by Barry, Jill
‘Are you in tomorrow?’
‘Yep. Not sure how much longer the website will take. Once I’m free I need to go to London and talk to my agent.’
She gathered up handbag and laptop. ‘There are three felines needing to be fed and I have to lock up.’
‘Let me relieve you of your things a moment.’
‘Thanks.’ She was turning the key in the door, Zak beside her, holding her personal effects, when Hal Christmas began clattering downstairs.
Zillah’s stomach did its ‘hey we’re on a roller coaster’ routine. She grabbed her things from Zak. Hal nodded at her and stalked out.
Chapter Eight
Crawling in low gear through evening traffic, Zillah had a sudden flashback to the elegant rooms and sumptuous grounds of the house on Brassknocker Hill. Her heart had gone out to Annie West, such a brave and feisty woman. Not once had she mentioned her condition, whatever it might be. Her daughter was still working in Goa. Zillah imagined Lucinda West, maybe wearing a vivid sarong or bright shorts and top, studying Mrs Robinson menus on her laptop. Maybe a monsoon kept her indoors at that very moment. Zillah didn’t have a clue what the time difference was but she hoped Lucinda’s mother had forwarded her suggestions for the multi-cultural evening buffet.
Annie had shown Zillah an engagement photo of the happy couple, the fair English rose and the handsome young man. They looked gorgeous enough to model for the cover picture of a romantic novel, maybe one whose title included the word sheikh. Her lips twitched as she wondered what the groom’s academic colleagues would make of such a thing.
She drove on to the Honourable Clarissa’s driveway, leading to a ramshackle but useful double carport. As if homing in on any food-related thought, as Zillah padlocked the garden gate behind her, the divas streaked out of nowhere, to arrive, precisely on cue, purring and weaving around her feet. She bent to stroke each cat in turn. ‘No hope of peace until you girls get your supper,’ she said, straightening up.
The trio shadowed her as she headed for the utility room entrance. She reached for the cat food and picked up three bowls. Easy stuff but what would she do about her own supper? Herb garden omelette probably, with tomatoes from the greenhouse. Was this how life would be from now on, one solitary meal following another? Did she really want that? Would Daniel have wanted that fate for her? Zillah sighed. It was no use wishing for things to be different. Happiness had been hers once. Now she had to battle solo through the business jungle. Maybe she’d give her parents a long-overdue call.
When she rang, hearing her mother’s calm voice made her feel better.
‘We were just talking about you,’ said her mum. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘Pretty good, thanks. Busy but could do with being busier.’
‘Tell me about it. Letting five rooms after having 25 can be frustrating. Sometimes we could let them twice over, other times we go days without a booking.’
Zillah’s folks had sold their seaside hotel and bought a small guesthouse in Wiltshire. They were only a thirty miles drive from their daughter but respected her privacy.
‘You’re a terror, Mum. The whole object of moving was for you and Dad to have a quieter life.’
Her mother chuckled. ‘It’s hard to break the habit. So, do you have any exciting functions coming up?’
Zillah described her visit to Brassknocker Hill and the UK meets Goa catering challenge. Her mother listened, chipping in now and then.
‘You’ve done your best. They couldn’t have better than you. But Zillah, are you busy this Sunday?’ Her mother kept her voice casual. ‘You could come over for lunch. Let me wait on you for a change.’
‘Mum, it’s sweet of you but we’re catering a small wedding on Saturday. I might just sleep in on Sunday morning. Then go into work for a couple of hours.’
Her mother’s silence was telling.
Zillah sighed. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. And you know how important it is to build good contacts. Someone suggested I might do better by having the Mrs Robinson website linked to the website of the entertainments agency that’s opened an office above mine. I suppose it makes sense. I’m more interested in making the food right than doing the technical stuff but I really should keep up with my rivals if that’s what they’re doing.’ Zillah didn’t mention social media. Abi was happy dealing with that side of things for the business.
‘Of course. You always were more creative than inclined towards gadgets. Now, have a quick word with your dad and if you change your mind about Sunday, just come over.’
