Love-40 (16 page)

‘How come?' Estelle had assumed she'd run over a piece of glass or a nail or something.

The friendly mechanic merely shrugged. ‘Kids?' he speculated.

Kids … As Christabel served again, Estelle was distracted by the sight of Liam striding past, towards the neighbouring court, two little darlings in tow. He was wearing a pair of black 501s that were particularly close-fitting around the bum, and an open-necked shirt. He looked incredibly sexy.

‘Hiyah!' He waved, grinned, thrust a hand through his untidy dark curls.

‘Bastard,' she muttered.

Christabel, Daisy-Jane and all were looking at her expectantly.

‘Forty thirty,' she said.

There were howls of anguish. ‘Thirty forty,' she amended. ‘Sorreee.' Last night she had waited for Liam for what had seemed like hours, drunk the entire bottle of wine, fallen asleep, and woken at midnight, alone, cold and rather drunk.

Christabel served into the net.

‘Don't throw it all away, darling!' shouted Erica with some passion.

‘Deuce,' Estelle declared as the second serve suffered the same fate.

‘Heavens, Christabel! Honestly!' from the wings.

Followed by, ‘You've got her now, Daisy-Jane. Go for it, babe!'

Were they fostering a sense of healthy competition in these youngsters, Estelle wondered, letting her gaze drift over to Chestnut Grove's honey and cream clubhouse and all the parents and children clustered on Erica's barbecue patio. Or just creating problems for adulthood – indigestion or heartburn perhaps? Irritable bowel syndrome? Suicide? ‘Sudden death,' she said, following this line of thought and deciding that this was what she would like to give Liam. There were no advantages played in children's tennis.

Estelle re-crossed her legs and shielded her eyes from the sun. After all that wine, sun was not required as a feel-good factor. Why couldn't the day be more typical of English springtime – an uncompromising grey sky, perhaps, to reflect her mood?

She had washed her wine glass, got rid of the empty bottle and tried not to wonder where the hell he was (and with whom). She had adjusted her crumpled pink sarong, located the foot pump in the kitchen cupboard, staggered down the stairs, opened the front door to the Victorian terrace.

She had seen the rain, and …

Christabel's next serve was good, bouncing wide and out of Daisy-Jane's reach. ‘Game,' said Estelle, relieved. ‘And set. Jolly well done!' Hopefully that was sufficient encouragement.

She had seen Amanda Lake's red convertible, parked on the other side of the road, two heads close together in conversation, one dark, one blonde, illuminated by the light from the street lamp above.

They were obviously sharing an intimate moment and equally obviously about to go up to the flat. Estelle shuddered as she thought of her lucky escape. Liam certainly hadn't wasted any time in finding a replacement. Talk? She'd like to clock him one, the rotten bastard.

*   *   *

Suzi had popped out to the baker's for one of their yummy pizza slices, and was on her way back to the shop, when she got distracted by a sign outside The Bargain Basement. She groaned and took the biggest bite of pizza she could manage.
THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST IN TOWN. FABULOUS PRICES … BECAUSE YOU'RE WORTH IT.

The door was closed, but she could see people milling around inside (people never milled around in Secrets In The Attic – there were never enough of them) and she could even hear some tacky background music that sounded suspiciously like Abba's ‘Waterloo'.

‘No class though,' growled a voice by her side.

Mouth full, Suzi spun around. No crumpled linen today – Josh Willis was wearing denim jeans and a battered leather flying jacket with fur collar. And his cat's grin.

‘Hrmph.' Suzi stalked back towards her own shop, unable to say a word – partly because if she spoke she'd spit pizza at him, but also because she couldn't believe his nerve.

‘You're in a different market place,' he continued, following her.

‘Well, our market place is deserted,' she said at last, wiping her mouth with the paper napkin and opening the door of the shop. ‘And what's the point of class if nobody wants it?'

‘Fair point.' He sat down on the edge of the counter, long legs crossed at the ankle, hands thrust in the pockets of the flying jacket.

He seemed, thought Suzi, to take up an awful lot of space. And what was he doing here? She'd made it plain that she no longer wanted to do business with him, and he had made it equally plain that he wouldn't be visiting her again. It was for the best, she had told herself, trying not to think of his smile.

