Flora's Lot

by Katie Fforde

  ‘You could get interested in starter homes, though?’

  ‘Annabelle's father doesn't do starter homes. He's not interested in anything other than the top end of the market.'

  ‘Oh,' said Flora again.

  ‘Besides, I have a business I love.'

  ‘And I love it too.’

  His sigh was audible over the sound of the engine. 'Annabelle and her parents think I should sell out to you. Let you take it over.’

  Flora realised that for him it must be like them suggesting to a mother that they put their child up for adoption. They had probably tried to convince him that it would all be for the best.

  ‘I'd never buy you out, Charles. Apart from the fact that I'd never have the money, I couldn't run Stanza and Stanza without you - even if I trained and had a bit more experience. It would take me years and years before I had even a tiny fraction of your knowledge.' She frowned. 'What on earth must they have been thinking to suggest something like that?'

  ‘That you're very enthusiastic, you already own slightly over half of it, and could employ Geoffrey to help you.'

  ‘They really have discussed it, haven't they?' He nodded.

  ‘They're talking absolute gibberish, aren't they?' He nodded again.

  ‘You wouldn't sell out to me if I offered you a million pounds, would you?’

  He shook his head. 'Not to you, and not to anyone, unless I absolutely had to.'

  ‘Well, you won't have to. Not if I have anything to do with it,' said Flora briskly.

  Charles looked at her a little oddly, and she wondered why. Yet she didn't feel able to ask him.

  ‘I won't be able to give you alcohol,' she said, 'but I can offer you a nice cup of tea when we get home,' she said. 'Possibly a biscuit.'

  ‘I'd really appreciate that,' said Charles. 'Especially the biscuit. It's taking longer than I expected.'

  ‘And we're not there yet. I'll ring Annabelle and tell her how slow we're being. We don't want her to worry.’

  ‘Oh, I'm sure she's not doing that.’

  *

  'I think I'll stop here,' said Charles a little later. 'Before it gets too narrow. Will you be all right on foot?’

  ‘Of course. But how will you turn round?'

  ‘I should manage to turn here OK. But I won't take you up on your kind offer of tea.’

  Flora couldn't decide if she was relieved or sorry. 'I'll stay with you in case you need a push.'

  ‘There's no need—'

  ‘Oh, shut up and do your three-point turn.’

  He did. Perfectly. Flora was forced to get out into the mud. 'Thank you so much!' she said through the car window.

  ‘I should have just taken you home with me.’

  The words tugged at her heart in a strange way. 'I couldn't have gone. The kittens.'

  ‘Oh yes. Well, goodnight, Flora. Don't stand there in the rain. Go home. And I suggest you take your shoes off and go barefoot.’

  She grinned, already soaked down to her knickers.

  It seemed a very long time since she'd left home that morning. She was completely drenched. She padded to the kitchen to wash the mud off her feet before going upstairs to feel the hot tank and check on Imelda and her brood. The tank was hot and Imelda and the kittens were all fine, and Flora began to relax. She turned on the taps and began to run herself a bath. While the water was running, she climbed out of the skirt that was sticking to her, and pulled off her top and then her underwear. She was chilly without her clothes and pulled on her dressing gown. What she needed was a hot cup of tea. She turned off the taps and went back downstairs.

  The kettle had just boiled when she heard the knock on the door. It was either William or Charles, she decided, and went to answer it. It was Charles.

  ‘I got stuck a bit further along the lane,' he said, dripping on the doorstep. 'Can I come in?’

  Flora opened the door wide, finding a smile forcing its way past her embarrassment at being caught in her dressing gown when she wasn't expecting visitors. She found herself very pleased to see him. 'Oh dear. But never mind, I've just run a bath and the kettle will have boiled by now. Which would you like first, a bath or a cup of tea?'

  ‘You must have run the bath for yourself. I couldn't take it from you.’

  The thought that they could share it floated into Flora's mind from nowhere, like a wicked butterfly. She mentally brushed it off. 'Tea then? Or coffee? Will you ring the AA or someone?'

  ‘No. I've rung Annabelle and told her I won't be home.'

  ‘Oh! And she didn't mind?'