It was still only eight o’clock when Zillah put down the phone. It seemed such a waste not to be outside on such a beautiful summer’s evening. She could always walk into town and browse the shop windows. Zillah collected a cardigan and let herself out of the flat, strolling in the direction of Pulteney Bridge. Whenever she walked across this elegant structure, lined with little shops, she wondered what it would have been like back in Jane Austen’s day. It was just too tempting not to stop at her favourite café for a glass of wine and maybe one of their luscious desserts. She was highly critical of other people’s catering but this café ticked all the boxes.
The waiter recognised her. ‘Busman’s holiday?’ he quipped.
‘Hi Freddie. Can’t resist your coffee cake,’ she said.
‘Glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc?’
‘Why not? I’m walking home.’
He whisked away, leaving Zillah to gaze across the weir. This was another former haunt of hers and Daniel’s. His sister had now moved away but she used to live in the city and sometimes they’d visited, driving from their home in Cornwall. Somehow Daniel could almost be sitting across from Zillah, his dark, shaggy hair, tinged with silver over the last years of his life, making him even more attractive. He’d loved wearing cords and a checked shirt, always relaxed and blending in, whatever the company.
Often, if they were alone at a restaurant table, he’d reach across and take her hand. Stroke her fingers, running his forefinger around the edges of her almond-shaped nails. He’d loved her to wear nail polish and would sometimes come home with a bottle in a stunning va-va-voom shade she wouldn’t have dared buy for herself. Nowadays painting her nails was a no-no for Zillah. She closed her eyes a moment.
Hal spotted her as soon as he glanced through the café window. She looked so serene, sitting there on her own, he considered turning round and finding somewhere else to stop for a drink and a snack. But his legs seemed to take on a life of their own and he began to thread his way through the tables.
‘Hi. If I’m intruding, I’ll leave you in peace,’ said Hal, keeping his tone guarded. ‘I spotted you from outside and thought I should come and apologise for my rudeness earlier. I was out of order but I worry about Zak’s effect on the gentler sex sometimes.’
To his relief, she burst out laughing.
‘I’m flattered,’ she said. ‘But I’m a big girl now.’
‘May I?’ He gestured to the spare seat. ‘Or are you waiting for someone?’
She shook her head.
Hal detected something in Zillah’s expression that made him wonder if he’d interrupted a precious memory. The phrase ‘treading on eggs’ came to mind and he felt an overwhelming surge of protectiveness towards her.
‘A drink would go down well before I walk back to my car.’ He settled himself opposite Zillah.
Her order of wine and cake arrived. ‘Would you like to order, Sir?’ The waiter hovered.
When they were alone again, Zillah couldn’t resist quizzing Hal. ‘You drive into the city when you want a walk? I thought you lived in the sticks.’
‘It’s a few miles out from the city and there’s some great walking country but my living accommodation is less than salubrious at the moment. Hacking my way through packing cases and black bags doesn’t leave much chance to explore. I had to come into Bath for a meeting. I happened on this place when I was viewing houses. A stroll down here on an evening like this - well, it’s a
no-brainer really.’
Hal knew he was gabbling. He didn’t add that seeing Zillah was an added bonus. She looked so different now she wasn’t wearing a crisp trouser suit or the Mrs Robinson charcoal and white uniform. Her gauzy top clung to her curves. Her soft sweater, the colour of smoke and which she wore slung over her shoulders, accentuated those fabulous blue pansy eyes. He didn’t like to glance down but reckoned he’d glimpse a long filmy skirt.
He wanted to kiss her. Wanted very much to run his fingers through that honey-beige hair. He swallowed hard. To make matters worse, above the assorted aromas of roast coffee beans, warm garlic bread and grilled sardines, he could detect a hint of her perfume. He’d learned a bit about scent from Jessie. She’d used something that made a very different statement from whatever it was Zillah wore. The perfume drifting from the woman across the table made him think of Mediterranean nights. Moonlit balconies. Lavender fields a blue haze in the distance. It was, he reckoned, pure Provence in a bottle.
Suddenly he realised she was ignoring her wine. ‘Please don’t wait for me,’ he said.
