Summer at the Star and Sixpence (4 page)

Owen led the way. Nessie felt her feet wobble a few times but he was there each time to steady her. The last time he took her hand he didn’t let go.

They spread the blanket out and started to unpack. Underneath the croissants and jams, Nessie discovered some Scotch eggs from the village butcher, crumbly slices of cheese and juicy cherry
tomatoes. She laid everything out onto the plates which had been strapped against the lid of the basket as Owen pulled out two champagne flutes.

‘They really have thought of everything,’ Nessie said, surveying the feast.

He laughed. ‘I don’t know about Sam, but my sister is pretty determined once she gets an idea into her head.’ He passed her a glass brimming with champagne.
‘Cheers.’

Too late for Buck’s Fizz now, Nessie thought. She tapped her glass against his. ‘Cheers,’ she echoed. ‘Thank you for showing me the bluebells, even though you were pretty
much forced into it.’

‘I wasn’t forced into anything,’ he protested. ‘Like I said, beauty is better when it’s shared and I’m glad of the chance to share with you.’

His eyes met hers and warmth flooded through Nessie. One of his dark curls had escaped from the others and was resting on his forehead; she had a sudden overwhelming urge to brush it away, back
to where it belonged. It wouldn’t take much, she mused, she was close enough to reach. And while she was at it, she could run her fingers down the side of his face, pull him near enough to
kiss . . .

She glanced away, focusing instead on the bluebells, and took a gulp of champagne. The bubbles hit her stomach sharply, exploding into heat that did nothing to cool her frazzled thoughts.
Drinking on an empty stomach
was
a bad idea, except that it sometimes made her feel a tiny bit braver. Maybe even brave enough to do what was on her mind, to make the first move. There was
no law that said she had to let Owen take the lead, after all. She’d certainly never have a more romantic setting.

She took another sip of champagne and looked back at Owen, only to find him still watching her. Without stopping to think, she leaned towards him and pressed her lips against his. For a
heartbeat, neither of them moved, then Owen’s hand tangled in Nessie’s hair and his lips parted. A jolt of electricity surged through her as the kiss deepened; the sound of the
waterfall faded away and all she could think was how right it felt.

And then it ended. Owen pulled away, a stormy look in his deep brown eyes. ‘Nessie, I . . .’

He trailed off and a wave of embarrassment and shame flooded over her. She’d done the wrong thing, misread his intentions and now he was trying to find a way to let her down gently.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

Owen sat back, puffing out a long, frustrated-sounding huff. ‘No, you should. And I don’t want you to think it wasn’t good because it was. It’s just—’ His
gaze skittered away, over the top of the bluebells and back again. ‘Today isn’t the best day, that’s all.’

Nessie stared at him in confusion. ‘Why?’

‘It’s my wedding anniversary,’ he said. ‘Eliza and I would have been married ten years today.’

Nessie groaned. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

He shook his head and smiled bleakly. ‘Why would you? It’s my fault, I should have said no when Kathryn suggested a walk. But I wanted to show you the bluebells and I thought maybe
it was time to . . . time to make some fresh memories.’

The world lurched as Nessie’s skin began to crawl. ‘You used to come here with Eliza.’

Owen sighed and hung his head. ‘She loved the bluebells too.’

He looked so sad that Nessie wanted to hug him, to reassure him that it was okay. She didn’t dare touch him again, though. Instead, she busied herself with rearranging the plates, giving
him time to recover himself. ‘You know, we should probably eat some of this,’ she said, after a while. ‘Sam and Kathryn will be cross if we don’t.’

He sat for a moment, staring at the ground. Then he lifted his head and gave her a wry smile. ‘Hell hath no fury like a sister scorned. And they meant well. Their timing was off,
that’s all.’

Twin spots of heat pricked Nessie’s cheeks and she hid behind filling her plate with food she didn’t want. Her timing had been off, too, catastrophically so. Because the ghost of
Eliza felt like a physical presence between them now, in a way that she never had before. And Nessie wasn’t at all sure how to lay her to rest.

Sam stared at her phone on the bedside table.

