Owen and Nessie walked through the village, past the church and over the bridge that crossed the small river until they reached a wooden kissing gate. The air was filled with birdsong and the distant babble of the river. Beyond the gate, the trees were in full leaf, green and glossy, shading the path from the sun. Nessie took a long deep breath and felt some of the stress of the last few weeks slip away.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Owen said as they walked. ‘It’s always peaceful here but I think the morning light makes it especially soothing if you’re feeling the strain.’
They’d been walking for around half an hour when Owen stopped suddenly and gripped her arm. ‘Look,’ he whispered, pointing surreptitiously at the top of a tree. ‘We’re being watched.’
Nessie peered along the branch and then let out a stifled gasp as she saw a reddish-brown face staring down at them. ‘Oh! He looks just like Squirrel Nutkin.’
‘They’re endangered, so you hardly ever see them. Grey squirrels are more aggressive and carry a disease that kills the reds too.’
Scarcely daring to breathe, Nessie watched the little creature scurry along the branch. ‘Poor things. It doesn’t seem fair.’
Owen smiled. ‘That one seems happy enough. Come on, let’s leave him in peace.’
The trees grew thicker as they went deeper into the woods. Owen kept up a comfortable pace, although Nessie suspected he was walking more slowly than he might if he was alone. She noticed the occasional bluebell here and there but nothing like the sea Kathryn had described. And then she saw a larger splash of blue among the green. Moments later, they rounded a corner and she was greeted by a carpet of delicate flowers. It looked exactly like a wave, washing over the woodland floor.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘how beautiful.’
‘This is just a taster,’ Owen said, glancing at her warmly. ‘Wait until you see the next bit.’
And sure enough, around the next twist in the path, there was something even better: a small, crystal-clear waterfall tumbling over grey rocks, surrounded on either side by a forest of bluebells. Nessie stopped dead: it was one of the loveliest sights she’d ever seen. ‘Wow.’
Owen stood for a moment, surveying the scene with a faraway look in his eyes. Then he seemed to give himself a mental shake. ‘We can eat on that rock over there,’ he said, pointing to a wide flat area off to one side, about halfway up the waterfall. ‘If you’re up for a bit of climbing?’
Nessie bit her lip. The climb didn’t look too precarious but the last thing she wanted was to tumble headlong into the water. Then again, she didn’t want to come across as unadventurous. She nodded. ‘Okay.’
Owen led the way. Nessie felt her feet wobble a few times but he was there each time to steady her. The last time he took her hand he didn’t let go.
They spread the blanket out and started to unpack. Underneath the croissants and jams, Nessie discovered some Scotch eggs from the village butcher, crumbly slices of cheese and juicy cherry tomatoes. She laid everything out onto the plates which had been strapped against the lid of the basket as Owen pulled out two champagne flutes.
‘They really have thought of everything,’ Nessie said, surveying the feast.
He laughed. ‘I don’t know about Sam, but my sister is pretty determined once she gets an idea into her head.’ He passed her a glass brimming with champagne. ‘Cheers.’
Too late for Buck’s Fizz now, Nessie thought. She tapped her glass against his. ‘Cheers,’ she echoed. ‘Thank you for showing me the bluebells, even though you were pretty much forced into it.’
‘I wasn’t forced into anything,’ he protested. ‘Like I said, beauty is better when it’s shared and I’m glad of the chance to share with you.’
His eyes met hers and warmth flooded through Nessie. One of his dark curls had escaped from the others and was resting on his forehead; she had a sudden overwhelming urge to brush it away, back to where it belonged. It wouldn’t take much, she mused, she was close enough to reach. And while she was at it, she could run her fingers down the side of his face, pull him near enough to kiss . . .
