Читать книгу Their Scandalous Affair - Catherine George - Страница 8

WHEN Avery made the decision to keep on her mother’s business she’d advertised for an experienced tailor and Frances White had entered her life—first as an employee, but soon as a valued friend. With Frances’s input the business had rapidly expanded enough to need premises in town, at which point Avery had engaged two former schoolfriends as skilled part-time help. This new arrangement had left Avery free to concentrate on the financial and advertising side, and on visits to clients for fittings. She had also been able to fine-tune her own particular talent for the embroidery and delicate hand repairs Avery Alterations had soon become known for in the neighbourhood. And if she sometimes yearned for the buzz and adrenaline of her past life in the City, Avery kept it strictly to herself.

She was in mellow mood next day as she settled down in the small spare room to work on Pansy Keith-Davidson’s vintage bridal gown. Unpicking seams in delicate fabric was tedious, time-consuming work, and normally Avery worked with the radio for company, or an audio book—preferably a thriller. But today she was thinking exclusively of Jonas Mercer—and his kisses. In the past she’d had her fair share of them, just like any other half-presentable female, but lately they hadn’t featured in her life at all. She knew there was more to it than that. With just a kiss or two Jonas Mercer had revived feelings she’d been utterly certain she would never experience again.

Avery found her hands had stilled, and she was staring blindly at ivory slipper satin instead of treating it with the respect it deserved. She pulled herself together sharply, switched on her thriller and focused her full attention on the work which represented a handsome fee for Avery Alterations.

It was late, and Avery’s eyes felt hot and dry by the time careful ironing had completed her day’s work. As she stepped out of the shower her phone rang, and she snatched it off the bathroom stool.

‘Good evening, Ms Crawford. Are you cross-eyed and grumpy?’ enquired a familiar voice.

‘I was by the time I finished for the day, Mr Mercer, but I’m better now,’ she informed him, rubbing at her hair.

‘Good. Have you spotted the coincidence in today’s crossword? Four across—“The architect of King Minos’s labyrinth at Crete.”’

‘Daedalus, who just happened to be Icarus’s daddy,’ she said smugly. ‘But some people work too hard to dally with crosswords, Mr Mercer.’

‘I stand reproved! I booked a table at the Walnut Tree, by the way, subject to your approval.’

‘I’m impressed. I’ve never been, but I’m more than happy to try it,’ she assured him.

‘It’s a fair distance away, so it means an early start. I’ll call for you at seven,’ he said again.

‘I’ll make a point of getting home on time.’

‘Here’s my cell number if you need to contact me.’

‘Hang on, I’ll get a pen.’ Avery ran into the bedroom and scribbled on the telephone pad on her bedside table. ‘Got it.’

‘Good. Thank you for taking pity on a lonely stranger last night, Avery.’

‘I enjoyed the evening very much,’ she assured him.

‘So did I. Very much indeed. We’ll do it all again tomorrow. Goodnight, Avery.’

She felt very pleased with life after Jonas’s phone call, even after a look through her wardrobe—which confirmed that she owned far more in the way of business suits and jeans than anything frivolous. With no time to run something up, the only option was the dateless little black dress most women owned as standby. Jonas wouldn’t know—or care—that it dated from her City days.

Frances rang later, to report on the day. ‘Quite a bit of new work came in, but it’s just routine stuff. We can fit it in around the wedding order.’

‘Thanks, Frances. I’ve finished the first phase on the gown. Over to you tomorrow.’

‘Brilliant—but no resting on your laurels, boss. Mrs K-D rang this afternoon, asking if you could spare the time to have tea with her tomorrow afternoon to measure the bridesmaids. I said you’d ring to confirm.’

Avery groaned. ‘Lucky me! I’ll ring her now.’

Later, supper eaten and chores done, Avery wished that she’d said yes to this evening with Jonas Mercer after all. She liked him enormously for someone she’d known only a day or so.

After leaving university, where she’d played as hard as anyone else and worked a lot harder than most, her career in a male-dominated world in the City had inevitably brought her into contact with a lot of men. She’d disliked some intensely, liked others in a temperate kind of way, and during her time in London had been involved in two relationships that had been anything but temperate. But this instant rapport with Jonas was—different.

