Читать книгу A Surprise Christmas Proposal - Liz Fielding - Страница 8

THE alarm was like a chainsaw chewing through my brain. That was the trouble with surprise parties. They took you by surprise and you didn’t have time to remind yourself of the golden rule about not drinking on an empty stomach. More particularly the platinum, diamond-encrusted rule about not drinking too many margaritas on an empty stomach.

Since I’d been expecting nothing more than a quiet drink with a mate, I hadn’t made a huge effort with my appearance either, going for comfort rather than glamour. I’d taken a long hot shower, to remove what seemed like half of Battersea Park, filed down the ruins of my nails and decided to forgo the doubtful pleasure of spending hours with a brush and hairdryer in an effort to return my hair to sleek perfection, and gone for the rumpled, dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards look instead.

Well, it had come close.

A dab of concealer on the nicely developing bruise, a pair of favourite—if past their fashion statement days—trousers, a baggy shirt and a pair of boots and I’d been all set.

Then I’d walked into the bar.

Everyone else had been dressed to kill, of course. I’d been the only one actually in the mood to perform the deed.

Tony, a bloke a girl could usually rely on not to do anything clever, had ignored my ‘I do not want to even think about this birthday, let alone celebrate it’ response to his query about a party. He’d assumed that I was joking—I said he wasn’t clever—and pulled out all the stops.

But—and these are probably the three most damning words in the English language—he’d meant well. To be honest, after the second margarita what I was wearing hadn’t seemed to matter that much, and I’d surprised myself by having a great time. Cleverer than I thought, perhaps…

I groped for the clock, turned it off and fell out of bed while I was still awake. A walk—a long walk with two very lively dogs—would undoubtedly be good for me. Always assuming I could remember how to put one foot in front of another. Always assuming I still had a job.

On my return to Gabriel York’s house yesterday I had been met by a frosty-faced Mrs York, who had wordlessly handed me a large towel at arm’s length and watched from a safe distance while I’d removed all traces of mud from the dogs. Then, with the minimum of words, she’d indicated I should take them downstairs to the utility room and give them some water. After I’d removed my shoes. Clearly she didn’t ‘do’ dogs.

Actually, I sympathised. She’d been wearing a charcoal grey business suit that had clearly cost a mint and in her place I wouldn’t have wanted two excitable and muddy hounds near me. Honesty compels me to admit that it had been a mistake not to clip their leads back on before we reached the lake. It was asking for trouble and, as usual, I got it. They’d instantly spotted a couple of ducks so far away that I hadn’t noticed them and plunged right in, proving to be selectively deaf when I’d called them to heel.

They’d heard ‘walkies’, no problem.

Anyway, I’d mopped up the resulting mess under her chilling gaze, and in an effort to break the ice—and because I had a stake in his health, besides really wanting to know—enquired after Mr York. All the time I’d been out with the dogs I’d wondered whether he’d been hauled off in an ambulance, undoubtedly protesting that it wasn’t in the least bit necessary, and what I was going to do if he had.

No worries. There’d been lights on all over the place when I returned. Great. And Mrs York was there to answer the door. Not so great.

In reply to my query, she had informed me that he was ‘as well as could be expected under the circumstances’—which told me precisely nothing. I mean, I’d have liked to know if he was suffering from a bad bout of something flulike so that I could stock up on painkillers and tissues. One look at her had suggested it might not be advisable to explain about my ‘kiss of life’. She hadn’t looked as if she’d appreciate my sacrifice.

What she had done, was leave me with the unsettling impression that the ‘circumstances’ had everything to do with me.

Tempted as I’d been to point out that I’d actually saved his life—probably—I had restrained myself. A fair number of silky cream dog hairs, disturbed by my brisk towelling of Joe’s coat, had floated in her direction and attached themselves to her skirt; I hadn’t wanted to be around when she noticed them.