Читать книгу Weddings Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 13

MICHAEL Armstrong Designs? Willow sat there in a daze.

She had no idea what she’d expected. Michael Armstrong, Accounts R Us, maybe. But Designs? A workshop? What on earth did he design? Business systems? Software? Did that require a ‘workshop’?

Far from getting answers, she had even more questions. She needed a local business directory, she needed to go to Maybridge, she needed—

A sharp rap on the door startled her so much that she dropped her phone.

‘Willow? Are you okay? I’ve been calling.’

‘Fine,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m fine. Sorry.’ She retrieved her phone and stuffed it in her bag, dragged her fingers through her hair and quickly washed her hands.

Mike was waiting for her on the landing when she emerged and his brows met in a quick frown. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No.’ She thought her face might crack as she smiled. ‘What could be wrong?’ The man she’d been about to marry had a life she knew nothing about. What could possibly be wrong with that?

‘You look a bit pale. Maybe it’s the paint fumes. Why don’t you give it a rest this afternoon?’

‘I intend to.’ She moved her arm before he could touch her. She was familiar with that tender little gesture. She loved the caring way he would rub his hand over her arm, look into her eyes, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled and then kissed away whatever bothered her. Kissed away questions. Not this time. She was going to get to the truth; she was going to confront him with it and then she was going to move into the pub until he’d finished making those damned shelves. ‘I’m going to London tomorrow to meet with my new boss and I need something suitably sharp to wear. I’m going shopping this afternoon.’ In Maybridge.

There was the slightest pause. ‘Do you need company?’

‘Are you offering to give me the benefit of your advice on the most suitable, um…design?’ she asked. She wanted to scream.

‘I was offering to drive you,’ he returned mildly. ‘You’re on your own in the fitting room.’ Then a slow smile lifted his features. ‘Belay that last remark. I’m more than happy to help with the hooks and eyes—’

‘Thanks, but you’ve forfeited any rights to play with my hooks and eyes. Besides, you’ve got plenty to keep you busy here. I called Crysse.’ Well, she had called her. It wasn’t a lie. Then, because she didn’t want him making a fuss, insisting on coming along, since she was so pale, she said, ‘She’s meeting me.’ Which was the biggest, fattest lie she’d ever told.

‘Crysse?’ he repeated dully, clearly far from reassured. She wished she’d said nothing, but it was too late now.

‘Who else?’ she demanded defensively.

After a moment he stepped back to let her pass. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure. And don’t worry about dinner,’ she said quickly as she clattered down the wooden stairs. ‘I’ll get a cooked ready meal to heat through. I may be useless at producing my own haute cuisine, but I’m an absolute whizz at heating through someone else’s.’

‘Willow…’ She turned at the foot of the stairs, made an impatient gesture when he hesitated. ‘It’s been a tough few days. Don’t do anything you might…’ He seemed lost for words.

‘What?’

‘Regret.’

Regret? As far as he was concerned she was going to buy a new suit. If she regretted it, she’d change it. But he looked so tense…

‘Don’t worry, Mike. I think I demonstrated my capacity for avoidance of regret on Saturday. We both did.’ Her attempt at a careless laugh echoed around the unfurnished house, sounding brittle and unconvincing.

‘No.’ He joined her at the foot of the stairs. ‘I mean it. I’ve hurt you, I know that. I’d give anything to change what happened, to have done it all differently but, please, don’t make it worse by doing something stupid.’

He sounded so serious that she shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about me, Michael. I’m in need of a little retail therapy, that’s all. Stupid will be restricted to the impulse purchase of a suede purple miniskirt when I should be buying something classic in black.’

‘Really?’

‘Wrong answer. You’re supposed to say “You’d look terrific in a purple miniskirt.”’

‘You’d look terrific in a purple miniskirt,’ he said, but he wasn’t laughing. ‘Just don’t get tempted by anything in black leather.’

‘I never wear—’ The words died in her throat as he reached out, cradled her cheek for a moment, his hand shaking slightly, or maybe she was the one who was shaking, as he slowly lowered his mouth to hers. It was like his first kiss. His first touch. Hesitant. Full of questions. Do you want this? Are you feeling this? As if we’re on the edge of an abyss and that, if we step off, there’ll be no going back.

It was like that. But different. Tender and loving rather than the urgent, sensuous prelude to passion. His mouth was gentle, his kiss had a sweetness that left her on the edge of tears.

‘What was that all about?’ she demanded, blinking furiously, when after all too brief a moment he straightened, looked at her as if imprinting her face on his memory.

