by Barry, Jill
Zillah closed her eyes and counted to ten. On five, she heard the stairs creak and opened her eyes again, only to see a pair of leather loafers, followed by long legs in navy blue trousers, making their way downwards. A white shirt was tucked into the trousers. The trim midriff suffered neither from beer belly nor thickening waistline. The feet halted. For the second time in a matter of days she found herself craning her neck to gaze at an attractive male.
Saturday’s young bridegroom on the Nancarrow staircase had proved easy to handle. All Zillah’s senses yelled at her not to get close to Hal Christmas. If she didn’t stop ogling him in just one split second, he would begin thinking she had designs on him.
‘Well, here’s to you, Mrs Robinson. Though I doubt they’ll be playing your song on that radio station the blinds fitters favour.’
He grinned as if no one else in the world had pulled that one on her before and jerked his head, indicating the cacophony from upstairs.
‘Mr Christmas,’ she said icily. ‘Good Morning. I’ve already taken one call meant for you.’ She held out the fluorescent pink post-it note. ‘If I pick up any more inquiries not intended for the real Mrs Robinson, I suggest it’s best I relay them at our meeting this afternoon.’
He was standing beside her now. Towering over her. A drift of the kind of cologne men’s grandmothers don’t buy them hit her. Different from the hand-blended one Daniel had used, different but equally unsettling. Just as she’d finally come to terms with her single state, this hulking great male who possessed the ability to tap into her baser instincts, arrived on the scene. It really wasn’t fair, especially as the only occasions he’d seen her, apart from in her van, coincided with her wearing prim apron, Puritan headscarf and silly boots. If she was very lucky, maybe he’d offer her some pantomime dame gigs later in the year.
‘Zillah. I mean, Mrs Robinson – no this is silly. I’m sorry about this, Zillah. I promise to explain everything later.’ Hal took the post-it note from her, his fingers warm against hers.
Zillah, who sorely missed the touch of a hand, the comfort of friendly contact, especially when it was human and male, jumped as if stung. Fortunately, he didn’t notice. His attention focused on her handwritten message.
‘Good lord,’ he said. ‘That reprobate rang? Last I heard of Zak Silver he was working in Las Vegas.’
‘Fascinating,’ Zillah’s tone would have rendered cryonic technology obsolete. ‘He seemed quite keen to speak to you. Such a pity you didn’t circulate your address book with your new contact details.’
Hal Christmas was gazing at her. Or was it a glare? Either way, she found it difficult to outstare him.
‘Your place or mine? For our meeting, I mean,’ He looked enquiringly at her.
What else would he have meant?
‘Do you have enough chairs for two people?’ She hoped her gaze challenged him. But the disturbing way his eyes changed colour, distracted her. Now they were darkest butterscotch, reminiscent of snooty diva Velma’s.
‘Affirmative,’ he said. ‘Unless you object to a folding seat. I also possess a kettle and mugs. Don’t forget to leave your answer-phone on.’
Zillah held up one hand. ‘Fair enough. You want to christen your office, I’ll be there at four.’
‘Can’t wait, Mrs Robinson.’
She turned away. She was determined to keep their dealings strictly business-like but his self-importance riled her. Whatever she did, she mustn’t take it out on her meringues.
*
One of Zillah’s elderly ladies who lunched rang to order chicken casserole and strawberry trifle for six. This was how Mrs Robinson began. Sandwich orders for sales conferences led to requests for upmarket food for board meetings. Zillah’s initial leaflet drop included hairdressers, beauty salons and boutiques, all places where women go. This week she was due to deliver a buffet lunch for 30 members of a women’s group at the home of their chairman, continue preparation for the weekend wedding feast and slot in the equally important luncheon for six ladies.
‘You have to stay positive,’ she told herself when she sat down at her computer around one o’clock. ‘All businesses take a while to get going.’
Like Jake said when she had coffee in the pub, lots of people began planning Christmas parties once the calendar page flipped over to September. Oh, why did that annoying man come equipped with such a surname?
