Never Too Late (67 page)

reckoned it was far more likely that she had remembered

Evie’s kindness to her that night and wanted to reward it

in some way with a decent wedding present. Hugh

looked like the sort of man who only remembered golf

handicaps and how much money he was worth. Simon’s

wedding wouldn’t register in his mind. But she said

nothing.

She picked at her sesame prawn toast, sorry that she was

wasting such a nice meal by feeling ill and not even slightly

hungry. Her throat was getting sore and she felt fluey. She

wondered if Kite’s could magic up a hot whiskey for her?

That’d nip her impending ‘flu in the bud.

‘Now that’s something else I wanted to talk to you

about,’ Simon was saying, having eaten all his ribs. ‘Phillip

Knight and I were having a discussion this morning in the

boardroom …’

Evie didn’t hear anything else. She dropped her dainty

piece of toast in horror. Phillip Knight? The partner she

and Max had bumped into when they’d shared that illicit

lunch together. Had he told Simon that he’d disturbed a

cosy tete-a-tete between his future wife and her handsome

stepbrother? Of course he had. What else could such an

intimate meeting mean? Simon had a bit of spare rib stuck between his teeth. She stared at it, mesmerised and silent, waiting for the knife to fall.

The wedding list, Evie. We simply have to have one. I

know you’re dead set against it but come on, in this day

and age, you need one.’

Evie hated wedding lists, loo often she’d felt ashamed at

only being able to afford some tiny china cake knife on the

list because she was broke and couldn’t dream of coughing

up for six exquisite John Rocha wine glasses. Today, she

was passionately grateful for wedding lists.

‘Simon,’ she said, thrilled at the reprieve, ‘you’re right.

We do need one. Would you like to organise it?’

Shocked, he blinked at her, grey eyes wide behind his

glasses. “I can’t do it on my own,’ he said. We’ve got to do

it together, Evie. You are slagging me, aren’t you?’ he asked

suspiciously.

She grinned. ‘Yes, and you’ve got some spare ribs stuck

in your teeth.’

Simon went pink and dashed off to the loo to remove

it. Evie took advantage of his absence to order a glass of

red wine for herself. Simon disapproved of drinking at

lunchtime but she felt that something alcoholic would

cheer her up.

‘Are you sure you’ll be able to drive home after that?’ he

said reprovingly when he came back.

The next topic of conversation was wedding acceptances.

As it was her second wedding, Evie felt there was no

point going on with all the palaver about her father

inviting everyone to this joyous occasion, etc, etc, so the

invitations had asked people to reply to her address.

The replies had started to trickle in. People were thrilled

to attend the wedding of Evie Fraser and Simon Todd. A

few wondered where to send the presents and inquired

about a wedding list.

‘Mummy wants to buy us something special,’ Simon

said.

She could start with a washing machine, Evie thought.

Actually, she’s getting miserable, thinking about next

Christmas and all that,’ he added.

Evie felt sorry for him. His mother, a sweet but clingy

woman, treated Simon like an angel sent down from

Heaven to make her life liveable. It was a huge burden on

him, particularly as he was her only child. He’d spent every

Christmas since he was born with his mother. Evidently,

the thought that Simon would no longer be able to spend

endless hours with her had made her even more clingy

than usual.

‘I had an idea,’ he continued slowly. ‘If we sold both

houses and got one with a granny flat … What do you

think? I know it’s a lot to ask you but …’ He trailed off,

waiting for her reaction.

Evie was silent. She felt the door clang shut ominously.

Like Sleeping Beauty trapped in her tower, she was

trapped by Empire-line dresses, cream-embossed wedding

invitations, wedding lists - and Simon’s mother, Mary. She

had a sudden vision of the three of them, all playing bridge

in a noiseless house stuffed with anti-macassars, dusty

dried flowers and old Todd family pictures in tarnished

silver frames. All old before their time, days unbroken by

anything except the drudgery of work and the occasional

glass of sherry when the equally aged neighbours came round for tea and Mary Todd’s famed shortbread. It was a vision which horrified her.

