by Jenny Kane
Jacob frowned. ‘Tell me what?’
‘Unless Max had already told you?’
Grabbing hold of Beth’s arms, which were whirling around as if she was some sort of demented wind-up toy, Jacob said, ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. Slow down, woman, you’re freaking me out.’
‘Stan! Abi called me this morning. It went out of my head.’
‘What went out of your head?’
‘Stan’s getting married to his bridge partner.’
Jacob beamed. ‘You’re kidding? Good ol’ Stan! What’s the lucky lady’s name?’
‘Dora. Abi says she’s lovely, but prone to weaving the odd tale or two.’
‘She sounds fun!’
‘Abi’s a bit wary about it, but as long as Stan is happy I think it’s brilliant. Lovely to think he’ll have someone to wake up with in the mornings again.’ Beth sank onto the sofa as if she was exhausted after her moment of leaping around. ‘I think I’ll go and see Stan soon to offer our congratulations.’
‘Not to mention Dora.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I can’t wait to meet her.’ Abruptly reenergised again, Beth took Jacob’s hands and pulled him onto the sofa, her mind flying back to their previous conversation ‘Tell me all about the studio. When can you take it from?’
Laughing, half from relief that Beth appeared her usual chirpy self again, and part from relief that he’d found somewhere local to work from, Jacob allowed himself to be quizzed about Frankie’s studio. ‘We can take it from August, and it will be Frankie we’re paying rent to rather than to an agent, so you were right, it will be a bit cheaper.’
‘Why doesn’t Frankie want it any more?’
‘He’s retiring. He’s eighty-two.’
‘Oh good heavens. He’s retiring late, isn’t he?’
‘I think I should warn you, Beth, potters tend to work until they physically can’t. We don’t retire. It’s an obsession after all.’
Beth was smiling so wide it was beginning to hurt, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop. ‘You don’t say! Shall we go and see it tomorrow? I could see if Abi’s planning to see Stan, and we could go together. Would that be OK?’
‘Sure. I’ll come back from Hayle a bit early.’ Jacob looked at his girlfriend quizzically. ‘You’ve gone all hyper.’
‘I’m so excited! And it’ll be wonderful for you to have such a short commute to work. You’ll have to get your stuff packaged up and moved. Do you think Max will lend you his van?’
‘I’m sure he will.’ Jacob held Beth tight. ‘Come on, I think you should get some sleep before you burst from overexcitement, although I’m pleased you’re so pleased!’
Standing in the bathroom ten minutes later, tears streamed down Beth’s face. What the hell is the matter with you, woman? Anyone would think you were hitting the menopause…
As the words crossed her mind she was suddenly dumbstruck. I can’t be. I’m over-emotional and tired; nothing else.
Doing some hasty calculations on her fingers, Beth sat on the edge of the bath and tried not to let panic claim her.
‘I’m not pregnant. I can’t be.’
Closing her eyes, Beth took some calming breaths. Now she’d had the thought she knew it was true. Her period was late, she was an emotional powder keg, and she was either hungry or tired all the time.
She pulled out the little diary she kept in the bathroom cabinet next to her monthly supplies. ‘Oh, hell.’ She had missed two periods, and the third should have been imminent. Beth’s breathing snagged in her throat. It wasn’t that unusual for her to miss one month, but never two in a row. How did this happen? How did I not notice?
‘Beth, are you alright in there?’ Jacob called through from the bedroom.
Jacob. What will he say? Will he leave me?
‘I…I’m fine. Bit daydreamy tonight. Be right there.’
As Beth lay next to Jacob, snuggled against his back, out-of-control thoughts started to spin through her brain. What about my teaching job? It’s a small town – will people be alright about an unmarried teacher having a baby? It’s alright in an episode of Doc Martin, but this is real life!
A baby.
Oh my God. I’m going to be a mum!
Grandad, I wish you were here.
Beth closed her eyes, and hoped that the confused tears that began to run silently down her face wouldn’t wake Jacob.
Chapter Seven
Feeling enthused by the eight-week plan she’d drawn up that formalised her thoughts of the previous day’s journey, Cassandra confidently breezed through her meeting with Max Pendale.
She’d been encouraged to find the decorator, who’d asked her to call him Max, radiating a comforting honesty from his bulky frame. He was as punctual and professional in his approach to his work as any of the tradesmen she’d employed in London. In fact, if she was truthful, Max was better than any of the city decorators she’d encountered, because he smiled, appeared to be genuinely enthusiastic about her ideas, and, like Jo the previous day, was happy to share ideas without expecting them to necessarily be taken up.
Taking a leap of faith and agreeing to his quote without obeying her usual strict rule of getting three quotes first, Cassandra had waved Max off, rolled up her metaphorical sleeves and, checking she had time according to her new rota, had made a start on updating the house before starting on some paid work. After all, the sooner this was all sorted out, the sooner she could get back to Justin and start on the far bigger project of finding a home for the two of them.
Nearly an hour later, she’d made satisfying, if rather messy, progress. Ripping down curtains, curtain poles, and unscrewing unwanted and rotting shelves from in and around the house had been surprisingly therapeutic. Amazed by how much she was enjoying the physical nature of the work, her mind drifted to Jo, and how happy she was making a living doing the sort of work which Cassandra would traditionally have consigned to a workman without a second thought.
