‘No, don’t do that,’ Verity said and it wasn’t that small frisson of flesh on flesh that had done it, or even the horror of the singles’ table, but the sudden thought that spending more time with Johnny wouldn’t be horrible. In fact, it would be quite pleasant. ‘Let’s see how we feel after one more fake-date each, right?’
‘Right,’ Johnny agreed. ‘Let’s shake on it.’
He held out his hand and Verity had no choice but to let him wrap his fingers around hers and there was that tiny quiver again, like she was dying for the touch of a man.
Which she wasn’t. She absolutely wasn’t.
9
‘It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us.’
The next day the staff of Happy Ever After were rendered speechless at the news that Verity was going out of town in the company of a man. Though once they’d recovered from the shock, they were very supportive. Perhaps a little too supportive because Posy insisted that Verity could have the Saturday off, when Verity had hoped that Posy might refuse to release Verity from the shackles of paid employment. No such luck.
‘In fact, take as many Saturdays off as you need,’ Posy declared wildly, though as soon as she said it, she looked around to make sure that Nina and Tom weren’t around to hear her being so generous about Verity’s holiday allowance. ‘Don’t worry about the website orders. Me and Little Sophie can muddle through.’
‘That doesn’t inspire any confidence,’ Verity told her. ‘At least let me make you a flowchart guide on how to fulfil orders.’
‘No need for that,’ Posy said blithely. ‘How hard can it be?’
Coming back to chaos on Monday morning would be just reward for all the lies. How Verity longed to tell Posy and Nina the awful truth but then she’d have to confess to making up Peter Hardy. So, Verity had no choice but to continue to lie, though she did feel really guilty about it, especially as Posy and Nina were so encouraging about Verity’s budding ‘romance’. Although not as encouraging as her sisters had been.
‘Very’s going away with A Man. On a minibreak,’ Merry announced to Con, Immy and Chatty, the other three Love sisters, as the five of them had assembled on Tuesday evening in front of assorted screens for a live wedding prep chat.
Verity gave Merry, who was sharing her sofa and her laptop screen, a shove. ‘It’s not a minibreak and I’m not going away with a man. And this is not what we’re here to talk about!’
‘She is,’ Merry confirmed, shoving Verity back in order to hog the screen.
‘You are!’ Con squealed and peered closely at her phone screen so they all had a good view of the headdress and veil she’d fashioned out of kitchen roll.
‘Our little girl’s finally become a woman,’ Immy added very condescendingly for someone who was two years younger than Verity. ‘Good on you, Very!’
‘So, is this the third official date? Do you think you’ll sleep with him? You’re meant to on a third date, aren’t you?’ Chatty wanted to know as Verity put her head in her hands and groaned.
‘Dear God, can we please talk about centrepieces?’ she pleaded.
At least Nina’s support was of a practical nature.
‘I’ll lend you my weekend case,’ she offered as soon as she heard of Verity’s plans. ‘It’s vintage. Looks much more expensive than it was and remind me to show you how to do a smoky eye.’
It didn’t take long though for Verity to feel less burdened by guilt. It was about the same time as Nina started to refer to Verity’s brief jaunt to the country as ‘your dirty weekend’.
‘It’s not a dirty weekend,’ Verity kept repeating wearily. Oh so wearily. ‘It’s one night away from London.’
‘It’s a third date, isn’t it? You have to sleep with him if it’s a third date. It’s industry standard,’ Nina shouted, because she was on the till in the shop while Verity was in the back office so all their customers were able to hear Verity’s personal business.
‘You said fifth date if there were extenuating circumstances,’ Posy reminded Nina. ‘Verity’s a vicar’s daughter, surely that counts as an extenuating circumstance.’
‘What number date did you sleep with Peter Hardy, oceanographer?’ Tom called from across the shop floor where he was restocking the new-release shelves. ‘Although I have to say that I never really got the sense that you and Peter Hardy, oceanographer, were that committed.’
