Chapter 6
six
. . .
Two Weeks Later
jed
I sit back in my chair and try to resist the impulse to slide under the desk and hide from my new clients.
“But I don’t understand,” Clarissa says in a whiny voice that makes me want to syringe my ears. “ Why can’t I get married at Christmas?”
“ We ,” James says. “It’s both of us getting married, Clarissa.”
She glares at him, and he huddles in his chair. I’m not surprised. I’ve only known her for an hour, and it’s my opinion that she could give Medusa a run for her money.
“You can get married at Christmas,” I say patiently for the fifth time. “Just not this Christmas.”
Artie shifts in his chair, his head bent studiously over his pad as he takes notes, but I can see the full curve of his lower lip. Of course I can. I’m obsessed with it. That plump curve makes me crazy with the desire to lick and suck on it. He looks up at me with wide eyes, and I realise I’ve fallen silent and they’re all staring at me. I cough and shift uncomfortably. I’m getting hard just sitting here, and I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. My control has always been the thing I’ve most prided myself on.
“Well,” says Clarissa’s father, his weight making his chair creak ominously. He’s a portly man with a big moustache and an even bigger opinion of himself. The moustache is rather like a weathervane tracking his moods, and it’s bristling at the moment. “Tell me how much it would cost to get those other weddings cancelled, and my Clarissa can have what she wants.”
I’d say the problem is that Clarissa has been getting what she wants for far too long, but I don’t think he’s looking for parental advice.
“It will cost nothing,” I say. “Because it’s not going to happen.”
He blinks at me in astonishment.
I continue in a firm tone. “I’m not in the business of destroying other people’s dreams just to get Clarissa hers. Sorry,” I say, not at all apologetically. “If that’s what you want, you’ve come to the wrong firm.”
Apparently, my old police voice is still effective.
“Oh, of course ,” he says quickly, blanching as he sits back in his chair. “It was just a light-hearted bit of banter.”
“As I thought,” I say. “Praise laughter for bringing us so much joy.”
Artie glances at me, the laughter and approval in his eyes warming me.
Other men’s opinions don’t usually concern me, but somehow Artie’s do, and so I’ve been aware of a slight distance between us in the past two weeks.
Oh, he’s as lovely as ever, but there’s something new—a separation I can feel but can’t quite grasp. It’s driven me mad, and I’ve tried everything to bridge the gap and failed.
It’s something to do with the night after we’d met Eric at Artie’s horror of a house. I’d had way too much to drink at dinner and woke in my bed shirtless, plagued by a hangover that made death look appealing. My memory of the previous night had been embarrassingly vague, but Artie didn’t say much when I’d questioned him about it.
Now I brighten because he’s once more looking at me in approval.
I smile at the customers sitting in front of my desk. “So, we’re agreed to try for next year in December, yes?” Everyone nods and murmurs agreement, except Clarissa. She makes a moue of distaste, which I’m pretty sure makes an appearance at least seventy times a day when life isn’t conforming to her plans.
“But I still want Fiona to cater the event,” she says.
I consider banging my head on the desk but offer her a patient smile instead. “As I said, Clarissa, it’s impossible to do that with your choice of venue. The Florentine is a top hotel, and they always go with their own selections of caterers and florists. It’s very difficult to get on their list of suppliers, as they already have a trusted team of people.”
“But she’s my best friend,” Clarissa protests. “And she’s been in the business for a few months.”
Unless she’s capable of bribing the venue with a bung the size of Brazil’s national debt it’s not happening. There are so many kickbacks going on between venues and suppliers they put the World Cup to shame.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “But that’s a no-go. Maybe she could cater your engagement party.” Which I’m thankfully having nothing to do with. If I were, I’d enter a monastery beforehand and enthusiastically take a vow of silence. Even better, they could wall me up in a room and leave me there in peace.
“That’s a very good idea,” she says, brightening. She snaps her fingers. “Mummy, take a note.”
I bite my lip. I thought the woman in the corner of the room was Clarissa’s PA. Family occasions must be interesting in their household. For a second, I worry I’ve said this out loud, and from the quirk of Artie’s mouth he knows what I was thinking. We share a glance full of humour before I return my gaze to my clients.
“So, we’ve agreed on the budget and the venue. I feel this has been a very productive meeting.” The size of the zeros on the budget that Mr Barrington gave me should make my eyes bleed, but he’ll need all of them and probably more. Christmas society weddings aren’t for the faint of heart, because venue and staff costs triple, or in some cases, even more. “Leave it with me.”
Everyone smiles and gets to their feet except for Clarissa who remains seated. “And what about my wings?” she asks querulously.
