‘I’ll get the train. That’s not a problem. Let me talk to Owen and your grandparents. If I can farm out the animals, I’ll do it. I’d love to come.’
‘Wonderful. I can’t wait. Look, I’ve got to fly; I’ve got to go and check a few things before tomorrow and do some work on another project I’ll be in touch. Take care.’
‘And you. Bye.’ She cradled the phone gently and told herself it was only ten days. Then it dawned on her what she’d let herself in for, and with a little yelp she ran upstairs and rummaged through her wardrobe.
Nothing. Well, nothing suitable for such a grand event.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and thought of the money she’d got stashed away to fix the tractor. There was a nearly-new designer clothes shop in Dorchester. If she bought something there and wore it once, she could take it back and sell it again and only lose the commission—
Mmm. Good idea. She’d go tomorrow.
No. She’d contact Owen and Mary, and if she managed to arrange babysitters for the dogs and the cows, then and only then would she go and blow her tractor repair money on a dress.
And while she was at it she’d take in some of her power suits that she had no need for any more...
Jemima leant her arms on the top of the gate, propped her foot on the bottom rung and smiled at Owen. ‘So, how’s it going with Jenny?’
He laughed and came over to her, abandoning his one-handed silage forking. ‘She tells me you were in there with Sam—I seem to feel that really annoyed her.’
Jemima chuckled. ‘I think so. She wiggled at Sam, just to irritate me.’
‘And did it?’
‘No.’ She looked up at him, propped on the gate beside her. ‘Owen, I wanted to ask you a favour.’
His face brightened. ‘Want me to buy the cows?’
‘In your dreams,’ she said with a laugh. ‘No. I want you to milk them. Sam’s been involved in the conversion of some old buildings in London, and it’s the official opening next Friday night. I wondered if you’d do the milking Friday night and Saturday morning. I’ll be back by lunchtime.’
Owen pulled at his jaw and stared at the sky. ‘Well, now, let me see. I suppose—I might be able to,’ he said, turning back to her with a twinkle. ‘Seeing as it’s you, and as this fellow seems to have got right under your skin.’
She hugged him over the gate. ‘I’ll do the hens before I go and after I get back, and I’ll make sure the cows are in ready. There really won’t be a lot to do.’
‘I used to help Tom out now and then—don’t suppose you do it much different?’
‘No. I’m sure you can cope, Owen.’
‘Oh, I expect I might.’ He leant on the gate and studied her thoughtfully. ‘What’re you going to do if he asks you to marry him?’
‘Marry him?’ She blinked, totally astonished. ‘Well—I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. It’s a little early for that; I hardly know him.’
‘Hmm,’ Owen said, and she went to Dorchester on the bus, armed with her tractor repair money, and pondered on the idea that Sam might propose.
Crazy. Of course he wouldn’t. It was just a quick affair, probably a bit of time out from the hectic countdown to the opening.
She felt curiously disappointed.
The dress shop was through a walkway under the upper floor of an old terrace, in the mews area at the back. It was only a single floor, but there were lots of wonderful things. Some of them must have been mind-bogglingly expensive to start with, Jemima thought, flicking through the rail.
She knew just what she wanted—something black and simple and totally demure—and she finally found it hidden amongst a clutch of cocktail dresses. Sleeveless, it had a simple, fairly high round neck at the front, a crossover back with a little keyhole between the shoulder blades and it ended just above the knee.
It was utterly simple, it fitted her like a charm and she loved it to pieces.
It also took nearly all of her tractor repair money, leaving just enough to splash out on some full-length sheer black gloves that covered her mangled hands all the way up to the armpit. She had some simple black court shoes that would do the job, and with a pair of slinky nearly black sheer tights, she’d be away.
Excellent.
She had a few minutes before the bus, so she pottered up and down looking in the estate agents. Spring was making itself felt, she noticed. There were adverts asking for farmhouses and cottages, couples who were desperate and had sold their own and had cash waiting, and she saw a farm similar to hers for much more than hers had been valued at for probate purposes.