‘I thought you were going to Germany,' she said now. That was where she had pictured him, driving his big white van, flogging furniture to tall, rigid men with blue eyes, blond moustaches and no sense of humour.

He shrugged. ‘Not until the van's full up.' He eyed the writing desk in the corner and Suzi thought she could see the pound signs flashing in the pupils. Hah!

‘I haven't changed my mind,' she said. She wanted him to go. And stay. His presence was unsettling; she felt drawn to him and didn't want to be. He was, she was sure, bad news. And if he was associated with Stan and Terry, it was probably bad news of the tabloid variety.

‘Shame.' But he didn't seem to care much one way or the other. She supposed it was silly to imagine he was depending on their stock. After all, he'd never even come to them before; he must have a lot of other contacts who were more than willing to let him shift their furniture for them.

Like, ‘Perhaps you should buy some bargains from the boys next door.' Suzi couldn't resist the jibe. She still felt a prize idiot for telling him so much. ‘Best prices in town, you know.'

‘I do.' He stared at her long and hard and she felt sure she was colouring up like a schoolgirl. ‘Buy from them, I mean.'

‘Oh.' She'd asked for that, she supposed. ‘Tea?' she asked, to distract herself.

‘Lovely.' He grinned.

Suzi was hoping for a few minutes' respite while she waited for the kettle to boil, but to her dismay, Josh Willis heaved himself off the counter and followed her into the tiny space that served as a kitchen and led out into a passage and the loo. And there wasn't enough room for him.

He leaned against the fridge door and she had to reach past him for the kettle and tea bags. Her head was level with his chest. The close proximity didn't seem to bother him but Suzi found she was getting short of breath and had developed a worrying case of the shakes in the leg department. She should, she decided, have had an earlier lunch.

‘Do you know Stan and Terry well?' she asked, re-arranging mugs, plates and other paraphernalia in an effort to make the kitchenette look vaguely hygienic. At least, to his credit, he hadn't tried to hide the fact that they'd done business together.

‘Well enough to know they're the lowest of the low,' he said cheerfully. ‘Knocker boys. They specialise in chatting up old biddies who want nothing more than a cup of tea and a chat, and don't realise they're getting ripped off in the process.'

Suzi had thought as much. But, ‘What does that make you then?' she challenged.

He laughed at her expression. ‘Someone who's ready to take whatever business opportunity he's given. I only buy some of the stuff they have on offer. I don't know where it comes from.'

‘Do you care?' she challenged. Because it was all very well to turn a blind eye – but what about integrity?

His eyes narrowed. ‘I'm not the conscience of men like Stan and Terry. They do what they do. And –'

‘You take advantage of it.' Suzi wasn't ready to let him get away with that one.

At last he nodded, as if conceding her point. ‘Does that make me a bad person?' he growled, leaning down towards her.

Suzi looked into the grey-green eyes. He was laughing at her again. ‘I don't know yet,' she said honestly. All she did know was that she'd never met a person like him.

He laughed again, took the cup of tea she offered him and strolled back out into the shop. ‘Fancy coming to a car boot sale with me this afternoon?' he asked.

‘I've got this place to run,' Suzi said quickly, clearing a space for her own tea and wishing a customer would come in. What did he want from her? Had she encouraged him? Did he want more than tea?

He gulped the hot liquid. ‘What about your business partner?'

‘Otherwise engaged.'

‘No one else you could ask?'

Suzi looked around the sunflower-yellow interior of the shop and thought of Michael. He had nothing else to do – so far as she was aware. He really didn't seem to do anything much these days, apart from lounge around the cottage half-heartedly, looking through the situations vacant columns of the local paper and watching daytime TV.

It was getting to the point, she thought sadly, where she longed for him to be out when she got home, so that just for once she would have her cottage and her animals to herself. He was beginning to irritate her too – she'd snapped at him twice last night, and the hurt look in his eyes had stayed with her, so much so that later she'd held him close in bed, willing herself to feel something, anything other than sorrow. ‘I'll try,' she told Josh.

