by Jill Mansell
‘I’m saying nothing.’ His eyes glinted. ‘But I can do the sending if you want to dictate.’
Grateful to him, Lara said, ‘Sounds like a plan.’ She closed her eyes, breathed in the toasty leathery smell and thought about what she’d like to say.
‘Right, ready?’
‘Fire away. Boss.’
‘Hi, Jo, this is Lara, Barbara’s daughter. I’ll email you properly later but just wanted to say how fantastic it is to have found you. I’d really love to speak to you about my mum, I have so many questions. Thanks so much for replying to Flynn’s message. He worked very hard to find you. OK, I have to go now. Speak later. Very best wishes, Lara Carson xx.’
‘Send?’
‘Send.’
The message was despatched. He said, ‘It’s ten to one. Where’s your interview?’
‘Not far from here. I can walk it. Thanks for everything.’
‘No problem. Let me know what happens.’
See? He could be so nice sometimes. ‘I will. Can I ask a question?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why does it smell of toast in here?’
Flynn looked mystified. He shrugged. ‘Does it? I don’t know why. No idea.’
Lara paused. There was such a thing as looking a little too mystified.
‘Anyway,’ said Flynn. ‘You haven’t told me yet about this job you’re applying for.’
Hmm, a bit too mystified and a bit too keen to change the subject.
She leaned forward, sprang the catch on the glove compartment and watched it fall open.
Inside sat a blue china plate with a thick slice of buttered toast on it.
Flynn raised his hands in defeat. ‘What are you, some kind of bloodhound?’
‘You always did have a thing for toast.’
‘I still do.’
‘But it’s cold!’ She picked the slice off the plate and watched it droop. ‘It’s all soggy and bendy!’
‘Don’t criticise it. That’s how I like my toast.’
‘And when were you planning on eating this?’
‘Whenever I want to. When I get hungry. It’s handy when you’re stuck in a traffic jam.’
It was time to leave. Lara opened the passenger door and said, ‘That’s a weird habit you have there.’
Flynn gave her a look. ‘Says the woman who keeps spare roll-on deodorants lodged under her arm.’
She handed him the plate with the bendy toast on it. ‘Here, you enjoy your gourmet lunch. Bye.’
Temple and Son, Fine Jewellers, was situated on York Street, the windows shielded from the elements by striped mulberry and blue awnings. Inside the shop, glass-fronted cases contained good-quality items, the walls were covered in mulberry and gold flocked wallpaper and there were photos of old Hollywood movie stars hung everywhere.
Don Temple resembled Mrs Tiggywinkle without the frilly cap. In his early sixties, he was small and round, with beady eyes, a pointy nose and short spiky Brylcreemed hair. He was wearing a grey shirt, immaculately pressed trousers, a red waistcoat and dainty black patent leather shoes.
‘. . . so the thing is, I’m fine now, the tablets are keeping everything under control, but my doctors have told me I need to take things easier, cut down on the hours, give up the back-to-back triathlons.’ His hedgehoggy eyes twinkled. ‘That’s a joke, by the way. Now, enough of me and my dicky heart. Your turn to tell me about you.’
He had to be gay. Did he really have a son?
‘I grew up here in Bath.’ Lara already knew she liked him. ‘Moved up to the Lake District when I was sixteen, and now I’m back. I’ve spent the last seven years working in a jewellers in Keswick. If you want to give them a call they’ll say nice things about me. I’m good with customers and easy to work with. I love the old Hollywood movies . . . Doris Day, Cary Grant, Rock Hudson, Sophia Loren—’
‘Who starred in An Affair To Remember?’ Don interrupted her.
Lara smiled, because he was testing her. ‘Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. He played Nickie Ferrante.’
‘Good girl!’ He clapped his small, well-tended hands. ‘Sorry, but I had to check you weren’t spinning me a line. Favourite film?’
‘Buona Sera, Mrs Campbell.’ She’d first watched it on TV with Nettie before Gigi had been born and had seen it countless times since.
‘Ah, heaven! Gina!’ His whole face lit up.
‘And Phil Silvers and Telly Savalas.’ Ironically the film had been about three American ex-servicemen all believing they were the father of Gina Lollobrigida’s daughter. It had struck Lara at the time that some babies were born with a surplus of fathers and others with none at all. It could have upset her, but she’d been won over by its warmth and charm.