She glanced away, focusing instead on the bluebells, and took a gulp of champagne. The bubbles hit her stomach sharply, exploding into heat that did nothing to cool her frazzled thoughts. Drinking on an empty stomach was a bad idea, except that it sometimes made her feel a tiny bit braver. Maybe even brave enough to do what was on her mind, to make the first move. There was no law that said she had to let Owen take the lead, after all. She’d certainly never have a more romantic setting.
She took another sip of champagne and looked back at Owen, only to find him still watching her. Without stopping to think, she leaned towards him and pressed her lips against his. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, then Owen’s hand tangled in Nessie’s hair and his lips parted. A jolt of electricity surged through her as the kiss deepened; the sound of the waterfall faded away and all she could think was how right it felt.
And then it ended. Owen pulled away, a stormy look in his deep brown eyes. ‘Nessie, I . . .’
He trailed off and a wave of embarrassment and shame flooded over her. She’d done the wrong thing, misread his intentions and now he was trying to find a way to let her down gently. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
Owen sat back, puffing out a long, frustrated-sounding huff. ‘No, you should. And I don’t want you to think it wasn’t good because it was. It’s just—’ His gaze skittered away, over the top of the bluebells and back again. ‘Today isn’t the best day, that’s all.’
Nessie stared at him in confusion. ‘Why?’
‘It’s my wedding anniversary,’ he said. ‘Eliza and I would have been married ten years today.’
Nessie groaned. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
He shook his head and smiled bleakly. ‘Why would you? It’s my fault, I should have said no when Kathryn suggested a walk. But I wanted to show you the bluebells and I thought maybe it was time to . . . time to make some fresh memories.’
The world lurched as Nessie’s skin began to crawl. ‘You used to come here with Eliza.’
Owen sighed and hung his head. ‘She loved the bluebells too.’
He looked so sad that Nessie wanted to hug him, to reassure him that it was okay. She didn’t dare touch him again, though. Instead, she busied herself with rearranging the plates, giving him time to recover himself. ‘You know, we should probably eat some of this,’ she said, after a while. ‘Sam and Kathryn will be cross if we don’t.’
He sat for a moment, staring at the ground. Then he lifted his head and gave her a wry smile. ‘Hell hath no fury like a sister scorned. And they meant well. Their timing was off, that’s all.’
Twin spots of heat pricked Nessie’s cheeks and she hid behind filling her plate with food she didn’t want. Her timing had been off, too, catastrophically so. Because the ghost of Eliza felt like a physical presence between them now, in a way that she never had before. And Nessie wasn’t at all sure how to lay her to rest.
Chapter Four
Sam stared at her phone on the bedside table.
It hadn’t rung since yesterday morning, not since she’d answered Will Pargeter’s call and cut him off before he could utter more than a few words. They were etched into her memory, though, and as much as she tried to forget them, she was worried. Listen, Sam, we need to talk . . .
What could he possibly have to say that she might want to hear, she wondered. He was the reason she’d lost her job – lost everything, in fact, while he got to carry on as normal. If only she could turn back the clock to the night they’d met; go to a different bar, ignore his flirtatious smiles, tell him where to shove his bottle of Bollinger. But then she might not be here, at the Star and Sixpence. And she wouldn’t have Joss.
It had been reckless of her to accept the first drink. But she’d recognised his face, although she couldn’t say where from, and he’d been very charming. Her defences had been deployed el
sewhere, at the other man trying to chat her up in the noisy bar and who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Will had intervened, told the man to stop hitting on his girlfriend, and Sam had been vulnerable for a few minutes. That had been all Will Pargeter needed.
‘I don’t normally do that kind of thing,’ he’d said, once the other man had got the message. ‘Especially not when the damsel in distress looks like she’s more than capable of handling herself. To be honest, I was more concerned for him than you.’
Sam laughed. ‘Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.’
She looked at him properly then. He was tall, around 6´ 4´´, in his early thirties with wavy brown hair and pale blue eyes. Good looking too, especially in that expensive suit and crisp white shirt, and she had the oddest feeling she already knew him. He wasn’t a client; she was sure she’d remember but she couldn’t place where she’d seen him before. Maybe television – he was very well spoken and had the air of someone who was used to being watched.
