A Summer of Secrets (2 page)

It wasn’t until they were packing up that he had an opportunity to speak to her.

‘Busy day?’ he asked, kicking himself at how lame that sounded when he’d had hours to concoct something more original.

Fortunately, she appeared unfazed by his lack of ingenuity.

‘Manic,’ she exclaimed, flopping down into a chair. The manoeuvre caused her skirt to ride up. Rich tried not to gawp at the smooth expanse of thigh now on show. ‘There were supposed to be two of us on today,’ she explained. ‘But my colleague, Sheila, called in sick at the last minute. Just got back from holiday in Egypt. Dicky tummy.’

‘Shame,’ muttered Rich, contorting his features into what he hoped was a sympathetic expression, while wondering – not for the first time that day – if the black nylon covering her legs came in the form of tights or stockings.

‘It is,’ the girl continued, tucking a wayward blonde curl behind her ear in a way that made Rich’s heart stutter. ‘We normally make a proper break of it when we’re away at these things. Use the hotel spa, have a nice meal, that kind of thing. Now I’ll be ordering room service and crashing out in front of
Coronation Street
.’

Rich didn’t reply. He couldn’t. A battle raged in his head: one side desperately trying not to think about stockings, the other attempting to digest the information she’d just hurled at him. Because, if his digesting was correct, it meant she would be staying over tonight. In a hotel. All by herself. And as he would be staying over, too … in a hotel … all by himself … wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity to ask her to dinner? He opened his mouth to do just that, but no words came out. Completely pathetic. He’d never had a problem asking women out before. In fact, although never usually one to blow his own trumpet, his success rate in that area would probably be classed as impressive. Particularly at trade fairs, where a large proportion of the contingent were happy to exchange more than business cards with their counterparts. Something about this girl, though, put her way above all that. And it wasn’t just her killer bod.

‘Anyway …’ She hauled herself to her feet and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. Rich suddenly felt slightly giddy. ‘I’m so shattered, I think all I’m good for is crashing in front of the telly tonight.’

Rich cleared his throat. ‘Right,’ he muttered, feeling like a medicine ball had landed in the centre of his chest, knocking the wind, and his ability to form a sentence, completely out of him. What a plonker. He’d just passed up the perfect opportunity to spend some quality time with this goddess, to find out more about her – assuming, of course, she’d accepted his dinner invitation. Still, he deftly reasoned, there was always tomorrow. He’d be more prepared then; have his thoughts ordered; his usual sparkling, witty repartee polished.

‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she said, gazing at him with the greenest eyes Rich had ever seen.

‘Wh … what?’ he stammered.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she repeated, a slight smile touching – what he considered – her very kissable lips.

‘Oh. Right. Yes. Tomorrow,’ he managed to mumble. Before turning around and colliding with a pile of air-con units: the self-evaporating type with three fan speeds, he absurdly noticed.

Rich didn’t sleep a wink that night. He couldn’t settle. Images of that pert bum and what lay beneath that tight black jacket skipping through his mind like an Irish dancer on acid. And the thought of her curled up in bed wearing God knows what, possibly in the same hotel, possibly in the next room, drove him to distraction.

By the time morning came around, he felt like he’d completed three marathons – in a spaceman’s suit. Despite the dark smudges under his eyes he made every effort to appear the consummate professional, spending an age arranging his hair so it looked naturally dishevelled, and using half a bottle of mouthwash, just in case there’d been any trace of garlic in the bangers and mash he’d consumed the previous evening. Today, he resolved, he would not act like a gawky, adolescent school kid. Today he would be perfectly in control. Play it cool, but not
so
cool she didn’t get the message.

He sucked in a deep, reassuring breath before entering the exhibition hall. Then, affecting his best nonchalant swagger, made his way over to his stand. Spotting the figure at the opposite stand, though – a podgy male figure in a cheap, pinstripe suit, with a jowly, sweaty face – Rich’s swagger dissolved into more of a stumble

‘Morning,’ the chap called over. ‘I’m Eric. I’m manning the stall today.’

Rich’s head began to spin. ‘Um, where’s the, er, girl who was here yesterday?’