She heaved a sigh as she switched on her computer. Doing accounts was a poor substitute for an evening spent with the deeply appealing Mr Mercer.

When Avery arrived at the shop next morning she handed the garment box to Frances, went through the pile of mail, and found a letter that sent her high spirits into a nosedive. Morrell Properties were not renewing her lease. The premises must be vacated by the end of the next calendar month.

‘What’s up?’ said Frances, eyeing her face.

Avery showed her the letter. ‘My landlords are evicting me. They’ve never given me more than a half-yearly lease at a time, so I suppose this was always on the cards.’

And now she knew the reason for Paul Morrell’s visit. His father owned Morrell Properties, and Paul had persuaded him to lease the Stow Street premises to her in the first place. At the time Avery hadn’t cared much for the six-monthly terms, and even less for feeling beholden to Paul Morrell. But nothing else had been available in town at the time, and no businesswoman worth her salt could have passed up premises at an affordable rent in a good commercial location.

‘So what happens now?’ asked Frances.

‘We have a month and a bit to find new premises, and if the worst comes to the worst we’ll work from my place after that until I find something else in town,’ said Avery, sounding more positive than she felt. ‘Break the news when Louise and Helen arrive, but tell them there’s nothing to worry about.’

She shut herself into the minuscule cloakroom, rang a number in the City of London, and for the first time in three years asked for Paul Morrell’s extension.

‘Morrell,’ he said crisply, sounding very different from the man she’d seen off two evenings before.

‘Avery Crawford,’ she stated, equally crisp.

‘Avery?’ he said incredulously. ‘God, how wonderful to hear from you. This is the most extraordinary coincidence. I was about to ring you to apologise for coming to your place in that state—’

‘You shouldn’t have been there in any state, but never mind the apologies. This isn’t a social call. I take it you came to tell me your father is evicting me?’

‘If you must put it like that, yes—though it isn’t really eviction, Avery. The terms of your lease were clear from the start. I spotted you in town and decided to break the news before you got it in the post. I scorched rubber through the back streets to Gresham Road, because I knew you wouldn’t even open the door to me if you got home first.’

‘A strong possibility,’ she agreed dryly. ‘But if you drove that fast you’re lucky you weren’t picked up by the police.’

‘Tell me about it! I cruised to my parents’ house so slowly afterwards it was a wonder I wasn’t nicked for kerb crawling.’ He paused. ‘I tried to persuade my father to give you more notice, Avery, but he’s selling the land—which includes the shops.’

Avery waited a moment, then asked the question which was her sole reason for contacting Paul Morrell again in this life. ‘Who’s buying?’

‘The Mercom Group. I asked around, but no one knows much about them in the City. Pretty solid outfit, though. They’ve been in business since before the war. Haulage, warehousing and so on—are you still there, Avery?’

‘Yes, I’m still here.’ She heard voices in the background, then Paul spoke again.

‘Avery, I’ve got to go. I’m due at a meeting.’ His voice lowered urgently. ‘I’m really glad you rang, darling. Does this mean—?’

‘Absolutely not,’ she said flatly. ‘All I wanted was information.’

There was a pause, then she heard Paul heave a sigh. ‘I wish to God I could put the clock back. I was a fool,’ he said bitterly.

‘No, Paul. I was the fool.’

Avery disconnected and sat staring into space, cursing herself for getting a man wrong yet again. Jonas Mercer was the first man in years to appeal to her on a man/woman level. Unfortunately he also happened to run the company that would probably demolish the row of shops that included Avery Alterations—which it had every right to do. But that wasn’t the point. The part that infuriated her—and cut surprisingly deep—was the discovery that Jonas had known all along how the deal would affect her business but hadn’t seen fit to tell her.

When Avery went back into the shop Louise came running in from the café next door. ‘Hey, what do you think?’ she said breathlessly. ‘None of the other shops got a letter about the lease.’

‘Really?’ Avery’s eyes narrowed ominously. ‘How very interesting.’

