Someone Like You (30 page)

She’d meant to ask his advice earlier, but after this morning’s strange discussion it had seemed best not to. In the light of his remarks about her inability to look after herself, she hated to show her lack of savoir-faire when it came to wine. No, she’d ask the guy in the shop.

‘I’m not much of an expert on wine,’ she said, ‘but I want a Spanish red…’ she tried to remember what wine Felix had picked that first time they’d gone out to dinner.

Spanish, definitely. But her accent was atrocious. ‘Marques de… ?’ she said hesitantly, thinking she’d probably said it totally wrong.

‘de Caceres,’ finished the wine shop man confidently.

Admitting you didn’t have a clue was a novelty for her but it had certainly worked out well, Hannah decided as she strolled back to the office carrying her two bottles of wine, some horrifically expensive Parma ham and a Provencal tart: Felix would be impressed, she was sure of it. Cooking was not her strong point. When she’d lived with Harry, they’d existed on a diet of chicken with supermarket sauces or takeaways.

‘Press the redial button on the phone and you’ll get the Kung Po Palace,’ Harry used to joke. He thought it was a howl telling people that. But then, he was hardly king of cuisine himself. His idea of a home-cooked meal was putting the little tinfoil containers back in the oven when he got home to re-heat them.

Felix, on the other hand, said he loved cooking. ‘I’ll cook you my special veal parmigiana soon,’ he’d told Hannah. She couldn’t wait. In the meantime, she was going to show him that she too could cook, even it that wasn’t strictly true. The Provencal tart was straight from the deli, but what Felix didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

That afternoon Hannah was so busy, she barely had time to think about Felix. She still managed it, though. By half six, she was home, singing to herself as she carelessly arranged the arum lilies in her glass vase. She put her Carmen CD in the player, poured herself a glass of wine and started getting dinner ready. He’d be there by seven thirty at the latest, he’d said.

By eight, the edges of the Parma ham were beginning to curl from being left out on the carefully laid table, so she put the plates back in the fridge. She poured another glass of wine and waited.

At ten, she listlessly ate her part of the meal and watched the second half of Romancing the Stone. She’d seen it so many times she didn’t need to see the first three-quarters of an hour to know what had happened. As she watched, she unconsciously listened for the sound of footsteps outside.

One of the paving stones on the path to the front door made a very distinctive noise when anybody stepped on it. Even from her first-floor flat, Hannah could hear people walking to the redbrick Victorian villa. She sat up eagerly when somebody stepped on it at half ten but sank back into her seat dispiritedly when she realized it was the couple from the flat downstairs coming noisily home. The bottle of wine was empty by the time Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner were kissing on board his new yacht as it was towed along a New York city street. Hannah switched off the television, threw Felix’s dinner in the bin and went to bed. She wasn’t sure why she’d bothered going to bed as she lay wide-eyed in the darkness. She couldn’t sleep, but going to bed was automatic. Like getting up and going to work the next day.

Nobody in Dwyer, Dwyer & James noticed the dullness in Hannah’s usually sparkling toffee-coloured eyes. She was determined they wouldn’t. She chatted idly with Gillian about inconsequential things, interviewed four photographers with her usual polite skill and even had a quick tuna sandwich with Donna Nelson in the little coffee shop around the corner. She talked, smiled and worked, all on automatic pilot. Inside, she was screaming. Screaming at herself for being so incredibly stupid as to ever trust a man, and screaming at Felix for treating her like this. If she ever saw him again, she’d kill him, so help her.

She wasn’t the only one in the office in a raging bad mood. David James was in a foul temper.

Most uncharacteristically, he’d roared at Steve Shaw over some deal that had fallen through and later the walls of his glass office rattled as he was heard yelling down the phone at someone. Hannah knew how he felt. She could have contributed a bit of screaming herself.

When he threw open his office door and yelled that he wanted coffee - now! - all the staff flattened themselves into their seats and hoped they wouldn’t have to brave his temper by being the waitress.

‘You go,’ Gillian begged Hannah. ‘I’m having one of my turns. I couldn’t face him in this mood.’

Anything for a quiet life. Hannah made coffee and put four chocolate-chip biscuits on the tray before carrying it into David’s office. He glared at her, taking in the heavy make-up to hide her exhausted eyes and the bright red shift dress she’d worn to try and lift her mood that morning.