‘Had to dash home,’ Eric informed him, tipping a box of branded pens into a wicker basket. ‘Something about a burst pipe. I’ve only been with the company three weeks but there was no one else available at such short notice. Hope I do okay.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ Rich mumbled, an urgent need to sit down suddenly overtaking him. God, what a prat he’d been, passing up that platinum-plated, diamond-encrusted opportunity to ask her out yesterday. What on earth had he been thinking about – other than stockings? He hadn’t been himself, obviously. A few minutes in her dazzling presence and he’d completely lost his head. Still, there was no point crying over spilled milk, he reasoned, as a willowy redhead sashayed past. It wasn’t, after all, as if Ms Theron/Monroe was the only good-looking female on the planet. But as much as he tried to steer his thoughts down that route, or indeed any route which did not include gorgeous, petite blondes, Rich couldn’t shift the image of that delectable form, those startling green eyes, and that tumble of blonde hair from his mind. Three weeks on, the fantasising continued. So much so that, after hours staring at her company’s website, he plucked up the courage to call, under the guise of a prospective customer enquiring about their next sales event.

‘Glasgow,’ a nasally male voice informed him. ‘Then I’m afraid that’s it for the year. The next event isn’t until spring.’

Rich’s heart sank. Glasgow was at least a six-hour drive away. But there was no way he could wait until spring. He’d be a physical wreck by then if he carried on at this rate. So, with all the resolve of a starving lion out to catch his prey, he booked three days’ holiday from work, packed a bag, filled the car with diesel and headed up the road. It had been the middle of November, the slate-grey sky sending forth intermittent flurries of snow. The radio informed him that several roads north of the border had been closed. But Rich ploughed on regardless. Even persistent negative thoughts – that she might not be manning the stand; that he didn’t even know her name; that she could be married with three kids; and that she probably hadn’t given him a second thought since their one and only meeting – didn’t deter him.

By the time he arrived at his destination, he’d been both mentally and physically exhausted. But the moment their eyes met, and her beautiful face lit up, he forgot all about the harrowing journey; all about the mental anguish. It had, he knew instantly, all been worth it.

‘Hi,’ she said, those incredible green eyes twinkling. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I checked the attendees, but your company wasn’t listed.’

‘I’m not here on business,’ Rich informed her.

‘Oh?’ A slight flush touched her smooth, creamy cheeks.

‘I came to see you.’

At which point her extremely kissable mouth broke into a wide smile and Rich’s insides turned to semolina.

They became a couple immediately after that and, even now, fifteen years on, Rich still considered his wife the sexiest female on the planet. And a terrific businesswoman. They’d started Bubbles from scratch and, within the first year, had blasted to smithereens all of his meticulously considered financial predictions. Add to the mix his adorable six-year-old daughter, Bethany – a smaller version of Alison – and life was good. Or at least it had been.

Until two days ago.

When a nineteen-year-old girl appeared in the showroom.

With news Rich could never have predicted.

Chapter Two

‘This tea’s cold’.

Jenny Rutter opened her mouth to point out to her mother that the tea wouldn’t have been cold had she drank it within the first ten minutes of Jenny setting down the cup alongside her. But she promptly clamped her lips shut again. Arguing with Phyllis Rutter, she had long since concluded, was a pointless exercise. At eighty-eight, the woman was still as sharp – and as cutting – as a bacon-slicer; could surpass any politician in the oratory field; and was so set in her ways she made a block of concrete seem pliable. But by far Phyllis’s most distinguishing trait was that, whatever the subject matter – and however well or badly informed she was thereof – she always,
always
, had to have the last word.

So, rather than stating the obvious, Jenny sucked in a calming breath and, on the exhalation, calmly asked, ‘Would you like me to make you another cup?’

Phyllis gave a derisive sniff. ‘Don’t put so much milk in it,’ she sniped, without taking her eyes off the evening TV quiz show Jenny had heard so many times, she could recite the presenter’s banter off-pat.

Jenny picked up the lukewarm drink and wandered into the kitchen, heading straight for the biscuit barrel. Removing the lid, she picked out a chocolate-coated digestive and, as she munched it, tried not to dwell on the fact that, unless something drastic happened to change the status quo of her life, she could be listening to exactly the same banal banter, from exactly the same TV presenter, at exactly the same time of day, for years to come. She had, rather depressingly, been attempting not to dwell on the same fact for the last thirty years.

