Her Client from Hell

by Louisa George

  ‘A whole load of stuff you don’t need to know about.’ Because it was enough just remembering that having an attachment to anyone, relying on anyone, loving anyone save his sister, had ended in hurt. He didn’t need to voice that. He just needed to heed it. ‘Okay, chef, so these kebabs are piling up, waiting for your professional whizz. What are you serving them with?’

  ‘A choice of either chocolate or honey-yoghurt dipping sauces, both of which are in the fridge already made. You want to talk about that? Sure. A company in the West End has signed me up to do a healthy eating day once a week. My remit is to produce a casual buffet-style lunch for the directors that is low in calories but tasty and satisfying. The chocolate is the treat we all crave at the end of a meal and the reward for the other stuff. High cocoa solids and low sugar. And in tiny amounts. So don’t judge me, okay?’

  She didn’t look okay; she looked hurt because he’d changed subjects so rapidly. But he’d reached the end of the whole share it with the group thing. Something they’d tried to foist on him through Youth Services. He’d preferred sneaking into the back of the cinema across the road from their futile meetings and losing himself in someone else’s life. His hadn’t been worth examining in any kind of depth. Except working out how the hell to extricate himself from it.

  But his younger years and his film experience had taught him enough about how to read people and right now Cassie was simmering. Not in a good way. Crashing a pan into the sink, she turned to him, all businesslike. ‘Have you spoken to Lizzie yet?’

  Jack set to, threading more fruit as guilt hit him from all sides. ‘I rang her yesterday. We’re having a quick chat tomorrow afternoon in the Market Bar, Portobello. Four-thirty. Any chance you can come? On time? I have things to do afterwards. Meetings with clients of my own.’

  ‘Meetings in the evening?’

  ‘Yes. In the evening. My client’s in the States and it was the only time that was convenient for us both to Skype. Could be a big job; I don’t want to be late.’

  Cassie’s voice was still loaded with irritation. ‘Of course I’ll be on time, Jack. The last couple of times were aberrations to my normally strict adherence to the clock. I do know how to run a business. Does she know I’m coming?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Does she know I’m catering? Oh, actually, am I catering? Did I get the job?’

  There had been other, probably better, definitely more organised caterers. But none of them had had the verve Cassie brought with her, or the passion. He hadn’t tried the kissing…though he doubted any would be nearly as good as her in that respect. ‘If you can come to the meeting. On time. Yes.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. Again, does Lizzie know?’

  ‘Not exactly. Her cell battery died halfway through our conversation; it was all I could do to get her to arrange a time and place. That’s Lizzie all over.’ Matched by his inability to bring the subject up over the phone. Having Cassie there would act as a buffer too.

  ‘Well, it would be good if you could phone her again and tell her I’m going to be there and why.’ When she finally lifted her head to look at him, her eyes were shadowed. ‘Just so we all know where we stand.’

  If he knew that he’d be a happier man. Putting down the pieces of pineapple, he turned to her. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, Jack. I’m fine. I’m tired and I’m busy.’

  And annoyed because of him. What would it cost just to share a little? It was easier to kiss her than to talk. Go figure. Kissing would mean he didn’t have to face those searching eyes, the casual questions that he didn’t want to answer.

  But how easy to open up some of those memories that he kept locked away? He’d drawn a line aged sixteen. Freedom and autonomy. Life starts here. And he’d blocked off the past, apart from regular visits to Lizzie. Taken his future into his own hands, grasped control. Finally.

  But he owed Cassie something. He knew about her father. A little about how that had affected her. And, even though she was reluctant to talk about paring knife man, he knew she’d had her fair share of tragedy.

  ‘One time I was at the primary school just up in Latimer Road and we had a dance troupe in the carnival parade. Lizzie was in it, all dressed up in some kind of Caribbean outfit. I helped make the float. It was in the shape of a dragon and what the hell that has to do with Jamaica I don’t know. We won a prize, though. I got one of those whistles that drives everyone mad. I think I almost blew it dry. Didn’t know a whistle could actually stop working from overuse. Must have driven the estate crazy. Maybe that’s why we had to leave.’ He breathed out, wanting to add: That was with the fifth family, I think—I started to lose count after a while. But thought better of it.

