Hitched! (5 page)

‘
Here
?’

‘Now I know what you’re going to say.’ George held up his hands
to stop Saffron from going any further, focusing on her rather than on me,
although he must have been able to feel me glaring at him from the other end of
the sofa. ‘You can’t go clubbing in Whellerby. This isn’t London, it isn’t
cool...but why not make your party different from all the others? Anyone can go
to a club or a restaurant in London. How many people can take over a stately
home?’

‘Probably most of Saffron’s friends,’ I said crisply, my
gratitude forgotten. I had a sinking suspicion where this was going. ‘There’s no
question of—’

‘You mean, like, a house party?’ Saffron interrupted me.

‘Exactly,’ said George.

‘We could wear costumes, like in that TV series...’

‘You’ve got it. You could be the beautiful daughter, your
friends can be dashing widows, or young ladies waiting to make their come out,
and Frith could be the repressed housekeeper who’s secretly in love with one of
the footmen.’

‘Hey—’ I began, but Saffron was already clapping her hands.

‘I love it! Think of the costumes! I’ve always wanted to wear
one of those lovely evening gowns. I could wear long gloves!’

Buffy’s treachery was forgotten. Saffron was positively
bouncing on the sofa in excitement. ‘Ooh, and we could make it a proper
Edwardian house party...assignations in the conservatory, croquet on the lawn,
dance cards...
dancing!
’ Her eyes lit up as the idea
caught hold. ‘We could have a
ball
!’

‘Now see what you’ve done,’ I said to George with a severe
look.

‘We’ll have to ask men too,’ Saffron was bubbling on. ‘We can’t
have a ball with just girls. But that’s all right. Jax would look super hot in a
DJ. A house like this must have a ballroom, right?’

I had heard enough. I held up my hands like a traffic cop.
‘
Stop
!’ I said so forcefully that Saffron was
startled into silence. ‘Now just hold on a minute,’ I said more calmly. ‘We are
not having a ball here. Or a dinner. Or anything at all. This is Lord
Whellerby’s home. It’s not open to the public.’

‘Yet,’ said George.

‘What?’ I said, thrown by his calm interjection.

‘The conference centre is just part of our strategy to turn
Whellerby Hall into the leading venue for events in the north,’ George said,
with a glance at Roly, who nodded encouragement. ‘Eventually, we’ll turn the
east wing into top-of-the-market accommodation for weddings and parties using
the state rooms.’

‘George says we’ll be able to ch-charge an arm and a leg,’ Roly
confided.

‘Of course, the east wing needs a lot of renovation before we
can do that,’ George added, ‘but as that’s the long-term plan, why don’t we take
advantage of Saffron’s celebrity?’

My chest swelled with unreasonable resentment as he sat there,
talking persuasively while Saffron and Roly lapped it up. I had had George down
as a lightweight, a playboy down on his luck just playing at estate management.
He wasn’t supposed to be talking about strategies or long-term plans.

‘You’ve both been too discreet to mention it,’ he went on, ‘but
I think we all know how famous she is. Saffron Taylor is the ultimate party
girl, and she’s a social leader. Where she goes, others will follow.’

I closed my eyes in despair.

‘We couldn’t ask for better publicity. If Saffron and her
closest friends have a private party up here, you can bet your bottom dollar
everyone else will be clamouring to do the same. We don’t need to do anything so
vulgar as advertise. Word will get round—especially if we ask your friends not
to give away the secret location of the party. Before we know where we are,
we’ll be beating people off with a stick.’

And so it was decided. I not only had to build a conference
centre, I had to organise a costumed house party for a load of spoiled
socialites.

I looked out of the window. It had started to rain in
earnest.

THREE

‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ I dumped my
briefcase on the worktop and raised my brows at George, who was leaning back in
a chair with his feet on my kitchen table. And if I didn’t very much mistake the
matter, he was drinking my tea out of my mug.

