by Kelly Hunter
She had him smiling again as he dug in his pocket and tabled a set of silver keys. Damn but he was a breathtakingly handsome man when he remembered to smile. ‘The only door you’re likely to have trouble with is the front door to the building. There’s a daytime doorman who can usually be relied on to buzz you in. His name’s Len Stuart and he’s expecting you. Of an evening you’ll need the password for the keypad on the wall next to the main door, and that’ll get you in. It changes every Sunday. The elevator requires the door key to my apartment before it’ll work.’ He plucked out a key from the bunch he’d set down. ‘Meaning this one. There are two apartments on the third floor. Mine’s 3A. The other one is 3B and belongs to the Brownlows, and they mainly use it as a weekender. To get to mine, you step out of the lift and turn left. There’s a deadlock on it, and it’s the red key. There’s one more security panel just inside the door. The passcode for that is 3381.’
‘Hey, Wirralong’s postcode! You nostalgic softie.’
‘Lies, all lies.’
Gotcha, she thought with a grin. Because Henry Church of the genius IQ didn’t do unnecessary comments unless his defences were starting to crumble. Maybe there was hope for their friendship yet.
‘You’ll need to set the apartment alarm whenever you go out, and disarm it whenever you come in,’ he continued.
‘Yeah, to deter all those people in 3B from slipping across the hall and stealing the silverware. Why exactly do you need so much security? No, wait. I’m sure there’s a fabulous statistical answer that will come to me eventually.’
‘I was going to say that the flat came fully furnished and the artwork on the walls is expensive,’ he offered dryly. ‘But you do you.’
‘I will be the embodiment of security consciousness.’
He reached for a tart, his second so far, because he’d wolfed one down while she was making the coffee. She met his gaze and he smiled, caught out and bashful, and suddenly he was the boy she remembered of old. Not always oddly aloof and serious, no. Once cracked, with his gooey soft centre on show, Henry Church could make her feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
‘I know you’ll try.’ His eyes were warm rather than disapproving. ‘I also know how much trouble I had adapting to the lock-it-all-up mentality when I first got over there. Len has two spare sets of keys waiting for you if you forget and leave them inside, and the Brownlows in 3B have another spare. They know you’re coming.’
‘You are so sweet. Have another tart.’
‘Do you want me to have to start chopping firewood for little old ladies in order to maintain optimum buff?’
‘Wouldn’t hurt to sort out your grandparents’ winter wood pile while you’re here. It’d be helpful.’
‘Please tell me you don’t chop firewood for them too.’
‘I don’t. Your grandfather buys it split these days, but there are always some that won’t quite fit. He does still split those. It’s a matter of pride for him and a safety concern for everyone else. He’s not getting any younger.’
His smile faded. The intensity of his gaze increased. ‘I can afford to put a manager and housekeeper in place if need be.’
‘Soon would be good.’
‘That bad?’
‘It’s not your grandfather, so much as your grandmother. Dementia’s awful, and it’s starting with her, and your grandfather’s a saint but we worry about him too. How worn down he’s been of late. See if you can get him to take a break.’
‘I’ll visit more.’
‘So you say.’ She didn’t believe him. He’d been eighteen the first time he left and twenty-one the first time he returned home, with a freshly minted doctorate from Oxford under his belt. Undergrad and postgrad studies in three years of non-stop work, with a plum job predicting future disasters waiting for him when he returned. She’d been so damn pleased to see him. Followed him around like a lamb.
His grandfather had been so proud of him.
Bethany had been herself. Even if she had been proud that her grandson had made something of himself outside of Wirralong, God help her if she’d ever let it show. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s not great when you come home.’
‘How come you never left?’
And that could have been an innocent question, but probably wasn’t. Return fire when under attack. He’d taught her that. Silly Tilly and Mad Henry against the world. Except Mad Henry had conquered the world without her and for all her quiet pride in recent achievements, she’d yet to conquer a damn thing.
