His Reluctant Cinderella

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘In our case one for my grandfather. Do you want to go first or shall I show you how it’s done?’

  Eying the long trail of ropes, platforms, nets and pits, Clara felt her stomach drop. This was going to be incredibly undignified. But there was no way she was going to look weak in front of him. ‘I’ll go.’

  She refused to look back as she walked to the start line, painfully aware that all the conversation had stopped and every khaki-clad man was staring at her, lips curled with amusement. They were waiting for her to fail. To give up.

  They were in for a surprise. She hoped.

  ‘Come on,’ Clara told herself fiercely as she stood at the rope marking the beginning and stared out at what looked like miles of hell. The trail started with a long, shallow trough that Clara was supposed to run through. Correction, wade through. The trough was filled with the ubiquitous mud and led to a cargo net that she was sure was higher than her house.

  That was just the start.

  Weekly Pilates might be good for her stress levels but it hadn’t prepared her for this.

  ‘On the count of three,’ Spiral roared. ‘One, two, three!’

  Clara hesitated for less than a second and then, with a muttered curse, pushed herself forward, managing not to yell as she sank calf deep into the cold, gloopy mud.

  ‘Faster,’ Spiral yelled. ‘Are you a man or a mouse?’

  Answering him would have used up more oxygen than he was worth. Clara set her mouth mutinously and forged on. Too slow and she would prove the smirking men right, too fast and she knew she’d pitch face first into the mud. She set herself a steady trot, trying to ignore the cold, clamminess on her lower legs and the sucking noise as she pulled her leg out of the mud and put one hand onto the rope net, ready to pull herself up the impossible height.

  Her eyes were focused on each obstacle; there was no room in her mind for anything but the task. Spiral’s encouraging shouts, the cheers of the other staff were just background noise. Clara was aware of nothing but the hammering of her heart, the pounding of the blood in her ears, the burn in her thighs and her arms as she pulled, swung, jumped, waded and crawled. She had no idea how long she had been there. Minutes? Hours?

  Heck, it could have been days.

  ‘Come on, Clara.’ How on earth had Raff caught up with her? He was breathing hard, his hair damp with exertion, the dark blue eyes alight with life. She should be mad with him; she was absolutely filthy, totally exhausted, every muscle hurt and people kept yelling at her. And yet...

  Adrenaline was pumping through her so fast she was almost weightless; the whole world had contracted to this place, this task. She was alive. Really, truly alive.

  She reached out for the rope swing, and missed. Immediately Raff was there, one arm steadying her as she leant further forward off the narrow wooden platform, reaching out into thin air.

  ‘Got it!’ Giddy with triumph, she grabbed the rope and pulled it back towards her. Putting both hands firmly on it, she wrapped one leg around it and tried to jump on it, slithering back down to the platform as she missed. ‘Darn it!’

  ‘Here, let me.’

  Clara wanted to tell him no, that she had this, but he was too quick, steadying the rope and, as she jumped again, giving her a quick push up. A jolt of electricity ran through her as his hand pressed against her back but before she could react he had pushed and she was off, swinging through the air.

  Her limbs were trembling with the exertion as she reached the last obstacle, the crawl net. To conquer it successfully she had to lie down, fully face down, in the mud and wiggle her way under ten metres of tight net.

  She took a deep breath, the oxygen a welcome tonic to her tired, gasping lungs, and flung herself down into the oozing depths, pushing herself under the net and wiggling through the endless claustrophobic dark, wet mud until she reached the final rope. Once her head was through she gulped in welcome, blessed, clean air before painfully pulling the rest of her out. She lay there collapsed in the mud for five seconds, too exhausted to try and get to her feet.

  The mud didn’t seem so bad any more. She couldn’t tell where it ended and she began. She had turned into some kind of swamp monster.

  ‘That was a very good try.’ Spiral’s loud tones intruded on the muddy peace and Clara forced herself to pull onto her knees. ‘Well done, Clara.’

