“I can well see why. He’s a great man.”
Tommy came back to his forklift and rested once more on his next load of prawn boxes. “I’ll agree with you entirely on that. Now, I mind the time when . . .”
The story took all of ten minutes to recount, and Dan began to cast surreptitious glances at his wristwatch. He was meant to be up at the yacht marina in fifteen minutes. He realized now why the lorries had taken so long to load. Tommy was a born storyteller. Dan wanted to grab the boxes on which the forklift driver rested his hands and get on with the loading, but he knew that it would be taken as an unfriendly action, so he resigned himself to listening to the whole drawn-out account.
“Aye, he’s a fine man,” Tommy concluded eventually, picking up the boxes and thus allowing Dan to dive in for his next load. “Right, just one more pallet after this one.”
Dan groaned quietly.
Exactly at the time of his rendezvous with Ronnie, Dan slammed shut the backdoor of the van and pulled down the heavy levers on the airtight doors. Pulling off his gloves, he glanced toward the narrow entrance gates, just to get a judgment on their width before he reversed out. “Oh for God’s sake!” he exclaimed, throwing his gloves to the ground in frustrated fury. “What the hell is he doing parked there?”
The red BMW, which he had seen earlier down at the harbour, was drawn up perfectly into the gateway, leaving no more than six inches’ gap between each of its bumpers and the gate pillars. Dan ran over to the entrance, squeezed his way past the car, and looked up and down the street. He saw the bulky figure of the man waddling his way jauntily up the street.
“Hey, mate!” Dan yelled out.
The man turned and looked back towards him. “Are you, by any chance, addressing me?” he asked in an aggravatingly high-pitched voice.
“Too right I am. What the hell are you doing parking your car there? It’s a bloody gateway.”
“Well, that may be so, but there’s no sign of a yellow line. I’m quite within my legal rights to park there.”
“Come on, that’s being bloody obtuse. There are no lines at all on this street. You could have parked anywhere.”
“And I choose to park exactly there.”
Dan realized that being rude to the man wasn’t going to help matters. “All right, then. Would you mind please moving your car? I happen to have a pretty valuable load of prawns on that van, and I have to get them back to Fort William as soon as possible.”
The man’s flabby features spread wide into an ingratiating smile and he took a few steps back towards Dan. “Do I have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Dan Porter?”
Dan breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that his diplomacy was working. “You do. And you must be Mr. Maxwell Borthwick.”
The man stopped. “That’s right.” He pulled up the sleeve of his overcoat and studied his watch. “Well, Mr. Porter, I have an extremely important meeting to attend, and I’m afraid that I’m late as it is”—he turned and waved his hand in the air—“but it should take no more than an hour.” With that, he hurried away with the grace of a seal making for water.
Dan thought about running after the man and laying into him, but realized that it would be a pointless exercise. As he squeezed past the car again, he felt like turning and sinking a foot into its highly polished side, but again knew that it would only lead to trouble.
He was walking back to the van to get his mobile to call Ronnie when he saw the pile of pallets at the side of the load yard. They were stacked three deep and to a height of at least eight feet. He studied them for a moment, then walked over and gave them a shake. They were as solid as a rock. He glanced back at the car, his head to the side as he studied the miniscule gaps at either end. Then he turned and went off to find Tommy, the forklift driver.
Tommy was a complete artist with his truck. Having coupled on fork extensions, he edged them carefully under the BMW and jammed some old sacks and a couple of blankets between the bodywork and the retaining frame so that there would be no possibility of damaging the car. Then he lifted the car effortlessly off the ground and slowly moved backwards, his eyes darting from one end of the car to the other as he negotiated it through the gateway. Once clear, he picked up a little more speed, reversing back and twisting the forklift round so that it sat directly opposite the pallets.
“Are you sure they’ll take the load?” Dan asked, having second thoughts as to whether his idea had been such a good one after all.
“Without a doubt. They could hold a lorry up there.”
He drove the forklift forward until the car was inches from the pallets and then continued to lift it until the wheels were exactly level with the top of the stack. He once again edged forward, working his lift, tilt, and sideshift levers as quickly and as accurately as a touch typist, until he had the car exactly where he wanted it. Then he settled it down, without so much as a scuff mark on its shiny red bodywork, high up in its new parking place.
As he reversed the forklift back, Tommy turned to Dan and shot him a wicked grin. “Aye, and there are no yellow lines up there either. He can park on my pallets as long as he likes, which is just as well, because I’m going off for the day now.”
As he sped away into the shed, there was a squeal of tyres and Ronnie’s little Peugeot came careering into the yard. He pulled to a halt and emerged slowly from the van, his eyes fixed on the BMW teetering up on its perch, his mouth bearing the expression of a surprised goldfish. “Now what, may I ask, is going on here?” he asked in a voice that trilled with laughter.
“Sorry for not making the rendezvous, Ronnie. I had a bit of a run-in with our friend Mr. Borthwick. He parked his car right in front of the gates so that I couldn’t get the van out.”
