“Right. And you think it’s probably quite a well-run company.”
“I’ve no idea, Dan, but I reckon it would be more successful than many of the other mail order companies. For a start, their catalogue is brilliant.”
“Do you have one there?”
“Not right beside me. I’m actually in the bathroom, Dan.”
“You wouldn’t be able to give me a telephone number, would you?”
Dan heard Nick let out a long sigh. “Well, you’ll have to hang on a minute. The catalogue is downstairs somewhere.”
“Okay. Sorry about this.”
The LCD readout on Dan’s portable telephone registered a further three minutes before Nick came back on the line. “Right. Are you ready for this?”
“Fire away,” Dan replied, hovering his pencil over Nina’s exercise book.
“Telephone number is 01397 890000 and fax is 01397 890110. There doesn’t appear to be an e-mail number.”
“No, that’s fine. Many thanks, Nick.”
“Okay. Can I return to the peace of my Sunday evening routine now?”
“Of course you can, my son. With my blessing.”
Dan didn’t even bother to hang up the receiver. He pressed the button to disconnect the line and then immediately dialed the number that Nick had given him. He just planned to leave a message on the Ansaphone and get them to send off a catalogue to him. He never imagined for one moment that, on a Sunday night, his call would be answered.
“Hullo?” It was a woman’s voice, shrill and questioning, and it gave Dan the immediate impression that his telephone call was not particularly welcome. In the background, there seemed to be a steady, rhythmic thrumming that was loud enough to make Dan hold the receiver an inch or two away from his ear.
“I’m sorry,” Dan said. “I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number. I was trying to get hold of a company called Vagabonds.”
“What?” the voice shouted. It was then that Dan realized that her shrill tone was probably only a consequence of the background noise.
“Vagabonds. Is that Vagabonds?” Dan asked distinctly.
“Yes. Sorry. I should have said that, shouldn’t I? It’s just that we’re a bit hectic here.”
“Well, I was expecting to talk to an Ansaphone. I didn’t think that anyone would be working on a Sunday night.”
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. I’m afraid that I’m in the workshop and all the machines are going.”
Dan decided then that it wasn’t going to be worth asking for a catalogue. Better all round if he called back in the morning. On the other hand, he couldn’t just hang up.
“Am I talking to Katie Trenchard?” Dan asked, stepping up the volume of his voice.
“Yes. Who’s that?”
“You don’t know me, but my name is Dan Porter. I live in London.”
“Yes. Excuse me, can you hold the line for a moment, please?” Dan heard a muted question being asked and the woman replying, “No, just finish off the XLs tonight. We can put out the Ls tomorrow evening.” She returned to the receiver. “I’m sorry. How can I help you?”
“Right, well, I’ve just read this article about you in a magazine.”
“Magazine, yes.” Another machine seemed to have been added to the general cacophony of background noise, this one being situated not very far from Katie Trenchard’s mouthpiece.
“And there were a couple of photographs too.”
“So you’ll want to come up to see me.”
“What?” Dan asked, taken aback by the woman’s directness.
“When do you want to come up, then?”
Dan felt strangely bemused. My word, he thought, it’s not a wonder this woman has made a success of her company if she’s able to catch people off guard like this. “Hold on, I wasn’t thinking exactly . . .”
“What?”
Dan took a deep breath to steady himself. “I just wanted to ask a few questions.”
“That’s fine. I’m quite happy to do that. How about sometime this week then?”
Dan now began to laugh to himself. Katie Trenchard was obviously a born seller. All he had been meaning to do was to ring up for a catalogue, and here he was, on a Sunday night, being invited up to the wilds of Scotland as a prospective buyer of her company. He, Dan Porter, who had never been north of Manchester in his life!
“Erm,” he muttered, trying to think of some way of stalling her for a moment. “Right; just let me have a look in my diary.” He clamped his hand over the receiver. What the hell was he doing? Just say “Thanks, but no thanks” and end the call. He stared down at the notes he had made in Nina’s exercise book. Come on, you fool, he thought to himself, there is an opportunity here. You know that. If you just say you’re not going to go, you’ll regret it in the long run. And anyway, why the hell suddenly be so cautious? You were never that way in the City.
Dan made a quick surmise of his present domestic situation. Jackie was in Paris, back on Tuesday; the kids were at school for the week; Battersea Gran would probably be able to come round and look after them and the dogs. So why should he not just go? It would probably do him a load of good to get away from the house and from London for a couple of days. What’s more, even if nothing came of it, it would at least give Jackie the impression that he was actively pursuing some form of gainful employment.
He took his hand away from the receiver and held it to his ear. The background noise seemed to have increased in volume. “When could I come up?” he asked.
“What? Listen, I’m sorry. I’m going to go outside the building.” Dan heard a door slam and immediately the noise became a distant hum. “That’s better. Now, what did you ask me?”
“When would it be suitable for me to come up?”
“Well, the earlier part of the week would be best. I’m going to be away all day tomorrow, but Tuesday would be good.”
“Right. And what’s the best way of getting to where you are?”