  So, he did a mental body check, apart from an over-excited heart-rate he was still okay. It was hardly an exposure of his soul, but it was something. And inside him a hard corner of his heart relaxed a little. It also dredged a smile from her, so it had got to be worth it. Even though he didn’t usually do this. And would not be doing more. ‘Maybe I’ll go this year. If I’ve got time.’

  ‘Make some time. You’re the boss, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of most things. Yes. And if I’m extra careful they even allow me to use knives.’

  She waved one at him. ‘Not these, my boy—these cost more than my van. So make a date with your diary and get yourself there. It’s a must-go thing. I love watching all those kids dancing. I have a food stall every year, on the corner of Ladbroke Grove and Lancaster Road. I get a great view and I love the buzz and the atmosphere. Plus I make a stack of money and a lot of friends.’

  He grabbed at the chance to change the focus away from him. ‘So you sell what kinds of things?’

  Her eyes glistened with excitement as she ran her hand in the air as if reading a billboard. ‘Gourmet Caribbean. Taste of the sun. Fruit of the islands. Chicken and rice. Corn. Mango mocktails. Roti. That kind of thing. Does a roaring trade. You should stop by my stall; I’ll give you a good discount. Mate’s rates.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d give your workers something for free.’

  ‘Nothing’s ever free, matey. Believe me. You always end up paying somehow.’ She flicked on her MP3 and calypso music filled the room. She started to hum as she painted the fruit sticks with the lemon juice and water. Then rustled in the fridge and pulled out a large blue and white china jug. ‘This music is so uplifting, isn’t it?’

  Watching her backside jiggle up and down in those tight sweatpants was all the uplifting he needed. He looked at the kitchen clock. One-twenty. She was going to be exhausted tomorrow. Just like his libido. Up. Down. Up. Down. Very definitely up. ‘Are we almost finished?’

  ‘No. Not nearly—we have washing-up to do, for a start. And these all need covering, then there’s pasta to cook and cool for the salad, tomatoes to roast… My list is still very long. But, first, I want you to taste a kebab with the chocolate sauce.’ She offered him a fruit-laden stick, dripping in sauce. He took it from her hand—no way was he going to let her feed him—no matter how tempting. His groin could only put up with so much. But hell, he paused as she stuck a spoon into the jug and took a long swallow of the sauce. Her pupils widened and a soft moan came from her throat that was similar to one he’d put there only a couple of hours ago. ‘Oh, my goodness. That is soooo good. Go on, try it.’

  Sweet fruit juice squirted down his throat, coated in a rich, dark, orangey cocoa dressing. It was sugar with just enough bitter bite and promises and heaven.

  As he ate she watched, her eyes never leaving his face. Her unfettered eagerness struck a chord deep in him, her mouth tipped up into a smile. His hands fisted against the bench top as he fought back an urge to run them through her hair, to smooth them over those curves, to make her moan again.

  Any chance of a rewind to just before they’d made that hands-off decision? Because while his brain was full of good, safe and sensible ideas, his body was all up for bad ones.

  She waited for him to swallo
w. ‘Verdict?’

  ‘Delicious. Yes. Delicious.’ And the food? Yes. Great too.

  ‘Excellent. I thought so. A sprinkling of crushed nuts and we’re done.’ She rocked to the fridge and bent to put the jug back in. When she stood she swayed a little, caught the edge of the counter to steady herself. Blood drained from her face as two fingers pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Woo.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Dumb question. Heart thumping out of his chest, he was by her side in a millisecond, his arm round her waist, pulling her against him. A medical emergency called for body to body contact, not debatable. She was hot and soft, but fighting.

  Her head rolled against his chest, her scent whacking him full-on in the solar plexus as she pressed against him to get her balance. For a second he wondered what it would be like to do this again. Comfortable. Close. No reservations or restrictions. To hold her so still, for her to hold him right back.

  Rubbing her temples, she sighed, ‘I just went a little dizzy, that’s all. It happens sometimes when I’m tired. Low blood pressure or something. I’ll feel better tomorrow after a good sleep.’

