Never Too Late

NEVER TOO LATE

CATHY KELLY

Evie is a hopeless romantic who’s

never let her hair down, and marrying

Simon isn’t going to help. Her sister

Cara’s a walking disaster when it

comes to relationships; and her best

friend Olivia is married to a man who

doesn’t appreciate her.

When they all go home to Ballymoreen for Christmas, Evie’s father announces that he’s getting remarried. Evie feels like she’s reached rock bottom. But it’s never too late for things to get better - and a guest at her father’s wedding is about to change their lives forever.., ‘Plenty of sparky humour’ The Times

‘Sharply observed and readable’ Woman’s Realm

‘A tour-de-force of the Jilly Cooper genre’ Lifetimes

‘Covering topics close to every woman’s heart with vivacious

humour’ Irish Post

‘Funny and clever’ Sunday World

‘Move over Maeve Binchy - Ireland could have a new writing

queen’ Star

Cathy Kelly is the No. 1 bestselling author of Woman to

Woman and She’s the One, both of which spent several

months on The Irish Times and The Sunday Times bestseller lists and were widely praised. Cathy Kelly is a journalist for the Sunday World newspaper in Dublin and

she lives in Co. Wicklow.

Praise for Cathy Kelly’s previous bestsellers:

‘Plenty of sparky humour’ The Times

‘A compulsive read’ Woman’s Weekly

‘All the ingredients of the blockbuster are here … a

page turner’ Sunday Independent

‘Sharply observed and readable’ Woman’s Realm

“Covering topics close to every woman’s heart with

vivacious good humour’ Irish Post

“A tour-de-force of the Jilly Cooper genre’ Lifetimes

Also by Cathy Kelly

Woman to Woman

She’s the One

Never Too Late

Cathy Kelly

HEADLINE

Copyright Š 1999 Cathy Kelly

The right of Cathy Kelly to be identified as the Author of

the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 1999

by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

First published in paperback in 2000

by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

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 without the prior written

permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated

in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

it is published and without a similar condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 7472 6058 3

Typeset by

Letterpart Limited, Reigate, Surrey

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

A division of the Hodder Headline Group

338 Euston Road

LONDON NW1 3BH

www. headline, co.uk

www. hodderheadline.com

CHAPTER ONE

The breathless sound of ‘Santa Baby’ trickled from the

sales office’s radio next door, a soft childlike voice singing about wanting a yacht, a flat and a string of race horses. At

least it was better than ‘White Christmas’ which Evie had

heard about ten times over the past week and which she

was now practically singing in her sleep. If Ring Crosby

hadn’t been dead, she’d have been tempted to kill him.

Evie took a moment to stretch her fingers over the computer keyboard. She was tired; she’d been in the office since eight, typing most of that time, in between explaining Microsoft Word to the new junior who’d sworn a hole in a pot she was fluent in it during her interview. From the way she had gazed blankly during most of the morning, Evie wondered if the girl was even fluent in English, never mind computer language.

The fragrant scent of Javan Blue coffee drifted out from

the sales office. Evie sniffed the air longingly. She’d have

killed for a cup of coffee, the sensation of warm, full

bodied caffeine was just what she needed to give her an

energy boost. But she couldn’t have any.

She was on fruit tea - preferably lemon - and a litre and

a half of water every day. How else was she going to bare

her bum and thighs in a bikini on honeymoon if she didn’t

get rid of some of the cellulite?

From behind, her rear looked like a relief map of the

moon - not the sort of thing to expose to all and sundry on

the romantic isle of Crete. Unless lunar landscaped bums

suddenly became the latest holiday ‘must-have’, on a par

with a simply knotted sarong, sun-kissed skin and jelly flip

flops.

‘Getting rid of cellulite isn’t simply a two-week thing,

its a way of life,’ the beautician had said bossily the

previous week. ‘Especially when you’re getting older. Over

thirty-fives have to be more careful, you know,’ she’d

added meaningfully.

Evie would have liked to have asked how the hell the

beautician - twenty-two at a pinch - could speak so

confidently about cellulite and over thirty-fives. But she

didn’t. It was probably the same as just about every other

attribute - after thirty-five, everything got shrivelled,

wrinkled, droopy and smaller. Except for stomachs and

waists, which got miles bigger.

Determined not to look like a whale-sized lump of lard

in her bikini, Evie had drawn up an anti-cellulite plan

which would give her just over nine months to turn her

orange-peeled rear end into a smooth, supple, peach

skinned thing fit for exposure. Over one week into the

no-coffee-except-on-special-occasions regime, Evie felt

very virtuous. But, God, it was hard.

She tried to ignore the captivating smell of the percolator

and stretched her arms and shoulders in preparation for

another assault on the word processor.

As she flexed tired fingers, the fluorescent office light

caught her solitaire ring and it sparkled richly, the single

carat gleaming in the light. She held her hand out, admiring

the fat gold band with the simple, large diamond.