‘Shut up everybody and get on with your work,’ was Verity’s only comeback but Nina was still speculating about possible third-date sexual activity (‘You don’t have to go the whole hog, I suppose, but at least half the hog. Oral sex seems only polite, doesn’t it?’) and Tom was still theorising on the absence and indeed the existence of Peter Hardy (‘Very convenient that he’s out of the picture but I suppose that’s the upside of dating then dumping an oceanographer’) the day that Wallis swept into the shop.
It was an exceedingly rare occasion as Verity was on the till. Only under duress and only to cover Nina’s lunch break and only because she continued to feel guilty that she was taking advantage of Posy’s good nature.
‘I’ve tracked you down!’ Wallis announced triumphantly as she approached Verity, who waved feebly. Tom was the only other staff member in the shop and Verity was sure he was earwigging as Wallis leaned over the counter to clutch hold of Verity’s hand. ‘I’m so pleased you and Johnny are seeing each other. Isn’t he lovely? We all think he’s lovely.’
‘He seems very nice,’ Verity said gamely.
‘And I’m so pleased that you’re coming to Lawrence’s fortieth this weekend: you can meet everybody,’ Wallis continued as she gazed around the shop. She had to be on her own lunch hour because she was wearing a beautifully cut grey trouser suit, her streaked blonde hair pinned back. Johnny had said she was a barrister. ‘You know, my chambers are just round the corner on the other side of High Holborn, but I had no idea this place existed. It’s so charming.’
Verity didn’t have time to extol the charms of Happy Ever After. ‘So that wasn’t everybody on Sunday?’ she squeaked.
‘Not even half of everybody. It’s June and so many people leave London for the summer, don’t they?’ Wallis smiled. ‘Lucky them. Not like us wage slaves. You know, now that I am here, I might as well browse. I still need to get a gift for Rich and Carlotta’s wedding. You’ll be going to that too, won’t you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s very hard to get the time off. So busy. Summer. Tourists. Rushed off our feet.’ Verity wasn’t even capable of full sentences in her fear of having to meet everybody. At least she wouldn’t have to attend the unknown Rich and Carlotta’s wedding at some point in the future. One more date each, that was the deal and by God, she wasn’t going to be persuaded otherwise.
‘But didn’t Posy say that you could take any Saturday off that you wanted?’ Tom helpfully reminded Verity. Inevitably he and Nina had found out about that and were furious about it. ‘Posy, she’s the owner, she’s very supportive of Verity’s love life. We all are. I’m Tom, by the way. We have some beautiful pieces in our display cabinet over there, perfect for gifts, let me show you.’
Tom stepped towards them, a rare smile on his usually quite stern face. As he put his hand on Wallis’s elbow to guide her across the room, she glanced back at Verity and fluttered her eyelashes. Verity couldn’t see it herself but Tom was like bookseller catnip to any customer over the age of thirty.
That had been Thursday and now it was Saturday morning and Verity was being driven through the outskirts of North London in Johnny’s car. Because he had a car that he could drive because he was a fully functioning, fully employed, fully paid grown-up. None of Verity’s London friends had cars or could see the need for one. Except Sebastian and he was as rich as God. Probably richer.
‘There’s no need to look quite so anxious. We’re getting out of London. The sun’s shining. The champagne will be flowing. It’s all good,’ Johnny said, with a sidelong glance at the passenger seat where Verity was white
-knuckling her seatbelt.
Merry had given her a similar pep talk the night before when she’d come round to drop off the posh frock that they both had a fifty per cent share in. She’d also drawn a diagram on a Post-it note and stuck it on the fridge.
There was something magical about how big and blue the sky was as the rows and rows of shops and streets full of houses gave way to open green fields with sheep and cows grazing or studded with the brilliant yellow of rapeseed, then the sudden stench of manure filled the car so they had to hastily roll up the windows. Johnny had switched on the radio, a gentle panel show on Radio Four, so they didn’t have to talk but still they guessed at answers to the quiz, arguing, even laughing.
Verity always felt she could breathe easier in the countryside. When Johnny drove them off the motorway, said he knew a place where they could stop for lunch, which turned out to be a village pub that looked as if it was often used as a location for a bucolic country inn in period dramas, Verity even suggested that they go for a walk first to stretch their legs.