‘It’s a lot to ask. Too much, isn’t it?’ Simon said quietly.

Unbidden, another vision fought its way into Evie’s head:

a vision of herself in twenty years’ time, lonely because she’d screwed up any chance of happiness, desperately hoping

Rosie would take her in so she wouldn’t have to live alone with the memories of Max and how he’d destroyed her future with Simon. That couldn’t happen! She wouldn’t lei

it. She didn’t want to turn into Simon’s mother.

‘It’s not too much to ask,’ she said firmly, unable to look

at him. “I know how much your mother relies on you.

You’d do the same for me.’

The key turned slowly in the lock, imprisoning her

forever. Eyes shining, Simon beamed at Evie across his

sizzling beef.

She forced herself to smile back, a false grimace that

Max would have seen through in a moment. Why did it

always come back to him?

‘You’re so good to me, Evie.’ Simon couldn’t contain his

delight.

If only you knew, she thought bitterly.

Rosie arrived home at the same time as Evie, flushed with

happiness and looking striking in a strappy little rust top

and denim skirt, both of which looked suspiciously new to

her mother.

‘Hiya, Mum,’ she carolled, practically dancing into the’

sitting room, long dark hair bouncing, sloe-black eyes

glittering.

‘You’re in a good mood,’ Evie said when she’d recovered

from a sudden burst of sneezing.

Rosie grinned at her, white teeth gleaming in her suntanned

face. ‘You’ll never guess …’

Evie threw herself on to the couch, lay down flat and

began to massage her aching temples. ‘I can’t guess today,

love. I can’t think for that matter. I’ve been coughing and

sneezing all day. I think I’m getting something.’

‘Poor Mum.’ Rosie perched on the edge of the coffee

table, obviously dying to impart her good news whether

Evie was dying or not. ‘I’ve got a job for the summer!’

‘Great.’ Evie raised her weary head and blew a proud

kiss in Rosie’s direction. ‘I told you I’d probably be able to

sort something out for you but you’d hate Wentworth

Alarms, so I’m glad you’ve got something else. What is it?’

‘A runner in Max’s production company,’ Rosie

answered joyously, not noticing the look of horror on her

mother’s face. ‘I told him I’d love to do something fun

like that for the summer and he said he’d set it up. I

went to see the production manager today and I start on

Wednesday. It’s being a gopher really, but I don’t care.’

‘That’s wonderful, darling,’ Evie said, the band of pain

around her temples tightening.

‘They’re starting filming scenes in Wicklow next week,’

gabbled Rosie. ‘I can’t wait.’ She rattled on energetically,

talking about what a lovely office DWS Productions had

and how she hadn’t seen Max but had met his personal

assistant, who was ‘like that Indian Miss World, utterly,

depressingly gorgeous’.

She would be, Evie muttered to herself. Probably

couldn’t type to save her life but she’d have other skills, none of them the sort of thing you could list on a CV unless you wanted a job in a Soho lap-dancing club.

Trying to be happy for Rosie’s sake, Evie made all the

right noises and agreed that, yes, Max was wonderful to

have set this up because lots of people probably wanted to

work in a production company as it was so glamorous.

‘I know I haven’t got paid yet,’ Rosie revealed, ‘but

they’re paying me loads more than I got last year in the

wool shop, so I went shopping and bought this.’ She patted

her new denim skirt and top happily.

When Rosie went off to phone her friends and tell them

the wonderful news that she had a job and new clothes into

the bargain, Evie made herself a hot lemon drink, added

some honey so it wouldn’t taste as vile, and took it off to bed.

Wentworth Alarms looked exactly the same as usual:

squat, redbrick and undoubtedly full of irate customers all

waiting for Evie to come back so they could be dealt with.

