She tore her gaze away from his body to look at the box he’d set on the floor. It contained not post, not clothes, but paintbrushes, brush cleaners, sandpaper-tools a decorator might use.
Startled, she said, ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
‘The ceiling will take half the time with two of us doing it. I’ve brought my own stepladder,’ he added, before she could tell him that he wasn’t sharing hers.
While she balanced, open-mouthed, inches from the ceiling, he fetched it from the hall and set it up in the far corner of the room. Then he took a paint kettle from the box, helped himself to paint from the tin she was using and, without waiting for her to thank him, or tell him to get lost, he set to work.
‘No,’ she said, when her mouth and brain finally reconnected. ‘Stop.’
He paused. Glanced across at her.
This was too weird. Ivo didn’t do this stuff. If something needed fixing, Miranda summoned someone from her list of ‘reliable little men’ to deal with it.
‘Haven’t you got more important things to organise? A takeover, a company launch or something,’ she added a little desperately.
He almost smiled. ‘All of the above, but I can spare a couple of hours to give you a hand with this,’ he said, then carried on with what he was doing.
No doubt. Leaving some CEO to sweat out his future while he calmly painted her ceiling as if he had nothing more on his mind than…painting her ceiling.
‘No,’ she repeated, putting down her paintbrush and climbing down the ladder. If he had time to spare he could go ‘spare’ it somewhere else.
She didn’t want him turning up, taking over. This was like the thing with the car. Treating her as if she didn’t know what she was doing. This was her life and she could handle it.
He took no notice, carrying on as if she hadn’t spoken. For a moment she stood beneath him, watching as he stretched to stroke the brush across the ceiling, apparently hypnotised by the bunching and lengthening of the muscles in his arm. The low autumn sun slanting in through the window gilding the fine sprinkling of dark hairs on his forearm.
‘If you’ve got an hour or two to spare,’ she said, dragging herself back to reality, ‘world peace could do with some attention.’
‘I can do a lot more with ethical company practice than I could ever manage with political hot air.’
‘Can you?’ Then, because getting into a debate with him was not her intention, ‘How did you know I’d be decorating?’
He stopped, looked down at her.
‘I noticed the colour cards on Monday and when I came by earlier you’d taken down the curtains.’ He dipped the brush into the paint. ‘It seemed like a reasonable assumption.’
‘I might have had decorators in.’
‘You have,’ he agreed. ‘Grenville and Davenport. No job too small.’
How easy it would be to let that go. Just shut up and let him get on with it. Working towards each other. A team. This was, after all, what she had always wanted. The two of them getting close over the ordinary things that other people did.
People, courtesy of the gossip magazines, thought she had the perfect life with Ivo, but she would have willingly surrendered the luxury just to fall into bed with him at the end of a hard day, too tired to do anything but sleep.
‘If you want to set up in the decorating business, Ivo, you’re going to have to find another partner. And somewhere else to practise.’
Ivo, who had relied on speed and determination-skills that had served him well in the past-to override her initial objections, certain that in retrospect she’d be glad of his help, stopped what he was doing, finally listened to her.
‘You really mean that, don’t you?’
‘I really mean it.’
‘You don’t want my help?’
‘I don’t want anyone’s help. I want…I need to do this myself.’
He didn’t just listen to her, but heard what she was saying. Understood that she wasn’t rejecting him. She just wanted to do it herself. To prove something to both of them.
It was a light bulb moment.
‘You’ll be sorry,’ he said. He was sorry too, but only for himself. There was something about Belle’s new determination, new independence that made him intensely proud of her.
He climbed down the ladder, looked around. ‘This is a lovely room. Good proportions.’
‘It will be when I’ve finished. When the new carpet is down.’
He looked at the tacks and staples, the junk left behind by earlier floor coverings. ‘These should come up.’
‘It’s on the list.’
‘Do you want me to leave the tools?’
Belle, looking down, caught a glimmer of something in Ivo’s grey eyes. Need? Could it really be need? It was so swift that she couldn’t be sure, only that it made her regret her swift rejection. To be needed by him was all she had ever really wanted.
And she’d made her point, she rationalised.
That if he stayed it would be on her terms, not because she couldn’t cope. Not even because he thought she couldn’t cope. And, as he sorted out pliers, a small hammer, a screwdriver, she said, ‘On the other hand, I suspect it’s going to be a tedious and painful job. Nail hell.’
‘Painting a ceiling isn’t much fun,’ he pointed out. But he left her to it while he began to tackle the floor.
The phone rang three more times while they were working.
The first time Ivo looked, but made no effort to get up. The caller hung up without leaving a message.
The second time it rang he said, ‘Do you want me to get that?’
‘No, thanks,’ she said. It was another hang-up.
The third time they both studiously ignored it.
When she was done, she climbed down the ladder, her fingers so stiff she could barely move them. He didn’t say a word, simply took her brush and the one he’d briefly used and washed them out under the tap. She didn’t protest since the alternative was standing shoulder to shoulder with him at the sink. That was when the phone rang for the fourth time.
‘Do you get a lot of hang-ups?’ he asked, turning to her. ‘This is an unlisted number?’
‘It’s nothing. One of those computer things,’ she said. ‘A silent call. I’ll contact the phone people. You can register to put a stop to them.’
‘Silent calls don’t listen to the answering machine message,’ he pointed out. ‘They hang up as soon as the phone is answered.’
‘Do they?’
‘It sounds to me as if someone likes listening to your voice.’
‘What?’ Then, blushing, ‘What are you suggesting?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing.’ He squished more soap on to the bristles. ‘Only that you might consider changing your number.’
‘I can’t…’ she began. Too vehemently. ‘I can’t be bothered. It’s too much trouble to let everyone know.’
‘Well, so long as it stops at hang-ups. Nuisance calls can get nasty. Who knows you’re living here on your own?’
She shrugged. ‘Not many people. My agent. You.’
Daisy…
Could it be Daisy calling just to listen to her voice? Building up courage to get in touch…
‘And someone else,’ he suggested, working the soap into the bristles with his long fingers, although the brush looked pretty clean to her. ‘I’ve been expecting to read all about this…’ he made a gesture with his head that indicated the flat ‘…in the newspapers.’
‘Have you? Yes, well, it’s a smoke and mirrors thing. The new image has distracted them for the moment.’
That and the fact that the split had all been so unbelievably civilised. There had been no drama. No tears. No sordid triangle spilling out into the public arena. Nothing to draw attention to what had happened.