‘Oh, you know me. I blow every chance I get.’ There was the cooking school in Melbourne that took her money and closed its doors before she ever got there. The photography competition win and awards event in Sydney that she’d even bought a dress for, and then part of the National Park behind the farm had gone up in smoke and it had been all hands on deck for that. Not enough marks to go to university and no real interest in doing so. These days she did online courses and diplomas in everything from landscape gardening to animal husbandry, from genetics for dummies to beginner astronomy. And always, in the background, the cooking she loved. ‘Apparently self-sabotage is my thing.’ She didn’t like the look he was giving her. Because somewhere along the way it had morphed from challenging to speculative, and the last thing she needed was for him to start analysing her psyche. ‘Good thing I’m a homebody. And I have a week’s worth of cooking school all lined up in London, at one of the big hotels. They only take six people at a time. I had to apply to get in and everything. I sent them a video of me making a sponge.’
‘Good for you.’
‘I know. Even after they said yes, the cost made me choke, but that’s where you come in. Without you offering me a place to stay, I couldn’t have accepted the position, so thank you. Sincerely.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Maybe to you.’ Mr bigshot, big-shouldered, have another tart why don’t you, Henry. ‘But it means a lot to me. The money I saved is the money I spent on self-improvement and cooking career glory.’ It sounded good to her ears. Aspirational. ‘Of course, my mother’s sure I’m going to meet my future husband on this trip. I think she thinks he’s going to own the hotel. Unlikely.’
‘Highly.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Statistically, highly unlikely.’
‘Be that as it may …’ She’d started the sentence in her outside voice and finished it using her more regular volume. ‘I need to know your thoughts on me entertaining while I’m staying in your apartment.’
‘Call it a flat.’
‘Okay. But be that as it may …’ She leaned forward expectantly, coffee cup in hand.
‘What do you want me to say?’ His voice had grown clipped and haughty. ‘Exercise caution. Use good judgment. The usual.’
‘Ah, you see that’s where I might come unstuck. That usual is not usually the usual, if you get my drift. But I’ll do my best to choose wisely.’
‘I don’t remember us ever indulging in this level of overshare.’
‘It’s because we’re going to be roomies,’ she offered, with her most fetching smile.
‘Matilda, I’m not even going to be there.’
‘Still your rooms. But thank you for permission to part-ay. Anything else you can think of that we need to discuss?’
He shook his head, mysterious as a sphinx, silent as the tomb, oddly out of sorts.
‘Good thing I made a list,’ she muttered, and ditched the coffee so she could drag a nearby notepad towards her. ‘Let’s take it from the top. Good nearby restaurants, grocery stores, market stalls …’
‘You do realise this is why review sites exist?’
‘Will I find reviews from you on any review sites?’
‘No.’
‘Good thing I can go straight to the source.’ Honestly, back in the good old days when they’d been friends, she’d been hard-pressed to get him to shut up. He’d been all about the learning. And the sharing of what he’d learned.
‘I’ll writ
e you a list,’ he muttered, long suffering.
‘You’re a treasure.’
*
He really wasn’t. Henry knew this went without saying. Literally no one had ever called him that, aside from Tilly. And Tilly was not known for stellar judgment. She’d been a happy child, all bright eyes and sunshine. Always seeing the best in others, the best in him and he’d been grateful for it. Where others called him mad, Tilly had called him Henry and listened attentively to his ramblings—chiming in with pure unfettered imagination that had been in no way related to scientific discovery or probabilities.
He’d missed her warm grey eyes and her smile that wasn’t carefully calculated to the nth degree. The one she was wearing now was just plain happy. ‘How’ve you been?’ He watched her eyes brighten and her smile widen.
‘Henry, are you conforming to societal expectations these days? What happened to them being the province of lesser minds?’ She was paraphrasing him. He truly had been ridiculous during his teenage years.
‘I’ve evolved,’ he offered dryly. ‘The fact remains, you’re looking well.’