Maybe she was just trying to delay having to meet everybody, but there was something about a country lane that sent Verity’s soul soaring; the sound of birdsong and scent of wildflowers in the air. She didn’t even mind having a companion on her walk, especially as Johnny was glued to his phone, though the constant beep of his message alerts made Verity grind her teeth.
Yet when they did talk over a ploughman’s lunch, cheddar and pickles so sharp that they both winced then sighed in delight, it was much more stilted than their previous conversations.
‘How are your four sisters?’ Johnny asked and Verity, sure that Johnny didn’t want to know about kitchen-roll wedding veils or Chatty and Immy’s thoughts on the third-date rule, could only say that they were fine.
Then Verity enquired after Johnny’s architecture practice and his father and both of them were fine too. Verity could feel her mouth go dry and her heart start to thud and flutter as she tried desperately to think of something to say. Alas, the words proved elusive.
‘Oh, I haven’t told you anything about Lawrence, have I?’ Johnny finally said, as easily as if the last fifteen minutes hadn’t been at all hellish and awkward. ‘He’s the birthday boy. Well, I say boy but he’s going to be forty, though in my head he’s forever seventeen.’
Johnny went on to explain that Lawrence had been a few years above him at a smart London day school; captain of the cricket team while Johnny had been a plucky young midfielder. At Lawrence’s eighteenth birthday party, Johnny had been dared to climb out on the roof, got stuck between two chimney pots and had to be rescued by the fire brigade.
‘So, if anyone suggests a game of truth and dare tonight, don’t let me pick dare,’ he pleaded with Verity.
‘Though maybe picking dare might be a safer option than choosing truth,’ she pointed out. ‘What with us being elbow deep in subterfuge and all.’
‘Like agents on a secret mission.’ Johnny frowned. ‘Though I suppose all agents’ missions are secret or what would be the point?’
When they got back in the car for the second leg of the journey, Johnny kept Verity entertained with tales of his misspent youth. Of teenage drinking and lusting after girls from the neighbouring school and congregating in Camden Town for house parties and picnics on Primrose Hill. It all sounded very exotic to Verity whose teenage years hadn’t been at all misspent. Once Con had managed to persuade a boy called Tim to take her to the cinema, but he hadn’t made it past Our Vicar.
‘Farv opened the door, took one look at Tim, who wasn’t exactly blessed of face, and quoted Corinthians chapter one, verse thirteen at him: “If I can speak in the tongues of men and even of angels, but have not love, I am only a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.” Then Tim turned tail and ran and that was the very last time a boy ever came to the house, unless they were delivering stuff for the church jumble sale for their parents,’ Verity told Johnny, who whistled under his breath.
They were cruising along B roads overhung with heavy branches, hedgerows and fields a pleasant green blur; through small villages, each one more picturesque than the last, until they arrived at their destination. Oakham Mount had everything one could want in a village. A village green, a general store and a church, which Verity dated as Medieval, though it had been badly renovated during the mid-Victorian age when they’d added some Gothicky bits and bobs, which really did it no favours. She and her sisters had spent a sizeable part of their school holidays being dragged round churches by Our Vicar and her head was stuffed full of knowledge about naves and fonts and lych gates that would never leave her.
The village also had an extremely well-appointed pub, The Kimpton Arms, gaily bedecked with hanging baskets as befitted an establishment that had come second runner-up in ‘Britain’s prettiest public house’ for three years running, according to the chalkboard outside. Johnny pulled into the car park.
‘This is us,’ he said casually, like it was no big deal. ‘I thought you’d be more comfortable here than staying in Lawrence’s house or in the grounds, apparently they’ve hired some yurts …’
‘Here’s fine,’ Verity assured him, because yurts sounded a lot like camping and there’d been a lot of sleeping in tents during those childhood summers of being dragged round every church in the country. ‘I’m not a big fan of waking up with a slug in my hair.’
‘Good, good.’ Johnny climbed out of the car and before Verity could even get her seatbelt undone, he was opening the passenger-side door for her. ‘Let me get your bags for you.’