She thought how lucky she’d been, because if it had been valued at any more she wouldn’t have been able to keep it because she couldn’t have afforded the inheritance tax.
The bus came and took her back, and she hung her new dress up in the wardrobe with the gloves, changed into her scruffy work clothes and went to do the milking.
A letter arrived for her the following Tuesday, containing a train ticket for Friday afternoon, telling her a taxi, already paid for, would pick her up at two-thirty, and Sam would meet her at the station in London.
It was from his secretary, and she felt a pang of regret that it wasn’t from him personally until he rang up late that night. She was woken by the phone and stumbled down the stairs, grabbing the receiver.
‘Hello?’ she mumbled breathlessly.
‘Hi. Are you all right?’ he asked, sounding concerned.
‘Fine. Just sleepy. I’d gone to bed.’
He swore softly. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot how early you turn in. Did you get the ticket from Val?’
‘Yes—thanks. Owen and your grandparents are all programmed—Sam, how dressy is this?’ she asked, suddenly panicking about her second-hand dress.
‘Dressy? Well, fairly, I suppose. A formal cocktail dress will be ideal, I would have thought, but really anything goes, just so long as it’s fairly smart. Is that a problem?’
She thought of her languishing tractor. ‘No, no problem,’ she lied. Anyway, the money was spent, the dress sounded right and she did look good in it. It would be nice to see Sam’s face—
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Oh-you know. I’m shattered. I’m really looking forward to it all being over so I can get some sleep, but there’s another project butting up behind it—oh, hell, I don’t know. Look, I have to go; I’ve got tons to do. I’m sorry I woke you, but I wanted to check you’d got the ticket. Take care. I’ll see you on Friday.’
She thought Friday would never come. She got up at stupid o’clock, milked the cows early and turned them out, mucked out the barn, fed the calves and hens, collected the eggs, delivered the dogs to Mary and Dick, brought the cows back in, leapt into the bath, scrubbed herself rapidly, hurled on one of her remaining business suits for the journey and put the dress, gloves and shoes into the top of her case.
Then she went downstairs, looked longingly at the loaf of bread on the side and glanced at her watch.
No time. The taxi pulled up in the yard and honked, and she was off. The train was on time, and she emerged from the station just as Sam got out of a taxi and waved to her.
‘Jemima!’
She broke into a run, absurdly pleased to see him, and he hugged her and whirled her round, setting her down on her feet and standing back to look at her. ‘Good grief—it’s the first time I’ve seen you without a thin film of farmyard—you clean up well!’
She laughed and hit him, just gently, and he hugged her again and picked up her bag, hurrying her to the taxi. ‘The traffic’s hell, and I couldn’t face trying to get the car out. Come on, I’ve still got masses to do.’
The taxi cut and swerved through the stop-go rush hour traffic, finally turning into a gravelled courtyard in the centre of some tall brick buildings. People were scurrying in all directions, setting out tubs of plants, hanging banners, checking lights—it was a hive of activity, and Sam ushered her through it all into a glass enclosur
e between two of the buildings.
It was spectacular, lush with plants, filled with light and air and space, and already she was in love with it. An oval glass lift carried them up to the top, and they stepped out onto a walkway that led into one of the buildings.
‘This is home,’ Sam said, and, slipping a key into the lock, he pushed the door aside and ushered her in.
Her jaw dropped. The ceiling was way above them, soaring up into the roof beams, and the overall impression was of light. White walls, blond wood, black iron and old roof timbers dominated, and here and there were old bits of machinery still in place—a chute, a hopper, a rake on the wall—remnants of the original trade that had been plied here.
The far end was divided into two floors. Stairs rose ahead of them, plate glass sheets taking the place of balusters under the maple banister rail, so that she could see the upper floor, and at the end of it a door out onto a balcony.
