by Penny Jordan
As he held it open for her, he reached inside and flicked on the lights.
Sara stepped past him and into the generous-sized room, catching her breath in admiration as she saw how it had been transformed from the dreary place she remembered.
Walls had been moved to make the room larger; the kitchen range, which she vaguely remembered as a crouching evil monster that belched smoke and was covered in rust, had been transformed somehow or other into a model of polished perfection, whose presence warmed the entire room, offering the two cats curled up on top of it a comfortable place to sleep.
Where she remembered a haphazard collection of tatty utilitarian cupboards, and a chipped stone sink, there were now beautifully made units in what she suspected was reclaimed oak, from the quality and sheen of their finish. The original stone floor had been cleaned and polished and was now partially covered with earth-toned Indian rugs; the walls had been painted a soft, warm, peachy terracotta colour; on the dresser, which like the units was oak and softly polished, stood a collection of pewter jugs and a service of traditional willow-pattern china.
A deep, comfortably solid-looking settee was pulled up close to the range, and the table in the centre of the room looked large enough and solid enough to accommodate a good-sized family.
In fact all that the room lacked to make it perfect was perhaps some flowers in the heavy pewter jugs, and of course the delicious warm smell of food cooking which she always associated with her mother’s kitchen and her mother’s love.
‘This is wonderful,’ she commented admiringly, swinging round to face Stuart and to say wryly, ‘I don’t know who installed these units for you, but I do know that they must have cost the earth—the quality of the wood alone…’
‘Reclaimed oak,’ he told her offhandedly. ‘I picked it up quite cheaply, and as for the units…’ He shrugged, and turned away from her.
‘I made them myself. Not a particularly difficult task.’
He sounded so offhand that for a moment Sara felt embarrassed that she had enthused about them so much, and then she recognised that her praise had probably embarrassed him, that he perhaps wasn’t actually used to his talents being admired.
While she assimilated these thoughts, she chalked up another black mark against the woman who had rejected him. Had he built this kitchen for her, working on it with love and hope, only to find…?
Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away hurriedly, and heard herself saying in an oddly choked voice, ‘Well, no matter what you say, I think they look wonderful. The wood—there’s something about it that makes you want to touch it…to stroke it almost…’ She broke off, feeling thoroughly embarrassed as she realised that he had turned round and was scrutinising her.
‘Not many people recognise that quality in wood, that appeal; to most of them it’s simply…wood. They don’t recognise its tactile appeal…’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, I’m starting to lecture you. If you haven’t eaten all day you must be starving. I’ll see what Mrs G. has left.’
He opened the door and disappeared in the direction of what Sara remembered as being one of the house’s cold pantries, returning within seconds with a covered dish.
‘It looks like shepherd’s pie,’ he told her.
‘Wonderful.’ She could feel her empty stomach starting to grumble hungrily at the thought of food.
This was the first time she had actually felt hungry since Ian had dropped the bombshell announcement of his engagement. The first time she had found herself able to forget her own problems and become interested in something and someone else, she recognised as Stuart switched on the oven and opened it, placing the pie dish on one of its runners.
‘Mrs G. tells me that it is possible to cook things in the range,’ he told Sara ruefully. ‘But as yet I haven’t quite mastered the knack.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
Sara told him about her visits to the house as a child, admiring the way he had managed to restore the range.
‘I enjoyed it. In the winter, when the daylight hours are so short, having the house to work on is an ideal means of finding something to do.’
He paused, his face slightly shadowed, and Sara wondered sympathetically if he was thinking about her, the woman he loved…thinking about how different things might have been were she here to share his life with him. He looked so sombre that she half turned away from him, instinctively wanting to give him privacy for his feelings, and she was surprised to hear him saying, ‘The problem is that, instead of renovating the house, what I ought to be doing is tackling the mountain of paperwork that’s amassing in the study.
‘That’s proving to be my biggest headache since I inherited the business. It seems that an inability to deal accurately and efficiently with paperwork is a family trait. My uncle’s affairs were in such a mess that I had to hire a firm of accountants to get them straightened out. They recommended a computer and a software program, both for the financial aspects of the business and for keeping a record of the replanting schemes I intend to set up, but the first time I tried to use the damn thing…’ He sounded so exasperated that Sara turned to look at him. He had pushed his fingers into his hair as he spoke to her in a gesture of impatient irritation which confirmed her earlier opinion that it needed cutting.
His hair was thick and glossy, almost black, so very different from Ian’s expertly styled blond hair.
‘I don’t know why it is, but I seem to have a blind spot where paperwork is concerned.’ He was scowling slightly, suddenly looking very much younger…almost like a little boy. The thought of anyone considering such a large and tough-looking man as a little boy amused Sara enough to make a small smile curve her mouth. She saw Stuart looking at her, and realised that he was focusing on her face…on her mouth itself.
The instant reaction that ricocheted through her body stunned her into immobility, followed by an astonishing urge to touch her tongue-tip to her lips to relieve their unfamiliar dryness. It was so long since she had been aware of how very erotic it could be to have a man’s attention focused on her mouth in that particular way that it was several seconds before she recognised her reaction for what it was.
