Conditional Love (13 page)

Marc was the best-looking boyfriend I’d ever had. Not necessarily the best behaved, mind you, he was certainly no angel. But I’d had a tough day and right now, a couple of hours with this gorgeous man would be the perfect antidote.

‘I thought we could go out for something to eat?’ I smiled back at him.

‘Jump in.’

He ordered for us both. At his suggestion, I steered away from my first choice of chicken and chips and opted for a salad. I chattered about Great Aunt Jane’s bungalow, about meeting the architect and filled him in on my boardroom experience, embellishing the dog’s breakfast story until Marc howled with laughter.

He downed pints of orange juice and kept my wine glass topped up.

He asked me lots of questions about the will and my inheritance and how long it would be until I got the money. It made such a refreshing change to be able to talk freely about it without being judged, without being told what to do or not to do, that I was only too happy to tell him everything.

It felt like I hadn’t had a friend to talk to in weeks.

‘Not seen you at the gym lately. You’ve got to keep your fitness levels up, you know, at your age.’

He’s been looking out for me. Which means he must have missed me. Go Sophie, go Sophie, go Sophie!

I puffed my cheeks out and exhaled. ‘No time, what with this promotion. Busy, busy, busy!’

Marc frowned and gulped down a third of his orange juice. ‘I thought you said it only happened today?’

Did I say that? Darn it.

I nodded energetically and took a dainty sip of my wine. ‘I’ve been preparing for it for weeks, though. Liaising with other departments, negotiating with advertisers, research, planning, preparation…. Non-stop!’

He raised his eyebrows and pulled his lips down at the corners. ‘Good to see you enthusiastic about your job. You always used to sound so bored. Used to drag me down, if I’m honest.’

Gosh. That was a bit of a smack in the face. Change the subject. I don’t want to go down that avenue. Bright and breezy, bright and breezy.

‘Enough about me, anyway.’ I summoned up a cheeky smile. ‘So. How are things in ladies’ underwear?’

Marc had had no choice but to take over his mother’s underwear and hosiery stall after she became ill. I had never met his mum and had no idea what was wrong with her. Whenever I had asked in the past, Marc’s lips had slammed like a clam, so I had learned not to pry. I knew he felt trapped at the market and consequently was always restless and on the lookout for other ways to get his thrills.

His stock answer to this question was that knickers were down and bras were still holding their own. Tonight, his eyes roamed the pub for what seemed like eons, before they finally locked onto mine.

I traced a gash in the pine table with my finger.

Be still my beating heart. Just friends. We’re just friends out for dinner. Yes I know that, but on a scale of one to ten… What about the red-sleeved MX5 driver, eh? Ask him about her! Is she his new princess or was she just queen for a day? Don’t you dare ask him! Act cool and keep quiet!

The wood felt rough against my fingertips.

I was still waiting for his answer. Am I being boring?

I held my breath as Marc covered my hand with his and squeezed it. He released it, folded his arms on the table and leaned in close.

‘I need to get out of the market. It’s doing my head in. I’m still toying with the car business – you know, buying at auction, doing them up and selling them on. But I need to get a lump sum together first, to get me started.’

His eyes flicked away and back again to mine. I noticed his shoulders sag and he stared down at the table.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, aware that my face had heated up. Groundhog Day.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he held a hand up and gave me a sad smile, ‘I know you can’t help. I’ll find a way, just might take me a while.’ He gazed over my shoulder into the distance.

He looked so down-hearted. I could help him so easily once my inheritance came through, but common sense prevailed for once and I held my tongue.

I was dying to touch his hair. I used to say it looked like action man’s; cropped and blonde and soft under my fingers.

Would he mind if I stroked his face?

Marc reached across and cupped my cheek. His touch made my entire body tingle. I covered his hand with mine, hardly daring to breathe. He brought my hand down to his mouth. His gaze locked onto my eyes and he kissed the centre of my palm.

I am all his.

I hope I’m wearing decent knickers.

For goodness sake, Sophie, have some self–respect. Remember Valentine’s Day, when he massacred your heart? It takes more than a plate of Chicken Caesar Salad to win you back, doesn’t it?

No.

Yes!

