‘It hasn’t slipped my mind.’
His hand reached out and found hers, his fingers curling around it as it lay on her lap. ‘It’ll be all right, Amy. Everything’ll work out, one way or the other.’
Would it? She desperately hoped so, but she didn’t like the sound of ‘other’. The uncertainty of her future was thrown into sharp focus by the raw reminder of her homelessness. And joblessness. Not to mention the touch of his hand.
‘Does that apply to you, too, or is it only me you’ve sprinkled fairy dust on?’
He gave a short huff that could just have been laughter, and put his hand back on the steering-wheel. ‘I’m a lost cause,’ he said, which was just what she’d thought last night, oddly, but hearing him say it gave her a hideous sinking feeling.
‘You’re not,’ she argued gently, her own situation forgotten because his was far, far worse. ‘You’ve just been in a bad place, Leo, but that’ll change. It’s already changing. You need to start working again, doing more at the restaurant, getting back into the filming, focussing on your USP.’
‘Which is what, exactly?’
She shifted in the seat so she could study him. He hadn’t shaved today—or yesterday, probably, either—and the stubble darkening his jaw gave him a sexy, slightly rakish air. How on earth had she never noticed before this week just how gorgeous he was?
‘You have great media presence,’ she said truthfully, avoiding the obvious fact of his sex appeal in the interest of their mutual sanity. ‘Everyone loved your first two television series. Another one will raise your profile, and you can cash in on that with the cookery book. You’re a great communicator, so communicate with your public, charm the punters in your restaurant, flirt with the camera, sell yourself.’
His brow crunched up in a frown. ‘But I’m not the product. My food’s the product.’
How could he really be so dense? ‘No. You’re inseparable. You, and your enthusiasm for food, your quirky take on things, your energy—that’s what people love.’
What she loved. What she’d loved about him since she’d been old enough to be able to spell ‘hormone’. She just hadn’t realised it until now.
‘Well, how on earth would I market that?’ he asked, and she laughed. He really didn’t get it.
‘You don’t have to market it! You just have to be you, and the rest will follow. The TV, the cookery book idea, your blog—all of it showcases you. The food is secondary, in a way. You were doing all the right things already. Just keep doing them and you’ll be fine.’
He grunted, checked over his shoulder and pulled out to overtake. ‘Right now I’m more worried about where we’re going to do the filming. The plan was to do it in my new house, in my own kitchen, but it’s not ready and time’s running out. I won’t do London again, and they want more of a lifestyle thing, which will fit round Ella, but that’s no good without the house.’
‘So how long will it be before it’s done?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said, and he sounded exasperated. ‘The builder’s running out of time, even though there’s a penalty clause in the contract, but of course I’ve been away over a week so I haven’t been on his case and I don’t know how well they’ve got on.’
‘What’s left to do?’
‘It’s mostly done, it’s just the finishing off. They were fitting the kitchen, which is the most important thing as far as filming’s concerned, and it should be straightforward, but every time I think that it all goes wrong, so who knows?’
‘Could you use the restaurant kitchen in Yoxburgh?’
‘Not without disrupting the business, and it’s going well now, it’s getting a name for itself and it’s busy. I don’t want to turn people away; I have to live in the town, it’s where I’ll be working, so it’s the flagship restaurant, and that makes it hugely important to the brand. It would be career suicide and I’m doing pretty well on that already.’
‘So push him.’
‘I will. I’ll call him in the morning, on my way to London, see how far off finishing he is.’
He turned off the main road, and she realised they were nearly home—if family homes counted, and at the moment they both seemed to be homeless, so she guessed they did count. He drove slowly through the village, turned into her mother’s drive and pulled up at the door.
He didn’t cut the engine, presumably so he didn’t wake Ella, but he got out and by the time she’d picked up her bag and found her key he was there, holding the car door open for her.
‘I’ll get your stuff. I won’t stop, I need to settle Ella and I’ve got a million and one emails to check tonight. I’ve just been ignoring them.’
He opened the back of the car and pulled out her bag, carrying it to the door for her. She put her key in the lock and turned to thank him, but he got there before her, reaching out a hand and cupping her face, his thumb sweeping a caress across her cheek.
Her eyes locked with his, and held.
‘I don’t know what I would have done without you, Amy,’ he said softly, his voice a little gruff. ‘You’ve been amazing, and I’m so grateful.’
Her heart thumped, her face turning slightly as she looked away, her cheek nestling into his hand so his thumb was almost touching her mouth.
‘Don’t be,’ she murmured. ‘You saved my life, getting me out of here. I don’t know quite what I would have done if you hadn’t.’
‘You would have been fine. Your mother would have seen to that.’
She felt her mouth tip in a smile, and she turned her head again and met his eyes. ‘Yes, she would, but it wouldn’t have been the same. Thank you for rescuing me for the umpteenth time. I’ll try not to let it happen again.’
