A Nanny for Christmas (7 page)

Tiffany looked frankly relieved. 'I knew you'd see sense. And you should be grateful to us,' she added as she swung herself off the bed and walked to the door. 'At least you won't be so bloody naive in future.'

'I'll bear it in mind,' Phoebe told her retreating back with irony.

She'd never managed the gratitude, but she'd done her damnedest to forget the whole sorry incident. To pretend that it was just one of those things. That she'd healed without scarring.

The fact that Tiffany hadn't returned to school in September, but had moved out to Spain with her parents, had helped.

But she hadn't bargained for the dreams, which had begun a few months later. And, the worse they had got, the more she'd tried to bury the cause of them in her subconscious, she realised now. She'd been afraid to examine what had happened. To confront the bitter truth and defeat it. And this had been compounded by her own lack of anyone to confide in. Not that she could have borne to confess what a fool she'd been.

She'd been young and vulnerable, and she'd been treated without mercy by Tony and without compassion by Dominic Ashton.

His birthday present, she thought with a flash of anger. Unwrapped on his bed. And she paused.

He was married then, she thought. And if Serena Vane had been with him when he found me, it could have led to all kinds of problems. It was worse than a practical joke. It was real malice.

But his marriage broke down, anyway. And I've carried my problems like a festering sore all this time. But now I've faced up to it, let the poison out.

Impossible as it seems, maybe meeting Dominic Ashton like this has been a kind of therapy. Not, of course, that I ever want to see him again, she amended hastily.

She stood up. Tonight, she thought, I shall sleep without dreaming.

'I'm so sorry, dear.' Mrs Preston's pleasant face was wrinkled with anxiety. 'But I did say it was only a temporary job...'

Phoebe smiled at her. 'Yes, you did, and I understood that, and it's quite all right,' she reassured her. 'I'm glad Debbie's better,' she added, without total sincerity, trying to ignore Lynn pulling hideous faces in the background.

'And I wouldn't want you to leave right away,' Mrs Preston made clear. 'Poor Debbie hasn't regained all her strength yet, so she'll have to ease her way in.'

'Ease is right,' Lynn muttered, when their employer had gone fussing off. 'I don't know why she doesn't put a bed in the kitchen for her.'

Phoebe grinned, and went off to lay the tables for lunch.

For someone who was now virtually redundant, she felt remarkably cheerful. She would hand in her notice to Hanson the Hateful at the end of the week. Then, as soon as Mrs Preston released her, she could leave Westcombe. After that—the world was her oyster.

It wasn't the most pleasant of days—cold, with squally showers driven by a biting wind—and the tea rooms weren't particularly busy.

Phoebe was warming herself with a cup of tea when the bell tinkled, signalling the arrival of a customer.

'Your table,' Lynn commented, peeping through the round window in the kitchen door. 'You lucky devil.'

'Very funny.' Phoebe gulped down the rest of her tea, and picked up her order pad.

'I'm not kidding.' Lynn rolled her eyes. 'He's gorgeous in a brooding way.'

'Let me see.' Phoebe craned her neck, then stepped back, aware that all the colour had drained out of her face. She tried to sound casual. 'You think he's so lovely—you have him. I'll swap tables with you.'

'You're on,' said Lynn instantly. But she was back within a minute. 'What's going on, Phoebe? He's asked for you. Do you know him?'

Phoebe bit her lip, cursing under her breath. 'Our paths have crossed,' she admitted. 'I didn't particularly want to repeat the experience.'

'But he clearly does.' Lynn patted her back. 'Off you go, ducky, and put in a good word for me.'

Dominic Ashton was sitting glancing through the menu as Phoebe approached. He inclined his head formally. 'Hello again, Miss Grant.'

'Just what do you hope to gain from this, Mr Ashton?' she asked in a furious whisper.

'In the first instance, some lunch,' he returned calmly. 'Do you recommend the macaroni cheese?'

'All our food is good,' she told him icily. 'The macaroni cheese comes with a side salad and granary bread. I meant, why did you ask for me?'

'I have an invitation from Tara,' he said. 'She'd like you to come to supper tonight.''I'm afraid that isn't possible.' Phoebe wrote down his order. 'Can I bring you something to drink?'

'A pot of coffee—Colombian. And what's so impossible about it? You did go out of your way to befriend the child, after all.'

Yes, she thought, but that was before I knew she was your daughter.

She said shortly, 'I'm busy tonight.'

