Anything but Vanilla... (3 page)

‘No, but, if you know her as well as you say, you’ll know that when things get tough, she does a good impression of an ostrich.’

That rang true. Ria was very good at sticking her head in the sand and not hearing anything she didn’t want to know. Such as advice about being more organised. About consistency in the flavours she sold in the ice-cream parlour, saving the experimental flavours for ‘specials’. ‘Have you any idea which beach she might have chosen? To bury her head in.’

‘That’s not your concern.’

No. At least it was, but she knew what he meant. Since Ria had left him in charge he must have spoken to her and doubtless knew a lot more than he was saying.

‘I’ve been trying to organise her,’ she said, bitterly regretting that she hadn’t tried harder. She might not approve of the ‘postcard’ man, but she hated him thinking that she didn’t care. ‘It’s like trying to herd cats.’

That won her a smile that she could read. Wry, a touch conspiratorial, a moment shared between two people who knew all Ria’s faults and, despite her determination not to, she found herself smiling back.

‘Tell me about it,’ he murmured, then, as she shivered again, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Absolutely.’ But as her eyes met his the wobble intensified and she hadn’t a clue what she was feeling; only that ‘okay’ wasn’t it. Alexander West was too physical, too male, too close. He was taking liberties with her sense of purpose, with her ability to think and act clearly in a crisis. ‘I’m just a bit off balance,’ she said. ‘I’ve had my head in the freezer for too long. I stood up too fast...’

‘That will do it every time.’

His expression was serious, but his eyes were telling a different story.

‘Yes...’ That and a warm hand cradling her elbow, eyes the colour of the sea on a blue-sky day. A shared concern about a friend. ‘Tell me what you know,’ she said, this time to distract herself.

He shook his head. ‘Not much. I got back late last night. The key was under the doormat.’

‘The key? I assumed...’ She assumed that Ria would have been on the doorstep with open arms. ‘Are you telling me that you haven’t seen her?’ He shook his head and the sunlight streaming in from the small window above the door glinted on the golden streaks in his hair. ‘But you have spoken to her? What exactly did she say?’

‘There was an electric storm and the line kept breaking up. It’s taken me three days to get home and she was long gone by the time I got here.’

Three days? He’d been travelling for three days? Where in the world had he been? And how much must he care if he’d travel that distance to come to her rescue? She crushed the thought. She wasn’t interested in him or where he’d come from.

‘Where? Where has she gone?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Someone must know where she is,’ she objected. ‘She wouldn’t have left her cats to fend for themselves.’

That provoked another of those fleeting smiles. ‘Arthur and Guinevere are comfortably tucked up with a neighbour who is under the impression that Ria is dealing with a family emergency.’

‘I didn’t think she had any family.’

‘No?’ He said that as if he knew something that she didn’t. He didn’t elaborate, but said, ‘This isn’t the first time she’s done this.’

‘Oh?’ That wasn’t good news.

‘She’s had a couple of close calls in the past. I had hoped, after the last time, she’d learned her lesson. I did warn her...’ Warn her? ‘It’s not fair on the people who rely on her. Suppliers, customers...’ Perhaps realising that he was leaving himself open to an appeal from her, he stopped. ‘She knows what’s going to happen and doesn’t want to be around to witness it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Why else would she have taken off?’

Sorrel shook her head. He was right. There was no other explanation.

‘In the meantime nothing can leave here until I’ve made an inventory of the assets.’ As if to make his point, he finally moved and began returning the large containers of ice cream to the freezer.

‘Hold on! These aren’t
assets
.’ Sorrel grabbed the one containing tiny chocolate-cupcake cases filled with raspberry gelato. ‘These are mine. I told you, I’ve already paid for them.’

‘How? Cheque, credit card? I’ve been to the bank and Ria hasn’t paid anything in for weeks.’

She blinked. The bank had talked to him about Ria’s account? They wouldn’t do that unless it was a joint account. Or he had a power of attorney to act on her behalf. Was that what Ria had left for him?

She didn’t ask. He wouldn’t tell her and besides she had more than enough problems of her own right now. And the biggest of them was waiting for an answer to his question.

‘Not a cheque,’ she said. ‘Who carries a cheque book these days?’ He waited. ‘I, um, gave her...’ She hesitated, well aware how stupid she was going to look.

‘Please tell me you didn’t give her cash,’ he said, way ahead of her.

