Читать книгу By Request Collection April-June 2016 - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 28

IT HADN’T been a particularly exhausting day, not compared to some, but when Melanie walked into the cottage that evening she felt bone-weary. Try as she might she’d been unable to think of anything else but Forde all day, endless post-mortems addling her brain until she barely knew which end of her was up. If James had asked her once if she was OK, he’d asked her a dozen times. She wondered what her very able assistant would have said if she’d told him she was verging on a cataclysmic nervous breakdown, she thought wryly, going through the nightly routine of taking off her boots on the mat and then heading for the stairs. Laughed, most likely, because he wouldn’t have taken her seriously. James thought she was the ultimate cool, collected, modern woman. Everyone did. Only Forde had ever understood the real her.

She mentally slapped herself for the thought. None of that. If she was going to take up the threads of this new life again—threads that had nearly been broken last night—then she had to control her mind. Simple. Only it wasn’t.

After turning on the taps for a warm bath, she went through to the bedroom, steeling herself to glance at the bed. It was rumpled and very, very empty. A shaft of physical pain made her wince. Grimly, she stripped off the covers and dumped them in her linen basket for a wash, opening the windows wide to let in the perfumed night air. It was her imagination that she could still smell Forde’s unique scent—a mixture of the expensive aftershave he favoured and his own chemical make-up, which turned into an intoxicating fragrance on his male skin.

It was as she was slipping off her jeans that she noticed the little ball of paper in a corner of the room where it had clearly been thrown. Her note. Oh, Forde, Forde …

She shut her eyes for a moment but tears still seeped beneath her closed lids. What must he have felt like reading it? But she couldn’t go there. She mustn’t. Walking across the room, she bent and picked it up. She didn’t straighten the paper out but held the little ball in one hand, stroking where he’d touched with one finger, guilt and shame washing over her.

She continued to cry all the time she was in the bath, but after she’d washed her hair and dried herself, she splashed her hot face with cold water and took stock. No more crying. She was done.

She pulled on an old pair of comfortable cotton pyjamas and looped her damp hair into a high bun, before going downstairs and fixing herself something to eat with the groceries she’d collected on the way home. It was hard to force the food down; she was on tenterhooks waiting for Forde’s call, but she managed to clear her plate and her full stomach helped to quieten her jangling nerves some.

The call came at eight o’clock.

‘Hi.’ His voice was cool and steady. She expected him to ask how she was or mention her ignominious flight before he awoke that morning, but, Forde being Forde, he didn’t do the expected. ‘We need to iron out the details for you to work at Hillview. You said you had some conditions?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice came out as a squeak and she cleared her throat. His rich, smoky tones had brought a whole rush of emotions she could have done without. ‘But before I start, are you sure Isabelle will want me around after—after everything?’

‘After you walking out and demanding a divorce, you mean?’ His even voice belied the content of his words. ‘Quite sure. My mother has always taken the view that what goes on between a couple is their business and theirs alone. You know her, you should realise that. Now, your conditions?’

Melanie felt she’d been thoroughly put in her place, and her voice was crisp when she said, ‘Firstly, in spite of what you’ve just said, I shall need to come and see Isabelle and discuss whether she wants me to do the job. If she does, then I’ll take it, but all the arrangements will be between myself and your mother. I don’t want you involved.’

‘Can you see my mother letting me be involved?’ he asked drily.

‘What I mean is—’

‘What you mean is that you don’t want me around, popping in for a visit, things like that?’

It was exactly what she meant. ‘I can’t stop you visiting your mother,’ she prevaricated awkwardly, ‘but in the circumstances it would be better all round if you tried to avoid doing so when I’m there, I guess.’ ‘Noted.’

Oh, hell, this was going worse than she’d imagined. ‘Of course if there’s a crisis of some kind with Isabelle’s health—’

‘I’ll be allowed on the premises,’ he finished for her.

‘Look, Forde—’

‘Next condition,’ he said politely.

Melanie took a deep breath. She was not going to let him get under her skin. ‘James and I are working on a job at the moment and there’s another lined up straight afterwards, which cannot wait, but it won’t take long. We were due to begin a fairly substantial project mid-September but I’ve been in touch with the people concerned and they’re happy to delay a while. In fact they’ve said they’d prefer the work doing in the spring because—’ She faltered; too late she wished she hadn’t begun the sentence. ‘Because the lady is expecting a baby at the end of October and hasn’t been too well lately. Her husband feels it would have been a little stressful for her. So, we’ve a space for Isabelle if she wants it.’

