His Reluctant Cinderella

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘It’s guilt money. He knows he should have stayed and fought for you. He hasn’t and he’s throwing money at his guilty conscience.’

  ‘I didn’t want him to stay and fight for me. I’m not Guinevere.’ But Clara could feel her cheeks heating up; even she didn’t believe a single word she was saying. She knew with utter certainty that they would echo through her head tonight as she fought off thoughts of him. It was worse at night, what-ifs and might-have-beens spiralling dizzily through her mind until she finally fell into a fitful, dream-filled sleep. ‘I don’t know if I can accept this. Should I return it, ask for the right amount?’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ Maddie sat bolt upright in horror. ‘You deserve that money. And as you are giving away that whole gorgeous wardrobe he bought you...’

  ‘Gave me and I’m not giving it away, I’m selling it. All proceeds to Doctors Everywhere.’ She was never going to wear most of them again; this seemed like the right solution.

  ‘Every item?’ Maddie peeped over from under long eyelashes but Clara had seen her cousin perform that trick far too many times before to fall for her beseeching glance.

  ‘Every one.’

  ‘Even the sequinned shift?’

  ‘Even the sequinned shift, well, probably.’ She hated to admit it but she did have a secret fondness for the frivolous, shiny, ridiculously short piece of clothing. Nothing to do with the look in Raff’s eyes when she had first tried it on.

  ‘Bags me it next time we go out!’ Maddie was all smiles again. ‘Seriously, Clara, that’s one hell of a bonus for a job well done. Whatever his motivation you put in a lot of hours—legitimate hours—and he got the results he wanted. Take the cheque and get yourself signed up to one of these websites before you retreat back into that shell of yours.’ She patted the open laptop perched between them. ‘Right, what are your interests? Fine dining and culture?’

  ‘No!’ Clara shook her head, uneasily aware that she was being a little over-emphatic. ‘I did far too much of that with Raff.’

  ‘And you didn’t enjoy it?’

  An image came into Clara’s head. Mud. Mud everywhere, Raff hoisting her up onto the rope. The feeling of freedom, of being able to let go. ‘I want someone I can do ordinary things with,’ she said slowly. ‘Walk, talk, read. But when we do them together they become extraordinary.’

  There was a long moment’s silence. ‘Don’t we all?’ said Maddie softly.

  Clara picked up the cheque again, aware she had said too much, revealed too much even to herself. ‘I’m not going to sign up yet, no...’ as her cousin tried to interrupt ‘...I don’t mean I won’t, just not tonight. Not right now. I think I might take Summer away for a few weeks and I’ll do it when we get back.’

  ‘But it’s term time. You never let her miss school.’

  ‘I think this is a sign.’ Clara looked at the cheque. She had already been considering the trip before the cheque arrived. It just made the logistics easier. ‘I’ll put the amount I was expecting into the business, just as I always planned to. But the extra I’m going to spend doing something I should have done a long time ago. I’m going to take Summer to Australia.’

  Australia. Once it had been the promised land—a land of freedom, of exotic, alien landscapes, of opportunity. And then it had all turned to gritty dust. For the longest time she couldn’t even hear an Australian accent without a sense of foreboding, of panic. Had put her wanderlust behind her, packed her need for adventure away along with her backpack and guidebooks and dreams.

  But in doing so she had denied Summer her heritage. Her daughter deserved to know who she was. And Clara? Clara needed to find herself again. ‘I think I was attracted to Raff because he reminded me of how I used to be.’

  Maddie snorted. ‘You were attracted to him because he was hot.’

  Clara smiled. But the painful thump her heart gave whenever she thought of him, the tightness in her chest, had nothing to do with the way he looked, nice as that was. It was the way he made her feel—as if she could do anything. Once she had had that belief in herself.

  ‘That too,’ she agreed. ‘But if this whole mess has taught me anything it’s that I need to figure some things out about me before I can commit to anyone properly. It’s a good thing Raff was always going away.’ See, that was convincing. She was totally believable. ‘I’m not ready for a relationship. Not yet. But I hope to be.’ She smiled brightly. An easy, simple relationship. They existed, right?

