Читать книгу Christmas Nights - Sally Wentworth, Sally Wentworth - Страница 7

PARIS and Will returned to London on Sunday evening, parting reluctantly outside her flat. Their weekend of love, of satiated sexuality was still in the glow in her eyes, in her flushed cheeks. Emma saw it and recognised it at once.

Her finely arched brows rose. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been considering your verdict all this time?’

‘No, we reached a decision on Friday. I’ve—er—been away.’

‘With a man, obviously.’

‘Yes,’ Paris admitted, unable to keep from smiling.

Emma looked amused. ‘So what was the verdict?’

‘Guilty on all counts.’

‘I meant on the man.’

‘Oh.’ Paris glowed. ‘Marvellous! Fantastic! Incredible.’

‘Good heavens! This man I’ve got to meet.’

There was a slight edge to Emma’s voice, but Paris was too happy to notice it. ‘And I want you to meet him; I’m sure you’ll like each other,’ she said with happy optimism.

She was still happy the next day when she went back to the office, eager to resume her interrupted career. Will was due to work out at the gym that evening and she had lots of chores to catch up on, so they’d agreed not to meet, but they might just as well have done because they spent ages on the phone, already missing each other, whispering words of intimacy that tantalised them both.

The next evening Will came to collect her and she introduced him to Emma, confident that they would like each other. Emma was friendly enough—very friendly really, making Will welcome and telling him, with that amused little smile she had, how Paris had described him. ‘So of course I’ve been really looking forward to meeting a man with all these incredible attributes,’ she finished.

But Will only gave her a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes, refused a drink and asked Paris if she was ready to leave.

‘What did you tell her about me?’ he asked as soon as they were outside.

‘Only that I thought you were wonderful,’ Paris admitted. ‘I didn’t go into details, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘She certainly made it sound as if you had.’

‘Emma was probably teasing you. I wouldn’t tell anyone. You should know that.’ She put her arm through his and lifted a glowing face. ‘It’s very, very special to me.’

Will smiled at that and kissed her, so she knew it was all right, but it was obvious that he didn’t like Emma.

They didn’t go out, instead spending the evening at his flat. Even though they had spent most of the previous weekend making love, it was still novel, still overwhelmingly exciting. Paris felt no shyness now as she undressed Will, doing it slowly, touching and kissing him, running her hands over his broad, smooth chest, along the muscles in his upper arms, so powerful, so male.

His waist was slim and his stomach had the tautness of an athlete’s even when relaxed. But it tightened even more under her exploring fingers; she could feel the tension running through his body, the slow dew of expectation on his skin, hear the quickened beat of his heart. Paris let her hands move on in their exploration, stroking, caressing, until his arousal was complete and Will groaned with pleasure.

He would have taken her in his arms then, but she made him sit on a chair and watch as she took off her own clothes, doing so as coquettishly as she could imagine, watching with growing excitement as he gripped the edge of the chair until his knuckles showed white and he strove to control his need for her, then giving a cry of delight when he could stand it no longer and surged up to grab her and carry her to the bed in one long, eager stride.

Later, Will dragged himself from the bed, dressed, and went out for a Chinese take-away, which took a long time to eat because they kept stopping to kiss and, as Paris was wearing only a bathrobe, quite a lot of caressing went on as well. So it was inevitable that they just pushed the plates away and made love all over again.

Paris was on cloud nine hundred and ninety-nine, but they became rain clouds only a few days later. It was at work that things started to go wrong. During her time with the company Paris had worked hard to find new markets for their products and there were three new accounts that she was particularly proud to have won, having spent a great deal of time and effort in acquiring them.

They were, of course, among the accounts that Emma had been watching over for her during the trial, but when Paris went to contact the companies to tell them that she was back she was informed that they preferred to deal with Emma in future.

When Paris questioned her, Emma was most apologetic. ‘Oh, dear, did they really say that? I kept in contact with them as you asked and I was able to help them over some queries they had. In fact I had to visit all three of the companies to sort out the problems.’

‘Problems? There weren’t any problems.’

