Having It All (45 page)

‘Oh, God, Ginny, I screwed up! And it was so important we got some work from the creep. And I only forgot what I was going to say next and looked a complete fool!’

‘No you didn’t. You were brilliant. Cool and confident. He just wasn’t interested. You might as well have been reciting the phone directory for all he cared! He was playing
with us! He didn’t want us to find him anyone. He just doesn’t like women, full stop, and successful women in particular.’

‘Him and every other managing director we talk to. Ginny, we’ve still only placed a handful of people!’

‘I know, but you’ve got to give it time.’

‘Time! Ginny we don’t
have
time!’

You’d better start packing up your tea chests
, she nearly shouted,
if we don’t get somewhere soon
, but she didn’t. There was no point panicking. She’d
given herself three months and she still had two left. It wasn’t long but it would have to do.

All they needed was a miracle. Liz stared into the bottom of her glass. A small one would do, she wasn’t fussy. Just as long as it happened soon.

Liz woke up and stretched. Propping her pillows up at the edge of the wide bed she settled back and looked at her favourite view through the orchard down the valley to the hazy
sea in the far distance. A cup of tea would be perfect but she knew that if she stirred out of her bedroom either Jamie or Daisy would hear her foot on the stair and her blissful moment of peace
would be lost for ever.

She felt the faint stirrings of guilt that she was enjoying herself
quite
so much without them, but what the hell, this was one of her days off and they’d be spending it together.
Bliss! The only decision she’d have to make today was which colour tracksuit to put on, and where to go for tea. And she realized with a flash of surprise that going back to work had given
her something unexpected and incredibly precious: the sense that when she wasn’t at WomanPower she was on holiday. When she’d been at home all the time, despite her best intentions,
she’d felt trapped. But being at home
part
of the time gave a spice to working, and working made the time off seem all the more precious.

Ten minutes later she bounded out of bed, pulled on her favourite shocking pink jogging pants and top, fished around for her trainers, and skipped quietly downstairs. She’d make them a
special breakfast. Today was Jamie’s day and he’d chosen everything they were going to do.

As she lined up the bread, eggs and maple syrup to make French toast, his favourite, the phone started ringing and she glanced down, surprised, at her watch. Eight-thirty. She picked up the
phone with one hand and tucked it under her chin, lifting the frying pan off the heat with the other. The heavy pan was much hotter than she expected and with a yelp of pain she dropped it on the
tiled floor.

‘Shit!’ she yelled as it bounced off her foot.

‘Keep calm,’ commanded a teasing voice, ‘I’ll call back in five minutes.’

Stepping over the pan still lying on the floor, where it had cracked one of the tiles, whose exact shade of baked Provençal brick she had waited months for, and which she knew would be
irreplaceable, she sat down.

That voice. She had never heard it before and yet she knew at once who it belonged to. He hadn’t left a name and he hadn’t needed to. She knew exactly who he was.

Not daring even to pick up her cup of coffee in case her excited, shaking hands dropped that too she sat on the edge of a pine kitchen chair, the pan at her feet, and waited for the phone to
ring.

‘Do you always swear at your callers, or is eight-thirty too early for you?’

‘Actually I dropped a frying pan on my foot and cracked one of my favourite tiles.’

‘That’s the effect I usually have on women.’

She grinned. In most men the joke would have sounded either gauche or vain, but he struck just the right note of self-parody to get away with it.

‘Sorry. I haven’t even said who I am. Nick Winters. I came to your party the other day.’

Liz refrained from admitting that she knew precisely who he was, that she could have described his eyes, hair, smile, even the colour of the fleck in his tweed suit and given an almost exact
report of the time he arrived and the time he left.

Instead she tried to sound calm and prayed that she wouldn’t be descended upon by two screaming children until he’d got off the phone.

‘So, Mr Winters, what can I do for you?’

‘It’s actually about Peter Glenning. I heard you had a tough time yesterday.’

‘You could say that, yes.’

‘Dear Peter. He makes Ebenezer Scrooge look like an Equal Opportunities Employer.’

‘Is he a friend of yours?’ She tried to keep the amazement out of her tone as she pictured the laid-back Nick Winters sharing a nightcap with Peter Glenning and swapping stories
about their wicked workforces.

