by Penny Jordan
In the circumstances she had hardly been surprised to receive a telephone call from Rick later in the afternoon telling her that she need not come back.
She had already noted that he was a man who hung on to his anger, very clever and talented where his work was concerned, but inclined to be as sulky and vindictive as a child when things did not go his way.
She had told herself that it didn't really matter, and that there were always jobs for good secretaries, but even so nothing could quite banish the feeling of sick despair that swept over her.
Financially she was reasonably secure. She had her savings, and the small inheritance she had received from her parents on her twenty-first birthday. She knew that Gran would welcome her back at home with warmly comforting arms, but that was not the point. The point was that she had allowed the temper she had always rigorously denied she possessed to explode in such a way that Rick had had no other course but to apologise to her or to dismiss her.
Despite the fact that she knew her dismissal to be unfair, she was left with a lingering aftertaste of guilt and despair. The very last thing she felt like doing now was going on holiday. And it was all Simon's fault, every last bit of it.
On impulse she decided to go and spend the day with her grandmother. She would be travelling to France with Simon's parents, a few days ahead of Simon and herself, who were taking a mid-week ferry to avoid the weekend rush. She had intended to spend the day shopping, but somehow she didn't feel in the mood.
Had Susie been in London, she could have gone and cried on her shoulder, but, of course, she had no idea where her friend was, and Craig was away doing some work for Vogue.
She knew she was being irrational and babyish, but that didn't help; she was running home to lick her wounds and be cosseted and wrapped in the security of her grandmother's affection.
As she drove north-west, Jenna's mouth curled in a wry smile. While her grandmother looked the part of the small, delicate, white-haired old lady, she was far from the fragile Edwardian figure she appeared.
For one thing, she had had a career in the days when it was almost unknown for women to work. Having been widowed early on in the Second World War, she had been left with a young daughter to bring up virtually on her own, and so she had had to go out to work.
Although it was now several years since she had retired and sold the exclusive dress shop she had owned and run in Gloucester, she was still a very active woman, participating in so many of the village activities that Jenna often wondered where she found her energy.
An ear infection as a child had left her with a hearing problem which had intensified recently, but apart from that she was very hardy, and never missed her daily walk of at least two or three miles.
When her parents had been killed, Jenna had found her a refuge and a comfort, and it was only since coming to adulthood herself that she had realised what a terrible blow it must have been to her grandmother to lose her only child.
They got on well together. Gran had encouraged her to read, to enjoy life in the countryside, setting her standards which, although some might find slightly old-fashioned, were ones Jenna would in time want to pass on to her children.
Harriet Soames was not the archetypal grandmother, longing for the day when her one grandchild married, but she had always liked Simon. She would be disappointed when their 'engagement' was broken off.
Subduing the small pang she herself felt as she dwelt on the reason for their coming holiday, Jenna pressed a little harder on the accelerator.
She had warned her grandmother to expect her around lunch time, and it was almost that now.
Nothing had changed in the village—nothing ever did.
The Vicar saw her driving down the main street and waved to her. Jenna waved back.
Her grandmother's cottage stood alone, set back from the roadside and surrounded by a stone wall, from which flowers tumbled in bright profusion.
It was built of Cotswold stone, under a thatched roof, and every time the thatch had to be removed, her grandmother threatened to replace it with slate. She never would, of course. Jenna knew that.
She parked her car and went in through the back gate. A lazy, fat ginger cat lay sunning himself by the doorstep, his purring deepening as Jenna approached. She bent down to scratch behind his ears before going inside.
'Is that you, Jenna?'
No one in Little Thornham locked their doors. It was a very small village, where everyone knew anyone else, and as Jenna called out a confirmation her grandmother walked into the room.
'Mm… You don't look very happy for a newly engaged girl. What's wrong?'
'I've lost my job.'
Gran's eyebrows rose a little.
'Well, you'd better sit down and tell me all about it. I've made chicken salad for lunch. Let's go through and eat.'
Her grandmother was a superb cook, and as she tucked into her homemade bread and farm butter Jenna acknowledged that nothing bought in any shop came anywhere near to comparing with their flavour.
Over lunch she told her grandmother a slightly edited version of her problems at work.
'And you've come all this way to cry on my shoulder?' she asked drily. 'Isn't that what you've got a fiancé for?'
She ought to have guessed that her grandmother would say something like that. Jenna tensed, and then said as casually as she could, 'Oh, Simon's very busy at the moment, getting ready for our holiday. I didn't want to add to his problems.'
'I agree it isn't a very pleasant thing to have happen, but it isn't the end of the world, is it?' came the practical response. 'After all, once you and Simon are married you would have had to give it up. I never realised when Bridge House was sold that Simon had bought it. Apparently, neither did his parents.'
Simon had bought Bridge House! Jenna stiffened. She knew the house in question very well indeed. It was barely ten years old and had been built by incomers to the village. It was a large house with well over an acre of garden, built in traditional Cotswold stone. What on earth had Simon bought it for? His business, his chambers—both were in London, but barristers could work from home, and weren't tied to normal nine-to-five hours. London wasn't that far away—not with a fast car like Simon's Aston Martin.
