Matt transferred the eggs to his toast and sighed. It was at times like this that he noticed the lack of a significant other in his life. More and more Matt was envying his mates. No doubt they were all in the process of consuming a Sunday roast, before snuggling down in front of the telly with their fiancées or wives. What sort of a saddo was he to be munching his way through eggs on toast on a Sunday evening with the dining table covered in employee names and job descriptions?
A few minutes later Matt pushed his empty plate away and began scanning the factory employee list. Were all these staff really necessary? Redundancy wasn’t pleasant, but unfortunately often required. Matt had never suffered personal repercussion from such actions until this morning, when he met Dave Perfect. At the memory of Dave’s meaty fist connecting to Matt’s face, he automatically touched his eye. It was bloodshot, slightly swollen and suffused with a blue-purple colour. That would give the staff at Tibor’s Tasty Titbits something to gossip about tomorrow morning.
***
The first thing Matt noticed when he got out of his car at the factory’s car park was the smell. It had nothing to do with the gasworks across the road or the muddy banks of the nearby River Thames. Matt attempted to hold his breath whilst scanning the building. There appeared to be two entrances to the factory, one for the plant operators and one for the office staff. Matt took the door to the latter. Inside this part of the building, it was surprisingly plush. A coiffed receptionist with perfect make-up greeted him.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, I’m here to see Gregory.’
‘Do take a seat.’ The receptionist indicated some squashy chairs. ‘Gregory won’t be a moment. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Thanks. Milk, no sugar.’
Matt sat down. He watched the receptionist undulate off to a door marked ‘Private’. He presumed the door led to a staff kitchenette. Gregory’s office was to the right. Matt could see the closed door from where he was sitting. He could also hear voices coming from within. Gregory was laughing throatily. Now a woman was speaking and telling him he was a naughty boy for making her late to her own office.
‘If it’s an office you want, then stay at this one!’
‘But my work isn’t at this office,’ the woman was giggling. ‘It’s a good thing I’m more or less my own boss, or I’d now be in quite a bit of trouble.’
Inside his office, Gregory gazed at the woman before him. If anything, she was even more gorgeous than the night he’d met her at The Cavendish Club. ‘Stay,’ he pleaded.
‘I can’t,’ said Lucy, waggling a finger playfully at Gregory. ‘My taxi will be here any moment, and I absolutely have to be back in London for a meeting this afternoon. I can’t get out of it.’ She could pass the morning off to being with a potential client, but the company director would want a better explanation for an afternoon’s absence too.
‘You’re not going to walk out of my life are you?’
Lucy arched an eyebrow and smiled impishly. ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I definitely don’t. Give me your number. I’ll stick it in my mobile right now.’
Out in the reception area, Matt smiled to himself. Clearly Gregory had scored again! He wondered who the woman was. At that moment the receptionist reappeared with his coffee. He accepted it gratefully. She gave him a full-on beam and twisted a strand of hair around her index finger. Matt sipped the coffee and looked away. Now why had he done that? Here was an attractive woman giving him the eye. A few days ago and he would have struck up some banter, secured her number and probably had her in his bed later that night. Except...except...he couldn’t quite forget about the last woman who had occupied his bed.
The door to Gregory’s office opened and a dark haired beauty emerged. Matt felt a mild frisson of shock run up and down his spine. It was the hen from The Cavendish Club – the one Gregory had gone off with. She strolled past Matt without even a glance in his direction, but not before he’d clocked her expression. It was one of immense satisfaction.
‘Matthew!’ Gregory came out and pumped Matt’s hand. ‘I see you have a coffee, jolly good.’ Gregory turned to the receptionist. ‘Get one for me, Cheryl.’ He ushered Matt into his office. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I had some unfinished business to attend.’
‘I saw,’ Matt smiled.
‘Now then, Matthew, no judgements please. I’m a free agent.’
‘I don’t think she is though.’
‘Course she is.’
‘But there’s a ring on her finger.’
‘She’s not married yet. And anyway, I seem to remember two rings on the finger of the lass who draped herself all over you last night.’
‘Touché.’
Gregory laughed. ‘Was it her husband who gave you the shiner you’re sporting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say no more then! Right, let’s get down to factory business.’
Matt opened his briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers, one of which contained a full list of employees. ‘Do you really have a dog food taster?’
‘Absolutely. And I’m not making him redundant, so don’t even suggest it. Harold is worth his weight in gold. In fact I desperately need another like him, but it’s not a job many want. Tibor’s Tasty Titbits has a good reputation for food that’s fit for human consumption.’
‘Excellent,’ said Matt faintly. The thought of sitting down to a plate of Chum-like mixture wasn’t something he wanted to mull over at ten o’clock on a Monday morning. ‘In that case, I’d like to start with the names to the left of this sheet.’
But Gregory was staring out of the window, apparently lost in thought. His face bore a dreamy expression.
‘Er, Gregory?’
‘Sorry, what were you saying?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Sorry, mate, I can’t concentrate.’ Gregory rubbed a hand over his face before regarding Matt with a pensive look. ‘To answer your question, no, I don’t think I’m okay.’
