by Hazel Osmond
Ellie blinked. ‘Tonight? But I thought we were both in tonight? I was going to cook, get a good bottle of wine. You know, have an early night.’
‘Sorry, love, it’s the Germans. They want to go out on the town tonight. I can’t really leave them to do it on their own.’
‘But isn’t there someone else who can give you a night off, take your place? Your hours are becoming as crazy as mine. You’re meant to be the nine-to-five one.’
Sam came over and put his arm round her and she felt the muscles under his shirt. She breathed in his familiar smell.
‘I’m sorry, but I told you it would be like this once we’d bought the German company.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘Senior management is keen on us all getting along, breaking down the barriers. I can’t wriggle out of it.’ He kissed her on the lips and then pulled back and made a funny face, aping her pouting mouth.
‘I suppose if you’ve no choice, then I haven’t got any either,’ she said, trying not to sound sulky. ‘But this isn’t only about me having to put up with another evening without you. I’m worried about how hard you’re pushing yourself. There’s no way you can keep up these late nights and long days for ever, and they shouldn’t expect it of you. Then you’ve got that Barcelona conference. I don’t want you keeling over.’
Sam pulled her in for another hug. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said into her hair. ‘Tough as an ox, me. And tell you what … I’ll wangle it so someone takes my place on Thursday night. We’ll get together then, eh? That’s not long to wait. I’ll even cook.’ He gave her another quick kiss on the top of her head and then moved away, picking up his keys from the bookcase. ‘I’ll do my curry. Or maybe my chilli?’
He looked so enthusiastic that Ellie didn’t like to tell him that she honestly couldn’t tell the difference between the two dishes.
‘OK.’ She was still pouting a little. ‘Your curry it is, then.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he said, before checking his phone. Then, a final kiss on her cheek and he was out of the bedroom and then out of the flat.
Ellie peered through the window as she fastened her earrings and watched Sam run down the road, his mobile jammed to his ear once again. She’d conveniently misplace that thing on Thursday. Let them ring; nothing was going to come between them and their evening in together.
She kept watching him until he had gone round the corner and, once more checking on the time, quickly went into the kitchen to throw some things in the dishwasher.
Forty minutes later Ellie pushed open the door of Cavello’s and inhaled deeply. Coffee, tomatoes, basil, bread and people, lots of people. She joined the back of the queue and put her book in her bag. Pointless reading in here when there was so much other entertainment.
As usual the noise in such a small space was deafening. Tony Cavello was holding court as he served, dispensing jokes and wisdom along with the cappuccinos, sandwiches and pasta salads. The coffee machine was spitting and hissing, people were shouting orders, and Tony’s two sons, Tony Junior and Marco, hurtled about scooping food into plastic pots, cutting meats and salamis and splitting open bread. Every now and again Marco would burst into a snatch of song before reverting to ‘Hey, you want that in focaccia or ciabatta?’
The huge mirror running along the length of the wall behind the counter was meant to make the place look bigger. In reality it made it look twice as manic and even more crowded. The queue shuffled forward and Ellie exchanged a smile with a woman she saw most mornings. She heard her order her usual black coffee, plain bagel, salad with no dressing. No wonder she could fit into that dress. Ellie toyed with the idea of following her example and then caught sight of the lasagne, which was particularly plump and creamy-looking. So that was lunch sorted; now she just had to decide what to have for breakfast. Ellie’s gaze travelled over the various pastries and cheesecakes, and then suddenly she was at the front of the queue.
‘Ah, Miss Eleanor,’ said Tony, managing to wring four whole syllables out of her name. ‘And what is it today, my beautiful darling?’
‘Watch it,’ said Tony Junior. ‘He’s feeling frisky this morning. Fulham won last night.’
‘I’ll have a latte with a bacon bagel and then a lasagne and green salad, please, Tony.’
‘Excellent, excellent.’ Tony beamed at her. ‘I make the lasagne myself this morning. Very good, very creamy’ – he bent forward – ‘like your skin, Miss Eleanor.’
There was a little murmur of laughter from the people behind her in the queue and Tony Junior broke off from slicing some prosciutto to shout, ‘Told you so. Careful, Ellie.’