Briefly she wondered what it must be like to go through life as Mrs Christmas. Wouldn’t everyone just love it when they called your name at the dental surgery? Did his wife plan on having any little helpers one day after she got bored with high flying? Surely a man like him would be partnered with Superwoman. Anyway, why wasn’t she taking time out to help her man organize his new premises? Unless, as main breadwinner, the lady just couldn’t be spared. Maybe that was why he was so surly at times. His wife probably wore the trousers.
Zillah convinced herself such a couple must be truly sorted. Mrs Christmas would return to her luxury loft on weeknights, convenient for her job smashing glass ceilings in the City, while her husband chilled out in their chic cottage, playing with his new business venture. No doubt he presented his missus with a bowl of homemade soup and a crusty artisan loaf when she returned to their rural love nest, frazzled from her Friday night motorway journey.
Zillah was on the point of deciding whether Mrs Christmas was a Jemima or a Sophie when she told herself to pull herself together. There was a request to quote for a Bar Mitzvah party in Zillah’s inbox. She fired off a response then sent emails to firms she already dealt with plus some she didn’t. Just before four, she picked up a plastic folder and slid some of her publicity material inside, adding glossy photographs of luscious foods. She included a showpiece of an enormous joint of roast pork, its impressive criss-cross crackling gleaming crunchy dark gold. Her most powerful weapon, she gloated, was a document giving her company’s date of registration, directors and registered address.
Hesitating, she wondered whether she should take something edible with her but decided against it, in case he might consider the gesture cosy. Though she’d pitch her homemade shortbread and Abi’s meringues against the baked goods he’d bought, yummy though they had been.
She heard a phone ring just as she reached the top of the flight. The door to the front office stood open, revealing Hal standing by the window, mobile pressed to an ear. He waved to Zillah, mouthing, ‘sit down.’
She chose the nearest chair, moving it further away from its companion before placing her folder on the empty green-baize card table.
‘Zak,’ said Hal. ‘Of course I’m pleased to speak to you, man. Thanks for ringing back but I’m just about to go into a meeting – no, of course I’m not trying to make excuses.’ Hal stopped speaking, then said, ‘I’ll ring you later. Speak soon.’
Zillah, aware of his gaze, avoided making eye contact. She glanced at her watch and swung one black-trousered leg over the other. She inspected the toe of her burnished burgundy leather pump against the bare floor and wondered what shade he’d chosen for his new carpet tiles.
He walked towards her and put down his phone. ‘Coffee?’
‘No thanks. I’d prefer to get on. Busy week.’
‘Of course.’ He took the other seat. ‘What do you think of the blinds?’
‘They do what they’re meant to do. As a matter of interest, why do you need to bump up your outgoings on office premises when presumably you could work from home?’
He shuffled in his seat, grimacing as if finding it difficult to get comfortable. ‘Furniture arrives later this week,’ he said. ‘In answer to your question, I also intend running my accountancy practice from these premises. Why? I don’t fancy being overrun with files and reference books in my bijou residence down the valley. Plus I happen to live at the bottom of a vicious track bent on devouring unsuspecting vehicles. My cottage boasts an entrance I drove past three times on the day I arrived to view it. By comparison, finding this retail estate is like standing on the Th
ames Embankment and locating the river.’
She opened her mouth to speak but he wasn’t finished.
‘Nor is it, I imagine, a total suspension of disbelief to imagine that the occasional entertainer will call by to introduce himself, or indeed herself or themselves. When I’m wearing my party hat, so to speak, if anyone insists on demonstrating their fire eating skills, I promise to warn you first so you can have your conflagration blanket at the ready.’
Of course he was trying to wind her up. But his eyes were no longer the disdainful amber of earlier, rather a mellow toffee shade, glinting with merriment. He’d put on a snazzy dark blue tie with green jellyfish floating across it. Was this for her benefit? He was unlike any accountant she’d ever come across in her faraway office days. Her left hand reached for the plump, polished ebony heart she wore swinging from a fine gold chain round her neck. The honeymoon gift from Daniel acted as her talisman.