  ‘Which will consist of how long?’

  She glanced at the wall clock and whirled out of his grip. ‘Four hours if I’m lucky.’

  ‘So go and sit down and I’ll make you a drink.’ He’d make her even if he had to chase her round the tiny apartment.

  ‘I haven’t got time to do that.’

  His hand was at her hair again, pushing back the strand that refused to do as it was told. Seemed it was a genetic thing that involved the whole body. ‘Make some time. You’re the boss.’

  ‘Another joke? From you? This is becoming a habit.’

  ‘I joke on a regular basis.’ Actually, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had some pure unadulterated fun. Tense, deep, controlled, yes. Amusing films and watching the escapades of his documentary subjects—vicarious fun. But laugh out loud for himself? Not so much. He spent way too much time planning his next assignment, improving his skills, forgetting the past. Watching through a lens as others let go while he held on. His drive to succeed had taken precedence, with short sharp dalliances along the way with women as seriously driven as him. No time for frivolous. Just a quick one-two and on their way. Cassie was the first woman who’d made him laugh in a long time—and that was precisely because she didn’t take herself so seriously. She made it look possible to chase a dream—and enjoy yourself doing it. Even after everything she’d been through.

  ‘What, so you put it in your diary? Joke at three-thirty? Chuckle at three thirty-one? And who made you head chef?’

  ‘I did. The current one is clearly incapable of making any rational decisions. She can take over when she’s feeling better.’ He took her by those stubborn shoulders and steered her into the lounge, dug out a space on the sofa and pushed her into it.

  ‘No. I can’t let you do this. Please don’t. I don’t need you to help me any more. I’ll get it done.’ But there was a rawness to her voice that tugged at his gut. Despite her previous willingness to let him help, she didn’t want anyone working with her unless she could control it. He got that. He didn’t do anything unless he could control it. Usually. Kissing pretty chefs excepted.

  ‘Cassie, I’m not going to do anything that will sabotage your buffet lunch. Believe me, I know my limits. But I am going to make a cup of tea and tidy up. When you’ve got yourself steady again you can come back in and finish off.’

  Her eyes glazed a little and he guessed she was getting dizzy again. ‘Okay. Just for a minute.’

  Having settled her in, he went through to the bombsite of a kitchen and his stomach bumped into his boots. She was right—she had used just about every pan and utensil she owned and it would take the best part of an hour to clean up. So he flicked on the kettle and let calm settle over him. Then he found the comprehensive to-do list.

  On top of a bank statement. That told him what he’d hankered to know but hadn’t been his business. It was hers, and the huge debt too. No wonder things were getting hard to juggle. Why was she in such financial straits? It wasn’t just silly budgeting. And it had something to do with her ex.

  Not his problem. He had enough work to do running his own career.

  Which was all well and good, but she was working herself too hard trying to do it on her own.

  Still not his problem.

  ‘Okay, bossy britches. Here’s the tea.’ He wandered back into the lounge with a tray to find her slumped across the sofa. Utterly beautiful and utterly asleep. A picture of stillness—surely the first time ever. Her hair was a puddle of red across a strikingly bright plaid couch. Her chest rose and fell slowly, one arm hanging limply on to the floor. Tiny noises escaped her throat as she exhaled. The room was a stark contrast to his own post-modern mews house, with its sharp corners and one colour throughout. With little furniture, it wasn’t a home; it was a place he stayed when he was in town. But here, this was a home; it felt loved. She inhabited it in full glorious Technicolor. It was right for her—a crazy, chaotic cocoon.

  Watching her in here, he felt a strange pull in his heart. Warm. A strong desire to help this wild woman. As if part of him could do that, as if part of him could fit. Comfortable.

  And suddenly the urge to run swelled inside him. Because he knew that getting comfortable was always the most dangerous place to be.

  *

  ‘Not again. Not again. Not again.’ Cassie looked at the soggy puddle of rubber that used to be a tyre pancaked against the pavement, and her heart dropped to her sensible work shoes. Stupid London roads. Stupid, stupid van. Stupid person, whoever had thoughtlessly left that broken bottle there. The one she’d missed when she’d scooted quickly into the corporate offices carrying heavy crates she could hardly see over. She glanced at her watch and her heart just about puddled alongside the tyre. ‘Not again. Not again. Not again. Please, no.’

