Becky demolished her last piece of toast half-savagely.
Sharon left around one. Her estimates on the cost of keeping Fairfield maintained, even at a minimal level - maintenance and repairs, lawn cutting and hedge-clipping, Mrs Morecambe’s salary and heating at least a part of the house in the winter - were depressing. ‘And don’t forget, that’s not everything.’
‘What else is there?’
‘You. You have to live. Food, drink, transportation. It’s actually
pretty expensive being alive. Something you probably haven’t noticed up till now.’
It was. Becky didn’t think the remnant of her cash would last her any more than three years, maybe four if she really skimped. She’d never had to skimp, and she didn’t relish the prospect.
‘The hotel is pretty profitable.’ Ignoring the sinking feeling in her belly, she tried to put a bright face on it. ‘I worked on that at first. Before I wised up to what 1Lupert was doing. It’s only one hotel, but it makes money.’
‘You want nay advice?’
Becky looked warily at her friend. ‘What makes me think I’m going to get it anyway?’
Sharon grinned. ‘Your wisdom and experience, my dear. I think you should sell it.’
Becky was horrified for the second time that day. ‘It’s all that’s left of my father’s company.’
‘Lancaster Holdings isn’t a hotel, Becky. It’s you. If you sell the hotel now, while it’s doing well, you’ll have enough money to tide you over until you can figure out what business you want to be in. You can live off the interest if you’re careful. You own that hotel free and clear?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. But you’ll still have a profit.’
‘Not as much as you think.’ But Becky was wavering. The thought of starting over, starting completely fresh, was intoxicating. Maybe nothing less than that could get her out of this blue funk she was in.
Starting over involved clearin.g her debts, though. And that meant calling Mr Logan.
‘He’s not available.’
Becky stood by the phone in her hall, resisting the urge to stamp her feet. ‘You said that last time I called.’
The girl had an irritating, whiny voice.
‘Yes, miss, well, he’s on another job, ain’t he?’ ‘Don’t you give him his messages?’ ‘You saying I don’t do my job?’ ‘Did you tell him it was important?’
‘I told him what you told me. He’s not available. Sorry.’
There was a click on the phone and the line went dead. Seething, Becky marched through to her library and snatched Logan’s invoice out of its file. Yes, there was an office address at the top. ‘Mrs Morecambe.’ ‘Yes, miss?’
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‘I’m going to be out for the rest of the day.’
‘Very good, miss.’
Becky grabbed her bag and went out to her car, the little Renault Five that Sharon had insisted she buy. Enough of his weaving and dodging. She was going to track him down, settle up and get on with her life.
The journey took a frustrating three hours. Even though she hadn’t driven in the States for years now, using the wrong side of the road was confusing, and she had to swerve away from oncoming cars, their horns blaring, twice. She had to pull into a lay-by to consult her map three times, then took a wrong exit, got lost in the back roads and finally reached her destination over an hour late.
Buxted was a sleepy little village in Shropshire, not far from the Welsh border. It had white signposts, with black lettering, which tilted against overgrown hedges that were green and thick, with honeysuckle and bindweed competing for space. It had a small post office with a red tiled roof and a couple of thatched cottages, and the rest were stone houses with the odd weathered building in cosy red brick. Becky couldn’t see anything remarkable about it. There was a pub, the Queen Charlotte, but she didn’t stop for lunch, despite the fact she was starving. See Logan first, then eat. And get the hell home.
The village was too small to have its streets marked out on the map, but that was no problem - there were only four of them. Becky found Swan Lane and turned down it. The address on the neatly produced letterhead was Third Floor, 26 Swan Lane. ‘Very well. That had to be it - the slightly taller, boxy, brick building on the corner. It was the only one that looked as though it might have three floors. She parked the car, got out and walked up. The front door was unlocked, and there was a dentist’s office on the ground floor.
‘Help you, miss?’ the receptionist asked.
‘Logan Gardens?’
The girl jabbed upwards with her thumb.
‘Thanks,’ Becky said. She walked up the wooden stairs, noticing that the carpet was frayed and the walls could do with a new coat of paint, possibly two. The whole place looked cheap. Not tacky, maybe - it was too rural to be tacky - but cheap, worn and wholly inappropriate for a ‘hot’ firm of any description.