  ‘She said you had a very comfortable sofa and it would be better to sort it all out in the morning, when the rain will have stopped.’

  ‘Oh.' Almost too generous, Annabelle.

  ‘I realise you probably don't want guests tonight, when you must be so tired.'

  ‘You're tired too. And you don't need to sleep on the sofa. There's a perfectly good guest room. I'll make some tea.' Suddenly feeling very naked under her dressing gown, Flora retired to the kitchen and then turned in the doorway. 'Or there's the vodka?'

  ‘Let's have the vodka and the tea.’

  She found a glass and some tonic and made him a drink. 'I tell you what, I'll get in the bath, just quickly, and then you can have it after me. You must be chilly and it would take ages for the water to heat up again.'

  ‘That sounds fine. In the meantime, I'll make a fire. Or is it too late to be worth it?’

  Flora glanced at her watch. It was past eleven. On the other hand, the thought of a fire was so cosy.

  ‘That sounds a lovely idea. I'll go and hop in the bath.' She almost ran upstairs. Supposing William had used all the logs Charles was expecting to find? She'd just have to hope he couldn't remember how many had been there. She slipped off her robe and got in the bath.

  The hot water against her cold limbs was heaven. She closed her eyes. Strangely, she found herself thinking about Charles downstairs, lighting a fire. It was such a domestic thing to do. If they were a couple, he'd come up when it had got going and hurry her out of the bath so that he could get in it. She would go down and make a snack, which they would eat together, with the sofa pulled up to the fire.

  ‘Flora?’

  She stifled a scream as she heard Charles's voice.

  When she opened her eyes she realised he was outside the door, not in the bathroom with her. 'Yes?'

  ‘I thought you might have gone to sleep in the bath. The fire's going quite well now. There was more wood than I thought and lots of kindling.'

  ‘Oh good. Yes, I think I had drifted off for a minute. I'll get out now and you can get in. If we boil a kettle we can make it a bit hotter. I think I used all the hot water.'

  ‘I'll go and boil the kettle.’

  When Flora joined him downstairs in the kitchen, her robe was so tightly belted it would have taken Houdini to release it. She hadn't gone so far as to get dressed, or even put on her nightie, but she had put on a pair of knickers, and was covered from neck to ankle in white towelling. She trusted Charles not to jump on her more than she trusted Imelda not to break into song, but she couldn't spend the evening with him without knickers.

  ‘I've put a clean towel in the bathroom, and I found one of my father's old sweaters I stole from him once. It's a bit holey, but cashmere, and wonderfully soft.'

  ‘It sounds perfect.'

  ‘So you take the kettle up and I'll make some supper. Did you get something earlier?'

  ‘Not very much, and it seems a long time ago. I'd love something, but don't go to any trouble.’

  She ignored this. 'Can you put the kettle outside the door when you've finished with it? We might have to have Cup-a-Soup.’

  He laughed. The vodka seemed to have relaxed him. 'Is that all you can offer me? I would have thought you'd done a cordon bleu cookery course at some time in your career.'

  ‘I did, but for that you need ingredients. Now run along.’

  On her mettle, Flora was determined to pr
oduce something half decent, but what? It was quite late to eat a big meal but, on the other hand, she was starving, and Charles was too. She had spaghetti and a jar of pasta sauce, but somehow she had to make it more special.

  She'd learnt a lot from William, subliminally. First, she toasted seeds and nuts and splashed tahini on them. Then she cut up a crust of sliced bread, rubbed it with garlic, cut it into cubes and fried it in olive oil, glad that William had insisted that she bought a good quality one. With something to nibble ready, she started on the sauce. She ran out into the rain and found marjoram, then dug out some salami that Emma had brought and chopped it up. It would still be spaghetti and sauce, but it would be a bit better than just that. There was parmesan left from the weekend that Emma had stayed. Her greatest coup of all was a bottle of red wine that had somehow not been drunk at the dinner party.