But surely somewhere like the village was far too quiet for a single man of Simon's age. Unless—she went cold suddenly. Had he genuinely intended to get married? To someone else? Was she the one who had caused that unmistakable look of anguish to darken his eyes?
It was a complete waste of time trying to fathom out the intricacies of Simon's emotional and physical entanglements, and not any of her business in any case, she told herself haughtily.
She came out of her thoughts to hear her grandmother commenting on the practicality of Bridge House as a family home.
'It's got five bedrooms, I believe, and two bathrooms, and that lovely big garden. Of course, Simon always did want a large family.'
Did he? Jenna hid her astonishment that he should have discussed such a subject with her grandmother.
'We aren't even married yet,' she reminded her weakly.
'Jenna, did you come all the way down here just to tell me you'd lost your job, or are you having second thoughts about this engagement? Simon's older than you and far, far more experienced. He already knows what he wants from life, but you… well, my dear, in many ways you're a very young twenty-four, and I don't mean that unkindly. I know when you were a teenager you had a crush on him, but don't mistake adulation for love, will you?'
Here was her get-out, so why wasn't she taking it? Why wasn't she telling her grandmother that it had all been a mistake? Because of Simon's parents of course, but was it entirely that? she asked herself a little later as she headed back to the city. Was it just for the sake of her closest friend's parents that, instead of telling her grandmother the truth when given the opportunity to do so, she had instead vehemently reassured her that she was very, very deeply in love with Simon?
He rang her up that eveni
ng and didn't sound at all sympathetic or repentant when she told him about her job.
'It had to happen sooner or later, Red,' he told her laconically. 'I shouldn't waste time getting upset about it if I were you.'
Before she could object to his cavalier manner of disposing of what was to her a very important subject, he went on to discuss the final arrangements for their holiday.
'I've booked our passage. Unfortunately, the only one I could get arrives in France at ten in the evening, so I've booked us into an hotel—it won't delay us that much and we'll have the advantage of getting off to an early start in the morning. I'll pick you up at, say, around three. We'll have dinner somewhere before we leave.'
He rang off before Jenna had a chance to question him about why he had bought Bridge House. Not that it was really any of her business, of course, but nevertheless, surely even bogus fiancées had some rights?
Jenna was ready and waiting when Simon arrived on the afternoon of their departure. She had elected to wear casual clothes for their journey, for comfort.
Like her, Simon was dressed in jeans; his were faded to an indeterminate colour between blue and grey, and shrunk almost to the point of indecency, she decided sourly as she glanced hurriedly away from the muscular tautness of his thighs.
He lifted her cases into the boot of his car with surely far more ease than was natural for a man of his sedentary habits, and she cast him a fretful, baleful look behind his back.
She had been in a bad mood almost from the moment of waking up. What on earth was she doing? The last thing she wanted to do was to go on holiday with him, but she couldn't get out of it now.
'Come on, Red. In you get.'
'Stop calling me that!' she demanded bitterly. 'You know how much I hate it.'
She heard him chuckle.
'It never fails does it, Jen? You always rise to the bait.'
It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and the hood of his car was down, folded beneath the cream leather cover.
There was no doubt about it, his car was far more comfortable than her own small Mini.
Just as they were about to set off, Craig emerged from his flat.
'Have a good time, and don't do anything I wouldn't do,' he cautioned her teasingly, bending to kiss her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye Jenna saw Simon's expression. All the amusement and humour had left his face. He was frowning, almost glaring at Craig.
'Idiot,' she heard him mutter as he drove off, deliberately obliterating Craig's 'goodbye'.
'As a matter of fact he's an extremely intelligent and entertaining human being,' Jenna corrected him crisply. 'And he also happens to be a friend of mine.'
She saw the sideways look he gave her.
'A friend? Not so long ago you deliberately gave me the impression that you and he were lovers. Why, Jenna?'
She gulped, lost for an answer. The truth would be that she had reacted defensively, unable to bear the thought of him knowing the truth and teasing her for it.
'As I remember it, you were the one who suggested we were lovers… I just went along with it. After all, it isn't really any of your business whether we are or not, is it, Simon?'
He braked abruptly to avoid a cyclist with a death wish, and by the time Jenna had recovered her breath they were in such busy traffic that she deemed it wise to keep quiet.
Simon had allowed plenty of time for them to reach the restaurant where he had booked dinner. It was only a couple of miles outside Folkestone, where their ferry went from, but when they arrived they discovered that a group of people celebrating a twenty-first had virtually taken over the dining-room.
The manager was full of apologies and offered them a small table out of the way of the exuberant crowd, but it was in a narrow annexe which was used as a thoroughfare to and from the cloakrooms, and Jenna, sensing Simon's controlled and justified anger, was glad when the meal was over.
By mutual consent they didn't linger over it, and when they went outside Simon apologised to her for the mix up.
