The One You Really Want (44 page)

‘That's a lot.' Zac nodded.

‘Spare pair of shoes. Manolos, of course.'

‘Ouch,' said Zac.

‘And an alarm clock and a jar of olives,' Janice said happily. ‘Oh, and a travel iron.'

‘Jesus. So is he dead?'

‘No, but he's completely ruined my lovely bay tree. Went flying backwards and squashed it flat. And he smashed the pot. Oh, thank you, darling.' Accepting a cup of coffee from Nancy, Janice went on, ‘Anyway, I'd been yelling blue murder and my neighbours all came out to see what was going on. They sat on him until the police arrived. And that was it, he was arrested and carted off.' She rummaged busily in her bag, producing a newspaper. ‘And I'm a heroine!'

‘You've always been my heroine,' said Zac.

‘That's not all. Lots of lovely publicity for you too, darling.' Smugly, Janice turned to page five.

Nancy and Zac gazed at the headline - Wallop! Brave Janice beats mugger - above a photograph of Janice and her black eyes, beaming triumphantly and brandishing her bag. To be honest, the bag had come out of it better than Janice. It was photogenic, the star of the show.

‘Here we go, in the third column,' Janice pointed to the relevant paragraph. ‘“It's a Zac Parris bag, my pride and joy,” said feisty Janice. “I wasn't going to let some big sweaty oik take it. Now I love it even more - from now on, a Zac Parris bag shall always be my weapon of choice.”'

There was another photo showing the bag in close-up, and a further quote from Janice saying, ‘Zac's wonderful bags are like me - they might look like a soft touch, but they certainly pack a punch!'

‘You're a star.' Zac was delighted. ‘This is fantastic. I owe you one - oh, you
bad
girl!'

Tired of waiting for her chocolate buttons, Doreen had leapt back onto Janice's lap, attempted to climb inside her bag, lost her balance and spilled coffee all over the newspaper spread out on the desk.

‘I was going to frame that page,' Zac complained.

‘Darling, I've got fifty more copies in the car. Anyway, it's not just that newspaper.' Janice preened. ‘I'm in practically all of them, even the
Telegraph. And
I'm on Richard and Judy at five o'clock.'

‘This is getting surreal.' Nancy, clearing away the uppermost coffee-stained pages, stopped and stared.

‘I know! This week Richard and Judy, next week Parkinson! I mean, this could give my career just the boost it needs!'

‘Actually, I meant this.' Nancy was gazing in disbelief at uncovered, un-coffee-stained page 26, part of the paper's fashion section. ‘That's my . . . that's
my
bag.'

It was, there was no doubt about it. Under the heading Must-Have Bag of the Season was a photograph of her very own bag. ‘Zac Parris, London's best-kept secret . . .' Nancy read aloud ‘. . . this fabulous custom-made bag sells for £299 and you get to choose your own colours. Just call 0207 blah blah or visit the website . . .'

‘Copycats,' exclaimed Janice. ‘But I was on page five, so I was first.'

‘How did this happen?' Zac was bemused.

‘I don't know, but this is the paper Tabitha works for.' Nancy took out her mobile, into which Tabitha's number was programmed.

Zac frowned. ‘I thought you said she was a financial journalist. '

‘I did. But Tabitha was the one who took that photo of my bag. When we were doing our make-up in the loos at the Tipsy Prawn, she pulled out a digital camera and . . . hi, it's me.'

‘Hi, you.' Tabitha sounded as if she was grinning from ear to ear. ‘I wondered how long it would take to hear from you this morning.'

‘So it was you. You told the fashion editor at your paper about Zac's bag.'

‘OK. Guilty confession time,' said Tabitha. ‘I'm the fashion editor.'

Nancy inwardly digested this information. It was like Princess Anne admitting that she'd whipped off her kit and posed for
Playboy
.