  A glow of pride warmed her. ‘Thanks,’ she said, drawing her hand across her face, realising too late that rather than wipe the mud off she was adding to it. Spiral held out one meaty hand and effortlessly pulled her to her feet, wrapping a blanket—khaki, of course, she noted—around her shoulders and, grabbing a mug from a plastic picnic table, pressed it into her hands.

  Tea. Milky, sugary, the opposite of how she usually liked it. It was utterly delicious.

  ‘You survived.’ Raff had eschewed his blanket but was cradling his tea just as eagerly as she was. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘That was...’ filthy, hard, undignified, unexpected ‘...exhilarating.’

  He broke into an open grin. ‘Wasn’t it? Do you think my staff will enjoy it? I thought that it could be the performance award this year. Followed by dinner, of course!’

  ‘That sounds good.’ As the adrenaline wore off Clara was increasingly aware of how cold she was; she suppressed a shiver. ‘I hope you’re going to let them get changed before dinner.’

  ‘I’m kind like that.’ He eyed her critically. ‘Talking of which, you look freezing. The showers are back in the changing room. Go, warm up, get changed and then I owe you lunch, anything you want.’

  Hot water, clean clothes, food. They all sounded impossibly, improbably good. ‘You do owe me,’ she agreed, putting the mug back onto the table before taking a few steps towards the low stone building where nirvana waited. She paused, impelled by a sudden need to say something, something unexpected.

  ‘Raff,’ she said. ‘I had fun. Thank you.’

  * * *

  It was the last thing he had expected her to say. Standing there completely covered in mud, the baggy trousers plastered to her legs, the filthy T-shirt clinging to every curve. Raff had expected sulking or yelling, even downright refusal. He didn’t expect her to thank him.

  He’d known the challenge would shake her up, had secretly enjoyed the thought of seeing prim and judgemental Clara Castleton pushed so far out of her comfort zone—turned out the joke was on him.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said, aware of how inadequate his response was. ‘I thought you’d enjoy it.’

  Clara smiled. A proper, full-on beam that lightened her eyes to a perfect sea green, emphasised the curve of her cheeks, the fullness of her mouth. She was dirty, bedraggled and utterly mesmerising. The breath left his body with an audible whoosh.

  ‘Liar,’ she said. ‘You thought I’d hate it. And you were this close...’ she held up her hand, her forefinger and thumb just a centimetre apart ‘...this close to being right.’

  ‘Yes.’ The blood was hammering through his veins, loud, insistent. All he could focus on was her wide mouth, the lines of her body revealed so unexpectedly by her wet clothes. What would it be like to take that step forward? To pull her close? To taste her?

  Dangerous.

  The word flashed through his mind. It would be dangerous; she would be dangerous. Workaholic single mothers were not his style no matter how enticing their smile. Women like Clara wanted commitment, even if they didn’t admit it.

  They played by different rules and he needed to remember it—no matter how tempted he was to forget.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘THAT WASN’T TOO BAD.’ Clara’s smile and tone were more than a little forced. At least she was trying.

  Which was more than his grandfather had.

  ‘It was terrible.’ Raff shook his head, unsure who he was more cross with: his
grandfather for being so very rude, or himself for expecting anything different.

  He had expected his grandfather to be terse and angry with him; it would take more than a suspected heart attack and a week in hospital for Charles Rafferty to get over any kind of insubordination even from his favourite grandson. It was the way he had spoken to Clara that rankled most.

  ‘He’s not feeling well and it can’t be easy being cooped up in bed.’

  Raff appreciated what Clara was trying to do but it was no good; her determined ‘little miss sunshine’ routine wasn’t going to fix this.

  ‘He practically accused you of being a gold-digger,’ he pointed out. ‘I shouldn’t have let him speak to you like that.’ He had been poised to walk out, stopped only by her calming hand on his arm, holding him in place, the pressure of her fingers warning him to keep still, keep quiet.