There was a sturdy oak door on the third floor with a small brass nameplate next to it, announcing that it was Logan’s offices. Becky took a deep breath and pushed her way in.
The space was small, and clearly inadequate. The walls were ringed with steel filing cabinets but, despite this admirable level of storage,
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there were little nests of paper everywhere - letters, bills, catalogues of roses and vegetables and garden implements. There were also open boxes of sample trowels and other tools, and even a couple of sacks of fertilizer.
There was a teenage girl chewing gum at the front desk. With a little thrill of dislike Becky realized it was the same one that had been
blowing her off this morning.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I hope so. I’m looking for William Logan.’
The girl’s eyes narrowed. ‘You that lady that was talking to me before?’
There was no point in dewing it. How many Americans did they deal with?
‘Yes. I thought I might have better luck if I came down here myself.’ ‘Look, miss.’ The girl sighed. ‘I don’t want to be rude or nothing, but I don’t think he wants to talk to you. I gave him your message and he crumpled it up and threw it in the bin.’
Becky felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but she persevered. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk to me. However, I want to talk to him. There’s a problem with his bill.’
‘A problem?’ The small amount of sympathy she had just displayed vanished instantly. Now she was openly hostile again. ‘Do you even know how cheap he did that job for you? We’re almost two months behind on the rent and the nurseries are calling, and you think there’s a
problem? I’ll tell you the bloody problem—’
‘And what would that be?’
Becky jumped out of her skin. The receptionist had been half shouting and she hadn’t even heard him come in. Logan was standing behind her, wearing black corduroy pants and a black T-shirt, with thick Doc Marten boots. His clothes picked out his dark eyelashes and hair. In the tiny room, he was right up against her, his handsome face clouded with anger.
‘I’d prefer to discuss it with you alone.’
‘Anything you’ve got to say you can say in front of Tracy.’
She glanced at the hostile chick. She really didn’t want to discuss her affairs in front of this girl. But Will Logan was gazing down unrelentingly into her eyes.
‘Please.’ She said it softly. ‘Mr Logan. I drove here for three hours to
speak to you about this. Can’t we go to the pub?’ “
He was hungry. ‘Very well.’
‘Thank you,’ Becky said. She felt an amazing sense of relief. She put it down to wanting him out of her head.
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Logan carried their drinks to the table. The pub had a pretty back garden, with a large buddleia bush covered in butterflies and dog roses everywhere.
‘What’s this?’
He nodded in disgust at her white wine spritzer. ‘I’m driving.’ ‘So you are.’
‘I thought real men didn’t eat quiche,’ she said, from a childish desire to get him back.
‘I happen to love quiche.’ He pronounced it “appen’. ‘Now, you said you drove three hours to see me. And you won’t discuss it in front of my secretary. This must be good.’
‘It’s about your bill. It’s too low.’
He paused with a forkful of Quiche Lorraine on the way to his mouth. ‘What do you mean?’
She looked him right in the eyes. He wasn’t going to stare her down this time. ‘I mean I did some research, Mr Logan. I found out what yew hedges cost and your labour costs and the thing about the architects. I found out you took my job on as some kind of-of horticultural charity case.’
Logan was astonished. He burst out laughing.
‘Don’t laugh at me,’ Becky snapped. ‘You know what I mean. You normally only do industrial-style things, and you don’t make any money because you spend too much on quality. An yet you undercharged me by thousands of pounds despite’
‘Despite what?’ he asked softly, his dark eyes twinkling.
‘You know. The fight. Anyway, I don’t need your charity. I’ve got more goddamn money than you and I want to pay my debt. I don’t want to be owing you for any favours I didn’t damn well ask for.’
Logan paused for a moment, then took a deep, refreshing pull at his gin and tonic. Over the glass, his gaze travelled lightly over her body, the way it had done before. Becky suddenly wished she had worn something other than a white cotton dress. What if the sunlight was making it translucent and he could see her bra and panties? They were pale blue lace. What if he could see them?
‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ she demanded.
