Date With a Single Dad

by Ally Blake

  His reply left her feeling as foolish as she had when he’d calmly opened Wendy Bennington’s cottage door. Of course, then she’d been standing on his godmother’s roof, which had put her at a distinct disadvantage. ‘Last time I was here I had to let Christine know when I was through.’

  ‘Did you?’ he asked, as though he hadn’t the faintest idea why that had happened.

  Lydia could feel the start of a blush. ‘I suppose that might have been because Rosie had run away.’ She forced herself to stop rambling and hid her face by reaching for her briefcase. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Judge for yourself,’ he said, looking over his shoulder.

  Behind him, Rosie was running down the steps towards her. Lydia let her briefcase fall back on the passenger seat and climbed out of the car to meet her.

  Rosie’s brown eyes were sparkling as she waved her hello, but what really touched Lydia was the confident way she tucked her hand inside her father’s. She was so different from the stiff and awkward little girl Lydia had coaxed back to the house barely two weeks earlier.

  The little girl tugged at Lydia’s soft cotton skirt, waiting until she had her full attention before she signed excitedly that she had a surprise. Her young face was happy and her hands moved rapidly.

  Lydia looked to Nick for confirmation that she’d properly understood what his daughter was saying. It seemed impossible that anything could have happened so quickly. ‘She’s got a new nanny?’

  He looked at his daughter and then at Lydia. ‘How can you possibly know she said that? What’s the sign for nanny?’

  Lydia smiled. ‘Literally she signed “new person keep safe me”.’ Her hands moved so that Rosie was included.

  Nick stroked his daughter’s hair. ‘I’m never going to get this.’

  It was incredible—and very wonderful—to hear that he wanted to. Before Lydia could think of anything to say, she saw someone she vaguely recognised coming down the stairs.

  Rachel. She pulled the name out of the recesses of her memory.

  ‘Rachel?’ It couldn’t be. ‘What are you doing here?’ Lydia moved forward and lightly kissed Rachel on the cheek, standing back to look at her. The last time she’d seen her she’d had braces on her teeth.

  ‘I’m here to support Rosie,’ Rachel said, her hands moving smoothly in perfect sign language.

  Everything started to fall into place. Izzy had said she knew someone who might be perfect if Nick needed someone for sign support who liked children, rather than a trained nanny.

  ‘I’m studying for my interpreters’ qualification at the moment,’ Rachel said, with a swift smile at Rosie, ‘and Rosie is helping me practise.’

  ‘That’s … so good.’

  Rosie nodded vigorously and signed that Rachel was also teaching Daddy.

  Lydia turned to look at him, her eyes wide with amazement. ‘You’re learning sign language?’

  Nick made a really good attempt at the sign for ‘try’. Rosie laughed and Rachel smiled and signed that he’d done well. Lydia felt like she’d stepped into an alternative universe. Completely different … but truly wonderful.

  Tapping Rosie on the shoulder, Rachel said, ‘We need to go. Rosie has a swimming lesson in half an hour.’ Rosie followed the signs and flung her arms about Nick before waving goodbye to Lydia.

  Lydia watched them walk round to the garages at the side of the house, her embarrassment gone. She felt a sense of satisfaction which was completely out of proportion to her contribution. ‘They look like firm friends.’

  ‘And Rachel’s only been with us for a couple of days.’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’

  ‘It couldn’t have worked out better,’ Nick agreed. He glanced down at his watch. ‘I know you’ve got an appointment with Wendy, but I’m afraid she’s asleep. I could wake her, but she had a bad night and you’ll probably find your time is more productive if she’s rested.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lydia flicked back her hair. ‘Look, I could go and have a look round the shops and come back in … an hour or so. It’s not a problem.’

  Nick shook his head. ‘Bring your briefcase inside and have a drink. Unless you need to go somewhere?’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘A drink would be nice. It’s been a long drive.’ And she smiled, flicking back her hair again as it blew over her face. He was making this very easy. It was almost as though they’d parted friends and she was determined to meet him halfway. ‘The traffic out of London was horrendous. I don’t know where the world has decided to go today, but they’re all on the motorway.’