Tony gave a belly laugh and set about pulling her order together, barking into the kitchen and chivvying Marco on the coffee machine: ‘Hey, singer boy, a latte for the lady.’
‘Yo, Ellie,’ Marco called across, ignoring his father. ‘We’re doing you on my art course. You know those women with all that hair? The ones that guy painted?’
Tony was packing her food into a large paper bag and reaching out for napkins and a knife and fork. ‘Who? You mean Rubens?’ he said, winking at Ellie.
She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that she was blushing. She covered it up with a joke. ‘Thanks, Tony. Perhaps I better not have the lasagne after all. Got any crispbreads?’
Tony’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Hey, nothing wrong with your curves.’ He picked up two melons from the cold counter and started to juggle with them. There was more laughter from behind her.
‘Nah, not Rubens,’ Marco shouted. ‘That Millais bloke. You’re just like a Pre-Raphaelite chick with all that hair.’
‘Thanks, I think,’ Ellie said, and self-consciously flicked her hair back over her shoulders. She reached out for her bag of food and coffee. Tony held on to the bag and lowered his voice a little.
‘How you getting on with that Jack Wolfe, eh? Not giving you a hard time, is he? Hear women are fainting all over him at your place.’ Tony did an extremely bad impression of a wolf flexing his claws and Ellie was going to make a face but thought better of it. You never knew who was behind you in the queue.
‘Oh, he’s not so bad,’ she said lightly. ‘He knows his stuff. He hasn’t scared the pants off me yet.’
Tony let go of the bag. ‘Well, you watch yourself, Ellie.’
‘I will,’ she said, and handed him her money. Then, in a much louder voice than she intended, she added, ‘Although maybe I should faint too – I do hear Mr Wolfe has an incredibly big tail.’
There was complete silence as Ellie finished talking and she watched Tony’s smile disappear. Before she even looked in the mirror she knew what she would see. Jack Wolfe’s grey eyes stared back at her. He didn’t appear to be blinking; his reflection regarded hers with a steady gaze.
How had he managed to get right behind her like that? For a big guy he was light on his feet. He’d obviously heard the ‘tail’ comment, as now she looked closer, she could see there was a kind of smile on his face and a distinct slant to one of his eyebrows. It was a look that managed to appear both amused and threatening and Ellie felt as though something cold had been tipped down her spine. She thought back over all those stories that had followed Jack to the agency, the ones involving how tough and unpredictable he could be if people started hacking him off.
‘Hello, Mr Wolfe,’ Tony said. ‘Your order is all ready. I get it for you.’ He skittered off to the kitchen and Ellie felt Jack move from behind her to stand by her side.
Please God don’t let him have been there for the melon juggling. She gave him a quick sideways glance and couldn’t work out how she’d failed to notice him. She’d been called ‘lofty’ since she was about fifteen, but even she had to lift her chin to look Jack in the eye. Worrying profile too. You wouldn’t want to mess with that chin or nose. There was something about him that made Ellie want to step away. She executed a subtle side shuffle to put a bit more distance between them and hoped that he hadn’t noticed. The way that he turned his head and studied her suggested he had.
Well, however he’d managed to sneak up on her, she’d have to talk to him at some point. Politely.
‘Hello, Mr Wolfe. I didn’t know you came in here.’
‘Evidently,’ he said, managing to put layers of meaning into the word, most of them disturbing.
Wonderful, he was going to enjoy making her feel uncomfortable. She decided that it was time to go and started to move, but Jack made no attempt to stand aside and let her pass. In fact, she wasn’t sure that he hadn’t closed the gap she had created between them. It looked smaller, although she hadn’t seen him move. What was he on, castors or something?
Ellie was now crammed against the cake display and Jack continued to watch her with that supercilious smile on his face, as though he were weighing her up. Ellie felt the first stirrings of anger beneath her irritation. Jack was obviously in the habit of using his size to intimidate people, and she guessed if that didn’t work, he simply scowled them into submission.
