The Return of Mrs. Jones (7 page)

*

Lawrie checked her watch. Again. This was ridiculous. She had planned to be on the road fifteen minutes ago. Nothing was more irritating than being behind schedule.

Even worse, she was hungry. It must be the Cornish air, because far from acting like a normal jilted bride, and existing on tears alone, for the first time in years Lawrie had a real appetite. Every day she went to the staff dining room promising herself she would just have the soup. A
small
bowl of soup. Because she strongly suspected it was made with double cream.

Yet every day she would find herself drifting over to the bread. Carbs, wheat, gluten. Things that Lawrie had been depriving herself of for so long she had completely forgotten why. Bread covered with real butter, with rich, creamy cheese...sharp, tangy cheese. Even worse, she sometimes had crisps on the side, and the handful of lettuce and tomatoes she added to her heaped plate went no way to assuaging her guilt.

Only—as the pang in her stomach reminded her all too well—she was skipping lunch today. The first stop on her schedule was a baker’s, and she had an Indian restaurant and an ice cream maker to fit in today. She might be the same size as her teen self right now but, she thought, the chances of her remaining that slender were looking very, very slim.

She checked her watch again and shook her head. She couldn’t wait. Her schedule was packed. Alex would just have to leave her a message and let her know where she would be staying that night. She swallowed. That was okay. He would hardly leave her to sleep in the car. So what if she hadn’t checked out the hotel website and printed out directions in case the sat nav didn’t work? This was a road trip, not a military manoeuvre.

Lawrie grabbed her handbag and moved towards the door, picking up the stuffed overnight bag and the shopper she had quickly bought in the hotel shop to carry the overspill as she did so. She averted her eyes from the mass of clothes on the sofa. She had tried to tidy up but it still looked as if a whole class of fifteen-year-olds had done a clothes-swap in the normally tidy office.

‘Okay, then,’ she said out loud, but the words sounded flat in the empty room and her stomach lurched with the all too familiar panic she’d been trying to hide since Fliss had pulled out last night.

Lawrie was no stranger to travelling alone, to making decisions alone, but usually she was clothed with the confidence of her profession. Sharp suits, intimidating jargon, business class flights. This time it would just be Lawrie Bennett, unemployed and jilted. Alone.

She dropped her bags, pressing a fist to her stomach, trying to quell the churning inside. For goodness’ sake, she dealt with CEOs all the time. How could standing in a dark room listening to music be scarier than walking into a hostile boardroom?

But it was.

It had been so long. Gigging belonged to a younger, more naive Lawrie. A Lawrie she had said goodbye to many years before. Still, she thought grimly, it would all make an amusing anecdote one day—possibly even at a job interview. An example of how she was prepared to go the extra mile.

The trill of her desk phone made her jump. Good—Alex at last. Walking over to it, she prayed for a reprieve. There were no hotel rooms left in the whole of Cornwall.... She was needed elsewhere...

‘Sorted out your sartorial crisis?’

Not Alex. Warm, comforting tones, as caressing as a hot bath on a cold night. A voice she wanted to confide her fears in—a voice that promised safety. Sanctuary.

‘I’m running late,’ she said, more sharply than she had intended. The last thing she needed was for Jonas to guess how relieved she was to hear his voice, to know how scared she was. ‘Did your guy manage to sort out a place for tonight? I really can’t hold on any longer.’

‘Everything’s organised. Come and meet me in the car park.’

Was that laughter tinting the deep tones? ‘Fine. I’m on my way.’

Laden down, it took Lawrie a few minutes to make her way along the corridors and through the staff door that led to the car park.

The weather had cooled suddenly, and the sky was a mixture of grey and white with occasional glimpses of hopeful blue. It meant nothing. Cornwall was full of micro climates, and she had packed for every eventuality bar blizzards.

Her convertible Beetle was tucked away in the far corner of the car park. Hugo had laughed at it—told her that she was obviously still a hippy surf girl at heart—although she had eschewed all the pretty pastel colours for a sensible metallic grey. She had thought of it as the perfect choice for a city car: small and compact. But its rounded lines and cheerful shape fitted in here. Maybe Hugo had been right about that part of her at least.