‘I knew you wouldn’t mind,’ he said with that smile that never
failed to make my pulse kick, no matter how hard I braced myself against it.
‘I’ve spent all afternoon talking about artificial insemination,’ he said. ‘I
was desperate for a drink, but my fridge is empty, so I came to see what you
had. All I could find was tea, though.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry about that,’ I said with mock contrition. ‘I
didn’t realise that I had to keep a supply of booze in just in case you felt
like dropping by.’

‘You’ll get used to country ways soon,’ he said kindly,
refusing to rise to my sarcasm. ‘Some beers and a couple of bottles of wine are
always good to have in stock. You never know who’ll stop by.’

‘Obviously,’ I said. ‘Is it a country way to break into other
people’s houses too?’

‘I didn’t break in. I used a key.’

‘You know, it’s a funny thing, but I could have sworn I locked
the door when I left this morning,’ I said.

‘You did, and very sensible it was too, but I happen to have a
spare.’ Extracting the key from his pocket, George waved it at me. ‘There’s
always one next door in case you ever lose yours.’

‘I’m always careful about my keys,’ I said crushingly, and
George studied me over the rim of his mug. My mug, rather.

‘I get the impression you’re careful about everything.’

‘I find it easier that way,’ I said.

Being careful had got me through after Mum had died. Being
careful kept my life under control. Being careful kept me safe.

If I wasn’t careful, I would find myself tumbling back into
that abyss of grief and loneliness that it had taken such effort to climb out of
all those years ago.

I had made a career out of being careful, in fact. I loved the
precision of engineering, of putting exactly the right materials together in
exactly the right way to build something solid and functional. Something that
would stay where you left it and still be there when you went back at the end of
the day.

Dropping into the chair across the table from him, I pushed my
hair wearily behind my ears.

‘Tired?’

‘One of those days,’ I said, ‘and it didn’t help that Saffron
kept me up until the small hours yakking about how excited she was about the
party. Thanks for that great idea!’ I added sarcastically to George, who lifted
the mug in acknowledgement.

‘Anything to help.’ He let his chair—my chair!—fall back to the
floor. ‘I’m sorry if Saffron got carried away, but it was a spur of the moment
thing. You looked as if you could do with some support and it was the best I
could think of.’

‘An Edwardian-themed house party? I’d hate to hear how
elaborate your well-thought-out ideas are!’

‘Come on, it’s better than you running up and down to London,
isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’

It occurred to me that it was nice to have someone to talk to
when I came in at the end of the day, but I pushed the thought firmly aside. I
pointed a finger at George instead. ‘But you’re going to help! I hold you
entirely responsible for the whole thing. If it wasn’t for you, I could have got
away with a couple of cocktails at a male stripper bar.’

George linked his hands behind his head and suppressed a smile.
‘Would that have been more your thing?’

‘Oh, all right, I’d have hated that too, but at least it would
have been over quickly.’ I hunched a shoulder. ‘I’m dreading this house party
already. I hate parties.’

‘Really?’

‘I never feel I belong,’ I said, remembering those awful
parties my father had made me go to. One awful party in particular. ‘I don’t
seem to fit in anywhere. I never have. Life with Mum was worlds apart from the
life I had in my father’s house, and after a while I didn’t belong in either of
them. It’s always been like that,’ I said.

I didn’t expect George to understand. He was the guy at the
centre of any party, the one everyone revolved around, the one who made the
party start just by walking in the door.

‘Saffron’s friends all think I’m weird,’ I added glumly. ‘We’ve
got absolutely nothing to say to each other. Still.’ I put my hands on my thighs
and made an effort to rouse myself. ‘It’s only one weekend and it’s what Saffron
wants. I just need to make a plan.’

‘Well, I don’t mind helping you with that,’ said George. ‘Let’s
do it in the pub.’

‘I don’t know...’

‘Oh, come on, it’s the least I can do to make up for landing
you with a party to organise in the first place,’ he cajoled. ‘It’s not like a
date, in case you’re still wondering if I’m going to turn into that weirdo you
were so concerned about! Think of it as repayment for the tea.’ He saw me
hesitating. ‘And it’s a lovely evening.’

