Strangely, I’d managed to work that out.
“When a customer buys a book, you put the money in the till and then, only if they require it, write them out a receipt.” He picks up the relevant pad and shows it to me. “Then,” he says, as if this is the tough bit, “you write down the title and the amount in the bought ledger account.” Again the relevant book is pointed out.
“Wow,” I say. Are there still businesses left that don’t rely on computerized systems? I had no idea. I’d hazard a guess that Jesmond & Sons has only just dispensed with quill pens and an abacus. This could be one of those places from a bygone era that they reconstruct in museums called Life in Our Times.
“Do you think you’ll be able to manage?” Mr. Jesmond seems very concerned that the job is beyond me. Perhaps my pink suit is giving off the wrong vibe.
“I’ll give it a stab,” I say. I just hope that the morning rush doesn’t knock me clean off my feet before I’m fully au fait.
“Normally I can cope on my own,” Mr. Jesmond says proudly “but I need someone for a few weeks. If it works out, I could well want you here for longer. After all, I’m not getting any younger,” he says. “I’m having to go to hospital. Tests.” The last word is whispered. He points downward. My eyes follow his finger to the blue polyester trousers. “Waterworks.”
That is definitely too much information.
“Shall I put the kettle on?” I ask, hoping that whatever his condition is, it doesn’t preclude him from drinking tea. It’s always a good opening ploy, to see what the attitude is to tea breaks. “Then I can make a start on familiarizing myself with the stock.”
“What a marvelous idea,” he says perkily. “The kitchen’s upstairs.”
So, I climb the dark, narrow stairs and tucked in one corner there’s a minute kitchen area with gray, cracked tiles, a dodgy-looking hot-water geyser and a few scabby mugs. This place should come with a health warning. There’s a vague smell of drains and it could definitely do with a rub-round of lemon cleanser. Choosing the least cheesy-looking mugs, I give them a good rinse with boiling water before I make the tea in them, then take them down into the shop.
“The stockroom’s at the back,” Mr. Jesmond says. “I’ll get on with a few chores while you settle yourself in.”
When he’s gone, I look round the shop, not sure what to do. This place doesn’t exactly run on the same frantic lines as Targa. At least there, I do have a lot of work that I could be getting on with, should I choose to. Here, I could turn into a desk potato through no fault of my own. I put my tea down on the desk and go over to the bookshelves. There’s a thick white film of dust at the front of each one. I glance through the books—World War One, World War Two, a wide variety of other wars … I had no idea there have been so many of them, nor that so many books had been written on the subject. There are volumes on espionage, tactics, battle campaigns and the armed forces; whole sections are devoted to military science, military life, weapons and sundry warfare. They all look terribly dry to me. Probably contain very little gratuitous sex. No smoldering heroes to lust after. But maybe this sort of book would attract a military-style, rufty-tufty type of customer. The thought brightens my mood but, frankly, I’ve had more than enough of stock familiarization and I retreat to the desk.
Fishing the box of Milk Tray that was my present from Crush and team out of the depths of my handbag, I hold the box in my hands while I examine them. What a lovely thought it was for him to buy me these, and I get a little pang of longing for my former boss. Mr. Jesmond is very nice, but he’s not exactly sex on legs. Perhaps I should ring Crush and just thank him again? But maybe he’d guess that I’m really just bored and that I haven’t gone to a great job where I’ve hardly had a second to breathe and I’m not missing anyone from Targa—particularly not him.
Oh, I so need some chocolate to get me through the day. I open the box and enjoy the rush that the scent gives me. I’m going to make these last all day. It’s now 9:30 A.M. My, I’ve been here thirty minutes already. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? I’m going to have to fill my day by thinking about my date with Jacob tonight and eating my chocolates. If I have one chocolate every half an hour, then I’ll need eight to get me up to lunchtime. I spend a few minutes picking my selection. It has to be the Turkish Delight first, then the coffee crème … orange crème … and the hazelnut whirl. Mmm. Maybe these chocolates are my favorites, after all.
I lose the urge to be picky and simply line up a random selection of eight delights in a row in the middle of the desk. I could phone Crush and goad him by telling him that I’ve got a Turkish Delight that I don’t have to share with him. My fingers linger over the phone again and I eat said Turkish Delight while I contemplate it further. When Mr. Jesmond comes back into the shop, I’ll see if he wants one too. I eat the coffee crème, and that leaves only six chocolates, which doesn’t seem nearly enough. So I up my quota and decide on one every fifteen minutes to pass the morning more quickly. Then I can do the same to get me through the afternoon. What a great idea. I eye up the Dairy Milk. But that’s going to leave me perilously short of chocolates. They might not get me through until six o’clock. If Crush had really cared about me, then he should have bought me a bigger box.
Chapter Thirty-five
AT 5:30 ON THE DOT, I sprint upstairs to the tiny toilet cubicle—also in need of some serious bleach—and strip off my businesslike white shirt, swapping it for a romantic little number in floral chiffon as is fitting for a poetry reading. I haven’t got time to rush home for a shower, so I have a French wash instead, squirting myself liberally with some sexy Anna Sui fragrance. Hope Jacob doesn’t want to get too up close and personal tonight. Well, I sort of hope that. I touch up my makeup, eat a handful of those breath-freshening mints and slick on some lipstick.