I snatched my hand back and looked at my watch.

‘Gosh! It’s late! I need to be in early tomorrow – meeting with the MD.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Can you run me home, please?’

Marc looked a bit startled but made a quick recovery. ‘Sure, I’ll just pay up.’

We stood and walked over to the cash desk. Marc began patting down his pockets as the barmaid printed our bill.

He clapped a hand on his forehead. ‘What am I like?’ he grinned at the barmaid, then at me. The barmaid looked from him to me and back again.

‘Oh, right, of course.’

I paid on my debit card. It was only fair, I reasoned. It had been my idea to eat out in the first place. He could pay next time.

fifteen

The bus lumbered through the city centre traffic, out into the suburbs and dropped me in an unfamiliar, quiet residential area.

I checked the piece of paper that I’d scribbled the architect’s address down on.

Yep. Definitely in the right place. Perhaps he worked from home?

I cringed. If so, that made my joke on the phone even worse.

I’d returned Nick Cromwell’s call, to find that he’d finished the feasibility report on Lilac Lane.

‘As I thought,’ Nick had said, ‘there are no obvious obstacles to planning permission on your bungalow. Extension or complete replacement. Perfectly feasible. Up to you.’

His findings had posed more questions in my mind than they had answered, but he seemed pleased, so I joined in.

‘Great!’ I’d replied. ‘So what next?’

‘Would you like to come over and see my portfolio?’

I had snorted with laughter and said, ‘I bet you say that to all the girls!’

We clearly didn’t share the same sense of humour. I could almost see him staring at the earpiece of the phone, his dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

So here I was, in a pleasant, crescent-shaped road lined with pairs of post-war, semi-detached houses. I walked straight ahead, scanning the buildings to check for house numbers.

The address he had given me led to a house with a racing-green front door. The front garden had a neat lawn and a VW Golf parked on a concrete driveway. So he did work from home.

I realised I had no idea about his marital status; he could be married with five children for all I knew. Or he could still live at home with his parents. Or alone.

A scary thought occurred to me. We wouldn’t have to go upstairs, would we? I had visions of walking past radiators covered with boxer shorts and catching a glimpse of his bed through an open door.

Don’t be ridiculous, he’s a professional, he’s been on the radio, of course he’ll have an office.

There were two door bells. One had a small label on it marked
Cromwell Associates
. I pressed it and stood back, peering through the bay window for signs of other possible inhabitants but slim Venetian blinds blocked my view. I thought I heard the dog barking in the garden, but no one answered the door. I pressed the bell again, this time taking several paces back to check the upstairs windows for movement.

A wooden gate opened at the side of the drive and Nick appeared with his dog.

‘You found us then?’

‘Yes.’ No, I’m still out there hunting the streets.

The garden was large, square and mainly grass. No signs of old people, or women or any kids. Just several chewed tennis balls on the lawn. There was a patio at the back of the house and slabs continued in a path to the bottom of the garden. All very ordinary-looking, except for an ultra-modern wooden and glass cabin at the end of the path.

What a relief not to be going into the house!

‘So, do you often lead women up the garden path?’ I said with a laugh as I followed behind him.

He turned and stared at me in alarm.

‘You’re in perfectly safe hands,’ he said sincerely. ‘I never mix business with pleasure. I’m very strict about that.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ I pursed my lips. There was no need to be quite so blatantly disinterested. A teeny bit of flattery wouldn’t have gone amiss.

Nick blinked and I thought for a moment that he was going to say something else. Something wet brushed against my hand.

‘Norman, leave her alone!’ said Nick. ‘He’s a bit of an attention seeker, I’m afraid.’

I bent down and held out my hand to the dog, who sniffed and then promptly rolled over on his back. Shame I didn’t have this effect on other men in my life.

I rubbed his tummy. ‘His name suits him.’

‘Thanks, I named him after Norman Foster.’

I must have looked blank. Wasn’t he a runner? Norman didn’t look particularly athletic to me.

‘The British architect? You know – he designed the Gherkin in London.’

‘Ah yes,’ I said, ‘
that
Norman Foster.’

If I ever go on
Who wants to be a Millionaire
, Nick is going to be on my phone-a-friend list.

