Blueprint for Love (Choc Lit)

Copyright © 2013 Henriette Gyland

Published 2013 by Choc Lit Limited

Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

www.choc-lit.com

The right of Henriette Gyland to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90
 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

ISBN-978-1-78189-080-6

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

With thanks to Cara Cooper and Pia Fenton for their help and advice on this story.

CHAPTER ONE

‘
You’ll have to start immediately,’ said the agent, spreading her hands wide. ‘The other girl was meant to start today, but that’s very short notice for you, I suspect. Or can you go at the drop of a hat?’

          Hazel Dobson contemplated the words of the recruitment agent. Only a week ago she’d given the woman her CV, stating that she was willing to take any secretarial position, as long as it took her back to her native Norfolk. Although s
he’d prefer to work in an industry relevant to the coursework she’d done at her evening classes, it wasn’t essential.

          She hadn’t imagined that the girl the agency had originally hoped to place would break her leg, and that they would call on her so soon. But, she admitted to herself, the position sounded ideal, and the offer came at the right moment.

           What she hadn’t told the woman, because she didn’t want to appear desperate, was that her current boss had started making passes at her. He kept finding excuses to stand a little too close to her, or to put his hand on her arm – or some other part of her anatomy. It made Hazel feel uncomfortable, but she needed the job so she’d put up with it.

          However, when he’d contrived to lock them both inside the stationery cupboard, ‘accidentally’ losing the key in his pocket, and then tried to kiss her, Hazel had had enough. Now she just wanted to get as far away as possible.

          ‘It’s no problem,’ she replied. ‘I’m owed some holiday from my last job and wanted to take it at the end of my notice period, and my flatmate’s already found someone else to move in from next week.’ Running her fingers through her short brown hair, she laughed. ‘In fact, I’m free as a bird.’

         
‘Oh, good!’ the agent exhaled. ‘Gough Associates is a long-standing client of ours, and I placed quite a few people with them when they were based in London. Not so much since they relocated to Norfolk, but I didn’t want to let them down.’

          Searching her disorganised desk for the necessary paperwork, she handed Hazel a folder.
‘It’s all in there: salary, job description, working hours, perks, etc. A pretty good package, I’d say. The firm’s run from Mr Gough’s estate and they’ve agreed you can live in until you’ve found somewhere to rent. There are also instructions on how to get there. You’ll need that, unless someone is willing to pick you up from the station.’

          Hazel smiled. It was typical of Londoners to regard Norf
olk as the back of beyond, but the chance to return to her roots after living half her life in the capital was a dream come true. ‘I know the area quite well and should be able to find it. But thanks.’

         
‘That’s settled then. I’ll ring them and let them know you’ll be there tomorrow.’

         
‘Tomorrow is perfect,’ said Hazel. ‘That’ll give me time to pack and tell my friends where I’m going.’

         
‘You’re a real lifesaver, my dear. Best of luck.’

          No, you’re the life
saver, Hazel thought, as she left the woman’s office. She was itching to get out of London, and it would be wonderful to be nearer to Great Aunt Rose too.

Her confidence left her the next day, when she alighted at Combury Cross station, and there was no one to greet her. After she’d left the agent’s office, Hazel had called the contact at Gough Associates to confirm that they were expecting her, and had been told someone would meet her at the station.

          She glanced at her wristwatch. She’d left London for an agreed afternoon arrival, and had now been waiting for forty-five minutes. Annoyingly, there was still no sign of a car.

          ‘Forgotten about you, have they?’

          Hazel turned to the uniformed man behind her. The stationmaster, a kindly-looking gentleman with a greying beard and keen blue eyes, regarded her thoughtfully.

          ‘It looks that way. Are there any buses at this time of day?’

          She explained where she was going, and the man nodded, looking over her shoulder at the station clock.
‘There’s one coming in around about ... now.’

          Sure enough, just then a bus swung around the corner and stopped outside the station. With a sigh of relief, Hazel hoisted up her wheeled suitcase and large holdall to board the bus. Suddenly there was a tremendous bang, and black smoke belched out from the back of the vehicle.

          ‘Dear me,’ tutted the stationmaster. ‘Sounds bad, that.’

         
‘Sorry, love.’ The bus driver, a cheerful blonde woman, jumped down from the driver’s seat. ‘Doesn’t look like I’ll be going any further today.’

