A Home for Broken Hearts, page 9
Slowly Ellen let her own fingertips travel upward over the thin cotton of her nightshirt. For a brief second, for the first time in a year, she allowed herself to imagine that it was Nick who was touching her, his fingers that gently massaged her body, his lips that teased her skin, his eyes that looked up at her . . .
Ellen sat up abruptly and snatched her hands away from herself, leaping out of bed as if she’d just discovered she’d been sharing it with something awful.
Flustered, she pulled one of Nick’s shirts on over the same pair of jeans she had been wearing yesterday and, unable to locate her brush, ran her fingers roughly through her tangled hair. Coffee, she decided, what she needed was coffee, that would wake her up properly because what had just happened had been a sort of waking dream, not the thoughts of her conscious mind at all – not anything that she could have controlled. Ellen scowled as she headed barefoot downstairs, furious and embarrassed.
It hadn’t been Nick’s face she had seen, looking up at her, when she closed her eyes. It had been her latest lodger’s – it had been Matt’s.
Matt stared at his Mac screen and waited. This was his only his third full day in the office, and there was no time for special excursions today – it was press day. He had finished his piece on the exploits of a group of travelling England football fans, and written a review of the latest superhero flick that he hadn’t exactly seen. But he still hadn’t filed his column and the deadline was fast approaching. Apparently Dan the editor had said that the title Matt had used for his Manchester Evening Post column was not catchy enough and it didn’t capture the spirit of Bang It!. Pete and Matt had kicked a few ideas around and then Pete had come up with an idea he loved so much that it was clear no further discussion was needed. Matt’s new column in Bang It! would be called ‘Wham Bam! A Single Bloke’s Guide to Sex in the City.’
Matt told himself this title had to be ironic, but in truth there wasn’t that much about Bang It! that was ironic, except maybe the equal opportunities policy. Still, as Pete said, as long as there were girls who chose to take their kit off for money then he was all for equality.
The cursor hovered on Matt’s empty Mac screen. He looked around: the office was quiet – for once everyone had their heads down struggling to make that deadline. Pete said it was always like this. On Monday everyone was casual, relaxed still. They’d often have that week’s features meeting in the pub, or at the very least get the beers in and sit around talking about ideas with their feet up. The magazine staff would be messing about, looking up stuff on the Internet, inventing some new kind of office-based game – Matt had taken part in his first desk-to-chair Olympic 10-metre dash. Tuesday, things began to move. Wednesday everybody remembered they had a job and by Thursday there was no time for fooling around any more, serious work got done and in the run-up to deadline apparently the place went frantic.
‘Don’t be late with any of your copy if you want to make it past your probation period,’ Pete had warned him. ‘Dan doesn’t put up with that.’
That was exactly what Matt was worried about. He’d been apprehensive about running into Carla since their encounter on Monday – but then he’d realised that she was freelance, not a staff member, and that if she ever worked for Bang It! again it would be on some photo shoot where hopefully he would not be. The chances of him bumping into her were slim. But what should he do about her? He should call her, he should at least explain to her that although he’d had a great time with her, and that she was a lovely girl, he wasn’t ready for anything serious, especially not when he’d just arrived in London. The trouble was if he rang her up and told her that she’d probably say she was cool with it, she’d probably suggest they got together, no strings attached, and then after a week or two she’d want more. She’d want to plan stuff, make dates more than twenty-four hours in advance. She’d want to introduce him to her friends, expect him to be available every Saturday night and hang out with her every Sunday. And, if he reminded her that was not what they had agreed at all, she’d cry and get upset and tell him that she thought things had changed, that she meant something to him. Inevitably he’d end up hurting her. No, if he rang her, if he slipped into that mistake he’d be breaking his own rules, and leading her on. And before you knew it she’d be thinking she was in the dreaded ‘r’ word with you, no matter how clear you were that you weren’t up for it.
He could visualise exactly what his first column should be, cocky Jack the Lad steps off the train and into a hot girl’s bed. He should write about his technique, how he’d made the moves on Carla, how he’d let her think it was her plan to get drunk in the June sunshine and her idea to drag him back to her place. He’d lie about how voracious she had been in bed, transforming their brief encounter from one that had been sweet and hesitant to a passion-fuelled frenzy of lusty sex. He’d have to boost Carla’s assets by a couple of cup sizes and make her a good deal more experienced in certain areas than she was, too.
Still it did seem a bit much, even for him, to write about a girl quite so soon after the event. Especially a girl like Carla, who wasn’t out looking for casual sex, who’d been caught unawares in what Matt thought was probably an uncharacteristic bout of spontaneity.
His mind made up, he took his laptop out of his bag and opened up the file where he saved all his columns. He found one of his very first pieces and sent it to the desktop of his Mac. Rehashing an old piece was not how he wanted to begin his career at Bang It!. And he was well aware that if Pete or Dan found out then he could be ending it before it even began, but whether or not he wanted to see Carla again he had liked her. He liked her enough not to turn her into trash. Not just yet.
‘So you nailed the little make-up girl on your first day then?’ Pete arrived at his desk in a fug of sweat and cigarette smoke. ‘Impressive.’