  She pulled her briefcase from the car and picked up her jacket. ‘If you’re busy, don’t feel you have to entertain me. You can sit me somewhere and I’ll work quietly on my laptop.’

  Nick didn’t answer straight away. He waited while she slammed the car door shut and then led the way up the steps. ‘Wendy says you’ve made a start on the biography.’

  ‘The publisher gave me an outline of what they particularly wanted to include and I’ve added some of my own ideas and roughly planned it out. It’s early stages. I thought I’d talk to Wendy and see whether she feels there’s anything I’ve missed or, conversely, something she’d prefer I left out.’

  She was babbling. Lydia took a deep breath and made a mental promise that she wouldn’t speak again until she’d counted to at least twenty.

  ‘Hot or cold?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Lydia said, following behind him.

  ‘Would you prefer a hot or cold drink?’

  Lydia mentally caught up. ‘Cold, I think. Thank you.’ And then she remembered. ‘I’d meant to say earlier, but … thank you for the flowers. I should have phoned—’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t expecting …’ She broke off and started again, saying simply, ‘They’re beautiful. Thank you.’ Lydia groaned inwardly. That ‘thank you’ had sounded much better when she’d rehearsed it in the car. She was supposed to be back in professional mode. Cool, calm, collected and only interested in the biography she was writing.

  ‘Wednesday is Christine’s day off,’ Nick remarked, pushing open the door to the kitchen.

  Lydia followed. ‘So you’re in charge?’

  ‘Still pampered,’ he returned, with a glint of humour in his dark eyes. ‘Food is left in the fridge with a stick-it note on the door telling me how long to cook it for.’

  Nick opened the fridge door and Lydia caught the fluorescent yellow paper as it blew off. ‘Better not lose this then,’ she said, handing it back, ‘or you’ll be going hungry.’

  He stuck it back on the front. ‘You wouldn’t believe that I managed to feed myself perfectly well when I was at university.’

  Lydia tucked her briefcase down beside the wall. ‘I bet the quality was slightly different.’

  She was surprised by that sudden smile. It had the same kick as a neat Scotch. ‘I was famed for my unusual combinations.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Have you ever tried spaghetti and cold pilchards?’

  Lydia laughed. ‘Fortunately not.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ Nick turned back to look at her. ‘I have fresh orange. Water, obviously. Homemade lemonade …’

  ‘Homemade lemonade would be lovely. I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.’ Lydia shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She’d forgotten quite how sexy he was. Or had she? It explained her almost breathless excitement about coming here today. Nor was she quite sure how he could make a simple T-shirt look quite so …

  Well, so.

  She blew her hair out of her eyes. Every movement he made stretched the fabric over a taut male body.

  ‘I can’t take the credit for it. Christine makes it from her grandmother’s recipe. The exact combination of lemons to sugar is a closely guarded secret.’ He poured it into a glass and handed it to her. ‘What do you think?’

  Lydia took a sip. ‘It’s lovely.’
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  Nick smiled and poured himself a glass. Lydia was as beautiful as he remembered, but softer looking. Her white floating skirt finished just above her ankles and a wide belt wrapped low around her waist. The colours in the plaited leather picked out the tawny gold and rich copper threads in her hair and the warm caramel of her jacket.

  He glanced down at the Anastasia Wilson jacket she held protectively in front of her. She seemed surgically attached to the blasted thing. Presumably it was this season’s must-buy. ‘Shall I hang that up for you?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She passed it across.

  Nick carried the visual reminder of his ex-wife out into the hall and realised that, for perhaps the first time since Ana had left, he could be reminded of her and feel absolutely nothing. It was as though the angst he’d carried with him for the past four years had evaporated.

  Standing there, in his hallway, he knew with complete certainty that he’d come away with the best part of their marriage—Rosie.