Simon had wonderful taste, although the ring was bigger

than she’d have chosen herself. But when your boyfriend took you out to dinner and presented you with an engagement ring which had probably cost as much as your

rackety, second-hand Ford Fiesta, you didn’t quibble over

whether the ring looked too big on your rather slender

fingers.

‘My darling, this is wonderful. I’ve never been to a

Michelin-starred restaurant before …’

He looked deep into her eyes, his piercing blue ones

searching the depths of her hazel eyes, his handsome face

alight with adoration. I wanted to take you somewhere

special because I’ve got the most important question to ask

you.’

A strand of lustrous dark hair had escaped from the elegant

knot at the nape of her neck and he gently twisted it behind

her ear before his fingers traced the contours of her face

He loved her face, loved kissing the petite upturned nose

and the full, ripe mouth; adored tracing the fine eyebrows that arched over her wide, heavily fringed hazel eyes.

‘I should have known you were a supermodel from the

moment I met you, my darling Evie,’ he always said. ‘You are

so beautiful, so graceful.’

For once, he didn’t say it. Instead, he clicked his fingers

autocratically and a trio of musicians appeared from nowhere,

playing gypsy violin music that would forever remind her of

this magical moment.

He smiled then, the enigmatic smile that had fascinated her

all those months ago when they’d met in Venice, both waiting

for the power boat to take them to the Hotel Cipriani. Slowly,

he produced a Tiffany leather box from his suit pocket, slid to his knees in front of her and opened it.

A cluster of exquisite diamonds shone out at her. Their

wonderful shimmer, and the tears of joy clouding her eyes,

meant she could barely see his face.

‘Will you marry me, my love?’ he said …

‘Have you finished that report yet?’ inquired her boss.

Evie gave Davis Wentworth a quelling glance at the

very notion that a report which he needed by twelve

wouldn’t be ready by that time. Honestly, after seven years

as his personal assistant didn’t he realise that she’d work

her fingers to the bone rather than be late with any piece

of work? Even a narcolepsy-inducing document on the

latest alarm specifications for one of Wentworth Alarms’

most important customers.

‘Of course it’s ready,’ she said evenly. ‘It’s been on your

desk for over an hour’

‘Sorry, Evie,’ Davis muttered, his mind obviously elsewhere.

‘I should have known better’

He shuffled off in the direction of his office, open suit

jacket flapping around his broad hips. He certainly wasn’t

sticking to his diet, Evie sighed to herself, watching his

bulky figure navigate the small space between the filing

cabinets and the new junior’s desk.

There really was no point buying Davis low-fat soups

and mayonnaise-free sandwiches for lunch instead of his

favourite pork pies because when he went home, he

obviously sat in front of the fridge all night and just

guzzled. Poor thing, she was fond of him. But if he didn’t

go on a diet soon, he’d never make his sixtieth birthday.

Evie glanced at her watch and realised she’d have to go

out and buy his lunch soon. She’d better stop daydreaming

about handsome men and gypsy music if she wanted to be

finished by one.

Stretching her tired fingers one last time, she admired

her engagement ring and stared blankly at her keyboard.

Simon’s proposal had been lovely, in its own way. The

Carriage Lamp was a pretty restaurant, although the

atmosphere of their romantic evening had been rather

spoiled initially because they’d gone there when the Early Bird menu was still operating. And listening to the three-year-old at the next table screaming lustily for ‘More fith

and chips, pleeth!’ had been a bit off putting.

‘Thank heavens they’ve gone,’ Simon had said with relief

when the child and her family departed after twenty

minutes of tantrums. ‘I couldn’t concentrate with that

noise.’

‘Concentrate on what?’ Evie had asked, not really paying

that much attention because she was wondering if the

waitress was ever going to bring their crab cake starters.

She was starving.

‘On what I have to ask you,’ he said nervously.

Evie stopped craning her neck and stared at the man

she’d been dating for eighteen months. Simon pushed his

hornrimmed glasses higher on the bridge of his aquiline

nose and took a deep breath. His bony face was earnest

and his grey eyes were serious. Very serious.

Evie, who hated dramatic moments with a vengeance,

caught her breath in momentary fear. What was he going

to say? It was all over? Their relationship was kaput?

Experience had taught her never to rely on anything or

anyone. She’d thought things were going pretty well

between them but the hardest lesson she’d ever learned

was that you never really knew what another person was

thinking. Until it was too late.

‘What have you got to ask me?’ she snapped, doing her

usual trick of sounding sharp to hide her nerves.

Simon said nothing for a long moment. Then he reached

into his navy blazer jacket, extracted a small box and

opened it smoothly. A ring sat on a fat velvet cushion, a

diamond ring that wasn’t as big as the Ritz, but was

certainly in the same ballpark.

Evie goggled at it. Her first thought was that it wasn’t

the sort of engagement ring a man like Simon would buy.

Good taste was his bible and this large, in-your-face

diamond had surpassed the good taste barrier and was

rolling down the slippery ‘where there’s muck, there’s

brass’ slope. Not having much experience in the diamond