He held the door open for me and I went in.

Bookshelves covered one entire wall, holding trade journals, thick folders and neat piles of brick and roof tile samples. The opposite side contained a scarily-tidy white and chrome desk on which sat the biggest computer screen. A matching round table took up the centre of the room, with a state of the art coffee machine squeezed in near the door.

I loved it. It was nicer than my flat.

‘It’s a bit like the Tardis in here!’ I said, taking a seat. The dog settled himself across my feet. ‘Very professional. In fact, it’s one of the nicest offices I’ve ever been in.’

Nick smiled and a dimple appeared in his left cheek. ‘Thank you.’ He picked up two small white mugs from a tray. ‘Coffee?’

I wasn’t keen on posh coffee; it was always too strong and made your breath smell. But I couldn’t see a kettle or any tea-making facilities and after my garden path blunder, didn’t want to be any trouble.

‘Yes, please.’

He switched the machine on and handed me a document to read while he made the drinks.

‘My report. As I said on the phone, the site is ripe for development.’

I flicked through it obediently, while the coffee machine hissed and steamed.

‘You mentioned your portfolio on the phone?’

See? I can be grown up, no sniggering at all that time.

Nick placed a mug of coffee in front of me. It was covered in thick frothy milk and topped with cocoa powder. It smelt divine. He fetched a large black folder from the bookcase and laid it on the table. It took up most of the space and I edged my mug closer towards me for safety.

‘If you do decide to go ahead with any building work in Lilac Lane, it might help to see some of my work. Perhaps it would give you some idea of the possibilities.’

I sneaked a quick look at him while he talked me through some of his previous projects. I detected a note of pride in his voice and his face became animated as he pointed out the details of his designs.

I had a sudden vision of him as a solemn-faced little boy, advising his mum and dad on how to maximise the space in their loft. While other boys were out getting muddy, he would no doubt have been inside, trying to draw the perfect skyscraper.

A bit like me and my doll’s house.

‘It’s amazing what can be done,’ he was saying, pointing to a photograph of a house with a massive extension, ‘even with the most unpromising properties.’

I sucked my teeth.

‘Not that… I mean, yours isn’t. Yours is very promising.’ Nick gave his glasses a quick polish. ‘More coffee?’

I shook my head. It was delicious but I couldn’t see a loo and didn’t want to have to ‘go’ before I left.

‘That’s nice,’ I said, changing the subject charitably. I pointed to a country cottage with a huge glass extension on the back.

‘Ah! Now, that’s in Woodby! Mr and Mrs Lafleur. One of my favourite projects. We salvaged a rundown cottage and brought it into the twenty-first century.’

Nick was staring at the photographs wistfully. Maybe I’d been a bit harsh with the Doc Martin comparison. He was quite capable of talking to people, as long as the subject matter remained strictly business.

It was far too soon to know what I was going to do with the bungalow. Heavens, I’d still got to get over the hurdle of meeting my father yet! But if I did do something, I had a feeling that he was the right man for the job.

Thirty minutes had flown by. I dislodged the dog from my feet, stood up and shook his hand. I had a good look at it, you could tell a lot by a person’s hands. It was dry and warm, his nails were clean and short. Nick coughed. I blushed and dropped his hand quickly.

‘So what are your plans now?’ asked Nick, showing me to the gate.

I pulled a face. ‘Gosh! I don’t plan.’

Why did I just make apostrophes round the word plan? Next I’ll be dropping in moronic phrases like ‘blue-sky thinking,’ and ‘out of the loop’ and ‘going forward’.

Nick nodded, although his expression was one of confusion. I bet he was a planner. I bet he had a diary with everyone’s birthday in it and recorded the number of miles to the gallon he’d done every time he put petrol in his car. I was more of a ‘seat of the pants’ kind of gal.

‘I’d be happy to pull a few ideas together, if you decide to go ahead.’ He pushed the gate open a little way and then stretched a leg across the gap to stop Norman escaping.

I smiled. ‘I’ll think about it.’

That came out wrong. It sounded all flirty. As if he’s asked me out on a date and I’m playing hard to get. Why are my eyes burning?