase and walked in. ‘Now, I could do with a cup of tea and I expect you could, too. So why don’t you go and put your feet up and I’ll see to it?’
‘But…’ But Mrs Fuller had taken herself off to find the kitchen, leaving Amy to deal with the envelope. She was beginning to take a quite irrational dislike to envelopes. Or rather their contents. This, a short note from Jake, did nothing to improve her opinion of them.
Amy,
Mrs Dorothy Fuller, I am reliably assured, will look after you like a mother hen. She’s from the Garland Agency; they know her well and totally guarantee her probity. I’ve put her on my company payroll so you needn’t concern yourself with the financial implications, and meanwhile I’d feel happier knowing there was someone on hand to take care of you.
Please don’t tear her up into little chunks and send her back by courier.
Jake.
Jake. He arrived on her doorstep, did the ministering angel bit and then walked away. She’d heard nothing from him for what seemed like for ever. Then, when she’d managed to convince herself that he’d taken her at her word and gone, he did this.
She wanted to hug him, and yell at him, and tell him he was a fool. Mostly she wanted to weep, because Jake thought he could distance himself this way, pay someone else to do his worrying for him.
He was wrong. Dead wrong. He stayed or he went. She’d given him the choice, no strings attached. She wasn’t offering any in-between, half-way options. He couldn’t choose ‘go’, then seek to salve a troublesome conscience like this. No way.
Mrs Fuller appeared with a tea tray set for two and placed it on a low table in front of the sofa. ‘Sit down, dear. I think we need to have a little chat about how this is going to work. I’ll tell you what I can do; you tell me how you’d like me to fit around you. I don’t want to disturb your routine, or get in your way.’
‘You won’t do that, Mrs Fuller.’ She wouldn’t disturb her because, no matter how sweet she was, how trustworthy, she wasn’t staying.
But Jake was right about one thing. Returning the lady minced up in a shepherd’s pie was not the answer. She’d done ‘angry’ when she’d got his cheque.
She’d have to find some other way to make her point.
Jake regarded the envelope with misgivings. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d engaged Mrs Fuller. He’d checked with the agency and been assured that she’d arrived safely in Upper Haughton and had repor
ted back to say that she was enjoying her new assignment. It all sounded too good to be true.
After the cheque incident he had been sure that Amy’s reaction to the arrival of a housekeeper would be to throw a hissy fit. He was relying on Dorothy Fuller to make herself indispensable in double-quick time. She’d come highly praised as a woman who could win around even the most testy and uncooperative of women to the joys of live-in help. Maybe she’d done just that. Maybe this was simply a note from Amy to thank him for his thoughtfulness.
Somehow he doubted it, which was why he was looking at the envelope as if it was an unexploded bomb.
‘It’s just a letter,’ Maggie said impatiently. ‘Give it to me. I’ll open it.’ She twitched it out of his hands, slit the envelope and held up a neatly typed missive for his inspection. ‘Not a bloodstain in sight, see.’ She scanned the contents, then began to chuckle.
‘I didn’t invite you to read it.’ Then, ‘What does she say?’
‘Basically, thank you. And that’s she very happy with the arrangement.’
‘Why do I suspect that’s not all?’ He clicked his fingers irritably, held his hand out for the letter.
Maggie ignored him. “‘Dear Jake,’” she read—which was a good start, better than he could have hoped for under the circumstances. “‘This is just a quick note to let you know that Dorothy Fuller arrived safely last week. I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner to thank you, but I’m decorating the spare room at the moment—’”
‘Decorating?’ He had a sickening vision of Amy standing on a wobbly stepladder, struggling with wallpaper. He waved his hand. ‘Go on.’
“‘I’m decorating the spare room at the moment, which is why I didn’t have room for her at the cottage. I’ve installed her, temporarily, at the farm down the lane—’”
He rose to his feet. ‘She’s done what?’
‘She’s put her up in the farm down the lane—’
‘No! That undermines the whole purpose of the exercise. She needs someone with her—’
“‘…down the lane, where they do bed and breakfast in the summer. Don’t worry, Jake, this won’t cost you any extra. Good help is always hard to get, so they were happy to take her in return for some cooking and cleaning, and my little house wouldn’t keep her busy for more than a day a week. She is frighteningly efficient…’”
Jake spun around, stared out of the window where London was laid out beneath his feet. At university he had designed a telecommunications program, dropped out to start his own company and built a fortune with a single-mindedness that should have warned him he would never escape his genetic history.
Every day he took decisions involving millions of pounds without raising a sweat.
But this woman…this woman could bring him to his knees with half a dozen words.
‘Keep going,’ he said curtly.
Maggie cleared her throat. “‘She seems to be enjoying herself helping out with the guests, and after all, she’d get terribly bored on her own here all day.’”
‘Bored? Why would she get bored? She can read a book, knit a shawl for the baby…’ He stopped. He didn’t want to think about the baby.
“‘Also,’” Maggie continued, once she was certain he had finished, “‘and I know you won’t mind this, I’ve asked her to keep an eye on Mrs Cook opposite. She broke her leg last week and she’s finding life a bit difficult at the moment. She can’t afford to pay for help herself, so you’ll be glad to know that she’s finding Mrs Fuller an absolute treasure.’” Maggie looked up expectantly.
He raised a hand in helpless gesture of surrender. ‘I’m absolutely delighted that she’s an absolute treasure,’ he said. ‘Thrilled to bits.’