‘I want you to remember that what we had was special.’

A dozen scathing remarks leapt to her lips, but she had the feeling that they were talking on different wavelengths. The one point of contact that remained was that kiss. It wasn’t much to keep her warm as she rose through the stratosphere to the icy heights of success.

So she bit back the angry words and instead put her hand briefly over his. ‘Yes, Mike. It was.’ Then, as she realised they had both spoken in the past tense, she turned quickly and stumbled towards the kitchen. It was over. The trip to Maybridge was a waste of time. But she still had to know.

The creamy soup slid, without too much difficulty, down a throat that felt as congested as the M25 in the rush hour. But she couldn’t manage the toast. Mike must have lost his appetite because he didn’t bother with it either.

Mike watched her drive away in her little yellow car, then he took his cellphone from the rear pocket of his jeans and punched in a number. ‘Cal? Did you do what I asked?’ he demanded, before the man could speak. ‘Did they go?’

‘Eventually. Crysse was too distraught to make any kind of decision but Sean finally persuaded her that getting away would be a good idea. Where are you? How—’

‘I’ll call you later.’ Mike switched off. It wasn’t conversation he was looking for but confirmation. Willow had lied to him about shopping with Crysse. He’d known it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but it was true. His hand tightened around the telephone; he wanted to smash it against the wall, smash the shelves, smash the boxes.

He was good at that. Smashing hopes, smashing dreams. This time he’d managed to do it to himself and now he knew how it felt.

It hurt.

He’d come after Willow with some crazy idea of starting over. Beginning again, showing her who he really was, convincing her that they could make it if they both tried. He still wanted her so much that it hurt.

But, instead of telling her that, he was letting her drive away to spend the afternoon locked in the arms of a man whose seduction routine was as slick as his black leather biker gear.

And worse was to come. She’d come back later, brittle and bright to hide her misery at what she’d done, or happy and contented as a kitten—he couldn’t begin to decide which would be worse—and pretend that nothing had happened. Chatter about shopping and how she just hadn’t been able to find a thing she liked.

He dragged his hands over his face, pushed his fingers through his hair. He’d wanted to regain control of his life, give her back control of hers. But she hadn’t waited for him to act. She didn’t need him to give her anything. She’d taken it. Maybe he should accept that and leave before she returned.

Willow stopped at the village store. Aunt Lucy would have a business directory. It took a while. Jake had warned her that the lady was born to talk; he hadn’t been kidding. But after promising to come back later in the week for a real talk, she finally got the information she was looking for and managed to escape.

Mike wiped his arm across his forehead. He’d spent half an hour in a frenzy of activity, determined to finish the cabinet-making—anyone could paint the shelves and boxes—determined to forget about Willow and what she was doing. All he knew was that she hadn’t gone shopping with her cousin and that he didn’t want to be here when she came back with hot, shining eyes.

He picked up a bottle of water, drank from it, then poured the rest over his head. It cooled him down.

This was crazy. He was driving himself crazy. He had her tried and convicted without a shred of evidence that she’d gone to spend the afternoon with Jacob Hallam. Apart from their flirting at the pub. Apart from the fact that she’d locked herself in the bathroom before lunch to make a phone call.

As Emily rounded the corner of the cottages, he headed for the four-by-four. ‘I’ve got to go out,’ he told her as she stopped alongside him.

‘Yes, but—’

‘Lock up if I’m not back. I’ve got a key.’

He didn’t have time to explain. It was time to stop worrying about what he should do. He knew what he had to do. He had to catch his runaway bride and tell her that he loved her, that he’d always love her. Then, maybe, they could start working out a future that they could both live with.

The old lady who ran the shop looked up as he burst through the door. ‘Yes, dear? Can I help you?’

‘Is Jacob Hallam here?’

‘Oh, no, I’m sorry, but you’ve missed him.’

His chest tightened painfully. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘London. A board meeting. He’s such a busy lad these days, dashing about on that bike of his. But he promised me he wouldn’t go over the speed limit.’ Mike thought she was living in cloud-cuckoo-land if she believed anyone with a motorbike that could do a hundred and thirty miles an hour would be keeping to seventy on the motorway. But he didn’t disillusion her. ‘He’ll be back later though. He’s going to give that nice young lady a hand painting her house.’

‘Willow?’

‘Oh, do you know her, too? I was telling her just now, Jacob was a bit of bad lad in his youth, but I knew all he needed was a chance.’ She smiled fondly. ‘These days he’s all heart.’