It was. The earlier clouds had cleared to leave a sky flushed
with the promise of spring, and the air was soft and enticing. In spite of
myself, I glanced longingly out of the window.

There was no use pretending that I wasn’t tempted. ‘All right.’
I looked down at my black trousers and the taupe jacket I wore over a
long-sleeved T shirt. ‘Give me five minutes to change.’

When I went back into the kitchen, I was pulling a cardigan
over a simple blue T-shirt, and George’s brows lifted at the sight of the
mint-green skirt that stopped just above my knees. He got to his feet, eyeing my
legs with undisguised appreciation.

‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen your legs
before.’

I tugged down my sleeves in a self-conscious gesture, and
willed the stupid flush to fade from my cheeks. ‘I always wear trousers for
work.’

‘I can see why. It would be far too distracting for your
colleagues, otherwise.’

‘I shouldn’t have to worry about what I’m wearing,’ I said
grouchily, mainly because I was ruffled by the way he was looking at me. It was
only a skirt, for heaven’s sake! ‘Do you think the men I work with care about
what
they
look like? But if I want to be taken
seriously, I have to look professional at all times.’

‘That explains all the severe suits.’

‘And why I like to wear a skirt sometimes when I’m not
working.’

‘You wore trousers last night,’ George pointed out.

After some discussion, it had been decided that Saffron would
spend the rest of the day with Roly, while George and I went back to work. Roly
had been all for Saffron staying the night at the Hall too, but I had vetoed
that, afraid that if Saffron got too comfortable she would never leave. We had
compromised with the four of us meeting for dinner at the Hall, where plans for
the pre-wedding party had grown ever more elaborate before I managed to extract
my sister and take her back to the cottage. I knew that one night on my sofa bed
would be more than enough for her.

‘Of course,’ I told George, remembering the evening with a
grimace. Torn between the need to keep my sister under control, to please Roly
and—most difficult of all—to ignore the warm amusement in George’s eyes, I
hadn’t enjoyed dinner much. ‘If I’m with a client, it’s even more important to
look competent.’

George held the door open for me. ‘I don’t think Roly was
thinking like a client last night.’

‘No.’ I locked the door and tucked the key into my purse. Not
that there was much point in locking up when every Tom, Dick and George had a
key, but it was hard to break London habits. I glanced up at George. ‘He
does
know that Saffron’s getting married, doesn’t
he?’

‘It would be hard not to with all the talk of weddings last
night.’

‘It’s just...he seems very smitten,’ I said, chewing the corner
of my bottom lip. ‘Saffron’s so pretty, and she can be delightful when she
wants, but she’s never had to think about anyone but herself. I wouldn’t want
him to get hurt.’

‘Are you worried about Roly himself, or about your client being
upset?’

‘Both,’ I said frankly.

‘Well, don’t. Roly’s obviously besotted with your sister, but
he’ll be content to adore her from afar. He has surprisingly old-fashioned
notions about being a gentleman, and he’d never take out any disappointment on
you.’

I’d been surprised, in fact, that Saffron hadn’t shown more
interest in George, but she clearly didn’t know quite what to make of him, and
she didn’t have the sharpest sense of humour in the world. Mind you, who needed
a sense of humour when you had silver gilt hair, emerald eyes and a siren’s
body?

Saffron clearly felt much more at home with Roly’s uncritical
adoration. George had teased her and flattered her, but it was obvious that he
wasn’t bowled over by her.

I tried really hard not to feel pleased about that.

* * *

The Whellerby Arms was a traditional village pub. It had
a low, beamed ceiling, plain, serviceable wooden furniture and was mercifully
free of slot machines, piped music or padded banquettes.

I found a table in the corner while George went to the bar, and
got out my notebook and pen. Gathering up the cardboard coasters and stacking
them in a neat pile, I watched George under my lashes. There was a lot of
laughing and back-slapping and hand-shaking going on. I saw him bend his head
down to an elderly man who was leaning on the bar. He was listening intently,
nodding, and then he smiled and a strange feeling stirred in the pit of my
stomach.

Hunger, I told myself firmly. I hoped George would bring some
nuts.