  ‘And Byron?’

  ‘I hope he’ll meet up with us but if he doesn’t?’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t force him, Maddie. I used to think if he just met Summer he’d fall for her but now I just don’t know. But she should see where she was born, where she spent her first year.’

  It was time to lay some ghosts to rest. And when she came back she’d be ready to move on, Raff Rafferty nothing but a pleasant memory. See, she had a plan. Everything was better with a plan. Even a bruised heart.

  And that was all this was. She’d allowed herself to believe their own story, that was all. Hearts didn’t get broken, not in real life, not after just a few weeks, not when you were the one to walk away, the one with responsibilities.

  No, it was just a little bruised. She just needed time,. Time, distance and a little bit of hope that it was all going to be all right, somehow.

  But later, when Maddie had gone and Clara was sitting alone on her sofa, as she always was, that tiny bit of hope evaporated.

  She was a strong woman, she owned her own business, her own home, raised her daughter alone. Was it wrong for her to have wanted him to ride into battle for her? Wanted him to try?

  She was no fairy-tale princess but right now she would give anything to see Raff on a charger fighting his way through a forest of thorns, scaling a tower, searching the town for the owner of one small slipper. Instead he had turned and walked away without a word.

  As Byron had.

  Was she that unlovable? Wasn’t she worth fighting for? He hadn’t said one word to try and convince her to change her mind.

  Clara looked around the small room. At the large framed prints and photos she had carefully chosen and hung, the wallpaper she had spent days cutting, pasting and hanging and smoothing out most of the air bubbles.

  The sofa she and Summer hung out on, chatted, watched films, read books, cuddled on. The plants she tried not to kill with alternate bouts of love and neglect. The stuffed bookshelves, an eclectic mix of Summer’s old picture books, the ones that were too babyish to stay in her room but that Clara couldn’t bear to part with, crime novels and business guides. No travel guides though. Maybe it was time to get them out again.

  This was her life, the life she chose and worked every minute to maintain. A safe, ordered life. And now it wasn’t enough.

  She missed him, a huge aching chasm inside her that hurt more with every day, every non phone call, every non email. She didn’t want any of the perfect matches on the dating sites; she wanted Raff.

  But he didn’t want her.

  It was as if the sun had gone out and she didn’t know if she was ever going to get used to living in the dull grey gloom. She had to get away. She would take Summer to Australia and while she was there she would forget all about Raff Rafferty.

  It was the only way.

  * * *

  ‘Castor.’ His grandfather stood to meet him, every inch the proprietor. He might have been forced into retirement but here, in the world-famous Rafferty tea rooms, he was still king. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘And you, sir.’ Raff took the proffered hand and shook it. ‘Good to see you out and about.’

  ‘Got no time to play the damned invalid,’ his grandfather grunted as he slowly sat down. Raff watched him anxiously but it didn’t seem more than the usual twinges of arthritis that had plagued Charles Rafferty for the last few years. He
turned to the discreetly hovering waitress. ‘We’ll have the usual, Birgitte.’

  ‘Should you be eating afternoon tea? Wouldn’t the soup be a better option?’

  Charles Rafferty scowled. ‘I’ve been eating pap for the last few weeks. A man can’t live on soup alone.’

  ‘Nor can he live long on huge amounts of cream and butter, especially after suffering problems with his heart,’ Raff reminded him. He turned to the waitress and smiled. ‘Can you make sure there is no cream or butter and just a small selection of cakes? Thank you so much.’

  ‘You always did think you knew best.’ But to Raff’s relief his grandfather made no attempt to countermand his order. Instead he sat back in his chair and turned his trademark sharp look on Raff. The one that had him confessing all his sins instantly. ‘Polly returns soon and all this...’ he waved one hand at the tearooms ‘...all this will be hers. Any regrets?’

  ‘Only that it took this long,’ he assured him.

