Something Borrowed (15 page)

‘Don’t tempt me, Chloe. I mean, really… don’t…’

‘Why not?’ She licked her bottom lip and bit down, holding his gaze. Her breath had become strangely ragged, and she felt an overwhelming need to kiss him.

He traced his thumb across her cheek, sending shivers of need spiralling through her. His touch was gentle, yet confident. In his eyes heat blazed, eradicating the guarding. He trailed his thumb to her mouth and ran it slowly, achingly slowly, across her top lip. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe as all air stripped from her lungs. Low down, deep inside, a longing unfurled.

She wanted to more than kiss him. She wanted to touch him, skin on skin. She wanted to run her hands over that magnificent body and haul him to her. In her?

Bloody hell.

Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

Bloody, bloody hell.
Her heart all but stalled in her chest.

She shuddered in anticipation, closing her eyes. Her heart beat a riotous rhythm and her mouth dried, waiting for the feel of his lips on hers. Waiting for the gentle pressure and the taste of him.

When it didn’t come, she opened her eyes to see him looking at her with such confusion, pain almost, and definitely frustration.

Then, almost as keenly, she not only physically felt him withdraw, but saw him consciously disconnect from her too in the closed-down face and the tone of his strained voice. ‘Damn it, Chloe Cassidy. Damn it all to hell.’

He gave her one last brooding look and opened the door. A riot of noisy disco music split the peaceful London hum and shattered the happy bubble of excitement in Chloe’s chest at the same time. He’d gone. No kiss. The friendship muddied.

Damn it all to hell, indeed.

A
week ago
…

S
ender
: [email protected]

Hi, Nick!

Not long to go now!

I’m so looking forward to seeing you next week. No, you’re most definitely not imposing by asking me to help you. It will be fun, I’m sure. We have a lot to catch up on. I think you’re going to like living here again. It’s April, and there’s a hint of warmth in the air and spring flowers are everywhere. The whole neighbourhood smells of creole cooking and freesias. There are daffodils and tulips on the stalls, and yes, I talk too much about flowers, don’t I? Sorry.

I’ve managed to score a babysitter, so I can help the whole day if you need me to. Would you like me to bring something over for lunch?

Send me the details of where to meet.

One thing, I’m not sure you’ll recognise me. Just so you know, the grief diet didn’t go quite the way it does for a lot of women. I have a tendency to comfort eat, so don’t be surprised when you see me. You have been warned. I will understand the subtext of ‘You look well’.

In other news, Evie is starting to show major talents on the dancing front (Not! Unfortunately, she takes after her mother with two left feet and being totally un-co). Her ballet tots teacher has picked her to be the ‘magical tree’ for the Mayday show. It’s a major role showcasing Evie’s innate ability to sway right and left and jump up and down on the spot like a heifer (and all out of time to the music). She’s very excited, and I’ve managed to convince her that the magical tree in Cinderella is a hugely important thing to be, even if there’s no mention of it in any of the fairy-tale books we own.

Ah, well, if dancing isn’t for her (I don’t think it is!), she definitely has a future in arboreal-themed slapstick comedy. I hope you’ll get to meet her one day. I’m sure you will, once things have settled down a little for you.

Are you looking forward to your new job? It must be exciting to have a change, although police work can’t really be all that different to being a soldier these days, right? (I’m only partly joking—the London streets can be pretty scary these days).

So, I’ll see you on Sunday, then. I’m pumping iron to make sure my biceps are strong enough for the furniture lugging. (Joke! But seriously, lifting flowers all day doesn’t exactly tax the muscles!)

Excited! (About moving furniture? Clearly, I don’t get out nearly as often as I should!)

Jenna x

‘
F
inally
, something’s going right.’ Chloe did a mental fist pump as the delivery man arrived with all the things for the nautical-themed wedding on Saturday. Little red and white bottle openers in the shape of lifesaver rings, cake boxes decorated with anchors, and yards and yards of blue and white striped fabric for curtain tie-backs and seat covers.