And without checking in with her common sense meter, she went up on tiptoe and kissed him. The designer stubble grazed her skin lightly, setting her nerve endings on fire and making her ache for more, but before either of them could do anything stupid, she rocked back onto her heels and stepped away.
‘Good luck tomorrow. Let me know how it goes.’
‘I will. Enjoy your lie-in and think of me up at the crack of dawn with my little treasure.’
Think of him? She’d thought of very little else for the past week or more. ‘You know you love it.’ She turned the key in the door, pushed it open and picked up her bag. ‘Goodnight, Leo.’
‘’Night, Amy. Sleep tight.’
It was what he said to Ella every night, his voice a soft, reassuring rumble. ‘Goodnight, my little one. Sleep tight.’
She swallowed the lump in her throat, walked into the house and closed the door behind her.
Time to start sorting out her life.
* * *
Her mother was pleased to see her.
She was in the sitting room watching the television, and she switched it off instantly. ‘Darling! I didn’t hear the car, I’m sorry. Is Leo with you?’
‘No, he’s got to get Ella to bed and he’s got an early start in the morning.’
‘Oh. OK. Good journey?’
‘Yes, fine. It seems odd to be home.’
Odd, but good, she thought as her mother hugged her tight and then headed for the kitchen. ‘Tea? Coffee? Wine?’
She laughed and followed her. ‘Tea would be great. I’ve had a lot of wine this week. Wine, and food, and—’
Leo. Leo, in almost every waking moment, one way or another.
‘So how was Tuscany? Tell me all about the palazzo. It sounds amazing.’
‘Oh, it is. I’ve got a million photos I’ve got to go through. I’ll show them to you when I’ve had time to sort them out a bit. So how’s it been here?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘I’m so sorry I ran away and left you to clear up the chaos, but I just couldn’t face it.’
‘No, of course you couldn’t, and it’s be
en fine. Everyone was lovely about it. I went next door and spoke to them all, and the family came back here and it was lovely, really. We had quite a good time, considering, and Roberto made sure we had plenty to eat, so it was fine.’
‘What about the presents?’ she asked.
‘No problem. I spoke to the store, and they agreed to refund everyone. They just want to hear from you personally before they press the buttons, and people will need to contact them individually, but it’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.’
That was a weight off her mind. There was still Leo’s gift, of course, but she’d done what she could about that, and there was more to come. Looking after Ella for a week had been a joy, and photographing Leo had been a guilty pleasure, but she’d promised her help for eight weeks to help during the filming, and if that didn’t come off, for any reason, she could give him those photos, edit them until they were perfect for what he needed, so even if she couldn’t help him with a cookery book, he shouldn’t come off too badly from their deal.
‘Mum, are you OK with me staying here for a while?’ she asked, before she got too carried away with the planning. ‘Just until I get my life sorted out?’
Her mother tutted and hugged her. ‘Darling, it’s your home. Of course you can stay here. You’re always welcome, and you always will be. And don’t worry. Things will sort themselves out. I just want you to be happy.’
Happy? She felt her eyes fill, and turned away.
‘I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat?’
‘Of course there is! I knew you were coming home so I made curry. I’ll put the rice on now.’
* * *
Ella wouldn’t settle.
He couldn’t blame her. She’d been trapped in her baby seat for a long time today, one way and another, and she’d slept for a lot of it. Not surprisingly, she wanted to play.
With him.
Again, he couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t seen nearly as much of him as usual in the past week, and she’d been in a strange place, with a strange carer. Not that she’d seemed to mind. She adored Amy.
His daughter had good taste. Excellent taste.
He covered his eyes and wondered how long it would take to get her out of his system. A week? A month?
A lifetime?
‘Boo!’
Ella giggled and crawled up to him, pulling his hands off his face again and prising his eyes open. He winced, lifted her out of range and opened them, to her great delight. Another giggle, another bounce up and down on his lap, another launch at his face. She was so easily pleased, the reward of her smile out of all proportion to the effort he was putting in.
He reeled her in and hugged her, pushing her T-shirt up and blowing a raspberry on her bare tummy and making her shriek with laughter.
His email was squatting in his inbox like a malevolent toad, and he had phone calls to make and things to do, but he didn’t care. The most important thing was checking in with the restaurant, but they were shut on Monday nights so that wasn’t a problem for today.
She pulled up her little T-shirt again and shoved her tummy in the air, and he surrendered. Ella wanted her father and, dammit, he wanted her, too. The rest would keep.
* * *
She stood at her bedroom window, staring across at Leo’s family home. The light was on in his bedroom, and through the open window she could hear Ella’s little shriek of laughter and Leo’s answering growl.
They were playing. That wouldn’t please him, with all he had to do, but they sounded as if they were having fun, or at least Ella was.
She couldn’t help smiling, but it was a bitter-sweet smile. She already missed them so much. Watching him playing with Ella, focussing all that charismatic charm on his little girl, not caring at all that he was making an idiot of himself.
Oh, Leo.
It was warm, but she closed the window anyway. She didn’t need to torture herself by listening to them. It was bad enough without that.