  ‘And you? Where next?’

  Now that was the million-dollar question. Raff’s morning meeting at Doctors Everywhere had changed everything and Raff had no idea how he felt about any of it. He waited until the waitress had unloaded the heavy tray, positioning the silver teapot in the middle of the table, accompanied by a silver jug of hot water, a jug of milk, a small bowl of lemon slices and the silver sugar bowl. It was the same design and arrangement as the very first afternoon tea served in this very room nearly one hundred years ago. Rafferty’s were big on tradition.

  ‘Jordan,’ he said, pouring out his grandfather’s tea, knowing he liked it weak, black and with lemon. He wasn’t so fussy; in the camps he took his hot drinks as they were served, grateful for the comfort and the caffeine. ‘Just for a few weeks.’ He stirred his own tea, finding it hard to look him in the eye, not wanting his response to influence him in any way.

  ‘But they want me to consider basing myself back here. Their Director of Philanthropy is moving on and they’ve asked me to replace him.’

  He continued to stir his tea, the morning’s conversation still whirling around his brain.

  He had gone to the London office to report for duty and organise his next posting, a normal procedure that had quickly proven to be far from standard when he had been ushered, not to the assignments department but into the CEO’s office for a long and frank conversation.

  ‘You’re one of our best guys out in the field,’ the CEO had said. ‘But you’re replaceable out there. I’d like you to consider working here instead. We completely beat our targets at that ball, and signed up some committed new sponsors; much of that was through your contacts. With you heading up our philanthropy section, combining your business experience with the work you did with us, I reckon we could bring in some serious money—and that means funding some serious work.’

  ‘Obviously you would be good in that role. I trained you myself.’ His grandfather was being as modest as usual. ‘But you always hated being deskbound. I thought it was the field work you wanted?’

  Raff had to fight the urge to squirm. With his grandfather’s keen gaze focused on him like this there was no way he could lie to him—or to himself.

  ‘Honestly? I’d been thinking something along similar lines myself,’ he admitted. ‘It makes a lot of sense, I know. But it will be hard. I love the unpredictability of what I do now. They’ve promised it won’t all be desk work and meetings and events. I’ll need to have a good understanding of our needs so I’ll still get to spend some time in the field, but it will be site visits from the HQ, not getting my hands dirty and being part of a team, at least not in the same way. But everyone at HQ needs to do at least one field rotation every two years so I wouldn’t have to walk away entirely.’

  ‘Is this about the girl? Your grandmother thinks she’s the one.’

  ‘When did you see Grandmother?’ Raff didn’t want to talk about Clara, not to someone who could read him as well as his grandfather did.

  ‘We are still married,’ his grandfather pointed out as if separate lives and separate houses for the last ten years were a mere technicality. ‘But we’re not discussing my love life.’ Raff choked on his tea. Thank goodness, now that would be an awkward conversation in every way. Grandparents weren’t supposed to have love lives, especially not ones who were estranged. Bridge partners? Absolutely. Love lives? Absolutely not. ‘Wouldn’t this new job work much better if you are considering getting engaged?’

  ‘We’re not.’ With relief Raff turned to the waitress bearing the heavy stand heaped with dainty finger sandwiches, scones and an array of tiny cakes and pastries. ‘Thanks so much, Birgitte. Grandfather, don’t get up. I’ll serve you.’

  ‘Only to make sure I eat brown bread and no cake,’ his grandfather grumbled. He looked keenly at Raff. ‘I thought things were serious? You’ve been inseparable for weeks. I admit I wasn’t sure at first but actually I quite like her. She’s feisty, good thing for a spoilt chap like you.’

  Raff took longer selecting each sandwich than was strictly necessary, placing them carefully on the plate. ‘It hasn’t worked out,’ he said, handing him the plate with the elegant flourish a summer working in this very tea room had instilled in him.

  ‘Why ever not? You were smitten.’ Charles Rafferty pointed his fork at Raff in a way that would have got either he or Polly sent from the table when they were children.

