Rival Attractions & Innocent Secretary...Accidentally Pregnant Page 4

  Another minute and she’d be rushing off to town to buy paint and brushes, Charlotte acknowledged ruefully. What was coming over her? She had never felt this almost nest-building urge to improve her home before. It must be the unexpected balminess of the spring sunshine, she told herself, firmly refusing to give in to her sudden desire to get to work on the kitchen almost immediately.

  She had work to do. There would be time to spare for redecorating later in the year. If Oliver Tennant succeeded in taking her business away from her, she’d have plenty of time for playing with colour schemes and pots of paint.

  When her father had originally opened his office in the local town, he had bought a small three-storeyed Tudor building, sandwiched in between its fellows down one of the old cobbled streets that ran off from the market square.

  The site had advantages and disadvantages. The street had now been designated a conservation area, which gave it an appealing visual charm, an old-worldliness that suggested that within the building might be found the kind of thatched-roofed, rose-smothered country cottage of people’s dreams. The street was also a draw to tourists and visitors who came to the town, which meant that there always seemed to be someone standing outside the old-fashioned mullioned windows staring in at the details of properties for sale. Against that, the cobbled street outside was now a pedestrian-only thoroughfare, with handsome black and gold painted bollards at either end of it to deter any driver tempted to use it as a short cut. This meant that any would-be clients had to make their way to the office on foot. In the past, when they had been the only estate agency in the area, this had not mattered, but now, with Oliver Tennant opening up…

  His offices were on the outskirts of the town, not centrally placed like hers, but they were housed in the very large and popular shopping complex, purpose-built to accommodate the needs of the modern shopper and his or her car.

  Charlotte was frowning as she parked her own car on the municipal car park on waste ground behind the Town Hall. Today was market day, which meant that the market square would be closed to parkers.

  Sheila Walsh, who had been her father’s secretary-cum-office-manager and who had been with them for ten years, welcomed her into the office above the reception area with a smile and a cup of coffee. Sheila was a married woman in her late forties with two grown-up children and a husband in the police force. She was a sensible, attractive woman to whom tact and discretion were second nature. Charlotte had found her help invaluable when she had first returned home to take up the reins of the business. She might have the qualifications, she had acknowledged, but Sheila had something far more valuable. She had experience and a way of dealing with people that Charlotte envied.

  It had been at Charlotte’s insistence that her father had agreed that Sheila should be promoted to ‘office manager’ and be given a salary and a percentage of their profits commensurate with the amount of work she did for them.

  Without Sheila there was no way she could run the business as successfully as she did, Charlotte recognised, thanking her, and sitting down so that they could both go through the post.

  ‘The new place opens up officially today,’ Sheila commented. ‘I wonder what he’s like… the new man,’ she mused.

  Unwillingly Charlotte told her, ‘I met him last night at Adam’s and Vanessa’s dinner party.’

  It was part of Sheila’s skill that she never probed. She waited now in silence, her eyebrows slightly raised.

  She liked working with Charlotte. Initially, on hearing that her boss’s daughter was coming home to take over the business, she had been uncertain as to whether or not she would stay on, but once she had realised how much Charlotte genuinely valued her, and how soft-hearted she really was beneath her rather austere exterior, she had put all her reservations to one side, and, as she told people quite genuinely now, her work brought her immense pleasure and satisfaction.

  It saddened her that so many people misjudged Charlotte. Even her own husband had remarked, after first meeting her, that she was rather formidable. Sheila often wondered compassionately how it was that, while a woman could so easily see through another woman’s armour to her vulnerability, a man was completely deceived by outward appearances and manners. Men were like children really, she often though scornfully; they always went for the gooey, heavily iced cake, not realising that once the icing was gone all they were going to be left with was stodgy and often unappetising sponge. Women were far more enterprising, far more aware; they knew that the very best things in life were often concealed by the most unappealing of exteriors.