‘Why thank you, Henry. It’s the new clothes. Or the excitement about going to the UK. The clothes and the excitement and the pleasure of your company.’ He raised an eyebrow at that last comment, and she laughed. ‘I guess you’re still making your way towards accepting sincere compliments in the spirit in which they’re given.’
‘Mockery is not the answer,’ he countered.
‘There you are! I was beginning to worry.’ She took a tart and bit delicately into it and his brain stumbled to a hic-coughing halt—fixed on nothing more than lovely lips and sweet temptation. This he remembered. This tightrope walk between hanging out with Tilly and being the platonic friend she needed, and wanting to push for so much more. Wanting to earn the right to lean over and press his lips to hers, only that had never been a part of their relationship. She’d been too young to court before he left Wirralong, and for all his invitations for her to visit him in London, she’d never made the trip. Too young. Too broke. Not interested in any of the invitations he’d extended.
Even now, she’d deliberately arranged her trip so that he would be back here for most of it.
Henry didn’t do social interactions all that well, but how could he take that to mean anything but really not interested in spending time with you?
‘Henry, what are you looking at?’
How to even answer that without exposing thoughts and feelings better left alone?
‘Do I have meringue on my face?’ she asked next.
‘No. Sorry.’ What had she been talking about before his trip to fantasy land? ‘I’ve left season passes to various theatres and gardens on the coffee table in the lounge room. Use them at will. Go visit Fortnum and Mason—especially their high-end food section—you’ll have fun. There’s a Cup of Tea place in Soho that I think you’ll like. Try a café called Moo just around the corner from my place if you ever want a big fry-up breakfast.’ He looked longingly towards the tarts. ‘I got nothing when it comes to sweets and pastries that are better than yours. They’re not.’ Surely he could have another tart? They were tiny. She’d made them to eat. Tilly smirked and nudged the serving plate in his direction.
‘You’ve missed my cooking.’ She didn’t bother hiding the delight in her voice.
‘Nothing but the truth.’ Even her failures had been interesting. ‘Remember the rum caramels?’
‘Everyone remembers the rum caramels,’ she muttered darkly. ‘And will continue to remember them every Christmas until the end of time.’
A knock on the screen door of the kitchen prevented him from wondering aloud why this was such a disaster.
At Tilly’s cheerful ‘Come in’ a waifish blonde entered, looking vaguely familiar. She slowed when she spotted Henry. Tilly was already pulling several large containers from the fridge, and didn’t seem inclined to introduce them, but he should have known better than to think she’d abandon her manners. ‘Henry, do you remember Maggie Walker from Wirra Station? She’s Maggie Walker-O’Connor now. She married Max.’
He remembered Max. He didn’t remember Maggie. ‘I remember Carmel Walker,’ he muttered and hoped that would do as he held out his hand. Just because he’d once had the social skills of an oaf, didn’t mean he had them still. ‘Interesting woman.’
‘Oh, she was.’ Maggie’s handshake was firm, her manner relaxed. She wore a wedding ring and an air of contentment he quite liked. ‘So you’re the one who wooed Tilly from our clutches with the promise of free accommodation and London on her doorstep. I have three brides who’d happily roast you over a fire pit for that.’
‘I see.’ No. No, he didn’t see.
‘Maggie runs Wirra Station as a destination wedding venue these days,’ Tilly explained.
‘And Tilly’s our desserts caterer and the word is well and truly out that her food is outstanding,’ said the slender smiling blonde. ‘I have brides who were rendered inconsolable because she wasn’t available to cater their weddings this coming month.’
‘Aww. I feel so wanted.’ Tilly nodded towards the containers. ‘You have three dozen mini-cupcakes and the same again of lamingtons and lemon meringue minis. Also three kilos of rosewater and pistachio Turkish delight.’
‘And you have the most wonderful time away.’ Maggie drew a white envelope from the pocket of her pretty blue sundress. ‘This is from me and Max.’ The envelope went on the counter as Maggie embraced Tilly and turned to pick up the containers. ‘See you round, Henry. You’re always welcome to call into Wirra Station while you’re here. We’ve a bar licence, and a good cellar if that’s your thing. A vintage car show next weekend with a big woolshed dance at the end of it. Come alone or bring a friend.’