She parked her car in her usual space at ten to nine on

Tuesday morning and climbed out wearily. A blast of cool

July wind shot past, making her sneeze madly. Everything

felt so cold after the blissful heat of Spain. She’d been

shivering since she’d got up, despite all the lemon drinks

and the anti-‘flu tablets.

‘Evie!’ yelled a familiar voice. ‘Welcome back. Did you

have a lovely time? You look great, so brown.’

Lorraine was much browner, in fact, a wonderful bronze

straight out of a Clarins bottle. All in pale linen like

something from White Mischief, she looked as if she was

the one who’d just come back from a week in the sun.

‘Keep away or you’ll get this,’ snuffled Evie, pleased to

see Lorraine but not pleased at the thought of facing the

office after her week off.

‘I never get anything,’ said Lorraine, giving Evie a hug

anyway. ‘Craig says I’m as strong as an ox. You’ve missed so

much, you can’t imagine!’

‘What?’ asked Evie, startled for a brief moment out of

her Max and ‘flu misery.

‘Davis is resigning. Well, he has resigned. His health

means he can’t work anymore. What do you think of that?’

Evie shrugged. ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said wearily. ‘He’s

been like a bear with a sore head for the past six months

since he was diagnosed with M.E. I knew it was only a

matter of time.’

Aren’t you gutted?’ Lorraine asked, astonished. ‘You

worked for him for so long and he was always so nice to

you. Never to me, I might add. But he loved you.’

They’d reached the front door. Inside, the receptionist

was waving and smiling at Evie, who had no choice but to

smile inanely back.

She tried to bolster herself up. She couldn’t go into work

this gloomy. You had to separate work from personal life,

or so she’d told various junior members of staff who’d

sobbed from nine to five because their boyfriends had

dumped them or because the dreaded blue line had

appeared on their pregnancy testers. ‘You have to rise

above it and be professional in the office, no matter what’s

happening on the inside,’ Evie would lecture, while dispensing

hot tea and fig rolls. How irritating she must have

sounded.

‘Lorraine, all bosses move on and we’ve got to go with

the flow,’ she said finally. ‘Davis was nearing retirement

age, anyway, so he had to go sometime.’

“I suppose,’ Lorraine said. She made no move to open

the door, obviously loath to discuss this inside the building.

‘His nephew is taking over,’ she said quietly.

Evie did groan this time. ‘That eejit!’ she said. ‘We may

as well all look for new jobs then, because he’ll have us in

liquidation in three months.’

‘Not that nephew,’ Lorraine put in. ‘God, he couldn’t

arrange a piss up in a brewery! Another one. Davis’s

brother’s son from Belfast. Wait till you see him, Evie.

He’s blond, tall, an absolute screw. And his accent is

beautiful … so sexy. If you and I weren’t so in love with

Simon and Craig, we’d be murdering each other to get

near him!

‘C’mere,’ she continued, pushing the door open. ‘I love

the way you’ve left your hair down. It’s much softer than

in your usual plait. And where did you get that copper

coloured shirt? I don’t know why you don’t get glammed

up more often, it suits you.’

Rosie was in love with the world of TV films and couldn’t

stop talking about the hours it took to shoot just five

minutes of film.

‘It’s fascinating,’ she told her mother, lying on her back

on the grass eating an apple while Evie determinedly

weeded her tiny back garden. Weeds put prospective house

purchasers off, or so Simon had written in the painstakingly

typed memo he’d given her on the art of selling.

Weeds, peeling paint, and plants that looked as if they’d

been holidaying in the Sahara were all no-nos, apparently.

So were untidy kitchens, lots of junk, personal knickknacks

and too much furniture cluttering the place up and

making it hard for the buyers to imagine their bookcase

where yours was.

Evie had spent all Saturday morning de-junking the

sitting room until it was practically a Zen retreat, with no

magazines, no books, no family photos and no trinkets. She’d

removed the small table beside the window where she kept

her collection of china animals until she realised that the

table was always kept there to hide a bit of carpet where a

thirteen-year-old Rosie had spilled neat Ribena. Evie stuck