‘And Shelley Winters. What a woman. What a broad.’ Don shook his head, lost in admiration as he unlocked one of the cabinets. He chose three items of jewellery and laid them out on a strip of black velvet. ‘Well then, let’s see how well you do with these. Talk me through them, darling. Sell them to me.’
‘OK. May I?’ She nodded at the loupe in his other hand and he passed it to her. Holding it to her eye, Lara examined the first ring he’d chosen. ‘Hmm, nice. Well, it’s a brilliant-cut diamond, one carat, set in platinum. Second-hand, good condition.’
‘Colour? Clarity?’
‘G. And there are a few small inclusions. I’d say VS1.’
‘Correct.’ Don looked pleased. ‘Next.’
She moved on to the second ring. ‘Older. Art Deco. Eighteen-carat white gold, old transitional cut central diamond surrounded by square French-cut diamonds. G or H. Probably VVS2. Beautiful.’
‘And finally . . .’ He handed her the pendant.
‘Victorian, eighteen-carat yellow gold setting. Five-carat natural blue opal surrounded by sapphires. The chain’s very pretty but it has a weak link . . .’
‘What?’ Don took back the loupe and peered at the chain. ‘Bloody hell, you’re right. I didn’t spot that.’
‘They’re all gorgeous,’ said Lara, ‘but that Art Deco ring is the one you should buy. It’s a show-stopper, a real statement piece. People would notice you wearing that. And see how the shape of the ring suits your hand . . . it has elegance . . .’
‘OK, you’re good.’
‘I know.’
‘I have other people to see.’
‘Of course.’ You can see them, just please don’t give them the job.
‘But I like you.’
‘I like you too.’
‘I think we’d work well together.’
‘We could talk movies,’ said Lara. ‘When there aren’t any customers, of course.’
‘Can you tap dance?’
‘No.’ He looked so hopeful she hated to disappoint, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you could bluff your way through.
‘Shame. Anyway, I’ll let you know by the end of the week.’ He led the way to the door.
‘Can I just ask,’ said Lara. ‘The shop’s called Temple and Son. Do you have a son?’
‘No, no children. I was the son.’ His currant eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I’m single.’
Of course.
‘It’s been lovely to meet you anyway. Oh,’ Lara added as an afterthought, ‘and I’ve done first aid. Just so you know. In case it makes any difference.’
Back at home, Lara changed out of her interview outfit into jeans and a T-shirt, ready to start wallpapering the bedroom. First, though, she sat down at the computer, found Jo Finnegan’s blog and began to type.
An hour later one wall was finished. Lara made herself a cup of tea and went back to the computer. Miraculously, a reply was waiting in her inbox:
Hello, my darling girl, I may not have all the answers to your questions but hopefully I shall have one or two. How wonderful that you’re back in Bath now. Here’s a suggestion – I fly home every couple of months to see my elderly parents and was due to come over ten days from now, but I can easily bring the date forward to this week. Would you like me to do that? Let me kno
w if you’d be free on Tuesday. If you are, we could meet up. Or leave it until next weekend if that’s easier. Either way, it would be lovely to see you again. Let me know!
The answers. Not all of them, but hopefully one or two. One or two didn’t sound like many, but it was better than none at all.
Hi again Jo.
Yes please! This Tuesday would be perfect for me – the sooner the better. Can’t wait!
Another hour, another wall. Another email. Jo Finnegan had booked her ticket and would be landing at Bristol Airport at midday on Tuesday. Lara typed:
Fantastic. I’ll be there to pick you up. Xx
The third wall was trickier and took an hour and a half. The phone rang as she was slathering paste on the final length of wallpaper.
‘Lara? It’s Don Temple. The job’s yours if you want it.’
‘Really? That’s great!’ She flushed with pleasure; this was turning into a proper good-news day.
‘I called your last employer. He said you were a good girl. Full of praise.’ Don paused, then said, ‘Shall I tell you what the clincher was?’
‘Go on.’ Lara thought she probably knew.
‘The bit about you knowing first aid.’
Bingo.
