Best Laid Plans (14 page)

There was a short silence and out in the hall the clock chimed the hour.

‘As near as divorced,’ he said at last. ‘Can I trust you, Monique, not to say anything until I’ve had the chance to tell her?’

She let him sweat a moment before nodding.

‘I won’t tell her. But don’t leave it too long unless you intend her to be your second wife.’

‘No fear. Once bitten and all that…. She’s not expecting that either.’

He got up and put another log on the fire. It sizzled, an orange flame bursting forth.

Well, well. She was privy to a secret and she would avoid Amy when she returned just in case she accidentally let something slip. She had promised not to say anything but honestly, he had a cheek asking that of her. It was in Amy’s best interests that she should know and, promise notwithstanding, she had a duty to tell her.

In the event she had no time to do anything about it because, out on the hill, unknown to them Frank was at that very moment succumbing to his final illness.

She stayed overnight in another hotel, unable to practise her newly buffed up French as the proprietor spoke perfect English. He knew the village where she was going and when she asked if it was pretty he smiled and nodded, though not altogether convincingly.

When she arrived she saw why.

The approach through an avenue of the ubiquitous poplars was impressive but once they fizzled out it became little more than a dirt track as she passed cottages and bigger properties in varying states of disrepair as if there had been a sudden exodus years ago and people had not returned. It was also eerily quiet. She carefully manoeuvred the car round potholes, narrowly missing the bigger stones and having to stop at one point when a cow appeared, alone and worried-looking, firmly lodged in the middle of the track. It was a large creature and it stood its ground a minute, as did she, until it turned its back on her, offering a wonderful view of its magnificent rear before sloping off.

Dark clouds had started to build and it began to rain, big plops at first on the windscreen of her little car. She
acknowledged that she would not be seeing the village at its best but as she passed the name-sign at last – muddied and leaning at an angle – she saw that it was nothing like some of the other villages she had driven through. The sun was shining earlier and those villages had been bustling places with the women wearing summery dresses already, bare-legged, carrying baskets, smiling and chatting, each of them accompanied by small children. She stopped at one of those villages, buying bread, cheese, butter, eggs, milk and coffee, proud to be practising her French on the lady in the shop. She very nearly confessed to being French –
je suis française
she could say and it was quite true but her vocabulary was still lacking and she did not have the nerve to start what might become a difficult conversation.

There was nobody about in the village she was now in, although the onset of rain could explain that but the houses themselves were a disappointment and the whole village was surrounded by flat fields and nothing much of interest. She had the scrap of paper with the caretaker’s address and parking up outside the house she walked up the path and knocked on the door. There was no immediate reply and although she was reluctant to knock a second time she did so. She knew there was somebody inside for she sensed a movement and shuffles behind the door.

Stupidly, she had no umbrella with her so by the time the door was opened – after much pulling back of stiff locks and chains – she was drenched. The woman who opened the door looked at her with mild interest as, haltingly, Monique explained that she was the niece of Madame Sylvie Roye and had come to collect the key for the cottage. Her aunt had telephoned ahead to tell them that she was expected, had she not?

‘Oui, madame.’
The woman whose name she could not for the moment remember did not smile nor did she invite her in. The rain had stepped up a gear and was now verging on torrential and Monique’s long silky skirt was clinging
to her legs. The woman, clad entirely in black and looking as if she would be a dead cert for the role of surly French peasant indicated she would be back in a moment. Monique, standing in the rain and not wanting to step uninvited over the threshold could hear cries of exasperation from the woman and an unseen man, hear sounds of drawers being opened and closed before the woman returned holding a large important-looking key. Silently, she reached for a coat and a little belatedly a large black umbrella, which she handed to Monique.

‘Il n’est pas loins; suivez moi.’

‘Merci, madame.’

So it wasn’t far, thank God. Holding the umbrella aloft, Monique followed her a short distance along a path. It was too narrow for them to walk side by side and the woman walked surprisingly fast, skirting puddles in her clumpy boots and muttering as she did so. Monique, flustered by the language problem and working out in her head what she might be called upon to say next was relieved when the path widened out and she saw a cottage of the prettier variety very like the one in the photograph set a little back behind a fence and tiny garden. As they drew closer, she saw that it was indeed the cottage in the photograph.

