Love And Devotion Part 20

'But you've done it with me.'

He thought about this. 'This may sound odd, but you've never felt like a stranger.'

She stopped what she was doing and looked at him. 'That's probably one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me. Thank you.' She went back to stirring the hot toddy, then took a cautious sip. He could smell the whisky from where he was sitting.

'If you're not feeling well, I ought to leave you,' he said.

'Perhaps you're right. I do feel rather tired.'

He reluctantly got to his feet. Toby stirred, rose up on all fours, arched his back and shook himself out, ready for action.

'Don't we all wish we could do that ourselves,' Jennifer said. 'Just shake all our troubles away.'

'Don't bother to see me off,' he said, as she moved towards the door of the saloon and the engine room. 'Stay in the warm. Is there anything I can fetch you in the morning?'

'I'll be fine.'

'Milk? Bread?'

She laughed. 'Stop fussing. It's nothing but a cold.'

He kissed her for the first time. Just a fond peck on the forehead. 'Sleep well.'

Out on the towpath, the chill of night seeped into his bones. He b.u.t.toned up his coat and walked as briskly as his knee would allow him. When he was level with Will's house, he looked up at the house and saw a bedroom light on. There were no curtains at the window and it was embarra.s.singly easy to make out the two figures and what they were doing. Feeling uncomfortably like a peeping Tom, Bob hurried on. Good luck to them, he thought, with a stab of envy.

Will was doing his best. But after the day he'd had - a fruitless auction and a wild-goose chase covering most of Shropshire for an oak dresser that didn't exist, it later transpired - he just couldn't summon the energy for what Sandra expected from him. Disentangling himself from her voluptuous body and coming up for air, he rolled over onto his side.

'Oh no you don't,' she said, 'you come back here.'

'I need the bathroom,' he lied. Before she had a chance to grab hold of him, he hot-footed it out of the bedroom and across the landing. Just to be sure, he locked the bathroom door and leaned against it in a drowsy fog of exhaustion. He wondered what the h.e.l.l he was doing. Why had he agreed to see Sandra again, after they'd both admitted that the fun had gone out of their ... their what? Their fling? Their mindless coupling? Oh, come on, he told himself, now standing in front of the mirror, what man in his right mind would turn down the chance of uncomplicated s.e.x? He turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face.

But uncomplicated s.e.x, he decided, was not without its complications. Hearing Sandra calling to him, he closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself for a convincing performance.

He didn't know whether to be humiliated or relieved when twenty minutes later Sandra was throwing on her clothes in a huff of frustration. 'You know what your trouble is, Will? You're getting old. You're past it.'

'I think you might be right,' he murmured as she was clattering down the stairs and shouting that she never wanted to hear from him again.

He stood in the shower till the scalding water ran cold. In his bathrobe, he went and stood on the landing by the window that overlooked the front garden. The light from the street lamps cast an attractive glow over the road. Further up was Dora Gold's house with its showy plumes of pampas gra.s.s in the front garden, which somehow seemed so appropriate from what he knew of the woman. And then there was the McKendricks' house, where the severely pruned bushes and shrubs looked as austere as Harvey McKendrick had appeared to Will when he'd come over one day to welcome him to the neighbourhood - he'd been civil enough, but no more.

Will had long since decided that he liked living in Maple Drive and probably wouldn't sell the house on as quickly as he'd originally planned. Fast bucks were a bit like uncomplicated s.e.x - easy come, easy go. What he wanted in his life was something with a bit of permanence and substance to it. He smiled and thought how proud Marty would be of him for making this alarmingly grown-up leap of maturity.

Looking across to number twenty, he wondered how Harriet was. He'd enjoyed their evening together. Compared to the one he'd just had it seemed perfect. He wondered if he could get away with asking her out for dinner.

Why not? he asked himself.

Because she's so much younger than you, you idiot!

It would only be dinner, he argued back. Just dinner.

But even as he thought this, his body betrayed him with a stirring that would have solved all his earlier problems with Sandra.

Shocked, he turned away from the window, tightening his bathrobe. What the h.e.l.l was going on? Harriet Swift was not his type at all.

She was too young.

She was too thin - where were the s.e.xy curves he always went for?