Tomorrow, I’m going to bring a whole heap of cleaning products in here and give this place some elbow grease. My chocolate clock to mark the passing of the day was all very well, even though it made me think of Crush more often than was healthy, but I had literally nothing to do. We didn’t have one single customer. All my dreams of hunky military types remained just that. Now, I’m generously putting this down to the fact that it was Monday and it was raining for most of the afternoon, but still … How on earth does the Jesmond family make any money from this place? They could simply shut up shop and have an Internet site. I wonder if Mr. Jesmond Junior has ever heard of the Internet? The very least I can do for the dear old boy is get his shop spick-and-span. Having so much time on my hands is making me start to think of Targa with fond memories, as you do with boyfriends you had in your teens. Somehow you forget all the things you hated about them and only remember their good points. That’s how I’m currently feeling about my last position.
“Good night, Mr. Jesmond,” I shout as I sprint out the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Have a nice evening, Miss Lombard.”
I’ve asked him ten times to call me Lucy, but he can’t quite compute it. Bless. Dashing across to the bus stop, I manage to jump on a bus that’s just departing and that will whisk me toward Jacob.
The bookshop where I’m meeting my date is one of the newfangled “lifestyle” stores that has coffee shops and sells wrapping paper and greetings cards too. There’s a blackboard outside with the details of the poetry reading written on it in pink chalk. I swing inside and follow the signs to the third floor. Chairs are set out for the reading and there’s a crowd milling around the table bearing wine and nibbles. In the middle of the throng, I see Jacob. He’s wearing a slate gray suit this time and he looks as fabulous as he did when I last saw him. My heart pitter-patters a little faster and it’s nothing to do with the fact that I’ve recently run for a bus.
He smiles when he sees me and heads toward me. Then he kisses me rather shyly on the cheek. “Hi,” he says. “Glad you could get away from your job in time.”
I don’t tell him that I’ve been waiting for the moment I could leave since the
minute I arrived at Jesmond & Sons this morning.
“Let me get you something,” Jacob says.
“Red wine,” I answer. “That would be nice.”
The poetry book that’s being launched is an anthology and I notice that there are several of the contributors mingling nervously with their guests. You can tell that they’re poets as they’re wearing mainly velvet clothing with lots of scarves and some of them have on jaunty hats. Jacob brings me a glass of wine and a small plate with a selection of canapés on it, which I struggle to balance. “I hope I brought the right ones.”
“They look lovely. How thoughtful of you.”
“Ulterior motive. I was hoping you’d share the smoked salmon with me.”
He keeps his eyes locked on mine as I offer him a bite and he covers my fingers with his while I finish the rest. The ground goes soft beneath my feet and my breathing is sounding borderline asthmatic. Jacob smiles at me, amusement playing at his lips. This man knows exactly the effect he’s having on me and what’s more, I don’t care. When we’ve finished our canapés,Jacob picks up a copy of the book and flicks through the pages.
“Do you read a lot of poetry?” I ask.
“Yes.” He nods enthusiastically. “I’m a big fan. The more romantic the better. I love all the heartrending stuff You?”
I shrug. “I don’t usually get the time. This is a rare treat for me.”
“Then I’m pleased that you could come.” He has the most fabulous eyes, and they’re all twinkly in the bookshop lights. Could this be the start of a new relationship for me? I wonder. I’ve always wanted a sensitive and cultured boyfriend and, to date, they’ve almost exclusively evaded me. Most men’s idea of sensitivity is wearing a ribbed condom. Really special, and special guys don’t come along that often in one’s lifetime.
“It’s about to start,” Jacob says, which is just as well as I think I was going to pass out with sheer joy.
The readings don’t last for long. Half a dozen of the velvet-clad poets stand at the front of the audience and read out a couple of verses. They’re mostly amusing or romantic, nothing too heavy. Jacob holds my hand throughout the event, which makes me hot. It feels strange to have the touch of unfamiliar skin on mine after all the time I’ve spent with Marcus, but I have to admit that it’s also rather nice. I find myself drifting off from the poetry readings and wondering what it might be like to feel more of his skin against mine.
We all clap politely when they’ve finished and Jacob says, “Will you let me buy you the book?”
“Thank you. I’d like that.” So we queue and buy the book, which a couple of the poets sign for me. Jacob hands me the little brown carrier bag with my autographed anthology tucked inside.
“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he says, and my heart swells. “But I have to go to work now.” It sinks again like one of my more tragic soufflés.
Glancing surreptitiously at my watch, I see that it’s eight o’clock. This is far too early to be going home.
“It’s a meeting that I couldn’t reschedule,” he says apologetically.
“Oh. That’s fine,” I say, my heart sinking. “We all have to work.”
“I’ll call you soon,” Jacob tells me. He kisses me softly on the lips, which makes my knees go weak. “I promise.”