‘A gentleman never talks.’ Matt gave him a well-practised ‘of course I did’ smirk.
‘No need to be coy about it, it’s all over the place. She told Suze, Dan’s PA, and Suze told everyone else.’
‘Really?’ Matt shifted in his seat. Carla wasn’t as comfortably distant as he had hoped after all.
‘She raved about you, mate – you never put “gentle and considerate lover” on your CV.’ Pete chuckled to himself, catching the eye of Raffa, who grinned in reply.
‘Bollocks!’ Matt’s reaction was instinctive. ‘She was mad for it, mate, practically dragged me off the street. I didn’t have a chance to be gentle or considerate, she had my kit off in less than a minute – and hers! That girl was ravenous!’
‘Any good?’ Pete asked him flatly. ‘You’ll have to tell Keith in production, he’s been trying and failing to get in her knickers for weeks, poor sod. Reckons he really likes her.’
‘Mate, top marks for enthusiasm.’ Matt winked. ‘Besides, we all know there are some things that it’s difficult to get wrong, know what I mean?’
Pete and the layout guy laughed.
‘So, you going to see her again?’
‘No, it was just for fun, she knows that.’
‘You sure?’ Pete asked him. ‘Suze seems to think she thinks you’re the next big thing in her life.’
Matt shrugged. ‘I just got here, I’m not looking for anything serious, I told her that upfront.’
‘Well, you’ve got an office full of people waiting to read your write-up. You know what? You should award her marks out of ten – that would be a laugh.’
‘Great idea,’ Matt said. ‘Will do.’
He watched Pete walk away and after a moment closed the column he’d been about to rewrite. He had no choice now. He’d have to start from scratch.
Chapter Seven
‘She’s a freak,’ Charlie hissed as he peered at Allegra Howard through the kitchen window. ‘And she makes the house smell funny.’
‘She is not a freak and don’t use that word!’ Ellen chided him. ‘She’s an old lady and she smells of lavender. Admittedly rather a lot of lavender.’
She crinkled her nose. Allegra’s scent did rather more than linger in a room once she left it – it pulled up a chair and made itself at home.
‘A freakish amount of lavender, one might say, hey Charles?’ Hannah put in, digging Charlie in the ribs, the pair of them giggling like conspirators.
Ellen pursed her lips at her sister. Hannah had arrived just after five, at the same time as Sabine, suggesting she treated everyone to takeaway, which had caused Charlie to question her on who exactly she meant by everyone, was she including Matt and the old woman for example? And would it be OK if he still had fish fingers?
Hannah had extended her largesse to whoever might care to join them. Ellen knew the main reason her sister would leave work any earlier than nine p.m. was that she wanted to nose. Hannah hadn’t met Matt in person yet, and it often seemed to Ellen that her sister was determined to meet and greet in person every member of the male of the species on the planet. She would also be dying to see how Ellen would cope with the elderly whirlwind that was Allegra Howard. Ellen also suspected that because the lodgers idea was her own, Hannah felt that she had some ownership of it, some responsibility to make sure it went smoothly, so that her sister wasn’t suddenly overburdened. Hannah seemed to pop up here every five minutes. If she came round any more Ellen would be tempted to charge her rent.
‘She’s old and set in her ways,’ Ellen reiterated. ‘And a very keen gardener by the looks of things. She’s been out there ages now. Pruning.’
Ellen had been fraught with nerves when Allegra finally arrived with Simon at almost three in the afternoon.
‘Ellen, darling.’ Simon had greeted her with a huge hug, lightly kissing both her cheeks. ‘Sorry we’re late, Allegra had a little trouble deciding what to bring and what to leave in storage, we spent two hours deliberating over her Staffordshire china dogs.’ He winked, stepping aside to reveal Ellen’s new employer.
‘May I introduce you to Miss Howard?’
Allegra Howard did not look at all as Ellen had expected. The publicity shot that graced all her book covers was dated and soft-focused in the extreme. It showed a smooth-skinned blonde woman of indeterminate middle age, tenderly holding a single rose against her cheek, while gazing into the distance with a faraway look in her eye, as if at that very second she was dreaming up her next best-seller.
Simon had already warned her that that photo had been taken a long time ago, but still Ellen had expected Allegra to be dressed head to foot in some chiffon affair, her aged skin caked with too much make-up, her hair brittle with dye and lacquer. It was a cliché and an unfair one.
Allegra was a neat, stylish-looking woman, wearing a lilac suit and low beige heels, with her silver-blonde hair tied into a frail chignon on her neck. Apart from an ostentatious triple string of pearls around her neck, fastened with a ruby-set clasp, and three large diamond rings on her fingers, you might never have guessed that she was a best-selling author of lusty romantic fiction with the kind of commercial success that any writer would envy. Her genteel appearance had a rather aristocratic air.
‘M … Miss Howard,’ Ellen stammered. ‘I’m so thrilled to meet you, I’m such a huge fan.’