‘No. Just an acquaintance. But I do have some information about him that I think you might find really quite useful.’

‘How intriguing. Does he get himself beaten with birch twigs and chase little boys?’

He laughed and Liz breathed a sigh of relief. She hated men without a sense of humour.

‘Nothing as exciting as that. But I’d rather not discuss it on the phone. Would you like to come over to my office and I’ll fill you in?’

For more reasons than one she wanted to say Yes. Absolutely. Anytime. Now. Then she remembered today was Jamie’s day and that he’d been looking forward to it all week. That was the
deal she’d struck with herself. She would work for three days and the rest of the week belonged to Jamie and Daisy.

‘Would Monday be all right?’

‘Sure.’ She was pleased to hear him sounding faintly disappointed. ‘Could you come to my house? The Old Rectory at Firle. I run a cottage-letting agency from it. You
can’t miss us. Would nine be too early?’

‘Nine would be fine. See you then.’

As she put down the phone she wondered momentarily who the ‘us’ was and hoped fervently it wasn’t a wife he was including. Anyway she’d soon find out.

Not even bothering to inspect the damaged tile which in the normal course of events would have broken her heart, she picked up the pan at her feet, humming quietly to herself. Then she searched
for a wooden spoon and banged it on the frying pan to summon Jamie and Daisy down to breakfast.

With a whoop, knowing he had the whole day of her ahead, Jamie ran down the stairs two at a time, his dark hair standing up like Tintin and rushed into her arms.

She lifted him up and whirled him round laughing.

‘I say, Mum.’ Suddenly he was the gruff father to her daffy daughter. ‘Are you OK? I mean, you haven’t been hitting the bottle or anything, have you?’

‘No, Jamie’ – Liz collapsed in a heap with him on the rag rug –‘I certainly have not.’

Liz stopped outside the Old Rectory at precisely 8.57 and looked around her in amazement. It was quite simply one of the most beautiful houses she’d ever seen.
Flint-faced in the Sussex style, with a deeply sloping golden-tiled roof, it was a huge Queen Anne stone house of breathtaking proportions set in three acres of delightful gardens. From the ornate
stone gate made of carved fruit rising to a central ball, behind which she could see a herbaceous border which was still full of colour even at this barest time of year, to the lovely white front
portico, every detail was perfect. Dream Cottages must be doing very nicely.

As she reached out to ring the doorbell Liz realized she was dying to see inside not just to find out if there was a Mrs Winters but also to find out more about the man himself. His Gucci
loafers and the Rolex watch she’d glimpsed suggested more than a hint of flash.

Would he, like so many new-rich entrepreneurs, have ripped down the wood panelling to put in twenty-nine en suite bathrooms and walk-through closets big enough for Imelda Marcos?

She rang the doorbell and found, to her surprise, that Nick Winters opened it himself, wearing blue jeans and a polo shirt with the top two buttons undone and several inches of caramel tan on
display. Trying to remind herself that she loathed men who left their top two buttons undone, she walked briskly into the hall.

She put her briefcase down next to a vast marble table with golden lion’s claw feet and looked around. It was simply stunning. ‘What a glorious house!’

‘Thank you.’ The teasing smile again. ‘Can I offer you some coffee?’

‘Yes please,’ Liz replied knowing that if he’d asked her upstairs to see his etchings she would probably have given the same answer. ‘That would be lovely.’

Avoiding his eyes, she followed him into the sitting room, telling herself that nothing could be cornier than a woman who has forgotten the feel of a man’s body, and even thought she
didn’t miss it, suddenly discovering, with total utter certainty, that she does.

It was a huge room, dominated by three sets of floor-length windows, one leading into the garden. The sun streamed through lighting up two faded chintz sofas. An ancient labrador dozed by the
fire. Well-worn antiques were scattered everywhere, completing the sense of a tasteful country house. Nick Winters was clearly more subtle than he looked. Unless someone else had decorated it. But
who? She felt a buzz of apprehension. His wife of course.

But though there were fresh flowers everywhere, Liz could see no signs of a woman’s touch. No magazines or holiday reads a woman might like to curl up on the sofa with. No mementoes or
knicknacks. The room was both friendly and yet curiously anonymous. Perhaps being so confident in his bodily self, Nick didn’t need the reassurance of imposing himself on his
surroundings.