Frances exchanged a speaking look with the other two, and briskly requested Avery’s help in fitting the inserts she’d cut to stitch into the vintage bridal gown. There was a steady influx of customers from then on, and for the rest of the day Avery was kept so busy that Frances advised her to go straight home after her session with the bridesmaids.

‘No point in trekking back here afterwards. I’ll lock up.’

Avery thanked her and smiled encouragingly at her little team as she left. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll soon find other premises to rent.’

Avery’s session with six excited little girls and their harassed mothers took up so much time and energy that it was late by the time she left. Several times during the day she’d been on the point of ringing Jonas, but in the end decided to allow herself the satisfaction of confronting him in person. She arrived home to find Jonas there before her, standing tall in the arched porch like a sentry in a box.

‘Hello, Avery, you’re late,’ he said, moving swiftly to open the car door. ‘The table’s booked for eight.’

She got out, ignoring his helping hand. ‘Cancel it,’ she said tersely. ‘I’m not hungry.’

He stepped back, frowning. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ll tell you inside.’ She unlocked the door and punched in the code for the alarm. ‘In here, please.’

She ushered him into a dauntingly formal room, with pictures and furnishings dating from her grandparents’ day. The only modern features were two central heating radiators so rarely switched on that the temperature of the room was as arctic as Avery’s manner.

‘Do sit down,’ she said politely, but Jonas shook his head and drew himself to his full, formidable height, moving to one side to avoid the coloured glass chandelier Avery’s grandparents had brought back from a holiday in Venice.

‘I’ll stand.’

‘Then I’ll come straight to the point.’ Avery looked up at him coldly. ‘I gather that this “family firm” of yours has purchased the land which includes the shops on Stow Street.’

His mouth tightened. ‘So that’s it. Who the hell leaked that? It hasn’t been made public yet.’

‘I received a letter from Morrell Properties today, telling me my lease won’t be renewed, so I made a few enquiries.’ Her eyes speared his. ‘You’ve known about this all along. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I fully intended to the minute planning permission was confirmed,’ he said curtly. ‘It didn’t come through officially until late this afternoon.’

‘Oh.’ Avery felt herself deflate like a pricked balloon. ‘I see.’

His eyes hardened. ‘I must have a word with George Morrell. I told him I wanted to inform all the leaseholders in person before they received an official letter.’

She smiled faintly. ‘None of the other leaseholders received a letter today. Only me.’

Jonas frowned. ‘You’re saying this is personal?’

‘You bet it is.’

‘Why?’

‘His son arranged the lease for me in the first place as a favour, even though Daddy disapproved.’ Avery’s chin lifted. ‘I’m considered ineligible as a friend for the Morrell son and heir. In fact, I’ve been expecting this kind of letter every time the lease comes up for renewal, so that part of it was no shock.’ She looked at him squarely. ‘But because I liked you I was angry—hurt, even—to find you’d kept me in the dark about the deal.’

‘Avery—’ His phone rang, and with a muttered curse Jonas answered it, his face grim as he rapped out questions to his caller. He snapped the phone shut, looking bleak. ‘Sorry, I have to go. There’s been an accident involving one of our vehicles.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’

‘Yes. I’ll drive straight to the hospital.’ He took an envelope from his pocket as they reached the outer door. ‘I intended to give you this as a parting gift at the end of a very different evening. Read it when I’m gone.’ He hesitated, and for a moment she thought—and hoped—that he would kiss her. But he merely looked at her for a moment, then turned away without touching her. ‘Goodbye, Avery.’

After her usual locking and bolting routine Avery stared in blank dismay as she read the letter which had been faxed through to Jonas after planning had been confirmed. Mercom, it seemed, had no intention of demolishing the shops in Stow Street. The leaseholders were being offered the option either to purchase, or to lease their premises from their new landlord. There were plans to build on the land behind them, but construction work would not affect trading. Traffic access to the building site would be via Cheap Street, to the north of the car park. Official confirmation would be forwarded to Miss Crawford in due course.

