Sweet Deception (21 page)

It wasn't quite the response I'd been looking for. “What's that supposed to mean?” I said guardedly, sticking my hands into my jacket pockets.

He must have sensed my defensiveness, because his eyes, which had been scanning me, came to rest on my face. “What I mean by that is—wow.”

With that one word, my confidence lifted. “Really?” My hands came out of my pockets, and lightly touched my hair. “Because I'm on time, not hung-over, and looking more
preppy than I'd ever have thought possible.” My voice took on a light, flirtatious tone. “You like the new me?”

He gave me a strange look. “I always liked you, Charlotte. Whatever crazy clothes you wore, or whatever strange antics you got up to. I just wasn't sure if you always liked yourself.”

The seriousness of his answer threw me. I wasn't exactly sure how to respond, so I searched for a way to lighten the conversation. “Are you psychoanalysing me now? I thought that was Dr. Milton's job?”

He regarded me for a long moment. I felt a flutter of anticipation, wondering what he was about to say. But then he seemed to change his mind. “We should get going,” he said. “I promised your mother we'd be on time.”

Trying to ignore my disappointment, I followed him out to his car. To my relief, the front seat was empty.

“No Petra?” I said, as I got in. It had crossed my mind that he might bring her along, which would have scuppered my plans for the day.

“Not today.” I waited, clearly wanting a fuller explanation. He hesitated, and then said, “We broke up.”

I tried not to show how pleased I was to hear this. With her out of the picture, I was free to make my move, if that's what I wanted to do.

“So how come you split?”

He flicked a look over at me. “You know the answer to that.”

“Yeah, but I still want to hear you say it.”

“Well, turns out you were right—she was looking for something more serious than I was. She told me that she wanted us to move in together. I told her I wasn't ready. So she ended it.”

I could imagine how that conversation had gone. She'd probably hoped that giving him an ultimatum—we either move forward or end it—would press him into doing what she wanted, when instead he called her bluff and held firm.

It would have been easy to let the subject rest there, but my curiosity had been piqued. I'd never paid much attention to Richard's love life before, but now I had a vested interest in finding out what made him tick. “So why didn't you want to settle down with her?”

“I told you before—I'm busy with work.”

I thought about this for a moment, and then shook my head. “No, it's more than that. You've always been this way. You're a serial monogamist. You've brought how many girls home to meet my parents over the years? And they're all perfectly nice and presentable—good catches each and every one of them—attractive, intelligent, beautifully presented. But after a while you drop whomever you've been seeing and move on to the next. Which always seems somewhat pointless,” I said thoughtfully, “as they're pretty much interchangeable. It's almost as if—”

“As if what?” Richard kept his eyes fixed firmly on the road.

I considered my chain of thought for a second. “You don't want to go out with someone you're really serious about. You'd rather date girls whom you know aren't right for you, so that you can keep your distance, rather than risk getting close to someone and getting hurt.”

Richard snorted a laugh. “So you're the one psychoanalysing me now?” he said lightly. “I think you've been spending too much time with Dr. Milton.”

I snuck a look over at him. I might have bought his blasé reaction if I hadn't noticed how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel. “Perhaps you're right,” I murmured, deciding it was easiest to let it go.

But I had a feeling I'd struck a nerve with him.

*  *  *

After that, I changed the conversation to the less controversial topic of work. There was a lot of office gossip—who was dating whom—which I got from Rex. Richard tried to stay above it, but now I happily filled him in. We also talked about the forthcoming Christmas party, which was the Friday after next.

I was in a surprisingly good mood when I reached my parents' house. My mother was so shocked that we'd arrived on time, and that I wasn't looking as trashy as normal, that
she didn't have time to formulate her normal passive-aggressive criticisms of me.

We ate in the formal dining room, as was traditional in our household for Sunday lunch, seated at the oval mahogany table that my parents had bought when they were first married. It was one of the most relaxed times I'd had with my parents in a while. I stuck to drinking water, which I think helped. It was only once the main course was finished, and the dishes cleared, that my mother finally turned her attention on me.

“So, Charlotte,” She sat back in her chair and smiled at me. A casual observer might assume it was a genuine smile, but I knew better—it was her way of disarming you before an attack. “How are things at that bar you work at?”

Here we go, I thought. However hard she tried to pretend otherwise, it was always clear that she hated the idea of her daughter working in a bar. I wasn't sure how she'd react to the news of my new job—in some ways, she'd see it as an upgrade on pulling pints, but given that it was my mother, she'd inevitably find some way to criticise me.

But there was no way I was getting out of this. It was the moment of truth. I set down my glass. “Actually,” I said carefully, “I'm not working at the Nick anymore.”

My mother's sharp eyes narrowed. “Oh? What happened?”

I could tell what she was thinking—that I must have
done something to get sacked. She always liked to assume the worst about me. Having the opportunity to prove her wrong was too good to miss.

“Nothing ‘happened,' I just got a new job . . .” I nodded over at Richard. “Working at Davenport's.”

I'd timed my announcement well. My mother had just been sipping her wine, and the shock of my news must have made her swallow it down the wrong way, because she started to cough. I bit back a smile.

“When did this happen?” she said, once she'd regained her composure.

“About eight weeks ago.”

“And you didn't think to tell me before now?” She looked hurt. So that was going to be the angle this time—that I'd kept things from her.

“I didn't want to say anything until I knew how it was working out.”

She turned to Richard. “And how is it? Working out?”

I tried not to feel annoyed that she hadn't asked me. It had always been this way—she still saw me as a child, while Richard was a grown-up. But there was no point getting upset about it, so I turned to Richard, too. I wondered what exactly he was going to say. He could quite rightly bring up my early petulance, confirming my mother's opinion of me as irresponsible. But instead he smiled at me.