He gave her a sardonic smile. 'Don't tell me. You have to wash your hair.'

'Oh,' said Phoebe, somewhat nettled. 'Does it look as if it needs it?'

'Not at all, but that is the all-purpose excuse.' He leaned back in his chair, the grey eyes speculative. 'Would it make any difference if I told you I won't be there?'

'No,' she said. 'It wouldn't. I—I just think it's better for me not to see Tara again.'

'Better for whom? Certainly not for Tara. As far as she's concerned, you promised her, and that's sacrosanct.' He paused, then continued levelly, 'As I told you, we only came down here a short while ago, and Tara is finding it hard to settle and make new friends at school. Without Cindy, she's lonely.'

'That's emotional blackmail,' Phoebe said angrily.

'It's also the truth. But, if you can't spare her a couple of hours, there's no more to be said.'

She hesitated. 'And you definitely won't be there?'

'I'm having dinner with Miss Sinclair.'

She sighed. 'All right, then. I'll come over straight from work.'

'No,' he said. 'We'll collect you.' And as her lips parted in protest he went on, 'Tara insists on it.'

Phoebe had the feeling she'd been totally outmanoeuvred, but there was nothing she could do about it.

I'll pay this one visit, she decided as she retreated to the kitchen, but it will be the first and last. I won't make any more rash promises.

Lynn was agog. 'Who is he?'

'He's that little girl's father,' Phoebe admitted reluctantly. 'I met him when I took her home the other night.'

Lynn nudged her. 'Perhaps he wants to give you a reward.'

Phoebe shook her head. 'It's Tara. She's asked me to have supper with her.'

'And Daddy makes three?'

'No, thank God. He's having dinner with a woman called Hazel Sinclair.'

Lynn looked disappointed. 'That's poor timing.'

'Not from my viewpoint.' Phoebe gave her a faint smile. 'Mr Ashton and I will never be friends.'

'Who mentioned friendship?' asked Lynn.

From then on they were kept too busy for any further discussion, to Phoebe's secret relief.

Dominic Ashton ate his lunch with apparent appreciation and left a generous tip with his bill. Phoebe, her throat tightening, put the money straight into Lynn's jar.

Almost before she knew it, closing time arrived. In the staff cloakroom, Phoebe washed her face and hands then released her hair from its elastic band, combing it into the smooth bob she wore outside working hours. She applied a discreet touch of colour to her mouth, studying herself doubtfully in the mirror.

The door opened and Lynn flew in to collect her coat.

'Your escort awaits,' she announced. 'Nice to see you tarting yourself up for once,' she added approvingly, and fled.

Tarting myself up? Phoebe thought in utter dismay. Oh, God. Not down that path again.

She scooped her hair back, securing it firmly at the nape of her neck again, and scrubbed at her lips with a tissue. Then she put on her coat, picked up her bag and valked sedately out into the cafe.

'Out for the evening, dear?' asked Mrs Preston, who'd arrived to cash up. 'Have a lovely time.'

Phoebe returned her smile with a certain constraint. Dominic Ashton was waiting at the door, Tara bouncing beside him.

She's too pleased to see me, Phoebe thought, aware that her own heart had lifted involuntarily in response to the little girl's beaming smile. These are deep waters I'm getting into.

Tara tucked a hand into hers. 'We're having special shepherd's pie, and marmalade pudding,' she confided.

Phoebe laughed. 'I can hardly wait.'

'And I helped lay the table. We're having candles, just like Daddy.'

'I've got a reservation at the Clair de Lune,' Dominic explained. 'Apparently it's hot on atmosphere. I'll reserve judgement about the food.'

'It has a good reputation,' Phoebe returned stiltedly. She didn't particularly want to hear, she discovered, what arrangements he'd made for a romantic dinner a
deux.

But he's divorced, she thought with a mental shrug. He's entitled. I could probably be heading for a candlelit dinner myself, if I didn't freeze off every man who comes near me.

She gave him a swift sideways glance as they went out to the Range Rover. He was wearing tailored charcoal trousers with a matching roll-neck sweater topped by an elegant cashmere jacket. There was no denying his unstudied attraction, she realised with a sudden pang. And swiftly turned her undivided attention to his daughter—where it should have been in the first place, she reminded herself tersely.

Tara chatted happily about school—how many sums she'd got right, the page she'd reached in her reading book—but it was all about lessons, Phoebe noted rather soberly. She didn't mention other children at all.