‘I guessed. Our postman in Keswick had a heart attack last year while he was at work in the sorting office. He’s fine now, but he told me how scared he was being on his own in case it ever happened again.’
‘Same here.’ Don sounded relieved. ‘That’s exactly how I feel. If the shop’s empty and I don’t have time to call for help . . . or if someone’s there but they don’t know what to do . . . you know what the traffic’s like in Bath, an ambulance might get stuck . . . I mean, I know the chances are it won’t happen again, but it’s the thought that it could . . .’ Hopefully he added, ‘Have you ever done any real-life CPR?’
It might make him feel better but it wouldn’t be right to lie. Lara said, ‘Not real-life, but the course tutor gave me top marks when I did it on the plastic dummy.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ Don sounded as if he were smiling. ‘Let’s hope you never do need to try it in real life. Now, when can you start work?’
He suggested Tuesday. They agreed on Wednesday and Lara hung up hoping he wouldn’t have another heart attack on the Tuesday while she was on her way to Bristol to meet Jo.
Then she celebrated by finishing off the task in hand, including the fiddly bits involving light switches and wall sockets. Et voilà, one bedroom papered in midnight blue and ivory freckled with silver. Ivory carpet. Silver and cream duvet cover and pillows. Not so much a bedroom, more a boudoir. Although it was unlikely that any man would be clapping eyes on it in the foreseeable future.
Satisfied with her handiwork, Lara stood back to admire the end result. If it was going to be a man-free zone, she might even go mad and get some silver sequinned cushions.
The front door opened downstairs and she heard Gigi call out, ‘Mum, where are you?’
‘Up here. Come and look at this!’
Lara leaned proudly against the doorframe, waiting for Gigi to join her and be suitably effusive. Then she turned and saw that the footsteps on the stairs belonged to Flynn.
Ach, a man! In her designated man-free zone!
‘Sorry.’ He saw the look on her face. ‘I gave Gigi a lift home. She’s just gone to the downstairs loo. She told me to come on up.’
More to the point, a man who had the power to make her heart race one minute and completely infuriate her the next.
‘So this is the end result. You’ve done a good job.’ Flynn surveyed her bedroom and gave a nod of approval. ‘Better than it was before, anyway.’
‘Before?’
‘Gigi showed me over the house yesterday, while you were out.’
See? Just like that, he could both pay a compliment and be annoying in three seconds flat. Even if it had largely been Gigi’s fault. When she’d left the house yesterday afternoon to buy wallpaper, her bed hadn’t been made and a build-up of clothes in need of washing and sorting out had been strewn across the floor. Her manky hair-dye towel, the one that looked dirty but wasn’t dirty, had been chucked over the back of the chair. Flynn must have viewed the scene with a shudder of revulsion . . .
Oh well, too bad. She wasn’t going to make a point of defending herself. They both heard the sound of the downstairs loo being flushed and the taps running, then Gigi was galloping up the staircase to join them.
‘You’ve done the whole room! Cool!’ She admired the bedroom and said cheerily, ‘Looks a bit better now. Where’d you hide all the clothes?’
‘Nowhere. They’ve all been sorted out.’
Gigi nudged Flynn. ‘I bet I know what she’s done.’
‘I’ve put them away,’ said Lara. But it was too late; Gigi had already reached the fitted wardrobe and was flinging open the doors.
It was like lava exploding out of a volcano. Gigi had to jump back to avoid being buried.
‘See what I have to put up with?’ She raised her eyebrows at Flynn. ‘The wicked lies my mother tells.’
Which, under the circumstances, wasn’t what you’d call diplomatic.
‘I just stuffed everything in there to get it out of the way.’ Lara felt her face overheat. ‘So I could put the pasting table up and get the wallpapering done. Tonight I’ll sort through the whole lot properly.’
‘Yes, Mum, of course you will.’ Gigi mimed her nose extending, Pinocchio-style. ‘Because you’re the tidiest person ever.’
Out of the corner of her eye Lara could see the manky hair-dye towel flaunting itself on top of the clothes mountain. Seriously, how much more humiliation could she be expected to endure in one day?
‘Shall we go downstairs? Or do you want to stay here and help me with this lot?’
‘Do you want us to help?’ said Flynn.
‘No, I do not!’
‘Then we’ll go downstairs. If you’re hungry, we’re planning to pick up some Mexican food.’