  Sheila Walsh was a traditionalist and made no apology for it. She loved her work and found it stimulating and rewarding, but it was her marriage and her family that formed the bedrock of her life. Without Rob to go home to at night, to talk over the events of the day with, to fight with and love, her life would be very arid.

  Although Charlotte was older than her own daughter, Sheila acknowledged that she was inclined to feel a motherly protectiveness towards her. She was constantly urging her to buy new clothes, to go out and enjoy herself. Charlotte was such an attractive-looking girl in reality, but she tended to put men off with her brisk put-down manner. And yet one only had to see Charlotte with the children of her friends to realise what kind of woman hid behind her rather formidable exterior.

  Sheila had got to know Charlotte very well over the last six years, and now, seeing the faint flush that stained her skin and the way she shifted her gaze, as though not wanting Sheila to look too penetratingly at her, Sheila became extremely curious about Oliver Tennant.

  She had more intelligence than to ask too many questions, though, simply listening while Charlotte told her almost hesitantly about the dinner party.

  ‘That Vanessa is an absolute bitch,’ Sheila denounced roundly when Charlotte discovered that she had told her far more than she had intended to about her own chagrin and embarrassment during the evening. ‘I can’t see why men are too stupid to see through that kind of woman.’

  ‘Sheila, do you get many male clients… well…making a pass at you?’

  Sheila stared at her, not knowing what had motivated such a question. ‘Some,’ she acknowledged cautiously. ‘Why?’

  Charlotte wondered what Sheila would say if she told her that, far from making passes at her, the majority of men she showed round their properties seemed more intimidated by her than aroused.

  ‘Oh…oh, it’s nothing,’ she fibbed, conscious of the uncomfortable colour suddenly staining her skin. Quickly changing the subject, she said more firmly, ‘There’s something I wanted to discuss with you this morning. Now might be a good time.’

  Willingly Sheila agreed, listening intently while Charlotte outlined her thoughts on the possibility of their employing Sophy on a part-time basis.

  ‘I haven’t said anything to her as yet. I wanted to discuss it with you first. The burden of training her in the office routine would fall on you. I know at the moment we’re busy enough to merit taking on extra staff. With summer round the corner, this is our busiest time of the year, but…’

  Her frown betrayed what she was thinking, and Sheila finished quietly for her. ‘With the new agency opening up, we’re bound to lose some business and we may not be able to keep her on.’

  ‘Mm… What do you think I should do?’

  ‘I think you should speak to her, tell her what you’ve told me. In her shoes, I’d jump at the chance to get myself back into the swing of working. She’d just started training at the bank before she got married and had the twins, hadn’t she? I’m not in favour of such young marriages…far too often girls get left on their own with young children to bring up and no proper financial or emotional support.’

  ‘She is very short of money. The house is hers, but she’s worried about how she’s going to afford to keep it. I don’t think she should sell. Not just now. It would mean going back to live with her parents.’

  Sheila made a face. ‘Her mother is a first-rate housewife, but she�
��s more interested in keeping her home immaculate than she is in loving her grandchildren.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t object if I approached Sophy?’

  Charlotte couldn’t really understand why Sheila laughed and then hugged her.

  It had come as a shock to her at first, this physical affection that Sheila showed to her. The death of her own mother when she was so young, her austere upbringing by her father, had meant that her life had been devoid of affectionate hugs and kisses. Often she wished she could be more like Sheila, who seemed to have no inhibitions about showing her feelings, no worries about having her overtures of friendliness and warmth rejected. The first time Sheila had hugged her like this, she had frozen as still as a statue. Now, with the ease of over five years of friendship between them, she was able to return her almost motherly embrace and say laughingly, ‘I take it that means that you don’t.’

  ‘Look, why don’t you go and see her now?’ Sheila suggested. ‘It’s market day, and we’ll probably have a fairly quiet morning. I can hold the fort here.’

  ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ Charlotte said ruefully. She was halfway towards the door before she remembered something else. She stopped and turned to Sheila, asking impulsively, ’Sheila, do you by any chance know of a good local decorator? Oh, and someone who can build kitchen units?’

  Stoutly concealing her surprise, Sheila considered and then told her, ‘Yes, I think I do. I could have a couple of names and addresses for you when you came back, if you like. Are they for you, or…?’

  ‘Yes. I was looking round the kitchen this morning. Whether I keep on the house or not, it needs some work doing on it. I suppose during Dad’s illness I didn’t have time to notice how dreary it is. I dare say the place hasn’t been decorated since I was ten years old. It’s clean and tidy enough, but…’

  Sheila, who had visited the house on many occasions, tactfully said nothing. Privately she had always thought the house cold and unwelcoming, and she was only too pleased to see Charlotte doing something about improving her surroundings. She had brought up her own family on the maxim that a healthy desire to present an attractive appearance to the outside world showed self-respect and pride in one’s own person.

  The Volvo was reluctant to start again. Charlotte waited in exasperation for the petrol to stop flooding it before trying the ignition again. On the fourth attempt it started. She must do something about changing it, she told herself as she drove through the busy market-day streets, heading for the flat fen road that led to the small village where Sophy lived. The Volvo was proving irritatingly sluggish to drive, reminding her yet again that it was becoming increasingly unreliable.

  As she drove through the flat fen countryside, she reflected that it was easy to tell which of the solitary substantial houses had been bought by newcomers and which had not. Those recently purchased had shiny coats of new paint, ’Victorian’ conservatories, bright new cars in the drives. She was beginning to develop the long-time country livers’ resistance to the influx of new blood, Charlotte thought wryly, and she tried to make herself see the other side of the picture. Men like Adam, for instance, who had brought new jobs to the area; improved attendances at local schools; improved facilities in the town.

  Sophy lived in a small terraced cottage in a row that fronted the village street. All of them had long back gardens backing on to open fields, and, although the houses were small, they sold quickly, being snapped up by young couples looking for their first home.

  Charlotte parked her car outside and got out.

  As she opened the gate, Sophy came to the front door. The moment the twins saw Charlotte they tore past their mother to fling themselves enthusiastically at her.

  Sophy looked tired, Charlotte acknowledged, studying the younger woman…too tired for a girl of her age. She had lost weight, and her jeans hung shapelessly on too thin hips. The twins, in contrast to their mother, looked lively and happy, their clothes clean and new.

  Sophy adored her children and was a wonderful mother, but the strain of constantly worrying about money was beginning to tell on her, Charlotte noticed, after Sophy had invited her inside and then snapped sharply at her little boy as he started to ask for a biscuit.

  Guiltily she flushed, pushing her hair back out of her eyes. ‘I don’t buy biscuits any more,’ she told Charlotte shakily. ‘They’re a luxury I can’t afford, but how can I make these two understand that? They go round to Mrs Meachim’s and she gives them biscuits and orange juice, and then I feel guilty because I can’t do the same thing. I’ve even started to stop them going round so often. I don’t want her to think—’ She broke off helplessly. ‘I’m glad you came to see me, Charlotte. I’ve definitely decided to put the house up for sale.’ Her shoulders slumped defeatedly. ‘The last thing I want to do is to move back in with Mum and Dad, but, no matter how carefully I try to budget, there just isn’t enough money to feed and clothe the three of us and run the house. As it is, I’m having to buy the twins’ clothes second-hand.’ She made a face. ‘I shouldn’t complain really. With all the new money coming into the area, one of the mothers at the playschool has organised an unofficial clothes pool for mums who’ve got children’s clothes that are too small but still have a lot of wear in them. I’ve got these two kitted out with the latest designer kids’ wear for next to nothing, but just occasionally it would be nice for them to have something new.

