“You’re right,” I say as I stand up. “It isn’t worth going over old ground. I think I might be falling in love and, as much as I enjoyed our relationship, I believe it’s better if it ends now.”
Marcus’s jaw drops open, but he doesn’t speak. Which is unusual for Marcus. Then he finally finds his voice and stammers, “Who … who is this guy?”
“He’s called Jacob,” I tell him frankly. “I loved you very much, Marcus.” I reach out and stroke my ex-boyfriend’s cheek, touching him for the last time. “So very much. But now I’d rather take my chances with him.”
Chapter Thirty-two
WAIT UNTIL I TELL MY fellow members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club that I managed to resist Marcus all by myself! Not only that, but I left him sitting in the restaurant looking very bemused. I make that: one to Lil’ ol’ Lucy nil to Manky Marcus. It’s the first time I’ve ever refused to have him back and I don’t think he could believe his own ears. Hah! I’m not sure I could believe mine either.
I could text all the girls to tell them my news, but I’m at Targa this morning and—surprise, surprise—I’m actually busy working, so haven’t found the time. One of the management team has given me a dozen different sales reports and my fingers are smoking away typing them out and putting new figures in. I’ve gone for hours without tea or a treat. Well … an hour. No wonder I’m feeling delirious. I haven’t seen Crush this morning, either—he hasn’t been out to annoy me once. I caught a glimpse of him only briefly when he was hunched over his desk looking stressed. But then everyone at Targa looks stressed.
My cell phone rings and I pick it up. It’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Lucy?” the voice at the other end says.
“Yes?”
“This is Felicity from Office Goddesses. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.” I never hear anything from the agency from one week to the next. Even though I threaten to call them and change my job on a regular basis, I never actually do it. I’m part of the furniture here now. A particularly useful office chair, perhaps. Or one of those great-looking stainless-steel filing cabinets.
“We’ve some good news,” Felicity burbles on. “Your contract at Targa comes to an end on Friday and we’ve got a great new job lined up for you.”
It takes a moment before her statement registers in my dullard of a brain. Friday is tomorrow. Which means I have only one more day here. I hear myself gasp.
“Are you okay?” Felicity wants to know.
“Why? Why?” I say. “No one told me about this.”
“They didn’t?” Now it’s her turn to sound surprised. “I wonder why.”
I wonder that too.
“Well,” Felicity says, “the person whose job you’re covering is returning to work and you’re on a weekly contract.”
Tracy Whateverhernameis is coming back? Why has no one mentioned this? I aim a glower in the direction of Crush’s office.
Felicity blah-blahs on about how cool my new job will be, that I’ll love the challenge, that all my colleagues will be wonderful people and all other kinds of bollocks. I won’t like it. I like it here. Somehow I write the name and address down and then I utter some sort of pleasantries and hang up. I gaze into the middle distance in a state of shock. I’m leaving. I’m leaving here tomorrow.
I need chocolate. But first I need to speak to Crush. When I march into his office, he looks up at me and there’s a sheepish/startled/scared shitless expression on his face. “You knew about this,” I say.
Crush holds up his hands. “Only yesterday, Gorgeous.”
“I thought Tracy Whateverhernameis was still on maternity leave.”
“Apparently, those fine young ladies in Human Resources calculated it incorrectly.” He raises his eyebrows at me. Perhaps this is them exacting cruel revenge on me for the fact that Crush likes me better than their friend Donna from Data Processing. “Now Tracy’s coming back on Monday.”
“But doesn’t Targa normally find a reason to give the bullet to everyone who gets pregnant?”
“Only the women,” Crush says with a shrug. “Apparently the company must be developing a heart.”
“Shouldn’t I stay for another week?” I venture. “Help her to slip seamlessly back in?”
“Tried that one,” he says. “Budget won’t allow it.”
My lip starts to tremble.
“I also asked them to find you a job in another department—no go. And to interview you for any other jobs we might have—nothing available.”
