Never Too Late (16 page)

rude Santas everywhere. Only Chippendales were supposed

to be as rampant as that, Evie laughed to herself as

she caught sight of one particularly sexy Santa who was en

route to deliver more than just a Christmas stocking.

She hadn’t shown she was amused at the time, naturally.

She couldn’t, not with the impressionable young temps

watching. Instead, she’d given Kev one of her fiercest

glares, told him he was in an office not the zoo, and warned

that if the Santas weren’t gone by the time the boss saw

them, the only Christmas bonus he’d be getting was his

IMS.

All of which was untrue, because Davis was so shortsighted

he wouldn’t have noticed a real half-naked Santa

standing in the stairwell, and even if he had, he wouldn’t

have minded. But you had to have standards in an office,

Evie felt, otherwise things tell to pieces. If anyone knew she had a sense of humour, she’d never keep the place under control.

Reminding herself to help poor Marj clean up the fake

snow, Evie flicked on the lights. It was half-eight on the

third day of January and the entire administrative part of

the office felt as if it had been deserted since the Titanic went down, instead of just ten days previously. There were usually plenty of people at work by this time but the

combination of the bad weather - heavy snowfall for three

days - and the fact that the holidays were finally over, had

obviously made the staff of Wentworth Alarms collectively

turn over for one final snooze before getting up.

For the first time in her life, Evie wished she could have

done the same. She never minded going back after the

holidays, not usually. It was guilt. After more than a week

of not having to get up for work, she began to get anxious

and feel slovenly, as if she should be doing something, anything. Which was why her house was always spotless, her airing cupboard more organised than a Benetton shop,

and why there were never, ever any clumps of dust and

hair under her furniture.

‘I don’t know how you’re going to cope on honeymoon,

Mum,’ Rosie had remarked the day before, when Evie had

routed her from her comfy position on the sofa watching

the Teletubbies, so that she could hoover under it. Standing

there in her socks and dressing gown with a half-finished

bowl of Frosties in her hand, Rosie watched while her

mother ruthlessly eradicated any stray bit of fluff that had

stupidly decided to live under her sofa.

‘You’ll be bored rigid lying on a beach all day for two

weeks,’ Rosie remarked.

‘I’ll take books,’ panted Evie, sticking the hoover nozzle

into the corners of the sofa to pick up any stray dust or

Frosties. And we won’t be lying on a beach all day. Greece

is a fabulous country and we’ve so much to sec. I’ve always

wanted to travel, I’ve just never had the chance before.’

Actually, she’d never had the money. Bringing up Rosie

on her own had been tough and money had been very

tight. Apart from holidays in Ballymoreen, she and Rosie

had only been abroad three times: twice to a cottage in

Cornwall with Andrew and Cara, and once to Majorca

with Olivia when Rosie had been eleven. That had been

their best holiday ever. Sun, sandy beaches, welcoming

local restaurants and a lovely apartment in a quiet,

unspoilt part of the island. Sometimes, when she thought

about that holiday, Evie wished that Rosie, Olivia and

Sasha could accompany her and Simon on their honeymoon.

It was a strange idea, she knew that. But the

thought of being able to take the other three along

seemed so right somehow.

Evie climbed the stairs to the third floor, avoiding the lift

because she had to work off the five pounds she’d put on

misery eating over Christmas. She hadn’t planned on

touching the sinful cream confections Vida had left in her

father’s fridge, but they were impossible to resist. That one

forkful of chocolate log turned into two enormous slices

every time and before she knew it, Evie was walking

around with her jumper worn loosely over the waistband

of her jeans to hide the opened top button.

In the large office she shared with two other secretaries,

she dumped her handbag on to her desk and switched on

the heating. It was freezing in here, she thought. She made

herself a cup of coffee - black, because the milk hadn’t

arrived yet - and sat down at her desk, cradling the hot

mug in her hands and wishing she was elsewhere. On a

beach in Greece, maybe. In the sweltering sun where

nobody could bother her with queries about missing files,

irate customers, lengthy, boring reports or whether she was

going to her father’s wedding or not. She’d sit back on a

lounger, with a wrap carefully disguising her cellulite and

her belly …

‘Is there anyone sitting here, mademoiselle?’

She turned her head, adjusting her Yves St Laurent sunglasses

to see who was blocking out the light. At first he was

just a shadow with the sun behind him. Then he moved under

the umbrella that shaded her striped lounger, and she could

see his face.

He was dark, like the handsome Greek waiters who smiled

at her each evening at dinner. But his proud, hawk-like face

wasn’t smiling. The black eyes were inscrutable as he stared

down at her from his great height.

She could feel his eyes take in the shape of her beautiful

body in its expensive white swimsuit, with the ruched bodice

highlighting her full breasts and slender waist. Evie was glad

she’d worn her diamond bracelet on a whim that morning, so

he could tell she was a woman of substance, not some bored

bimbo sitting by the pool in the classy Elounda Mare waiting

for a millionaire to walk by.

She wondered if he could tell that her empire of luxury

clothes shops in Milan and Paris no longer fulfilled her, that

she needed the love of a strong, proud man to do that.

‘There’s nobody sitting here,’ she said softly.

‘Good,’ he replied. ‘I have been watching you from the

hotel, I hoped you were alone …’

‘Evie, Happy New Year!’ shrieked Lorraine, bustling in

through the door wearing what had to be her Christmas

present from her boyfriend: an ocelot-print fake fur coat.

‘The same to you, Lorraine,’ Evie said warmly. She was

very fond of the other girl. ‘Love the coat. Did Craig give it

to you?’