It hadn’t rung since yesterday morning, not since she’d answered Will Pargeter’s call and cut him off before he could utter more than a few words. They were etched into her
memory, though, and as much as she tried to forget them, she was worried.
Listen, Sam, we need to talk . . .

What could he possibly have to say that she might want to hear, she wondered. He was the reason she’d lost her job – lost everything, in fact, while he got to carry on as normal. If
only she could turn back the clock to the night they’d met; go to a different bar, ignore his flirtatious smiles, tell him where to shove his bottle of Bollinger. But then she might not be
here, at the Star and Sixpence. And she wouldn’t have Joss.

It had been reckless of her to accept the first drink. But she’d recognised his face, although she couldn’t say where from, and he’d been very charming. Her defences had been
deployed elsewhere, at the other man trying to chat her up in the noisy bar and who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Will had intervened, told the man to stop hitting on his girlfriend, and
Sam had been vulnerable for a few minutes. That had been all Will Pargeter needed.

‘I don’t normally do that kind of thing,’ he’d said, once the other man had got the message. ‘Especially not when the damsel in distress looks like she’s more
than capable of handling herself. To be honest, I was more concerned for him than you.’

Sam laughed. ‘Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.’

She looked at him properly then. He was tall, around 6´ 4´´, in his early thirties with wavy brown hair and pale blue eyes. Good looking too, especially in that expensive suit
and crisp white shirt, and she had the oddest feeling she already knew him. He wasn’t a client; she was sure she’d remember but she couldn’t place where she’d seen him
before. Maybe television – he was very well spoken and had the air of someone who was used to being watched.

‘I can’t blame him for trying,’ he said. ‘You’re by far the most eye-catching woman in here.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m Will Pargeter.’

She considered the name: definitely no one she knew. ‘Sam Chapman. Pleased to meet you.’

She took his hand and he instantly raised it to his lips. ‘Trust me, the pleasure is all mine.’

From anyone else, it would have been cheesy. But whether it was the twinkle in his eye when he said it or the consummate confidence behind the delivery, it worked. Sam felt a shiver of
attraction when she met his gaze.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I should buy you one, to thank you for saving me.’

Will grinned. ‘Ah, but you didn’t actually need saving. So we’re all square.’

‘A vodka martini, then,’ Sam said and surreptitiously glanced down at his left hand. No wedding ring and no telltale signs that he normally wore one, either.

Nodding, he turned to go.

‘Actually,’ Sam said impulsively, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Make it dirty.’

Will’s eyes met hers. ‘Whatever you want,’ he said and in that second Sam knew they were going to have sex. How long it took them to get there depended on how well he played
the game.

He came back with her drink and they began a courtship dance. Sam established early on that he was thirty-three and single, ran his own consultancy business in the City, although she
couldn’t quite get to the bottom of what his business actually was. He’d just sealed the biggest deal of his career, he said, and was in the mood to celebrate. The next time he went to
the bar he returned with a bottle of Bollinger and things got hazy after that. They’d gone back to his hotel, The Landmark in Marylebone – by that time she already knew money
wasn’t something Will Pargeter struggled with – and hadn’t wasted much time on sleep. Just before seven, Sam had scrawled her number on the hotel notepaper and left Will sprawled
across the king-size bed.

He called later that day to thank her for a wonderful night and sent an extravagant bouquet of lilies and roses to the office. The next time she’d seen him had been on the BBC news the
following morning. He looked, if anything, even better than he had in person. Sam had sat up in her bed and turned the sound up.

‘Thank you for joining us, Lord Pargeter,’ the anchorwoman said, with a smile that seemed a little more coy than usual. ‘So tell me – what is a “Morality
Tsar” and why does the government need one?’

Sam blinked hard.
Lord
Pargeter? Her gaze slid to the caption at the bottom of the screen:
Lord William Pargeter – New Morality Advisor to Prime Minister
.

Will looked serious. ‘I wouldn’t call myself a tsar, exactly, but I have been brought in to ensure certain moral standards are observed in politics. Anyone who reads the papers will
know there have been too many lapses in judgement recently among members of both the House of Commons and the Lords. These men and women are meant to be role models and it’s my job to ensure
they behave accordingly.’