Immediately her face became suffused with a wave of hot colour, which intensified as she realised abruptly that Stuart probably hadn’t been focusing on her mouth in any remotely sensual way at all, but had far more likely mistaken her smile for contempt at his inability to cope with his paperwork.
Embarrassment and a desire to rectify matters rushed her into ill-considered speech, so that before she knew it she was saying quickly, ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do to help… I’m going to be here for…for some time. I might not be familiar with your software, but I could perhaps make some headway with the ordinary paperwork.’
He was watching her with so much surprise that she stopped speaking, her face burning again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she started to apologise. ‘You’ve probably made arrangements of your own. You—’
‘No. No, I haven’t,’ he assured her. ‘And if you really mean it… I can’t tell you what a headache it’s been. I just don’t seem to be able to get to grips with it at all. You’re intending to be around for some time, then?’
‘Er—yes…’ She fidgeted with the buttons on her suit-jacket, biting her lip.
‘As a matter of fact…’ She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but sooner or later everyone locally was bound to know anyway that she had given up her London job.
‘I’ve…I’ve decided to take a brief sabbatical. Spend a few months at home. I…I miss the country and my family.’
She was struggling for an explanation that would sound acceptable, logical, mature…and not the impulse decision of a child.
To her relief he didn’t question her, but said instead, ‘I don’t blame you. London, or any other city, has never appealed to me.’
While he talked to her, Stuart was moving easily round the kitchen, taking knives and forks from a drawer, putting two of the
plates to warm.
For such a big man he moved very deftly, quietly and calmly in a way that was somehow like his very presence, soothing and reassuring.
When the oven timer pinged to announce that their supper was ready, he served it up on to the two plates and handed Sara hers, suggesting that she should sit with her back to the range in order to keep warm.
‘I’m afraid I’m not exactly fit to sit down and eat with someone,’ he apologised ruefully as he took his own place.
He had discarded his Wellingtons when he’d come into the kitchen and had washed the mud off his hands, but he was still wearing the worn shirt and ripped jeans he had had on when they first met. However, now, instead of contrasting them with Ian’s immaculate pin-striped suits and perfectly laundered shirts, Sara discovered that she actually felt more comfortable with him because he was so casually dressed. It made her feel at ease in a way she had never done with Ian…more able to relax and be herself instead of being crippled by the necessity of looking and being her best. She was, she discovered as she tucked into her food, enjoying being the recipient of his concern and attention, instead of having to do all the work…instead of having, as she had always felt she had to when she was with Ian, to do all the entertaining.
It was only as she ate that she recognised how artificial even her working relationship with Ian had been, and how she had always been striving to attain a standard of perfection which would somehow or other change his attitude towards her, make him turn to her…make him want her. She had been like someone bewitched, someone pursuing an impossible goal, she recognised uncomfortably, and yet she loved Ian; that should have meant that he of all people was the one she had felt most at home, most comfortable, most happy with.
She pushed such disturbing and unwanted thoughts aside, concentrating instead on drawing Stuart out about his plans for his business and the house.
He had a fascinating fund of stories about his years abroad working for the Forestry Commission in a variety of locations, she discovered, and their supper had long been eaten, their coffee drunk and everything washed up and cleared away, before she happened to glance at her watch and discover that it was almost one o’clock in the morning.
‘Heavens, what must you think of me?’ she apologised. ‘Talk about guests overstaying their welcome! And I expect you’ll have to be up early in the morning.’
‘Not that early. Besides, it isn’t often that I have the pleasure of an attractive and intelligent woman’s company.’
Sara froze. Intelligent she might be…but attractive…
‘Have I said something wrong?’
The quiet question threw her a little. She was so used to Ian’s sometimes almost sadistic method of extending a compliment, only to withdraw it when she reached out to grasp it, that she had no idea how to react to a man who genuinely seemed not to understand that she was well aware of her lack of sexual desirability, and knew quite well that he could not possibly have found her attractive. Even so, there was no doubt that he had meant the compliment as a kindness rather than a cruelty, and she had no wish to spoil the harmony of the evening they had shared by pointing out to him that it was unnecessary for him to flatter her with remarks she knew were not true.
‘I’m just rather tired,’ she fibbed. ‘I really ought to be making a move.’
‘Yes. It is getting late. I’m afraid I’ve selfishly kept you here longer than I should. I’ll drive you back now.’ He paused, and seemed to consider something before asking her, ‘You’ll feel quite happy about staying in the house on your own?’
His thoughtfulness surprised her. She was so used to Ian’s expecting her to be self-sufficient that she found it oddly heart-warming to be treated as though she were vulnerable…fragile almost.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him, adding apologetically as she remembered something she ought to have said earlier, ‘I feel very guilty about the way I’ve taken up your evening and eaten half of your supper. So stupid of me to faint like that. I…’
‘You never faint,’ he broke in, grinning at her. ‘Yes, I know. That was the first thing you said to me when you came round, as I remember.’