‘Well, they must have cropped up recently,’ Emma said with a vague wave of her hand. ‘But luckily I knew everything about the network systems involved so I was able to reassure them quickly. I thought that was what you would have wanted, Paris.’

‘Well, yes, of course, but—’

‘Maybe they realised I was more experienced,’ Emma suggested. ‘They’re new accounts; perhaps it gave them more confidence to deal with someone older. Why don’t you talk to the people involved, explain the situation?’ she suggested. ‘Although, of course, buyers do like to deal with just one person, not be messed around.’ She gave a worried frown. ‘We don’t want to lose the accounts, do we? If we did, the sales director would definitely want to know why. But you must go ahead and explain things to them, of course.’

‘No, as you said, we don’t want to lose them,’ Paris said slowly, reluctantly. ‘As long as it isn’t too much extra work for you.’

‘Oh, I can cope,’ Emma said with a smile. ‘But what a disappointment for you. Still, maybe you won’t care so much now you’re dating Will; you’ll be able to spend more time with him.’

There was that, of course, but Paris went back to her office feeling unhappy and frustrated. Not only were those three accounts the most prestigious that she had won, they were also the most lucrative, and as she was paid only a small basic salary and depended on bonuses to make up her money it meant a considerable drop in income.

If she had been able to go to the Brussels conference she might have generated some more work, but that too had gone to Emma, who, it seemed, had flown the company flag with some success. Paris tried not to be envious, but it was hard not to feel anger at a loss that was no fault of her own. That damn trial! But then she remembered that if it hadn’t been for that she would never have met Will.

Her love affair, at least, was still going strongly. She and Will saw each other as often as possible and she often stayed overnight at his flat. The sex was just as good—better. He didn’t seem as if he would ever have enough of her and delighted in her body, just as she gloried in giving him pleasure.

It wasn’t only the sexual side of the relationship that was good; Will was terrific company and Paris loved just being with him. He had a great sense of the ridiculous, often making her laugh—sometimes even when she was trying to be serious. Life with Will was not only exciting but fun as well.

When they were apart her thoughts were full of him, and she would turn small things that happened to her into amusing anecdotes, anticipating with pleasure the way his eyes would fill with amusement as he laughed at them. Her feelings for him were growing ever deeper, far more so than anything she had ever experienced before, and she knew that she was in love.

Paris felt pretty confident that Will felt the same way about her, and she was staying with him so often that she thought he might ask her to move in with him. But they hadn’t known each other very long yet so perhaps he felt it was too soon for that kind of commitment, because he didn’t ask her.

Emma was still trying to be friendly with Will, even inviting him round to the flat to dinner, but Will still behaved distantly, maybe because Emma had coerced him into doing a few odd jobs around the place. She was pretty good at using people like that, putting on a ‘helpless little woman’ act to get people to do things for her, and would have used Paris the same way if Paris hadn’t seen through the act and resisted, pointing out that they were supposed to share the chores.

A couple of months after the trial Paris went to a conference in Manchester for a few days. When she got back Emma regretfully told her that the rent on the flat had been increased quite substantially so she would, in turn, have to put Paris’s share up, naming a much higher sum.

Paris looked at her with some dismay. ‘But I can’t possibly afford that much at the moment, Emma.’ Worriedly, she pushed her hair back from her head. She had managed to find one new customer but the income no way made up for what she had lost.

‘Well, I’m sorry, Paris. I wish I didn’t have to ask you, but this is quite a luxurious flat, you know.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll look round for somewhere else, then.’

‘All right. I’ll give you a month,’ Emma offered.

Paris was taken aback; she hadn’t expected to have to leave so soon, and for a moment felt a surge of resentment; it surely wouldn’t have hurt Emma to let her take her time to find somewhere else? But Paris immediately felt ashamed; she had no idea of Emma’s financial circumstances or what the total rent of the flat was. Maybe Emma had been subsidising her all this while, although she, Paris, had always paid her share of the rent promptly, as well as half the bills, which hadn’t left a lot for herself.

That evening she developed a headache—a really bad one—and had to cancel her date with Will.