I offer her a wan smile even though I want to throw myself out of the window and run away screaming. “Are you really set on that?”
Her lower lip juts like a five-year-old’s on the verge of a tantrum. “I want it.”
“Well, that’s doable, of course. We just need to be careful. The last time—” I trail off, wondering how to say this.
Her eyes narrow. “Carry on.”
“Well, we had a bride with wings last year, and there was a rather unfortunate incident with the wings and an outdoor clock’s hands.”
The whole room is now locked in an expectant silence. “What happened?” Mr Barrington asks.
“The minute hand caught her wing,” Artie says. “It’s a shame it wasn’t the hour hand. She wouldn’t have taken flight quite so rapidly. It was a lovely flight, though,” he concludes, brightening.
“Yes. And then she fell,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “She spent her wedding night in traction.”
James looks at his bride, expression almost cheerful as he seems to consider this idea.
I judge it to be my cue to end the meeting. “So, there we have it,” I say cheerfully. “If you want wings, we can certainly make that happen. We just won’t do it in a garden obsessed with the passing of time. And no tails either,” I add. They all look at me. “It was a cats wedding.”
“Cats getting married?” Mrs Barrington asks cautiously and a little hopefully.
I hate to burst her bubble. I wave my hand. “No, they dressed like the stage show but there was an incident with a door and the whole back of the bride’s costume.” I shudder, remembering the hysterics of that occasion. Artie managed to calm things down only when he told the bride that she had the nicest back of any bride he’d ever seen.
I offer them my best smile. “Welcome to the Confetti Hitched family. We’re going to make this the wedding of your dreams.”
Or die trying , I add silently.
Artie shows them out, and I slump back in my chair. When he comes back into the room, I smile up at him. “Is it too early to start drinking the alcohol samples? I’m asking for a friend.”
He chuckles and perches on the edge of the desk. “It probably would have been better to do that before the meeting.”
I eye him curiously. I spent years working with him and rarely saw the impish humour that now appears a lot. I love it and I’m equally fascinated by the new flashes of stubbornness that peek out, destroying his image of the perfect PA.
“Are we ready to move into the house?” he asks, demonstrating some of the boldness I like to see.
“You mean the building site?” I raise my eyebrows.
His mouth quirks. “Eric said it’s habitable. He wants to meet us today to discuss the progress.”
“What does that actually mean?”
“I’m not sure. I presume we’ll have running water, and the new windows are in.”
“Goodness, it sounds like The Ritz.”
He laughs. “And we have two bedrooms that are…”
“Habitable, yes?”
“That’s the word of the week.”
“I’ll alert Wordle.”
His eyes crinkle in amusement. “So, we have somewhere to sleep.”
“We could keep staying at the hotel. I’ve grown to like having my bed made and the mini bar filled up.”
“Goodness, it’s like meeting Jeff Bezos.”
I laugh loudly, and he regards me with a smile in his pretty eyes.
“It’ll be fine,” he says. “You’ll only have to be there for six months.”
That sobers me. At first, I’d been dismayed by how insurmountable spending time in close proximity with him had seemed. But over the past few weeks, I’ve grown to love having him by my side always, being able to talk to him whenever I want, and simply sitting near him as I pretend to read the paper while watching him as if he’s the most fascinating man in the world. And now our time together suddenly seems too short.
“Jed?” His expression has become serious. “This arrangement has already cost you a fortune with the cost of the wedding and the hotel bills. I’m not comfortable with you spending any more money. The quicker we move into the house, the faster this will be done with.”
“Yes,” I say hoarsely, forcing a smile. “Great.” The whole point of this endeavour is to get his house back. I bet he can’t wait to start his life again without me there pretending to be his husband.
I become aware that I’m rubbing my chest when he says, “Are you okay?”
“Oh yes. Probably just hungry,” I say quickly.
He brightens and stands up.
“I’ll go and grab you a sandwich from the deli.”
“And one for you,” I add, stopping him as he reaches the door.
He turns, looking back at me in question. “We can eat lunch together,” I add.
He tilts his head as he scans my face.
We didn’t use to do this. In the old days, I’d swan off for lunch with friends and he’d do his own thing of which I knew nothing. I liked it that way. But I’ve grown to love spending quiet time with Artie talking over work and laughing about office gossip. He knows so much because he actually listens to people.
“We can discuss the moving,” I say quickly.
His face relaxes. “Yes, of course. Good idea.”
“I do have the odd one or two.”
He offers me an impish grin and disappears into the outer office, where he’s hailed by many voices at once. I tense as possessiveness seizes me. They can get their own Artie. I don’t share.