‘I can’t blame him for trying,’ he said. ‘You’re by far the most eye-catching woman in here.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Will Pargeter.’
She considered the name: definitely no one she knew. ‘Sam Chapman. Pleased to meet you.’
She took his hand and he instantly raised it to his lips. ‘Trust me, the pleasure is all mine.’
From anyone else, it would have been cheesy. But whether it was the twinkle in his eye when he said it or the consummate confidence behind the delivery, it worked. Sam felt a shiver of attraction when she met his gaze.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I should buy you one, to thank you for saving me.’
Will grinned. ‘Ah, but you didn’t actually need saving. So we’re all square.’
‘A vodka martini, then,’ Sam said and surreptitiously glanced down at his left hand. No wedding ring and no telltale signs that he normally wore one, either.
Nodding, he turned to go.
‘Actually,’ Sam said impulsively, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Make it dirty.’
Will’s eyes met hers. ‘Whatever you want,’ he said and in that second Sam knew they were going to have sex. How long it took them to get there depended on how well he played the game.
He came back with her drink and they began a courtship dance. Sam established early on that he was thirty-three and single, ran his own consultancy business in the City, although she couldn’t quite get to the bottom of what his business actually was. He’d just sealed the biggest deal of his career, he said, and was in the mood to celebrate. The next time he went to the bar he returned with a bottle of Bollinger and things got hazy after that. They’d gone back to his hotel, The Landmark in Marylebone – by that time she already knew money wasn’t something Will Pargeter struggled with – and hadn’t wasted much time on sleep. Just before seven, Sam had scrawled her number on the hotel notepaper and left Will sprawled across the king-size bed.
He called later that day to thank her for a wonderful night and sent an extravagant bouquet of lilies and roses to the office. The next time she’d seen him had been on the BBC news the following morning. He looked, if anything, even better than he had in person. Sam had sat up in her bed and turned the sound up.
‘Thank you for joining us, Lord Pargeter,’ the anchorwoman said, with a smile that seemed a little more coy than usual. ‘So tell me – what is a “Morality Tsar” and why does the government need one?’
Sam blinked hard. Lord Pargeter? Her gaze slid to the caption at the bottom of the screen: Lord William Pargeter – New Morality Advisor to Prime Minister.
Will looked serious. ‘I wouldn’t call myself a tsar, exactly, but I have been brought in to ensure certain moral standards are observed in politics. Anyone who reads the papers will know there have been too many lapses in judgement recently among members of both the House of Commons and the Lords. These men and women are meant to be role models and it’s my job to ensure they behave accordingly.’
The newsreader raised her eyebrows. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’
He leaned forward earnestly. ‘There are a number of things I plan to put in place. A transparent, clearly accountable system of expenses for MPs and Lords, so that everyone can see where public money is being spent. Strict moral guidelines to ensure that my colleagues in public service fully understand their positions as beacons of integrity and decency.’ He waved a hand. ‘And of course, I’ll be encouraging them to remember their family responsibilities too.’
Sam went cold as the studio lights caught on his left hand: it was unmistakably a wedding ring. Her eyes slammed shut. To make things even worse, she now remembered where she’d seen him before; in the foyer of Brightman and Burgess where she worked. Her boss, Myles Brightman, had mentioned doing some media training with a newly appointed advisor to Number Ten and Sam had seen them fleetingly as she’d gone out to meet a client. She hadn’t made the connection. Until now . . .
