Never Too Late (2 page)

ring department, she momentarily wondered how much it

had cost, picturing the normally frugal Simon waving his

chequebook recklessly in Weir’s, saying ‘money no object’.

Thousands, at least.

Then she gasped. An engagement ring. It was an engagement

ring.

‘Simon!’ She blinked at him in astonishment.

‘Evie,’ he said, searching her face for an answer or at

least some encouragement. ‘Will you marry me? I know it’s

a bit sudden,’ he went on, before she had a chance to

answer. ‘But, will you—?’

She went pink with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

How

could she not have known? She’d always thought

those women who claimed they didn’t know their boyfriends

were about to pop the question were on a par with

women who were shocked when they gave birth to babies

in the loo, swearing they hadn’t a clue they were pregnant

and having hysterics when a baby plopped out. I mean,

Evie had always thought, how could you not know?

But she hadn’t. She’d never guessed that Simon wanted

to marry her. So much for female intuition.

‘Will you?’ he asked, his eyes anxious.

Evie clasped his hand warmly and gave him a dazzling

smile.

‘Of course, you dope. I’d love to!’

He leaned over the table and kissed her swiftly, his lips

cool on hers. Sitting down quickly, he grinned at her.

‘Do you like the ring?’ he asked, his kind face suddenly

anxious.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said truthfully.

Reverently taking the ring from the box, Simon held it

in one hand and looked meaningfully into Evie’s eyes. He

didn’t make a move to put it on her finger and she didn’t

have to glance down at her left hand to know why.

She knew it was there without looking at it: the solid

gold band she’d worn for over seventeen years. Tony’s ring,

her wedding ring. She practically never took it off, except

for gardening when dirt always got into the inscription: Forever. It was a beautiful inscription, she’d always thought. So romantic

‘Do you want to?’ asked Simon softly, eyes on the

wedding ring.

Evie nodded. She was used to the gold ring, used to its

weight on her finger, its familiar feel. But she slid it off

gently. Her fingers were thinner than they had been when

she’d first put it on, while pregnant with Rosie, so it came

off easily. She put it carefully in her handbag without

looking at Simon. He’d never know what that ring meant

to her, nobody ever would. When your husband was

tragically killed at the age of twenty-one, leaving you with

nothing but a tiny baby, your wedding ring was supposed to

be the most precious thing in the world to you, a painful

symbol of all you’d lost. In those dark days when Evie felt

as if she’d lost everything, she’d had no time for mere

symbols. But people expected you to take great comfort

from things like wedding rings and happy family photos, so

she’d never revealed that she wanted to throw out every pain-filled reminder and rage at the futility of life.

Simon was waiting, patient as always. Evie looked up at

his kind, hopeful face and smiled, the sort of smile that

made her dimples appear.

A huge answering smile on his face, he slid the engagement

ring on to her finger.

‘I’m so glad,’ was all he could say.

He’d been so happy all evening, you’d think he’d won

the lottery, Evie thought happily every time she looked at

his face which was creased into an idiotic grin.

They’d drunk an entire bottle of white wine - Simon

had most of it. She’d never seen him drink that much

before: it had been funny. He’d gazed at her from behind

thick-lensed glasses, held her hand firmly in his and told

her she was lovely.

‘I’m very glad you’re marrying me,’ he’d said, slurring his

words a little.

Evie had stroked his sandy hair, smoothing the tufts he’d

unconsciously created by running one hand through it.

There had been no gypsy music, no champagne, no

electrical charge across the table as their hands met. Simon

Todd, a forty-one-year-old loss adjuster with a stylishly

decorated town house complete with courtyard garden,

and an obsession with squash, was no romantic hero.

He wasn’t the sort of fantasy man who’d flirt with a

beautiful stranger on an Italian jetty or fall to his knees in front of a packed restaurant and ask her to marry him to the sound of gypsy music.

But then, Evie smiled wryly to herself, she was no

supermodel either. Unless they came in thirty-seven-year

old versions with cellulite, stretch marks and a teenage

daughter.

Well, there was Iman, who was thirty-something and had a

teenage daughter, but she didn’t count. She was a Somalian

beauty who looked as though she’d been carved out of a

piece of precious ebony. Rail thin, she had long, long legs and an enviously full bosom. Evie certainly didn’t have the long

legs but she did match up when it came to bosoms.

She looked down at her own sensible Marks and Spencer’s

white blouse. Even if maybe she needed an eye job to get rid of her crow’s feet, she certainly didn’t need a boob job. 36C

was enough for anyone.

Simon loved her boobs. Not that he ever actually said anything; it was the way he looked at her, especially when she wore her velvet jersey dress, the one she was wearing

to his office Christmas party tonight.

Blast! Evie groaned to herself. She’d almost forgotten her

lunchtime hair appointment to get ready for the party. She

wouldn’t be able to buy Davis’s lunch after all. One of the

other secretaries would have to get it. And she had so much

work to finish before she left the office, not to mention

checking whether her latest junior had managed to wipe

out the company’s entire computer files by mistake when

she was supposed to be typing a couple of letters.

Waiting patiently in the hairdresser’s an hour later,

flicking through Hello! and people-watching, Evie wondered

if she should go for something different from her

usual style. She touched her light brown hair tentatively.

She’d worn it the same way since she was twenty. It hung

dead straight to her shoulders from a centre parting, and

most of the time she tied it back in a neat plait, a style that would have looked severe on anyone else. But it was hard

to look severe when you had wide-spaced hazel eyes, an

upturned nose and dimples that appeared in plump cheeks

when you smiled.

Evie longed to look autocratic: she dreamed of having

Slavic cheekbones, a ski-jump nose she could stare down

and a steely gaze that reduced people to quivering wrecks.