She wasn't blonde. Not even a pretend blonde.

So what was it, then?

He remade his bed and lay on top of the duvet, his hands clasped behind his head. Okay, she was smart, pithy and honest, attributes he did like in a woman. She was also fiercely detached, which he found oddly touching. And, of course, there was that whole hedgehog thing he'd found so amusing initially, and which he now found endearing, knowing that her p.r.i.c.kliness was actually due to a need to disguise how vulnerable her new situation made her. She took her role as Carrie and Joel's guardian very seriously - perhaps too seriously at times. It meant that occasionally her judgement was clouded. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but admire her. She had real guts.

So was that it? Did it all boil down to being in awe of her?

There was only one way to find out. He had to get to know her better. Would it be pushing his luck to say he had a spare ticket for the Jools Holland concert next month? He could always make out he was being neighbourly.

Why not? And anyway, the age gap wasn't that big.

Chapter Thirty-Four.

That night Harriet dreamed she was in a pine forest, lost. She wasn't scared, but she was concerned; she couldn't remember where the children were. She'd had them with her a moment ago, but now they were gone. She ventured further into the heart of the forest and could hear her name being called, faintly at first, but then louder and more distinctly as she drew near its source. She came to the edge of a clearing where sunlight filtered through the towering pine trees and where the ground was soft and blanketed underfoot with pine needles. In the centre of the clearing, sitting on a wooden picnic table with her legs swinging, was Felicity. 'There you are,' Felicity said. 'We were waiting for you.'

'We?' asked Harriet. She wasn't at all surprised to see her sister.

Felicity laughed. 'You didn't think the others would forget, did you?'

Thinking that her sister was referring to the children, Harriet relaxed. Carrie and Joel were safe. Felicity suddenly jumped down from the picnic table and revealed a large birthday cake. Behind it stood Dominic and Miles. Harriet was confused. She was sure it wasn't her birthday. Dominic came towards her. 'Happy birthday,' he said, and then he kissed her hard on the lips, his tongue deep in her mouth, his eyes open and glittering, as if taunting her, daring her to enjoy what he was doing. But she was enjoying it, and kissing him back - breathlessly, pa.s.sionately. She held him tight until, without warning, he pushed her away with a laugh. 'Sorry, Harriet. You must be mixing me up with my brother.'

Confused, she went to Miles. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered. He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the cheek. 'No,' she said. 'Kiss me properly. Like Dominic.'

He did as she said, his eyes closed, his arms around her, holding her firmly. 'I need to know what to do,' she said when she drew away and searched his face to see what he was thinking. 'Tell me what to do.'

'Everything will be fine,' he murmured, before slowly turning away and joining Felicity and Dominic at the picnic table.

The piercing pipping of the alarm clock woke Harriet and she lay for a moment in the darkness. Listening to the gurgling of the central-heating pipes, she considered the dream. It was one of those dreams that could persuade you it held some vital truth or significance. She dismissed the obvious, that once again Miles was being compared to Dominic, and thought hard. As irrational and absurd as it seemed, she was sure there was something it was trying to tell her. It was that comment - 'I need to know what to do' - that chimed like a faint, echoing bell. What had she been referring to?

By the time she was in the shower and thinking about the day ahead - her trip to Ireland - logic had kicked in. Of course! The anxiety in the dream had been about Carrie and school. Harriet still hadn't said anything to her parents about the letter she'd found or how she was going to deal with it. She didn't want them to worry. Especially not her mother, who worried Harriet almost as much as Carrie's latest problem. She was convinced there was something going on that Eileen was keeping to herself. Perhaps her illness was getting worse and she was holding out on Harriet and her father. It would be so typical of Mum to soldier on in stoic silence. Harriet considered speaking to Dora; it was possible that Eileen might have confided in her old friend. But all that would have to wait. Today there was Dublin to concentrate on.

The children were already up when she went downstairs to grab a quick cup of coffee before driving to the airport to meet Howard. They were in the sitting room on the sofa, still in their pyjamas, when she popped her head round the door. Unaware of her presence, they watched the television, transfixed by the young presenter who appeared to be dressed for a photo-shoot for the front cover of some lads' magazine. The girl gabbled on in what pa.s.sed for English in TV-land these days, and Harriet wondered what had happened to the girl-next-door look she and Felicity had grown up with. I'm growing old, Harriet thought. I'll be criticising Carrie's taste in friends and clothes next. Was that what parenting did to you? Brought out all those instinctive prejudices you never knew existed but which would eventually turn you into your own mother and father.