‘Willow was here?’

‘Yes, dear. She’s going to write an article about the shop. I can’t think who’d be interested, but she seemed very keen. Not that she had time to talk today. She just stopped by to check something in my business directory.’ It was still open on the counter and Mike put his hand on it before she could close it and put it away. It was open at ‘A’ and there was a tiny spot of ink where Willow had grounded her pen. Right alongside the listing for Michael Armstrong Designs.

Maybridge was a lively town with a booming industrial techno-park, but it had a much older heart left over from its market-town agricultural beginnings. Willow pulled into the parking area at the rear of a vast rambling building that had once been an old coaching inn, but which had now been converted into accommodation for small craft shops, with office accommodation above. This was it?

She looked at the long list of occupants on the board in the main entrance but Mike’s name wasn’t there. She turned to the receptionist. ‘I’m looking for Michael Armstrong Designs,’ she said.

‘Outside, through the carriage arch.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But he’s not there. The workshop’s closed—’ the girl called after her. Willow waved her acknowledgement. She knew he wasn’t there. It was all she did know and as she followed the arrow, her heart was booming like a kettledrum.

Her first impression was of flowers. Hanging baskets trailing lush and brilliant summer flowers. And in the corner, a flower shop spilled out into the courtyard with buckets of lilies and roses that lit up the shady corner.

There was a boutique to one side, with sharp, witty clothes in the window. There was an aromatherapy centre, painted glossy black with the name Amaryllis Jones picked out in gold. And a tiny jeweller’s studio with individual pieces on display in a small window.

She instantly recognised the hand that had worked the exquisite engagement ring Mike had given her. A wide, misted band of platinum with a diamond at its heart. Why hadn’t he brought her here, let her meet the person who had made her ring? What was he hiding?

Willow turned to confront the mystery.

The far side of the courtyard was totally occupied by Michael Armstrong Designs, housed in what had once been the carriage and stable block, high enough for a hayloft and quarters for the groom above.

The entrance was through enormous double doors, with a smaller, personnel door, set into it. Both parts were shut, with a ‘Closed until further notice’ sign hanging lopsidedly from a horseshoe mounted on the smaller door.

She crossed the yard and, standing on tiptoe, pressed her face against the high windows, feeling excluded, shut out.

‘Can I help you?’ Willow turned guiltily to find herself facing a tall young woman, her fairness accentuated by her black clothes. Her green eyes indescribably vivid. ‘I saw you from over there. I’m Amaryllis Jones,’ she said, waving in the direction of the aromatherapy centre. Then, perhaps used to disbelief, she added, ‘Most people are kind and just call me Amy. You’re looking for Mike,’ she said. Not a question.

‘Yes. I am.’ Not his body, but his soul. His spirit.

‘I’ve no idea when he’ll be back. I dropped by to say hello when I saw the lights on a few days ago, but he wasn’t in the mood for company. He’s closing up the workshop.’ Amy shook her head. ‘He had go home and run the family business when his father was taken ill. And he’s getting married. Maybe his new wife will expect something a bit grander than this?’ That did sound like a question. One that went straight to Willow’s heart. Amy had made it sound as if any woman who wanted more than this wasn’t truly worthy of him. Maybe she was right. ‘Sarah—she has the clothes shop—said she saw him yesterday when he stopped by to pick up some stuff from the flat.’

‘Flat? He lives here?’

‘You didn’t know?’ She looked up at the row of long, narrow windows that ran horizontally just below the roof. ‘It was just a hayloft when he moved in. He converted it himself.’

‘It’s to let, you say?’ Willow crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘It could be just what I’m looking for. Does anyone hold a key?’

‘You really should go through the agent. There was a sign, but it seems to have disappeared—’

‘But I’m here now,’ she pointed out. ‘No point in bothering the agent if it isn’t what I’m looking for. Is there?’

‘None whatsoever.’ Amy Jones smiled, fetched a key and unlocked the door, pushing it open and standing back to let Willow through. ‘I think you’ll fit in here very well.’

Willow’s forehead wrinkled in the slightest frown but, before she could ask why Amy thought that, she saw the drawing and took a step forward. It was pinned to a corkboard over the workbench, a sketch and a working drawing. It was the design for the table Mike had given her.

She crossed the workshop, reached out, touched it, traced the lines he’d drawn.

‘That was the last piece Mike made. I saw it the other day when he was putting the finishing touches to it. The man is a poet in wood.’