She turned and scanned the room.
Her wedding dress was gone, of course, hung up in another room, she imagined, together with the veil and shoes. And her ring? She’d left it on the dressing table, and that was where she found it. Her mother had put it back in the box, but left it out for her to deal with.
She’d send it back to Nick, of course. It was the least she could do, it must have cost him a fortune. Not that he was exactly strapped for cash, but that wasn’t the point.
She got out her laptop, plugged in the memory card from the camera and propped herself on the bed against a pile of pillows. She’d have a quick look through the photos before she went to bed, but she wasn’t even going to attempt her emails. No doubt her inbox was full of sympathetic or slightly sarky comments about the wedding fiasco, and she might just delete the lot. Tomorrow.
Tonight, she was looking at photos.
* * *
‘Are you busy?’
Busy? Why should she be busy? All she’d had to do today was draft a letter to all the guests, hand-write them and take them to the post office. Preferably not in the village so she didn’t have to stand in the queue and answer questions or endure sympathetic glances. And sort through the photos.
So far, she hadn’t even got past first base.
‘No, I’m not busy. Why?’
‘I just wondered. I’m back, I’ve put Ella to bed and I’ve got a site meeting with the builder in half an hour, but then I thought we could go through the photos.’
Ah. She hadn’t got far last night. About five minutes in she’d been reduced to tears, and she’d had to shut her laptop. ‘I haven’t had time to go through them yet and delete the dross.’ Or extract the ones that were for her eyes only. There were a lot of those. And it had been nothing to do with time.
‘That’s fine. We can do it together.’
‘Here, or yours?’
‘How about the new house? The builder said it was habitable, pretty much, so we could take the laptop over there.’
She could always say no—tell him she was tired or something. Except that so far today she’d done almost nothing. A bit of laundry, a lot of wallowing in self-pity and kicking herself for being stupid didn’t count. And at least it would deal with the photos.
‘Fine,’ she agreed, dying to get a look at his house and too weak to say no.
‘Great. Come round when you’re ready, and we’ll go from here.’
That meant seeing his parents, and they’d been the ones with the marquee in the garden, the catering team crawling all over the place, the mess left behind afterwards. And all for nothing.
She’d been going to take them something by way of apology, but now he’d short-circuited her plans and she wouldn’t have a chance.
She shook her head in defeat.
‘OK. I’ll be round in a minute.’
‘We’re in the kitchen. Come through the fence.’
So she did. Through the gate in the fence that their fathers had made together years ago, and into their back garden where just over a week ago there had been a marquee for her wedding. You couldn’t tell. The garden was immaculate, a riot of colour and scent. The perfect setting for a wedding.
She turned her back on it, walked in through the kitchen door and straight into Mrs Zacharelli’s arms.
‘Welcome home, Amy,’ she said, and hugged her hard.
Amy’s eyes welled, and she swallowed hard and tried not to cry. ‘I’m so sorry—’ she began, but then the tears got the better of her and Mrs Zach hugged her again before she was elbowed out of the way by her husband. He hauled Amy into a bear hug and cradled her head like a child.
‘Enough of that,’ he said. ‘No tears. It was the right thing to do.’
‘But you did so much for me,’ she protested.
‘It was nothing.
Sit. Drink. We’re celebrating.’
He let her go, pushed her into a chair and thrust a glass into her hand. Prosecco? ‘Celebrating what?’
‘Leo hasn’t told you? They’re starting filming the new television series next week.’
She turned her head and met his eyes. ‘Really? So quick? What about your house?’
‘We’ll see. The builder says it’ll be ready. Drink up, or we’re going to be late.’
* * *
It was beautiful.
Stunning. She vaguely remembered seeing the cliff-top house in the past, but it had been nothing to get excited about. Now—well, now it was amazing.
While Leo poked and prodded and asked the builder questions about things she didn’t know anything about, she drifted from room to room, her eyes drawn constantly to the sea, wondering how on earth she’d thought that Palazzo Valtieri could trump this. Oh, it was hugely impressive, steeped in history and lovingly cared for, but there was none of the light and space and freedom that she felt in this house, and she knew where she’d rather live.
He found her upstairs in one of the bedrooms. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘I think you need to give me a guided tour before I can possibly judge.’
His mouth kicked up in a smile, and he shook his head slowly. ‘Going to make me wait? I might have known it. You always were a tease. So...’ He waved his arm. ‘This is my bedroom.’
‘I see you chose the one with the lousy sea view.’
He chuckled and moved on. ‘Bathroom through there, walk-in wardrobe, then this is the principal guest room—’
‘Another dreadful view,’ she said drily, and followed him through to Ella’s bedroom.
‘Oh! Who painted the mural? It’s lovely!’
He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and gave a soft laugh. ‘I did. I wanted her room to be special, and I thought it was something I could do for her, something personal. I’m sure I could have paid a professional to do it much better, but somehow that didn’t seem right.’
Best Friend to Wife and Mother? Page 15
