Frustration poured out of him. “Just what is the problem with this?”
“I don’t…” She closed her eyes as unease rippled through her. She didn’t know. She had no idea why she hadn’t just shrieked, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ and rushed home to call Jerome.
She was getting her dream.
So what the hell was the problem?
She took a deep breath. “I need to think about it.”
Confusion glanced across his face, momentarily. So briefly she thought she’d imagined it, then his jaw hardened. “Sensible move, Pen. But I want to stress. There are no strings attached. I know how much you want this. And Greg would approve.”
I don’t think he would, Pen felt like saying. He never believed in me. Not really.
“No strings, Pen,” he said quietly. “Trust me on that. Once that money’s in your account, it’s all yours. No strings.”
PEN WAS just on time for her appointment with Anita, and was shown through to a ‘client room’ as soon as she arrived.
She sat on a small, cream sofa and glanced around curiously. It was an amazingly stark room. The room was painted white with varnished floorboards and a chair in front of a huge mirror. It was stylish but it was bereft of any inspiration. Except bland. Fashionable bland. Like Michael’s apartment which appeared to have the same colour scheme.
“Sorry I’m late,” Anita said, as she breezed in.
She pulled out the chair in front of the mirror so she was facing Pen. “Have you had any bites from the boys’ cocktail party?” She crossed her legs elegantly, tucking her ankles in.
Pen felt frumpy all over again and wished she’d worn more than jeans and a sweatshirt. But then, she’d had other things on her mind.
She pushed those other things from her mind. “I’m surprised at how many there were,” she admitted.
“I’m not. Your food was as good as that of any function I’ve been to, and I’ve been to a lot.” She folded her arms as she surveyed Pen. “So exactly what brings you here?”
Pen took a deep breath. “I regret I never had any business cards made before the function. I ended up writing details on bits of paper which was not professional.”
Mercifully, Anita refrained from comment.
“So I am going to get cards made up for my catering business. And I figure I need my photo there, and I need a website and to hit social media channels, so?” Pen opened her arms. “Can you do your thing for me?”
Anita’s eyes sparked. “Penny, you won’t regret this. I promise you. Although, I’m curious.” She crossed her legs the other way. ”What changed your mind? You were dead against the idea when we spoke. At least, that was the impression I got.”
“I was,” Penny admitted. “But if I can get work based on one function, then how much more can I do when I promote? And I need to make this work, and do what it takes to make this work. I’m confident in my cooking. I’ve never doubted that. But I thought about what you said, especially with regard to on line promotion and social media coverage. I need to start off right and I’m the face of my business.”
“Have you got a name yet?”
Penny waggled her hand. “Still considering that. At the moment I’m just going with-“ She waggled her fingers. “ ‘Penelope Portman catering’.”
“And that sounds fine if you don’t want to go with something cute and catchy. Where will you be working from?”
She bit down on her lip. “There’s a chance…” It was more than a chance. It was a reality. It was a ‘couple of signatures on a couple of agreements away’ reality. “There’s a chance I may be leasing a premises in Ponsonby.”
“Ponsonby?” Anita rose swiftly to her feet. “Then we need to get you started because you will make a killing in that kind of location.”
She stepped over to the mirror, switched on the lights surrounding it, re-positioned the chair and beckoned to Pen. “Come and sit over here.”
Penny went over, sat in the chair, and looked straight at her reflection. For a moment she was speechless. “Bloody hell,” she murmured.
It was like sitting at the hairdressers. Yet, somehow it was worse and she’d never thought that could ever be possible.
Anita was frowning at her, her gaze narrow and thoughtful.
“You’re frowning. Is it that bad?” Pen said nervously. “Because from here, it looks hideous.”
“No.” Anita shook her head, but was still frowning as she scrutinised Penny. “I’m just deep in thought, just thinking about how best to attack this problem. And note to self.” She checked her own reflection. “Stop frowning. I’m anti Botox.”
Pen stared despondently at herself. “I’m not. Not now I’ve seen this. Is this lighting necessary?”
Anita grinned. “You don’t need anything like Botox. However.” She leant across Pen towards the mirror and appeared to be examining her own forehead in depth. “I have frown lines that are deepening as I sleep. I can’t help that.”
She smiled at Pen’s arched eyebrows in the mirror. “It’s what I do. I frown when I think. Carl says it gives new meaning to the term ‘deep thinker’.” She pointed to her mouth. “See this?”
Pen stared. “Your lips?”
“No.” Anita traced lines vertically down from her mouth with her forefingers. “These are muppet lines. Nasolabial folds. The beginning of them anyway. See this?” She adopted a sad expression.
“Whoah,” Pen said.
Anita nodded.
Pen said, “I see what you mean. They’re really obvious.”
Anita sighed. “They’ll be hideous in thirty years’ time. Dermal filers will fill them out but I can’t justify the cost.”
“Third wave feminism?” Pen queried.
Anita looked rueful. “No. Carl likes me just the way I am. But Penny, this is all about you, and I have ideas.”
