by Jill Mansell
Then he heard the words, ‘Oh, sod it, get off me,’ uttered by a female with irritation rather than fear, followed by, ‘You bloody, bloody thing.’
Rounding the bend in the path, Hector saw an elegant redhead wrestling inelegantly with a blackberry bush. A long spiky tentacle was wrapped round her left leg like a noose and in bending down to free herself, the end of her cream scarf had managed to get itself entangled with another branch further up. Startled by the sight of Hector, the woman eyed him warily for a moment, then heaved a sigh of defeat.
‘God, I hope you’re not paparazzi. If you’ve got a camera on you, that’s my street cred gone for good.’
‘You’re in luck.’ Hector broke into a grin. ‘I’m the world’s most useless photographer. Even if I did have a camera, I’d forget to remove the lens cap. Here, lean on my shoulder,’ he added, bending down and lifting her left foot off the ground. ‘The more you struggle, the tighter it’ll get.’
‘Now I feel like a horse having its hooves checked,’ the woman complained good-naturedly. ‘Ouch, mind my ankle.’
It took a while, but at last Hector managed to free her. Once the bramble had been disentangled from her stockinged leg, he released the scarf from the higher branches.
‘God.’ Paula Penhaligon shook her head. ‘It was like being attacked by a triffid. And I thought I came down here to relax.’
She was wearing hopelessly impractical shoes. Her pale stockings were in tatters. ‘Jeans and walking boots might be an idea next time,’ said Hector.
‘There won’t be a next time, I can promise you that.’
‘Come on now, that’s the coward’s way out.’ Reaching over, he picked a scrap of crispy, freeze-dried bramble leaf out of her hair. ‘If you fall off a horse, the first thing you have to do is get back in the saddle.’
‘I really don’t think the countryside’s my thing.’ Paula Penhaligon touched her head defensively—removing the leaf from her hair had been a curiously intimate gesture, but seeing as he’d already been grappling around her ankles she could hardly protest now. ‘Thanks for helping me out, but I’m just going to head back to the hotel.’
‘You’ve only just got here,’ Hector chided. ‘You aren’t giving the place a chance, and there’s so much to see.’
‘Such enthusiasm.’ Her tone was dry. ‘I suppose that’s why you stay here, to commune with the wonders of nature.’ Eyeing his battered Barbour, thick corduroys, and green Hunter wellies, she added, ‘You are a guest at the hotel?’
‘Actually I’m not. But I do love this place.’ He gestured at the view through the tangle of bare branches bordering the river. ‘Which is why I can’t bear the thought of you rushing back to London to tell all your smart city friends what a hateful time you had here. Did you bring any flat shoes with you, by the way?’
Paula hesitated. He seemed charming and he was certainly attractive, but she hadn’t the faintest idea who he was.
Prevaricating, she said, ‘Why?’
‘Because if you did you could change into them. Then I’d take you for a nice easy walk—break you in gently, as it were.’ His brown eyes twinkled. ‘And maybe after that we could have a spot of afternoon tea.’
This was hard. Did he live in the village? Was he someone she could trust? It would have been nice to hook up with a genial fellow guest, but this was another matter altogether. What if he turned out to be one of those over-eager types, the kind who latched on to you, earnestly declaring themselves your greatest fan?
‘I don’t think so,’ Paula announced. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
‘Fine. No problem.’ He smiled easily, taking the rejection in his stride. ‘But if you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you back to the hotel. You might want to put some antiseptic on that ankle of yours as well.’ The bramble scratches on her left leg were bleeding.
Paula said, ‘You don’t have to walk back with me.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not doing you a favor. I was planning to have a drink or two in the bar.’
Maybe he was the village drunk, charming but unemployable, an alcoholic who idled away his days tramping around the countryside between wild drinking bouts. During her years in the theatre, she’d known plenty of people like that. Still, he had rescued her from the clutches of that blackberry bush.
As they made their way back across the stone bridge, Paula said curiously, ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘You mean apart from the woman who abhors nature?’ His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I may look like a yokel, but my head isn’t entirely stuffed with straw.’