She regarded him bleakly. Mr Heathcliff Lite. As far as she could see, all the fuss was about a Yorkshire accent and dark hair and eyebrows. Hardly enough to send you hurtling over the moors after him.
Not everyone thought like her, though, and as if to illustrate that, a woman on Jack’s left leaned across him.
‘Excuse me,’ she said breathily, ‘could I get one of those biscotti?’ Her hand, which was waving in the direction of the counter, managed to meet Jack’s. Ellie heard a little squeak and ‘Ooh, sorry’ and the woman was looking up at Jack, wide-eyed, her lips parted.
‘Here, let me.’ Jack’s face was infused with life and he reached out, took the biscotti from the pot and handed it to the woman.
‘Oh, that’s so kind of you,’ she gushed. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but they are so lovely.’
Ellie cast a jaundiced look in the woman’s direction. She was so thin she could have eaten Tony’s entire stock of biscotti and still slipped through a crack in the pavement.
Jack smiled and continued to look down at the woman. ‘I really don’t think you should ever deprive yourself of something that gives you pleasure,’ he said, and his tone was so deep and the look in his eyes so intense that it made what he said seem like a direct invitation to a lot more than an Italian biscuit.
The woman obviously thought so too, as she coloured and laughed and said, ‘I agree. Depriving myself would be a sin.’
It was then that Ellie must have made some kind of noise – she hoped it wasn’t the retching one she had in her mind – because something about the set of Jack’s shoulders changed.
‘Perhaps I’ll see you in here again?’ he said to the woman, before turning towards Ellie. Up went the eyebrow. ‘Have you got something stuck in your throat?’ he asked her. Slowly.
‘Possibly,’ Ellie said. ‘I’ve always had a weak stomach.’
Jack did not reply, but he continued to glare at her until the woman who had been flirting with him touched him on the arm. She was holding a card and handed it to him with a little self-satisfied smirk before making her way through the crowd to the door.
I bet she does that thing where she looks back over her shoulder, Ellie thought, and couldn’t help smiling when the woman did just that. She stopped smiling when she realised Jack was looking at her again, and it wasn’t a particularly friendly look either.
Well, he could keep on glaring. He might be made of sardonic Yorkshire granite, the hardest substance known to man, but being held hostage in a café wasn’t part of her job description. She raised her chin.
‘Excuse me, Jack, can I get past?’
‘In a minute,’ he said, but didn’t move.
Ellie felt her anger ratchet up another notch and was contemplating trying to dodge round him when Tony returned. He was a little out of breath. ‘Exactly as you like it, Mr Wolfe. Very good pastrami this week, very good.’ Ellie noticed Jack’s order was in a neat box.
‘Thanks, Tony. Am I still in credit? Do you need another cheque?’
Tony made an ‘Oh, let’s not talk about money’ gesture that made Ellie suspect that even if Jack had owed anything, Tony would have been honoured to keep right on providing his lunch.
Jack turned back to Ellie. ‘Come on, then, let’s get you to work,’ he said. ‘Or would you rather lounge around here chatting and juggling melons?’
Tony gave a sycophantic giggle and Ellie was severely tempted to reach out and grab a handful of Jack’s choppy black hair and pull it hard to wipe the mocking smile off his face. When Jack moved, she stomped past him, noticing with bad grace how she didn’t have to elbow her way back through the crowd today. Even the thickset guy from the building site who normally barged past Ellie took a covert look at Jack and stepped aside.
Out in the street, they walked along in silence, with Ellie first keeping pace with Jack’s strides and then making a definite decision not to. There was no way she was going to look like one of his little skipping groupies. She started to walk as slowly as her long legs would allow, which meant that every now and again he had to stop and wait for her to catch up with him. The last time he did it, she said quickly, ‘You don’t have to wait for me, Mr Wolfe. I know my way.’
‘I’ve told you before, Ellie,’ Jack said, starting to walk again, ‘you don’t have to keep calling me “Mr Wolfe”. If you do, I’m going to have to call you “Miss Somerset”.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that “Mr Wolfe” has so much more comedy potential. You know, “What’s the time, Mr Wolfe?”, “What are you having for lunch, Mr Wolfe?”’