‘Business is good by the sound of it.’

She swallowed hard. ‘Yes, yes, it is.’

‘One thing I must make clear, and this isn’t to be shared with my mother. I intend to pay for the work, my Christmas present to her, but as she’s somewhat proud at the best of times I shan’t mention it until the job is finished. With that in mind, there will be no need to worry about getting anything but the best in materials and so on, but you might like to quote her a substantially lower price than is realistic. Once you’ve priced the job and given me an estimate, you have my word I will pay in full whenever you wish. Understood?’

She took a moment to consider his words. She had intended to do the work at the very lowest margin she could manage, but if Forde was paying it would mean she could price it the same way she would do for anyone else. And she could understand why Forde was keeping it a secret until it was a fait accompli. Isabelle was extraordinarily proud of her successful son but had always refused to accept a penny from him, declaring Forde’s father’s death had left her mortgage free and with a nest egg in the form of a life assurance her husband had taken out some years before he’d died. Having had Forde late in life at the age of forty-three, Isabelle also had a very good pension from the civil service where she’d been employed all her working life before leaving to become a full-time mother when Forde was born.

Melanie cleared her throat. ‘I understand. It might be helpful to me if payment for the bulk of the materials I use could be given as the job progresses. Cash flow and so on.’

‘Fine. When can you talk to her?’

‘Tomorrow evening?’ Better to get it over with.

‘Good. I’ll ring her tonight and tell her I’ve suggested you for the work and you’re agreeable, depending on the job when you assess it, and you’ll be in contact tomorrow. OK? Anything else?’ he added crisply.

It was totally unfair, not to mention perverse, but his businesslike tone was making her want to scream. Last night they’d indulged in wild, abandoned sex and she’d slept in his arms, and he was talking as though he were discussing a contract with some colleague or other. Keeping her voice as devoid of emotion as his, Melanie said, ‘I don’t think so at this stage.’

‘Goodnight, then.’ And the phone went dead.

Melanie stared blankly across the room. ‘You pig.’ But at least she didn’t feel like crying any more. Throwing something, yes, but not crying.

Isabelle picked up the phone on the second ring the next evening, and was as gentle and courteous as she’d always been. So it was, promptly at two o’clock the following Sunday afternoon, normally her housework and catch-up day, Melanie presented herself at Forde’s mother’s fine Victorian house situated some ten miles or so from the home she and Forde had shared.

She was so nervous she was trembling as she rang the bell, but it was a uniformed nurse who opened the door rather than Isabelle. The woman showed her into Isabelle’s comfortable sitting room where a wood fire crackled in the grate despite the warm weather, for all the world as though she were a stranger rather than her patient’s daughter-in-law, which led Melanie to believe the nurse wasn’t aware she was Forde’s wife.

Isabelle confirmed this the moment the nurse had shut the door, leaving them alone. ‘Hello, my dear.’ Forde’s mother was sitting on a sofa pulled close to the fire and she lifted up her face for Melanie to kiss her cheek as she’d always done in the past, before patting the seat beside her. ‘Sit down. I didn’t tell Nurse Bannister who you were. She’s a nosy soul and always poking her nose into this and that. Thank heaven she’ll be leaving at the end of next week and not a day too soon. I can’t wait to have my house back to myself.’

‘Hello, Isabelle.’ Melanie’s voice was shaky. She’d half expected Forde’s mother to look ill and pale, for things to be different somehow, but instead both Isabelle and this room were exactly the same. She had left Forde, then left the city and made a new life for herself, but it was as though the last seven months had never happened and she had been here the day before. The same floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with books graced two walls of the somewhat old-fashioned room, the same heavily patterned wool carpet covering the floor and thick embossed drapes at the window… She took a deep breath. ‘How are you? Forde told me you’ve been in hospital recently.’ She’d decided to mention his name straight away rather than having him hanging over the proceedings like a spectre at the feast.

