Chapter One #2
My eyes widened as I took in the view from the doorway.
Long legs silhouetted against the window, lines and curves in perfect proportion.
Short beige skirt stretched taut across more curves — nicely rounded, a pert promise of pleasure.
Matching jacket with side vents, no doubt designed to draw the male eye to the symmetry below.
Then, as the vision brandished a rolled-up magazine, I saw her face in profile. It couldn’t be, surely . . .
It was.
‘Mouse! What on earth are you up to?’
She jumped, dropped the magazine and, after a pause, turned round.
‘Mark. Great to see you after all these years.’
There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in her voice. I put down my briefcase and held out my arms.
‘I think I deserve a warmer welcome than that.’
She hesitated, then climbed carefully down from the sill and slipped into four-inch heels; this meant that, when I gave her the usual bear hug, there was less of a height difference than I remembered.
I rested my cheek against her dark brown hair and smiled to myself.
Underneath all that gloss, I knew she’d still be the same maddening little Mouse.
But she’d certainly overdone the gloss. I leaned back slightly and inspected her face. The hazel eyes flashed and the full red lips tightened, as if she could read my mind.
Undeterred, I gave it to her straight. ‘Too much makeup, you don’t need any at all. Most women would die for your skin, and that stuff round your eyes makes you look like a panda.’
The panda glared at me. ‘Bloody cheek. How would you feel if I criticised your appearance?’
‘Go ahead. You can hardly accuse me of wearing too much make-up.’
‘While you’ve been away I’ve grown up, believe it or not.’
‘Apparently. Although it didn’t look like it when you were dancing about on the window sill. Put me out of my misery, Mouse, what were you doing?’
She moved abruptly away. ‘There was a wasp. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me Mouse.’
‘You’re right, it’s not appropriate here. Whenever I’m at Highbury Foods, I’ll forget I know anyone called Mouse.’
Her voice was edgy. ‘I’d prefer you to stop calling me that, period.’
This was something of a turnaround, since I’d called her Mouse for at least fifteen years.
It started when she accidentally introduced herself to someone as Emma Woodmouse.
I teased her about it, called her Mouse for short and it stuck.
Back then it suited her perfectly: such a small, scrawny thing, with big bright eyes. But now . . .
Maybe she’d outgrown it. She certainly didn’t look like a mouse any longer; and she’d never behaved much like one.
I grinned. ‘OK, Emma. Where’s the wasp?’
‘Up there, on the middle window. I need to get rid of it before Dad comes.’
‘Naturally.’
Henry Woodhouse was the biggest hypochondriac I’d ever known.
He was so obsessed with his ‘fragile’ state of health that he’d become a walking medical dictionary.
He was so risk-averse that he was practically a recluse, hardly venturing beyond his home and his company, just a mile apart.
Whenever I visited Hartfield, I half expected to be given a clean suit and mask or, at the very least, an antiseptic foot bath and hand wash.
Accordingly, he prized the use of conventional pesticides, fertilisers and irradiation to safeguard his company’s products from contamination, almost as much as I valued organic methods to produce mine.
In spite of such precautions, he never ate anything labelled ‘Highbury Foods’; he said his digestion was far too delicate.
Nevertheless, he was a long-standing friend of my family and, well, I respected his views and liked him enormously.
‘I’ll sort it,’ I went on. ‘India’s given me plenty of practice in dealing with insects, the humane way of course.’ Crossing to the window, I picked up the magazine, stood on the chair, pulled down the sash and gently manoeuvred the wasp outside, before securing the catch.
As I stepped down from the chair, I unrolled the magazine. What an intriguing headline. And that photo — legs a mile long, inviting smile, eyes looking deep into mine as if we were . . .
I gave a disparaging laugh. ‘So fame hasn’t gone to your head — yet. You obviously weren’t planning to keep this for your scrapbook.’
She folded her arms. ‘No, I wasn’t, it’s a pack of lies. I thought they’d at least get their facts right.’
‘You’ve got a lot to learn. Give the press an inch and they’ll take a mile.’ I looked again at the legs in the photo. ‘Shall I dispose of this for you?’
‘Give it back to Batty, she brought it in for me. So helpful, as always.’
‘Still going strong, is she?’ I said, slipping the magazine into my briefcase. ‘Poor Henry, he’s only got you and her to cosset him now that Kate’s gone.’