She was concentrating so hard on what Tara was saying about the hamster who lived in her classroom that she missed the lurch of apprehension in the pit of her stomach as they turned in at the gate.

'Oh,' said Tara in surprise, peering at the car parked outside the house. 'We've got a visitor.'

Carrie opened the door for them, looking rather po- faced. 'Miss Sinclair is here, sir. She's waiting in the drawing room.'

Hazel Sinclair was standing by the fire, one slim foot on the brass fender, gazing pensively into the flames. She wore a pleated skirt in ice-blue georgette with a matching tunic top, and her blonde hair was wound into a smooth coil on top of her head.

Nicely posed, thought Phoebe, and chided herself for being bitchy.

Hazel turned smilingly at their entry. 'Dominic, darling. Yes, I know you were supposed to be picking me up at my house, but I got your message that you might be slightly delayed, and Mummy wanted me to do an errand for her in the village—some crisis over the parish magazine—so here I am instead.' Her blue gaze travelled past him and sharpened slightly. 'Good evening, Tara. Good evening, Miss er...?'

'Grant,' said Phoebe.

'Of course.' She gave a little trill of laughter. 'Are we eating here, then?'

'No.' Dominic's brows lifted. 'I've booked a table at the Clair de Lune. Why do you ask?'

She shrugged elegantly. 'I thought perhaps Miss Grant was here to help Carrie wait at table.'

'Unfortunately not,' Phoebe said affably, thinking of the pleasure of tipping hot soup into that pastel georgette lap.

'Phoebe's having supper with me,' Tara put in unsmilingly.

'Oh, dear.' That laugh again set Phoebe's teeth on edge. 'Have I committed a
faux pas
? Actually, it was Carrie I was thinking of. She seemed to be limping when I arrived, and I was concerned about her arthritis.'

'Carrie claims she's as fit as a flea,' Dominic said rather shortly. 'And she doesn't take kindly to alternative suggestions.'

Hazel dropped a mock curtsy. 'Then my lips are sealed.'

Oh, that they were, thought Phoebe. Preferably with superglue.

Aloud, she said to Tara, 'Come on, chicken, let's go and find our supper, shall we?'

As they left the room she heard Hazel say in a low voice, 'Dominic, I don't wish to interfere, but do you really think...?'

Tara was scowling as they went upstairs. 'I don't like her. Bridget Thomson says her mummy says that she's going to be my new mummy, and I don't want her to be.'

'On the other hand, you don't want your father to live on his own,' Phoebe suggested fairly.

'He's not alone,' Tara said indignantly. 'He's got me.'

'Yes, but you're usually in bed by seven-thirty, which means he has no one to talk to all evening.'

'Bridget's mummy says they used to go out together a long time ago and she's hoping for better luck this time.'

Bridget's mummy, thought Phoebe, should learn to mind her own business.

^v
All the same, she found herself wondering if the rumour was true. Could he really be planning to marry that obnoxious woman?

And if he is, she thought, startled, why on earth should if concern me?

And to that question, disturbingly, she could find no satisfactory answer at all.

T
HE
shepherd's pie was succulent, with minced lamb and vegetables in a rich gravy, and the marmalade pudding with its vanilla sauce melted in the mouth. Phoebe's praise was warm when Carrie came to clear the table, and she saw the rather austere face soften.

'Just nursery food, miss, but nice to have it appreciated. That Cindy never wanted anything but steak,' she added with a snort.

'May I help carry things down to the kitchen?' Phoebe asked diplomatically.

'Bless you, there's no need. There's a dumb waiter in the kitchenette, which saves all that toiling up and down with trays. Mr Dominic's mother had it put in.'

'Oh.' Phoebe followed, and helped load the dirty crockery. 'Is she still alive?'

'No, miss, nor his father either,' Carrie said regretfully. 'But his stepmother's still with us,' she added in a tone she tried too hard to keep neutral. 'At least, she's in Bermuda with her third husband. A gentleman given to sailing, I understand.'

Phoebe's lip twitched. 'Then he's chosen the right place,' she said gravely.

'And a fair distance away, too,' Carrie muttered. 'I just hope she stays there.'

'Did—Mr Dominic get on with her?'

'He did his best, for his father's sake. But she was a lady that was all for herself—and that pesky son of hers. For a couple of years, after his father died, Mr Dominic never came near this house. She liked to entertain a lot, did Mrs Ashton, and it didn't seem like his home ^ny more.