“‘She’s been taking care of the twins on the corner, too, after school, and helping out at the old folk’s lunch club at the church…’” He groaned, let his head fall into his hand. “‘…and although I haven’t seen much of her myself, she assured me yesterday, when I passed her on my way home from work and met her taking old Mr Blacklock to see Sally at evening surgery, that she really enjoys working in the village. Well, it is a lovely place to live. I’m not sure how long you’ll let me keep her, Jake, but what with Social Services being so stretched—’”
‘Enough!’ He turned and glared at Maggie, who was doing her best not to laugh out loud. It was plainly something of an effort. ‘Laugh and you’ll be looking for another job,’ he warned.
‘I’ll get on to the agency and have them call Mrs Fuller off, shall I?’ she spluttered, not in the least bit intimidated.
‘Call her off? Have you forgotten Mrs Cook? And what will the twins do without her?’
‘Oh, come on, Jake. Surely you don’t believe any of this nonsense? She’s just trying to wind you up.’
‘Then she’s succeeding. Dear God, all I want to do is make life a little easier for her, but no. She’s up a step-ladder papering the ceiling and the housekeeper I’m paying for is now playing Good Samaritan to the entire population of Upper Haughton.’ He got up. ‘Cancel my appointments. I’m going to settle this once and for all.’
‘But I thought the whole point was to avoid—’ He turned to glare at her and Maggie quickly shook her head. ‘Nothing, Jake. Just…take care.’
‘It’s a bit late for that. If I’d “taken care” none of this would be happening.’
‘I meant on the road. You seem a bit distracted.’
Jake walked into the cobbled courtyard of the old coaching inn in Maybridge that Mike Armstrong had turned into a complex of shops and business accommodation for local craftsmen and tradespeople. Mike’s own workshop, where he designed and made fine furniture, occupied one side of the yard.
Amy’s shop was opposite. The narrow frontage, painted in black, had the name ‘Amaryllis Jones’ picked out in gold lettering. It was a small but exquisite emporium, filled with exotic aromatherapy oils, beautiful scented candles, fine soaps. Small, but very busy.
He sat outside the corner coffee shop that, taking advantage of the sun, had overflowed into the courtyard and watched for a while, considering what it would take to persuade her to accept his help. With care, extra hands, financial support, whatever. What it would take to make her see that in refusing his help she was denying her baby all the special things his money could buy.
Maybe he wouldn’t use that argument. Complaining that she was denying him a chance to assuage his feelings of guilt probably wouldn’t impress her that much.
And maybe she really didn’t need his help. She had a charming home and a thriving business. No one, he noticed, left the shop without one of her distinctive black and gold carrier bags. It must be hard work, though. She’d be on her feet all day. Wouldn’t she get swollen ankles? Shouldn’t she be resting? Or was that dated nonsense? What he knew about pregnant women could be written on the back of a postage stamp.
Maybe it was time to stop trying to second guess her and simply ask what she wanted. And hope it was something in his power to give.
He paid for his coffee, crossed the courtyard and pushed open the door. There was a delicate chime to announce him, crystals turned in the draught, catching the sunlight, and the air was full of the warm, heavy scent of roses. Then Amy appeared in the doorway from the rear.
Black and gold.
She was dressed in unrelieved black. Her hair pale gold. It was the same every time he saw her. The jolt. The longing for something that seemed unreachable, on the far side of an uncrossable void.
‘Jake.’ It was the same every time she said his name. Like a ride in a high-speed lift going to the stars.
‘Amy.’ For a moment they just stood there, looking at one another.
‘How…unexpected.’
‘I doubt that.’ She didn’t deny it. ‘I had your letter,’ he said, when the silence became unbearable. ‘I was concerned to read that you were decorating.’ His voice was clipped and abrupt. A long way from what he was feeling. ‘What are you doing?’
Her shrug was infini
tesimal. ‘Having fun. I’ve finally settled on the exact shade for the nursery ceiling.’ Her smile was all behind her eyes. A secret smile. As if dwelling on anticipated joy. ‘That gorgeous translucent blue the sky turns just as the stars start to come out. All I need now is to find a match so that I can get it mixed.’ And then her smile became public, less intimate. ‘Look, do you mind if we talk and walk at the same time?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got an appointment at the dentist.’
‘You’ve got toothache?’ He wanted to kiss it better. Her mouth, her eyes, every inch of her—
‘No, it’s just a check-up,’ she assured him, interrupting his mental tour of her body. ‘I’m three months pregnant.’
‘Three months?’
‘Nearly.’
‘It doesn’t seem that long.’
And for a dangerous moment they were both reliving the moment.
‘Pregnant women need to look after their teeth,’ Amy said quickly, reaching for her bag.
‘Oh.’ Make that a very small postage stamp. Then, because he’d never seen a car at the cottage. ‘Do you drive?’ He held the door for her. ‘I’ll drive you there if you like.’
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks; I’d be early. Besides, walking is good for me. Vicki,’ she called back, ‘I’m off now. I’ll be about an hour.’ Then, ‘It’s this way. If you’re coming.’ And she set off in the direction of the town centre without waiting for his answer.
‘How are you?’ he asked, falling beside her. ‘Still being sick?’
‘Oh, yes. Seven o’clock on the dot. You can set your clock by me, but the ginger ale is helping and now I know what to expect it’s not so bad.’
‘You look well.’ Blooming. Wasn’t that what they said about pregnant women? It was true.
She gave him a green sideways glance. ‘That’s just a polite way of saying I’m putting on weight,’ she said, then laughed. ‘Don’t look so tragic. I’m having a baby. I’m supposed to be putting on weight.’