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
‘I have a horrible feeling I’ve gone and fallen in love.’
Chapter Nine
Lucy pushed her way out of the double doors of Tibor’s Tasty Titbits just has her minicab pulled up. The cab’s window buzzed down.
‘Where are we going, love?’ asked the driver.
Lucy opened the rear passenger door. ‘Dartford Station, please.’ She sank down into the squashy depths of the saloon and, as the cab set off for the local railway station, reflected over the events of the weekend. She’d spent the entirety of Saturday and Sunday shagging a stranger.
Lucy glanced down at her engagement ring and twirled it anxiously around her ring finger. It was a two-carat jobbie that she’d wept over when her fiancé had placed it upon the third finger of her left hand. All Lucy had ever wanted was to get married and have children. She had a hazy childhood memory of sitting cross-legged on the school playing field with her best friend, a warm sun tickling pale arms and legs as the two girls had made daisy chains and gossiped.
‘I’m going to marry a pop star when I grow up,’ Rosie had said.
Lucy was never one to be outdone. ‘I’m going to marry a prince.’ And she’d plopped a crown of daisies on top of her head, determined that one day when she married she would indeed wear a crown. And now, all these years later, tucked away in her top drawer was the most beautiful tiara smothered in crystals and pearls.
As the years had gone by, Lucy’s prince had eluded her thanks to fierce competitiveness in her chosen career. There had, however, been a lot of frogs and she’d kissed them all. Unfortunately these men were the type who, upon receiving hints of long-term commitment, had legged it. At first Lucy had been hurt. But eventually she’d settled quite happily on a series of friends with benefits relationships. Such couplings meant she didn’t owe anybody anything. She certainly didn’t have to tidy up after them, and if they pissed her off she could always turf them out. But in the last year Lucy had been awar
e of the loud ticking of her biological clock. Her hormones were clamouring for her to get on with what her female body was programmed to do. Reproduce. To say Lucy felt broody was an understatement. Rosie’s darling little boy, Luke, was her godson. Much as she loved being a godmother, she wanted to drop that first syllable, and progress to mother. However, for that she needed a male – and preferably a man who also yearned to be a parent. Just when Lucy had despaired of ever finding such a man, he’d turned up in the local chippie of all places. They’d been standing in a long queue that had zig-zagged out of the shop and along the pavement. My Plaice wasn’t Lucy’s usual port of call after work, but on this particular occasion she’d worked late and knew the cupboards at home were bare. Her wristwatch had read half past eight. As her heels had clicked hollowly along the pavements, the enticing smell of fish and chips had mugged her senses. She’d decided to abandon a late night shop at Sainsbury’s and instead grab something wrapped in yesterday’s newspapers, except the shop had run out of fish just as she and the man in front of her had finally stood in front of the counter.
Lucy had been furious. And then, ridiculously, she’d started to cry. She’d had a crap day at work, and on top of everything else discovered that the men she’d slept with in the office had nicknamed her Lucy Lycra on account of how bendy she was between the sheets.
‘Don’t cry,’ the stranger had said, ‘a bit of fish isn’t worth bawling about.’
‘It’s just the last straw,’ she’d wailed.
The man had hesitated for a moment. ‘At the risk of sounding like I’m doing a number on you, there’s a lovely French bistro up the road. I’m game if you are.’
And that was how it had started. This time Lucy hadn’t invited the man back to her chic minimalist flat. She’d demurred. Romance had blossomed slowly. Lucy Lycra was nowhere to be found. Instead a coy, reserved Lucy had emerged. Even now she and her man didn’t properly co-habit. Instead Lucy alternated between her London apartment and her fiancé’s address.
When sex had finally taken place, Lucy had found it a monumental disappointment. Her future husband ticked all the boxes apart from stud. Which was puzzling, because recently Lucy had begun to suspect more and more that another woman was tickling her fiancé’s fancy. On her hen night, bevvied up and dressed like a siren, she’d felt wild and reckless, and incredibly rebellious. The booze had made her defiant. If she couldn’t get mad, maybe she could at least get even?
As she’d walked into The Cavendish Club, Lucy had been fully aware of the men eyeing her, and it had been nothing to do with her raucous behaviour or flashing pink Stetson. It was because she had looked and felt desirable. And when she’d clapped eyes on Gregory Tibor, a pulse had started in her loins. She’d simply had to have him. It was an all-consuming need, like not being able to function without food or water. They’d abandoned Goldhill Grange and instead gone to his place. Gregory had been mildly disappointed not to have the other hens joining them, but Lucy had forgiven him because she wasn’t looking for a faithful lover. She just wanted sex. The sort of sex her fiancé didn’t seem able to give her. She didn’t know if it was pre-wedding nerves or a whim for a last fling before a ring slid on her finger and bound her to a man she loved, but who didn’t set her knickers on fire.
Gregory had turned out to be an amazing lover and incredibly thoughtful too. And when they’d paused for breath between couplings, Lucy’s surroundings hadn’t failed to register through her diminishing hangover. One word described the place. Opulent. From the vast chandelier that graced the equally enormous hallway to the manicured grounds outside. It was a true country house in all its renovated splendour.
