‘I’m trained, remember.’ His smile was teasing. Those bloody crinkly eyes …
June smiled and handed him a towel to dry his hair, then poured two glasses of red wine. They sat down at the kitchen table, looking at each other.
He looked around in approval. June knew the cottage looked good. She’d spent a lot of money making it comfortable and stylish, and she had a great eye for art and antiques. She’d perfected the designer farmhouse look: the gleaming pink Aga, the flagstones warmed by underfloor heating, the French kitchen table, the chunky wine glasses stamped with a bee.
‘You’ve done well,’ he said.
‘I have,’ she said, not ashamed to be proud of her achievements.
‘I was a shite,’ he told her. ‘But it was the best thing for you. I’d have led you merry hell and you’d have ended up hating me. Or killing me. I really wasn’t a very nice person in those days.’
‘And are you now?’
He tipped his head to one side to consider her question.
‘I don’t think I’m all bad.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘You’re a nice person, that’s for sure. You always were. People like you don’t change. Unless they get damaged by people like me. I hope you weren’t.’
‘Nobody as awful as you, no.’
They grinned at each other.
Mick raised his glass.
‘Well, here’s to old times’ sake. It’s very nice to see you.’
‘I suppose you were just bored in your hotel room?’
He looked a bit taken aback.
‘No. I wanted to see you. I’ve very fond memories of our time.’
‘I wrote a searing exposé,’ June told him. ‘About how cruelly you treated me.’
‘Really?’ He made a face. ‘It would be the perfect time to publish it. Everyone seems to be obsessed with my past at the moment.’
‘Ah, no – it’s staying firmly locked away. It was just a therapeutic exercise.’
‘Writing’s therapy, for sure. I was amazed what I dredged up when I did the book.’
‘So you’re trying to right wrongs now?’
‘Jesus, I haven’t enough time left on this earth to do that.’
He roared with laughter. Then stopped and looked at her.
‘Just one wrong will do me for now.’
She held his gaze. She wanted to laugh. He was incorrigible, even at this age. He couldn’t help himself. She realised that the spell she had been under for so many years was broken. He no longer had a hold over her. How many times had she dreamt of this moment over the years? She couldn’t begin to count.
Yet to turn him away would be boring. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been propositioned. She deserved some fun as much as the next person. And he hadn’t been a selfish bugger in the bedroom, that much she could remember. She felt her cheeks pinken slightly at the memory as she picked up her glass. She was going to make him work for it.
‘What are you suggesting, Mr Gillespie?’
Eighteen
Two weeks later, Thomasina and Lauren were tucked away in the kitchen at A Deux. Lauren was putting the finishing touches to a chicken and pear tagine, chopping almonds and coriander to scatter on the couscous.
‘You mark my words – this is a crisis dinner,’ Lauren whispered. ‘This is the last resort. It’s written all over them.’
Thomasina, who was cutting out lavender biscuits to go with the panna cotta, nudged her to be quiet. Discretion was the watchword at A Deux – it was the whole point.
A Deux was booked several nights a week now, and Thomasina had grown in confidence. She and Lauren had become quite a team, catering outside events. She’d had masses of enquiries since doing the canapés at Nightingale Books and it was almost getting to the point when she might have to give up the day job, though she probably never would.
Seeing Lauren blossom and flourish under her tuition had been incredibly rewarding too. That was the joy of teaching: capturing someone, inspiring them, giving them a purpose. Lauren was a different girl. She was focused, conscientious, full of initiative. If Thomasina hadn’t seen her potential and tapped into it, she would be excluded from school by now, on a one-way ticket to nowhere.
In the dining room, clusters of candles gave a rosy glow to the two guests at the table. Thomasina’s cottage was small – just one main room, which you walked straight into from the front door, and where the table was laid. She had bought the best cutlery and china she could afford: knives and forks with mother-of-pearl handles, and pale cream china with an ornate French pattern. The snowy white linen tablecloth and napkins gave an air of formality, but other than that the room had a warmth that wrapped you up, with its dark red walls and the rich Egyptian-style carpet.
Bill sighed, and looked down into his Jerusalem artichoke soup, as if the answer might lie in the swirl of cream on the top.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just …’
‘It’s just what?’
‘I think I’m going mad.’