The Secret of Happy Ever After (53 page)

‘Hello. Did I miss an arrangement? You’re not meant to be collecting Tavish today, are you?’

‘No. I just thought I’d pop round. For a coffee and a chat.’ Rory raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry, I should have called to make an appointment but I assumed you’d be here. Let me in, it’s freezing.’

‘A phone call would have done.’ Michelle opened the door and found herself wishing she’d bothered to get changed. She was still in her work clothes – a black pencil skirt now covered in dog hairs, and a shirt that was a tiny bit drooly where Tavish’s head had been resting against her arm.

‘Sad news about Cyril, isn’t it?’ said Rory, bending down to tickle Tavish’s beardy chin. ‘I’m really going to miss him. Still, he’s left a very complicated will so I reckon he’ll get the last laugh on us all.’

‘Complicated how?’

Rory strolled into the kitchen, without taking off his shoes. He did his usual thing of picking things up to inspect them, then putting them down in a slightly different place. ‘It’s a real Agatha Christie one, with individual bequests and bits and pieces going everywhere. He used to love writing his will. Redid it every few years, apparently.’

‘Oh.’ Michelle started spooning coffee into a cafetière and then changed her mind and opened the fridge. ‘Wine all right?’

‘Perfect.’ Rory sat down next to Tavish and let him clamber onto his knee. ‘Of course Cyril’s death is going to affect you more than most, isn’t it?’

‘In what way?’ Michelle knew exactly what he was getting at but wanted him to say it.

‘You don’t have to stick to his year-of-books clause. Although, to be fair, it’s a good job Cyril wasn’t popping in to check on you. Good job I wasn’t holding you to it, either. But then I know when to compromise.’

Rory was looking at her, a challenge in his grey eyes, and she knew he meant the slow creep of bedlinen. She guessed he’d spoken to Anna. They’d probably had one of their ‘woe is me’ conversations about her and her Philistine ways.

The serenity of her sitting room gave way to a crackling tension; Rory’s voice was polite, but she could tell that beneath it was genuine annoyance.

‘Don’t beat about the bush,’ she said stiffly, handing him the glass. They could talk about this like adults, or more to the point, like solicitor and tenant, if that was how he wanted it. ‘If it’s been bothering you so much, why didn’t you say something?’

‘Because
technically
, I suppose you’re not breaking the letter of agreement, but in a bigger sense, I guess I’m just disappointed.’

‘Disappointed?’ Michelle repeated. ‘Who the hell are you to be disappointed?’

She’d met a lot of men with nerve in her days selling cars, but not one like Rory. Not one powered with turbo-charged self-righteousness the way he was. He ignored the temper in her voice and replied earnestly.

‘If you’re going to lose Longhampton’s one point of warmth and intelligence then at least put something more interesting in there than more of your awful sexless bedding. Anna deserves better, for one. It’s insulting, after all she’s done. Bloody scatter cushions.’

Michelle’s hackles rose. Being lectured about sexless beds by a man with a light sabre on his wall? She wished she hadn’t given him the glass of wine. It would have been nice to pour it over him.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said icily.

‘What’s the point? What are you giving the town with scatter cushions? I honestly thought you were committed to making the place work, the amount of time you and Anna spent getting it right. I guess I thought it meant something to you, the way it means something to me. And Anna. And the other regular customers.’

Michelle gave herself a moment to control the surge of furious adrenalin running through her body, but found she couldn’t. It was too personal.

‘Do you have
any
idea how smug and ignorant you sound?’ she demanded. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you what I sell in that shop. The day I take business advice from a small town solicitor who doesn’t even own his own
flat
is the day I know I’ve really run out of ideas.’

That seemed to hit a nerve. He put his glass down on the coffee table, deliberately ignoring the coaster.

‘And I suppose you’ll be wanting to hand Tavish over to me now he’s not needed?’ he said, deliberately provoking her.

Michelle narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s below the belt.’

‘Really? It’s fine for you to make mean comments. I’d be happy to have him. I expect the hairs have been driving you mad. And you don’t need the
tie
, do you? The big scary emotional tie that stops you flying around the country collecting more meaningless
stuff
.’

‘How dare you?’ she started, but Rory hadn’t finished.

‘I mean, you could sell anything. Why not sell something that
means
something? Something that matters?’

‘Like stories?’

‘Books matter. They’re an inspiration, an escape. Something bigger than we are . . .’

‘Like stories. Great. That’s really meaningful, isn’t it?’ she said sarcastically. ‘Escapism. Wow. Because that really helps people. I might as well open an off-licence. Hey, get drunk and in the morning have all your problems to deal with plus a hangover. What is the difference between peddling people some totally unreal version of life, and selling them drugs?’

There was a distant voice in Michelle’s head arguing back even as she was speaking, but she ignored it. Even the way Rory was looking at her – those grey eyes scrutinising her face as if he could read something in it, his foot wagging agitatedly where he’d crossed it over one long leg – even that was winding her up. He felt too masculine, too messy, too unpredictable in her house and she wanted him out,
out
, as soon as possible. But not in the same way she wanted Harvey out. She wasn’t scared of Rory. She was just
infuriated
by him.

He opened his mouth to argue back, then stopped and wiped his face with one hand.

‘Why are you so hard to help?’ he demanded from behind it.

Michelle flinched. ‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’ He peered out from between his fingers. The eyes were still fierce, but not hostile. ‘I’ve known some control freaks in my time – I’m a property lawyer, for God’s sake – but I’ve never know anyone so defensive.’

‘You don’t know me
at all
,’ said Michelle.