  He slipped Lydia’s jacket on to a hanger feeling euphoric. He had Rosie. What else mattered? And then he realised something else. Women didn’t wear Anastasia Wilson if they knew there was a possibility of meeting him. It might mean nothing, but …

  He frowned. In his experience they just didn’t do that. Ana’s designs were so completely distinctive. They were instantly recognisable and, since he was feeling charitable, he’d admit they were beautiful. She’d a flare for cutting fabric that sent women flocking to her when they wanted something understated yet memorable.

  But women didn’t wear them round him. Not if they knew she was his ex-wife. It seemed to be some unwritten code. As though to do so would be rubbing salt into a wound. Which meant that Lydia still didn’t know …

  And that meant she hadn’t gone home looking for the ‘skeleton in the closet’. A concentrated search would have found considerably more information on him than she’d brought up by typing in ‘Nick Regan’. She’d have been able to read about the man Ana had left him for. Handsome, French, well-connected and one of his oldest friends.

  She’d have known that their affair hadn’t lasted long. Ana had made the contacts she’d needed, became bored and returned to London. By the time their divorce was final she’d moved back to Hampstead Heath and billionaire Simon Cameron had taken up residence in the former marital home.

  Was it really possible she still didn’t know?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NICK walked slowly back into the kitchen. He felt as if the ground had started shifting beneath his feet, so much so that he wasn’t sure what he believed about anything any more.

  Lydia hadn’t moved. Her back rested on the central island unit and she was sipping her lemonade. Was it really possible that her interest was focused exactly where she said it was—exclusively on Wendy Bennington?

  If so, the irony was that he probably knew more about her than she did about him.

  He knew Lydia had never been married, but had been romantically linked to at least two high profile men. That she’d graduated from Cambridge six years after he’d left there himself and that her career trajectory had had the forward motion of an arrow in flight. In fact, every indication was that she was a serious-minded journalist who took what she did very seriously indeed.

  Which was why his godmother had wanted her as her biographer, that small inner voice reminded him. More specifically, Wendy had wanted her because of an article Lydia had written on Third World famine. She’d described it as ‘insightful’ and a ‘bloody sight more interesting than many things I’ve read on the subject’.

  Nick felt like a fool.

  He’d been adamant that journalists were the scum of the earth on the grounds that he had the emotional scarring to prove it. Wendy had argued that, as in all professions, there were good and bad. Bad journalists chased a ‘story’ in the hope of building their own reputations; good journalists wanted to change the world.

  He hadn’t listened. Hadn’t been prepared to. He’d been so convinced that Lydia had orchestrated the Steven Daly trial for her own benefit that he’d filtered everything so it supported that belief. He couldn’t deny she’d written some life changing stories, but each one had systematically built her career. Her piece on Third World famine had won her a prestigious award. He’d never questioned her ability, only her motivation.

  He’d argued that if Lydia was the kind of journalist who would use her own sister’s private grief, what would stop her from using his? If her primary aim was to find things out that no one knew and publish them before anyone else, then Ana’s rejection of Rosie would make interesting copy. It would even be possible to make it sound as though she was championing people whom society considered outside the ‘norm’.

  But Lydia hadn’t done any kind of search on him.

  ‘Shall we take our drinks outside?’

  Lydia hesitated. ‘Don’t you have things you need to be doing? I really don’t want to get in the way.’

  ‘I’m ready for a break and it’s a beautiful temperature now. I suspect it’s going to be too hot to be out there later.’

  ‘You’re sure you’ve got the time?’

  Nick nodded and ushered her through the sunroom and on to the terrace. As the sunshine hit her face Nick heard Lydia’s small purr of pleasure and he felt something inside him splinter.

  Whatever it was that had kept him cocooned and protected had shattered. It left him feeling vulnerable, like an old-time knight without his armour.

  And he wasn’t sorry. There was danger in this—and excitement. It was like starting out on an adventure without having any idea what the outcome would be. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been reckless in his private life.

