Semi-Sweet (17 page)

“It’s just,” Maureen said, patting her hair and glancing around at the little knots of women, “I saw Leah Bradshaw this afternoon.”

Geraldine bit into the macaroon and chewed. Fiona Bradshaw was safely across the room.

“And I’d
swear
,” Maureen said, lowering her voice a notch further, almost mouthing silently now, “that that girl is expecting. She has all
the signs of it. Her face is swelled up, and she was wearing—”

“You don’t say,” said Geraldine briskly. “Isn’t that lovely? Fiona must be thrilled.” She put down the macaroon that had suddenly
begun to taste of cardboard.

Maureen’s eager face fell slightly. “Yes, I’m sure she is,” she said, “but poor Hannah will be very upset, I’d say.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Geraldine said. “Didn’t I mention? She has a lovely new man, a master carpenter from Scotland. He’s totally
smitten—and he’s loaded, from what Hannah tells me.” She lowered her voice to match Maureen’s. “Now, say nothing to anyone—Hannah
would kill me—but he owns an island. Quite a substantial one, apparently.”

It was worth the risk of the story’s getting back to Hannah to see the look of pure deflation that spread across Maureen’s
powdered features.

“Oh.” She took a second slice of Aoife’s Victoria sponge from a nearby plate. “Oh, isn’t that great. Oh, I’m delighted to
hear that.”

She could easily be mistaken—what had she to go on but a puffy face and some baggy clothes? Didn’t all the young ones wear
baggy clothes these days? And, anyway, what difference could it make to Hannah now? Geraldine would say nothing. Maureen probably
had it all wrong.

She picked up her macaroon again. “You have jam on your chin, dear,” she told Maureen, a little too loudly.

She was in black again. The same long skirt, he thought, that she’d been wearing the first time he’d seen her. A long-sleeved
black top that showed a couple of inches, no more, of her throat. Flat black shoes, black tights. Her pale hair gathered up
and caught high on the back of her head.

She played with the same ferocious concentration, barely looking up from the music on the stand in front of her, not acknowledging
in any way the scattering of applause between numbers. He wondered what her smile looked like, what it might do to her face.

Small Change they were called, according to the barman.
Know anything about them?
Adam had asked, but the barman didn’t. And here came Nora, threading through the knots of drinkers toward him, wearing a
tight-fitting green top he hadn’t seen before and a pair of loose, faded jeans.

“Hi there,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Oh, nice aftershave; who are you trying to impress?” She turned to the barman as
he placed Adam’s pint in front of him. “Martini, very dry.” She perched on a stool beside Adam. “I have news,” she said. “I
got that job.”

“The one with the paper?”

“Yeah, the one with the paper.”

Her eyes were dramatic, all dark-ringed and long-lashed. Her curly hair was loose and smelled of coconut. She grinned. “You
should see your face.”

He was better-looking than she’d been expecting. She’d assumed that any man who’d go for nice-but-boring Hannah Robinson couldn’t
be up to much, so Patrick Dunne had come as a pleasant surprise.

Lovely to meet you
, she’d said, when they were introduced. Gripping his hand firmly, meeting the dark brown eyes. Reacting to a handsome man
the way she always reacted, with undiluted charm.
So you’re looking for a new PA.

She’d BS’d her way through the interview. She’d skirted her lack of qualifications, she’d deflected questions with more questions,
she’d made him laugh more than once. She’d pulled out all the stops to make him feel that she was the PA he wanted, that what
she lacked in credentials would be more than made up for with enthusiasm and initiative, and it had worked.

But of course she’d known that it would work. Nora O’Connor had always known what men wanted.

“Leah wasn’t exactly over the moon when I told her,” Nora said. “Probably thinks I’ll seduce Patrick—as if.” She flashed a
smile at the barman as he brought her drink. “Did I mention that she’s pregnant, by the way?”

Adam stared at her. “What?”

“She told me the other day, when she was giving me the massage. Don’t know if you want to say anything to Hannah.”

“She told you she’s pregnant?”

“Yeah—she’s due in June.” She sipped her drink. “You know, the martini in here isn’t half bad.”