By the time they reached the entrance to the hotel, she had learned that he was retired, keen on golf, and fond of playing the piano. When he had bluntly inquired about the faint bruising around her eyes, she’d explained how she had walked straight into a piece of scenery backstage.
‘Well, this is where we go our separate ways.’ Her genial rescuer indicated the bar to their left. ‘It’s been nice meeting you. If you feel like joining me later, don’t be shy.’
Paula gave the man her best professional smile. Clearly, he was settling in for a serious afternoon session. As for joining him later when he was three sheets to the wind, well, she’d rather dive head first into a bramble hedge.
And, frankly, she felt the hotel’s standards must be slipping pretty drastically if they allowed visitors to wander into the bar in wellingtons. Even the posh green kind.
To her relief, the reception area had been empty when they’d come in. Now, the door to the manager’s office swung open.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Daisy MacLean stared at the pair of them in dismay, her gaze instantly taking in Paula’s shredded stockings and bleeding leg. ‘Dad, I can’t leave you alone for five minutes. What on earth have you done to our very important guest?’
***
Upstairs, Paula changed out of her ludicrously inappropriate town clothes. Well, she hadn’t known they were ludicrous at the time; when she’d set out on her walk, she had naturally assumed the paths around the hotel would be tarmacked.
Now, wearing narrow leather trousers and an angora sweater and with her makeup carefully redone, she entered the bar.
Hector MacLean was already there, having more speedily swapped his countryman’s outfit for a smart green and black striped shirt, black trousers, and highly polished handmade shoes. He was sitting at one of the window tables with a pot of coffee on a tray before him.
‘You lied,’ Paula announced as he rose to greet her.
‘Actually, I didn’t. You asked me if I was a guest.’
‘OK, you misled me. Why didn’t you tell me you owned this hotel?’
Hector poured black coffee into her cup. ‘You’d have found out soon enough. I just fancied going incognito for a while, seeing if I could get by on personality alone.’ He glanced up, his smile rueful. ‘Except, sadly, it seems not.’
‘That’s unfair. I thought you were a drunk. I also thought you seemed a very nice person,’ Paula hastily added.
‘But I’m a lot nicer now you know I own this place. Or at least you’re prepared to join me in the bar,’ said Hector. ‘And I could still be a hopeless drunk,’ he reminded her. ‘You don’t know me well enough to say I’m not.’
‘You invented Dennis the Dachshund, that’s good enough for me.’ Paula smiled. ‘I used to read those books to my nephew when he was small.’
‘What I want to know is, can I persuade you to come out for a proper walk with me this afternoon?’ Eyeing her boots, with their modest heels, Hector said, ‘I’m still determined to convert you to the glories of nature.’
‘Are you serious? Do you have any idea how much these boots cost? They’re Ferragamos,’ Paula patiently explained. ‘You aren’t meant to walk in them.’
‘OK.’ He shrugged good-naturedly; two rejections in one day was enough for any man. ‘I give u
p.’
Paula, realizing she didn’t want him to give up, put down her coffee cup.
‘I’m really more of a pavement person.’ Her smile flirtatious, she went on, ‘I was planning to do some shopping in Bath tomorrow. If you’re free, I’d enjoy the company.’
‘Shopping?’ It was Hector’s turn to look less than enthusiastic.
‘Not too much, I promise. And we could have lunch,’ Paula said lightly, by way of an additional bribe. All of a sudden she badly wanted to spend the next day with this man. He’d been absolutely right, of course; discovering who he was had made him infinitely more attractive. Well, that was life. And it worked both ways. If she worked in a launderette, he wouldn’t be nearly so interested in her.
And he was, oh yes, he definitely was. She could tell.
‘Great,’ said Hector. ‘Little spot of shopping, nice long lunch. I think I can handle that. And who knows,’ he added with a teasing smile, ‘I may even have to buy you a pair of walking boots.’
Chapter 29
Thanks to her clothes-washing marathon, there was no hot water left in the tank. Having been forced to wash her hair in water that was barely lukewarm, Maggie was still cursing under her breath and vigorously rubbing her hair dry when she realized the phone was shrilling downstairs. With the towel over her head, she hadn’t heard it begin to ring.