But no. The woman walked on, turning up another lane. She could hear voices and a dog barking and then the woman stopped so abruptly that she very nearly careered into her, stabbing her in the head unfortunately with the umbrella.

‘Sorry,’ she said at once, mortified as the woman turned to glare at her, rubbing her scalp before flinging out her arm and pointing.

Monique followed her gaze. For a moment she could not think what to say and when she did think of something she spoke in English so that the woman looked blank.

She gathered herself together and smiled.

‘Madame Perret
…’ the name came to her suddenly as
they stood close together sheltering under the umbrella as the rain showed no sign of relenting. She was wearing flat pumps and her bare feet were uncomfortably damp now. The pitter-patter of the rain was loud on the umbrella fabric and she wondered if the woman was deaf, for she was now holding her head to one side pointing her left ear towards Monique.
‘Il doit y avoir une erreur,’
Monique said slowly hoping for the best as she waited for a sign of recognition in the woman’s eyes.

‘Non, il n’y a pas d’erreur – comme ça,’
she said, handing over the key.

‘Really?’ Monique stared again at the house. There was no mistake, then, this was it but it was nothing like the idyllic-looking cottage in the photograph.

This cottage was a complete wreck.

The key sat heavily in her handbag as Monique drove on, the rain easing and the sun coming out as she left the village behind. That figured somehow. It was a chill place, the sort of place that you would drive through quickly if you came across it by accident. It would be the perfect setting for one of those disturbing French films shot in black and white, the cast an unwholesome mix of sexy and sinister. There was a row of shops including a patisserie, a pharmacy and a small café and as she drove out she saw there was also an inn but the shutters were drawn and it did not look the least bit welcoming, so she booked into a hotel about ten miles away because she could not possibly stay in the damp dirty hovel that was the cottage. She tried to ring her aunt but she was not answering.

She could not get Mike on his phone either, her own mobile suddenly taking leave of its senses in this Godforsaken place, and she did not feel up to using the hotel phone with her limited French. She needed to collect her thoughts anyway before she rang Mike for she would come over as frantic and incoherent and that was the last thing
she wanted.

At least she had a soft bed and clean sheets here in this inn and she would have a meal later in the little dining room she had glimpsed as she was shown up to her room by a friendly lady, who had expressed concern at her bedraggled state. She was so wet that she left a little puddle on the wooden hall floor for which she apologized although the woman had waved that aside with a smile.

She hastily stripped off her damp clothes and took a wonderfully hot shower before changing, wringing out her wet things and leaving them to dry. Lying down at last, fully clothed on top of the bed she felt tears pricking her eyelids, real tears this time.

This was not how it was supposed to be; this was a nightmare. She wanted Mike beside her with his reassuringly solid presence and his pragmatic take on life. Her stupidly romantic dream was rapidly diminishing as she faced up to reality. It was not going to happen; her dream of living out her life in idyllic style somewhere where the sun always shone and where they could eat wonderful fresh food and drink glorious French wine was rapidly diminishing.

She was being utterly pathetic, she thought, as she searched through her bag for a tissue to blow her nose. She pushed at her hair, damp from the shower, and sat on the edge of the bed trying to get her thoughts in order.

Think, Monique, think.

But she could not, not just now. She was tired and feeling a bit sick but then, she was pregnant and what could you expect?

T
here was a round of applause led by Mr Armitage as Amy and Daniel entered the room. Mr Theodore – Teddy – Armitage was a short, bald-headed gentleman with black-framed spectacles, as nattily dressed as ever wearing a pin-stripe suit and waistcoat, a white shirt and a blue bow tie. He beamed and patted Daniel on the back as they came forward before shaking Amy’s hand profusely. She liked Mr Armitage, you could not help but like him, but there was no denying his lack of business acumen and she hoped the changes Daniel had put in place would shake him up, although she had severe doubts they would. He was a gentleman of the old school much respected in the organization and in a way it would be a sad day when he retired, signalling the end of a more relaxed era. He had led the company through difficult times in the past and she suspected he was just choosing the right moment to bow out gracefully before he was stabbed to retail death by the pleasant-faced men and women around him.