The newsreader raised her eyebrows. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

He leaned forward earnestly. ‘There are a number of things I plan to put in place. A transparent, clearly accountable system of expenses for MPs and Lords, so that everyone can see where
public money is being spent. Strict moral guidelines to ensure that my colleagues in public service fully understand their positions as beacons of integrity and decency.’ He waved a hand.
‘And of course, I’ll be encouraging them to remember their family responsibilities too.’

Sam went cold as the studio lights caught on his left hand: it was unmistakably a wedding ring. Her eyes slammed shut. To make things even worse, she now remembered where she’d seen him
before; in the foyer of Brightman and Burgess where she worked. Her boss, Myles Brightman, had mentioned doing some media training with a newly appointed advisor to Number Ten and Sam had seen them
fleetingly as she’d gone out to meet a client. She hadn’t made the connection. Until now . . .

Scrambling out of bed, she hurried through to the living room for her laptop, tapping impatiently with her nails as she waited for her browser to load. All of her worst fears were confirmed.
Will Pargeter wasn’t just married; he was married with two children; a three-year-old and a six-month-old baby. His wife was the daughter of a viscount and they lived in a sprawling country
pile somewhere in Sussex. His title was hereditary but he’d been working his way up through the corridors of power for the last few years – rumour had it he was tipped to be London
Mayor – and now he’d ‘sealed the biggest deal’ of his career. Sam felt sick. Apart from the fact that she’d been taken in by his lies, there were strict rules of
conduct at the PR agency about sleeping with clients – it was a definite no-no, whether they were married or not. If anyone found out she’d slept with the so-called morality tsar,
she’d be in major trouble. Thankfully, it seemed that he had much more to lose than her and wouldn’t be telling anyone about that night either. His poor wife, Sam thought. How many
other women had he charmed into bed while she was looking after a toddler and a new baby?

Sam picked up her phone and stabbed out a furious text.
Never contact me again
.

There’d been calls, of course, and more flowers. She’d ignored them all. And then the worst had happened – she’d run into Will somewhere she couldn’t escape: the
office.

She’d known there was a possibility she’d see him at some point but had banked on the fact that he had too much at stake to try anything. So she was unprepared when she walked into
the conference room and saw him on the other side of the table, between two other colleagues who looked less pleased to see her.

‘Ah, Sam, thanks for joining us,’ her boss, Myles, said briskly. ‘I’m sure you already know who this is but I’d like to formally introduce you to Will Pargeter.
We’re handling some of his PR while he’s working with Downing Street and he’s asked if you could come aboard.’

So that was it, Sam thought. The flowers and phone calls had failed so he was trying to get her attention another way. She plastered on the blandest of smiles to hide her anger and reached one
hand across the table. ‘Lord Pargeter.’

Will’s eyes danced as he gripped her fingers. ‘Call me Will, please. Myles has told me so much about you that I feel like we know each other already.’

She flashed him a stiff look. ‘As you wish.’

Sam felt his eyes on her often as the meeting progressed. She kept her own gaze averted, looking anywhere but at him unless he addressed her directly, which he did more and more until Sam was
sure everyone in the room must have guessed what was going on. But Myles seemed oblivious, even when Will held her hand far too long at the end. ‘I look forward to working more closely with
you, Sam.’

Once he’d gone, she’d asked Myles to be excused from the project.

‘But he asked for you specifically, Sam. By name.’ Myles frowned as he studied her. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

Sam’s mind raced as she searched for a plausible excuse. ‘I don’t usually work with the political clients,’ she said, and gritted her teeth slightly. ‘I’m not
sure I can handle it.’

Myles threw her a disbelieving look. ‘What’s this really about?’

She should come clean, admit her mistake, Sam knew, but she couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on Myles’ face. ‘I . . . I don’t trust him, that’s
all.’

Her boss laughed. ‘Since when has that been important? I don’t trust a lot of our clients but I still work with them. No, you stick with Will Pargeter. I’ve got a feeling
he’ll be good for you.’

Sam had remembered those words a month later, when Myles had summoned her to his office and stared at her in thunderous silence from behind his desk.