The silence lengthened. Finally Tabitha said gaily, ‘Poor you, plunged into shock. I know. Hardly the usual kind, am I? The thing is, you don't have to be a great artist to appreciate great art. Some people can't sing to save their lives but they still enjoy listening to music. And just because I don't choose to dress like a fashion victim doesn't mean I can't put together decent outfits for other people and write convincingly about next season's pin-striped bikinis.'

Dumbstruck, Nancy said, ‘But . . . but you said you were a financial journalist.'

‘Well, wouldn't you? It's embarrassing, doing this job! I mean, God, it's not as if a piece about padded shoulders is ever going to change the world. As soon as anyone finds out what I really do, they think I'm a complete airhead,' Tabitha protested, ‘and I'm really not. I've got a first-class degree in economics, for crying out loud. I always wanted to work in financial journalism, but the paper offered me a start in this department and I just, well, kind of got stuck here.'

‘Right,' Nancy said faintly. She looked down at the fashion editor's by-line. ‘Who's Kate Harris?'

Except, of course, it was all coming back to her now. Tabitha's surname was Harris.

‘Kate's my middle name. I was saving Tabitha for when I got a proper job in finance. Look, I'm sorry I fibbed to you, but I was desperate to impress Connor. I mean, fashion editors can be downright weird - lots of people think we're all barking mad - and I didn't want to put him off.'

Doing her best to sound concerned rather than hopeful, Nancy said, ‘Do you think it would?'

‘Oh, he knows now. I told him last night,' Tabitha rattled on happily. ‘Now that he knows me, he's absolutely fine about it. Thank God!'

‘Well, um . . . good.' Nancy tried hard to quash the twinge of disappointment. Ashamed of herself, she said hurriedly, ‘What made you choose Zac's bag?'

‘It's a great bag! Everyone in the office loves it! Besides, it's my way of thanking you.'

‘For what?' said Nancy, although she'd already guessed.

‘You introduced me to Connor. I
owe
you,' Tabitha exclaimed. ‘Crikey, you did me a
huge
favour! I thought it would be nice to do one in return.' Cheerfully she went on, ‘After this, Zac's bound to give you a bonus!'

The phone on the desk began to ring. Zac, snatching it up, said, ‘Hello, Zac Parris. Yes, it is. Oh, right. Great!' Waggling his eyebrows excitedly at Nancy and Janice, he listened some more and said, ‘
How
many? Hang on, let me just grab a pen . . .'

Rose felt like an old hand, showing Zac's father the sights of London. Having hopped off the bus at Trafalgar Square, she and William made their way down to the Thames and began walking across the Hungerford Bridge. Ahead of them on the other side of the river, the Millennium Wheel glinted white in the sunshine. William's face fell when he saw it.

‘What rotten luck. Not working.'

Rose, who had thought the same thing the first time she'd caught sight of the wheel, felt wonderfully superior. ‘It is. Look, it's just moving really slowly. You expected to see it whizz round, didn't you? Like a ferris wheel.'

‘I'm just an innocent country bumpkin.' William's eyes fanned into creases at the corners. ‘I'll never be a smart city slicker like you.'

Rose experienced a warm glow in her stomach, not because of the compliment but because it was so nice to be in the company of such a gently humorous, genuinely nice man.

‘More often than not, smart city slicker types don't have any manners. They just elbow you in the ribs and shove you out of the way. You have lovely manners,' said Rose. ‘And you grow all your own vegetables. How many city slickers can say they do that?'

‘How many city slickers can knit?' countered William.

‘Heaven forbid.' Rose smiled, picturing an all-important board meeting with everyone in their smart suits sitting around a polished table, furiously knitting away as they discussed unit trusts or whatever it was that people at important board meetings discussed.

‘And how many have ever sneaked out of their fancy offices in the middle of the day to ride the Millennium Wheel?' said William.

‘Well, to be fair some of them may have done that.'

William raised his bag. ‘With homemade ham and pickle sandwiches and a thermos of tea?'

‘Probably not,' Rose agreed.