In her rush to reach it in time she missed her footing on the staircase, crashed down the last couple of stairs, and banged her elbow painfully against the wall. Red-hot pins and needles zinged up and down her arm in protest. Gritting her teeth, Maggie raced across the living room and—
The phone fell silent.
Air hissed out from between her clenched teeth. It was five o’clock and Tara would be home any minute now, but there was still a chance it could have been Hector.
Dialing 1471, predictably, was no help at all. Number withheld. Which could still mean Hector, but then again might not.
As Maggie dithered, with ice-cold water dribbling down her neck, the front door rattled and Tara catapulted into the living room.
Great, that was that, no chance of phoning Hector now.
Eyeing Maggie in her dressing gown, Tara said brightly, ‘Ooh, you look cozy, have you just had a lovely hot bath?’
This was really rubbing salt into the wound.
‘No.’ Maggie had to force herself not to snap; it wasn’t Tara’s fault her day had been a disaster. ‘The washing machine man couldn’t fix the washing machine. I had to do everything by hand, which used up all the hot water. I’ve just washed my hair in stone-cold water, the phone started ringing while I was upstairs, I tripped and banged my elbow—’
‘The phone? Who was it?’ Tara’s eyes lit up. ‘Someone for me?’
Young people today, Maggie thought sourly. They were just so selfish.
‘It was no one for anyone.’
‘But did you try—’
‘Yes, I did, and the number was withheld. But my elbow’s fine, thank you very much for asking, and before you start wondering if there’s anything for tea, there isn’t, so if you’re hungry you’ll just have to knock up an omelet or—ummph.’
Overcome with remorse, Tara flung her arms round her aunt. Maggie might be doing her best to hide it, but she was upset. Probably her hormones, Tara decided. Maybe this was the menopause kicking in. Poor Maggie, forty-five and all alone, no wonder she was so miserable… oh God, and it was her birthday on Friday. That hardly helped.
‘Do you have any idea how much I love you?’ As Tara hugged her, Maggie’s cold wet hair plastered itself to her cheek. ‘Come on now, sit down in front of the fire and relax. I’m going to make you a cup of tea and cook dinner tonight. I’m going to spoil you rotten!’
‘Sweetheart, you don’t have to.’ Touched, Maggie shot her a wan smile. ‘I’m fine, really I am.’
‘Don’t argue. I’m the boss. We’ll have pasta and red wine,’ Tara went on happily, ‘and I’ll catch you up on all the latest gossip. You won’t believe what’s been going on up at the hotel—in fact, after we’ve eaten, we could head over there.’ Actually, that was a great idea, she could blow-dry Maggie’s fine blonde hair and smarten her up, maybe even introduce her to the wonders of makeup. Teasingly she added, ‘If you’re very good, I may even introduce you to Daisy’s new live-in lover.’
Ashamed of her earlier outburst, Maggie good-naturedly agreed to give mascara and lipstick a whirl. Having blow-dried her own hair and changed into navy velvet trousers and a loose-fitting lilac shirt—smart for her—she was drawn back downstairs by the smell of pasta puttanesca and the even more beguiling sound of a bottle of red wine being uncorked.
Translated from the Italian, puttanesca meant whore’s pasta. Which was unfortunate, Maggie thought dryly, but couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t as if Tara had done it on purpose.
She smiled at the sight of the table, laid with a cloth and lit with candles. Bless her heart, Tara was making a real effort; she’d even tidied the living room.
‘You look great,’ Tara announced as she brought in the bowls of steaming pasta.
‘What’s going on?’ Realizing suddenly why the living room was looking so much tidier, Maggie indicated the naked radiators. ‘Where are all the wet clothes?’
‘Sit down. Have some wine. They’re in bin bags in the boot of your car, and we’re taking them to the hotel.’ Tara had made an executive decision. ‘It’s just mad you slogging your guts out doing all this washing. I told you before, Daisy said you could use her machine, she doesn’t mind a bit. Tonight, while we’re downstairs in the bar, our stuff’s going to be happily tumble-drying up in Daisy’s flat.’
Maggie did as she was told and sat. A brimming glass was thrust into her hand. Tara was right, she’d been cutting off her nose to spite her face. And an evening up at the hotel would be fun.