Avery stalked round the kitchen like an angry tigress, heaping curses on George Morrell’s head. His indecent hurry to terminate her lease had put paid to what might have developed into a beautiful friendship with Jonas Mercer. She gave a short, mirthless laugh. Who was she kidding? For the first time in years she would have liked more than that. But fat chance of friendship or anything else now Jonas had gone speeding back home to—to where, exactly? She looked at the letter-heading. Mercom was based in Kew, in London, but she had no idea of Jonas’s private address. A call to his cellphone was the only way to contact him, but she couldn’t see herself doing that any time soon.

‘No problem, everyone,’ Avery announced next morning. ‘I merely pay rent to a new landlord.’ She reported on her meeting with a Mercom representative, and it was only later, over lunch with Frances, that she revealed the identity of their new landlord.

‘I went straight for the jugular because he kept me in the dark about it,’ she said disconsolately, ‘and then he handed me this.’ She passed the Mercom letter to Frances, who smiled in relief as she finished reading it.

‘So we’re not out in the snow after all, boss dear! I trust you grovelled suitably to Mr Mercer afterwards?’

‘I didn’t get the chance. He had to rush off to cope with an emergency back at base.’ Avery heaved a sigh. ‘I doubt I’ll see him again.’

Embroidery was a pastime she normally found therapeutic, but that day it gave Avery far too much scope for brooding over Jonas. And to her frustration she soon realised that her work was unnecessary. Frances was so skilled a tailor that the inserts had no need of disguise, and after the first couple of hours Avery wished she’d kept her big mouth shut and never mentioned embroidery to the bride. A whole morning of working ivory silk flowers and leaves on ivory satin was as much as she could take, and at lunchtime Avery gave herself a break.

To Avery’s infinite gratitude she found that Louise and Helen had worked like beavers to finish an order for miles of curtain for a client’s barn conversion, and had already started cutting the shell-pink taffeta delivered that morning for the bridesmaids’ dresses. Frances was completing skilled alterations to a man’s suit, and Avery, glad of company while she worked, began on the repair of a black lace evening dress promised for the weekend.

Any hope of hearing personally from Jonas gradually faded as ten days passed, with only official communications from solicitors to Avery about the leasing of the Stow Road premises from Mercom. By the following weekend work was completed on the wedding set, including a last-minute alteration to the couture coat and dress bought by the bride’s mother, who had dropped a dress size since the purchase.

Avery received a very generous cheque when she made her delivery to the delighted recipients, accepted tea in preference to the offered champagne, then drove back to town to bank the cheque before transferring all outstanding work from the shop to Gresham Street for the weekend, as usual.

On Saturday evening Avery walked into town to join the others in the park for the usual Bonfire Night display of fireworks put on for charity, and later, after Louise and Helen had waved their husbands and children off, the four women made for a new wine bar the other side of town to enjoy a meal. Avery was buying, as thanks for the extra work put in to get the wedding order finished on time.

‘I’m surprised you had a Saturday evening free, Frances,’ teased Avery over the meal.

‘I told Philip he’d have to wait until tomorrow,’ said her friend, and smiled smugly. ‘He’s cooking Sunday lunch for me at his place.’

‘You mean the man cooks, as well?’ said Helen enviously. ‘Can I send my Tom round to him for lessons?’

Avery joined in the laughter, pleased that life had taken an upward turn for her friend, but on the leisurely stroll home she couldn’t help feeling wistful as she thought of Frances spending Sunday with her Philip. Avery Crawford would spend hers as usual—catching up on laundry and household chores.

As she watched a late burst of fireworks light the sky nearby she thought with nostalgia of Sundays past, some spent at home with her mother for a rest and some home cooking, others in London, where she’d been part of a group of friends who ate brunch together, or drove into the country to some eating place reviewed in the Sunday glossies. But when she’d met Paul he’d demanded her undivided attention. By the time their relationship had ended Avery’s group of friends had dispersed to different jobs and locations, and she’d been needed at home with her mother.