Ronnie’s shoulders had begun to shake with silent mirth. “Oh, boy,” he said, still staring at the car, “wait until Patrick hears about this. He will surely laugh himself clean out of his bed.” With a click of his fingers, Ronnie hurried round to the back of his van. “I think we should get you away from here before the local constabulary hear about your wee escapade.”
Less than a minute later, the Campbeltown consignment was loaded into the refrigerated van. Dan slammed shut the back door, pulled hard on the levers, and turned with his hand outstretched to the still-chuckling buyer.
“Good to meet you, Ronnie.”
“Aye, and it’s been a pleasure meeting you too, Dan Porter. You’re a man after Patrick’s heart, and I dare say that you’ll be making a good few friends while you’re up here in Scotland as well.”
Dan raised his eyebrows. “And probably one or two enemies as well.”
Ronnie glanced up at the BMW. “Aye, that is probably quite an understatement of fact.” He gave Dan a friendly slap on the arm. “But no doubt you’ll be able to cope with that.”
Dan walked around to the driver’s door and pulled it open. “I’ve coped with worse in my time.”
Ronnie shot an index finger at him and winked. “I’m sure you have, Dan Porter. I’m sure you have.”
19
The new full-time receptionist at Rebecca Talworth Design Ltd. sorted through the morning’s post with practiced speed. Even though still at the tender age of nineteen, she had had the experience of working for a large litigation law practice in the Docklands where filing precision had been considered an essential and integral part of the firm’s success. She checked each envelope first to make sure that it didn’t bear a mark of confidentiality, and then, slitting it open with a letter knife, she discarded the envelope into the wastepaper bin and placed the letter in its relevant in-tray. Once she had finished, she gathered up the contents of each tray, slipped them into individual cardboard folders, twanged on the elastic retainer bands, and then, cradling the folders in her arms, she went off to deliver them to their respective recipients.
Her first port of call was to the office of Stephen Turnbull, the young and, to her mind, extremely good-looking financial director of the company. As she made to knock on the glass
door of his office, he looked up and saw her, his face lighting up in a broad smile, and there was a glint in his eye that made her knees turn to jelly. She could sense immediately the involuntary flush that had been brought to her cheeks. He come-hithered her with his index finger and she entered the office.
“Good morning, Carrie,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind the slicked-back hair on his head. “How are you this morning?”
“I’m well, thank you, Mr. Turnbull,” Carrie replied, trying to avoid looking into his dark-brown eyes by casting a glance first at her armful of files and then out of the window behind him. A pigeon had settled down to preen itself on the rooftop of the building opposite and it was positioned in such a way that it appeared to be sitting on top of his head. She bit at her bottom lip to stop herself from laughing. “And how are you?”
“Couldn’t be better.” He pushed himself forward and leaned on the desk. “Listen, let’s drop this ‘Mr. Turnbull’ bit. This is not a stuffy old law firm. Stephen’ll do fine.”
“All right”—Carrie felt her face colour even more—“Stephen.”
“Good.” He held a hand out for his file. “Anything interesting for me today?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid,” she replied, handing him the file. “Oh, there are the press cuttings from Paris. I didn’t read them, though. I thought that you might like to see them first.”
Stephen flicked the elastic bands off the file, and then hurriedly sifted through his mail before extracting the stapled pages of the press reports. He glanced quickly through them, dropped them on his desk, and clenched his fist into a tight ball.
“Are they good?” Carrie asked tentatively.
“They are bloody wonderful, Carrie. They are truly bloody wonderful.”
Carrie lifted her shoulders in girlish glee. “Oh, that’s terrific. Jackie will be delighted.”
“You bet she will,” Stephen replied, casting a smiling glance past the receptionist and across to the office opposite where Jackie sat at her desk. The steely glare that met him made the smile quickly disappear from his face. “Right,” he said, his voice suddenly becoming brusque. “I think that will be all, thanks, Carrie. I won’t hold you back. I’m sure you’ve got lots to do.”
The young receptionist became flustered at his sudden change of tone. “Right, yes, of course I have. I’m sorry I’ve kept you.” She hurriedly left the financial director’s office and averted her eyes from his gaze as she walked along the corridor to make her next delivery.
Stephen pushed aside the file and picked up the press reports. He held them up, facing Jackie, and brushed their top edge against his mouth. She looked at him quizzically before her mouth dropped open in realization of what he was showing her. He shot three consecutive winks at her, and she immediately understood their meaning. She jumped up from her desk and ran through to his office.
“What are they like?” she asked breathlessly.
Stephen spun the press cuttings across the desk towards her. “See for yourself.”
Jackie picked up the pages and flicked through them, her face becoming more animated with each one. “They’re brilliant, Stephen. Every one of them is absolutely brilliant!”
Stephen laughed. “I know. And that’s even with Gaultier showing at the same time.”
“Has Rebecca seen these?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. She’s still at home. We’ll fax them through and see what she has to say about them.”
“She couldn’t be anything but pleased.”
“I would hope so. It depends on how the mood takes her.” Stephen pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “However, I think that we should feel extremely pleased with ourselves,” he said, walking around behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders, “because it was us who put the whole thing together.” He blew gently on her right ear.