“Did you say you were based in London?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s an overnight sleeper that goes direct from Euston to Fort William. That gets you here at about a quarter to ten in the morning. Or you could fly to Glasgow, and then take the train. Either way, if you call this number when you get to the station, I could get someone to meet you.”
“Okay.” Dan took a deep breath. “So Tuesday’s fine with you?”
“Absolutely. I look forward to meeting you . . . er . . . sorry, what was your name again?”
“Dan Porter.”
“Right . . . Dan. And, as a matter of interest, what was the magazine again?”
Dan walked over to the table and flipped it over to the front cover. “Woman’s Weekly.”
“Oh, all right then.” Her reply seemed flat, almost registering a slight air of disappointment. “I’ll see you Tuesday, then.”
The telephone call to Battersea Gran was brief. She was quite happy to look after the children for a couple of days, but for once she kept the conversation brief, being engrossed in her regular Sunday night viewing of Monarch of the Glen. Dan put down the receiver with a wry smile on his face. If she had but known that he was heading off to a place that had to be similar in many ways to the untamed wilds of Glen Bogle, then she would have gleaned from him every last bit of information about his motives for going—as well as asking him to get Susan Hampshire’s autograph while he was there.
Dan left the kitchen and ran up the two flights of stairs to his office. He pressed the START button on his computer before returning to the landing.
“Josh?” he called down the stairwell.
He heard a splash from the bathroom.
“What?”
“Come up to my office when you’re finished, would you?”
He went back into his office and sat down at his desk, simultaneously clicking the mouse on the Internet icon. By the time Josh appeared, still dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his lower torso, Dan had the train schedule from Eusto
n to Fort William up on the screen.
“Yeah?” Josh asked.
“Listen, I’m going up to Scotland for a couple of days,” Dan said, without taking his eyes away from the screen.
“You’re what?”
Dan laughed. “I’ll be back on Wednesday or Thursday, depending on train times. I’ve called Battersea Gran and she’s coming over to look after you all until Mum gets back.”
“Why on earth have you decided to go up to Scotland?”
Dan bit on his lip, then turned to Josh. “I’ll tell you only if you promise that it won’t go any further.”
Josh raised his eyebrows. “In-trigue.”
A new page had come up on the screen. Dan made a selection before continuing. “I’m going to take a look at that company, Vagabonds.”
“Vagabonds?” Josh asked. “For what reason?”
“Because it’s up for sale.”
Josh let out a short, derisive laugh. “Hang on, you’ve lost me. You’re not saying that you’re thinking of buying it—are you?”
“Well, let’s just see, shall we? You said yourself that the market has hardly been scratched. I think it’s worth finding out a bit more about them.”
“Wow!” Josh exclaimed in quiet incredulity. Dan felt a light punch on his left shoulder, and he turned to look at his son who was slowly nodding, a grin of “reespect” on his face. “Nice one, Dad. Go for it.”
“Keep it to yourself, though.”
Josh gave him a wink and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “Mum’s the word.”
Dan smiled and shook his head. “No, Josh, that is definitely not the word.”
10
As Jackie entered her hotel bedroom that evening, a soft wedge of reddened sunlight flooded across the thick patterned carpet, eventually trapping itself under the footwell of the small leather-inlaid desk that stood against the wall. Throwing her handbag onto the bed, she took a coat hanger from the wardrobe and hung up her suit jacket, then walked across to the full-length window and opened it. She leaned her hands on the wrought iron guardrail and breathed in the warm air, filled with the rich aromatic smells of the city, as she looked out over the glinting skyline of Paris from her vantage point on the heights of Montmartre. The incessant traffic hummed busily below her on the Boulevard de Clichy, broken now by the melodious bells of Sacré Coeur calling out the evening mass.
A smile of contentment brushed across her mouth. Everything had gone to plan over the weekend—the meeting with the Chambre Syndicale, the suitability of their venue in the Bourdelle Museum. And what’s more, she had received e-mails both from the agency in London confirming the model bookings and from the set designer saying that all would be completed by the time that she returned to London.
Back to London. The mere thought of it immediately replaced her calm with a stomach-knot of agitation. She loved having her own space, being able to return to her hotel bedroom every evening and relish the successes of each day. She couldn’t do that in London. Every evening was the same when she returned to the house in Clapham. No matter what her mood, the oppressive atmosphere of gloom and despondency that emanated throughout the place would envelop her and she would almost physically sense her own character being overpowered by ill-feeling and contempt. And she knew that it was Dan who was wholly to blame for bringing about that change in her.
Taking in a long, steadying breath, Jackie closed her eyes and concentrated on locking those bad thoughts away. She cast her mind back over the past few days and realized that since boarding the Eurostar at Waterloo Station, she had neither been stressed nor bad-tempered. She had had no reason to be, or what was maybe more accurate, nobody had given her reason to be.