Never backward in coming forward, Lucy had been quite frank. ‘You must earn a packet to have a place like this.’
Gregory had shrugged and looked modest. ‘I do all right.’
‘What are you? A professional footballer?’ She’d fingered his six pack.
When Gregory had told her he made pet food, she’d been stunned. ‘I don’t believe you. Show me.’ And that was how she’d ended up going to the factory on Monday morning before taking the minicab to Dartford Station.
‘That will be fifteen quid, love,’ the driver interrupted her thoughts.
Lucy reached inside her little clutch for the money. Underneath her long classic coat she was still dressed in Saturday night’s glam dress. She hoped the train journey ahead wouldn’t take too long. She needed to peel off the party frock and slip into a power suit before hurrying off to the office. And while she was on the train she’d ring Rosie for a catch up. Heaven only knows what had happened to her best friend on Saturday night. Lucy felt mildly guilty for not keeping a closer eye on her. Rosie had been three sheets to the wind and propositioning a stranger when Lucy had last looked. Very un-Rosie like.
Lucy walked into the station, paid for her ticket and made her way over the connecting bridge to the platform. Five minutes later she was seated in the corner of a carriage. As the train picked up speed and rumbled towards the City, Lucy reached into her bag for her mobile. Seconds later she was talking to Rosie.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Rosie, it’s me.’
‘Hello, stranger. What happened to you on Saturday night?’
‘It’s a long story. What about you?’
‘Er, yes. The same.’
‘Did you get home all right?’
‘Um, eventually.’
‘You sound cagey.’
‘So do you.’
Lucy laughed. ‘Are you at my apartment?’
‘Yes. I’m halfway through the cleaning. Luke’s fast asleep in his buggy so I’d better get back to it before he wakes up and slows me down.’
‘I’ll be popping in, briefly, in about an hour, so I might see you.’
‘Okay, I’ll wait in that case.’
‘Good. We’ll have a quick coffee together.’
‘See you soon.’
‘Oh, and Rosie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do me a favour. Can you change the sheets on my bed, please?’
‘I only did them a few days ago.’
‘Yes, I know. But I just fancy some fresh linen on the bed tonight.’
‘Okay, will do. Bye for now.’
Lucy disconnected the call. She wanted fresh linen on the bed because she was ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain she’d have a visitor tonight. And it wouldn’t be her fiancé.
Chapter Ten
Rosie had barely finished shoving Lucy’s stripped bedding into the washing machine when Luke let out a wail. Thank God Rosie’s cleaning jobs were for high-fliers like Lucy and her network of career girls. None of them minded Rosie bringing Luke’s buggy into their homes. Her little boy was perfectly content playing with his mobile or watching Mummy make bathrooms and kitchens shine. Sometimes Rosie would park Luke’s buggy in front of the television and let him watch the pre-school programmes, even though it was beyond his understanding of eight months. She’d scamper about with the duster while coloured teddies danced across the screen making Luke chortle. If he was popping a tooth and miserable, she’d invariably resort to having her young son sit on her hip while she pushed the vacuum cleaner around. In the main her baby boy was a placid child, and never complained when Rosie settled him into his pushchair and walked to various bus stops in order to clean half a dozen houses in North London.
Hurrying now, Rosie tipped liquid soap into the washing machine dispenser and selected a programme. Then she unstrapped Luke, gathered him up in her arms and went along the hallway to the airing cupboard. Pulling out fresh bedding, she then made her way into Lucy’s bedroom. Rosie shut the door after her and popped Luke down on the floor.
‘There we are, little man. You can practice your crawling while Mummy struggles with a six foot duvet and a Queen sized cover.’
As soon as Luke was down on the plush carpet, he immediately began bottom shuffling. One tiny pudgy hand extended behind his nappy while one foot propelled his body backw
ards. Minutes later he was down on his stomach, slithering and rolling around the room. A sock was discarded enroute to a chest of drawers in one corner. Rosie smiled at her son’s antics before getting on with the task in hand. She was just plumping pillows when she heard Lucy’s key in the door.
‘Yoo-hoo. I’m in here,’ Rosie called.
The bedroom door swung open. ‘Oooh!’ Lucy rushed over to Luke and scooped him up from the floor. ‘How’s my toy boy?’ She cuddled the baby tightly. ‘You are just the most scrumptious little chap in the whole wide world. When you grow up, I’m going to marry you!’
Rosie arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were already spoken for.’
Lucy gently put Luke back down on the floor. ‘Of course,’ she said lightly.
‘So who was the hunk you went off with on Saturday night?’
‘I’m surprised you can remember. You looked completely out of it when I last saw you.’
‘Admittedly I have black gaps of nothingness where your hen night is concerned. But don’t avoid the subject.’ Rosie started layering the bed with small decorative cushions. ‘What happened?’
Lucy shrugged off her coat and headed towards the walk-in dressing room. ‘Nothing. Just, you know, a dance, and a bit of a canoodle.’
The Perfect Marriage Page 4