  Nick led her across to the comfortable Lloyd Loom chairs with their white calico cushions and watched her settle into one.

  ‘It’s beautiful here,’ she said softly and glanced across at him.

  He didn’t quite have time to look away and her eyebrows rose in a mute question. Nick shook his head, uncertain what to say. Or even where to begin.

  ‘What happened to Sophie in the end?’ Lydia asked, her hands cradled around the coldness of her tumbler.

  ‘She decided she didn’t like working outside London, so we mutually decided to waive the notice period.’

  Lydia laughed. ‘How … convenient.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ he agreed easily. It was a miracle his voice sounded so steady. He felt as if the world had started spinning on a different axis.

  Lydia took a sip of her lemonade. ‘Did Rosie’s mother mind you arbitrarily removing her choice of nanny?’ And then she slapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I was so determined I wouldn’t ask those kinds of questions.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I—’

  Nick interrupted her. ‘Lydia, I owe you an apology for the other night.’ He needed to give more. ‘I was very rude to you—and you didn’t deserve that. I … appreciate your concern for Rosie.’

  Her eyes widened slightly and then she half shook her head. ‘You would probably have got there without my meddling. I shouldn’t be so quick to give my opinions. It really wasn’t my business to—’

  ‘And, in answer to your question, I haven’t asked her.’ His index finger swept a clear line through the condensation on his glass. ‘Ana is … more than happy to delegate.’

  Lydia turned to look at him and he was almost certain she’d understood exactly what he’d wanted to convey. There was a momentary flash of sympathy, for him or Rosie he didn’t know, and then she made a determined effort to lighten the atmosphere.

  She set her empty glass down on the low table. ‘Rachel is lovely. I used to be her babysitter. Did she tell you?’

  Nick nodded. ‘And that her parents are profoundly deaf.’

  ‘They were close friends of my parents.’ Lydia twisted one strand of hair in a small corkscrew on her finger. ‘We used to go on holidays together. Once we hired a narrow-boat and went up
the Grand Union Canal …’ She smiled. ‘They live a couple of streets away from my aunt and uncle, so even after Mum and Dad died they kept a close eye on Izzy. Made sure she was doing all right.’

  ‘Whereas you went to university?’

  Lydia looked up. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  It took a moment before she realised that he probably hadn’t meant that the way it had sounded to her. He’d stated simple fact. Izzy had gone to live with relatives and she’d gone to university. It was the truth.

  Lydia wiggled her left foot out of her sandal and watched the sunlight glint on the intricate gold toe ring. Nick couldn’t know the guilt she still felt over that decision. No one knew. It was something she carried deep within herself.

  It was her own private burden to know that if she’d made a different choice then it was possible she’d have been able to prevent Steven Daly ever becoming important in her sister’s life. She had to live with the knowledge that she’d selfishly ploughed on with her original plans.

  In the beginning it had been easy. She’d told herself her parents wouldn’t have wanted her to do anything else. That she’d worked hard for her place at Cambridge, the only person from her state school to be offered one, and they wouldn’t have wanted her to give it up. She’d consoled herself with the thought that Izzy would be fine with Auntie Margaret.

  But Izzy had cried. Had begged her. Twelve years old and she’d wanted to stay in her home. And it would have been possible—if Lydia had assumed the responsibility of being her legal guardian.

  Everyone had made it very easy. Auntie Margaret and her family were only too happy to take Izzy in. They’d decorated a bedroom especially for her and had carefully transferred all her sister’s posters so she would feel at home.

  Only Lydia knew that she was too selfish ever to have given up her dream. She’d consoled herself with the thought that her future success would justify that decision. The need to prove her decision had been the right one had been the driving force of her life.

  ‘What made you decide on being a journalist?’ His voice startled her.

  Lydia glanced up, glad to be pulled away from memories that hurt. She chewed gently on the side of her mouth as she considered her answer. ‘Does it sound too pretentious to say I wanted to make a difference?’