Adam watched as she pulled the olive from its cocktail stick. “Say nothing to Hannah when you meet her.”

Nora looked at him in amusement. “Wouldn’t dream of it, bro. Not that me and Hannah have any plans to—”

“Back in a sec,” he said then, slipping abruptly off his stool and making his way across the room. The music had finished,
the musicians packing up. The woman was turning away as he approached.

“Excuse me,” Adam said, but she didn’t seem to hear above the chatter. She moved off and began threading her way rapidly around
the low tables, toward the back of the pub. Adam hurried after her.

“Excuse me,” he said again, more loudly, but she didn’t react, seemingly unaware that she was being followed. Just before
she reached a blue door that led, he presumed, to some kind of rear exit, he caught up with her.

“Excuse me.”

Finally she stopped and turned, a quick swing of her head—and even in the dim lighting, Adam could see the dark flush that
spread rapidly upward and covered the pointed, elfin face. She was almost exactly his height. She clutched her clarinet to
her chest.

“Yes?” Her voice was breathy, hardly more than a whisper. She regarded him as if he were about to attack her.

He had absolutely no idea what to say; the impulse that had pulled him toward her hadn’t supplied him with words. He hunted
for something, anything, to break the silence between them. “Sorry to bother you,” he began, and then he stopped again, with
no clue as to what should follow. He tried to make eye contact, but her gaze seemed to be fixed on the lower half of his face.

The flush deepened on her cheeks. Tiny, dark freckles were scattered across her nose. She blinked rapidly behind her little
round glasses as she waited for him to continue.

And finally, when she must surely have been on the point of turning away, Adam thought of something. “Er…I just wondered what
the title of that last piece was.”

“‘I’ve Got a Crush on You,’” she said all in a rush, in the same breathy, whispery voice that he almost didn’t hear.

“I really like your music,” Adam said, but she was gone, vanished abruptly through the blue door, leaving behind a faint powdery,
flowery scent. Adam stood there for a second or two, and then he walked back slowly to where Nora sat.

She eyed him curiously. “What was that all about? What did you want with that woman?”

Adam leaned against the counter and picked up his drink. “I thought I knew her,” he said. “I thought she was somebody’s sister,
but I was wrong.”

“I’ve Got a Crush on You.” He wasn’t superstitious, and he didn’t believe in signs. There was no significance to be attached
to the title of a song; it had no bearing on anything.

The way she’d blushed when he’d spoken to her. The frightened look she’d given him, the tense set of her body, as if she expected
him to pounce at any minute.

Her hair was paler in color than straw. Her lips were too thin, and her nose was too pointed, and she never smiled, and the
glasses hid what might be her best feature. She had large hands and feet.

But she lost herself in the music when she played. And the thought of unpinning her hair, of taking off her glasses and looking
into her eyes, of putting his palm against her pale face—the thought of all that was inexplicably tempting.

I’ve got a crush on you.

“I have a new PA,” Patrick announced, undoing his tie.

“I heard,” Leah answered. “I know her. We were at school together.”

“You were?” He looked at her in surprise. “She never mentioned that.”

Sorry to drop by unannounced, but I had to tell you,
Nora had said, dressed in her yellow wrap top that was probably cashmere, her black skirt, and her oh-so-soft black boots.
You’ll never guess,
she’d said, standing in the doorway of Indulgence, and straightaway Leah had guessed.

Haven’t a clue,
she’d said, heart sinking.

As he walked in, John Wyatt noted that the shop was empty of customers. So far so good. Hannah turned at the sound of the
bell, and he saw that she held a mop.

“Hello again.” He smiled.

Her cheeks pinked charmingly. “Hi there, I was just—”

“You’re cleaning up?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “You finish at five?”

“No, no—I mean yes, I do finish at five, but it’s not quite that yet.” She replaced the mop in its bucket and began to peel
off her rubber gloves. “Actually, it’s part of my cunning plan: start to wash the floor and customers come in. Works every
time.”

She didn’t look unhappy to see him. He decided to take her slight loss of composure as a positive sign.

“In that case,” he said, “I’d hate to disappoint you. I’ll take a couple of whatever’s good. You choose.”