He did. I pounced on the packet as he tossed it onto the table
and tore it open.

‘No lunch,’ I said through a mouthful of peanuts.

I had chosen to sit on the wooden trestle with my back to the
wall, assuming that George would take the stool opposite. Too late, I remembered
that it was a mistake to make assumptions as far as George was concerned, and to
my dismay he sat beside me and stretched out his long legs.

He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ I mumbled, edging surreptitiously away.

I really resented the way George made me nervous. I wasn’t the
type to lose my head over a handsome face. I’d done that once before, and I was
never going to make that mistake again. I believed that integrity and humour and
intelligence were far more attractive than looks, and yet the moment my gaze
caught the lean line of his jaw or the creases around his eyes or that telltale
dent in his cheek, which deepened when he was trying not to smile, my heart
would stumble and a warmth would uncoil unnervingly inside me. It was all very
unsettling.

To distract myself, I brushed the peanut crumbs from my
fingers, pushed my hair behind my ears, and picked up my pen. ‘SAFFRON’S PARTY,’
I wrote neatly at the top of the page. ‘1. Invitations. 2. Costumes. 3.
Caterers.’

‘You’re very organised,’ said George.

‘I’m going to manage this like any other project,’ I said,
pausing to pop a few more peanuts in my mouth. ‘That means have a clear plan,
and setting SMART goals.’

‘Sounds efficient.’ He lounged beside me, his solid thigh only
inches from mine. ‘What’s a smart goal when it’s at home?’

‘Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic and Time-bound.’ I
ticked them off on my fingers.

That dent in his cheek deepened. ‘It’s a party, Frith. There’s
only one goal for a party, and that’s for everyone to have a good time.’

‘That’s all you know.’ I clicked my teeth pityingly. ‘This
party is about a lot more than that. It’s about impressing all Saffron’s friends
and boosting her reputation. People only get to have a good time once that’s
achieved, and that means I’m going to have to do more than shove some white wine
in a bucket of ice and put out a few bowls of crisps.

‘That’s where the goals come in,’ I told him, tapping my pen
against my list. ‘You’ve got to be specific about what needs to be done. Take
the dinner.’ I had managed to talk Saffron out of a full-scale ball and we had
agreed a formal dinner for a maximum of thirty guests in the state dining room.
‘I can barely manage cheese on toast,’ I admitted, ‘so I’m going to have to find
some local caterers who can produce a spectacular Edwardian banquet.’

‘Why don’t you ask Mrs Simms?’ said George.

‘I thought she was the housekeeper?’

‘She is, but she’s a brilliant cook too. She’d need some help,
of course, but she’s got various nieces in the village, and extra work is always
welcome.’

‘OK, that sounds good.’ I drew a neat arrow next to ‘Caterers’
and wrote ‘Contact Mrs Simms.’ ‘Excellent.’ I tapped the pen thoughtfully
against my teeth, then added ‘Menu, Accommodation, Decoration, Games???’ to my
list before noticing that George wasn’t paying attention. He was looking at my
knees instead, and I wriggled a bit so that I could tug my skirt down.

‘Do you run your whole life like this?’ he asked, sounding
distracted.

‘All the time,’ I said.

‘What about relationships?’

‘What about them?’

‘You can’t plan a relationship.’

‘I disagree,’ I said. ‘I don’t have time for a serious
relationship in my current-five year plan, but that will definitely figure in my
next one. I’ll be thirty-three by then, and it might be time to think about
settling down.’

George was staring at me. ‘You’re kidding? You actually have a
five-year plan? Like a totalitarian regime?’ He laughed. ‘Do you give yourself
quotas and send in the secret police if you don’t make them?’

Colour crept up my throat. ‘It’s well established that clear
goals are the key to a successful career,’ I said stiffly.

‘So what’s your plan for finding that serious relationship?’
George picked up his beer and eyed me over the rim of his glass. ‘Do you have a
smart goal for that too?’

He obviously thought I was nuts, but I didn’t care. ‘It’s too
early to be specific. I’m working on this five-year plan for now.’