‘Go on then, tell me what’s been happening today. I can’t believe Daisy’s found herself a boyfriend at last.’
The pasta—hooray for Loyd Grossman’s bottled sauces—was delicious. As Tara joyfully recounted the details of this morning’s foray into Daisy’s bedroom, Maggie relaxed further still. Next, she heard about Barney and the sandwich-spitting incident. In lieu of pudding, Maggie brought out the half-empty box of Thornton’s truffles Tara had given her for Christmas.
‘I don’t know how you can keep a box of chocolates for two whole months,’ Tara marveled. ‘I’m such a pig I’d finish the lot in one go.’ In fact, if she’d known they were hidden up there on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, she would have guzzled them weeks ago.
‘Ah, but sometimes it’s nicer to save things. It means you’ve still got them to look forward to.’ As Maggie said it, she realized it wasn’t only true of chocolate truffles. Take the fact that she couldn’t see Hector whenever she wanted to; OK, it was frustrating, but didn’t it mean she looked forward to their eventual meetings all the more? Like tonight, for example. If he were there in the bar—and the chances were he would be—just the thought of exchanging a glance loaded with hidden meaning would be enough to keep her going until tomorrow afternoon.
Maggie inwardly shivered with pleasure at the prospect. Oh yes, she was definitely going to see Hector tomorrow, she’d made up her mind on that score. If the Australian tourists hadn’t turned up here by two o’clock she was jolly well going to leave their cushions on the front doorstep.
‘I’d rather eat them,’ said Tara piggily, and for a moment Maggie thought she was talking about the cushions. ‘I’d just keep going until they were all gone.’
She was eyeing the Thornton’s box with longing. Instant gratification versus delicious anticipation, thought Maggie, feeling superior and grown-up.
‘Help yourself, I’ll save mine for another day. Oh, I’m so pleased about Daisy,’ she said truthfully. ‘It’s high time she started having some fun again.’
‘She isn’t the only MacLean having some fun.’ Greedily, Tara bit into a cappuccino truffle and rolled her eyes to convey its gorgeousness. ‘You haven’t heard the rest of it yet. I told you about Paula Penhaligon turning up today. Well, she and Hector have hit it off big time.’
Something shriveled in the pit of Maggie’s stomach. Hiding her true feelings whenever Hector’s name was mentioned was a skill at which she had become adept, yet she lived in constant fear of giving herself away.
‘Really? Hector’s smitten, is he?’ Her tone light, Maggie leaned across and dabbed a fingertip in the pool of wax around the flame of the nearest candle. The melted wax caused a moment of pain before cooling and setting on her finger.
‘If you ask me, they’re smitten with each other. They spent hours together in the bar this afternoon. Daisy says she’s never seen him like this before. And she’s not exaggerating,’ Tara confided with glee. ‘I stuck my head round the door a couple of times and they couldn’t take their eyes off each other. Well, you’ll be able to judge for yourself, they’re bound to be there tonight. He might even start serenading her,’ she went on, wriggling with delight. ‘Can’t you just picture it?’
Maggie didn’t want to picture it; she was doing her level best to block it out. Why couldn’t pain always be as fleeting and bearable as dabbing a finger in hot candle wax?
But this was the deal; this was the kind of hideous experience she had to put up with. Plastering on a bright smile, Maggie said cheerfully, ‘Poor woman, imagine being serenaded in public. For her sake, I just hope he doesn’t get his bagpipes out.’
‘Hell,’ mumbled Maggie five minutes later. Surreptitiously, but loudly enough for Tara to hear.
‘What?’
‘Hmm? Oh, nothing.’ Maggie bravely shook her head, then winced and pressed her hand to her left temple. ‘Darling, do we have any aspirins left?’
Tara looked concerned. ‘Headache?’
Uncanny! Give that girl a gold star!
‘Migraine. Damn, this hasn’t happened for years. Must be the red wine and chocolate.’ Maggie gingerly massaged her forehead. ‘If I can take painkillers quickly enough it might not develop into a full-blown attack. Otherwise I’ll be in agony for days.’