Severely tailored though it was, the dress couldn’t hide Hannah’s slim curves and, as the skirt ended just above the knee, it showed off a length of slender leg in elegant high heels. She’d left her hair loose today, hoping to make herself feel like a desirable woman instead of a dumped cow who couldn’t keep a man longer than a few weeks.

The long, lustrous curls rippled around her face prettily, half hiding her elegant pearl stud earrings.

David was not impressed. ‘I’d prefer if your private engagements didn’t interfere with your obligations to this office,’ he snapped, staring at her grimly. ‘I don’t think that outfit is really suitable for Dwyer, Dwyer & James.’

The Vesuvius inside Hannah erupted. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve worn this outfit into the office many times before and I am not wearing it because I’m going on a date. In fact, I’m wearing it for exactly the opposite reason. You bloody men are all the same,’ she hissed.

David’s chilly eyes grew a few degrees warmer.

ŚWhat do you mean, “for the opposite reason”?’ he asked mildly.

Hannah had had enough. Always controlled and calm, she’d have preferred to be dragged naked over hot coals than to let her professional demeanour drop in a business situation, but today, exhausted and heartsore, she let everything drop.

, ‘I’m wearing it to remind myself that I’m a clever, powerful woman who doesn’t need a bloody man around, especially not anal-retentive bosses who can’t cope with the sight of a woman in sexy clothes in case she emasculates them, and,’ she paused, her voice quivering with rage, ‘because I’ve had it up to here with men, full stop. You’re all insecure, unreliable and utter liars!’

She slammed the tray on to his desk and the coffee slopped out of the cup and on to the tray. Picking up two of the biscuits, Hannah dropped them venomously into the cup.

‘Here’s your coffee, your lordship. I hope you choke on it!’

She slammed the door on the way out and marched into the ladies’, where she allowed herself a few moments leaning against the cool tiles of the wall to get herself back to normal. She wasn’t apologizing, no way. David had been out of bounds with his comments. He had no right to make such personal remarks, and if he thought he had, then he’d better start looking for another office manager because she was leaving. Her only regret was that she’d revealed as much as she had. Unless David was thick as four short planks, he’d figure out that things weren’t going too well between her and Felix. Damn him, anyway.

‘I don’t know what you said to him, but he’s in great form now,’ Gillian whispered as Hannah sat at her desk, head held high, daring anybody to say a word of reproof to her. ‘He’s laughing so loud you can probably hear him halfway down the street.’

Hannah peered in through the glass partition and there was David, phone jammed against his ear and his head thrown back as he laughed uproariously, eyes crinkled up with amusement.

‘Like all men, he needs to be kept on a tight rein,’

Hannah said grimly. ‘That’s all they understand.’

An hour later, David, briefcase and coat in hand, left his office and stood in front of Hannah expectantly. Normally, she’d have smiled back, admiring the Italian grey wool suit that hung so well on his large frame, the clever tailoring emphasizing broad shoulders and hiding the slight thickening around the waist from too many business lunches.

Today, she glared at him.

‘I’ve told you I was flying off to Paris for a long weekend,’ he said to her.

Hannah’s eyes were frigid. He could go to Kathmandu overland on a limping camel for all she cared.

‘I think we need to talk, so I’m sorry I’m going,’ he added, looking at her almost regretfully.

Hannah didn’t give a damn if he was feeling guilty and wanted to apologize. Let him feel guilty: let every man on the planet feel guilty. They deserved to.

‘I’ll be back on Tuesday and maybe we could go to lunch?’ His face had lost that impenetrable look. He appeared hopeful … yes, that was definitely the word.

Hopeful that she wouldn’t resign, Hannah decided.

‘Fine,’ she said with the frosty manner of a duchess.

He left smiling and, as he shut the door behind him, David turned and gave Hannah a rowdy wink that could clearly be seen by everyone else in the office. Honestly, he was incorrigible, she thought crossly.

The rest of Friday passed in a blur and, at the thought of facing a Felix-less weekend at home, Hannah decided to work on Saturday morning. It was that or spend the day feeling like a balloon with the air let out of it. Hannah didn’t know why she felt so empty without him. She’d lived quite happily on her own for the past year and a half, so why now, a mere month after meeting Felix Andretti, had he become such an important part of her life? Why had all the things she enjoyed doing up to now, like going to the gym or sitting in her small, cosy sitting room reading, seem dull and hopeless?