  Stupid Jack Brennan and his stupid obsession with timekeeping. Sure, he’d been some kind of knight in chef’s clothing—to mix a metaphor or two. He’d finished the food prep, washed up and cleared everything away and made a good shot at roasting tomatoes, then disappeared into the night. Now she owed him. A lot.

  But turning up late again, especially to meet his sister and discuss the most important day of her life, was not the clued-up, business-savvy impression she wanted to give either of them.

  Plus, she’d had a long talk with herself in the shower this morning and firmly decided that anything other than a formal relationship was crossing a line she wasn’t prepared to cross.

  Cassie had her game face on and it was staying there. Or at least it had until now, when all it wanted to do was crease into a crumpled fuzz and cry like a baby.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat and hit her head on the steering wheel. Twice. Then found her mobile and phoned the cavalry. ‘Sash? Hey, how are things? Er…fine. Thanks. Except, I’m stuck on Long Acre with a flat tyre.’

  Her sister’s usually unruffled voice ruffled. ‘Again? Cass, you really should get better tyres for that heap of junk you call a van. Seriously, let me buy you a new one.’

  And be forever in someone else’s debt? Not likely. Cassie was collecting debts like other people collected supermarket stamps. Unfortunately, there was no special bonus gift at the end. ‘Yada-yada. Says the woman who drove a bright pink jalopy until she met Mr Rich and Famous. My van is great; it’s just the gutter that’s the problem.’ And she had to admit to buying budget tyres because anything else was just out of her reach. She inhaled. ‘Sasha, I’m in a weeny bit of trouble. Or will be. I’m supposed to be meeting a client over in Portobello in a few minutes. I’m going to try changing the tyre…or get a cab. Or try to beam myself over there. But I don’t want to leave the car here. I’ll get a ticket.’

  ‘Okay—you’ve tried the AA?’

  ‘I had to let the membership slide.’ A man carrying what looked suspiciously like a parking ticket machine and important jobsworth headwear a
ppeared in her driver’s mirror four cars behind. She was only a couple of minutes over her expired parking time. He’d be okay with that. Yes, right, because London traffic warden compassion was legendary. Not. She felt as if she was being slowly squeezed underneath a giant ticking grandfather clock. ‘If I don’t move it there’ll be a tow and a fine.’

  ‘You want me to do a search and text you the numbers of some tow companies?’

  ‘No, no.’ That sounded expensive. ‘I’m sure I can sort it, somehow. I have a spare tyre and some sort of toolkit thing in the back; I just don’t know how to do it. But, actually…’ She hauled in more air, hating that she was going to ask her sister to do this, but asking anyway. ‘Would you be an absolute darling and call my client? Let him know I’m running a little late. He’s got another meeting later and I don’t want to make him late for that. He’d never forgive me.’

  ‘What? Me? Why?’

  ‘Because I’m trying not to look like an amateur.’ Another glance in the mirror showed her face covered in red blotches, hair sticking out at all angles and dark shadows under her eyes. Amateur? She looked like a bag lady in a chef’s dressing-up costume.

  The ruffled voice turned into the bossy big sister’s. ‘And getting me to do the dirty work tells him you’re a professional, how? Who is it?’

  ‘Jack Brennan.’ It came out like a sigh. Damn. She steadied her voice, lowered it an octave. ‘Ahem. Jack Brennan.’

  ‘Ahhh.’ Her sister sighed too. ‘Dreamy Jack with that amazing voice? I could listen to him all day. Sure, I’ll call him; it’ll be an absolute pleasure.’

  ‘Down, woman. You are married. Second thoughts, I’ll call him myself. He’s a total time freak and I promised I wouldn’t be late.’ This was her last chance, she felt, with him. It had to work or she could kiss goodbye to him and his forty-nine dinner guests.

  ‘I’m sure he won’t mind. I watched him, you know. Last night. His eyes never left you.’

  His hands had done a fine job too. And his mouth. Only it hadn’t been enough. Never enough. And beyond too much.