Dumping all the unwanted fixtures and fittings into the front garden for Max to collect when he started work in a couple of days’ time, Cassandra experienced a sense of satisfaction at the mild ache of muscles she’d previously only ever used in the gym. Then, after stopping for long enough to shower away the dust, change into her business suit, and grab her laptop, Cassandra climbed into her hired car and headed to Penzance exactly on schedule.
Sat in a secluded corner of Penzance library, with a rising sense of disbelief, Cassandra re-read the email on the screen before her. Every vestige of colour drained from her face.
Even when she took her annual holiday, she always cleared her inbox every other day, but the large volume of messages awaiting her attention had not alarmed her. That was until she’d read the first email in the queue.
By the time she’d read the third email, Cassandra was reaching for her mobile phone, and was about to tap in a number when a firm but friendly nod towards a ‘No Mobile Phones’ notice from a passing library assistant made her put it down again.
The day’s initial optimism was completely wiped away as Cassandra faced facts. She shouldn’t be that surprised that a couple of her governesses had resigned – it happened all the time when you employed young staff – but the resignation of Susie, her longest-serving employee, and the email that had gone with it, had left her reeling.
Susie had stated in her usual to-the-point manner that she was hurt that, after seven years’ loyal service, Cassandra hadn’t had the decency to inform her that The Pinkerton Agency was in the middle of takeover proceedings. She particularly didn’t appreciate having to find out via an impersonal round robin email.
What?
Cassandra started to email Susie back, saying someone had obviously played a cruel joke on her, but then stopped. She owed Susie the chance to talk to her in person. Looking around, she located the library assistant, and explaining it was an emergency, arranged for the woman to keep an eye on her laptop.
She dashed outside, her mobile already attached
to her ear.
Thankful for the bench near the library’s front door, Cassandra sank down as the call ended. Her legs felt weak. Susie had almost been in tears, and clearly didn’t believe Cassandra when she’d explained that she had no intention of letting the agency go.
It was Susie’s final sentence that had sent her crashing onto the nearby seat.
‘Please don’t treat me like a fool, Ms Henley-Pinkerton, the letter was from your solicitor. It was very clear. I will be staying at my present place of work, but I will not be a part of your agency. I am fortunate that my employers value my work more than you appear to. Many of your other employees will not be faring so well.’
Susie, who was one of the most good-natured and intelligent women Cassandra had ever met, had hung up the phone without another word, leaving her employer – or ex-employer – in a state of shock.
Cassandra’s hands shook as she called Justin, not only for his reassurance, but because he was her solicitor. He had been ever since she’d started the company, it was how they’d met. If he hadn’t been, then she wouldn’t be in Cornwall in the first place. If the letter Susie had received really was from her lawyer, then it had to have come from Justin.
Swearing under her breath as her partner’s mobile went direct to voicemail; Cassandra left a brief message asking him to contact as soon as possible.
Sitting perfectly still, Cassandra tried to remember how to breathe properly. Think logically. You’re a businesswoman. You own the company. No one can just take it away. Someone in Justin’s office has made an error. It’s as simple as that.
Thanking the library assistant for her temporary security detail, Cassandra decided she needed an espresso to calm the thumping headache behind her eyes. Gathering up her belongings, she crossed the road to a Costa, and silently praying it had a Wi-Fi connection, settled down to a double-shot espresso. Then, doing her best to ignore the panic building in her throat, Cassandra attempted to call every employee on her books.
All of those who answered their phones told Cassandra the same story. They had each received an official letter saying that the company was closing in its present format. By the time Cassandra had explained to the last employee on her list that this was a dreadful administrative mistake which had only just come to her attention, Cassandra’s throat was dry and her temper was short. Many of her staff had already spoken to the families they worked for, and had reached an agreement to be employed directly.
If she was going to save her company, she was going to have to repair the damage to her good name, and find a large number of fresh employees. And fast. The new school term was only ten weeks away.
As her disbelief turned to fury, she tapped in another number on her phone, and got through to Crystal, Justin’s PA. Forcing herself not to scream at the messenger, Cassandra ignored the perspiration breaking out on the back of her neck as she listened, trying not to sound as though she hadn’t got a clue what was happening to her own business.
Seething into the coffee aroma filled air, as soon as she’d hung up the phone, Cassandra Googled Solicitors in Penzance, and within minutes had booked an appointment to see a Mr Clearer that afternoon.
Knowing she had to get as much information from the emails she’d received as she could, Cassandra felt the need for another espresso, along with something extremely unhealthy to eat. Only then would she have the mental wherewithal to design a plan of what to ask Mr Clearer, because right now all she really understood was that, according to Crystal, the correspondence sent to all Pinkerton Agency employees had not been a mistake, but had been on her – Cassandra’s – instructions. The PA didn’t know which partner had double-checked and processed the instruction; and she wasn’t able to put her through to Justin at that moment because he was in a meeting.