And bring it back, presumably. Like he lived here. Having earlier been afraid that Flynn was planning to ease back on his newfound relationship with Gigi, Lara now found herself fretting that he was becoming too full-on. Because what if it got Gigi’s hopes up and then the novelty began to wear off?
‘I’m fine. I’m busy. You two carry on.’
‘Oh, I can’t believe I forgot to ask,’ Gigi exclaimed. ‘How’d the interview go?’
‘Great. I got the job. Start on Wednesday.’
‘My clever mum. I knew you’d get it. And Dad already told you he was taking me on too. So that’s both of us celebrating today.’ Gigi beamed at them. ‘With burritos and chimichangas, yay!’
Flynn finally left at ten o’clock. When it was just the two of them once more, Lara said, ‘You shouldn’t have done that thing earlier.’ Several Mexican beers had loosened her tongue; she felt compelled to say it.
‘Done what thing?’ Gigi was busy licking guacamole off her fingers.
‘The wardrobe thing. Opening the doors and showing him where I’d hidden the mess.’
Unable to leave food alone when it was in front of her, Gigi reached for another quesadilla and dipped it in sour cream. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘I don’t really mind. It’s just a bit . . . you know . . .’
‘Just a bit interesting that it obviously does bother you quite a lot? Because you want to create a good impression and you don’t want him thinking you live in squalor?’
‘Excuse me!’ Lara gestured around the living room. ‘Does this look like squalor to you? I do not live in squalor.’
‘OK, I know. I’m just saying.’ Her tone playful, Gigi said, ‘It’s interesting, that’s all. You keep telling me he doesn’t mean anything to you . . .’
‘And he doesn’t. I suppose I just want him to think I’m a good mother. Being untidy can be . . . embarrassing.’ Lara was struggling to make herself understood. ‘I’d hate him to be secretly thinking, God, did she bring my
daughter up in chaos? Did she send her off to school in rags? Because I didn’t.’
‘Oh, Mum, he doesn’t think that! I’m sorry!’
‘He criticised me before, though, that’s the thing. He said stuff he had no right to say and he shouldn’t have said it.’ Lara had been secretly lacerated by Flynn’s comments about Gigi wishing she’d had a father while she was growing up. ‘I did what I thought was right and he should accept that. He’s probably telling everyone I did it to punish him and they’re all going to think I’m a complete cow . . . anyway, never mind.’
‘Do you quite like him, though?’ Gigi looked interested. ‘I mean, apart from that, do you fancy him?’
Lara was firm. ‘No.’
‘Not even a little bit?’
‘No.’ She would carry on saying it for as long as it took.
‘Why not? You did once.’
‘And do you remember how much you used to love your Spiderman pyjamas? When you were five? You wore them every day,’ Lara reminded her. ‘To the shops, to the park, to every party you were invited to. You made us call you Spidey.’
‘That’s different. I was five.’
Lara shook her head. ‘It’s not different at all. You changed your mind about those pyjamas, same as you did about Westlife and spaghetti hoops and Barbie.’ She paused. ‘I was sixteen then.’
‘And you’re ancient now,’ Gigi said helpfully.
‘Yes, I am ancient. And grumpy and pernickety. And guess what?’ said Lara. ‘I’m allowed to change my mind too.’
In bed and unable to sleep a couple of hours later, Lara gazed up at the ceiling and prayed this was a situation she could remain on top of. It was necessary to keep concentrating on the ceiling because every time she closed her eyes all she saw was Flynn. Would her life have been easier if she’d never known him? Sometimes she wondered if it was Flynn who’d succeeded in spoiling her for other men. Of course, there had been boyfriends since then . . . but none had ever come close to making her feel the way he had. They’d all seemed like second-best. She hadn’t wanted it to be that way but it wasn’t something you could consciously control. Saying no to Gigi earlier, insisting the interest in Flynn was no longer there, had been a lie. Alongside the annoyance, the anger and the frustration she felt towards him, there was an inescapable physical draw. The chemistry still existed. On her side at least. Who knew if Flynn was feeling it too? He hadn’t said anything, was playing his cards pretty close to his chest. Either way, whether the attraction was mutual or not, nothing was ever going to happen.