Isabelle smiled. ‘I was foolish enough to break a hip and then my heart played up a little, but what can you expect at my age? I’m no spring chicken. More to the point, how are you, dear?’

‘Very well, thank you.’ Telling herself she had to say what she’d rehearsed for days, Melanie took the plunge. ‘Isabelle, when I returned your letter it wasn’t because I didn’t want to keep in touch, not really, but because I—I couldn’t.’

A pair of silvery-blue eyes very like Forde’s smiled at her. ‘I know that, dear. It had to be a clean sweep for you to be able to go on. We were too fond of each other for it to be any different.’

She wanted to cry. She wanted to lay her head on Isabelle’s lap and cry and cry, as she had done the first time she’d seen Forde’s mother after losing Matthew. Isabelle had cried with her then, telling her she would never forget Matthew but there would be other babies to take away the edge of her grief and loss. Frightened by the way she was feeling, Melanie retreated. ‘You want the garden replanning, I understand.’

Isabelle accepted the change of conversation with her normal grace. ‘Want is perhaps not the right word. Need is better. I have to confess it’s become a little too much lately.’

‘And you don’t want a gardener in to see to things?’

‘Occasionally, but not every day. As you know I’ve put in several hours most days for years—it’s my pleasure. I can still do a little but not all that’s required.’

‘So if we got it under control, my assistant coming in perhaps once a month for a couple of days wouldn’t distress you too much?’ Melanie asked gently, feeling for Forde’s mother. The grounds were beautiful and they’d been Isabelle’s pride and joy. ‘You’ll like James,’ she added. ‘I promise.’

‘I’m sure I will. Now, Nurse Bannister is bringing us a cup of tea and then I thought we might see the garden together?’

Melanie nodded. In truth she wanted to get out of this room. She had noticed at once that Isabelle had kept their wedding picture in its elaborate gold frame exactly where it had always been, and she’d avoided looking at it since. The tall, dark, smiling man and his radiant bride could have been different people, so far removed did she feel from the girl in the photograph.

It was clear Nurse Bannister had made the connection when she returned with the tray of tea a few moments later, her gimlet-hard eyes searching Melanie’s face avidly. With no trouble Melanie decided she could quite understand Isabelle’s desire to be rid of the companion Forde—for all the right reasons, of course—had thrust upon his mother.

By the time she left Hillview three hours later Melanie felt she had a good idea of what Isabelle would like, and more importantly not like, in the new garden. They’d agreed to leave well alone where they could and all the mature trees would remain, but Melanie had encouraged Isabelle to treat the acre of ground as a series of compartments flowing into and round each other to create a whole. Easy maintenance being the prime concern, Melanie had suggested vigorous ground cover in places, evergreen, naturally dense plants planted to form a thatch of vegetation that would give weeds little opportunity to develop. A water feature in the form of a large sunken pool surrounded by a pebble ‘beach’ to keep down weeds and an area for sitting in one part of the garden, in another a landscaped rockery with helian-themums, verbascums and sisyrinchiums to give vibrant colour, a bed of gravel aiding drainage and avoiding waterlogging.

Isabelle had listened to all her suggestions, welcoming the idea of winding paths leading to arbours and two or three patio areas, along with several chamomile lawns. This aromatic perennial would provide a contrast of texture to other areas of the garden, and when bruised by light treading the leaves would release a pleasant apple-like scent. The main advantage over a grass lawn for Isabelle was that the chamomile only would need very occasional trimming, which James could see to.

An area of decking surrounded by scented shrubs; a sunny, gentle slope adapted to suit sun-loving plants chosen for their rich flowering and compact shape on a bed of tiny, different-coloured pebbles; dramatic island beds of large shrubs surrounded by lavender or ornamental grasses—Melanie had come up with them all, and Isabelle had been remarkably open to the changes.

They had agreed Melanie would go away and make scale drawings recording features of both the present garden and the new proposed changes, so that Isabelle could review the options and make sure she was completely happy. Melanie had told her mother-in-law that, at the initial stage, Isabelle must treat the drawing as a base plan and she could use overlays of tracing paper to test out different ideas. Once Isabelle was sure how she wanted the changes to look, Melanie would make detailed planting plans for particular areas as well as drawing up cross-sections of specific features, like the pool, the arbour and grass walk they’d discussed, the topiary and other ideas. Nothing was definite and Isabelle had the right to change her mind as many times as she wanted to, Melanie had impressed on the old lady, knowing it was a little overwhelming for her.