She pushed Hugo from her mind. He didn’t belong here, in this world dominated by the sea and the open country. In the new life she was trying to make for herself. She looked around for Jonas but he wasn’t by her car or by the hotel entrance.

‘Lawrie?’

There he was, predictably enough standing by one of the camper vans that were always dotted around the car park, several of them staff vehicles. She was pretty sure ownership of one guaranteed you a job here.

This van was freshly painted a minty green, its contrasting white trim bright. Jonas leant against it, arms folded, one long leg casually crossed over the other, a look of enjoyment on his face. The same feeling of safety she had experienced on the phone rushed over her as she walked towards him.

‘I’m behind schedule, so this had better not take long,’ she said as she stopped in front of him, dropping her bags at her feet.

She wasn’t going to give in to temptation, to allow her eyes to flicker up and down the long, muscled legs, the firm torso that broadened out in exactly the right place. She wasn’t going to pause at the neck—what
was
it with this man and his unbuttoned shirts? One button lower and it would look sleazy, but as it was he managed to show just enough chest to tantalise. And she wasn’t going to linger on the perfectly defined jawline, on the cheekbones wasted on a mere man—even on this one. She certainly wasn’t going to step closer and allow her hand to brush that lock of dirty blond hair back from his forehead, no matter how much her hand ached to.

‘You have a schedule?’ He shook his head. ‘Of course you do. A timetable, printed maps, telephone numbers all printed out. I bet there’s a clipboard.’

Hot colour crept over her cheeks. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being organised.’

He raised an eyebrow in pretend surprise. ‘I didn’t say there was. It’s an excellent quality in a festival-planner and an equally excellent one in a navigator. Come on—hop in.’

Confusion warred with panic and a tiny, unwanted tendril of hope. ‘What do you mean?’

Jonas gestured to the van. ‘She doesn’t know whether to be pleased or offended that you don’t recognise her, even though she spent a good six months being restored.’

‘They all look the same,’ Lawrie replied automatically, but her eyes were searching the camper van, looking for the tell-tale signs, looking for the rust, the dents. ‘That’s not Bar...? Not your old van?’

‘You nearly said her name.’ A smirk played around the firm mouth. ‘Not looking so old now, is she? A facelift—well, an everything lift, really—new custom interior, new engine. She’s never been in better shape.’

‘Boys and their toys,’ Lawrie scoffed, but secretly she was impressed.

The old van did look amazing—a total change from the ancient rust bucket whose tattered interior might have been original but had definitely seen better days. The same magic wand that had been waved over the Boat House, over the hotel, even over Jonas himself had been hard at work here.

‘She looks good, but I still don’t get what that has to do with me.’

The blue eyes gleamed. ‘You said yourself you needed a second opinion.’

The tiny tendril of hope grew larger, bloomed. Lawrie stamped down on it. Hard. ‘I said Fliss was going to
give
me a second opinion—not that I needed one.’

‘And I realised that I need to recharge my batteries.’

He carried on as if she hadn’t spoken, pushing himself away from the van and sauntering slowly towards her. Lawrie fought an instinctive urge to take a step back. With his unhurried grace he reminded her of a predator, blue eyes fixed on her, hypnotic.

Lawrie swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Working together is one thing, but spending time alone after everything...’ Her voice trailed off. Lost for words again. It was becoming a habit around him.

Jonas paused in his tracks. ‘But we
will
be working. Second opinions, remember?’

‘Alone—we’ll be working together alone,’ she snapped.

He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I totally misread the situation. I thought you were totally over me, what with the divorce and the fiancé and the nine years apart, but if this is awkward for you maybe I had better keep my distance.’

He stood grinning at her. He obviously thought he had the upper hand.

Lawrie could feel her teeth grinding together. With a huge effort she unclenched her jaw, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘I hate to burst your highly inflated opinion of yourself,’ she said, as sweetly as she could, ‘but I was only thinking of you. If this isn’t awkward for you, then great—by all means join me.’

He moved a step closer, so close they were nearly touching. She could see the smattering of freckles that dusted the bridge of his nose, the tops of his cheeks. They gave him a boyish air, emphasised by the hair falling over his forehead, the impish grin.

But he was no boy. Jonas Jones was all grown up.