She dialled the number of the cottage. Would he be there? Bound to be. But did she want him to meet Josh Willis? And was the boot fair a good idea? Was she mad to even consider it?

‘You've got to get out and about a bit more,' Josh was saying. ‘Find out what your average man in the street is wanting to buy, wanting to sell.' He picked up a delicate porcelain figurine and put it down again. Point made, Suzi thought. When they'd started, they'd bought almost anything – just to fill up the shop.

She replaced the receiver as it rang on. Reprieved … And, ‘I thought you said this was a different market place,' she protested.

‘So?' He grinned. ‘Maybe you should find yourself a new one. Like one that appeals to more people.'

He had all the answers, didn't he? ‘Anyway, I can't make it after all.' Fate, she thought. A let-off. ‘Maybe another time,' she heard herself add. What? When would she learn to keep her mouth shut?

He finished his tea and plonked the cup down on the counter. ‘Tomorrow morning?' he suggested.

‘What?'

‘Tomorrow morning. Early start. There's a good one on in Charmouth. I could meet you here at seven-thirty.' He flicked at the wind-chime by the door and it rang merrily.

‘Seven-thirty?' she squawked. ‘On a Sunday morning?' She wondered what Michael would say to that. Help.

He shrugged once more. ‘I'll come by on the off-chance,' he said, as he left the shop. ‘Think about it, Suzi.'

And she would, Suzi realised, watching him swing off down the street towards the car park. She would probably think of little else, damn it.

*   *   *

The time for the finals had eventually arrived, tea in the form of Earl Grey and home-made scones and coconut cake, courtesy of Deirdre Piston, had been served in the conservatory and on the patio, and Liam was looking for Estelle.

Eventually he found her, outside on the steps, gazing dreamily up at bloody Nick Rossi. He lingered for a moment, half-expecting her to make some excuse and come over, but instead, she flashed Nick an intimate smile and moved in closer. Then to Liam's horror, she reached into her rucksack, took out her diary and said something that sounded like, ‘Friday evening, hmm, let me see…'

Jesus Christ! He stormed back into the clubhouse. She must be seeing him regularly. She certainly hadn't wasted any time. Or maybe … his stomach felt like a stone, he was surprised he could even walk … she had been seeing him before she left. Maybe … he shuddered … that was
why
she'd left.

Back in the clubhouse, Deirdre was busily collecting cups. Erica Raddle was at her side, and Liam was sure he heard the words, ‘Purple and green acrylic,' as he strode past.

‘Purple and green acrylic,' Deirdre echoed.

‘Like Wimbledon.'

He turned around. ‘What?'

Erica didn't bat an eyelid. She clapped her hands. ‘Time for the grand finale,' she said. ‘And may the best players win.' She flashed an encouraging, horsy smile towards Christabel Archer. ‘Girls' final first then?' And bustled past Liam, who, along with the other umpires, had unfortunately promised to stay for the medal presentation.

Purple and green acrylic?

By the hard courts, chairs had been laid out earlier by Deirdre. Liam spotted Amanda, already seated, an empty chair beside her. He hesitated. He hadn't exactly been avoiding Amanda today, but neither had he sought her company. Their drink the other night had left him with a strange sensation somewhere around the groin area. A guy would have to be crazy not to have the hots for her, but it didn't feel right. He wasn't sure what she was up to; he only knew that the moment she'd driven away, she had disappeared just as clearly from his mind.

At the sight of Liam, she did her finger-waggle and indicated the empty chair. It would have been rude to ignore her, so Liam nodded, smiled and edged his way through, still looking out for Nick Rossi and Estelle. No bloody sign of them …

‘Who's your money on, darling?' asked Amanda as he sat down.

She was lovely, she was being friendly and Liam tried to get into the mood. ‘The one that sounds like something out of a herb garden,' he muttered, glancing across at the green hard court, at the two little girls posing for parents' cameras as they received their last-minute instructions, at the view beyond of Pridehaven and lots of blue, blue sky and sea.

‘Lavender?' Amanda giggled. ‘I agree. That would put Erica's nose out of joint.' She put a hand on his arm and he looked down at her perfectly French manicured fingernails.