Joel saw her first. He took his thumb out of his mouth and wrapped his silky round his hand, as if keeping it for later. 'You look different, Harriet,' he said.

Carrie wrenched her gaze away from the television. 'You're wearing a skirt,' she said, a mixture of accusation and disbelief in her voice.

'Correction. I'm wearing a suit.'

'Why? You never wear skirts.'

'I am today.'

'Are you going somewhere special?'

This was something else she'd learned; children only ever remember what's going on in their own world. 'Don't you remember I'm flying to Ireland today?'

Joel's eyes grew wide. 'How long for?'

'Come on, Joel, we discussed this yesterday. I'm only going to be away for one night.' She went and sat on the sofa next to him. To distract him, she said, 'You haven't forgotten about going to Maywood tomorrow to see Miles at the bookshop, have you?'

Carrie hugged her knees. 'Grandma says she'll finish our costumes today. Do you think there'll be a prize for the best one?'

'You'll have to wait and see.'

'You will be back in time, won't you?' There was an anxious tremor in Joel's question.

Harriet said, 'I'll try very hard to make sure I am. But I'm afraid I can't promise anything. If my flight's delayed or the traffic's bad, it's out of my hands.'

'But you have to be there!'

This was from Carrie. Surprised that her niece was being so insistent, Harriet stood up. 'Like I say, I'll do my best.'

When she was leaving the house and saying goodbye, her mother said, 'Try not to let the children down about tomorrow. They really want you to be there.'

Harriet could never understand why people felt the need to reiterate the same point. One clearly made instruction was all it took.

It was when their Aer Lingus flight had landed at Dublin airport that Harriet realised she was in for the most embarra.s.sing business trip of her life. Howard had already insulted one of the stewards by calling him Mick, even though his badge clearly said his name was Declan, and he was now engaged in what he probably thought was friendly banter with the man in the seat next to him, but which Harriet feared would turn out to be highly offensive. Impatient to get off the plane to catch a connecting flight, the fellow pa.s.senger was pulling on his jacket and gathering up his newspaper and briefcase.

'Don't worry, mate,' Howard said, 'we're on Irish time now. Your flight probably won't leave until tomorrow anyway.'

The man flashed him a look of pure venom. 'I think you'll find we're a lot more efficient here than you presume.' He shot off down the aisle.

To his credit, though, Howard didn't stint when he travelled and after hiring a car and negotiating Dublin's heavy traffic they arrived at their hotel opposite St Stephen's Green.

'I couldn't get us in at the Shelbourne,' he said, 'but here's apparently the next best thing. Shall we say fifteen minutes to freshen up, a cup of coffee in the lounge and then on the road?'

They were in neighbouring rooms. Harriet would have preferred a bit more distance between them - such as two floors - but after unpacking her few things she decided she was being churlish. Howard might be a self-inflated chauvinist, but he didn't seem the sort to try knocking on her door late at night suggesting a nightcap. According to office gossip he was happily married, even if it had taken him two bites of the marriage cherry to get it right. The only thing that gave her cause to worry was the expression on his face when she'd met him at the airport, and the way he'd surrept.i.tiously eyed up her legs throughout the flight. In fairness, he was more used to seeing her in trousers and a T-shirt, her cla.s.sic work uniform. She did wear skirts, but only very rarely. To her shame she'd given in to Howard's not-so-subtle suggestion that she might like, in his words, to 'look the biz' for their trip.

'I don't do feminine charm and guile,' she'd said. 'I'm a boffin. A techie.'

'Can you be a s.e.xy boffin?' he'd asked, his face poker-straight.

Playing him at his own game, she said, 'You mean wear a white lab coat then peel off my thick-framed gla.s.ses and let my hair down to reveal my - ?'

'Steady on, we're not making an adult movie!'

She only agreed to play the part he wanted of her because she badly wanted to prove her worth, and if a skirt helped her cause, then so be it.