The end they had come in at was a working area, the studio where she imagined he spent long hours over the drawing board and on the phone hustling builders. There was work in progress on the drawing board, a neat stack of drawings on a plan chest, photos pinned to a wall board. It looked busy and organised and a little daunting.
The upper floor seemed to be a living area, with low sofas upholstered in pale split hide artfully arranged around a low central table. She imagined the havoc Jess would cause on the butter-coloured suede after a walk, and bit her lip.
It was immaculate, not a thing out of place, the walls festooned with dynamic pictures—all originals, no doubt—everything beautifully understated and tasteful.
She thought of her kitchen, where she and Sam had spent so many hours, and wondered how he could tolerate it when he was used to this.
‘Well?’
‘It’s stunning—gorgeous,’ she said, rather dazed, and he hugged her.
‘Look, I have to fly. I’ll be back in a bit. The kitchen’s down here. Help yourself to anything you want—make some tea. I’ll be back in a jiff.’
He went, leaving her alone, and she wandered through to the kitchen, still feeling a little dazed. It was beautiful, pale maple and stainless steel and gleaming glass, and she thought again of her kitchen, with the Rayburn that must be fifty years old, and her confidence started to wither.
She put the kettle on—a beautifully shaped, almost sculptured object in stainless steel that could have graced a mantelpiece—and while it boiled she wandered through the rest of the flat.
His bedroom was as she might have expected—neat, tidy, very simple, with a balcony overlooking the river and its own bathroom. Again, the suite looked as if it had been chosen as much for form as function. The taps were graceful arches, the china smooth curves, the bath huge.
She went up to the sitting area and perched on the edge of one of the sofas, smoothing it with her fingertips. Butter-soft as well as butter-coloured.
The kettle clicked, and she went down and made a cup of tea, taking it back up and standing by the balcony doors, looking out over the river. It was dusk now, not so dark yet that she couldn’t see the ugliness of a big city, but once night fell, with the lights twinkling on the water, it would be lovely.
She finished her tea, washed up the mug and put it away, and then looked around for a hanger for her dress.
She found one in a wardrobe in his room—a wardrobe that contained suits, smart casual clothes, expensive jackets—all the trappings of a big-time successful man of the world.
She thought of Uncle Tom’s old waxed jacket, and cringed. She must have been mad to think he could see anything in her but a minor and convenient diversion, their lovemaking recompense for the long hours she’d made him work in her barn.
Tears stung her eyes, and she was about to stuff the dress back into the suitcase and run away when he came back and found her.
‘OK?’ he asked, and pulled her into his arms without waiting for an answer. ‘God, you feel so good. I’ve missed you so much. Any tea in the pot?’
She laughed shakily. ‘I made it in a mug. Do you want some?’
‘Love some. I haven’t had time to stop all day. So, what do you think of the flat?’
‘Beautiful,’ she said honestly, and knew she couldn’t run out on him now, not just before the opening. Anyway, she was here now. She might as well see what he’d done to the rest...
‘Look, I’m going to have to go back down before this thing starts. Why don’t you just get yourself all done up in your own time and come down for seven-thirty? I’ll meet you at the entrance.’
She felt a flutter of panic, and suppressed it. She was a big girl now, and she’d done far worse things, like standing up in court and representing her devious and conniving clients—
‘Sure,’ she said with a smile, and he dropped a kiss on her lips and jack-knifed out of the settee.
‘I’ll go and have a shower and get ready, then, and you can have the bathroom and bedroom to yourself.’
He disappeared, emerging about half an hour later looking immaculate in a dinner suit and a blindingly white shirt with pin-tucks down the front. The only sour note was the wrinkled rag that dangled round his neck.
‘You any good with bow ties?’ he growled up the stairs.
She hid a smile and put down the magazine she’d been flicking through. ‘I might be. Got an iron?’
He muttered something dark and disappeared again. She followed him, finding him in the kitchen pulling out a retracting iron board from one of the cupboards. The iron was on and plugged in, and she set it to the right temperature for silk and waited a moment, smoothing out the creases.