There’d been no time for socialising during that first harrowing year. It had taken all Avery’s time and energy to keep the business going while she cared for her mother, who’d insisted on keeping to the work she loved as long as she could, despite a rapidly deteriorating heart condition. Before the year was out Ellen Crawford had been dead, and, swamped and sodden with grief, Avery’s first instinct had been to run away, back to her life in the City. But out of loyalty to her mother she’d stayed on to complete standing orders, and coped with more work as it came in. Eventually she had decided that as a fitting memorial to her mother she would expand the business. And now, two years on, it was a commercial success. But Avery was increasingly conscious of a lack in her life.

She sighed. This was Jonas Mercer’s fault. He was the catalyst. She had long ago given up any idea of returning to the City. That part of her life was over. And until she’d forced her company on Jonas at the Angel she’d been content to jog along in the comfortable little rut she’d made for herself back in her home town. He was the first man in years to raise even a spark of interest in her. Not that there was any hope of seeing him again. The heir apparent of Mercom would send underlings to the town in future.

Avery came out of her reverie to realise that the smell of smoke was growing stronger. And the glow in the sky was too constant for fireworks. With sudden dread she began to run. As she skirted the deserted cattle market a group of youths rushed past her in the opposite direction. One of them tripped, his anguished face clearly visible for a moment under the street lamp before he fled after the others. A blood-curdling wail of sirens filled the air, and Avery raced in panic towards the glow—then gave a screech of horror as the Stow Street shops came into view. The betting shop next to Avery Alterations was on fire.

By the time she’d been allowed through the cordon at the actual scene the Fire Brigade and the police were in full control, and Sergeant Griffiths turned from consultation with one of his constables to make sure Avery kept well back as hoses were directed at the betting shop.

‘Don’t worry, Avery, the fire’s already contained,’ he said firmly. ‘The betting shop’s in pretty bad shape, but yours is intact, as far as I can tell. You’ll have smoke damage, though.’

‘Any idea what happened?’ she panted, gasping for breath.

‘PC Sharp’s just been talking to the manager of the Red Lyon on Cheap Street. Apparently some lads were letting off fireworks on the waste ground behind the shops earlier. One of their rockets must have gone through the betting shop roof.’ He smiled grimly. ‘One of them had a social conscience and rang for the Fire Brigade before they scarpered.’

Avery turned to smile in rueful sympathy as Harry Daniels, the betting shop manager, came running to join them. ‘How are you, Harry?’ she asked, as he stared, stunned, at his blackened premises.

He turned to her, shaking his head. ‘Bloody furious, love. I’d like to get my hands on the little devils that did this!’

‘Now, then, no vigilante stuff, Harry,’ warned Sergeant Griffiths. ‘Leave it to the professionals.’

Eventually the fire chief told Avery she could make an inspection, and, escorted by two firefighters armed with torches, Avery looked round her premises, her heart sinking as she examined the smoke damage on the wall shared with the betting shop.

‘Don’t worry—no broken glass or structural damage,’ said one of her hefty young escorts. ‘Just needs a lick of paint on the party wall.’

‘Better check on the sewing machines,’ warned his colleague.

Avery thanked them warmly. ‘I’ll take them home with me. And as much fabric as possible.’

There were plenty of willing hands to stow the bolts of cloth and two of the machines in her car, and to save a return trip for Avery the sergeant ordered one of his constables to transport the other machines, and anything else she wanted, to Gresham Road.

It was nearly four in the morning before Avery said goodbye to the constable, who had insisted on making tea for her before doing his fetching and carrying. Avery thanked him warmly as he left and finally trudged off to bed, heaping curses on Guy Fawkes for leaving a legacy of firework displays and bonfires every November 5th from 1605 onwards.

After what felt like only a few minutes’ sleep the phone woke her up again.

Oh, God—what now? ‘Hello?’ she croaked.

‘Avery?’ said an urgent voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Jonas Mercer. Are you all right?’

‘Oh, hi. Yes, yes—I’m fine.’ She cleared her throat and struggled upright. ‘Unlike my shop.’

‘Never mind the blasted shop,’ he said roughly. ‘Were you there when the fire started?’

‘Not in the shop. I was walking home from the other side of town. I saw the blaze in the distance and ran like the wind when I heard sirens. It was a lot worse for the betting shop. Harry Daniels, the manager, was still in shock when I left for home with my sewing machines—well, with two of them. Tony brought the rest.’