Jackie, who had been engrossed in the press reports, suddenly realized what was happening. She pulled away from his hold and began casting furtive glances around the open-plan office. Nobody appeared to be looking in their direction. “Stephen!” she exclaimed in a laughing whisper. “For goodness’ sakes, don’t do that! I’ve told you before, we don’t mix business with pleasure.” She leaned back on his desk, keeping a safe distance between them, as she nonchalantly continued to read the reports.
“What a pity,” Stephen replied, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, “because I wouldn’t mind taking you right here and now on my desk.”
“Oh, wouldn’t you?” Jackie asked, without shifting her eyes from the paper. “And I suppose that Carrie would be in line for the same kind of treatment.”
“She’s not my type. I don’t go for—”
“Younger women?” Jackie cut in, lifting her head sharply to watch for his reaction.
“That was not what I was going to say.” He moved towards her, made to put his arms around her, but then checked himself and instead folded them across his chest. It was he, this time, who cast a glance around at the other offices. “You know how I feel about you, Jackie. I wouldn’t muck around.”
Jackie let out a sigh. “Aren’t we both guilty of that already, Stephen?”
Stephen grabbed the press reports out of her hand and waved them in front of her face. “Listen, we shouldn’t be talking like this today. We’ve got great news. Rebecca Talworth is made, and all thanks to us. We should be celebrating.”
Jackie smiled at him. “You’re right. We should be.”
Stephen let out a sigh of relief. “Jeez, I’m glad you said that. You had me worried there for a minute.”
“I worry myself quite often.”
“Well, don’t.” He gave her arm a quick squeeze. “Listen, I’ve got a great idea.”
“And what might that be?”
“I have to head off to Milan the week after next to see if I can strike a deal over the rental of the new premises. Why don’t you come with me?”
Jackie shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got something on.”
“What have you got on?”
Jackie laughed. “I don’t know exactly what. I’d have to check my diary.”
“Come on, then.” He grabbed her forcefully by the arm and marched her out of his office, across the corridor, and into her own. “Right, let’s check it.”
Having been made to hurry, Jackie now took her time, deliberately flicking through the pages of her diary. She came to the appropriate date and ran her finger down the central spine to smooth them open. “Can’t do it, I’m afraid. It’s Millie and Nina’s half term.”
Stephen detected the hint of disappointment in her voice, and sensed that all was not lost. “Surely the great and wonderful Battersea Gran could look after them?”
“God, don’t talk about her. She’s been a nightmare lately. I get a different lecture every time I go home.” Jackie drew down the sides of her mouth as she reeled off a host of Battersea Gran’s requests in a whining Cockney accent. “Why can’t you make an effort to go to one of Nina’s concerts? Can’t you do some of the shopping for a change? It would be nice if you could at least be here at the weekends, so I could go back to my own place for a bit. And why don’t you ever phone Dan?”
Stephen’s eyes lit up. “Why don’t you?”
Jackie shot him an acid look. “Don’t you start as well.”
“I’m not meaning it in that way. Why don’t you call and ask if the girls can go up to stay with him and your son for half term? It would be a great adventure for them. Have they ever been to Scotland?”
“No,” Jackie replied with a shrug.
“Well, there you are. There’s your solution. And what’s more, you’d be scoring a few Brownie points with Battersea Gran by letting her get back to her flat for a week.”
Jackie pulled the arms of her chair forward and sat down, and began kneading her forehead with her fingertips.
“What’s the matter?” S
tephen asked.
She dropped her hands to the desk. “I don’t think you quite realize how difficult all this is for me.”
Stephen moved behind Jackie, leaning one hand on the back of her chair, the other on her desk. To anyone who might have witnessed this action from the corridor, it would appear as if he had just made the move to read something over her shoulder. But Stephen was close enough to see the goosebumps rise when he blew softly on the back of her neck and he could smell the heady muskiness of her perfume.
“I do understand, Jackie, believe me, I do, but I want you to be with me all the time. I need you to be with me all the time. And I know that you feel the same way about me. I don’t want anything ever to come between us, Jackie, because if that happened, I just couldn’t cope with working here anymore. We’re a great partnership, my girl, not only in business, so why should we do anything to break that up?” He reached for the telephone receiver, picked it up, and held it out for her. “Go on, give Dan a call”—he leaned over and pressed his mouth to her ear—“and think about Milan!” he whispered.
Jackie took the receiver from him but made no attempt to dial. “Do you really mean that, about wanting me, Stephen?” she asked without turning her head to look at him.
“I think you know me well enough by now, don’t you? When I want something badly enough, I’ll go all out to get it. And once I’ve got it, I’ll never let it out of my grasp again.”
Jackie closed her eyes as she felt his breath tickle the back of her ear. “Would you mind leaving the office, then, while I make the phone call?”
Stephen glanced out at the corridor, then over to the other offices, and finally across to the reception desk. When he was sure that everyone was occupied at work, he planted a light kiss on the nape of Jackie’s neck. “Of course. Good luck.”
Jackie waited until he was back at his desk before punching in the quick-dial number of Dan’s mobile. As it rang, she pulled in a long, settling breath, feeling herself shudder nervously as she let it out.
A Risk Worth Taking Page 20