Harriet was impressed. Howard was performing like a pro. She realised now that Adrian hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told her that Howard was sharper than he'd have you believe. He knew his stuff and was taking his time with the prospective client. There was no sign of the patronising buffoon she'd sat next to on the plane. 'What I suggest we do now,' he said, casting a look in her direction, 'is for Harriet to outline the kind of application we could do for you. That way you can get to know the expert who will look after the job for you.'

Several hours later, after she'd swapped email addresses with the AVLS supplier and he'd agreed to send her a specification for what was needed, she and Howard were heading back to their hotel. Harriet was looking forward to pampering herself in a hot, bubbly bath and then lying on the bed to watch telly and call room service, but Howard was having none of it when she declined his offer of a drink. 'Don't be a bore, Harriet,' he said. 'Let's go for a drink to celebrate.'

'We haven't got the contract yet.'

'Are you always this optimistic?'

'I think - '

'No, I'll tell you how you think,' he said, forcibly leading her through to the bar. 'You think too literally. You programmers are all the b.l.o.o.d.y same. Now sit on that stool and let me buy you a drink.' He attracted the barman's attention. 'A bottle of champagne. And don't fob me off with your house stuff. I'll have Veuve or Moet.'

Welcome back the real Howard, Harriet thought with a smile as she tried to make herself decent on the stool - her skirt had ridden up somewhere on a level with her knickers.

'Stop wriggling,' he said, 'and leave your skirt right where it is. It suits you.'

She blushed. 'Do you treat all your employees like this?'

He gave her a wink. 'Only the ones for whom I have high hopes.'

Their champagne arrived and Howard insisted on pouring it. 'Cheers. And well done for today. You did brilliantly. Just as I knew you would.'

She accepted the compliment with as much good grace as she could muster and tried not to worry what kind of high hopes he had for her. Stop being so paranoid, she told herself. Just drink up and relax.

Howard was a fast drinker and while she had no intention of keeping pace with him, Harriet drank more than she'd intended. Getting drunk with her boss didn't seem the best of ideas.

'How about dinner?' he asked when he'd drained the last of the bottle into their gla.s.ses. 'Shall we eat in or go exploring?'

Thinking that she could do with some fresh air to clear her head, she suggested they ate out. It was a mistake. Howard decided they had to experience a real Irish pub. 'I want the whole fiddle-sc.r.a.ping shebang,' he said. 'Draught Guinness, jigs and diddle-dee music.'

They made their way down to the Temple Bar area and Howard dragged her inside a pub producing the loudest music. It was packed, but only with tourists; it was an Oirishtheme pub, as far removed from the real thing as could be. There was sawdust on the fake cobbled floor, upturned barrels as tables and tatty long-johns and pitch-forks hanging from the rafters like something out of Angela's Ashes.

'Any minute and there'll be a Riverdance troupe performing for us,' she said to Howard as they were shown to a table worryingly close to a small stage.

His face lit up. 'Do you think so?'

Her prediction was proved right. Half an hour later, just as they were tucking into their crab cakes, hammering hard shoes descended upon the stage, causing their pints of Guinness to jump on the rickety barrel table: any chance of conversation was gone. Howard clapped and whooped along with the rest of the crowd, which seemed to be made up largely of raucous Brits. Harriet's fear now, was that audience partic.i.p.ation would be foisted on them. 'Let's make those b.u.g.g.e.ring eejit Brits look as stupid as possible,' she could imagine the dancers thinking.

'I'm going to the loo,' she shouted at Howard.

'Don't be long,' he yelled back. 'You don't want to miss a second of this.'

On the way back from the loo, she took a wrong turning and found herself in a small room where a man playing the guitar was singing to a quiet, dignified audience. Judging from the voices around her, this was where the local guys came to drink. The singer smiled at Harriet and she felt compelled to stay. Howard wouldn't miss her for five minutes, she decided.

But five minutes turned into ten and then into twenty. The singer, whose repertoire included Elvis and Beatles songs as well as traditional folk ballads, had a rich, mesmerising voice that could easily have lulled her to sleep. She closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her. The memory of that morning's dream came to mind and she thought of Miles. She also thought how nice it would be if he was here with her instead of Howard.