‘I was hoping we could become friends, Zillah,’ Hal spoke softly. ‘At the very least, not enemies.’
Don’t give in to him. ‘So why did you burst on to my patch without so much as a by your leave?’
He looked hurt. ‘I’ve already apologised for stealing your name. What more can I do? I fully intend sorting this out. It’s just that I haven’t got round to choosing another title for the entertainment agency yet. Give me a couple more days and hopefully, you may find having our two businesses co-existing beneath one roof provides a lucrative spin off.’
Zillah was nonplussed. He’d played to her emotions yesterday, trying to soften her up. Today she’d anticipated having to argue her case. Defend her rights. And possibly consult her solicitor. Something, she thought guiltily, she should have done already but just hadn’t got around to. Not only did she feel relieved, she could hear Abi’s voice saying I told you so.
‘The publicity you’ve already undertaken?’ She mustn’t take her eye off the ball. ‘I imagine there are flyers as well as business cards doing the rounds.’
He rose, affecting an exaggerated limp. ‘Ouch! You wouldn’t want to linger too long on those chairs.’ He walked over to the window and stretched his arms above his head. ‘As for PR, it’s just business cards at the moment. They won’t break the bank. I must have thrown them at most of the bigger Bath hotels and if people ring my mobile then there’s no problem.’
She nodded.
‘As soon as the landline’s connected and I have my new trading name, I’ll be asking you to recommend a local printer and probably someone to build a website. I do understand the importance of that.’
Again came that crinkly-eyed grin with its devastating effect on her stomach. Damn him.
‘All right,’ said Zillah. ‘I must admit I’m relieved to find you so amenable.’
He made no response. She inspected her neatly manicured nails. When she glanced up again, he was gazing at the locket nestling just above her cleavage. She felt her cheeks warming. This man spelled danger even when he didn’t switch on the charm. Again she wished she hadn’t decided to meet him on his territory. On the defensive, she felt she was trying to prove her business integrity to him, rather than the reverse.
‘I have to say I’m rather hurt that you appear to have such a negative impression of me.’
‘You can hardly blame me for that.’
‘Hmm,’ mused Hal. ‘I can imagine it must have been a surprise to have your phone ring, then answer it to find someone demanding a DJ.’
‘It was the request for a troop of hot singing waiters that floored me.’
For moments, they gazed at each other. Zillah broke the silence first. Hal seemed startled but burst out laughing too.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’ He held his hands out, palms upended.
‘Don’t worry about it. You’ve made a big hit with my assistant.’ Zillah refrained from adding the ageist comment.
‘Abi enjoys the luxury of working for a good employer with none of the pressures of keeping the show on the road. So, dare I ask how much input in the business Mr Robinson has?’
Zillah folded her arms. ‘Not a lot. I was widowed twenty months ago.’
Chapter Five
After Zillah left, the only available surface against which Hal felt he could justifiably bang his head was the wall. But given he’d so recently rolled two coats of country buttercup emulsion over it, he felt disinclined to deface the perfection of his paintwork.
He wondered why Abi hadn’t marked his card to prevent him from making the kind of faux pas he just had. But to be fair, why should she have? It was hardly his business. He’d merely been making conversation, trying to detain the lovely enigma that was Zillah, if he was honest.
He’d planned to ask her advice over renaming his agency. Hal Christmas was how his accountancy clients knew him and he didn’t intend changing that. But this side-line that he believed expressed a side of the Hal left buried for too long – didn’t it deserve an appropriate name? Zillah was a creative person. It would be fun to share an ideas fest with her. If he had one weakness where women were concerned, it centred on cool blondes, despite having fallen for slinky brunette Jessie in what seemed a different lifetime.
It was a pity about Mrs Robinson – in more ways than one. Zillah didn’t seem keen to hang around after his tactless query crashed and burned. Who could blame her? She must have guts, though. She could only have been on her own for about six months before starting her catering business. Hal wondered what she’d been doing before. Did she have children? If so, they could be teenagers. She was probably in her early to mid-thirties. Her slim, athletic figure suggested healthy eating and working out.