All she had to do now was make the damned things, which was going to be challenging given she wasn’t bestowed with her mother’s seamstress skills. Still, if ever there was a woman who would give anything a go, it was Chloe Cassidy, she mused, as she brandished scissors above the stretched out material.

And—she paused and looked at the lovely fresh uncut fabric—one false move, and that would be hundreds of pounds down the drain.

But… there was no one here to help her. Mum was still remaining… well, Mum. The silent treatment was in full flow. There were three days until the wedding. Taylor Jenkins had particularly chosen this material after days and days of trudging around the fabric stalls and shops across London. It was perfect, and the last remaining swatch left in the city. Probably the whole country.

If only Mum was here to help. Or Jenna, to just push her into it.

Or Vaughn. He’d tell her to just get the hell on with it.

She lay the material out onto the floor, stretching it almost from one end of the room to the other. Hell, if he was here, it was unlikely she’d be snipping at fabric. His pained face had barely been out of her head for the last two weeks. The way he’d clearly wanted to follow through with the kiss, but hadn’t—for whatever reason.

What if…?

What if he’d kissed her? Her heart pinged a little, and there was a low warning ache in her belly.

But he hadn’t, had he? He’d left.

Story of her life.

Oh hell, just do it!
She made a cut, snipping along one of the blue lines all the way across the full length of the fabric. On and on and on and on. Across the fabric, across the floor…

Success!

Then she picked up one half to move it out of the way to make a start on the next length. Some of it came with her, some of it stayed on the floor. Some if it sort of hung from her grip, a sad wiggly line of extremely badly-cut fabric.

Shit.
Her stomach felt as if it was dropping. Jolting. Crashing. She’d meant to fold it in half and double cut, but the bottom half hadn’t been flattened out straight. In fact, it was ridged and buckled and completely hacked. In the wrong places.

Shit and bollocks
. Chloe hauled in a deep breath and surveyed the damage. She’d cut across some of the stripes and nowhere near to the size or width she’d been aiming at. This piece was maybe a third of what she’d needed for the chairs. But there wasn’t enough left of the other to be able to fix it.

Maybe she could use this as curtain tie-backs? Was it wide enough to be doubled and sewn? Could she…? She held a piece up then another next to it. There would be a seam right where there shouldn’t be one. Plus, she’d have to chuck all that wobbly cut stuff out and start again.

Help? Anyone? Give her a spreadsheet any day. This was impossible.

She stabbed numbers into her phone. ‘Jenna?’

‘What have you done now?’

‘Are you telepathic?’ Not just that second nature sister thing but something real and scary? Yes, she was. And now she was sounding like their Mum and all her third eye, ghosts and ghouls and curses thing. ‘How do you know I’ve done anything? I could be phoning to see how you are. Or something.’

Jenna laughed. ‘You have your guilty voice on. What’s the matter?’

Chloe swallowed what was left of her pride. ‘I need help. This is an emergency.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve bolloxed the chair swatches up. I made a stupid mistake and cut the fabric in the wrong place, and now I have a… well, a mess.’

Jenna snorted. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, I know. No big deal. I’m sure it’ll be easy to sort.’

‘For you and Mum, maybe I’m missing the homemaker gene, remember. Please. Help me?’

There was a hustle and bustle in the background. Some fussing over a grisly three-year-old. An argument over which dress a teddy should be wearing. Then, a sigh from Jenna who sounded frazzled and tired. ‘I can come over later? Wait, no. I’ve got a counselling session tonight. Tomorrow? Wait. No. I’ve got to make a start on the table arrangements and the grooms’ corsages.’

‘Now’s good?’

‘I’m already on track to be late for ballet tots. And that, my dear, is certain dancing death. Or ostracism. Or both.’

Chloe hated asking, she really did, but there was nothing else she could do. ‘Can’t you miss it, just once?’