This was evidently more comfortable ground; she unfolded her arms and managed a pale imitation of the smile in the photo.
‘That’s a sore point. Dad thinks Kate’ll come back, he says she doesn’t really want to set up an antique wine business with her new husband.
That’s why he refused to find a permanent replacement, but fortunately Batty’s got a temp in.
I’m hoping he’ll soon forget all about Kate and then we can advertise her job. ’
‘From what I remember, she’ll be a hard act to follow.’
‘Definitely, she kept this place running like clockwork. And she’s been such a good friend. If she hadn’t been willing to move into Hartfield to keep an eye on Dad, I’d never have gone to Harvard.’
‘Ah yes, you went there straight after University.’ I paused. ‘You know, there’s a lot more value in an MBA if you’ve worked for a few years first.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, I suppose.’ Then she sighed. ‘Anyway, there’s Kate married at last — and it’s all down to me.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘I’ve discovered I’m an expert at matchmaking. When Tom Weston came back here four years ago, I knew he’d be perfect for Kate. And it didn’t take much to arrange, even though people said he’d never settle down at his age.’
‘So you controlled their every move?’
She nodded, oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘Mind you, there were one or two hiccups. For one thing, I would have preferred it if they’d lived together before they got married.
Then Tom could have moved into Hartfield with Kate while I was away, which means Dad would have got used to a man about the house. ’
‘Oh? Why would he want to do that?’
She gave an impish grin. ‘In case I meet the man of my dreams. I couldn’t possibly leave Dad on his own, so he — whoever he is — would have to live at Hartfield.’
‘Lucky man,’ I said drily. ‘And why didn’t Tom move in with Kate as ordered — sorry, suggested?’
‘Because he’d set his mind on them living together at Randalls and nowhere else. At the time, Randalls wasn’t even on the market and, when he did manage to buy the place, it needed a lot of work. Remember, Mrs Sanderson lived there for centuries and never spent anything on it.’
‘How annoying for you, to be outmanoeuvred so easily.’ I raised one eyebrow. ‘Presumably their wedding turned out as you planned?’
‘Oh, it was lovely. I know it’s a cliché, but Kate looked radiant. And I thought Tom might look old enough to be her father, but he didn’t.’
I frowned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s only fifty or so and Kate must be at least thirty-five.’
‘She’s thirty-eight, he’s forty-nine. Quite an age difference.’
I thought of my girlfriend back in India — she was twenty-six, I was going to be thirty-five in a few weeks — and decided to change the subject.
‘Did Flynn Churchill make it to the wedding?’ I was referring to Tom’s son, who’d achieved cult status in Highbury over the years. All the more incomprehensible since nobody had ever met him, except his doting father.
Emma’s face clouded. ‘No, he didn’t. Kate and Tom were very upset.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘He was coming, right up to the last minute, then something cropped up.’
‘That man wouldn’t turn up to his own funeral if he had the choice.’ I added, casually, ‘What about me, was I missed?’
‘Probably, since you’re still meant to be one of the most eligible bachelors in Surrey.
And you know what they say, even these days — one wedding leads to another.
I’m sure some of the women only accepted the invitation in the hope of seeing you reduced to a romance-sodden wreck at the sight of confetti. ’
‘Thank God I couldn’t get home until today, then.’
She gave me a sidelong glance. ‘Still seeing Tamara what’s-her-name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it about time you got married?’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ve been together for five years.’ Her lips tightened. ‘What’s the point if it’s not leading anywhere?’
‘We each have certain needs and our arrangement suits us both very well.’
‘So it’s just for sex?’ she said, rather bluntly I thought.
‘No, it’s not. We help each other out when we need a partner, either for a particular function or simply to scare other people off.’ I grimaced. ‘If I’d been coming to Kate and Tom’s wedding, I’d definitely have brought Tamara.’
She moved towards the door. ‘Sounds positively dreary and, you’re right, not a good basis for marriage. Anyway, thanks for getting rid of the wasp. Were you on your way to see Dad?’
I didn’t answer immediately. She was wrong, what Tamara and I had was anything but dreary.
Predictable, yes; and convenient. But that was its appeal; although I had to agree, it was hardly the basis for marriage.
Actually, it was better, I had all the advantages of marriage with none of its emotional warfare or financial complications.
‘I’m meeting him at nine thirty,’ I said curtly.
‘I’ll come with you. He asked me along for nine thirty as well.’
‘How is he, by the way?’