Jenny had made a relatively late appearance in her parents’ lives. Married for almost twenty years, any reproductive hopes the Rutters might once have harboured had long since evaporated by the time their daughter bowled into the world. To describe her arrival as something of a shock, therefore, was akin to describing Niagara Falls as a steady drip.

And it was a shock from which they seemingly never recovered. Landed with this small being, they appeared dumbfounded as to her origin, and even more dumbfounded as to her purpose. Her intrusion into their well-ordered lives was immediately lodged in the Resentment category; something Jenny had become aware of when she was scarcely out of nappies.

Of course, Jenny was also aware that much worse parenting tales existed: hers didn’t mistreat, neglect or abuse her. They catered for all her physical needs, and even showed an interest in her education. But the two things Jenny craved above all remained sadly missing: love and affection. Never, in her entire childhood, could she recall either of her parents giving her so much as a goodnight peck on the cheek. Even when she’d been in hospital with appendicitis when she was nine, there’d been no reassuring hugs, no meaningful embraces, no heartfelt kisses; nothing more than an awkward patting of her hand.

It was a state of affairs Jenny had come to accept. But never one with which she became comfortable. As she grew older, she consoled herself with the fact that it wouldn’t be for ever, and, to make sure, she meticulously planned her escape. University. That would be her way out. She set her heart on Edinburgh. A romantic, fun city where she imagined her young life really beginning. To ensure the fulfilment of her plan, she worked her socks off at school, desperate to achieve the requisite exam results. The day she received a letter offering her a place to study history had been the happiest of her life.

But, three months before her start date, a tragic event occurred which completely destroyed every one of Jenny’s dreams and, for all she didn’t know it at the time, her entire life plan. While eating his lunch at the desk in the office where he’d worked as an accountant for thirty years, her father collapsed and died of a heart attack. Along with the remainder of his ham and chutney sandwich, on the desk lay an A4 sheet of lined paper, headed up ‘Jenny’s University Costs’, below which nestled a neat column of figures in the distinctive green ink of Cyril Rutter’s fountain pen.

When informed of this fact, and being furnished with the aforementioned list, Phyllis Rutter’s attitude to her daughter – lukewarm at the best of times – slid into glacial territory.

‘Of course we all know what killed him,’ became the woman’s long-standing mantra, predictably followed by a meaningful glower in Jenny’s direction.

Although never close to her father, Jenny had nonetheless been distraught at his death, her reaction not helped by Phyllis’s snide accusations. And as much as Jenny tried to convince herself that it couldn’t possibly have been the university costs that had caused his death – her parents weren’t badly off, and she fully intended contributing financially herself – she couldn’t shake off the heavy cloak of guilt that Phyllis had so callously dumped over her young shoulders.

‘Of course you realise there’s no way you can go to university now,’ Phyllis announced completely out of the blue one evening. Jenny could still recall the moment as if it were yesterday. It was a Thursday and she’d been whipping up omelettes for tea. They’d had omelettes for tea every Thursday since.

‘But why ever not?’ she asked. ‘If it’s about money, you won’t have to contribute a penny. I’ve already got my grant, and I’ll get a part-time job. Waiting on tables, or working in a shop or a –’

‘It’s not about money. It’s about me. You’ll have to stay and look after me.’

Jenny stared at her mother, nonplussed. What was she talking about? The woman wasn’t old. She enjoyed good health and was more than capable of looking after herself. She was about to voice all of this reasoned argument when Phyllis’s next comment drew the strings of Jenny’s cloak of guilt tight around her neck and tied them in an undoable knot.

‘It’s your fault your father’s dead, so the least you can do is carry out his dying wish and stay here with me.’

The ringing of the doorbell jolted Jenny back to the present. She waited for the unfailing response from the living room. It came immediately.

‘There’s someone at the door. You’d better answer it.’

Jenny didn’t bother to reply. Her mother tacked the same unhelpful comment on to every ringing of the doorbell.