Sighing, I make myself relax. I’ll soon be as twisted as a pretzel if I keep battling these feelings. I’m starting to think cheerful oblivion is the key to being fake married.
We pull up outside the house. Scaffolding cocoons the building, but its attractive, wisteria-covered contours are still visible. The big, semi-detached Edwardian house has an Arts and Crafts design, with mock timber framing and windows that feature stained glass. Its proportions are graceful and the house is wide and deep with an extension on the back and a long garden.
The tree-lined street is full of similar houses, all of them well kept. It’s a very nice neighbourhood.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you. How did your neighbours cope with the squatters?” I ask. The older couple next door had greeted our renovations with barely concealed relief.
Artie shrugs. “They made a lot of complaints to the police, but they were overseas a lot with the husband’s job, so the complaints never really went anywhere.”
As soon as we get out of the car, a familiar voice calls, “Mr Walker!”
“Oh Christ,” I say.
Artie nudges me. “Be kind. He’s lovely.”
“He’s like a red setter with all the accompanying destructive energy,” I say grimly.
The builder’s apprentice approaches as I get our suitcases out of the boot. Tyler is a cheerful, dark-haired lad with a sunny temper and the destructive tendencies of a wrecking ball. “Hi,” he says breathlessly. “Oh my god, I’ve got something so exciting to tell you.”
“Where is Eric?” I ask cautiously.
Tyler’s wide grin is slightly manic around the edges. “He went to the builders’ merchants. We’ve run out of cement.” He waves his hands. “Come and look,” he calls and darts into the house.
I turn grimly to Artie. “Didn’t you tell me that Eric promised Tyler wouldn’t be left on his own?”
“Yes.”
“Remind me again why that was.”
He snorts. “It was because Tyler thought the new Belfast sink was a relic and took it to the tip to be helpful.”
“I’m sure they were suitably grateful. He’s single-handedly extended this project by a month. Why does Eric put up with him?”
“Tyler’s his nephew.”
“Is he really? Another attack on the war against rampant nepotism.” I stare at him as if he’s harbouring more secrets. “How do you know these details?”
“Because I actually ask questions.”
“Ah well, there’s your first mistake. Because questions come with answers that are usually wordier than a Shakespeare sonnet. I should know. Last week I asked Rafferty about Stan’s guide dog. I think I could actually breed them now; such is the breadth of my knowledge.”
“Come on , Mr Walker,” comes a call from inside. It’s followed by a loud crash. “Oh, don’t worry. It’ll mend.”
“He should have that inscribed on his forehead,” I say.
Artie starts to laugh, and I follow him into the house, looking around curiously. The new staircase is made of light oak, and it gleams in the sunlight like liquid honey. Artie has lovely taste. I’d thought initially that he’d make the place a period piece, but it’s very far from that. He’s opened the downstairs, the rabbit warren of little rooms replaced by an open-plan design that allows light to stream through the house.
It really is a beautiful place with a very serene atmosphere even in the middle of all the building work. It feels like a home should do.
I follow Artie up the stairs. Halfway up, he stops me with a hand to my chest. I look down at the hand, feeling the heat through my shirt. He’s half an inch away from my nipple and a dart of heat strums through me. I inhale sharply and he jerks and goes to pull his hand away, but I catch it and hold it in place.
“Be nice,” he says.
Another crash sounds, and I groan. “Is there a reason why this is happening to me? If I do past-life regression, will I find out that I was a violent serial killer?”
“It’s highly likely you’d have been a grumpy one and I’d definitely have watched programmes about you.” I huff just to see his smile. “Tyler really looks up to you,” he adds.
“Why? If I were his boss, he would currently be joining the dole queue.”
“ Really ? Do you remember when Joe and Raff dropped that wedding cake on the new carpet at the office?”
“That is truly an evergreen memory and has probably misplaced something very important. I equally remember Raff’s size tens tracking cake all the way through the office, and the bride’s hysterics that were so loud I could hear her through my noise-cancelling headphones. Bose should have employed her as a tester.”
“And yet you still kept them on?”
I roll my eyes. “Let’s not dwell on that foolish impulse.”
He offers me a wide smile, and I’m fascinated by the little dimple that appears by his mouth. It’s absurdly charming. “I’ll leave you to think about it.”
“Please don’t.”
As we get to the top of the stairs, Tyler appears. Red-faced, he grabs Artie’s hand. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Has he found a piece of his common sense?” I mutter very low.
Artie snorts and lets himself be towed along.