  Smitten. Clara had obviously fooled everyone even better than he had hoped. It helped that he liked her, that he desired her, that he enjoyed getting behind the barriers she put up, making her laugh. He valued her opinion, enjoyed her company—and sometimes the sight of her almost brought him to his knees.

  But smitten?

  ‘Clara deserves more than I can give her. She needs someone reliable, someone who won’t run away the moment things get difficult.’ He had told himself this so many times in the last week it sounded as if he were reciting something he had learned off by heart.

  ‘And why is that someone not you?’

  Raff opened his mouth to reply and then shut it again, more than a little nonplussed. His grandfather was sitting bolt upright looking expectantly at him, wanting some sort of answer. How could he not know? He was separated from his own wife after all! The Raffertys were all the same: good workers, terrible husbands. Or wives—Polly was no nearer to being settled than he was. They’d probably end up living together in their nineties in a crumbling mansion somewhere and people would call them ‘those peculiar Rafferty twins’.

  They were impetuous—he had signed up to a crisis organisation on a whim, for goodness’ sake—the absolute opposite of the calm, ordered, organised Clara. Raff curled his fingers into his palm. He had to stop thinking about her. She needed a future with someone stable. Someone unlike him.

  The honourable, the only thing to do was to respect her wishes, to walk away.

  ‘You did spend six years working in a business you dislike for my sake.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say dislike...’

  ‘Four years working for little money in difficult conditions helping others?’

  ‘Well, I...’

  ‘You came home the second your sister needed you?’

  ‘Of course, but...’

  His keen blue eyes softened. ‘You wrote to your mother every week even though she never wrote back. Visited your father every weekend even though he had no idea who you were. Rejected invitations to parties, the chance to be in the school team because they clashed with visiting hours.’

  How did his grandfather know all this? Know him this well? Raff thought he’d done such a good job of keeping it all hidden well away. ‘They were my parents.’ He coughed slightly to clear his throat, dislodge the unwanted lump that was suddenly lodged there. He hadn’t wanted to turn down those invitations, to lose his coveted spot in the team, but what if that had been the week? What if his fath
er had died and he hadn’t visited, hadn’t told him once again how sorry he was for not saving him?

  His mother seldom replied to the letters he dutifully sent. Occasionally parcels would turn up, books or T-shirts or toys. After a couple of years they had become even less frequent—and the toys were too young, the books too easy, the clothes a size or so too small.

  ‘Of course she wants you,’ his grandfather said, taking advantage of Raff’s introspection to help himself to several of the cakes. ‘You’re a good man, Castor, loyal to a fault, hardworking, handsome. Well...’ his eyes twinkled ‘...people do say you take after me. The only person who doesn’t believe in you, Castor, is you.’

  He put his knife down and looked seriously over the table at Raff. ‘Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t walk away because you’re too stubborn or too proud or too afraid. You don’t want to be my age and full of regrets. They make lonely bedfellows, you know. If I’d tried harder with your grandmother, then maybe...’ He sighed. ‘I have hope it’s not too late for us. You at your age? You should be beating her door down, begging her to take you back.’

  Raff saw his grandfather out to his car, his mind whirling. The job, Clara, his grandfather. Clara again. What if he let her down? Couldn’t be the man she needed him to be?

  There was more than his pride at stake here. More than his heart. He was willing to risk all he was, all he wanted, all his dreams, gamble them on a chance of happiness. But could he risk Clara’s, Summer’s stability? Their future?

  It was so much responsibility. The stakes were far, far too high. Better to fold now than let them lose everything. That was the right thing to do no matter how very wrong it felt.

  But try as he might to convince himself a small beacon of hope refused to flicker and die away. What if it wasn’t too late? What if he could somehow make things right?

  What if this was the chance he’d been waiting for his whole life? Was he just going to sit back and let the opportunity to be part of a family pass him by? He had salvaged his relationship with his grandfather despite all the odds. Maybe, just maybe there was hope for him after all.