They parted with a kiss and a hug, Isabelle holding her tight for a little longer than was strictly necessary. Melanie had a lump in her throat as she drove away from the house. It had felt so right to be with Isabelle again, but she didn’t dwell on her feelings, applying her mind to the drawings she would make on graph paper from her notes and thinking of one or two other ideas as she drove. Softening the stone walls surrounding a patio area by planting vibrant flowers and trailing plants in the top of it, and maybe staggered railway sleepers in the far corner to give a step effect with boulders and varied plants.

She wanted Isabelle’s garden to continue to be a sanctuary to be enjoyed by the old lady, a retreat from the world, and to that end she was planning paths that curled from one feature to another, shady corners with trees and shrubs and sunny spots like the rockery and pool. And lots of benches, comfortable wooden ones, she told herself, where Isabelle could sit and rest any time anywhere in the grounds.

The changes were going to take a lot of money but there was no reason why, at the end of it all, Isabelle’s original high-maintenance garden, which had always been kept in a state of perfection by the dedicated gardener her mother-in-law had been, couldn’t be turned into something just as beautiful but dramatically more labour friendly. In fact she would make sure of it, Melanie determined.

Once home, she made a pot of coffee and began work at the dining table. She was deep into transferring all the measurements she’d taken that afternoon onto her rough plan when the phone rang. Her mind occupied with right angles and base lines and boundaries, she lifted up the receiver and spoke automatically. ‘Hello, Melanie Masterson.’

‘Hello, Melanie Masterson. This is Forde Masterson speaking.’

Her heart ricocheted off her ribcage and then galloped at twice its speed. Somehow she managed to say fairly normally, ‘Oh, hi, Forde. I was working.’

‘I won’t keep you,’ he said, the faintly teasing note that had been in his voice disappearing.

She wanted to say it was OK, that she hadn’t meant it like that, as a put-down, but, telling herself it was better to keep things businesslike and formal, she kept quiet.

‘I just called to thank you for how you handled my mother. She phoned a while ago and, from being more than a little apprehensive about her beloved garden being chopped about, as she’d put it initially, she came across as actually excited about the changes you’d discussed. I appreciate it, Nell.’

As ever, hearing the special nickname sent a flicker of desire sizzling along her nerve endings. His power over her was absolute, she recognised with a stab of dismay. Nothing had changed. Just hearing his voice made her want him so badly she was trembling with it.

‘Nell? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said quickly, pulling herself together. ‘And there’s no need to thank me. You do realise it’s going to be pretty expensive if we do it properly.’

‘Of course.’ There was a pause. ‘Would it be crass to point out you know what I’m worth and money isn’t a consideration? I just want her satisfied at the end of it.’

‘She will be.’ Melanie found she didn’t want him to finish the conversation. She wanted to keep talking to him, hearing those deep, smoky tones. She should never have agreed to do the job, she thought as fear at her vulnerability where Forde was concerned streaked through her. This was crazy, just asking for trouble. ‘She’ll love it, Forde. I promise.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ he said softly. ‘I trust you, Nell. I always have.’

Panic gave her the strength to say, ‘I have to go now. I’ll be in touch once Isabelle’s decided exactly what she wants and I’ve planned and costed everything. Goodbye, Forde.’

‘Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.’

He’d put the phone down before her stunned mind could compute again. Sweetheart? And sweet dreams? What had happened to her conditions? she thought frantically as she went into the kitchen to fix more coffee, needing its boost to calm her shattered nerves. Admittedly she hadn’t actually spelled out ‘no endearments,’ but surely he’d got the message?

She found he had completely ruined her concentration when she tried to work on the drawings again. Eventually she took an aspirin for the pounding headache that had developed in the last hour or so and went to bed, there to toss and turn half the night, and have X-rated dreams in which Forde rated highly for the other half.

Nevertheless, when she awoke early Monday morning her steely resolve was back. The divorce was going through, come hell or high water, she determined as she sat eating her breakfast in the tiny courtyard, feeling like a wet rag. Absolutely nothing could prevent it. Nothing. It was the only way she could ever regain some peace of mind again.