There was a glazed look across her eyes as she scrutinized Penny some more, and oddly, Pen was reassured by it, because she recognised it. She saw it in every person she’d ever met who was so involved with their work, it became a passion. Anita was focusing on Pen. For now, Pen was her passion.
Pen’s mind slipped back to Michael. Wondered if he was thinking about her. Wondered if he was thinking of taking back his offer...
What if he was. What if she’d just blown-
“Your thoughts, Penny.”
Penny gulped. “Ah.” She stared at the mirror. Focus, Penny. Focus. “My hair for a start. I was wondering whether I should go really short?” Her mind flicked back to the woman at Michael’s party. “Would I suit a cute pixie cut?”
Anita stroked Pen’s hair, then let it fall between her fingers. It felt amazingly soothing, and so sensuous Pen wanted to close her eyes.
“No.” She shook her head. “We can’t go too short. It won’t suit you. Your face is round.”
Pen almost sighed with relief. She’d been attached to her hair for years, and the idea of having it short filled her with a sense of panic. No doubt another way she was a psychiatrist’s dream case. “What would suit me then?”
Anita pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “You have such amazing hair that I think a few inches off and some layering, but nothing too severe. And then we straighten you. Much as I like these curls, it only gets frizzy in Auckland humidity and with you being in a kitchen, I imagine disaster with a capital D.” Anita smoothed down Pen’s hair with her palms. “You never know who might step behind the counter to compliment the chef. Straight will completely change you and give you more inner-city sophistication, and there are some excellent flat irons to straighten hair on the market now and you’d only need to work it every second day. It would take time, granted, and you’d need the top product, and I can tell you that a basic chain store iron isn’t going to work on hair like yours. You’ll need the best.” She sighed. “I wish I had hair like yours, Penny.”
“Really?” Penny stared at Anita’s simple, straight, trimmed hair.
“This?” Anita flick
ed it in disgust. “It’s so fine I can never put it in a ponytail and you’d be shocked at the amount of product I spray and massage and comb through to give it this pathetic amount of bulk.” She ran her hands through Pen’s hair. “You’d benefit from high and low lights.”
“There are low lights?”
Anita tut-tutted in a ‘where have you been’ tone.
“But,” Pen said, staring at Anita’s hair, “your hair is natural, isn’t it”
“Are you kidding me? Three hours in the stylist’s chair every four weeks and the dent in the income to prove it. The colour stylist will advise but something to bring out your eyes is imperative. Take off your glasses.”
Pen took off her glasses and Anita took a step back, and said, “Contacts?”
“I can’t wear them. I get allergic.”
“When did you last try a pair?”
Pen thought. “When I was around eighteen.”
Anita nodded. “You need contacts. I’m sure there’s something out there that won’t irritate your eyes, but we’ll try glasses as well. Something trendy and small. Black frames maybe.”
“I wondered about rimless?”
Anita shuddered. “Good grief, no. They’re old person’s specs, and unless you can get a catwalk gig for a Victoria’s Secret show, don’t bother. Although that is just my opinion. And in the end, it’s you who has to feel good about this, Penny, and don’t forget that.” She met Pen’s gaze in the mirror. “I know I’m opinionated. It’s my job. But this is all about you, and if you don’t like what I suggest, then don’t do it. I’m hot on that.”
Strangely, as Anita leant forward and pulled Pen’s hair back from her face and scrutinised her even more, Penny realised she liked it. There was something non-threatening about the way Anita looked at her. As if she was a work of art and she, Anita, just needed to add the finishing touches.
“I can’t tell you,” Anita said then, stepping back with a satisfied smile, “how long I’ve been dying to get my hands on you.”
“You make it sound as if I’m a project.”
“Does that worry you?”
Pen shook her head. “The end justifies the means.”
“I totally agree.” Anita’s gaze flicked over Pen’s trainers and old jeans and All Blacks supporters t-shirt, back up to her hair where it rested again. “I’ll book you an appointment for later in the week. And Penny? You so won’t regret this.”
PEN MADE her decision.
She was taking Michael’s money, and she was going to have her shop.
She rang Jerome to tell him that she’d sign the contract as soon as the money was in her account. He was excited for her, and she nearly starting sobbing as the realisation hit her.
It was happening.
It really was happening.
Dreams do come true, she sighed, as she sat with Daisy and Michelle sorting through old linens and tablecloths for the baby shower.
“These are beautiful,” Daisy gushed, bringing a cloth to her face. She sniffed. “Musty though.”
“We can chuck them in the washing machine,” Michelle said.
“No can do.” Daisy set it down. “They’re too delicate. I’ll need to hand wash them.”
“I’ll do them,” Penny offered.
Daisy shook her head “You’ve got too much to do with the cooking for the baby shower. Is Michael still coming over?”
“He should be here any minute,” Pen said, checking her watch. He was bringing over the contract, and tomorrow she’d meet Jerome at the flat to sign the lease.
“It’s going to be so exciting having you up the road,” Daisy said. “I’ll buy my coffee off you every day.” She folded up a tablecloth into a perfect square. “I can’t believe Michael is doing this for you.”
“I can’t either.” But at least she was sure about it now. Was convinced it was the right thing to do because what did her father say? Never look a gift horse in the mouth, and this was the ultimate gift.