‘I thought you’d given up working weekends now the place is shipshape,’ commented Donna when Hannah arrived in the office at eight fifteen on Saturday morning.

‘I have a few things to get organized and it’s so busy during the week that I never have a chance,’ Hannah replied, bending over the bubbling percolator so that Donna wouldn’t see her tired eyes and the dark circles under them. She’d planned to camouflage her misery with make-up in the ladies’ loo, thinking that she’d be the first in. But now that Donna was here, she’d have to talk. Donna was one of those people who noticed things. Hannah didn’t want her noticing the palpable misery she knew was emanating from her like radioactivity from plutonium.

Yawning deliberately to make it look as if she’d had a late night, Hannah picked up her coffee and her handbag and made for the loo. ‘Must tart myself up or I’ll frighten the clients,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘Remind me never to drink too much Spanish wine again!’ she added ruefully.

‘Drowning your sorrows?’ Donna said gently.

Hannah stopped and looked at her. Donna wasn’t inquisitive or the office gossip, for that matter. Just someone intuitive.

‘That obvious, is it?’ Hannah said finally.

‘Only that you looked pretty wretched yesterday. Not that anyone else would pick up on it,’ Donna added hastily.

‘You hide it well. But I recognize that look; I’ve had it often enough myself. If you want to talk, be my guest. I won’t be broadcasting to the Gillian Network. And if you don’t feel like talking, that’s fine too. I thought you might need a shoulder to cry on yesterday when we went out to lunch, but I can understand you wanting to keep your private life private.’

Hannah put down her handbag and her coffee and sank into the nearest chair. ‘You have to have a life to keep it private,’ she said, trying to joke.

‘Is it David James?’ Donna asked gently.

For a moment, Hannah was startled out of her misery.

‘David?’ she repeated in astonishment. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? He behaved like a complete asshole yesterday, but, God, that’s all. Nothing I can’t manage. Typical boss.’

‘Oh,’ Donna said. ‘I’d rather got the impression that there was something between the two of you …’ Her voice trailed off as Hannah gaped at her.

‘Where did you get that idea?’ demanded Hannah. ‘He’s good to work for, but there’s nothing between us.’ She cast around wildly for words to describe her relationship with David, words to explain how platonic it all was. ‘He’s a nice man and all that, but, really … And he’s still besotted with his ex, isn’t he?’ she added.

Donna raised one eyebrow. ‘I don’t know where you got that idea. I don’t think there are two people on Earth who were happier to get shot of each other. A marriage made in hell was how I heard it described, by someone who knows them both.’

‘Gillian said he was still in Jove with her.’

‘Gillian desperately hopes he’s in love with his ex because then he can’t fall in love with anyone else … like you, for example,’ Donna said shrewdly.

This time Hannah laughed out loud. ‘How ludicrous.’

‘It isn’t ludicrous at all,’ Donna protested. ‘I’m not the only one who thinks David is keen on you and Gillian wouldn’t be able to stand it. She hates you, you know, and it would kill her if her beloved Mr James fancied you.’

‘Well, she’s safe from instant death because he doesn’t fancy me,’ said Hannah jokingly.

‘I think he does, actually,’ Donna said quietly.

Hannah couldn’t hide how jolted she was. ‘I … I…”

she stammered. ‘I’m in love with someone else,’ she managed finally. ‘David is just a colleague, the boss. He knows my boyfriend, he knows I’m going out with someone,’ she said.

‘And this boyfriend is the one giving you sleepless nights, then?’

Pleased to have the uncomfortable subject changed, Hannah nodded wryly. ‘I like having some trauma in my life,’ she said caustically. ‘Heartbreak and romantic nightmares are my hobbies. Mind you, at least I’m not in love with David. God,’ she shuddered, ‘imagine being in love with the boss. What a nightmare that would be!’

Talking to Donna had helped, Hannah realized, as she climbed on to the stepper in the gym that afternoon and began entering in her weight and what programme she wanted to use. This would help even more. Nothing cleared her head like pounding away on the step machine, working up a sweat until her muscles ached from the exercise. It had worked on Harry; it’d work on bloody Felix, the bastard!