  ‘I wasn’t going anywhere.’ Clara stopped as they reached the hospital foyer; the marbled floor, discreet wooden reception desk and comfortable seating areas gave it the air of an exclusive hotel—if you ignored the giveaway scent of disinfectant and steamed vegetables. ‘I’ve been called worse.’ A wounded expression flashed across her face, so fleeting Raff wasn’t sure if he had imagined it.

  ‘Thank you.’ The words seemed inadequate. Despite his grandfather’s antipathy she had been a dignified presence by his side, not too close, not clingy but affectionate and believable. He was torn between embarrassment that she had witnessed his grandfather’s most petulant behaviour and an uncharacteristic gratitude for her silent support.

  ‘No problem.’ She was saying all the right things but her tone lacked conviction. ‘It’s my job after all.’

  ‘Come on.’ He needed to get out of here, away from the hospital, away from the toxic mixture of guilt and anger, to push it all firmly away. This was why he preferred to be abroad. He could be his own man out in the field. ‘Let’s go.’

  Clara opened her mouth, about to ask where they were going, and then she slowly shut it again. At least they were in the centre of London—it might be a little damp but whatever Raff had in mind it was unlikely to involve mud.

  And Raff obviously needed to blow off steam. He was keeping himself together but his jaw was clenched tight and a muscle was working in his cheek. Clara had been treated like dirt before, dismissed out of hand—but her own family had always been there to support her. She couldn’t imagine her own grandfather looking at her with such cold, disappointed eyes. Even a teen pregnancy hadn’t shaken his love and belief in her.

  Polly had called Raff ‘The Golden Boy’ but it seemed to her that his exalted position came with a heavy price. No wonder he had needed to employ Clara, to take some of the pressure his demanding grandfather was heaping on as he took advantage of his illness and frailty. An unexpected sympathy reverberated through her—Raff’s need to be as far away from his family as possible was a little more understandable.

  She kept pace with a silent, brooding Raff as he walked briskly through the busy streets expertly avoiding the crowds of tourists, the busy commuters and the loitering onlookers. Clara rarely visited London despite the direct rail link; if you asked her she would say she was too busy but the truth was it scared her. So noisy, so crowded, so unpredictable. The girl who once planned to travel the world was cowed by her own capital city.

  But here, today, it felt different. Friendlier, more vibrant, the way it had felt when she was a teenager, down for the day to shop for clothes in Camden and hang out in Covent Garden where Maddie hoped to be talent-spotted by a model agency whilst Clara spent hours browsing in the specialist travel bookshop. Was it even still there? All her books and maps were boxed away at her parents’ house. Maybe she should retrieve some of them, show them to Summer.

  ‘I need to organise a nurse to look after him,’ he said, breaking the lengthy silence. ‘The hospital won’t allow him home without one. He needs to have a specialist diet too, and he is going to hate that.’ His mouth twisted. ‘At this rate it’s going to be weeks before I can talk about the company with him again.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone else who can intercede? Your grandmother?’

  Raff shook his head. ‘They’re separated. She’ll have a go, if I ask her to, but he’s never quite forgiven her for leaving.’

  Clara knew that Polly and Raff had been raised by their grandparents but not that they had split up. She swallowed, her throat tight; it was becoming painfully apparent how little she knew of Polly’s life. They were supposed to be friends and yet she had no idea where she was or why she’d gone.

  But was Clara any better? She didn’t confide either, happy to keep the conversation light, to discuss work and plans but never feelings, never anything deep. Maybe that was why they were friends, both content with the superficial intimacy, their real fears locked safely away.

  ‘Have they been split up long?’

  ‘Nearly twelve years.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘She waited until after Christmas our first year at university. Didn’t want to spoil the holidays, she said. We were just amazed she made it that long. She’d wanted out for a long time.’

  ‘I can’t imagine your grandfather is easy to live with.’ That was an understatement.

  He huffed out a dry laugh. ‘He’s not. Poor Grandmother, from things she let slip I think she was on the verge of leaving when we came to live with them. She only stayed for Polly and me. Now she lives in central London and takes organised trips, volunteers at several museums and spends the rest of her time at the theatre or playing bridge. She’s very happy.’