She was almost grateful when he disappeared to get the coffee. It gave her the chance to look discreetly round. If only Mel were here. Mel could sniff out a bachelor blindfold in a room full of
married men. Once they’d spent a giggly evening in a wine bar analysing the marital status of every man in the room. What were the telltale signs Mel had told her to look for?

Wedding ring? She tried to picture Nick’s left hand. There had been no wedding ring. But then wedding rings were no help, according to Mel. Any man who screwed around never wore one
anyway. Did he wear a freshly ironed shirt? Now that was a bad omen. Though it might just mean a good laundry or a devoted cleaning lady. What about expensive status symbols? Designer sunglasses,
portable CDs, the kind of toys men with kids and mortgages couldn’t afford?

A pair of Ray-Bans peeped from behind a vase of flowers on a side table. So far so good.

But what was it Mel had said was the acid test?

Baby seats
. There had been a convertible BMW in the drive. Was it his? If it was, that was fine. It had been pristine. Not a crisp packet or a baby seat in sight. Ah-ha, Mel had pointed
out, the sneaky ones hide them in the boot.

She scanned the mantelpiece for wedding photos or cute pictures of children dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy. But there was nothing. Just a single black-and-white studio portrait, taken in
the fifties, of a very elegant woman in a Hartnell gown. His mother perhaps? Better and better.

Then she remembered Mel’s final hurdle. Did he use those dreaded words, death to a girl’s innocent dreams, ‘we’ or ‘us’? Hating herself Liz tried to recall
their brief conversation. No. He definitely didn’t say ‘We’. And then she remembered. She was sure he’d said ‘us’ on the phone. She’d just have to fish
around a bit more.

And then he came back, empty-handed. There was clearly a housekeeper in the background.

‘So where does all the sordid business take place?’ Liz asked, fascinated. She’d seen no sign of an agency, yet it could hardly be a desk in a spare room to support all
this.

‘In the barn behind us.’ He pointed out a converted tithe barn. Its whole side wall was a plate glass window behind which rows and rows of women sat with brochures and computer
terminals.

‘Good God!’ Liz was taken aback by the sheer scale of the venture. ‘How many people do you employ?’

‘Around forty.’

No wonder he could afford to live in such splendour. Cottage-letting must be bigger business than she’d thought.

Two minutes later there was a knock at the door and a motherly lady in a blue nylon overall appeared, obviously the housekeeper, with coffee and home-made biscuits.

He poured out a cup of coffee and handed her the plate of biscuits, still warm from the oven. She struggled with her conscience and lost.

‘Good.’ The provocative smile again. ‘I like a woman who eats.’ He sipped his coffee and leaned down to fondle the labrador’s ears. ‘Especially if I’m
going to be taking her out to dinner. I can’t stand women who order the most expensive thing on the menu and then leave it.’

Liz was speechless. The nerve of the man!

In her outrage she somehow forgot that she’d just spent the last half-hour wondering how to get him into bed. But before she could think up a deadly put-down he changed gear abruptly,
dropping the flirtatious tone, suddenly the brisk and businesslike entrepreneur.

‘Now. Let’s talk about Mr Peter Glenning. I have a piece of information which I think you’ll find really quite interesting.’

Despite her annoyance, Liz was intrigued. ‘And what is that?’

‘Peter Glenning is in the process of a very secret and delicate take-over bid for Southern Life Insurance which will either ruin him or make him a very rich man indeed. To carry it off he
needs a trusted financial adviser who will hold his hand and negotiate the terms.’

‘And? Surely he has a Finance Director?’

‘Indeed he does. But unknown to him his Finance Director is about to leave for pastures new.’

‘If this is all so secret how do you know?’

‘Because’ – Nick paused for a moment and grinned – ‘he’s coming to work for me.’

Liz immediately understood. ‘And that will leave poor Mr Glenning in desperate need of a new Finance Director at extremely short notice.’

‘Precisely. And he will want to appoint someone with maximum speed and discretion. Ads in the
Financial Times
will not be on the cards. Do you happen to have anyone suitable at
WomanPower, Mrs Ward?’