You couldn’t fault his manners, Verity thought to herself as she followed Johnny and her bags into The Kimpton Arms. Or his shoulders. He had good shoulders.
There were greeted immediately by the man serving behind the bar. ‘Call me Kenneth,’ he said when Johnny explained who they were. ‘Or mine host, whichever you prefer. Let me go and find my good lady wife.’
Linda, Kenneth’s good lady wife, had a perm and a steely glint in her eyes that Verity recognised as belonging to a woman who was clearly a stalwart on every committee that Oakham Mount had to offer. She ushered them through a side door and up some stairs.
‘Normally we don’t like guests coming and going at all hours but as you’re here for Mr Lawrence’s party, we can make an exception, though we would like you back at eleven thirty at the very latest,’ she said in a resolute voice. Verity didn’t doubt that she’d lock them out if they returned after curfew. ‘I do need my beauty sleep, after all.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that you’d still be just as beautiful without it,’ Johnny said with just a hint of a drawl that made Verity look at him nervously and Linda simper as she opened a door.
‘Our best room,’ she said with a flourish. ‘Comes with en suite. Though the shower is a law unto itself. Enjoy your stay!’
Then she was gone in a cloud of Rive Gauche. Verity turned to Johnny, her hands on her hips. ‘Their nicest room. Room. You said …’ She scrolled back to what Johnny had said when he’d begged her to come to this party with him against her better judgement. ‘You said you’d book us separate rooms.’
‘I did. I intended to but they only had one room left and it is a twin.’ Johnny held out his hands to indicate the two single beds, both of them trussed up with all manner of floral encumbrances from pillows and valances to an alarming number of scatter cushions. ‘I thought if I told you, then you wouldn’t come.’
In romance novels, of which Verity had read more than her fair share, it was a common occurrence – you could almost call it a cliché – for the hero and heroine to find themselves booked into one room, with no other accommodation available. It didn’t matter whether it were a Regency coaching inn or a modern five-star hotel; it happened all the time.
Then other things would happen too. Maybe a murderous intruder would be foiled so emotions would be running high. Or there might be a raging storm outside and the heroine would have a mortal fear of thunder and lightning and would need to snuggle against the hero
in her terror instead of manning up. Alcohol would be consumed. A negligee or towel would slip down a few crucial centimetres revealing either a tantalising glimpse of cleavage or pert bottom.
To cut a long romance short, when a man and a woman were thrown together in one hotel room, passionate lovemaking was sure to follow.
But not here. Not today. No thank you.
‘Too right I wouldn’t have come,’ Verity told Johnny crossly. ‘We can’t share a room. I hardly know you and even if I did, I still wouldn’t share a room with you.’
‘Honestly Verity, you don’t have anything to worry about,’ Johnny said coolly enough to douse any fevered fantasies Verity might or might not be having. ‘I have absolutely no intention of making a pass at you and I really hope you’re not going to make a pass at me.’
Verity was saved from having to snap, ‘In your dreams!’ by Johnny’s phone ringing. It hadn’t rung or beeped at all during the latter part of their journey, which had to be some kind of record for the short time that Verity had known him. Now Johnny glanced down at the screen and his features tightened.
‘I have to get this,’ he said, opening the door of the en suite. ‘Darling, does this mean you’re not still mad …’ Verity heard him say before he shut the door behind him.
It was his other woman. The woman he was desperately in love with to the exclusion of all other women. The woman he couldn’t be with for some mysterious reason that he absolutely did not want to talk about. The woman whose existence meant that he could share a twin room that looked like an explosion in a Past Times closing-down sale, with a woman who wasn’t The One, and no funny business would happen. Not even if Verity paraded around in her lingerie, not that she had any lingerie, just matching bras and pants from M&S.
Anyway, Verity didn’t want any funny business to happen either, so it was just as well that she wasn’t Johnny’s sort, as he was at great pains to point out at every available opportunity. So, what harm would it do to sleep in the same room together? No harm. No harm at all.
True Love at the Lonely Hearts Bookshop Page 9