Yet she hadn’t been by herself, had she? When Stephen had first suggested that he come with her to Paris, her immediate reaction had been to put him off the idea. She had wanted to be free from male company, to do her own thing without having to make the effort of conversing with another man. But she had realized soon after their arrival in Paris that the disruption at home and the possible problems that she thought might arise during her visit had left her feeling quite vulnerable and unsure as to whether she would be able to cope. Over the course of the weekend, Stephen had proved himself to be a true friend and a wonderful support, and being in the company of someone so much younger than herself and without having the burden of her family weighing constantly on her mind had made her feel enlivened and youthful and carefree.
That day, having wrapped up their workload by noon, they had enjoyed a prolonged lunch together in one of the small restaurants below the steps of Sacré Coeur, where cars rattled at speed along the cobbled street. The waiter, dressed in a starched white ankle-length apron, served the six tables with an unquestioning attentiveness, and although Jackie had tried to banish the idea from her mind, she could not help but sense a notion of illicit romance about them being together, tucked away in the little backstreet restaurant, with the warming flow of red wine in her throat and the lingering tang of garlic on her tastebuds. As she and Stephen had laughed together across the table, she had had a momentary pang of guilt, thinking that if she had made the trip with Dan, maybe it would have been beneficial to their relationship. But even that one fleeting thought had pervaded her being with a shivering anxiety and she had dismissed it immediately, determined to free herself of reality for as long as their trip lasted.
A rhythmic knock on her bedroom door broke her away from her thoughts. She closed the window and walked across to the door and opened it. Stephen stood outside in the corridor, a grin on his face and a bottle of champagne and two glasses in his hands. He raised them up, a questioning slant on his mouth.
“How about a bit of a celebration?”
Jackie leaned a hand against the door, a barrier against his entry. “I thought that’s what we were doing at lunchtime.”
“This one’s on me,” he said, sidling his way past her into the bedroom.
“I really think that I’ve had enough,” Jackie stated without moving away from the door. It could have been taken as a flat refusal, had she not followed it with a bubble of laughter as she watched Stephen disregard her opinion entirely, untwisting the wire and exploding the cork from the bottle. He poured a froth of champagne into each glass, waiting for it to settle before topping both up. He held out a glass at arm’s length towards her, leaving Jackie no option other than to shut the door and walk over to take her glass.
“Here’s to you, then,” Stephen said, clinking his glass against hers.
“And to you, too. I think we’ve both done a pretty good job sewing up all the loose ends.” Jackie took a mouthful of champagne, feeling it pierce the sides of her mouth like icy needles before slipping in a cold cascade down her throat. “Ooh, that is delicious.”
She would have put her hand over the top of her glass, but Stephen moved too fast for her. He filled it to the brim once more. “I don’t think that we’ve done a pretty good job. It was entirely you. I’ve never felt such a spare prick in all my life. I admit that, on this occasion, I was wrong. One head turned out to be infinitely better than two.”
“That’s not true. I’m really glad you came.”
Stephen paused. “Are you?”
“Yes. I know now that I did need the moral support.”
Stephen moved towards her. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind me doing this, but I find it rather disconcerting talking to you with that speck of dirt on your face.” He reached up and brushed the side of her cheek gently with his thumb. The particle disappeared, but Stephen kept his hand inches away from her face, trying to judge what her reaction had been to his touch. He felt butterflies rise in his stomach when Jackie made no attempt to move away from his outstretched hand.
“Must have got there when I was at the window,” she said. “Has it gone?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Your face returns once more to its usual perfect flawlessness.” He inched his hand back and rested it against the peach-smoothness
of her skin. Then he felt the pressure as her head tilted to his touch. That was enough. He didn’t need to know any more right now. She had showed willingness by that one almost imperceptible action. But he had to play this game so carefully. Everything depended on it—his job, the future. He dropped his hand to his side, noticing as he did so a momentary look of surprise on Jackie’s face. He smiled at her, knowing that she would probably take it as one of affection. Only he knew that it was indeed one of satisfaction.
“I’m sorry,” he said, placing the offending hand in the small of his back. “That was uncalled for. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Jackie shook her head. “There was no harm in it.” She smiled. “At least we’re both adult enough to know that it couldn’t have been taken any further.”
“Of course not.” He filled up his champagne glass and took a swig. “What would you have done, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I had tried to take it further.”
Jackie shifted her glance away from Stephen. He noticed a pinky glow rise to her cheeks, but he had an idea that it was embarrassment, or maybe a flush of excitement that had caused it, rather than anger at his suggestion. “I’m a married woman, Stephen, with three teenage children. You shouldn’t ask me that kind of question.”
Stephen shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe you’re right. I do know, however, that you have been in better form over these past few days than I have ever witnessed in all the time that I’ve known you. The trouble is that I know the reason for that, because you’ve told me—on more than one occasion. When we walked into that restaurant today, I saw men stop eating and turn to look at you, and I can tell you that to be able to draw a Frenchman’s attention away from his food takes some doing. I bet that if you had stopped to tell them that you were the mother of three teenage children, you would have been met by a chorus of ‘Mais ce n’est pas possible!’ I tell you, I was proud to be with you, even though it was under slightly, well, false pretences.”
Jackie smiled at him. “That’s a very kind thing to say.”
A Risk Worth Taking Page 9