If it had been a loan, if it had been with conditions, then she would have had to think harder. Much harder.
“It is nice of him,” Michelle said. She hesitated as she inspected the embroidery on one of the napkins. “It’s just he said there were no strings, right?”
She and Mitch had talked at length about it last night over beer and nachos.
Pen got up, “I’ve seen the wording on the contract and it’s crystal clear. Even if I decided to head off and blow the money in Las Vegas, he can’t stop me. There are no conditions to that money. None at all.”
“But how can it be that easy?” Michelle sat there perplexed. “Why is he doing it?”
The doorbell went, and she added, “Why would he do it and expect nothing in return?”
Daisy was watching Penny expectantly.
“Do you want us to go?” Michelle offered.
Pen shook her head. “We’ll use Dad’s den.”
She went to open the door, and Michael stood there, papers in his hand.
“Thanks for coming by,” she said. “I know it sounds lame, but thank you.”
“I know you want to get it sorted with your landlord,” he said. “No point delaying it. Where do you want to do this?”
She gestured to the staircase. “Upstairs in Dad’s den.”
He followed her upstairs and she went along to the end of the corridor, pulled open the door and they stepped inside.
It was a small room but it suited Dave Portman down to the ground. Originally it had been a double bedroom but Dave had wanted a den, and Penny had wanted more storage space, so he’d built a dividing wall, and they took half each.
Michael set the papers out on the desk.
“This is my copy and this is your copy,” he said.
There were little “Sign here” stickers at the right places.
Pen swallowed, felt a tremor of excitement, even as Michelle’s words came back.
Why was he doing this? Was there another reason?
It didn’t matter.
She took the pen from him, quickly signed her name, then on the other copy, and he did the same.
And it was done.
Michael was quiet as he folded the papers. “Congratulations, Pen. You’re getting your own café.”
She drew in a deep breath. She was getting her own café.
He jangled his keys as if he was about to leave, and suddenly she didn’t want him to go.
“Do you want coffee?” she asked. “Or something to eat?”
He shook his head, and a heavy feeling settled every further in her heart.
It felt like loss but how? She hadn’t lost him.
He glanced around. “This is a really tiny room.” He put the pen in his pocket. “I’ve never been in here.”
“Dad cut a bedroom in half.” She gestured to the wall. “Literally. That’s my room through there, for my book collection. He put it in a couple of years ago.”
“I remember you said something about your library.”
“Do you want to see it?” she said impulsively. “I mean, you have a vested interest in it.”
“How so?”
“You used to give me gift cards for my birthday and Christmas. Its highly likely I spent them on books.”
“Really?” He smiled then, the first time she’d seen him smile since he’d stepped foot inside the house.
“Well, in that case, Penny, show me the way.”
In the hall, she pushed open the door, switched on the light and stepped back for him to pass. “There’s not much room. But come on in.”
He went past her, a waft of his aftershave escaping, and she followed him in.
Bookcases lined the walls, with a two-seater couch and a small coffee table.
She gestured around and said, “Here they are. In alphabetical order according to author.”
He reached out, and pulled a book off a shelf.
Oh, it was hard. Standing this close to him was hard. Just him being close enough to her that she wanted to tou
ch him; to just feel him.
Would that feeling ever end?
She swallowed shakily and focused on the room. No one else had been in here, she realised, because no one else was interested, but this was her sanity. Her quiet place. She’d come in here a lot when Greg had been ill, and she’d planned. If she couldn’t make him better, she could cook for her family and cook for him. Even when he was too ill, too nauseous with chemotherapy to eat, he still liked to inspect what she’d made, maybe nibble icing or take a small bite of cake, even if it tasted like cardboard to him.
She gestured to the colour serial boxes. “Those are all my magazine subscriptions. Some are on line but I still prefer the print version to flick through. As Dad says, it’s no fun spilling coffee on your laptop.”
Michael blew dust off a book. “Looks like you haven’t been here in a while.”
“I haven’t really. I came up to get some books for planning your party and for Daisy’s baby shower but that’s been it lately.”
“Have you had your collection valued?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“You should. Imagine what would happen if you lost it all in a fire.”
He pulled a Jamie Oliver book off a shelf. “I knew you collected but I just never knew you had this many. Do all budding chefs do the same?”
She blinked at his term. Budding chefs. As if she’d decided she wanted to cook and one day she would do it.
She was about to turn away, to suggest they go back downstairs when she noticed he’d gone completely still.
“Found something you like?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No.” Quietly, he added, “No. It’s just I…”
“It’s just you what?”
He put the book back, and pulled out another.
Finally he said, “Do you remember Natalie?”
Pen racked her brain but couldn’t remember her. She shook her head.
“Natalie Fisher. She was an accountant at PWC. We went out for…” He calculated. “About six months.”
“Was she tall, slim and blonde?”
Michael looked at her surprise. “She was. So you do remember her?”
Pen gave a vague shrug. “What did she have to do with Jamie Oliver?”
Christmas Down Under: Six Sexy New Zealand & Australian Christmas Romances Page 94