Damn. Suddenly Cassandra could see the situation so clearly. This must have come from Justin’s new business partner. The Family Values Company obviously wasn’t taking his divorce news well, and if they had somehow connected her to him, perhaps they’d done this to sever their connection.
The hours between making the appointment to see Mr Clearer and the time of the actual meeting flew by in a hive of desperate activity. Cassandra had gone over all her contracts, her original legal agreements from when she’d set up The Pinkerton Agency, and every email she’d received from her staff over the past few months. If she wasn’t going to appear as stupid as she felt, Cassandra wanted to make sure she knew her business as well as she’d previously thought she did.
She also re-dialled Justin’s number every ten minutes for the next three hours.
There was no answer.
Cassandra trusted Donald Clearer on sight. Obviously nearing retirement age, he oozed calm capability without cutthroat ambition. Rather than making her feel embarrassed by what had happened, he had listened carefully, made copious notes, and allowed Cassandra to print out as much information from her own laptop as she wanted, including a copy of the letter that Crystal had sent her, which Family Values had been sending out.
They were soon on first-name terms. A long-serving secretary had delivered tea and biscuits as they talked, and Donald had perched his semi-circular glasses on his nose and read everything at least twice before making a few phone calls.
‘Well, Cassandra, I will have to explore this matter further, but my initial thoughts are that Mr Justin Smythe of Family Values has indeed been acting on your behalf. As he is your solicitor, that wouldn’t have been difficult for him to do. If you didn’t make this instruction yourself, then we will have to ascertain that no verbal order from yourself could have been misinterpreted.
‘According to Ms Crystal Andrews, Mr Smythe had someone sign on his behalf, but it appears the initial order was on his request, with the rider that it was your wish.’
‘It was Justin? Not his business partner?’
Picking up on his client’s tone, Donald asked gently, ‘Do you know Mr Smythe personally as well as professionally?’
Cassandra nodded slowly, as a nasty suspicion she couldn’t quite bring herself to dismiss gripped her.
Was Justin in the process of selling the company from under her?
Pulling into the car park by Marazion beach an hour later, Cassandra let the emotions that had been tightening in her chest for hours go. Tears streamed her face as she rang Justin’s number once more as she replayed the last few minutes in Donald’s office.
He had re-called the Family Values office, and had spoken to Crystal for a second time, telling her he was a lawyer acting for a client who was employed by The Pinkerton Agency. Donald had been informed, without hesitation, that Mr Smythe was currently on his way to America to attend a conference, and wasn’t contactable for the foreseeable future.
In that one moment Cassandra had seen how much of a fool she’d been.
Justin had never had any intention of coming to join her in Cornwall.
Nor did he want her back in his life in London.
It had been her flat they’d rented out to help fund the upgrading of the holiday cottage, and as Justin had always handled her legal affairs, she’d trusted him completely, Cassandra hadn’t even argued when he’d said that her flat hadn’t been more than a place to sleep for her anyway, so they might as well make money out of it. He’d said it wasn’t a home, more a holding place in between the chances to stay with him in hotels, while Cassandra waited for them to move in together. And I let him!
Staring over the heads of the people sat on the beach, Cassandra’s eyes came to rest on the ebb and flow of the sea, as she faced the unpalatable fact that, just maybe, nothing Justin had ever done for her was as she imagined.
Did Justin insist that I stay down here to keep me out of the way, not so he could arrange our lives together, but so he could steal my business?
Every bone in her body ached with the desire for all this to be a misunderstanding. That Justin had seen a business opportunity for the agency that was too good to miss, and he simply hadn’t had the chance
to talk to her first. With the phone signal being so poor here, it was possible – but only just… Or maybe she should cling on to the hope that Crystal had been misinformed, and the letters were a genuine mistake down to Justin not wanting to tell his PA the truth about their relationship…
You’re grasping at straws.
The image of Donald’s kindly round face telling her that he would investigate to his utmost ability came to the front of her mind. He’d told her that she’d be wise to prepare herself for the fact that, even if this was an error – which he didn’t consider to be the case – then the damage to her reputation would need addressing quickly.
Cassandra’s first instinct had been to get on the next train to London to confront Justin face to face, but if he was travelling to the States, which had been another shock, there was no point. She really didn’t want to confront Crystal, and have her over-made-up face silently laughing at her gullibility.
Her throat felt dry and her eyes smarted with the effort of stopping her tears. There’s no point in crying until you know the facts. Go back to the house, get that sorted out, and think. Think very, very hard. You still have a business— just no staff and a shattered reputation…
Abi stood by the gate that led into her front garden. A feeling of horror filled her as she surveyed the haphazard pile of broken fixtures and fittings which had been heaped forlornly in her neighbour’s small front garden.
This was precisely what she’d been worrying about all day at work. Ms Cassandra Henley-Pinkerton was ripping the soul out of number two Miners Row. She was bringing London to Sennen Cove. After so many years of dreaming of escaping the city, Abi had done her best to dismiss her initial fears about her new neighbour as paranoia.
The reassurances Max had given her at lunchtime, that Cassandra only wanted number two to be repainted and updated, now felt horribly inadequate. The woman had obviously played down her intentions to Max.