But with a face that was most commonly described as

‘cute’, steely looks were out of the question. Being petite

with the figure of a pocket Venus didn’t help - and the

figure of a Venus who was partial to toasted cheese and

mayonnaise sandwiches at that. At least Rosie had inherited

her father’s lean build. Evie wouldn’t wish a lifetime of

rice cakes and morning weigh-ins on anybody.

She hated being cute, which was one of the reasons she

frequently set her face into a frosty glare, her ‘cross old cow’ face as Rosie laughingly called it.

“I don’t know why you do that, Mum,’ she objected.

‘You give people completely the wrong impression of you.’

Rosie simply didn’t understand, Evie thought. Cute

equalled dumb equalled people walking all over you, and

that, she had decided long ago, was never going to happen

again.

She sighed and was trying to imagine herself four inches

taller, a stone thinner and with a sophisticated short haircut

when a tall striking woman with a patrician profile walked

past the salon reception desk. Swathed in caramel-coloured

cashmere, her hair a gleaming chocolate brown bob, she

looked as if being autocratic was second nature to her.

Evie watched the other woman’s reflection in the mirror

before re-examining herself critically. Maybe a rich brown

rinse would suit her, would lift her hair colour. Yes, that

was it. She’d have her hair dyed. After all, she needed to

get something different for the wedding in September, so

what better time to experiment than now?

She pictured herself in a soignee white silk gown, rich,

dark hair cut in a bob like the cashmere woman’s, a bob

that brushed against the triple-stranded pearl choker he’d given her for the ceremony.

‘They were my mother’s, they’re family heirlooms,’ he

murmured in his exotic French accent. I want you to have

them, my darling…’

‘Hi, Evie,’ said her stylist, Gwen, breezily. ‘What am I

doing for you today? Cut, blowdry, or complete transformation?’

she joked.

Evie hesitated for just one moment at the word ‘transformation’.

‘A trim and a blowdry,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m going to a

Christmas party tonight and I thought I’d combine getting

it cut with having it done for the party.’

‘Sensible,’ Gwen nodded. ‘Let’s get your hair washed

then.’

Sensible, thought Evie grimly, as the cashmere lady

sailed past again in a mist of Chanel No. 5, glamour

incarnate. I’m always sensible. It should be my middle

name. Evie Sensible Fraser.

As Gwen cut, they chatted.

‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ she asked, head

bent as she wielded the scissors on Evie’s wet hair.

‘Rosie and I are going home to my dad’s as usual. My

younger sister Cara’s coming too.’

‘So which one of you will be slaving over the cooker?’

Gwen asked. ‘You or your sister?’

‘Dad, actually,’ Evie said. ‘He’s always cooked Christmas

lunch since my mother passed away. He’s a better cook

than I am; he’s certainly a better cook than Cara. She can

barely make tea.’

The stylist laughed. ‘I’m a bit like that myself. I live on

salads and when it comes to hot food, baked beans are my

forte.’

‘I doubt if Cara can cook beans,’ Evie remarked. ‘She

lives on takeaways.’

‘Can’t be good for her,’ Gwen said.

Evie thought of her sister: eleven years younger, a good

six inches taller so she stood five ten in her socks, and still carrying the puppy fat which had plagued her teenage

years. Living off pizzas and chicken chow mein while she’d

completed her graphic design degree, hadn’t done much

for her skin either.

She’d have been so pretty if she’d looked after herself

properly and bothered with make-up. But Cara had never

been interested in making the best of herself, Evie thought

in exasperation, and never listened to her elder sister’s

advice when it came to self-improvement. Look at those

shapeless outfits she wore, baggy combat trousers or hopelessly long skirts that reached her ankles worn with baggy

tunics that covered everything else. She looked like a

Greenham Common woman who’d got lost in time. Evie

had given up trying to beautify Cara, although it broke her

heart to see her sister hiding under all those horribly

masculine clothes.

If she didn’t make an effort soon, she’d be stuck on the

shelf watching endless repeats of Ally McBeal with a tub of

ice cream for company while other people led fulfilled

lives. And that wasn’t much fun, as Evie could testify.

‘What’s the party tonight? Business or pleasure?’ Gwen

asked, wrenching her thoughts away from constant worry

over Cara.

‘My fiance’s office do,’ she answered. She still felt a

frisson of excitement at the very word ‘fiance’. It was such

an evocative word, representing romance and stability all

at the same time. Someone who loved you so much they

wanted to marry you.

‘fiancee Oooh,’ squealed the stylist. ‘You got engaged?

Congratulations! But when? Show me the ring!’

Evie blushed and held her hand up for Gwen to admire

her engagement ring.

‘I don’t know how I missed that,’ she said, eyes widening

as she admired the large rock on Evie’s small hand. ‘It’s

gorgeous,’ she sighed. ‘But when did you get engaged?

Recently?’

‘Late-September, actually,’ Evie explained. ‘You weren’t

here the last time I came in for a haircut.’

Tell me everything,’ commanded Gwen. “I need some

romance in my life.’

Evie grinned. ‘Don’t we all?’

It felt a bit weird to be getting engaged at her age. Evie

always associated engagements with besotted twenty

somethings who’d been longing for a wedding pageant

complete with seventeen bridesmaids since they were

primary schoolgirls playing with Barbie in her wedding

dress. Upholding her outwardly conservative image, she’d

pointed out that most older brides stuck to sedate cream

two-pieces, demure hats and register office affairs.

‘I’d hate to look foolish,’ she’d told Simon. Looking

foolish would have killed her. Evie strove for dignity in

everything. It was the only thing she’d had to rely on when

she’d found herself a widowed mother while little more

than a child herself. People might have taken advantage of

a sweet, over-friendly twenty-one year old with twinkling