His Wedding-Night Heir (2 page)

the coffee bar.' She gave Cally an unexpectedly sweet smile.

'So your past experience could be useful, my dear.'

The money Mrs Hartley had offered was reasonable, but not

lavish. It had enabled Cally to live, yet hadn't encouraged her

to put down roots. Which was exactly what she needed.

In time, when she was entirely free of her former life, she

would find a home, and a career. Until then she would

conlinue to be a nomad, because it was safer that way.

Tonight, she thought, adding a muted lustre to her lips, she

would get out her map book and decide where to go next.

The river might sparkle in the sunshine, but the brightness did

no favours to the dilapidated warehouses and crumbling sheds

along Gunners Wharf itself.

In many ways redevelopment was exactly what was needed

for the entire area, Cally conceded reluctantly as she walked

down to the Centre, where the admin office was based. But

why did it have to happen at the expense of the housing

scheme? Why couldn't they have existed side by side?

Here, in the back street running parallel to the wharf, nearly

half the properties had already been restored, with medows

and roofs, freshly pointed brickwork and gleaming paint. A

lot of the work had been done by the tenants themselves, as an

act of faith—an investment in a future that had now been

taken from them, she thought bleakly. Mrs Hartley had

provided the Children's Centre at her own

expense, patiently providing funds to meet every new Health

and Safety regulation that the local council could throw at

them. It was no secret that it had cost her a small fortune, and

maybe this was what her sons had resented so much. Because

it was also known that Hartleys department store, like many

other High Street shops, had been struggling for a couple of

years, and needed a cash injection.

Well, they certainly had it now, Cally thought, biting her lip.

The sale had gone through so fast that they must have had a

string of potential buyers already lined up. While the single

mothers and families in badly paid work they were turning out

would struggle to find alternative housing that they could af-

ford.

She sighed. But, as her grandfather had always said, one

man's gain was another's loss. And the whole scheme had

been living on borrowed time anyway.

'Cally.' A girl's voice broke across her reverie, and she turned

to see Tracy approaching, pushing her baby buggy over the

dilapidated pavement. 'Cally—what's this meeting about? Do

you know? Has Kit said anything?'

Cally stifled a sigh, and pulled a silly face at the baby in the

pushchair, an act rewarded by a lopsided grin.

'Not a thing,' she responded briskly. 'But we don't live in each

other's pockets, you know.'

She'd said it before so often, but no one seemed to take her

denials seriously. Kit Matlock was the director of the Centre,

and the man with whom she worked most closely. They were

both, on the face of it, single, so assumptions were made.

Nor could Cally deny that, before the recent bombshell, Kit

had been making it clear he'd, like to shift their professional

relationship to a more personal level—which was, in itself,

another excellent reason for moving away.

Not that she disliked him. How could she? He was attractive,

pleasant, and endearingly short on temperament. But they

were not an item, and never would be. And Cally had

resolutely made excuse after excuse to refuse his invitations.

Their most intimate involvement to date had only been the

sharing of sandwiches and coffee at lunchtime, in her small,

crowded office at the rear of the Centre. And that was as far as

it would ever go.

Because, she told herself, I don't cheat.

'Oh,’ Tracy said, obviously disappointed. 'I thought maybe

he'd found a loophole in the law or something. And obviously

he'd tell you first.'

Cally buried her bare hands in the pockets of her black jacket

and forced a smile. 'You're barking up the wrong tree,

Tracy— honestly. Kit's a lovely guy, but I'm moving on very

soon. I've been offered another job—in London,' she added

with sudden inspiration.

Tracy stared at her, woebegone. 'You're leaving?'

'I have to. Technically, I'm unemployed, so I need to find

work pretty urgently.' Kit too, she thought.

Tracy groaned. 'It's all falling apart,' she said dismally.

Cally felt intensely sorry for her. Tracy's house had been one

of the first in the terrace to be overhauled. There had been

serious damp in the upstairs rooms, and little Brad had been

seeing a local doctor with non-stop chest complaints. Now he

was well enough to use the Centre, and Tracy had found part-

time work as a supermarket checkout assistant. Things had

been looking up for both of them. Now the coin was in the air

again.

Most of the others were already there, hunched awkwardly on

miniature chairs in the playroom, drinking coffee and nibbling

half-heartedly on the Danish pastries Kit had brought.

The air of gloom was almost tangible as he stood up. 'Sorry to

drag you here so early everyone. I asked for this meeting

because, thanks to Leila, we now know who's bought Gunners

Wharf.'

There was a murmur of surprise. 'How did you manage that?'

someone asked.

Leila looked round with open complacency. 'My mum's next

door neighbour works in the planning department at the Town

Hall. The company's called Eastern Crest Developments, and

they're going to be in town the day after tomorrow. Roy says

they're putting on an exhibition at the Town Hall to show how

they're going to redevelop Gunners Wharf with the Council.'

She nodded. 'So this is our chance.'

To do what?' Cally asked.

'To show them they can't just walk all over us,' Leila informed

her triumphantly. 'I say we picket the Town Hall. Carry

banners saying "Save our Homes" and "Hands off Gunners

Wharf". Chain ourselves to the railings if necessary.'