It had been a rare, uncharacteristic lapse from the strictest standards she applied to her business, but the circumstances had been rare, too. Alexander had no way of knowing that and with a little shrug, a wry smile that she hoped would tempt a little understanding, she said, ‘I will if you insist, but it won’t alter the fact.’

‘Then I hope,’ he said, not responding to the smile, ‘that you kept the receipt in a safe place.’

She had hoped he’d forgotten about the receipt. Clearly not.

Brisk, businesslike...

Busted.

THREE

There are four basic food groups; you’ll find them all in a Knickerbocker Glory.

—from Rosie’s ‘Little Book of Ice Cream’

‘I was in a rush. There was an emergency.’ It was no excuse, Sorrel knew, but you had to have been there. ‘I told her she could give me the receipt when I picked up the order.’

He didn’t say anything—he clearly wasn’t a man to strain himself—but an infinitesimal lift of his eyebrows left her in no doubt what he was thinking.

‘Don’t look at me like that!’

No, no, no... Get a grip. You’re the professional, he’s the...

She wasn’t sure what he was. Only that he was trouble in capitals from T through to E.

‘I’d called in to tell Ria that the Jefferson contract was signed,’ she said, determined to explain, show him that she wasn’t the complete idiot that, with absolutely no justification, he clearly thought her. That was twice he’d got her totally wrong and he didn’t even know her name... ‘I had the list of ices the client had chosen and we were going through it when my brother-in-law called to tell me that my sister had been rushed into Maybridge General.’ His face remained expressionless. ‘As I was leaving, Ria asked if she could have some cash upfront. It was a big order,’ she added.

‘How big?’ She told him and the eyebrows reacted with rather more energy. ‘How much ice cream did you order, for heaven’s sake?’

So. That was what it took to rouse him. Money.

Why was she surprised?

‘A lot, but it’s not just the quantity,’ she told him, ‘it’s the quality. These ices aren’t like the stuff she sells in Knickerbocker Gloria, lovely though that is.’ Having finally got his attention, she wasn’t about to lose the opportunity to state her case. ‘Certainly nothing like the stuff that gets swirled into a cornet from our van.’

‘You have an ice-cream round?’

Oh, Lord, now he thought she was flogging the stuff from a van on the streets.

‘No. We have a vintage ice cream van. Rosie. She’s a bit of a celebrity since she started making a regular appearance in a television soap opera.’ Put that on a postcard home, Alexander West.

‘Rosie?’

‘She’s pink.’ He didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he might as well have done. So much for making an impression. ‘The ices we commission from Ria are for adults,’ she continued, determined to convince him that she wasn’t some flaky lightweight running a cash-in-hand, fly-by-night company. ‘They need expensive ingredients. Organic fruit. Liqueurs.’

‘And champagne.’

‘And champagne,’ she agreed. ‘Not some fizzy substitute, but the real thing. It’s a big outlay, especially when things are tight.’

‘So? What was the problem with your debit card?’

‘Nothing. Ria’s card machine was playing up and, since I couldn’t wait, I dashed across the road to the ATM.’

‘You fell for that?’ he asked in a way that suggested she could wave goodbye to her credibility as it flew out of the window.

Sorrel let slip an expletive. He was right. She was an idiot.

Not even her soft-as-butter sister, Elle, would have been taken in by that old chestnut. But this was Ria! Okay, she was as organised as a boxful of kittens, but so warm, so full of love.

So like her own mother.

Right down to her unfortunate taste in men.

She sighed. Enough said. Lesson learned. Move on. But it was time to put this exchange on a business footing. Alexander West hadn’t bothered to ask who she was, no doubt hoping he could shoo her out of the door quick sharp, and forget that she existed.

Time to let him know that it wasn’t going to happen.

‘How is your sister?’ he asked, before she could tell him so. ‘You said she was rushed into hospital? Was it serious?’

‘Serious?’ She blinked. Hadn’t she said?

Apparently not. Well, his concern demonstrated thoughtfulness. Or did he think it was just an excuse to cover her stupidity? The latter, she was almost sure...

‘Incurable,’ she replied, just to see shock replacing the smug male expression that practically shouted,
‘Got you...’
‘It’s called motherhood. She had a girl—Fenny Louise, seven pounds, six ounces—practically on the hospital steps. Her third.’ She offered him her hand. ‘I know who you are, Mr West, but you don’t know me.’ Despite a kiss that was still sizzling quietly under her skin, ready to re-ignite at the slightest encouragement. ‘Sorrel Amery. I’m the CEO of Scoop!’