Another sigh, this time, it wasn’t an
I’ll do anything to help you out
. It was more,
you just don’t understand
. ‘No. Evie’s got to practice for the show. It’s very high pressure; miss one rehearsal between now and the big day and you’re out. No excuses. Sansa Bell’s already been struck out. There was a hell of a showdown between her mum and Madame Emilie, believe me. The poor kid only missed because she had foot, hand and mouth disease and the doctor said she was still infectious. Or contagious, or whatever. She was preventing the other kids from catching it—so saving the show, really. But no. No chance for Sansa to make up with extra rehearsals or anything.’

‘They are three-years-old. And
Sansa?
Really?’ Of course. The new vogue in kid’s names—popular culture characters who have had a particularly harrowing and unpleasant life… right. Grand.

‘I know. I agree with you, Chlo. But I can’t jeopardise Evie’s chances.’

Chloe stamped a barefoot on the damned stripy fabric, just… because, and breathed out. ‘No, clearly. Being a magic tree is far more important than helping me out of a crisis.’ Even as she said it, she knew how that must have sounded. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. It really did. It was bitchy, and I shouldn’t have said it. I’m just getting a little desperate. I need you.’

‘Chlo—’ There was a warning in her sister’s voice that told Chloe not to push it, that Jenna was doing her best under the circumstances. And she was. It was unfair to ask her to drop everything just because Chloe was incapable of wielding scissors and straightening out a piece of material properly. Her mother would have had a fit if she’d seen her do it. Bridget’s first rule of fabric management was: check and check and check some more.

And really, the second rule should have been: Do not think about Vaughn Brooks while laying out expensive fabric.

Do not think about Vaughn Brooks and then cut expensive fabric.

Do not think about Vaughn Brooks at all. Or the almost-kiss. Or the thumb running over her lip thing. The heat in his eyes…

Where was she? Ah. Yes. Impending disaster. And none of this had anything to do with her sister.

‘Look, I totally get it, Jenna; you have to do what you have to do and if it means her being a tree, then so be it. If I had a child, I’d be exactly the same.’ Would she, though? It wasn’t as if she was going to find out anytime soon. And having a baby hadn’t been on her radar until Amy’s announcement, but now there was a hole in her chest at the thing Chloe had lost. Which was stupid, because she hadn’t even had it. So how could she feel bereft? But she did.

‘Put Evie first. Jenna, always put your daughter first, I mean it. I will always support you for putting Evie first. But you do understand what I have to do now, don’t you? I have to…’ Chloe hauled in a breath. ‘I have to ask Mum for help.’

Jenna’s voice had a smile in it. ‘Good. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. It’s a step forward. It shows her how much you value her.’

‘No. It shows how desperate I am.
And
how much I value her.’

* * *

A
n hour later
, Bridget was sitting in the lounge, tutting and eye rolling and holding pieces of fabric together like a jigsaw puzzle. Apart from a brief and curt
good afternoon,
she’d said nothing else. The atmosphere was thick with tension and the elephant sat big and uncomfortably in the corner of the room. Dad. Lies. Pain.

Tut number thirty-three came from Mum’s lips. ‘Chloe, girl, would you look at the mess you made? You know the first rule—’

‘Yes, yes. Check and check and check some more.’ Still, it was the most they’d spoken in a week. It wasn’t much, but it was at least something. ‘The first rule should be: get Bridget Cassidy to do it. I should have asked you in the first place. I know.’

Mum lifted her head then and looked over. Her eyes were pale. Her skin was pale. Guilt and love washed over Chloe; Bridget didn’t look sick, but she did look exhausted. Sleeping nineteen hours a day did that to you. What she needed was a good walk in the fresh air, some exercise. A man, some company, at least, who wasn’t just Mrs Singh and a gossip-fest.

Mum gave a weak
about time too
smile. ‘Well, apology accepted, our Chloe.’

‘Apology? What? Since when was
I should have asked you in the first place
, an apology?’