“There’s always someone sick here,” I try. “Or pretending to be.”
“Human Resources assures me we’re all in rude health at the moment. Or pretending to be.”
We both look blankly at each other for a bit. “That’s it then?”
“If there was anything I could do, Gorgeous, believe me I would.” Crush looks as miserable as I feel. “I’m going to miss your cheery little face around here.”
“That’s the worst thing about being a temp,” I sigh. “I’m completely disposable.”
Crush stands up and also gives a hearty sigh. He comes and puts his arm round my shoulders, squeezing me gently. It’s nice and warm nestled here against his chest. “You’re irreplaceable,” he says.
“I could give you my phone number,” I suggest. “If anything comes up, maybe you’ll give me a ring.”
“I could give you my phone number,” he echoes. “Maybe you could give me a ring and take me out to dinner one night.”
I can feel myself flush and I must gape at him insanely, because Crush flushes too. Then in a vaguely embarrassed and jokey way, he adds, “Then we could see if anything comes up. Ha. Ha.”
Has Crush really just asked me out? Or asked me to ask him out?
“Ha, ha, ha,” he says again.
And as I don’t know what else to do, I go, “Ha, ha, ha,” as well.
Chapter Thirty-three
THE MOOD IS SOMBER AMONG the members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club.
“Do you think those bitches did it on purpose?” Chantal wants to know.
“I’m not sure that the humans in the Human Resources Department are that resourceful,” I admit as I sip on my cup of tea. “But I’m also sure that they would have done it if they could have.”
We’ve all gathered together on Saturday afternoon—a busy time in Chocolate Heaven. Both Clive and Tristan are working flat-out to keep the queue of customers down. Their freshly made chocolate desserts, having recently warranted an appearance in the glossy weekend supplement of one of our national newspapers, are on the current “must-have” list for the Notting Hill set. We have, of course, road tested them all. Clive’s chocolate and hazelnut mousse tart is a particular personal favorite. To taste that is to be a woman forever changed. Maybe a small slice of that would lift my spirits today. Better make it a large slice, to be on the safe side.
We’re all ensconced in the shabby chic sofas at the back of the shop and have no intentions of moving for anyone. Clearly, we have a lot to discuss and repel any pretenders to our sofas with steely gazes. The customers come and go briskly today, minds intent on shopping, their chocolate break snatched as a quick energy boost to propel them on with greater purchasing power.
“I can’t believe I’m starting a new job on Monday.” The lightning speed of my departure from Targa has yet to sink in. I even went to the gym this morning to fit in a yoga class to see if that would de-stress me. But no amount of ohming or backward-bending could clear my fuddled brain.
“It could be good to have a new challenge,” Nadia says.
“But what am I going to do if I can’t see Crush every day? He’s the only thing that makes my mundane working life worthwhile. Who am I going to tell off for nicking my chocolate supplies?”
Crush and the sales team gave me a box of chocolates to mark my departure—Cadbury’s Milk Tray—not quite my number one favorites, but nevertheless very thoughtful. No doubt they will still be consumed with gusto. Crush als
o gave a little speech thanking me for my contribution to the department. No one sniggered, which I view as a positive thing and, if I’m not mistaken, there might have been a tear in his eye. I’m going to miss him.
“A little more stability in both your career and your personal life might not go amiss, Lucy,” Autumn points out. Quite unnecessarily, to my mind. “All this confusion can’t be good for your aura. It makes you vulnerable to psychic attack.”
Oh good. Something else to worry about. I bury myself in the comfort offered by my bar of white vanilla and olive oil chocolate, enjoying every luxurious morsel. This isn’t strictly pure chocolate as it’s made with cocoa butter rather than cocoa solids (these things matter to the aficionado) but it’s so great that Clive is allowed to keep it in his repertoire. It’s like a grown-up version of a Milky Bar—but I’d never dare say that within earshot of Clive. I let its velvety texture melt slowly on my tongue and let out a long, steady exhalation of breath. Joy is returning to my life.