‘“Eaten any of the pigs in suits yet, Mr Wolfe?”’
Now that was a surprise. She grudgingly gave him points for his sense of humour. Or perhaps he wasn’t joking. She could well imagine that Jack was a man perfectly capable of biting an account executive.
‘OK,’ Jack said with a wry smile, ‘“Miss Somerset” it is, then.’
A few more yards and they were at the agency. Ellie’s gaze was drawn to the new nameplate that had been fixed to the wall when Jack had bought into the company. ‘Wiseman & Craster’ was now ‘Wiseman, Craster & Wolfe’.
Payback time, Mr High and Mighty.
‘Sorry it couldn’t have been “Wolfe, Wiseman & Craster”,’ she said, not sounding at all sorry. ‘It would have read so much better.’
Jack reached for the door handle and gave her a sidelong glance that quite suddenly made the image of a wolf licking its lips slither into her mind.
‘Oh, I don’t think it matters really,’ he said, pulling open the door. ‘I don’t mind if I’m in front or behind. Any position’s fine by me.’
Ellie wasn’t quite sure she had heard him correctly, and if she had, whether he was still simply talking about the nameplate. His face betrayed nothing, whereas she knew hers had probably gone bright red. She walked past him into reception trying not to touch him, but acutely aware of his height and breadth. He filled quite a bit of the doorframe, and as she squeezed past him, a smell of warm sandalwood reached her nose.
Reception was the usual madhouse. Clients were arriving and leaving; leather-clad motorcycle couriers dropped off packages; pretty girls posed; and testosterone-pumped guys were leaning over the reception desk to talk to Rachel.
Well, to talk to Rachel’s breasts to be exact.
Gavin had spent thousands and given the contractors a nervous breakdown to create the setting for all this activity. Slate had been brought from Wales for the floor, and the walls lined with metal that had been selectively weathered and dented. The reception desk was a single solid piece of wood, distressed to look as though it were driftwood. All the seats, even the sofas, were upholstered in creased leather. It was a little like sitting in a disused industrial complex in the company of some very old cows. Jack was known to detest it.
As Jack followed behind her, Ellie watched with amusement as people who were previously absorbed in their own storylines nonchalantly fell over themselves to say hello to him. Rachel was out of her chair in a flash, teetering and wo
bbling round the desk and holding out letters for him.
How was it possible, Ellie wondered, for Rachel to push her breasts out that far and not fall over? She couldn’t help looking down at her own breasts, which were safely stowed away out of view in her shapeless shirt. She had more going on down there than Rachel, so how come Rachel looked about three times larger? Glancing up, she met Jack’s gaze and looked away abruptly.
‘Thanks, Rachel,’ Jack said, taking the letters and flashing her a smile that made Rachel find an extra couple of centimetres of thrust. ‘Ooh, nice shoes today,’ he added, raising his eyebrows.
Rachel obviously spoke fluent flirt and translated that as ‘God, those heels make you look hot’ because she contentedly purred her way back round to her side of the desk and leaned forward, treating Jack to a full view of her cleavage. When Jack gave her the ghost of a smile and simply put his head down and started sifting through his post, Rachel looked as deflated as anyone so pneumatic as she was, could look.
Ellie sensed that now might be a good time to break away, and she was wondering if she could get away with saying, ‘Bye, Heathcliff,’ very quietly when Jack looked up at her.
She knew what was coming next.
‘How are you getting on with your ideas for the Sure & Soft pitch?’
Yup, that was typical. He’d had plenty of time to ask her that while they had been walking. Now everybody was listening and she felt cornered. Which was presumably what he wanted.
‘All right,’ she said, trying to look unconcerned.
Jack turned his head slightly – a small movement but a powerful one. ‘“All right” doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence. Do you want to try that again?’
Ellie didn’t really. What she wanted was to be in her safe little office among the books and papers and Elvises. Trouble was, there was no doubt that Jack was issuing an order rather than an invitation.
‘It’s going incredibly well. I think you’re going to like it.’
Jack narrowed his eyes a fraction. ‘You “think” I’m going to like it?’
Ellie wondered what effect screaming would have.