‘You poor darling,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Would you like me to come round and stroke your brow?’

‘Would that be all you would stroke?’

‘Possibly not,’ he admitted.

She chuckled but said, ‘Maybe you’d better not, then.’

The headache got worse and, the following morning, was so bad that Emma had to drive them to work, and the elder girl advised her to see her doctor.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure it will soon go,’ Paris replied. ‘I don’t usually get headaches.’

‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ Emma asked, giving her a swift glance.

‘No, definitely not.’

‘OK. OK. I only asked.’

‘Sorry, Emma,’ Paris said contritely. ‘But I am on the Pill; you know that.’

The headache went away eventually but a few days later she had another that was even worse. ‘It sounds like a migraine to me,’ someone told her, and so she went to the chemist and got some pills to try and relieve it, and they helped.

Out with Will one evening, he asked her to go to see a new film with him the following night, but she said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tomorrow.’

‘Got another date?’ he asked, raising his eyebrow. He was teasing; he was supremely confident that she wasn’t interested in anyone else, as he had the right to be.

So he looked really surprised when she said, ‘Sort of. I’ve arranged to go and look at a bedsit.’

His eyes settled on her face. ‘Is Emma throwing you out?’

‘No, but her rent has been put up and I can’t afford my share any more, not after losing those three accounts. She’s given me a month to find somewhere.’

‘Generous of her,’ Will commented wryly. He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe it will be better if you do leave; I don’t like you living with Emma.’

She always liked to think that her friends would get on well together and Paris felt a little disappointed. But the animosity seemed to be mutual because only recently Emma had commented rather acidly, ‘Will may be incredible in bed, but his manners leave much to be desired. Still, if he suits you…’ And she had given an eloquent shrug.

Paris had wanted to jump to Will’s defence, but held her tongue; the two of them had taken a dislike to each other and that was that.

Looking at her now, Will gave a crooked smile—the one he used when he was teasing her. ‘As a matter of fact I know of someone who’s looking for a flatmate.’

Her heart skipped a beat, but she said, ‘Really? Is it a nice flat?’

‘Pretty good. All mod cons. Only, you might have to share a room.’

‘I don’t think I’d like that very much. How much is the rent?’

‘Oh, I think you’d be able to afford the rent.’

‘Well, I don’t know. Who is this girl?’

‘Girl?’

‘The one who wants a flatmate.’

Leaning on his elbow, Will reached to take her hand, his grey eyes warm and mischievous. ‘Who says it’s a girl?’

Her eyes widened in mock innocence. ‘You want me to share a room with some man?’

‘Yes, please.’

She laughed, abandoning the demure look. ‘When can I move in?’

‘Would tomorrow do?’

Paris kissed the hand that held hers, her eyes alight with laughter and happiness. ‘Tomorrow would be fine.’ But then she felt compelled to add, ‘So long as you’re sure.’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘I wouldn’t want you to feel pushed into it just because I can’t afford to stay on with Emma.’

‘Paris?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ And he leaned to kiss her on the mouth.

Moving in with Will was one of the most exciting times in Paris’s life—having pretend arguments about wardrobe space, having him groan that he expected the bathroom to be festooned with drying underwear.

‘I can dry it at the launderette,’ she offered.

‘Hell, no! I’m not going to have other men looking at that sexy black underwear of yours going round in the machine. I want to fantasise about it all by myself.’

She flung her arms round him, and kissed him exuberantly. ‘God, I’m crazy about you, Will Brydon.’

‘The feeling’s mutual, ma’am.’

For the next couple of months everything was perfect, except that the wretched migraine attacks returned with painful frequency. But Paris was too happy to take much notice; she just pumped in headache pills until they went away.

She had to go to Europe a few times, once to a big convention in Prague where she was lucky enough to find two new accounts which put her more or less back on the income level she’d been on before. So she was able to insist on paying for all the food bills at the flat, although Will protested. But she felt happier paying her share.

She still saw Emma at work, of course, and they went out to lunch together on a regular basis, remaining friends but tacitly not discussing Will.