  ‘Katy came home from playschool crying the other day because one of the little girls had said she was wearing her dress.’ She made another face. ‘I know I can’t afford to be overly proud…’

  Charlotte, who had been trying not to show her pity while Sophy spoke, said quietly, ‘Before you make a final decision about selling this place, I’ve got a proposition to put to you.’

  * * *

  ‘Work? For you?’ Sophy exclaimed dazedly when Charlotte had finished. Already her shoulders seemed straighter. There was a pretty pink glow to her skin, and her eyes had brightened. Her face fell abruptly.

  ‘But, Charlotte, I don’t have any kind of experience in estate agency work.’

  ‘I know that. Sheila is willing to train you up in the office routine, while I’ll take you round with me, show you how to measure up et cetera. It will only be a part-time job at first,’ she warned, ‘and, to be honest with you, if Oliver Tennant is as successful as he intends to be I doubt that there’ll be enough work for Sheila and me by the autumn, never mind for the three of us, but at least you’ll have had a training, and who knows what might have happened by then?’

  ‘I’ll need to find a child-minder.’

  ‘What about Mrs Meachim?’ Charlotte suggested. ‘I know she’s not young, but as an ex-schoolteacher…’

  ‘If she’d do it, there’s no one I’d rather trust the kids with. She’s marvellous with them.’

  ‘I thought we could work out the hours to fit in around the twins.’

  A faint shadow touched Sophy’s face. ‘You’re not doing this just out of pity, are you?’ she blurted out.

  Charlotte shook her head firmly. ‘No way. We do need the extra help, especially now with our busiest time coming up, and with new competition opening up we’ve got to be on our toes. We can’t afford to keep people waiting.

  ‘You’ll want time to think it over,’ she added considerately, but Sophy shook her head.

  ‘No, I won’t. It’s a wonderful opportunity. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’ll have to check with Mrs Meachim that she’ll have the twins, but subject to that…when do you want me to start?’

  ‘Monday,’ Charlotte suggested.

  ‘Wonderful. Look, I’ll give you a ring on Friday, if I may, just to let you know that I’ve got everything organised.’

  As Charlotte got up to say her goodbyes to the twins, they both clung to her legs. Laughing, she picked the little girl up and carried her down the path with her. Sophy came with her carrying her son, but neither twin would let Charlotte open the gate and leave until they had had several hu
gs and kisses.

  ‘I’m really grateful to you for giving me this job,’ Sophy told her as she retrieved her children and Charlotte slipped through the gate.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Charlotte told her firmly. ‘I’m the one who’s going to be grateful to you over the next few months.’

  She was just about to move over to her car when a familiar dark blue Jaguar pulled up in front of her. Her heart started thumping as Oliver Tennant got out. How had he managed to track her down here? He must have either rung or been in to the office. What did he want?

  He was coming towards her; she could feel the tension curling her stomach. He gave her a smile, and then to her shock turned aside to say easily to Sophy, ‘Mrs Williams, I’m sorry to bother you, but I understand that you might be selling your house.’

  Charlotte was stunned. She had heard of the keen business tactics of the more entrepreneurial of London’s agents, but this! Her mouth dropped open, even her chagrin in realising that Oliver Tennant had not, as she had first supposed so stupidly, been looking for her forgotten as she fumed over his effrontery.

  She could feel Sophy’s surprise, and hear the awkwardness in her friend’s voice as she said hesitantly, ‘Well, no…I’m afraid I’m not.’ She turned to Charlotte, looking for guidance.

  Taking a deep breath, Charlotte said as calmly as she could, ‘You go in, if you want to, Sophy. I’ll deal with this.’

  She could see Oliver Tennant frowning as Sophy scooped up her children and hurried indoors.

  ‘I’ve heard of being quick off the mark,’ she said bitterly, ‘but this almost amounts to sharp practice. This isn’t London, Mr Tennant. Out here we wait to be invited to act in a sale. We don’t go out and chivvy our clients like salesmen.’