Cally groaned inwardly. 'Why stop there?' she said. 'Why not

march down the High Street and put a brick through Hartleys'

windows?'

Leila's eyes widened. 'Hey, that's not a bad idea.'

'You're right,' Cally said shortly. 'It's more than bad. It's

appalling—and illegal as well.'

'Well,' Leila said defiantly, 'so is what they've done to us.'

T was going to suggest a slightly softer approach,' said Kit.

'Why don't a few of us go to the exhibition and actually talk to

the developers? See if their scheme couldn't be adapted

somehow to include Gunners Terrace. Suggest it could show

the human side of big business. After all, they may not even

know we exist down here. I bet the Hartleys won't have men-

tioned it during negotiations,' he added grimly.

There were a couple of upturned noses. 'I've heard it's all

going to be yuppie flats and designer boutiques,' someone

said. 'They won't want the likes of us making the place look

untidy.'

'And won't this Town Hall thing be invitation only?' another

voice asked.

'Well, Roy could get us the invites,' said Leila.

'And it has to be worth a try, surely?' added Tracy.

Kit gave her a warm smile. 'I certainly think so.' He paused.

'Maybe you should be part of the deputation, with Cally and

myself.'

'Just three?' Leila queried with a touch of belligerence.

'I think small could be beautiful under the circumstances,' Kit

said smoothly. 'No use going in mob-handed. That could be

seen as aggressive, and we want a discussion, not a

confrontation.' He paused. 'Of course we'll be relying on you

for the entry passes’

There was a silence while Leila weighed her own

disgruntlement against the good of the Gunners Terrace

community as a whole. At last, 'Not a problem,' she said

grudgingly, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

'Is it really necessary for me to go?' Cally asked later, when

she and Kit were momentarily alone.

Kit shrugged. 'If we manage to talk to Eastern Crest's big

bosses, it would be useful to have an accurate note of what's

said.'

'Tracy could do that.'

He shook his head. 'Tracy gets flustered, and she's too in-

volved to be objective anyway. She'll hear what she wants to

hear. Besides, she's there for the sympathy vote,' he added,

grimacing slightly. 'Pretty blonde single mother, whose baby

used to be always wailing. That might tug at their hard heart-

strings.'

'Good PR—if slightly callous.' Cally doodled aimlessly with a

pencil. 'What do you think the chances are?'

'Of getting them to listen? Pretty good—especially without

Leila threatening to kneecap them. Overall?' He shook his

head. 'I'm not hopeful. Major property companies are money-

makers, after all, not social workers.'

'Yes,' Cally said quietly. 'They're generally not famous for

their humanitarian qualities. They tend to have their own

agenda.'

'Therefore,' Kit went on, 'we need to present our case in an

articulate and reasonable way—and pray like hell.' He paused.

'Of course, what we really need is a deus ex machina—

another rich philanthropist to make a counter-offer and save

us all at the eleventh hour.' He grinned at her. 'Got many

millionaires in your address book?'

The pencil snapped suddenly in her fingers. 'No,' she said, her

voice faintly hoarse. 'Not many.'

'Nor me,' he acknowledged ruefully, and was silent for a

moment. When he spoke, his voice was hesitant. 'After the

meeting, we could maybe have some dinner—at that Italian

place in the High Street. What do you think?'

'Fine by me,' Cally agreed. 'But you'd better warn Tracy to get

a babysitter,' she added disingenuously. 'It will do her good to

get out for the evening.'

Kit's face fell a little, but he knew better than to argue.

When she was by herself again, Cally wondered whether that

would have been a good time to tell him she was leaving—if

he hadn't guessed already. After all, the Hartleys must have

him under notice too, although they'd reluctantly agreed to let

the Children's Centre remain open for the time being.

They're thinking of nasty stories appearing in the local paper,

Cally thought. Television cameras filming weeping children

in pushchairs. The kind of publicity one's friendly local

department store needs like a hole in the head.

The kids' parents, of course, were a different matter. Not

everyone had the same concern for the disadvantaged as

Genevieve Hartley had had, or tried to do anything about it.

They'd be counting on that.

And the Gunners Terrace residents, once they were made

homeless, would qualify for council housing anyway. That

would be their argument, so how many people would really

care if a small, struggling would-be community fell by the

wayside?

But Cally knew that real pride, real spirit was being engen-

dered in this tiny part of town, where those qualities had long

been absent. And that it mattered. But it would soon wane

once the families were dispersed, as seemed inevitable.

They deserve to survive, she told herself with sudden angry

passion. They don't need another defeat. If only—only—there

was something I could do...

But there could have been—once, a sly voice in her head

reminded her. If you'd chosen another kind of life. If you

hadn't run away. You might have made all the difference.

For a moment she was motionless, staring into the distance

with eyes that saw nothing but pain.

She said under her breath, 'But I made the right— the only

possible choice. I know that.' And dropped the broken pencil

into the wastepaper basket

She had no smart clothes, so she opted for another version of

her working gear for their visit to the Town Hall.

The exhibition, which included a video presentation as well as

a scale model of the development, was being staged in the

conference hall—

which hadn't seen many conferences, but was useful for

antiques fairs and craft markets. Also for the flower show in

its usual inclement weather.

The Mayor and his entourage were clearly preening them-

selves because the place was living up to its grandiose title at