We pass two bedrooms that resemble cratered shells, and a bathroom where three men are installing a bath with a lot of cursing. We end up by the closed door of the smallest bedroom.
“Okay,” Tyler says, taking a deep breath. “I couldn’t believe it when I found it. It was properly like a film I saw when I was a kid.”
We wait a few seconds and then I say patiently, “What was?”
“The secret room,” he breathes.
Artie and I gape at him.
“A secret room,” I say slowly. “And you’ve found it? Ouch!” Artie elbows me.
“Yes,” Tyler says, oblivious as ever to the byplay. “I thought I’d just have a quick go with the lump hammer while Mr Barnes is at the builders’ merchant and there it was.” He puts a finger to his lips. “We’d better be quiet though, Jed, because he might still be here.”
There’s a short silence that I break by saying cautiously, “Who?”
“The man who’s living in the room of course. Or the woman I suppose,” he adds in a spirit of diversity. “You should see it. There’s bloody furniture in there and everything. There’s even a book left out and a fresh cup of tea. Cheeky sod’s been squatting.”
I surreptitiously look around for the hidden cameras because surely someone is pranking me. Artie looks at me dubiously as I edge past Tyler. Keeping Artie behind me, I throw the door open.
“Hey,” Artie says crossly at my protectiveness. I’m not sure what’s going on here, so he can stay safe and lump it until I figure it out. “I am a grown man ,” he hisses at my back. “I can deal with anything that comes along.”
I step inside the room and gawp at what I see. The wall in the bedroom is now a mess of rubble, which does say something for Tyler’s prowess with the lump hammer. There’s indeed a room beyond the destroyed wall. Lit by the glow of a lamp is a desk, a cosy armchair, and a wall of bookcases.
“What the fuck ?” I breathe.
“See?” Tyler says excitedly, shoving past Artie to get into the room.
“Watch my husband, please,” I say sharply.
“It’s like a magic room,” Tyler continues in an awed voice.
I inhale sharply as it dawns on me what’s actually happened here.
“Is it another of them bloody squatters, Jed?” Tyler asks.
“Not exactly,” I say, rubbing my nose and wincing.
“What is it?” Artie asks, stepping in front of us. “Oh, it is a secret room.”
He gasps in realisation at the same moment a querulous voice asks, “What the hell is going on in my bloody house?”
I clap Tyler on the shoulders. “Not exactly a secret room, mate. You’ve knocked through to the house next door.” I wink at Artie. “I’ll leave you to introduce yourself to the neighbours, seeing as you like doing these things yourself.”
Whistling, I head off downstairs.
Half an hour later, Artie finds me sitting in the front garden on an overturned wheelbarrow smoking a cigarette and surveying the potholed drive. I flick my ash away and grin at him. “Everything okay?”
I already know the answer, because I secretly hovered at the bottom of the stairs, ready to come to his rescue. He didn’t need me, as he was being his usual charming self.
He lowers himself cautiously and then relaxes when the wheelbarrow bears our weight. “It’s fine,” he says, slumping into me. “Gosh, what a way to introduce yourself to the neighbours.”
“Only way that would have been worse is if you were Haigh, the acid-bath murderer and buying a new tub from them.”
He brightens. “I watched a documentary on him the other night. Fascinating . Did you know that a victim’s dentures survived the acid bath and played a crucial role in his trial?”
It never fails to stun me that such a sweet man has such a grisly fascination with murders. I’ve learnt more about serial killers over the last couple of weeks than an intensive course with the FBI would have ever taught me.
“I did not know that, but thank you very much for telling me.”
He nudges me and I nearly fall off the wheelbarrow. “That’s for leaving me with that absolutely super situation.”
“You’re welcome,” I say in a sunny voice, stubbing out my cigarette. “You told me to stop interfering and let you be a grown man.”
“I did not say it in that voice, and I didn’t mean for you to obey me at exactly that moment.”
That startles a laugh out of me, and I pull him close. He nestles into my side, and I try to ignore the sense of well-being that flows over me. It’s always a struggle coming to terms with the equally soothing and exciting effect he has on me.
He rests his head on my shoulder, and I absently drop a kiss into his sweet-smelling hair. It’s only when he stiffens that I realise what I’ve done.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
He pulls back and stares at me. This close I can see navy striations in his pale blue eyes. “I liked it,” he says softly.
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. I liked it. Jed, I want?—”
“Ah, there you are.” Eric’s voice startles both of us.
Artie nearly falls off the wheelbarrow, and I growl at the interruption, hauling him back until he’s nearly sitting in my lap. “You were saying, Artie?”