Scrambling out of bed, she hurried through to the living room for her laptop, tapping impatiently with her nails as she waited for her browser to load. All of her worst fears were confirmed. Will Pargeter wasn’t just married; he was married with two children; a three-year-old and a six-month-old baby. His wife was the daughter of a viscount and they lived in a sprawling country pile somewhere in Sussex. His title was hereditary but he’d been working his way up through the corridors of power for the last few years – rumour had it he was tipped to be London Mayor – and now he’d ‘sealed the biggest deal’ of his career. Sam felt sick. Apart from the fact that she’d been taken in by his lies, there were strict rules of conduct at the PR agency about sleeping with clients – it was a definite no-no, whether they were married or not. If anyone found out she’d slept with the so-called morality tsar, she’d be in major trouble. Thankfully, it seemed that he had much more to lose than her and wouldn’t be telling anyone about that night either. His poor wife, Sam thought. How many other women had he charmed into bed while she was looking after a toddler and a new baby?
Sam picked up her phone and stabbed out a furious text. Never contact me again.
There’d been calls, of course, and more flowers. She’d ignored them all. And then the worst had happened – she’d run into Will somewhere she couldn’t escape: the office.
She’d known there was a possibility she’d see him at some point but had banked on the fact that he had too much at stake to try anything. So she was unprepared when she walked into the conference room and saw him on the other side of the table, between two other colleagues who looked less pleased to see her.
‘Ah, Sam, thanks for joining us,’ her boss, Myles, said briskly. ‘I’m sure you already know who this is but I’d like to formally introduce you to Will Pargeter. We’re handling some of his PR while he’s working with Downing Street and he’s asked if you could come aboard.’
So that was it, Sam thought. The flowers and phone calls had failed so he was trying to get her attention another way. She plastered on the blandest of smiles to hide her anger and reached one hand across the table. ‘Lord Pargeter.’
Will’s eyes danced as he gripped her fingers. ‘Call me Will, please. Myles has told me so much about you that I feel like we know each other already.’
She flashed him a stiff look. ‘As you wish.’
Sam felt his eyes on her often as the meeting progressed. She kept her own gaze averted, looking anywhere but at him unless he addressed her directly, which he did more and more until Sam was sure everyone in the room must have guessed what was going on. But Myles seemed oblivious, even when Will held her hand far too long at the end. ‘I look forward to working more closely with you, Sam.’
Once he’d gone, she’d asked Myles to be excused from the project.
‘But he asked for you specifically, Sam. By name.’ Myles frowned as he studied her. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
Sam’s mind raced as she searched for a plausible excuse. ‘I don’t usually wor
k with the political clients,’ she said, and gritted her teeth slightly. ‘I’m not sure I can handle it.’
Myles threw her a disbelieving look. ‘What’s this really about?’
She should come clean, admit her mistake, Sam knew, but she couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on Myles’ face. ‘I . . . I don’t trust him, that’s all.’
Her boss laughed. ‘Since when has that been important? I don’t trust a lot of our clients but I still work with them. No, you stick with Will Pargeter. I’ve got a feeling he’ll be good for you.’
Sam had remembered those words a month later, when Myles had summoned her to his office and stared at her in thunderous silence from behind his desk.
When he did speak, his voice was like a whip. ‘Explain.’
She took a moment to compose herself before answering. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but he kissed me, not the other way around.’
Myles thumped the desk. ‘It doesn’t matter! What matters is that you were kissing at all. In the conference room, of all fucking places, where anyone could have walked in.’
Sam closed her eyes briefly, remembering the flash of panic she’d felt at the end of the meeting when she’d realised everyone else had left the room apart from Will. He’d moved fast, trapping her against the table and before she could react he was pressing his lips upon hers. ‘I wanted to do this for so long,’ he’d murmured in anguish, before kissing her again. ‘I can’t live without you, Sam, please stop punishing me. I’ll do anything.’
She’d twisted away immediately, outraged and furious, only to see Myles watching from the doorway . . .
‘I can assure you, it wasn’t my idea,’ she snapped. ‘I did try to warn you he couldn’t be trusted.’
Myles narrowed his eyes. ‘How long has this been going on?’
Summer at the Star and Sixpence Page 3