He watched her pick up the glass, her hand trembling. The curve of her throat as she held the drink to her lips robbed his breath. His reason. He concentrated his gaze on the coffee machine or it might have been the menu board on the wall. He didn’t know. Because he didn’t know what was happening to him. Or rather he did know but he’d vowed not to lose his heart again. It was never worth the emotional tsunami when the other person backed off. How did anyone capture the art of commitment in such a hectic world?
Somehow life seemed much lonelier nowadays than it ever did before Jessie. He didn’t hanker after her, not since he’d fully accepted how little love there must have been on her side. But he badly missed being one half of a couple. Maybe that’s all it was. Come to think of it, he didn’t get out much.
Who was he trying to kid? He wanted to reach over and cover Zillah’s hands with his own. He mustn’t. This wasn’t a date. He was sitting opposite this beautiful woman simply because she was too polite to tell him to buzz off. She was a fellow entrepreneur with her own agenda. Hal was only too aware his name didn’t appear on that agenda. No way. And why on earth should it?
His filter coffee and dessert arrived. Hal looked down at the soft sponge, coffee butter cream and luscious frosting dotted with dark chocolate beans.
‘I can recommend that one.’ Zillah picked up her fork. ‘I was wondering,’ she said, ‘about something Zak suggested. Should we perhaps consider publicising our businesses on one another’s websites? I know I was less than enthusiastic about your, erm, enterprise when I first heard of it. But quite frankly, I need all the publicity I can get. And I’m more than happy to reciprocate. Provided,’ she said sternly, ‘that the entertainers you promote are squeaky clean.’ She ate some cake.
Hal was caught with his mouth full. He reached for a paper napkin. ‘Squeaky clean?’
‘As in no strippers, no dodgy singing telegrams and definitely no controversial stand-ups. What’s so funny?’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Do I really look the kind of man who’d know where to find a stripper?’
‘No, but I bet Zak would.’
For an instant their gazes met and they laughed together. Then they stopped laughing. Hal leaned forward this time. There was a lot he wanted to say but somehow the words wouldn’t tumble from his lips. He had to clench his fists to stop himself reaching for her hands. Zillah was twisting the sapphire engagement ring on her finger. The ring was white gold, to match her wedding band. Her nails were long and tapering. Beautiful hands. Beautiful woman.
He focused his attention. ‘Rest assured Zak won’t be involved in selecting acts. He’s on my books as an entertainer. You already know how good his voice is. Meanwhile, he seems to be making an excellent job of my website.’
‘Dare I ask what your trading name is? I imagine you’ve decided by now.’
‘Would you believe Hal Christmas? My accountancy contacts know the score and they seem rather amused by the idea of my wearing another hat. Anyone wanting to hire an entertainer doesn’t need to know I’m a boring bean counter in my day job. I’m thinking of a database, covering the Bath and Bristol area, so I can offer children’s party entertainers, good quality DJs for every sort of function plus wedding singers. Zak’s versatile and he says he’ll be around for the next few months so I’m happy to promote his singing. After that, he’ll be living in London.’
Zillah sipped her wine and picked up her dessert fork again. ‘Do you think you two will get on, as housemates, I mean?’
Hal fidgeted with his cup handle. ‘Actually, I’m about to tell Zak it’s not convenient for him to stay after the weekend.’
‘Oh?’
‘I had a meeting with a builder earlier. He inspected the cottage yesterday and it seems one of his clients has pulled the plug on further development, so he can fit me in. He starts work on Monday and I’m planning to move into a bed and breakfast place for however long it takes. It’ll be much easier for my builder guy to get on without me tripping over upended floorboards and asking for the power to be left on at night. No way can I leave Zak there. It really wouldn’t be safe.’
‘I see,’ said Zillah. ‘So he’ll need somewhere to stay?’
‘Yes. I’ve no idea where he is tonight. But if he’s not there when I go home, I must have a chat with him tomorrow. I don’t suppose you know of anyone with a spare room to let for the next few months?’
Zillah’s response surprised Hal. But, he thought miserably, Zak would probably have posed the same question to her on hearing what Hal planned to do.