‘Yes.’ Lorraine, a skinny twenty-four-year-old brunette

who was one of the few people Evie knew who could carry off a bulky fake fur coat, did a twirl for her benefit.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said appreciatively, getting up to run

her fingers through the silky synthetic fur.

‘You try it on,’ urged Lorraine, slipping the coat off.

‘No, I’ve put on five pounds, I’d look like a giant teddy

bear in it,’ Evie replied gloomily, ‘or else something

escaped from the zoo.’

Lorraine carefully hung the coat on the coat rack and

immediately made her way to the worn tea tray to boil the

kettle.

‘Tea?’ she asked.

‘No, thanks, I’ve got some coffee. And the milkman

hasn’t been yet.’

‘Blast,’ said Lorraine who liked her tea very milky. ‘So

how was your holiday? And what did Simon give you for

Christmas?’

Evie brightened up at the second part of the question.

Describing her holiday without the use of the words

‘complete disaster’ would have been difficult and she

didn’t want to get into a big discussion about her problems

in case she got tearful. But talking about Simon’s present

was different.

Smiling, she hooked back her hair so that one of the tiny

seed pearl and gold earrings Simon had bought her were

visible. When he’d given them to her after her return from

Ballymoreen, she’d been thrilled.

‘Lovely.’ cooed Lorraine. ‘Very subtle. It must have been

hard not having Christmas together?’ she said, poking

around in the cupboard under the tea things, looking for

the biscuits.

‘Well, it’s his last Christmas as a bachelor and he and his

mother have got into the habit of spending it with their

relatives.’ Evie paused. ‘It was easier this way. Of course I

missed him but we’ll have next Christmas together.’

Christmas together? She couldn’t wait. Lounging around

in their dressing gowns, watching soppy movies on the box

and snuggling up in front of a roaring fire … OK, so

neither she nor Simon had a working fireplace in their

homes, but they’d see about it.

‘You won’t miss the time till the wedding,’ Lorraine

remarked.

Evie grimaced. ‘Don’t talk to me about that,’ she said.

‘I’ve got a list of things to do that’s a mile long and I

haven’t the energy to start phoning people. You have no

idea how far in advance you have to book everything. I

thought it was just the hotel but you’ve got to book

flowers so early, you’d think they were growing them from

seed to your very own specifications.’

‘It must be lovely planning your wedding, though,’

Lorraine said dreamily. ‘The dress, the reception, your

bouquet …’ She went off into wedding fantasy land,

obviously imagining herself and Craig sailing down the

aisle in a cloud of tulle.

‘Yes,’ said Evie, brightly. It was funny really, but since

hearing about Vida and her father, she hadn’t thought

that much about her own wedding at all. Maybe it was

spending so much time away from Simon over the

holidays but she’d barely given September the twelfth a

thought.

‘Anyway,’ said Lorraine suspiciously, staring at Evie’s

china mug, ‘what are you drinking coffee for? I thought

you were on the fruit juice diet?’

Evie smiled ruefully. ‘Actually I was on the “sausage roll,

Christmas cake and as much stuffing as you can cat” diet

so I thought having a cup of coffee to wake me up was

harmless in comparison.’

Her phone rang suddenly, its peremptory sound making

both women jump. She picked it up wearily.

‘Evie,’ squeaked the receptionist in a harassed voice.

‘This caller is looking for the sales department and she

insists she can’t wait until they arrive. Will you handle her?

I can’t calm her down.’

‘Of course,’ said Evie automatically. The New Year had

begun.

‘What I don’t understand,’ she said to Olivia as they

queued up for sandwiches in the pub across the road from

the barren industrial estate where Wentworth Alarms was

situated, ‘is why Vida wants me at the wedding in the first

place? She obviously can’t stand me, and would you want

your new husband’s disapproving daughter standing at the

altar beside you on your wedding day?’

‘I don’t think she hates you, Evie,’ Olivia said, somewhat

wearily. They’d been over this subject endlessly since

Christmas and she no longer had anything to say about it.

Evie talked about Vida constantly, worrying away like a

dog with a bone - wondering why her father loved Vida

and did it mean he loved her any less. Should she even go

to the wedding? It wasn’t as if they wanted her at it, she

was tearfully convinced of that. And if she did go, what

could she wear that would compete with that rich bitch

who obviously had a wardrobe full of designer gear thanks

to her last bloody husband, whom she’d probably poisoned

for his insurance money.

Because Olivia loved Evie and knew her so well, she

knew her friend’s harping on and on wasn’t because she

actually disliked her stepmother-to-be, but because she was

feeling desperately threatened. After years of seeing herself

as the most important woman in Andrew Fraser’s life, Evie

simply couldn’t cope with being relegated to second place.

It had simply devastated her.

They’d discussed it so often that Olivia had run out of

things to say. What she desperately wanted to talk to Evie

about was how depressed she’d been feeling since

Christmas, Stephen had been monosyllabic all week, as if

actually pining for the cut and thrust of the office, and had

bitten her head off when she’d suggested going out for a

day. Even worse, the end of the school holidays loomed

and Olivia felt sick at the thought of facing another year

of teaching.

Desperate to be cheered up, she’d left Sasha with her best

friend from playgroup and driven out to Evie’s office for a

spur-of- the -moment lunch because she longed to confide in

her friend. But with Evie still incapable of having a conversation without the word ‘Vida’ in it, Olivia hadn’t broached

the subject of how utterly dispirited she herself was.

The girl behind the bar ladled out two bowls of mushroom

soup, handed them rolls, and they moved along the

counter to the sandwiches displayed unappetisingly in

clingfilm.

‘I’m not going, I’ve decided,’ continued Evie, jaw firm as

she deliberated over whether to plump for plastic-looking

cheese or dried-up chicken.

Olivia waited until they were sitting down before making

her point.