         
‘Will there be a replacement soon?’

         
‘Could be a fair while,’ she replied, and pulled out her mobile phone to report the damage to the depot. ‘You’re better off getting a taxi.’

          But there were no taxis available. In the end, and to stop the concerned stationmaster clucking around her like a mother hen, Hazel decided to walk.

          ‘It’s a couple of miles!’ he protested. ‘And it looks like rain.’

         
‘I’ll be fine,’ Hazel reassured him, touched by his concern. ‘I’ve got my map, and my two good feet. And a little rain never hurt anybody.’ Pulling her suitcase along, she began to walk.

          When she’d reached the outskirts of town, it started to rain, as the stationmaster had predicted. It wasn’t the usual drizzle, which Norfolk was known for, but fat, heavy raindrops the size of raisins, which drummed a tattoo against her bags and the deserted road.

          This could only happen to me, she thought glumly.
Hazel, the disaster magnet. The Bad Luck Charm, Calamity Jane. Give me
a
boat to steer, and I’ll ram it into an iceberg.

          Resolutely, she pulled up the collar of her red trench coat and tied her scarf around her neck, glad that she’d chosen not to wear the jacket which might
have been more appropriate for her first day at work.

          However, her thin coat couldn’t keep out the incessant rain, and in no time she was soaked to the skin. Shivering, she dug into her holdall for her umbrella, but it was a struggle to carry that and manage two heavy bags at the same time. When a sudden gust of wind blew it out of her hand and into the middle of the road, she dashed after it without thinking.

          She screamed as a car screeched to a halt in front of her with only inches to spare.

Jonathan Gough frowned as he put down the phone. How typical of his colleague to always pass the buck. Tabitha Fanshawe was a brilliant architect, and Jonathan never doubted when he started up Gough Associates that she’d be an asset to the company. But, when she was working on a project, Tabitha also had a tendency to forget practical matters. Like yesterday, when she’d sworn she’d be available to pick up the new secretary from the station this afternoon, only to arrange a meeting with an important client at exactly the same time. And there was no one else in the office right now he could send instead.

         Checking the wall clock in his office, Jonathan grabbed his car keys and his jacket. There was no way he’d make it in time to meet this girl off the train unless he ran every single red light and broke the speed limit, but hopefully she had enough sense to wait at the station for someone to pick her up.

          He slammed the office door behind him and called to his housekeeper, Mrs Whitmore. ‘I’m picking up the new secretary from the station now. Is everything ready for her?’

          Mrs Whitmore appeared in the doorway of what in the old days would have been considered the servants’ quarters.
‘Yes, Mr Gough. I’ve put her in the west wing. It’s a bit cut off from the rest of the house, but the bathroom’s modern and I think she’ll be comfortable there.’

         
‘Fine, excellent,’ Jonathan called absent-mindedly over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be back shortly. If Robert Miles calls from Didcot Developments, p
l
e
ase tell him I’m on it, and I’ll get back to him as soon as possible. Don’t let it go to answerphone; he hates that.’

         
‘Of course, Mr Gough. Leave it with me.’

          Smiling to himself, Jonathan crossed the gravelled drive in front of the house. He’d tried in vain to persuade the housekeeper to address him more informally – this was the twenty-first century, after all – but Irene Whitmore insisted on maintaining a respectful distance between them.

         
Unlocking the car with his key fob, he got in. The Land Rover was old, barely road-worthy, and strewn with papers, sweet wrappers and empty water bottles. On the back seat, which was covered in silky, golden dog hair, lay a half-eaten apple, all brown and shrivelled up now. He shook his head; he ought to tidy the car, but somehow simple tasks always got pushed to the back of the agenda. Running the company took up most of his time.

          As he drove out through the heavy metal gates, which opened automatically, it started to rain. Flicking the windscreen wipers on full speed, Jonathan again bemoaned the fact that Tabitha had abandoned the poor secretary at the station and only informed him at the last minute. He envisaged himself in the new girl’s shoes: if
he
had been forced to wait that long, he’d probably have found alternative means of transport. So the girl might not even be there when Jonathan arrived. And, if she’d taken the bus, the distance between the bus stop and the manor house was far enough for her to become completely drenched in this weather.