  She put another log on the fire, lit candles and turned off the lights, and, for a final touch of cosiness, she brought down the box of kittens and settled them by the fire. She fiddled with her hair but didn't put scent or make-up on. There was still a little smudge of something round her eyes. That would do. She wanted the room to be cosy and comfortable, but she did not want it to look as if she was setting out to seduce him. Because she definitely wasn't.

  ‘Oh,' said Charles as he came down the stairs into the room. 'It looks – very cosy.'

  ‘Good. Now come and sit down. Supper's nearly ready. Glass of wine?'

  ‘Flora, I'm only staying over because I can't get home. You don't have to provide a romantic dinner for two.'

  ‘I have to provide something to eat, and you lit the fire.' She suddenly felt slightly embarrassed. 'We might as well sit in front of it. And I've brought the kittens down for you to play with, so just stop being grouchy. And here, have a nibble.’

  He laughed and the sound of it affected Flora somewhere in her breastbone. The timbre of his voice was one of the most attractive things about him, she realised, wondering how or why she hadn't noticed before.

  Everything took a little longer than she had anticipated and when she finally went into the sitting room, with two plates of spaghetti and sauce, Charles had fallen asleep. A kitten, the little black one who was far shyer than the others, was nestled into his neck.

  As quietly as she could, she set the two plates down on the low table that was in front of the fire. She went back to get her glass, the parmesan, and a jug of water. By the time she'd come back for the last time, he'd woken.

  ‘I must say, this looks delicious,' he said.

  ‘It's just spaghetti and sauce out of a bottle, you don't have to go overboard with the compliments,' she said. 'Tuck in.'

  ‘I'm sorry. That remark obviously stung. What I meant to say was that you didn't need to go to a lot of trouble. A Cup-a-Soup and a bit of toast would have been fine.'

  ‘That's what you'd've got if I'd had any bread,' she laughed. 'Not sure what I'll give you for breakfast. Nettle soup, possibly.’

  He raised his glass to her. 'Slainte.'

  ‘What?'

  ‘It's what they say on Scottish islands with unpronounceable names.'

  ‘Oh. All right then.' She raised her own glass and then took a sip. The look in his eyes when he'd lifted his glass in her direction had done something strange to her.

  ‘Oh, napkins,' she said, and hurried out to the kitchen. What was going on with her? Just because it was late, and the cottage was cosy, there was no need for her to go all girly. It was Charles she was with, not Mr Darcy.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘This is extremely nice!' said Charles, having taken a few mouthfuls.

  ‘No need to sound so surprised. I did do the course. It wasn't cordon bleu, but it taught me a few basics.’

  ‘But I thought you needed ingredients.'

  ‘I had ingredients – well, a jar of sauce and some spaghetti. The rest is just . . . my special magic.' She laughed. She was glad it had turned out so well, but she knew the special magic was pretty much fluke.

  ‘I'm surprised you're not married, Flora.'

  ‘Oh?'

  ‘You're lovely and you can cook. What more can a man ask for?’

  Flora frowned, hoping he was at least in part joking. 'It's not what more a man can ask for, Charles, but what a girl can ask for. These days women are not prepared to settle for mediocre. There has to be a good reason to give up your freedom and independence.'

  ‘That's me put in my place then.'

  ‘Yes.' Flora didn't dare look at him. She knew he was laughing. She was trying not to laugh herself.

  ‘Has this little chap got a name?' he asked. He had put his plate down and started stroking the little black kitten again. 'No. He's terribly shy, usually.'

  ‘I think I'll call him Macheath.'

  ‘Oh? Why?'

  ‘Because I like the name, and because this is the one I want to keep.'

  ‘But, Charles, you can't have a kitten. Annabelle is—’

  ‘Allergic. I know. But I thought we could have an office cat. Everyone would love it.’

  Flora coiled up her last forkful of spaghetti thoughtfully. Charles poured out the last of the wine.

  ‘I was going to offer you tea,' said Flora, suddenly very drowsy.

  ‘I'll make it. It's your turn to have a nap on the sofa.’

  ‘I'll be fine with just the wine, I expect.’

  Charles scooped up another kitten. 'This is so cosy.'

  ‘Mm.' Flora closed her eyes. She wanted to ask if Charles had cosiness like this with Annabelle, but realised she didn't want to hear the answer.