The buffet table was heaving with a selection of goodies courtesy of the restaurant staff and there were more than enough bottles of wine. Amy decided she would stick to bottled water as she would need a clear head for this evening and whatever that might bring. Janet had booked a table for two at Gardner’s, the fancy restaurant Daniel had mentioned, looking inquiringly at Amy as she informed her about it.

‘It’s business,’ Amy had told her quickly. ‘Nothing more than that.’

‘Of course it is. But he is a lovely man and unattached, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘What about Bea?’

‘What
about
Bea?’ Janet smiled. ‘She’s not his type, Amy. I’ve seen Mr Coleridge looking at you sometimes and I could swear that he’s not thinking of you as a colleague.’

‘Janet, don’t even start on that,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you, it’s just business.’

In that case why was she hoping to avoid Bea this afternoon and why, if they did chat, had she decided not to mention that she was being taken out to Gardner’s this evening? It was a bit of a worry, frankly, for there was no need to go out to an expensive restaurant to talk business. If he had something to say he could have said it this morning when she was helping him clear out the office. Not least it was causing her a headache because she could not decide what would be suitable to wear. Nothing too sexy, obviously, as she did not wish to put her bosom on display in the only truly smart cocktail dress she possessed but she could hardly turn up for a meal there in one of her work suits and the all-occasion dress she had was black and she was fed up to the back teeth with that. She had a full afternoon ahead of her and there would be no time to buy anything new so she would have to dig something up.

The speeches began well, for Mr Armitage was nothing if not an accomplished orator. Following his little offering, short but very much to the point, it seemed that each departmental head had been called upon to chip in with their pennyworth. Mercifully, none of them hugged the limelight although when it came to Bea’s turn she did sashay up to the front, pausing a moment to take in the room and looking as if she was about to accept an Oscar. She was wearing a navy suit today, a broad, silver-buckled belt emphasizing her slim waist, and her blonde hair was
swept up, her only jewellery small pearl earrings.

‘Thank you, Marcus … I would just like to add my personal thanks to Daniel,’ she gushed in that low, husky, undeniably sexy voice of hers. Amy was amused to see the men roundabout rearranging their demeanour into that tough-as-you-like male stance in an all-out effort to be the one to impress when confronted by a beautiful woman. Glancing at Daniel, however, she did not see this in him; rather a relaxed smile as he acknowledged a little ruefully the tribute coming his way. ‘I think we all deserve a pat on the back,’ Bea continued, her glance sweeping the room. ‘I know we have all worked incredibly hard these past few months and Langdales has never looked as good as it did at Christmas. In Cosmetics & Perfumery we had an incredibly successful autumn/winter season and we are planning huge promotions over the coming spring/summer season that will keep us on track.’ She smiled broadly, cheeks flushed before consulting the sheet of paper she had with her.

Amy hid a smile. In a minute she would be thanking her parents, her stylist, her hairdresser and God knows who else.

‘I remember coming to this store when I was a little girl,’ Bea continued just as they were all thinking the pause had gone on too long. ‘And I loved it then, particularly coming through the doors into what, back then, I thought was the smelly bit.’

They obligingly laughed but she was not done yet.

‘We pride ourselves on being a family here at Langdales,’ Bea went on earnestly, oblivious to the fidgeting now amongst the staff. ‘And when a family member leaves we all feel the pain so, Daniel …’ the further dramatic pause was worthy of Meryl Streep herself. ‘We shall miss you very much but we wish you well in your new career and we will do our utmost not to let you down.’

Mr Armitage jumped in then, urging another round of applause before inviting them to enjoy the buffet.

‘I don’t think she had quite finished,’ Daniel murmured, for Amy’s ears alone.

Amy merely smiled, moving away and heading purposefully towards the others before she could be accosted by Bea.

‘Does that boss of yours ever wear a suit?’ Marcus of Menswear collared her. ‘You would think today of all days he would make a bloody effort.’

‘Shush.’ Amy collected a few titbits on her plate and allowed him to steer her away.