‘Yes. Yes, he is.’ And she wanted to weep. How could he have made something like that and given it to her and never told her that he had made it with his own hands?

‘He’s got a waiting list for anything he cares to make. Of course it takes him weeks to turn out one piece of furniture.’

‘Yes, I can see that it would.’ What was it he’d said? Something about it not being a business for a family man. Maybe not. No man who worked like this would ever be rich. But he’d never be poor, either—not in spirit. She looked around. This was his dream and he’d been prepared to give it up for her.

No wonder, when she’d told him about the job she’d been offered, he’d seemed so cool. It must have seemed to him that she was giving nothing, just demanding more and more.

If only he’d told her.

If only she’d seen.

‘This is the workshop and there’s a small office at the end. It’s pretty big. Would you need this much space? What do you do?’

‘Do?’

‘She paints.’ Mike’s voice jolted her from a deep and lonely pit of regret and she spun round. ‘Isn’t that right, Willow?’

‘Mike…’

Amy laid the key on the table. ‘I won’t be needing this any more. Will I?’ She stepped out through the door and closed it behind her.

Mike was leaning, arms crossed, against the door frame. He was waiting for an answer, too. The difference was, Mike wasn’t going anywhere.

For a moment Willow’s mouth opened and closed, as her brain freewheeled. Then, as the penny dropped, she demanded, ‘Did you follow me?’

‘You lied about meeting your cousin,’ he countered. ‘Have you seen enough down here?’ Then, while she was still trying to gather up her mouth, chivvy her thoughts into line, he unlocked the door to the upstairs apartment, exposing a spiral timber staircase to the upper floor, and stood back to let her go first.

She wanted to go. Curiosity was clawing at her insides, but she stayed where she was.

‘How did you know that I wasn’t meeting Crysse?’

‘I’m psychic.’

‘You did follow me.’ She couldn’t believe he could be so sneaky. ‘Why?’

‘Because Crysse and Sean are in St Lucia.’

‘What?’

‘After we talked at the motorway services, I couldn’t quite bring myself to claim the cancellation insurance. It didn’t seem exactly ethical under the circumstances.’ He smiled. He really shouldn’t do that. It went to her head like champagne and stopped her thinking straight. ‘I thought perhaps Crysse might need to get away. Do you mind?’

Mind? She was stunned, but mind… ‘No. No of course not. It was a wonderful thing to do.’

‘So why did you say you were meeting her?’

‘For a psychic you ask a heck of a lot of questions.’

‘Humour me.’

‘You wanted to come shopping with me. I wanted to…’ She did a quick mental word search for an alternative to ‘snoop’.

‘Do a little research?’ he offered, perceiving her difficulty.

That sounded better, but there was no hiding the fact. ‘I think probably snooping says it better.’

‘I see.’ And he smiled again. ‘Willow Blake, Investigative Journalist.’

‘You see nothing,’ she said crossly. ‘I shouldn’t have been reduced to this. Why didn’t you tell me, Mike?’

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ She didn’t move. ‘This is going to take a while.’

‘I’m glad we’re in agreement about that,’ she said. ‘That’s a starting place. But you can’t hustle me out of here. I want to see everything. I want to know everything.’ She turned and looked up the design pinned to the corkboard, not quite able to trust herself to keep up the cool act if she continued to look at him. She was so angry. So unhappy. So…sad. How could he have hidden this from her? Pretended? ‘Did you make that for me, or was it just surplus to requirements?’ she asked. She couldn’t believe that was her voice. She sounded so distant. So cold.

‘No.’

She spun round. ‘No what?’

‘I didn’t make it for you. I made it before I met you. I was working on it when I had the call that my father had been taken ill.’ He moved to her side, unpinned the design and laid it on the bench, smoothing it out with his hands. ‘It was a development piece. A new design. It was sitting here when I came last week to shut up the workshop, waiting for the final polish.’ She was very still. ‘I thought, well, what’s one afternoon stolen from a lifetime? So I polished it. Finished it so that there would be no loose ends lying around to trip me, bring me down.’

‘Last week?’ This was where he’d been when she’d gone to his office, seeking reassurance. ‘I was looking for you. I even wrote a text message to ask you where you were. The way you used to send them to me. Remember?’ Mike heard the change in her voice. The sharp challenge had become softly wistful. ‘The way you did on Saturday night.’

‘I remember,’ he said. ‘It would seem I’ve lost the touch.’

She shook her head. ‘Not just you. Both of us.’

‘I didn’t get your message.’