He and Paris were sharing their lives almost completely; Paris had taken him to meet each of her parents and their families, and both visits had been successful. In return Will took her to meet his elder brother, Mark, his only close relative since his parents had died some time ago. Mark, with his wife and two young children, lived in a village near Cambridge, where they invited Paris and Will to spend the weekend with them.

They set out from London around mid-morning; the day was fine and they were both in high spirits, Paris in particular looking forward to the trip. She wasn’t at all nervous about meeting Will’s relations; he’d told her a little about them, that they both had careers centred on Cambridge, and they sounded her kind of people.

The couple lived in an old, detached house, all stuccoed walls outside and beamed ceilings within, with an inglenook fireplace framed with a garland of dried hops. The walls of the downstairs sitting-room were ragpainted and then stencilled with an intricate flower design, as were all the cupboards in the traditional farmhouse kitchen. The house looked like something out of a country-living-style magazine and Paris fell for the place at once.

Mark was seven years older than Will, and his wife, Annabel, looked to be about thirty. Their greeting was friendly enough, but both of them seemed a bit distracted. Mark, who was dressed in old jeans and a greasestained T-shirt, gave them each a drink and said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me a minute; I was in the middle of cutting the grass when the damn mower broke down. Perhaps you could come and take a look at it, Will; you’re better at mechanical things than I am.’

Will caught Paris’s eye, gave a slight wink, and the two men went into the garden.

Annabel, dressed similarly to her husband, was kneeling before a four-oven Aga, almost in an attitude of worship, an anxious frown on her face as she looked at some cakes she was cooking. There seemed to be a lot of small cakes around, either cooling or waiting in trays to be cooked.

‘Are you fond of cakes?’ Paris asked curiously.

‘What?’ Annabel laughed and stood up. ‘No, the village is having an open day tomorrow and I offered to make some cakes to sell with the teas. I think it’s so important when you live in the country to take an active part in village life. Don’t you?’

Paris had never thought about it, but it seemed that the question was merely rhetorical because Annabel glanced at her watch, gave an annoyed sigh, and said, ‘Oh, Lord, I was supposed to pick up the girls from their dancing class ten minutes ago. And then I have to dash into town so that Olivia can buy a present for a friend’s birthday. The party is this afternoon and she insists on choosing the present herself. Which is good, of course, don’t you think? Children should have the right of choice. We were supposed to buy the present some time last week but somehow there was just too much happening.’

She knelt again at the Aga, took a batch of cakes out and put another lot in.

When she straightened, Paris knew what was coming but didn’t volunteer. Annabel said, ‘I know it’s an awful cheek, but would you be an absolute angel and cook the rest of these cakes for me while I get the girls? I’m sorry to land it on you but it’s one of those days.’

‘I’m not very good at cooking and I’ve never used one of those cookers before,’ Paris warned her.

‘Oh, good heavens, you don’t need any skill. Just have a look now and again to see if they’re done. Thanks a million; I must fly.’

Annabel dashed upstairs, came down again ten minutes later wearing a smart town outfit, and ran outside to her car.

Those first few minutes seemed to set the tone for the whole weekend. Annabel rang on her personal phone about an hour later, full of apologies and asked Paris to start lunch for her. By the time she rushed in with her two daughters the lunch was ready and waiting; Will, having found out what was the matter with the mower and bought a new part from the local garden centre to fix it, was now mowing the large area of grass, and Mark was watering the plants in the greenhouse.

Paris thought that they’d relax over lunch but it seemed that the girls had to go to their violin lessons, arranged at an earlier time than usual because of the friend’s birthday party, and they were already late.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll just have to rush,’ Annabel said, and then, remembering, added, ‘Oh, dear, I haven’t shown you your room yet, have I? Never mind; Will knows where it is.’

It was a nice room, with views looking out on two sides over the garden and meadows beyond. But the bed hadn’t yet been made up and they had to search for sheets and things and do it themselves. The walls were marked out for another stencil effect but were only partly done and there were no curtains on the windows.

‘How long have they lived here?’ Paris asked.