“Charlotte's doing an excellent job. She's been a real asset
to the team she's working in.”

“Really?” My mother made no effort to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“No need to sound quite so shocked,” I muttered.

“I'm not,” she said defensively. “I've always said you had a good brain, Charlotte. I just worried that you had no intention of using it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

I could feel irritation building up inside me. My mother opened her mouth to say something back, and I could see the argument escalating and fast spinning out of control—it had happened so many times before. But before it could, my father reached out across the table and caught my mother's hand. “Eleanor. Please.”

She looked from my father and then to me. “I was just trying to show some interest in Charlotte's life.” She sniffed. “It doesn't matter what I do or say, I'm always the bad guy.” She pushed her chair back from the table, and stood up. “I'm going to get dessert.”

She swept from the room. There was silence after she left. Richard waited a beat, and then said, “I'll make sure she's all right.”

He got up and followed my mother out to the kitchen.

After they'd gone, my father and I just looked at each other.

“We almost made it two hours without an argument,” I
said. “That must be some kind of record.”

My father couldn't help smiling. Then he grew serious. “You know, it may not seem like it, but your mother just wants you to be happy.”

“Then maybe she could lay off criticising me every time I come down here.”

“And maybe you could be less sensitive,” he said mildly. “She may not always say the right thing, but none of us are perfect. And remember, above all, she loves you and wants only the best for you.”

I had no reply to that. Luckily, my mother chose that moment to reappear, carrying an apple crumble. Richard followed behind, with a jug of cream in one hand and a tub of ice cream in the other.

“Here we go.” My mother set the still sizzling dish in the middle of the table. “Be careful—it's hot.”

I'd expected her to resume our argument after coming back from the kitchen, but instead she began to chatter on about making the crumble, as she started to dish up. I snuck a look over at Richard, wondering what he'd said to her in there. He'd always been able to handle my mother.

I waited until my parents bent their heads to start eating their pudding.

“Thank you,” I mouthed at Richard.

“You're welcome,” he mouthed back.

We grinned at each other across the table. Our eyes held
for a moment longer than was necessary, and I felt that strange fluttering in my stomach again. I looked away, worried that he might see my feelings written across my face. I glanced at my watch, wondering how long it would be until we could get out of here, so I could finally have Richard to myself.

It was nearly six by the time we left my parents' house. The rest of the afternoon had passed pleasantly enough, and my mother and I had miraculously managed to avoid any more snippiness between us.

Richard and I chatted easily on the drive back. But as we got closer to London, I grew quieter. We'd be back at my flat soon, and I wasn't ready for the day to end. It was hard to know when I might get another opportunity to be alone with him, and if I was going to make a move, it needed to be now.

“So, any plans for tonight?” I asked casually, as he drove towards my flat.

“Just getting an early night. It's been a long week.” He waited a beat and then said, “How about you?”

“Probably just watch a movie, something like that.” I saw a hint of surprise in his eyes at my response, but he didn't
push it. I guess he'd remembered my sense of humour failure from the last time he referred to my wild lifestyle.

I waited, hoping he might take the bait, and suggest that we spend the evening together. But he said nothing, and we lapsed into silence.

Finally he drew up outside my building. “Well, here you go. Home sweet home.”

I forced a smile. “Thanks,” I managed, but my mind was racing. I couldn't let him go now. If I did, I was sure nothing would ever happen between us.

I unclicked my seatbelt and gathered up my bag. Then, just as I reached for the handle to open the car door, I turned back to him.

“Hey,” I said, as though a thought had just struck me. “Why don't you come up for a bit?” He frowned, obviously taken aback by the invitation. “I mean, you said how tired you are,” I rushed on. “And it's been a long journey back. Why don't I make you some coffee before you drive home? Wake you up a bit.” I could see him hesitate, and I didn't blame him. It was hardly a long way back to his apartment in Canary Wharf—it would clearly be most logical for him just to continue on. But I didn't want to give him a chance to think about that. Instead, I gave him what I hoped was an enticing smile. “If it makes any difference, the flat's actually tidy for once.”

He laughed, and to my relief he switched off the engine.
“Now, that I have to see.”

We went up to my flat, and I left him in the sitting room, while I went to the kitchen. Once I was away from him, I leaned up against the countertop, and ran a hand through my hair. Now I had Richard here, I was beginning to realise that I really hadn't thought this through very well. This kind of situation was new to me. Usually if I wanted to get a guy into bed, it was just a case of getting drunk, doing some clumsy flirting, and that was it. All I needed to do was throw myself at him. Richard, I suspected, was used to a more sophisticated seduction technique.

“Is everything okay in there?” Richard called through.

Damn. I needed a plan of action fast. “Yeah. I'll be right back.”

I cast my eyes round the kitchen, desperately looking for inspiration. The wooden wine rack on the opposite counter caught my eye. There were twelve bottles stacked in it, and they all belonged to Lindsay. She had taken a wine course the previous year, and had started developing a small collection whenever she had spare money. It seemed like a good place to start.

I walked over and selected a bottle of red, and mentally crossed my fingers that Lindsay wouldn't be too mad at me for opening it. I popped the cork, and poured two large glasses. I downed one for Dutch courage, topped it back up, and then carried the glasses through to Richard.

I walked into the room to find it empty. For one heart-crushing moment, I thought Richard had got bored and left. But then I heard him say, “Up here.”

I looked up and saw him standing on the mezzanine level, where I'd been doing my painting. He had his back to me, and was studying the canvas I was working on. It was a recreation of the view across the rooftops from our flat at dusk, a typical London scene, rendered in oils.

Looking up at him, I felt the alcohol start to hit me. It was strong wine, and it had gone straight to my head, emboldening me to make my move.