‘There, you see, they don't know what they're missing.' Linking his arm companionably through Rose's, William said with satisfaction, ‘Country bumpkins win over city slickers every time.'

 

Four hours later they made their way home, William having gallantly insisted on escorting Rose back to her door even though it was out of his way. As they meandered through the gardens of Fitzallen Square, enjoying the emergent signs of spring and breathing in the smell of damp earth and greenery, footsteps on gravel sounded ahead of them.

Next moment Brigadier Brough-Badham rounded the path, hesitating when he saw who he was about to pass. Something in his expression changed, the habitual grimness giving way to uncertainty verging on panic.

As they drew closer he slowed his pace. Above the collar of his white shirt a blotchy flush materialised and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like a stuck table tennis ball. Mesmerised, Rose watched it bob.

Finally Brigadier Brough-Badham nodded in acknowledgement, cleared his throat and said, ‘Good afternoon . . . ah, Rose.' Bob, bob, bob-bob went the Adam's apple. ‘And . . . er, how are you today?'

Rose was speechless. If she'd been wearing heels she would have toppled off them. Fighting the urge to laugh she nodded carefully and said politely, ‘Good afternoon, um, Geoffrey. I'm very well, thank you.'

Heavens, it was like something out of
Pride and Prejudice
.

‘Well, good. Very good.'

‘And you, Geoffrey? Are you well?'

The Brigadier cleared his throat again. ‘Yes, yes, very well thank you. Marjorie and I are both extremely, um, well.'

‘I'm very pleased to hear it.' Rose smiled. ‘Hasn't it been a beautiful day?'

Bob-bob, bob-bob went the Brigadier's Adam's apple, like a tiny dinghy cast helplessly adrift in a wild ocean. ‘Very nice, yes, very nice day indeed. Well, better be getting on . . . off to the newsagent to pick up Marjorie's magazine.'

‘Enjoy the rest of your afternoon,' Rose said pleasantly.

‘Friend of yours?' said William when the Brigadier was out of earshot.

‘Next-door neighbour.'

‘Good to get along with your neighbours. Well, within reason.' William's tone was rueful. ‘At least he doesn't want to get you into bed like mine does.'

‘No danger of that,' Rose said with amusement. ‘I wouldn't imagine I'm the Brigadier's type.'

‘Then again, did you see the way his Adam's apple was going up and down? You never know,' William gave her a nudge, ‘you may have more of an effect on him than you think.'

‘Either that,' Rose said lightly, ‘or his shirt collar's too tight.'

Rennie had a plan and it was about to be put into action. He'd waited long enough; now he had made up his mind to act. Rose had gone out for the evening with William. Thanks to the recent surge in demand for Zac's handbags, Nancy was working overtime at the shop frantically processing orders and wasn't expecting to be home before midnight. The timing couldn't be more perfect. Carmen was upstairs in the bath. Any minute now she'd come down and be hugely impressed to find him preparing dinner.

Well, taking the just-delivered pizzas out of their boxes. And opening a decent bottle of wine.

Hearing the faint creak of her footsteps on the stairs, Rennie felt his throat constrict and his heart begin to quicken. Ridiculous; he'd never even experienced stage fright, let alone been nervous at the prospect of declaring how he felt about a woman to her face.

Except, come to think of it, he never had. Had never needed to do that. They'd always made their own feelings so absolutely clear, it hadn't been necessary.

And what if Carmen didn't feel the same way? What if she turned him down flat, or burst out laughing? Or screamed in horror and locked herself in the bathroom? Oh
shit
.

‘My God, I'm having a hallucination.' Having padded barefoot into the kitchen, Carmen stopped dead in her tracks. ‘This can't be happening. What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?'

She was right. It was without doubt a startling sight. Out of sheer blind panic, and without even realising what he was doing, Rennie had grabbed the J-Cloth and a bottle of spray kitchen cleaner and was frenziedly scrubbing the worktop.