‘Ready?’ he asked, eyes locked on hers.

She stared straight back at him, channelling every ounce of cool professionalism she had right back at him. ‘Of course.’

‘Then let’s go.’

*

‘Did Alex book the hotels? I can plot out the best routes for the entire weekend once I know where we’re staying.’

Jonas had to hand it to her. Lawrie was never knocked down for long. He could have sworn that his decision to crash her trip had completely thrown her but she was hiding it well. The road atlas open on her lap, clipboard and pen in hand, she was seemingly back in control.

For now.

Of course she had a point. A very good point. Spending three days on the road with any colleague would be testing. Make that colleague the person you’d once thought was the love of your life and things got a little more difficult.

But this was purely business. Lawrie had been thrown in at the deep end, after all. She might be a whizz with a spreadsheet and able to decipher the finer points of contracts in the blink of an eye, but Jonas was prepared to bet good money that she hadn’t been anywhere near a tent or a crowded gig in years. This was his festival—his reputation at stake. He might agree that in the circumstances Lawrie was the right person to help them out, but she still needed hand-holding. Metaphorically, of course.

Of course he
might
be playing with fire. But what was life without a little danger? He’d been playing it safe for far too long.

Time to light the fireworks.

Jonas nodded towards a folder on the dashboard. ‘Our accommodation is in there.’

Concealing a smile, Jonas watched out of the corner of his eye as she slid the folder onto her knee and pulled out the sheaf of paper from inside.

Her brow crinkled. ‘These aren’t hotels.’

‘Excellent opportunity to check out some of the competition,’ he said.

‘You own a hotel.’

‘And a campsite,’ he reminded her.

‘But I’m not set for camping. I don’t camp—not any more.’ Her voice was rising. ‘I don’t even own a sleeping bag.’

‘Relax,’ Jonas said easily. ‘I’m not subjecting you to a tent. Barb has everything we need. You won’t even need a bag. I have sheets and quilts. Even pillowcases.’

‘We’re sleeping in
here
? Both of us?’

‘She’s a four-berther, remember?’ He flashed a grin over at her, looking forward to her reaction. ‘Do you want to go on top or shall I?’

‘I’m not nineteen any more, Jonas.’

Lawrie’s face was flushed, her eyes dark with emotion. Anger? Fear? Maybe a combination of both.

‘This really isn’t acceptable.’

Jonas raised an eyebrow appraisingly. What was she so scared of? ‘I’m sorry, Lawrie, I didn’t think this would be a big deal. I really do want to see how the facilities at the sites compare with mine. Look, if you feel that strongly about it I can drop you at a motel or a B&B after tonight’s gig. But I promise you you’ll get a better night’s sleep here than in some anonymous hotel chain bedroom.’

‘Call me old-fashioned, but I like en-suite facilities.’

But his conciliatory tone seemed to have worked as she sounded more petulant than angry. He decided to push it a little.

‘I promise you we won’t be roughing it. Barb’s newly sprung and very comfortable. All these sites have electric hook-up and plenty of shower blocks. The place I have picked out for tonight has a very well-regarded organic restaurant too. I thought it would be good to compare it with the Boat House
.
And Saturday’s site prides itself on its sea views, which is one thing we’re lacking. I really would value your opinion.’

‘But I thought you had the best toilets in Cornwall? I won’t settle for less.’

Was that a small smile playing around the full mouth?

‘If I didn’t think every single one of these toilets weren’t a serious contender I promise you I wouldn’t have dreamt of bringing you along. Come on, Lawrie, it’ll be fun. Food, music and the stars. I know I need the break. And...’ he slid his eyes over to her again, noting the dark shadows under her eyes, the air of bewildered fragility she wore whenever her professional mask slipped ‘...I’ll bet everything I own that you do too.’

‘This isn’t a break—this is work,’ she reminded him primly.

‘True,’ he conceded. ‘But who’s to say we can’t have fun while we’re working?’

She wound a tendril of hair around her finger, staring out of the window, lost in thought. ‘Okay, then,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll give it one night. But if it’s cold or uncomfortable or you snore—’ she gave him a dark look ‘—then tomorrow we’re in a hotel. Deal?’