Zillah let herself into her flat, poured a glass of cold water and flopped down at the kitchen table. After Hal insisted on settling both their tabs and she insisted she was perfectly happy to walk home because that’s what she always did, they’d gone their separate ways, Zillah deep in thought. She’d turned round for a last glimpse, only to find Hal standing, staring after her.
She forced herself to think through the practicalities of inviting Zak Silver to rent her spare room. Most of Daniel’s painting impedimenta, stuff like brushes and palettes, plus ornaments and china and cutlery still in boxes, filled the smallest bedroom. It had always been Zillah’s intention to keep the second bedroom free for guests and potentially for a flatmate. Now, with the possibility of having to deny herself the odd luxuries that helped her through the week, plus fretting whether she could afford an accountant, maybe it was time to do something about it. Clarissa wouldn’t mind. She’d gain extra rent while Zillah’s own standing order payment would decrease significantly.
But could she share space with a man, especially one she hardly knew? It didn’t bother her that Zak was attractive. He was so not her type, even if she was in the market, which of course she wasn’t. He’d be far too much of a handful. Daniel had been attractive to other women but he’d been no Casanova. Zillah knew, since his divorce he’d put all his energies into his work - until he walked into her life. She reached for pad and pen. Before she went to bed she’d compile a checklist for Zak. If he agreed to her terms and conditions, he could take over the spare room and move in on Sunday if he wished.
Only then, with a flash of guilt, did she remember the old-fashioned but valuable gold jewellery that once belonged to Daniel’s mother. This was hidden somewhere Zillah considered to be the best place for it. Gold was fetching good prices these days. She pictured the chunky charm bracelet among the items. Her late mother in law had been a stewardess for an American airline in the early sixties. Tiny gold aeroplanes and an eagle hung from the chain. If she sold the hoard, she could doubtless keep in with the bank and stop worrying how to economise. She wouldn’t have to sublet a room. Yet, somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to let go of jewellery Daniel had given her to cherish. Somehow she must keep going. Some day in the future she might be forced to cash in assets like gold bracelets, necklaces and rings.
*
&
nbsp; Next morning Hal handed Zak a hand-written envelope he’d found pushed through his business mailbox. The singer’s forehead creased as he read the contents.
‘Fan mail already?’ Hal rummaged in the metal filing cabinet.
‘Much better than that. Would you believe the fragrant Mrs Robinson has invited me to share her flat on a short-term basis? She’s offered to show me round after work this evening.’ He punched the air. ‘Yessssssss.’
Hal tried not to reveal his dismay. So last night’s guarded comment from Zillah about knowing someone who might be interested had resulted in this? What was her idea of flat sharing? Was the Fair Miss Frigidaire image just an act? How much did she really fancy Zak? His head was spinning and his tongue suddenly felt too large for his mouth.
Zak was scanning the letter. He thrust the second page into Hal’s unwilling hand. ‘Hey man, how’s that for a list? I’ve got as far as washing machine and my eyes are glazing over. Does it sound reasonable? Not sure I can tiptoe round all the time.’
Hal glanced down the list until he reached a subheading, underlined by Zillah. Unless she was out at a function, she liked to go to bed early and read. If the wannabe tenant decided to bring someone home, she didn’t mind whoever it was staying over occasionally, as long as she didn’t use Zillah’s toiletries and/or make her late for work by hogging the only bathroom. No way would either Zak or any guest of his be allowed to roam the flat without wearing clothes of some description.
Relief flooded him. Hal couldn’t hide his grin. According to these caveats, Mrs Robinson truly didn’t appear to have succumbed to the singer’s charm. Suddenly he felt unaccountably happy. But, with a pang, he realised she might be feeling the pressure of financial matters. He yearned to offer assistance but feared for his life.
‘Pretty reasonable, I’d say,’ he said, handing back the letter. ‘Most of it’s what most people would do anyway. But you certainly won’t be able to watch football matches in your boxers unless your flatmate’s working. It’s lucky for you most weddings take place on Saturdays.’