He nodded and thanked her for the invitation, and then she was gone.
‘Since when has Wirra Station been a wedding venue?’ he asked.
‘Since Carmel died broke and Maggie inherited and decided to do something for herself and for the town.’ Tilly was back at the fridge again, rearranging its contents, presumably for better chill flow. ‘Lot of things have changed since you were here last.’
‘So I see.’ Tilly had become a pastry chef, for starters. And grown up. And looked a lot like sunshine on a rainy day. He’d missed the sunshine so much when he’d first moved to the UK.
The bright Aussie sunshine and, most of all, Tilly.
Chapter Two
The trouble with Henry Church was that in spite of his towering intellect, he was still three-quarters clueless when it came to knowing and understanding what people wanted from him. Like conversation—conversation would have been good, thought Tilly with a sigh as she sat at the airport and waited to board the biggest plane she’d ever seen.
She’d checked her luggage hours earlier, wincing as they’d asked if she had a heavy coat she could take out and carry with her, which she didn’t. But she did her best to add the extra weight from her luggage onto her person, and wore the glares of the people behind her in the line with only slightly wilting shoulders. By the time the counter staff had slapped a heavy sticker on her luggage and waved it and her through, she was dressed for Antarctica and carrying an extra pair of shoes in a handbag that wasn’t built to carry much more than a handkerchief, a pair of sunglasses and a purse.
But she was through, passport and boarding pass in hand, sunglasses on head, string bag full of water and chewing gum, hand lotion, food magazine, neck pillow and several electrical adaptors for converting Australian power cords to UK ones. Couldn’t have too many of those.
The plane needed to board soon, otherwise she’d be tempted to go back to the glittering, hideously expensive electronics counter for the noise-cancelling headphones she definitely didn’t need to spend her hard-earned money on. And then she boarded, and settled, and they were off and not even the newness of air travel and films she’d never seen before could keep the monotony at bay for long.
Thirteen hours and a stopover i
n a Middle Eastern country’s airport terminal, which was even more glittery and expensive than the terminal in Melbourne. Twenty-four dollars for a small tray of Persian dates—although those were worth every cent. Twelve dollars for warm coffee and stale pastry.
Eleven hours on a different plane, and then Heathrow.
Dear Lord, Heathrow.
Where the lost luggage counter had been almost as hard to find as her lost luggage, which still hadn’t been found, and now she was on a train heading for Trafalgar Square, spare shoes sticking out of her handbag, ridiculous neck pillow and food bags in the string bag on her arm—and the only positive she could think of was that at least she didn’t have her extra-heavy suitcase in tow, because there was hardly enough room for all the people jammed onto the train, let alone luggage.
Thirty-six hours, no sleep, no luggage, and one slightly bewildered doorman later, Tilly let herself into Henry’s apartment—sorry, flat—door.
And promptly forgot to unarm his very expensive, very loud security system.
By the time she’d raced back and hastily tapped the passcode into the console, half the people in the building probably thought it was on fire. She could just imagine doorman Len’s face. He wasn’t going to need to have gone through school with her in order to start calling her names.
Just a mistake, Tilly. No damage done.
She could hear her mother’s words in her ear and almost taste her father’s steadfast support for the daughter who rarely got anything right the first time around.
But she was here now, deep breaths, and pictures hadn’t done Henry’s living room or his spotless kitchen justice. She set her string bag and handbag on the kitchen counter, immediately rendering the space not so spotless anymore, and plugged her flat phone with its brand-new power adaptor into a socket. Henry had made her promise to go into a phone shop and get a local SIM card for it as soon as she possibly could, but surely one day without wouldn’t hurt? He’d also been the one to tell her to always carry the charger in the same carry bag with the phone, so at least she’d done that right.