He fretted while the iron heated up. He looked at his watch, glared at the iron, drummed his fingers on the black granite worktop and brought a smile to her lips.
‘Don’t panic.’
‘I am panicking. I need to be down there again in five minutes and this thing’s going to take ages to tie—’
‘Nonsense. Clean handkerchief?’
‘Are you asking if I’ve got one or do you want to blow your nose?’
She sighed and held out her hand, and he smacked a clean, folded white square into it. She damped it and laid it on the bow tie, then ran the iron lightly over it, finishing the handkerchief off before handing it back folded as before.
‘Here you go, precious.’
His mouth tightened, but she wouldn’t let him fluster her. She’d been the only one in the family who could tie her father’s bow tie, and as he’d had a lot of dress functions to attend in her adolescence, she’d had scads of practice.
‘Stand still,’ she commanded softly, and with a few deft flicks and a tug she had it done.
‘Just like that?’ he growled sceptically, and she smiled.
‘Just like that Go on, then, off you go.’
‘You know where to go? Down in the lift, turn left into the courtyard and follow the hullaballoo. I’ll meet you in the foyer at seven-thirty.’
He cupped her cheeks in his hands, dropped a quick, hard kiss on her lips and let her go with obvious reluctance. ‘Here goes,’ he murmured, and she picked a little bit of lint off his shoulder and kissed him again.
‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiled, but the strain showed around his eyes and she knew he was dreading it. He still hadn’t had any news about the design award, and he’d been expecting it this week. It was just another thing adding to the strain, she realised, and she wondered if it was just her that found his lifestyle anathema.
She ran the bath and wallowed in the huge and glorious tub, revelling in the spa system that massaged her with powerful bubbles and jets of water and eased out all the kinks and creases. Then, conscious of the time, she washed her hair, towelled it roughly dry, put on her make-up and underwear, all bar the stockings that her hands would shred, then slid into the dress, taking care not to put make-up on the neckline as she squiggled into it.
It was a two-person job, really, but she managed it, zipped it up and then frown
ed in the mirror. Her hair was dry, its usual wildly curly self but gleaming with health since she had a sensible diet and plenty of fresh air.
It was also well tangled. She combed it through carefully, wincing as it tugged, scrunched it with some mousse and then turned her attention to her hands.
Hmm. A dead giveaway to her lifestyle! Still, at least her war-wounds were honestly come by. She put lavish amounts of handcream on, gave it a few moments to sink in, then buried the evidence inside the gloves. She giggled as she drew them up. The only other person she knew who wore gloves this long was the vet!
Oh, dear. Were her animals all right? Perhaps she ought to ring Owen—
‘You’re being daft. What can you do about it anyway?’ she told herself, and after putting on her stockings with her gloved hands she stood back to study the finished job.
Wow. Even she could see that she looked good. She wondered what Sam would say, and found she couldn’t wait to find out. She was ready—why not go down?
She made sure she had everything, and she was just on the way out when the phone rang. She paused a moment, then the answer-phone picked it up. She stayed to listen to the message in case it was important, and then flew out of the flat, slamming the door behind her and diving into the lift. It glided down altogether too slowly, and as soon as it stopped she shot out of it and almost ran across the courtyard in her haste.
A liveried doorman stopped her in the foyer. ‘Good evening, madam. Could I see your ticket, please?’
She stared at him blankly. ‘Ticket? I don’t have a ticket. I’m with Sam Bradley.’
The man smiled. ‘Nice try, madam. I’m afraid Mr Bradley’s guests all have tickets.’
‘Well, I don’t—‘
‘Apparently not.’
She rolled her eyes in frustration and clung to her temper with difficulty. ‘Please, you don’t understand. I’ve just come down from his flat—he said he’d meet me here at seven-thirty.’
‘It’s only seven-ten, madam. If what you say is correct, I suggest you wait for him here.’
A Funny Thing Happened... Page 12