Her hand, which had been resting protectively on the frosted container, was ice cold, a fact she realised the minute he took it and heat rocketed up to her shoulder before spiralling down into parts that a simple handshake shouldn’t reach.

Was he plugged into the National Grid?

‘Scoop?’ There went the eyebrow again.

‘It’s not a question,’ she informed him, briskly, retrieving the hand rather more quickly than was polite. ‘It’s an exclamation.’ She began to return the containers to the freezer before both she and their contents melted. None of them were going anywhere in the immediate future. ‘We deliver an ice-cream experience for special events. Weddings, receptions, parties,’ she explained. ‘This order is for a tennis party Jefferson Sports are hosting at Cranbrook Park to show their new range of summer sports clothing and equipment in action to the lifestyle press. The house has recently been restored,’ she added, ‘and converted into a hotel and conference centre.’

‘Jefferson Sports?’

‘They’re a major local company. Manufacturers and retailers of high-end sports gear, and clothing. Camping equipment...’

‘I know who they are.’

‘Then you’ll understand the importance of this order,’ she said, determined to press the advantage now that she had snagged his interest. ‘It’s a media event. The idea is that the gossip magazines and women’s pages will publish a lot of pretty pictures, which will get everyone rushing out to buy the sexy new racquets, pink tennis balls and the clothes that the tennis stars will be wearing at Wimbledon this year.’

‘Pink?’

‘Pink, mauve, blue...designer colours to match your outfit.’

‘Please tell me that you’re kidding.’

‘You think there will be outrage?’ She risked a smile—just a low-wattage affair. ‘Letters to
The Times
? Questions raised about the legality of the balls? All bags of publicity for Jefferson Sports.’

‘Always assuming that it doesn’t rain.’

‘The forecast is good, but there’s a picturesque Victorian Conservatory, a classical temple, a large marquee and a load of celebrities. The pictures will be great whatever the weather.’

She’d seized the opportunity to promote their company to Nick Jefferson when he’d called at her office to book ‘Rosie’ for his youngest child’s birthday party. Rosie had been a hit and, when he’d invited her to tender for this promotional party, she’d beaten off the competition with her idea for a ‘champagne tea’ delivered in mouth-sized bites of ice cream—witty, summery, fun.

There were going to be major sports stars amongst the guests, all the usual ‘celebrities’ as well as a couple of minor royals, and the coverage in the gossip magazines and Sunday newspapers would give them exposure to their core customer base that not even the biggest advertising budget could deliver.

Without Ria’s ices she would not only miss that opportunity, but, if she didn’t deliver, her reputation would be in ruins and all her hard work would have been for nothing.

‘Mr West...’ calling him Alexander hadn’t worked and she was in dead earnest now; it was vital to convince him ‘...if I don’t deliver a perfectly executed event for Jefferson my reputation will disappear faster than a choc ice in a heatwave.’ Worse, it could backfire on the rest of the business. ‘If that happens, Ria won’t be the only one up the financial creek without a paddle and...’ since he’d already admitted that he was in some way responsible for Ria’s problems there was no harm in playing the guilt card ‘...you’ll have two insolvencies on your conscience.’

‘If you relied on Ria,’ he replied, unmoved, ‘you deserve to sink.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’ She had always been aware that there was an element of risk working with Ria, but until now she’d been managing it. Or thought she had.

‘It’s a harsh world.’

‘So you’re going to let the taxman take us both down?’

‘If we don’t pay our taxes, Miss Amery, everyone loses.’

‘I pay mine!’ she declared, furiously. ‘On the dot. Along with all my bills. What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘Well, you’re never here, are you? Do you have a job, Mr West, or do you just live on handouts from gullible women?’

‘Is that what you think? That I’m the reason Ria is in trouble?’

His voice, soft as cobwebs, raised the gooseflesh on her arms. Had she got it totally wrong?

Renowned for being calm in a crisis, she was totally losing it in the face of the kind of body that challenged her notion of what was attractive in a man. Slim, elegant, wearing bespoke tailoring...

He was so not her type!

Not in a million years.

She mentally hung a Do Not Touch notice around his neck, counted to three and took a deep breath.

‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’ The ability to hang on to a calm demeanour in the face of disaster was a prime requisite of the events organiser, but right now she was running on her reserve tank with the red light flashing a warning. ‘Can we at least check and see if she’s made the sorbet?’ she suggested, resisting the urge to rub her hands up and down her arms to warm them and instead reaching for a white coat and slipping it on. Settling a white trilby over her hair. A statement of intent. ‘It has a very short shelf life and by the time you and the Revenue sort out the paperwork it will be well beyond its best-before date. So much sorbet down the drain. A waste of everyone’s money.’

‘I’m sure you’re only worried about yours.’

He was losing patience now, regarding her with undisguised irritation, and she regretted her rush to cover up. The slightest shrug would have sent a strap sliding from her shoulder.

It wasn’t the way she did business, but then he wasn’t the kind of man she usually did business with. Any distraction in a crisis... Now she was aware of the danger she would stay well out of reach.

‘If you insist,’ she continued, using the only other way of grabbing his attention that was open to her, ‘I’ll pay for it again.’ Heavy stress on the “again”. ‘I’d rather lose money on this event than my reputation.’

He didn’t leap to accept her offer despite the fact that it would help pay the outstanding tax bill.

‘That would be in cash, too, of course.’ And, since this was her mistake, it would be taken from her own bank account. She would have to forget all about that pair of pink Miu Miu sandals at the top of her shoe wish-list. There were always more shoes, but there was only one Scoop! Her sister had created it and she wasn’t going to be the one to lose it. ‘Since Ria’s bank account has presumably been frozen,’ she added, as a face-saving sop to his pride.

She assumed it would go straight into his back pocket but she’d already insulted him once—in response to gravest provocation—and doing it again wasn’t going to get her what she wanted.

She held her breath and, after what felt like a lifetime, he moved to one side to allow her to pass.

She crushed her disappointment that cash would move him when her appeal to his sense of fair play had failed. That a lovely woman should be in thrall to a man so unworthy of her. Not that she was surprised. She’d suffered the consequences of men who took advantage of foolish women.

Wouldn’t be here but for one of them.

Once they’d checked the drawers of the upright freezers in the kitchen, however, she had a bigger problem than Ria’s inevitably doomed love affair to worry about.

‘No sorbet,’ Alexander said, without any discernible expression of surprise, ‘and no cucumber ice cream, although I can’t bring myself to believe that’s a bad thing.’

‘Savoury ice cream is very fashionable,’ she said, more concerned about how long it would take her to make the missing ices than whether he approved of her flavour choices.

‘I rest my case,’ he replied, clearly believing that they were done. ‘You can take the ices you say are yours, Miss Amery. I won’t take your money, but I will have your key before you go.’

He held out his hand. She ignored it. She wasn’t done here. Not by a long chalk. But since he was in control of the ice-cream parlour, he was the one she had to convince to allow her to stay.

‘What will it take?’ she asked, looking around at the gleaming kitchen. ‘To keep Knickerbocker Gloria going?’

‘It’s not going to happen.’

She frowned. ‘That’s hardly your decision, surely?’

‘There’s no one else here.’

‘And closing it is your best shot?’

‘It would take a large injection of cash to settle with the creditors and someone with a firm grip on the paperwork at the helm.’ He didn’t look or sound optimistic. Actually, he looked as if he was about to go to sleep propped up against the freezer door.

‘How much cash?’

‘Why?’ He was regarding her sleepily from beneath heavy-lidded eyes that looked as if they could barely stay open, but she wasn’t fooled for a minute. She had his full attention. ‘Don’t tell me you’re interested.’

‘Why not?’ He didn’t answer, but she hadn’t expected him to. He had her down as an idiot who thought she could get what she wanted in business by flirting. A rare mistake. Now she was going to have to work twice as hard to convince him otherwise. ‘At the right price I could be very interested, although on this occasion,’ she added, ‘I won’t be paying in cash and will definitely require a receipt.’

Sorrel heard the words, knew they had come from her mouth, but still didn’t believe it. She didn’t make snap decisions. She planned things through, carefully assessed the potential, worked out the cost-benefit ratio. And always talked to her financial advisor before making any decision that would affect her carefully constructed five-year plan.

Not that she had to talk to Graeme to know exactly what he would say.

The words ‘do not touch’ and ‘bargepole’ would be closely linked, followed by a silence filled with an unspoken ‘I told you so’. He had never approved of Ria.