He smiled, picturing her tucking into those gooey cakes. Had that really been only yesterday? He didn’t like women who got precious about food. It was all about balance. Zillah was living proof of his theory. She’d look great in a jogging suit. She’d look great in anything. Or nothing …
All of this was academic. Mrs Robinson was wedded to her catering enterprise. And who could blame her? He hadn’t a clue as to how long the recovery period lasted after bereavement. Did she have children? The teenage offspring to whom she might well now be single parent would doubtless be very protective of their mum. Zillah was, unsurprisingly, defensive. A lone woman, running a business, must be able to cover her back. To his surprise, he found himself worrying about her personal security. He told himself to stop being so stupid and to get on with some work.
Through the open window Hal heard voices drifting from below. Approaching with caution, he peered out and bit his lip. Zillah, hands on hips, was informing the carpet tile fitter her door definitely didn’t access any other premises and if it did, she’d surely have noticed. Another nail in the coffin. Though, in the circumstances, that too was a gaffe.
*
‘So how did the meeting go?’ Abi paused before getting into her work gear next morning.
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Did he surrender?’
‘In a word, yes.’
‘Thought so.’
Zillah detected a hint of triumph.
‘So you’re friends?’
‘Erm, I sort of blew it.’
‘Go on.’ Abi was reaching for her whites. She put her head round the door. ‘Don’t tell me Hal asked you on a date and you turned him down.’
‘Of course not. He asked about Mr Robinson’s input.’
‘Ah.’ Abi walked across the kitchen and pulled up a stool beside Zillah. ‘I’m so sorry. I should have said something to him. I mean you can hardly criticize the guy for being interested. You’re gorgeous and -’
‘About the right age for an old man?’ Zillah teased.
Abi blushed. ‘Absolutely not. You know what? My boyfriend’s convinced you must’ve been a model. And you can’t have missed the way Mickey straightens his tie the minute you walk through his door.’ She stood up and put her arms round Zillah. ‘You cope so brilliantly. I can only imagine how much you miss your husband. He must’ve been an absolute sw
eetie if he was married to you.’
Zillah hugged her back. ‘Thank you, Abi. Yes, Daniel was an absolute sweetie.’
‘Hal must be beating himself up over it,’ said Abi.
‘Do you think? I can’t imagine that man allowing himself the luxury of emotions.’ Zillah peered through the window to see a dark green van pulling up. She recognised the florist. Their paths often crossed and each held a stock of the other’s business cards. Mel, proprietor of the business, hopped out and opened her van’s back doors. Holding a lavish bouquet almost her height, she spotted Zillah and waved at her to come to the door.
‘Mustn’t stop.’ Mel handed over a cellophane-wrapped deluge of carnations, freesias and feathery foliage. ‘I hope these are from some gorgeous guy. My assistant dealt with the telephone order so I didn’t speak to whoever it was. Let’s have lunch one day so I can interrogate you. I owe you one for recommending me to that boutique hotel in the Crescent.’
Zillah stood, arms full, watching Mel jump back into the driver’s seat. The van reared on its back wheels and roared off. It was just as well king of the road, Hal Christmas, was otherwise engaged and couldn’t encounter the flying florist headlamp to headlamp.
‘Here you are, boss,’ Abi crossed the room, holding Zillah’s mug. ‘Coffee dark as sin. Wow! It’s not your birthday is it?’
‘Mrs Robinson’s birthday is this week. Mine was in May. Don’t fret. You did send me a card.’ Zillah’s fingers found a miniature white envelope. She put it down and propped the bouquet in one of the sinks.
Abi passed the scissors. She refrained from further comment, her expression showing how difficult she found this.
‘I told you I had a good feel about the Nancarrow wedding.’ Zillah slit open the envelope. ‘I didn’t expect flowers though. You should share these with your -’ Her words faded at sight of the message card. Her brow creased.