‘About six years,’ Will said laconically.

Paris was surprised; she’d have thought that Annabel would have finished the decorating by now.

When Annabel and her daughters hurried home an hour or so later, Olivia went up to have a bath and change into her party clothes and Charlotte, the younger child, immediately began to make a big fuss because she hadn’t been invited.

‘Never mind, darling. We’ll do something really special together instead,’ Annabel soothed.

‘What? What will we do?’ Charlotte naturally wanted to know.

‘I’ll think of something,’ Annabel said, almost curtly, and she went to the stairs to yell at Olivia to hurry up. But when she took Olivia to the party, Annabel must have got sidetracked because she didn’t come back, so it was left to Paris to try and amuse the younger child, but as Paris had no experience and Charlotte was grumpy it didn’t work too well. Charlotte kept going to the window to look for her mother and when she didn’t come went up to her room, locked herself in, and wouldn’t come out or answer when Paris spoke to her.

Will, meanwhile was helping Mark to unblock some gutters; or, at least, Will was up the ladder doing so while Mark, who was supposed to be holding it, kept wandering off to dig his overgrown vegetable patch or to answer the phone, although most of the callers seemed to want Annabel.

That evening some friends had been invited to dinner, which Annabel cooked herself. She wasn’t a bad cook, but, by the time she’d given the girls their pizzas, put them to bed, done the preparations for the meal, made half a dozen phone calls and got herself ready, it was very late before they sat down to eat, and almost three in the morning before the other guests left.

Curling tiredly up to Will, Paris said, ‘Is it always like this?’

‘Always,’ he said resignedly.

The next day they were both roped in to help with the village open day, Paris helping Annabel in the tea tent and Will directing cars into the field being used as a car park, so they hardly saw one another. The main Sunday meal, to which Annabel liberally invited several neighbours, wasn’t ready until eight in the evening, and Paris found herself doing most of the clearing up, as she had that morning because Annabel had been too tired to do it the night before.

It was midnight before they were able to drive back to London, Paris feeling more exhausted than she had when they’d arrived, and afraid that one of the blinding migraines was about to take over her head.

‘Are you all right?’ Will asked her when she grew silent. And when she admitted that her head ached he said angrily, ‘I’m hardly surprised after the last two days. They don’t have to live like that. They could well afford for Annabel not to work, but she insists on combining the roles of wife, mother, career woman and active villager. And tries to be perfect at everything but with the result that everything suffers.

‘She’s forever torn between her job, her home and her family, and most of the time the job comes first. After school and in the holidays the girls are looked after by a child-minder or are farmed out to various friends. And when Annabel is home she’s always trying to decorate the place in the latest fashion, or she’s out at some village organisation committee meeting.’

There was disgust in his voice as well as anger, but Paris felt compelled to stand up for her sex and say, ‘I’m sure she’s doing everything for the best.’

‘That’s just it; her intentions might be good but she doesn’t have the sense to see that she’s achieving nothing. Her family is suffering and so is she. She just cannot manage that lifestyle.’

‘What does Mark think about it?’ Paris asked guardedly.

Will shrugged. ‘He’s tried to persuade her to give up her job but she won’t. She says she won’t be fulfilled if she does.’ The disgust was heavy again in his voice. ‘If she was so wrapped up in her career she shouldn’t have gone in for a family in the first place.’

‘Rubbish!’ Pans said shortly. ‘A woman has every right to have both a family and a career. Men do, don’t they? And thousands of women have children and have to go out to work. Annabel isn’t very organised, that’s all.’

Will gave a sarcastic snort. ‘She tries to be all things to all people and it doesn’t work. You saw that for yourself. And, the way I see it, bringing up children should be a full-time job; they need all the help, education and training they can to get to face today’s problems.

‘There wouldn’t be half the juvenile crime and adolescents with psychological problems if they’d got more attention at home. Most of them are thrust in front of the television screen to keep them quiet when they’re babies and can work a video before they can talk. They become latchkey kids as soon as they go to school, and live off junk food for the rest of their lives.’