‘Nonsense, you are not a fan, writers do not have fans. You are a reader, a follower or an admirer. I do not approve of fans, such a garish word. And I insist you call me Allegra. Just because one is great, one does not expect special treatment. May I see my room now? I do hope it’s south-facing, I did instruct Simon that it had to be south facing but he seemed to have forgotten.’
‘Um, I think it is,’ Ellen had said nervously as she led Allegra into the former dining room. ‘It always seems to be sunny in here.’
Ellen held her breath as Allegra looked around the freshly painted room, terrified that the shade of lilac would be wrong, the chaise longue would not meet approval, or that despite her leaving the French doors open since seven that morning, the faintest smell of paint would be detectable to that elegant aquiline nose.
‘I’d say south-westerly, wouldn’t you Simon?’ Allegra arched a pencilled brow, the corners of her mouth dropping minutely. ‘Still it will do, it will do – which is more than I can say for those roses, what a disgrace!’ Ellen had watched anxiously from the doorway, stricken as her new lodger stepped out on to the patio, its cracks filled with grass and weeds. Allegra shook her head at the unkempt and overburdened rose bushes that had once surrounded the windows so decorously, but now still endured the mouldering deadheads of a summer long gone.
‘I must have beauty and order to work – all this chaos simply will not do. Bring me your secateurs, my dear, I must remedy this immediately. Fortunately I brought my own gardening gloves. You see, Simon dear, I was correct – one never knows when one might be required to handle foliage.’
Ellen had been frozen to the spot for a second, quite unable to remember if she even had secateurs, let alone where they were. Finally she realised that they would be hanging on a rusty nail in the shed at the bottom of the overgrown garden, its door probably jammed shut by inches-high grass and an invasion of convolvulus and its musty interior inhabited by various large and unchecked spiders. Ellen had not ventured down there in the longest time, the desire to prune her roses the very last thing on her mind. Feeling utterly inadequate, she remembered a pair of kitchen scissors that she thought might do the job and rushed to bring them to Allegra’s newly gloved hands.
Allegra examined her offering with her neatly painted lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval and disappointment, but nevertheless she accepted them.
‘If you’d bring me some tea, I’d be grateful,’ she instructed Ellen. ‘Oh and before you go you should know I’ll take breakfast at seven thirty every morning in my room, a soft-boiled egg and wholemeal toast, no crusts, thinly spread unsalted butter. Before ten I only drink English breakfast tea and whole milk, after ten Earl Grey. I begin work at ten, break for a light lunch at one and then recommence until five. I take dinner between six and seven thirty and I retire by nine thirty every night. Simon will furnish you with a copy of my eating plan, but you should know that I do not eat red meat. We took the liberty of bringing the ingredients of tonight’s meal with us, but from now on I will expect you to do all the marketing.’ She looked at Ellen as if she expected a response.
Ellen stared at her dumbfounded as Allegra’s instructions finally sank in.
‘Oh, oh! You mean you want me to cook your meals too?’
‘You have accepted the position of my personal assistant, have you not?’ Allegra enquired.
‘Yes, but I thought …’ Ellen floundered for a second, realising that it was pointless debating with Allegra. Either she was going to accept the old lady with all her needs and foibles or she was going to have to ask her to leave, and the latter was unthinkable.
Ellen glanced at Simon who shot her a rueful look, mutely apologising for not telling her quite as much as he should have done.
‘Of course, whatever you say,’ Ellen said hastily. ‘It’s just – well I’ll need some time in the week to work on the other manuscripts that Simon gives me.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Allegra looked horrified. ‘You mean to work on other writers’ material while working on mine? Oh no, no, no. I can’t have that. Simon, this will not do at all.’
‘Oh, no – Allegra, Ellen is mistaken and it’s entirely my fault. I don’t think I explained to her that from now all the work she does for Cherished Desires will be exclusively for Allegra Howard.’ He smiled at Ellen. ‘That’s OK with you, isn’t it, Ellen? You won’t be losing out financially and of course you need to concentrate your mind entirely on Allegra’s work in progress.’
‘Yes, why deal with dross, my dear, when you can work with gold,’ Allegra added.
‘Not that Allegra is implying that my stable of writers aren’t anything but wonderful,’ Simon countered.
‘Aren’t I?’ Allegra winked at Ellen, who was so taken aback by the gesture that she was momentarily at a loss. It seemed there was a sense of humour lurking somewhere underneath this grand facade.
‘Well of course, I’d be delighted to just work on your books, they are after all my favourites.’
‘Excellent.’ Allegra smiled approvingly. ‘Tea, then – while I marshal the nature that you have let rampage so wilfully.’
Simon followed Ellen into the kitchen, where he found her considering her PG Tips, wondering if they would do until she could stock up on Earl Grey.
‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ he told her, gently resting his hands on her shoulders and turning her to face him. ‘That woman, that’s not the real Allegra. She’s just old, and a bit lost and out of sorts. She’s missing her home and her routine, poor old bird, she’s just hiding it all behind that battleaxe out there. All this is as frightening for her as it is for you. I’m sure that once she settles in you and she will become great friends and she’ll stop talking to you as if you’re the help.’