‘I didn’t send it. Maybe I sensed that it was all slipping away from us.’ She looked up at him. ‘Would you have answered me? Told me where you were?’

‘Probably not.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. And I could never have guessed, could I?’ She shivered, looked around. ‘What is all this machinery? What does it do?’

‘Cut, plane, turn.’ He took her through the workshop, explaining each process, answering her questions as if she was visiting royalty.

‘And your designs?’ she asked. ‘If I wanted to commission you to make a piece of furniture for me?’

‘Willow—’

‘Please. I want to know everything.’

‘I’m trying to tell you. It’s difficult.’

‘I know, but I’m listening. Just follow my lead. Tell me about your designs.’

He opened up a plan chest, took out a folio of designs, photographs of finished pieces. She flipped through them. ‘You really made all these?’

‘Yes.’

‘This?’ she asked, staring at a picture of a small desk.

‘It was commissioned by Fergus Kavanagh. The man who gave the Trust the cottages. For his wife.’

She glanced up at him. He said it as if it was nothing. ‘How much would it cost to buy a desk like this from you?’ He mentioned a figure and she drew in a sharp breath. ‘That’s a lot of money.’

‘It took a long time. And I can only make one at time.’

‘You work on your own? No assistants? No apprentices?’

‘I didn’t want the responsibility.’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe I knew, one day, I’d have to give this up, go back.’

‘You’d be wrong to. The Chronicle could never compete with this.’ The Chronicle couldn’t compete, but it had a better claim on his loyalty than some selfish girl who put her own needs first, she realised. ‘When did you know?’

‘That I couldn’t give it up?’

‘No, when did you know that this was what you wanted to do?’

‘Oh, I see. At school. I was supposed to be doing Latin, but I just couldn’t stay out of the workshop. The scent of wood pulled me in like hot cakes fresh out of the oven. I typed out a letter on my father’s notepaper giving permission for me to swop. I don’t think my tutor was fooled, but since I wasn’t ever going to an intellectual asset to the classical languages department he took the pragmatic view that learning some basic workshop skills would be of more use to me than Latin verbs. Once I’d made my first project, I was hooked.’

‘And then you went to university and took business and accountancy? Why?’

‘Because my father asked me to. I wanted to take a hands-on course in furniture design. He thought I was mad, that it was something I’d grow out of, or that I could take up as a hobby if I was really keen, but he was far too clever to say so. He suggested that business management and accountancy would be useful.’ He shrugged. ‘It seemed to make sense—’

‘And if you still wanted to study furniture design?’

‘He promised he’d support me.’ Mike shrugged. ‘And meanwhile I was visiting museums, galleries, working with craftsmen when I could get them to take me seriously. Learning all the time. When I graduated he asked me to do a year at the Chronicle. It was the family business; I had a duty to the people who worked for him. I should know how it was run.’ He looked down. ‘When I realised that every capitulation simply fed his conviction that sooner or later he would win, I walked away.’

‘You came here?’

He looked around. ‘There was a preservation order on this place, but it was a wreck. No one wanted it. I took it on, raised some money, traded help with restoration in return for long-term cheap rents for shops, offices. I learned one hell of a lot about solid, basic carpentry and, what do you know? My father was right, the business and accountancy degree was a real help.

‘You own this place? All of it?’

‘The bank and I have an agreement. So long as I keep paying them money each month, they allow me to believe I do.’ He stood back, held open the door to the upper floor. ‘Do you want to see where I lived before I met you?’

‘Not lived. Live. You’re coming back, aren’t you? You’re never going back to the newspaper?’

‘Never’s a long time. I said that once before, but I went back when my father needed me.’ He thought about it for a moment. ‘I’d do it again, but only while I looked for a buyer for the paper.’ He saw her expression. ‘You think I’m wrong?’

‘There’s been an Armstrong Publications in Melchester since the days of moveable type.’

‘Yes, I know and I wish things were different. I wish I could be the son he needs. The husband you had a right to expect me to be. I tried, I really tried, but my heart wasn’t in it.’

‘Then you’re right to walk away. A newspaper, a newspaper like the Chronicle, must have heart.’

‘I’m just beginning to realise that.’ He glanced at her. ‘You won’t find much of that in evidence at the Globe.’ When she didn’t respond, he extended his hand. ‘Shall we continue the tour?’

Willow knew she shouldn’t take it, shouldn’t take that short flight of stairs to his other world. She knew that what she’d see would break her heart.

But nothing in the world could have stopped her.