‘So stupid of me…rushing down here without stopping to eat and without phoning to check that Mum and Dad would be here. I must ring them in the morning. See how Jacqui’s getting on.’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment decision to leave London and…and your job, then?’ Stuart asked her a few minutes later as they walked towards the Land Rover.
She knew that in the circumstances it was a natural enough question, but even so she could feel herself tensing, her skin tight with discomfort and despair, her heart aching as she dwelt on exactly why she had come home so precipitately, like a child running back to the comfort of its parents’ arms.
‘In a way…’
Something in her response must have warned him off, because he said, far more formally, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘No, that’s all right.’ She was, she realised, probably over-reacting, and besides…besides, suddenly, for some reason she couldn’t really fathom, she wanted to tell him the truth. She had always loathed pretence, deceit…
‘I gave up my job because…’ She turned away from him and told him quickly, tersely, ‘Because I’m in love with Ian, my boss. He doesn’t love me. He never will. In fact, he’s just become engaged to someone else.’
She couldn’t bear to look at him.
‘Pathetic, isn’t it? A grown woman running home to her parents?’
‘Not at all. At times of emotional trauma, I think turning to those who love us and whom we know will offer us comfort is a natural instinct we all share and possess.
‘This man… Your boss…I take it there’s no chance that he might change his mind…’
Sara turned to look at him, searching his face for signs of pity, but instead all she could find was compassion and sympathy.
It made her relax enough to shake her head and tell him simply, ‘I fell in love with him when I was nineteen years old. Like a fool I went on hoping, believing that by some miraculous means one day he was going to turn round and look at me and somehow or other realise that he loved me. I’ve been a complete and utter fool, as I now know.’
She took a deep breath, suddenly determined to hold nothing back, to let him know just how much of a fool she had been. The darkness cloaking them gave her the courage she needed. There was something about him, about the sympathetic quality of his listening silence, that made it easy for her to talk to him, to confide in him. Because he was a stranger?
Perhaps…but what did it matter? Suddenly she needed to talk to someone, to tell someone, to verbalise her pain, her sense of rejection and humiliation, no matter how much she might regret doing so later.
‘When his fiancée told me that they were both aware of my feelings for him, feelings which I stupidly thought I’d managed to keep secret, I knew that I couldn’t go on working for him any longer.’ Her mouth compressed as she remembered just what Anna had said to her.
‘It was bad enough knowing that I loved him and that he would never love me. Carrying the added burden, the added humiliation of knowing that both he and Anna knew how I felt…knew and found it amusing…’ She shrugged in the darkness. ‘Perhaps I made the decision to leave for all the wrong reasons, but I know the decision itself was right.’ She paused and then found she was unable to look at him as she added shakily, ‘I don’t know why I’m boring you with all of this. You must think me the world’s worst fool.’
‘You’re not the fool,’ Stuart told her mysteriously, his voice unexpectedly rough. ‘And I do sympathise. Loving someone when you know that love can never be returned is a heavy burden to bear.’
Was he speaking from personal experience? Sara rather suspected so. Knowing that made her feel more relaxed, less self-conscious and embarrassed about the uncharacteristic way in which she had poured out her feelings to him.
‘I don’t know why I’m telling you
all this. Normally I never—’
‘Perhaps that’s why. Those of us who find it difficult to confide in people close to us sometimes need the catharsis of unburdening ourselves to a stranger. You need have no fear that what you’ve told me will go any further.’
‘Oh, no…I never thought that.’ Sara bit her lip, horrified that he might think she would believe him capable of betraying her confidences to someone else, and at the same time conscious that her feeling of concern at having confided in him was caused by her unexpected desire for him to think well of her.
Why on earth should it matter what he thought of her? They were strangers. All right, so he might be a neighbour of her parents, but once this sabbatical of hers was over she doubted if she was likely to see him more than briefly again, so what did it matter what he thought of her, as a person or as a woman?
A small, uncomfortable frisson burned her skin. How could he think of her as a woman other than as Ian and Anna thought of her: as someone so sexless, so undesirable, so much a failure in the sexual aspects of her femininity that she was the butt of their jokes…their amusement?
She shivered a little, unconsciously moving slightly away from him. He was, she saw, frowning slightly as though something had annoyed him.
‘So,’ he commented abruptly, ‘you’ve come home to nurse a bruised heart.’
A bruised heart?
‘If it helps at all, it sounds to me as though you’ve had a lucky escape. Any man who could…’ He broke off, while Sara stared at him. A lucky escape. How could he make that judgement on so little information? He knew nothing of Ian, of the manner of man he was. Was he just being kind…tactful? She searched his face, but could read nothing in the shadows cloaking his expression. He was, she realised, a man who could keep his thoughts completely to himself when he wished to do so. There was now a sternness about his expression that made her body tense a little.
‘It isn’t Ian’s fault,’ she defended. ‘I should have realised years ago that…’ She stopped. ‘I’m sorry. You can’t possibly want to hear all this. I’d better go home before I really start wallowing in self-pity…’ She turned quickly away from him, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and embarrassed.