Will Logan looked her over. She was incredible, this chick. He thought of feminists as those ugly women that stormed university campuses, wearing no bras and refusing to shave their underarm hair. This girl was exactly the opposite; tanned and long-limbed and goldenhaired, a blonde bombshell right offthe Pirelli calendar. So what the hell made her so pissed off and proud?
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What was it the Yanks said? Feisty. Yeah, feisty.
She was ten years his junior, he reminded himself. Hadn’t he decided she was definitely too young? And yet she was a challenge. She was rich, aristocratic, lived in a mansion, had run a company - run it into the ground by the sound of it. But still, she’d had a taste of’yes, madam, no, madam’ - she wasn’t the kind of girl who dated the likes of him. She was reserved for Lord Lancaster, and other chinless wonders of that sort. But he liked her spirit. Even though she needed taking in hand, like an unbroken mare.
He had read about her fall from grace, and he had cut her a break on the bill. Maybe that was stupid. She was right, she had a lot more money than he did. But he’d felt a bit sorry for her. Proper little princess though she was.
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Just let me know what I owe you, and I’ll be on my way.’
‘It’d take a while to figure out. Besides, I don’t want the money.’
‘Goddamn it.’ She was like a wildcat, fairly hissing at him. ‘Your wishes don’t count. I want to pay.’
‘You can’t force me to take a penny.’ Logan grinned. ‘Tell you what. I’ll toss you for it. If you win, I’ll send you a bill, clean and simple. I’ll
bank the money and you’ll never see me again.’
‘And if I lose?’
‘I’ll still take the money. I need to pay some bills.’ Becky grinned. ‘But,’ Logan added ruthlessly, ‘for the price I come back to Fairfield and plant your rose garden and you have to go on a date with me to the
venue of my choice.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yeah, that rose garden’s been nagging at me. I can’t stand to leave a job unfinished.’
‘I meant about the date.’
He looked her over in that relaxed, confident manner she found so disturbing. ‘It would amuse me to see you forced to be civil to me for an evening. Besides, you’re very attractive, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
Becky shot to her feet. ‘I don’t sell my body for the privilege of paying your bill, mister.’
His eyebrow lifted. ‘Who sked you to, sugar? I said a date. Maybe date means something different on your side of the Atlantic. Or maybe you’re too posh to go out with a working man?’
‘No. Of course not.’ She pulled out a coin from her pocket and
tossed it high in the air, slapping it down on her slender wrist. ‘Well?’ Logan challenged.
Becky looked right at him. ‘Tails. It’s tails.’
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She lifted her hand slowly from the coin. ‘Shit,’ she said.
Logan chuckled, a low, throaty sound. ‘That’ll be three thousand pounds and one date, please, Miss Lancaster.’
‘You can call me Rebecca,’ she said miserably.
‘And it’s Will.’
‘You’ll let me know when this date starts.’ She wrote out a cheque and stood up. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, lightly but firmly.
‘Where are you going?’ Logan asked. ‘The date starts now.’
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Lita had the clippings framed, all of them. She hung them in her nice new office in Dean Street, Soho, behind her kidney-shaped chrome desk with the glass top. Her sheepskin rug lay on polished hardwood floors, and the sleek metal vase was permanently filled with hothouse sunflowers. Every day, when she came into work, Lita saw the pictures of Rebecca Lancaster’s stricken face. She had the whole story told in pictures and headlines, from the ‘safety problems’ in the tin mines down to ‘Lancaster Broken Up: Surrenders to Wilson’.
She didn’t know why that wasn’t enough. But she still felt restless. Edward wanted her back in the States, and she went. They made love in his apartment, and that was the moment she knew it was over. There was a distance between them, and she took no pleasure in it.
‘But I thought you were going to come home,’ Edward said, his handsome face angry.
‘And I thought you were going to marry me,’ Lita said sadly. ‘I found the ring, Edward. Months ago.’
He shook his head. ‘I was going to. I still want to. As soon as you make the arrangements to come” home.’
‘Don’t you see, Edward? I can’t be tied down like that. I want New Wave to be more than a boutique agency. I’ll need to fly back and forth.’
‘This isn’t about business.’
‘But it is. It’s about you not telling me how to live my life.’ Lita stood up. Tm young, and I have to do stuffrny way. I’ve worked too hard to wind up someone’s rich wife.’