“At least you’ve got your date with Jacob to look forward to,” Nadia offers. “He sounds great.”
“He sounds too good to be true,” Chantal says, introducing a cynical note to the proceedings. “Sorry, Lucy, but I’m off men at the moment.”
“Jacob’s taking me to a poetry reading,” I say with a little glow of pride. “Imagine. I didn’t think men did that sort of thing anymore.” I sort of hoped that he’d want to see me this weekend. It’s the worst thing about being a single person—Saturday and Sunday now drag whereas they used to hurtle by when I was part of a couple. I dropped lots of hints to Jacob, but he said that he was busy all weekend. Great, another workaholic.
“I think he sounds wonderful,” Autumn says as she picks at her chocolate and marmalade muffin.
“Do you want me to see if he’s got a brother for you?”
Autumn shakes her mass of curls. “Brothers are bad news,” she says enigmatically.
“Still having trouble with Rich?”
She puts down her muffin and leans forward. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” she says, “but I don’t know what to do.” Our friend checks around us in a conspiratorial manner. “I think Rich is dealing.”
We must all look at her in a puzzled way as she continues, her voice hushed to a whisper, “Cocaine.” She pauses to let that sink in.
Ohmigod. Autumn’s posh brother is a drug dealer. I can hardly believe it. When she said dealing I thought she meant stocks and shares and stuff like that.
“We had a terrible situation just a few days ago,” Autumn continues. “A young woman nearly overdosed in my flat. It was someone Rich brought back. He hardly knew her. We managed to get her to the hospital in time …” Autumn trails to a halt. Tears sparkle in her eyes.
“But you nearly didn’t make it,” I prompt.
“The scary thing is, I nearly accepted a date …”
“A date?” I almost jump out of my chair. “Who with?”
“A guy at work,” Autumn tells us. “He’s really nice. But if I’d gone, then this girl might have died.”
I want to tell Autumn that she has to live her own life and let her brother make his own mistakes and all that kind of stuff, but I know that she’s simply not the sort of person who could do that. Maybe I should remind her that she hasn’t had a date in all the time I’ve known her, and that opportunities like this shouldn’t be allowed to pass, no matter whose life is at risk.
“I can hardly bring myself to speak to Richard after what he did and the fact that he’s dragged me into his sordid world,” Autumn continues. “She’s all right now, thank heavens. I made him call her to find out—which he wasn’t very keen to do. What I find hard to come to terms with is that I went along with him to help to protect him. How could I do that?”
“You were put in a difficult situation, Autumn,” I sympathize. “What else could you have done?”
“I should have gone to the police myself,” she says. “He needs to stop before he gets too far into this.”
To my mind, he already sounds like he’s in over his head and sinking fast. “You need to sit down and talk to him,” I say. “Urgently.”
“I’ve tried to, but Rich is denying everything.”
“You have to find some hard evidence,” Chantal says—ever practical. “Then you can confront him with it.”
“I hate confrontation,” Autumn says miserably. “I spend most of my life trying to avoid confrontation. What if I find some evidence? Do you think I should go to the police then? He’s still my brother.”
“Perhaps there’s another way,” I say. “Can’t you sell him the benefits of rehab as opposed to going to jail?”
“I keep trying,” Autumn says. “All he does is throw back in my face that I’m addicted to chocolate.” She puts down her choc marmalade muffin and looks at it with disgust.
“Chocolate and cocaine are worlds apart,” I remind her.
“Are they?” she says. “I can’t give this up any more than Rich can give up his drugs.”
“Eating chocolate doesn’t hurt other people. It doesn’t destroy lives. If that’s all he can pin on you, Autumn, then I’d say he was clutching at straws. All that chocolate is to any of us is a bit of comfort in a harsh world.”