He shakes his head. “Not now.”
“Later?”
He nods rather reluctantly, and only then do I glance at Eric. He has a smile playing on his lips.
“Can I help you, Eric? Do you need some dynamite to blow next door down so we can get a better garden? Or maybe we can get Tyler to take the roof off and issue us umbrellas.”
He groans. “I do apologise. We shall of course be doing the repairs free of charge and Tyler will never hold a lump hammer again in his life, which is going to be a lot shorter if he doesn’t do as he’s told.”
I snort but Artie looks earnestly at Eric. “He’s a good lad. He was just trying to help.”
“I bet the fall of Troy was predated by someone saying, ‘I know what will help’,” I observe.
Artie laughs, his face lighting up. “You could be right.”
“Well, I’m glad I’ve caught you both in good moods,” Eric says, settling his backside against the low garden wall.
“It’s possibly hyperbole to describe it as a good mood,” I say.
“You’re laughing, aren’t you?”
“That’s just incipient hysteria.”
“Well, I bring news of a slight delay.”
“Oh yes?” I ask resignedly.
Artie makes a disappointed sound, and I squeeze his shoulder. He’s never renovated somewhere before, and he came into this project with the usual rosy-eyed ideals of everything going according to plan and budget. I make a mental note to top up Eric with more money. I’ve been helping him stay on the ever-expanding budget. Artie might very well be furious when he finds out, but for now, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and it keeps his own money safe.
“We’ve found water damage in the walls of one of the bedrooms you’d earmarked to be done first. I need to stop work on it until I can be sure there hasn’t been any structural damage.”
“Oh no ,” Artie says. “Which one?”
“The one at the front of the house.”
That was supposed to be my room. I grimace. “How long?”
“About a week. And that’s a conservative estimate, because we’ll have to wait for the building inspector to come out, and he’s always busy.”
“But that will only leave us with one bedroom,” Artie says.
I freeze because that hadn’t occurred to me.
Eric grimaces. “Sorry about that, but it is a guest room. Your and Jed’s room is fine and the en suite bathroom in there will be done by the end of day. The decorator comes in a couple of days so that side of the upstairs will be lovely.”
It wasn’t exactly a guest room, but he isn’t to know that. “It’s fine,” I say. “These things happen.”
He gives me a grateful smile and then vanishes into the house. Within seconds, we can hear him bellowing at someone. Artie and I sit in a silence so deep that I swear I can hear his brain whirring.
Then he jumps to his feet and turns to me. “What are we going to do, Jed? That was going to be your bedroom.”
I stand up. “The main bedroom is okay, so you can have that,” I say instantly. I hesitate. “I can always continue to stay at the hotel,” I suggest reluctantly. I don’t want to leave him.
“You can’t do that. Mr Davies will be visiting.”
I relax. “I don’t want to stay at the hotel,” I admit. “And not because of Mr Davies. I’m a little concerned that the squatters might take it upon themselves to come back. I’m not leaving you alone with that possibility.”
“Would they do that?” He gives me a tragic face. “God, I’m so glad you’re doing this with me. It would have been a disaster left to me. I never think of these things happening. I’m such an idiot .”
He’s edged closer and the distress is real in his voice. He’s always been very hard on himself and now I have an inkling as to why. I wrap my arms around him, automatically pulling him closer to comfort him. His heart is beating as fast as a baby bird’s. “If it had been just you, you would have been fine,” I say firmly. “You’re amazing. You’re capable, calm, and very intelligent.”
“Well, I certainly don’t feel it right now.”
“That’s just because all of this is new. Everyone feels like this during their first renovation. You get confidence the more you deal with things, and you’re doing fine .”
“Really?”
Pulling back, I cup his face in my hands, feeling the sharp bones of his cheeks under my fingers. “Really.” I stroke down his face, burrowing my fingers in his silky hair. “You’re amazing,” I say again softly, aware of him lifting towards me. I’m lowering my head to kiss him the way I’ve dreamt of doing in my empty bed every night when footsteps sound on the street.
I look up and freeze.
“What now ?” Artie says.
His disgruntled voice would make me smile if I wasn’t watching the Titanic of disasters about to occur.
“Oh shit ,” I breathe.
“What is it?” he asks frantically.
I turn his head gently to face the street where a red-haired lady is walking briskly. “Do you see that woman with the cross face who’s approaching the house?”
“Yes,” he says a little uncertainly. “She’s not another neighbour, is she?”
“I wish,” I say grimly. “That is my mother.”
“Oh shit.”
“You can say that again. By the look on her face, I’d guess she knows we got married.”