‘How could I say? Don’t you see how impossible that would be?’
‘And – and when I tried to suggest things, mentioned the book club –’
‘The book club!’ He spread his hands desperately. ‘How could I come to the frigging book club?’
I stared. My head whirred. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘You’re my client, Poppy,’ he said patiently. ‘There’s a professional code of conduct. I could be struck off. I know everything about you.’
‘Well, within reason.’
‘I know how rich you are.’
It came as a bit of a shock. ‘Yes,’ I said after a bit. ‘Yes, you do, I suppose. But –’
‘And everyone knows my house is falling down, is badly in need of a huge cash injection. Not that I’m sure I necessarily want it now,’ he said brusquely. Defensively, even. ‘I might sell it, so as not to be tied. I might go away.’ He got up from his chair and went to the window, hands thrust in his pockets, his back to me. My heart began to race.
‘Go away?’ I echoed.
‘For a while. Paint, perhaps. Do something different. Not be squire of this parish. Master of Foxhounds. Following in my father’s inimitable footsteps. Italy, maybe. I’m told the light is wonderful.’
‘I didn’t know you could paint.’
He turned. Smiled. ‘I didn’t know you could sing.’ I blushed. ‘Rather well, actually. Don’t know why I bothered with a band.’
‘It’s a family failing,’ I told him, getting up from my chair. No, I would not sit like this. Would not be still. ‘We sing in our cups.’
‘I shall look forward to that.’
‘So … there is something to look forward to?’ I crept across the room tentatively. His eyes held me and he moved too, but slowly; we seemed drawn imperceptibly together as if by an invisible thread. He stalled a moment.
‘You’d have to fire me, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed, halting too.
‘And there’s still the money.’
‘I don’t want the money.’
‘You’re stuck with it.’
‘I could give it away?’
‘You could. I thought of that.’
He did? ‘To charity,’ I said wildly. ‘Save the Children?’
‘Well, no, your own children. In trust, until they’re older.’
‘Oh, yes! How tremendous. And – and Italy. Well, of course I’m hopeless at languages but I do love the sun. And pasta and –’
‘No,’ he smiled, ‘it doesn’t have to be Italy. Could be Wigan for all I care. Could be here, if you really love it.’
We were close now, within feet of each other and I felt myself aching for him. He reached out and took my hands.
‘I don’t want to be here.’ As I said it, I knew I didn’t. Knew I wanted to get away. From the house I’d had with Phil, from the village, from the gossip, from everyone knowing my business. Not from my friends. I’d miss them sorely. And Dad too. But they’d still be here, wouldn’t they? When I came back? With Sam, and the children. To visit. And maybe with more children. If my mind jolted with surprise as this rogue thought crossed it, my heart didn’t; it wasn’t altogether astonished at my audacity. Because somehow I knew, having got it so terribly wrong – both of us having got it wrong – we’d now got it so right. I knew Sam knew that too. As he let go of my hands and opened his arms, and I walked into them, I saw the light in his eyes; felt the surprise and delight in both our hearts as his lips came down to meet mine. At length, after he’d kissed me really rather thoroughly, we parted, hearts racing, breathing erratically, holding on tight and gazing at one another, shiny- eyed.
‘You’ve forgotten something,’ he whispered at length.
‘No I haven’t.’ I smiled, wondering if my face might crack, so long had it been since I’d smiled like that, so rusty with disuse seemed my cheek muscles. ‘And I shall sign something to more dramatic effect just as soon as I can. But in the meantime,’ I linked my hands around his neck and brought his lips down to meet mine again, ‘consider yourself sacked, Mr Hetherington.’
THE END