She found it rather touching that a man of his savoir-faire and experience should be so ruffled by what was, after all, an unavoidable error. She could have understood it better had she been a date he was hoping to impress, or a woman with whom he was deeply involved. As it was she made light of the incident, and reassured him that she had enjoyed her meal.
Even so, there was an odd air of tension about him as he re-started the car.
They were early for the ferry, and at Jenna's suggestion spent some time walking through the old part of the town behind the harbour.
The fishing boats were just coming in, and starting to offload their catches. Gulls wheeled and screeched overhead, squabbling frantically among themselves.
The air was sharp with the tang of salt and the smell of fish. At one point Simon put his arm round her waist to prevent her from being jostled by the crowd of onlookers—people like themselves, waiting for the ferry.
It felt good to be surrounded by a man's protective concern, Jenna acknowledged, leaning into him slightly.
'Time we were making a move.'
His voice came from somewhere in the direction of her ear, making her suddenly conscious of the fact that she was practically cuddling up to him. She disengaged herself hastily, hoping that he wouldn't guess the reason for the sudden colour tinging her skin. That was one of the curses of being a redhead: one's every emotion was so plainly visible.
CHAPTER SIX
« ^ »
'Hell!'
Jenna tensed as Simon suddenly swore and the car swerved to the side of the road.
'What is it?'
'Flat tyre.'
His voice was terse and uncommunicative—nothing to do with the unexpected mishap with the car—he had been like that almost from the moment they boarded the ferry. From before that moment, if she thought about it. In fact, she remembered the way Simon had disengaged himself from her as they stood watching the fishing boats, glad of the darkness to cover the embarrassment that recalling that incident brought. It reminded her acutely of her fifteen-year-old self.
'The spare's in the back. We'll have to take out all the luggage.' Luckily they were on a fairly minor road, and Jenna, who had had to change the tyre of her Mini on more than one occasion, was willing to give what help she could. Only Simon's Aston was a very different proposition from her Mini. The spare tyre, when finally they unearthed it, looked a good deal heavier than one of hers would have been, and she found that she was holding her breath as Simon jacked up the car and crawled underneath.
It took him some time to loosen the nuts and, to judge from the occasional curses Jenna heard, it was not the easiest of tasks.
Apart from themselves, the road was deserted; the last village they had passed was miles back down the road, and its single garage had been closed, but at last Simon had the recalcitrant wheel free, and was deftly replacing it with the spare.
Jenna wondered rather fearfully if the spanner he was using would be sufficient to tighten up the new wheel sufficiently, with nothing but mere muscle power behind it.
As he emerged from underneath the car, Simon saw her face. His own was smeared with grease, his hair falling untidily over his forehead.
'Don't worry,' he told her. 'It isn't going to fall off.'
Although Jenna denied that any such thought had ever crossed her mind, she knew that she wasn't entirely convincing.
She was relieved that Simon kept to a relatively slow speed when they set off again. His hands were still smeared with grease and the smell of it mingled, not entirely unpleasantly, with the scent of a physically active male body. She liked him better like this, Jenna decided, glancing at him. He seemed more approachable, more human—less the barrister and more the man.
Because of their hold-up with the car, they were later than Simon had anticipated in reaching the hotel they were booked into for the night.
Just outside a small village east of Toulouse, it looked practically deserted as they drove up to it. A
t one time it must have been a private house, obviously dating back quite some time, Jenna decided, noting the formal parterred gardens stretching to either side of the drive. Moonlight shadowed them silver and black and, as Simon stopped the car in the car park, she gave a final sigh of relief.
It always amazed her that travelling could be so tiring. It was somewhere round about midnight—not all that late, and yet she was exhausted, longing for her bed and a good night's sleep.
Simon had obviously stayed at the hotel before, because he knew exactly where to go as he took their overnight bags from the boot, locked the car and gestured to Jenna to follow him.
The main entrance to the hotel was some way from the car park, and when they got there the double doors were closed and locked. Simon rang the bell, and while they waited Jenna shivered slightly in the cool breeze.
Ivy covered what she could see of the outside of the building; she could hear it rustling in the wind.
The door opened, and silhouetted in the light from inside was a tall and rather imposing middle-aged woman, her dark hair confined in a bun. Simon addressed her in French, and the woman made an equally rapid and, to Jenna, incomprehensible response. They were ushered inside with tuts of sympathy and understanding. Madame reached behind the reception desk to a key and to say something chidingly to Simon.
'What is she saying?' Jenna demanded to know, weary beyond belief. For one moment out there she had almost begun to fear that they wouldn't be let in, and that they would have to spend the night sleeping in the car.
'She was just saying that we're lucky that she kept our room for us,' Simon told her equably.
It took several seconds to sink in. Jenna stared from his face to the single key he was holding in his hand, and then croaked disbelievingly, 'What do you mean? Our room?'
'Well, look at it this way,' Simon drawled, when her temper had finally subsided, 'it won't exactly be the first time we've shared a bed.'
Madame had left them to it, shrugging her shoulders over the incomprehensible ways of les Anglais, and they were still standing downstairs in the foyer, from which Jenna had initially refused to move unless and until Simon got her a room of her own.