  ‘What about your parents?’ She flushed; curiosity had got the better of her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

  ‘That’s okay. We are meant to be dating, after all, and none of this is exactly state secrets.’ He didn’t look okay though, his eyes shadowed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. ‘My father had a stroke when we were eight.’

  ‘I am so sorry.’ Tentatively she reached out and touched his arm, awkward comfort. ‘That must have been awful.’

  ‘We thought he was sleeping. The ambulance man said if we had called 999 earlier...’ His voice trailed off.

  Cold chilled her, goosebumping her arms, her spine as his words hit her—they’d found their father collapsed? Her heart ached for the two small children who had to suddenly grow up in such a terrible way.

  ‘The stroke was devastating.’ There was a darkness in his voice, the sense of years of regret, of guilt. ‘He had to go into a home—oh, the very best home, you know? All luxury carpets and plush chairs but we still knew, even at that age, that it was a place where people went to die.’

  Clara felt for the familiar cold curve of her bangle and began to twist it automatically; she wanted to reach out and hold him, hold the small boy who had to watch his father disintegrate before his eyes.

  ‘Our mother couldn’t handle it,’ Raff continued, still in that same bleak tone. ‘She went away for a rest and just stayed away. So my grandparents stepped in, sent us to boarding school and gave us a home in the holidays—and my poor grandmother had to wait ten years for her escape.’

  ‘Her choice.’ Clara knew she sounded brisk, the way she sounded when encouraging Summer to sleep without a nightlight, to go on a school trip, to walk to the corner shop on her own. ‘It was the right thing for her at the time. There’s no point dwelling on what-might-have-beens. You go mad that way.’

  She knew all about that. If she hadn’t stayed in that particular hostel, hadn’t met Byron. If she’d tried harder with his father, if she’d stayed in Australia. ‘Our lives are littered with the paths not taken,’ she said. ‘But if we spend all our time staring wistfully at them we’ll never see what’s right in front of us.’

  ‘A sick, unreasonable grandfather, a missing twin and an unwanted job?’ But the dark note had gone from his voice and Clara was relieved to see a sma
ll smile playing around the firm mouth. He stopped in front of her and turned to look at the golden building in front of them. ‘We’re here. Welcome to the millstone round my neck.’

  * * *

  It had been a long time since Clara had set foot in Rafferty’s. The flagship department store occupied a grand art deco building just off Bond Street and, although it was a little out of the way of the tourists pounding bustling Oxford Street and Regent Street, it was a destination in its own right. Discreet, classy and luxurious; just the name Rafferty’s conjured up another era, an era of afternoon tea, cocktails and red, red lipstick.

  Tourists flocked here, desperate to buy something, anything, so they could walk away with one of the distinctive turquoise and gold bags; socialites, It Girls and celebrities prowled the halls filled with designer items. Anyone who was anybody—and those who aspired to be—drank cocktails at the bar. Rafferty’s was a well-loved institution, accessible glamour for anybody with money to spend.

  As a child Clara had visited the store every Christmas to see the spectacular window displays, admire the lights, to confide her wish-list to Father Christmas. It had been one of the highlights of her year—and yet she had never brought Summer. She had never even made the seventy-five-minute-long journey into London with her daughter. London was too big, too noisy, too unpredictable.

  But as she stood on the edge of the marble steps, remembering the breathless excitement of those perfect days out, Clara’s throat tightened. Choosing the perfect gift, admiring the other shoppers, having afternoon tea in the elegant restaurant, those memories meant Christmas to her. How could she not have passed those memories on to her daughter?

  To keep Summer safe? Or to keep Clara herself safe?

  Maybe, just maybe, she was a little overprotective.

  ‘Are you going to stand there all day or are you actually coming in?’

  Clara swallowed. It must be nice to be Raff Rafferty. Adored heir to all this. So sure of yourself, so confident that you could treat life as one big joke.