  She was aware of clattering in the kitchen but she allowed herself to doze through it. Eventually she was forced to open her eyes again. Charles was standing in front of her. He put out a hand and pulled her upright. Then he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her, very, very tightly, and rested his cheek against the top of her head.

  She was buried in cashmere that confusingly smelt of both her perfume and of Charles. His arms about her were crushing, making it difficult to breathe, but she would quite happily have stayed there, quietly suffocating, for ever.

  At last he released her. 'Goodnight, little one,' he whispered. 'Now go upstairs quickly. Please.’

  She flew up the stairs and into bed, aware that the kittens were still downstairs, but so confused about how the evening had progressed that she didn't want to go downstairs and fetch them - because it would mean facing Charles again. And not the Charles she'd seen at work for the last few weeks, but a rather different man: softer, warmer and infinitely more sexy. A Charles who, as long as he was engaged, she was much better off not seeing.

  She suddenly felt a rush of jealousy of Annabelle. No wonder she was so determined to marry him! Although somehow, she wasn't convinced that the man she'd just seen a glimpse of was the man who got into bed with Annabelle every night - he just didn't seem Annabelle's type.

  How had things changed so fast? It must be the drama of the storm, the lateness of the hour and the vodka, she decided. In the morning, everything would be back to normal - and the strange man downstairs would have reverted to type and she'd be faced once more with the old Charles, who was definitely no threat to her sleep patterns. Although, frustratingly, there was a nagging part of her which hoped she was wrong. Complicated as it made things, the new Charles was certainly interesting.

  Before sleep claimed her, which, in spite of her frustration, it was threatening to do, Flora wondered what she'd do if Charles and Annabelle broke up. She was asleep before she'd decided on an answer.

  *

  Flora got up early, and went downstairs to check on the kittens. They weren't there. The washing-up was all done, but she'd been vaguely aware of Charles doing that the night before. The kittens were a mystery. She realised as she went back upstairs that Charles must have taken them, and Imelda, into his bedroom, for safekeeping. If she hadn't recently seen a side to him that was nowhere near as unfeeling as he'd appeared at first, that gesture alone
would have brought her round. Although she was determined not to like him too much; she had felt rather too drawn to him for comfort last night. Luckily, she was sure it was only the circumstances. The fire, the food, the wine, the kittens, and the fact that they were both very tired, made them think of bed when normally it wouldn't have crossed either of their minds. Still, it might add a certain frisson to their working day! She met him coming out of the bathroom. 'Good morning!' she said brightly.

  ‘Are you a morning person, Flora?' Charles asked with a smile.

  ‘I think so. Are you?'

  ‘Not specially. I took the kittens and Imelda into my bedroom. I thought they would probably have been all right downstairs, but I knew they were used to human company and I didn't want them to get lonely.'

  ‘That was very sweet of you. They would have been fine, but they are used to being with me. Or is it that I'm used to them?'

  ‘Whichever. Shall I go downstairs and see what I can find for breakfast?'

  ‘That's a good idea. I think it's stopped raining, but everything is still pretty soggy'

  ‘I expect it is. See you in a minute.’

  Flora dressed with all her normal care, although now he'd seen her first thing without her make-up, and last thing when what make-up she had left on was all under her eyes, so it was a little late to impress him. She smiled at her reflection. To her relief, things seemed back to normal this morning. The cold light of day had brought back a rather less sexy, rather more cousinly Charles, which, bearing in mind the situation they were all in, had to be a good thing. She and Emma had once confessed to each other that wherever they worked, they tried to find someone they sort of fancied. They didn't do anything about it, or at least, only if everything else was right, but it sort of cheered up the working day.

  This situation, however, was rather more tricky. If things worked out as Flora increasingly hoped they would, she and Charles would be involved in running Stanza and Stanza together for a long time. A crush, though entertaining, would be disastrous if unrequited - and she had no illusions about either Charles or Annabelle breaking off the wedding. It was only a few months away now, and Charles was hardly going to risk a ten-year relationship for the sake of someone he'd only known a few weeks. As Annabelle had pointed out, he'd been in love with her all his life.