‘Who’s Tony?’

‘A strapping young police constable who heaved all my other machines into the house and even made me a cup of tea.’

‘Good for him.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘I’ll be there to make an inspection tomorrow. I assume you carry insurance?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. I need to do some juggling with my diary first thing tomorrow. I’ll ring you some time during the morning to fix a time.’

‘Jonas—’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

Avery rang off without specifying what she was thanking him for, and heaved herself out of bed to make for the bathroom, where the red-eyed, pallid apparition in the mirror sent her diving into the shower.

While she sluiced the smell of smoke from her hair Avery made a mental list of things to do. Normally Frances would have been the first one to contact, but knowing that her friend would rush round right away, instead of going off to lunch with Philip, Avery rang Helen instead. And, just as she’d hoped, Helen’s husband—who serviced their machines on a regular basis—was good-natured enough to give up part of his Sunday to lend a helping hand.

Avery left a message on Louise’s phone, then threw on jeans and a sweater and managed to swallow some coffee before Tom Bennett arrived with his anxious young wife in tow.

‘We packed the boys off to Tom’s parents for Sunday lunch, so I came to help,’ announced Helen. ‘Gosh, Avery, what a shock! Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. But poor Harry Daniels was in quite a state last night.’

‘Do they know who did it?’

‘Some local lads let off fireworks on the waste ground behind Stow Street. A rocket must have got out of hand and set fire to the betting shop roof.’

‘And they ran off without being identified, of course,’ said Tom, and hoisted his tool bag. ‘Right then, Avery. Bring on the machines.’

She led him to the dining room, now transformed into a temporary workshop. ‘I’d brought the outstanding orders home for the weekend as usual, thank God, and the wedding gear had already been delivered to the Keith-Davidsons.’

Helen shuddered. ‘Just imagine those frilly pink taffeta jobs covered in black soot.’

‘Don’t! By the way, I brought all the bolts of fabric home I could. Let’s have a look at them.’

After every yard of it had been examined Avery decided that after a few lengths had been cut off each roll the rest of the fabric would be fit to use again in an emergency.

‘But the insurance will cover replacements, so I’ll order more right away.’

The machines were eventually confirmed as in good working order, and after making a big fry-up for a late lunch Avery saw her helpers off, resolving to buy Tom a bottle of the most expensive single malt she could find by way of thanks.

She was yawning over her insurance policy later when Louise rang.

‘What’s up, Avery? We’ve just got back from Sunday lunch with the parents.’

When Avery had explained Louise exclaimed in horror, and promised to be at the house first thing in the morning. ‘Does Frances know?’

‘No. I couldn’t spoil her lunch with Philip. I’ll ring her this evening.’

‘It might be a good idea to do it sooner than that. She might hear it from someone else before then.’

Louise was right. Frances heard it on the local radio while she was helping Philip clear up, and rang before Avery could contact her, fizzing with indignation that she hadn’t been informed sooner.

‘Why spoil your day, Frances? There’s nothing for you to do at this point. Tom came round to check the machines, and Helen came with him to help—’

‘Louise, too, I suppose?’ said Frances ominously.

‘No, she was with her family at Sunday lunch with Grandma as usual. I’ve only just spoken to her. Don’t be cross. Please.’ To her embarrassment Avery’s voice cracked, and Frances, immediately contrite, assured her she was worried, not cross.

‘I’ll be there in five minutes—’

‘You most certainly will not! Enjoy the rest of your day with Philip. I had no sleep to speak of last night, and I’m desperate for a good long nap.’

‘If you’re sure?’ said Frances doubtfully.

‘Very sure. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll need you far more in the morning.’

Avery had been telling the simple truth about needing a nap. She stacked the dishwasher, made herself some tea, and sat at the table with the Sunday paper to drink it. When she found her eyes were crossing she trudged up to her room, then groaned in frustration. Her bed reeked of smoke.

After she’d heaved the mattress over and put fresh linen on it she was reeling with fatigue. She undressed, and crawled under her duvet at last, feeling as though she could sleep until next morning. And when she woke at long last, she found to her astonishment that she had.