‘What’s going to happen to you now?’ Marcus was good looking in a sharp, dark-haired Italian way. He was shorter than her when she was wearing heels. ‘Will you be staying?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘It depends.’

‘I’m surprised he isn’t taking you with him. You make a good team.’

‘I’m sure he’s more than capable of going it alone,’ she said, watching him with Bea who was laughing and standing very close to him. Did they look as if they were lovers? Was it possible to tell? Certainly Daniel had never given any indication but then she had learned early on that he was not one for discussing private matters so perhaps he was being remarkably discreet. Whereas keeping things close to his chest had irritated beyond belief where her relationship with Brian had been concerned she had never let it concern her that Daniel was a private person.

But then it was completely different because Daniel was her boss and it was the naffest thing imaginable to get yourself into a hot situation with your boss.

‘Let me know how you get on and good luck, Amy, with whatever you do.’ Marcus smiled at her and she reflected on what a nice guy he was. It was no secret that he was gay and in a long-term relationship and she was glad for him. As Marcus was led away she found herself alone a minute amongst the people milling around the buffet. She had no appetite and discreetly got rid of her plate on the
buffet table. There was going to be an awful lot of food left over, she thought, ridiculously concerned at the wastage, but then at these functions you never liked to look as if you were stuffing yourself.

Much as she tried to avoid it, a one-to-one with Bea was inevitable before the little goodbye party ended and they all headed off, back to their respective departments.

‘That went very well, didn’t it?’ Bea said, surprisingly hesitant and seeming to look for reassurance. She was carrying a large glass of white wine and even at close quarters her make-up was pitch-perfect, making Amy conscious of her own shortcomings in that department.

‘It went very well,’ Amy said. ‘You made a moving speech.’

‘Thank you. That means a lot to me.’ Bea’s bleached white teeth shone a moment. ‘I worked on it for ages. I hate speaking in front of people.’

‘Do you?’ Amy felt a sudden surge of sympathy. ‘Well, in that case, you were great, Bea,’ she assured her. ‘I would never have known.’

‘You’re very good at presentations. I’m surprised Mr Armitage didn’t ask you to say a few words,’ Bea said, pinning her in a corner as people started to leave. ‘What’s happening with you now that Daniel’s leaving? Are you staying?’

‘Marcus has just asked me that,’ she replied. ‘And the truth is I’m not sure. Between you and me …’ she lowered her voice, amazed to find herself confessing anything to Bea. ‘Keep it to yourself but I’ve applied for a job over in Preston.’

‘Oh, that’s where you come from, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘Quite near there. You know that I lost my father at Christmas?’

‘I do know.’ Bea’s face buckled. ‘Heaps of sympathy and all that. It must have been horrendous.’

‘It was. Still is.’ She bit her lip. ‘I need to help my mother a bit more and that’s the reason I applied for it so that I’ll
be closer to home. I don’t think the store there is a patch on this to be honest but—’ She stopped as it occurred that her heart was not really in it and that probably meant that, second interview notwithstanding, they had seen through her and she had not got it.

‘Daniel’s moving to the northwest,’ Bea told her with a sigh. ‘I was hoping that maybe he would ask me to go with him.’ She looked different suddenly, reminding Amy of the dream because when all the outer gloss was stripped away Bea was essentially a vulnerable woman in love with a man who maybe was not in love with her.

‘Has he said anything?’ she probed gently. ‘Are you and he together?’

So much for discretion. She wished she could take back the question but it was already asked and it was too late.

Bea raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. ‘Not so you would notice. He’s been hurt, you know, and men like him are very reluctant to commit to another relationship. I’m giving him space but I’m running out of time if he does shoot off to Manchester.’

‘Manchester?’

‘Hasn’t he told you?’

‘No, not exactly.’ She knew he was setting up his own business but had assumed it would be based here or hereabouts.

Bea raised her eyebrows. ‘I thought he would have told
you
.’

‘Why should he? Incidentally …’ she was just about to tell her about the dinner date, feeling suddenly obligated to do so but Bea cut her off and with that familiar half-wave of hers headed away.

By Bea’s own startling admission, she and Daniel were not an item.

And why on earth should that make any difference?

And why on earth did she find herself walking back to the office with a new-found spring in her step?