“I find it so sad that someone with Richard’s privileged upbringing can stoop so low,” our friend says with a shake of her head. “When I spend my days dealing with teenagers who are trying to get themselves out of the gutter, it’s hard to stand by and watch my own flesh and blood who’s seemingly hell-bent on ending up there.”
I give Autumn a hug. “We’re here for you. Whatever you decide to do, we’ll try to support you.” I want to know more about the guy and the date that never was, but it seems as if I’m the only one, so I keep my lip zipped.
She sniffs gratefully.
Chantal sighs. “Tell us some good news, Nadia. We could do with cheering up.”
“I do have some good news,” she says proudly. “I paid off our debts this week and Toby has managed to stay out of the Internet casinos so far. We’re going to go to Hyde Park this weekend, kick a football around, take the Fris-bee. Do some normal family stuff I can’t thank you enough, Chantal.” Nadia squeezes her hand.
“You’d have done it for me if the situation had been reversed,” she says.
“Well, you’ve given us a fresh start,” Nadia says. “I intend to make the most of it.”
“Glad I could help.”
“Have you any news?” I ask Chantal.
She shakes her head. “No. Having no sex is still the new having lots of sex at my house. Nothing has changed.”
But I wonder if I’m the only one to notice that Chantal has a very enigmatic look on her face.
Chapter Thirty-four
FANTASTIC. I LOOK AT THE front of Jesmond & Sons and wish that I hadn’t bothered to get out of bed this morning. My mood turns as gray as the morning sky. When you’re a young, funky feisty go-getter, the last place you’d want to be working is a bookshop. And Jesmond & Sons isn’t one of those trendy high-street bookstores with a coffee bar and staff called Philippa and Camilla—like the bookstore I’m going to with Jacob tonight. That would be fine. I could do that kind of bookshop. No. This is a crumbling back-street establishment that looks as if it has one customer every half century. Their sign announces that they’re specialists in secondhand military history books and also—that famous oxymoron—books on military intelligence. So not even a few dog-eared romance novels to keep me amused.
I gird my loins, wishing that I’d worn my sober black suit this morning and not my bright pink number, and before I decide to throw up my hands and run away, I cross the road to the bookshop. A bell tinkles pleasantly as I step inside the door, heralding my arrival. The smell of musty books assaults my nostrils and all I can see in the gloom are shelves and shelves of dusty tomes. Motes of dust filter down in the chinks of sunlight where I’ve disturbed the air by opening the door—probably the first person to do so this
year. A man shuffles toward me. He’s wearing a brown checked shirt, a red tie, a green cardigan and blue trousers.
“Hi,” I say in my best singsong voice. “I’m Lucy Lombard. I’ve been sent by Office Goddesses.” I extend my hand.
“Ah,” he says, examining me over the top of his spectacles. “Yes. Lovely.” He takes my hand and gently presses it. His fingers are the texture of soft dough and, come to think of it, there’s a faintly yeasty smell about him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Lombard.”
Doesn’t look as if I’m going to be commonly known as Gorgeous here then. “Are you Mr. Jesmond, the owner?”
“No, no,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “That’s my father.”
This guy must be a hundred and five if he’s a day. “I’m the youngest of the Jesmond brothers.” And the last surviving one? I wonder. We walk the three steps it takes to reach the desk by the window. “Ever worked in a bookshop before?” he asks.
“No,” I say politely. “This is my first time.”
“Nothing too hard,” Mr. Jesmond assures me. “I’m sure you’ll soon get to grips. Don’t worry.”
I smile appreciatively. Normally as a temp, I’m dumped in a corner, given a pile of work that I usually don’t have a clue what to do with and then I’m left alone to get on with it.
“Well then,” Mr. Jesmond says. “Shall I show you the ropes?”
“That would be great.” I try to maintain my fake upbeat mood.
“This is the desk,” my new employer says. “On it is the till.” The till appears to be nothing more sophisticated than a wooden box. He gestures at the shelves. “These are all the books.”