Another eye roll. ‘A mother knows when you’re sorry, even if you don’t know it yourself.’

‘I have nothing to be sorry for.’

‘And. Neither. Do. I.’ There was a harrumph and a shake of the head. ‘Now do you want me to fix your messes, or not, Chloe Cassidy?’

‘Yes, please. And thank you.’ That kernel of love bloomed into a knobbly pain in Chloe’s chest and a sting at the back of her eyes. Because she knew that whatever mess Chloe made, she’d always have her mum’s support. Support that really should be a two-way thing, regardless of the past. But it was still fresh and raw, and there were too many questions, personal questions, that Chloe wanted answers to that she was sure her mum wouldn’t want asked.

They would get there, she supposed, but in the meantime, they had to shuffle over the hurdles of hurt pride and betrayal, and that could be a long and bumpy road.

And so Bridget sat, back rigid and taut, mouth pursed in concentration and repressed annoyance, pins sticking out from her lips as she fixed up the fabric into a neat pile of curtain swags. The woman was a sewing genius.

And, at times, a royal pain in the arse. The difficult silence was split by the doorbell.

The cavalry? Someone? Anyone?

Grateful for a diversion, Chloe dashed to the door, expecting another delivery or something for the upstairs people who were always getting things by courier. She hauled the door open and inhaled sharply as she blinked into the late afternoon light.
Vaughn?
‘Vaughn?’

He was standing on her doorstep, hands shoved deep in leather jacket pockets, hair tousled by the cold northwesterly. He nodded, gave a brief hesitant smile and rocked back on his heels, looking far more attractive than he had any right too. ‘Bad time?’

Trying to calm her auto-response drumming heart rate, she stepped back and let him in. ‘Not at all. Come on in. How did you know where I live?’

‘Your website has your contact details, and I would change that to a PO Box if I were you. You never know who might just turn up.’

‘Hmmm. Good point. I mean, anyone could just turn up, right? Uninvited?’

He grinned. ‘Exactly. I was passing, and I owe you an apology for the other week.’ He followed her into the front room. As she turned, Chloe caught the slight raise of the eyebrows as he noted Mum on the couch. ‘Hello.’

‘Oh good, someone who actually knows when they’re apologising.’ Mum sat back in the chair, clutching the fabric in her hands, and waited, as if she was watching a movie and she’d just got to the best bit. ‘This should be good. Don’t mind me, go right ahead and say it. Your apology.’

Oh, God, really?
‘Thank you, Mum, but isn’t it time you were going?’ Chloe tried, and failed, to give Mum a telepathic hitch up and out the room. The telepathy thing clearly only worked with Jenna.

Bridget pushed the fabric towards Chloe and rolled her eyes again.

I will never do that to my kids,
Chloe promised silently. Or lie to them.

‘Chloe Cassidy, do you want me to finish fixing your mess or not?’ She pointed an accusatory finger at Vaughn. ‘Is this another man from that Timber dating thing? Because you remember what happened last time? Ah, no… that wasn’t Timber, was it? That was the online dating thing? Right you are.’ She smiled at Vaughn and explained slowly as if letting him on a huge secret, which it was, or at least had been, ‘We had the police round,
again
…’

Only she pronounced it
po
-lice, in a tone that was deeply unsympathetic.

Chloe’s cheeks burned. It was fast becoming her normal whenever her mother or Vaughn were around. Having them both in the same room meant she was doomed to look like a beetroot forever. ‘No. Mum. Please. Really, Vaughn, it’s nothing like that.’

‘Like what?’ He grinned, clearly eager for the secret-spilling to continue. ‘Timber? Online dating? Chloe? You never mentioned this.’

Before she could answer, Bridget cut in. ‘She’s after a man, you know. Since The Jilting.’

‘The Jilting.’ He pressed his lips together as if holding in a snort. ‘It has a title, like it was an official event? Like, The Diamond Jubilee? The World Cup? The Jilting.’