‘I do.’ Rory threw a hand out, gesturing at the sitting room. ‘Look at this place. You’ve got a beautiful house with absolutely no personality. No photographs, no art, no books, nothing that tells me anything about you. And that tells me everything! You don’t
want
anyone to know you. You just want them to admire your taste. And those are two very different things.’

‘That is such bollocks,’ scoffed Michelle. ‘You’re not on
Judge John Deed
now, you know.’

‘No, it’s not bollocks. You’ve got a shop full of beautiful, meaningless clutter that encourages women with nothing in their lives to clutter up their own houses with more nothing. I mean, scatter cushions.’

Rory picked up a satin pin-tucked scatter cushion from the sofa and dangled it sarcastically in front of her.

‘What is this for? Other than to arrange on your sofa?’

‘It’s to support your back,’ said Michelle.

Rory tossed it on the floor, not letting his eyes drop from her face.

‘Oh, very clever,’ said Michelle.

He picked up another one, looked at her challengingly, and dropped it too.

‘You want me to pick it up,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going to.’

Rory dropped the third cushion on the floor, and Michelle had to steel herself not to pick it up, but then he cast his eyes around the room until they fell on the flat bowl of shells on the coffee table.

They were a selection of cockle shells, butter-yellow cowries, tiny curly conches that Michelle had spent ages methodically arranging into size order, so they formed stripes of colour, order superimposed onto their natural randomness. Owen had asked her what the point of arranging them like that had been and she hadn’t been able to come up with a reason; it had taken her mind off thinking about Harvey and her wasted youth, was the real answer.

‘Like these,’ said Rory. ‘They’re shells. They’re meant to be scattered on a beach, not lined up in order of preference. Their charm is random and you’ve—’

‘Don’t,’ said Michelle, knowing what he was about to do.

‘Why not? Doesn’t make them less lovely. If they were jumbled I’d think, hey, what an interesting souvenir from a holiday. I wonder where she went. I must ask her.’ Rory held her gaze and Michelle felt a shiver of something inside her that sent the hairs on the back of her arms right up.

Again, keeping his eyes locked on hers, he reached out a hand and pushed his fingers into the shells, extending them until the lines began to jumble and blur. All that obsessive compulsion undone in one sweep of his pianist’s hand. Then he flexed his fingers so they ran back through the shells, making them hush against the bowl. There was something curiously sensual about the movement and Michelle’s stomach fluttered.

Then Rory went to tip the bowl over altogether and her resolve snapped.

‘No,’ she said, lunging forward to stop him emptying it onto the carpet.

She grabbed his arm, her fingers locking around his wrist, and he grabbed hers, to stop her falling onto the glass coffee table. The force of her movement nearly sent her into his lap and they both froze. Although they were only touching by his hand on her wrist, and hers round his, the connection felt much more intimate. The moment wobbled on a knife-edge.

Their mouths were very close together, and Michelle could taste Rory’s breath. Her heart was thumping so fast it was making her want to pant, but she held her breath, desperate not to let him think she was panting with unbridled desire like some kind of Jilly Cooper stablegirl.

But the truth was that her insides seemed to have turned to fire, and her knees weren’t much better. Blood was charging around her system as if released for the first time in years. She wanted to pant, because she really was breathless, but she kept on holding her breath, worried now about what Rory was tasting.

Did she smell nice? Was her breath fresh? It had been so long since anyone had passed a comment. He wasn’t going to kiss her, though. She just had to work out how to get up without making this look embarrassing.

I want him to kiss me
, wailed a plaintive voice in her head.
Kiss me!

Rory’s nose brushed hers and she realised he must have moved a fraction closer. Or maybe she had. But now their noses were definitely touching, their lips were open and she could feel his quick breath. He was breathing very hard, struggling to control himself.

And then Rory leaned forward the last, vital inch, and kissed her. Michelle couldn’t remember being kissed like this. His lips felt strange against hers, masculine but soft, and his skin’s scent was different but familiar at the same time, and she leaned into him as if she’d been waiting for it for a long time.

Rory’s hand cradled her face, barely touching her jaw, then slid into her hair. Michelle was kneeling by the sofa, and there were shells digging into her knees and probably breaking into the carpet, but those thoughts were only at the very back of her mind.

At the front of her mind, pushing everything else away, was Rory.

Michelle thought it was sad that in all the years she’d owned this sofa, she’d never realised how very comfortable it was to lie on. And how it could easily accommodate a six foot three man lying on it with you.

I should tell the manufacturers, she thought dreamily, as Rory’s hand continued to stroke the long curve of her waist, dipping hopefully into the gap between her skirt and her shirt. It could be a major selling point.

She trailed her hand along the scratchy slope of his jaw and stopped him. ‘No,’ she said.

They’d kissed for a long time, but whenever he’d tried to take it further, she’d firmly stopped him, grabbing his wrist again, keeping his hands away from any zips and buttons. After a while he’d stopped trying, concentrating instead on the parts of her body that were exposed, and that had been . . . well, amazing enough.

‘Michelle,’ he said, ‘don’t take this the wrong way. But why is someone who kisses like that in a house like this?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. You don’t have an inner scatter cushion queen. And you said you weren’t always so tidy. It was just giving up your job that made you decorate.’

Michelle looked up at the ceiling, although her eyes didn’t see anything. She was seeing a different ceiling, the ceiling of her room at home, where she’d lain for a long summer, refusing to come out.

It was amazing that he’d listened to her. And remembered. At this point I could make something up, she thought. This could be the fresh start moment when I step into a new life.

She thought of Harvey.
When are you going to tell him? When are you going to come clean about what sort of person you are?

If I tell Rory now, she thought, he’s got the option of not going any further. It made her feel sick, but Rory was a solicitor. He knew much worse people than her, surely? Even if he thought she was disgusting, she couldn’t be worse than some others he’d encountered.