And I resign myself to hot chocolate and an early night when I was really thinking about hot sex and a wild night. Oh, well.
Chapter Thirty-six
CHANTAL HAD TOLD TED THAT she’d be away on an assignment overnight. Her husband would never know the difference, anyway. She rarely called home when she was away and he never asked her where she was going. If he ever needed her, he simply called her on her cell phone. The hotel she’d chosen was one of the best in London—her own personal favorite for the occasional drink—but she’d never had cause to stay here overnight before. When she had meetings in London it was easy enough to go home whatever the hour. The hotel was modern, minimalist, clean and businesslike—which suited her purpose.
She’d called a cab, which had come to collect her shortly before Ted was due home. Now it pulled up outside the St. Crispin’s Hotel, which was near the busy area of Covent Garden. Chantal had decided to arrive early to give herself time to prepare for the evening. She’d have a long, hot bath, a glass of champagne, the chocolates she’d brought to calm her nerves. She was paying for this escort service by the hour, but she thought she might as well make a night of it as she was also paying handsomely for the room. People were bustling by on their way to one of the many theaters or to dinner—happy couples, arm in arm—and she suffered a pang of loneliness which twisted her insides when she thought that her life should have come to this.
Hoisting her small overnight case out of the cab, she paid the driver before entering the hotel. Checking in, Chantal could feel her palms sweating when she said, “I’m expecting a guest later.” She wondered what the woman behind reception would think if she knew that she was, in fact, hiring her guest by the hour.
“And the name?”
Chantal had a moment’s panic. She didn’t know this guy by anything but his agency name, and that sounded ludicrous. “Mr. Jazz,” she said after some thought. “Mr. Jazz.”
“We’ll call you when he arrives, Mrs. Hamilton. Can I help you with anything else?”
“No. I’m good, thank you.”
As she made her way to the elevator, she heard a voice behind her. “Chantal!” the woman cried. “How are you?”
Chantal spun round. Her mouth went dry. Amy Barrington was the last person she wanted to see. “Amy,” she said brightly. The woman was a casual acquaintance who they’d met at several dinner parties over the years. Her husband, Lucian, was in the same line as Ted and they occasionally played golf together. Amy Barrington was known for her great taste in gossip. “Good to see you,” she lied.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Amy kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re staying here?” Her eyes went to Chantal’s case.
“Just for the night.”
“No Ted?” Amy looked around her.
“I’m here on an assignment,” Chantal explained. “I’m meeting someone who I’m going to be doing a feature on.”
“And you have to stay overnight?”
“Sometimes it’s easier.” Chantal knew that Amy Barrington wasn’t convinced.
“Come into the bar,” the other woman urged. “Sit with us while you wait for her. Lucian’s just ordering some drinks.”
“I can’t,” Chantal said, backing away. “I have to go to my room and prepare my notes.”
“Oh.” Amy was clearly put out. “Just one little drink.”
“Sorry, Amy. Another time. You and Lucian must come to the house for drinks one evening.”
“I have my BlackBerry right here,” Amy said.
“I’ll get Ted to organize it with Lucian.” Chantal waved her good-bye. “That would work for me.”
“Have a nice evening,” Amy said. Then her eyes narrowed slightly. “But then this isn’t pleasure. You said it was business, didn’t you?”
CHANTAL WAS WIRED AND EDGY after her encounter with Amy Bar-rington. It was a mistake to have brushed the woman off like that. She should have had a quick drink with them in the bar, played nicely and that would have been the end of it. Now she felt guilty and as if she’d been caught out in an infidelity, which was not what this was. It was a business arrangement. There was no emotional attachment to it. What she did with this guy would have no bearing on her relationship with Ted. It was true that Ted might not view it in that light, but as far as she was concerned, that was the score.
The room was huge, tastefully furnished in different hues of cream, with dark wood furniture. She wandered around admiring the artwork, trying to stave off the feeling that she was rattling around alone. There was a bottle of Krug nestling in an ice bucket on the coffee table, ready for later. Chantal unpacked her cosmetics in the bathroom and studied herself in the mirror. The face that stared back at her
was cool, calm and collected, but that wasn’t how she felt inside. She lay in the oversized bath, inhaling her vanilla bath soak and working her way through the line of chocolates she’d laid out on the edge of the bath. She was trying to regain her composure, but it was proving elusive. The water grew cold, so she popped in the last chocolate, stepped out and toweled herself dry.
What to do now? The guy was due in fifteen minutes. Should she get dressed again? Or should she put on the black and pink silk shortie kimono that she’d brought with her? Was it worth making any effort at pretense when they both knew exactly what he was here for? She decided on her fresh black lacy underwear and the kimono. No cash was to change hands. All she had to do was book the appointment and the escort agency would deduct the fee from her credit card. If it was such a simple and efficient arrangement, Chantal wondered why she felt quite so nervous.
Moments later, there was a firm knock on the door of her room. It could well have been room service, but she knew that it wasn’t. Not that kind of room service, anyway.
The guy that she’d chosen from the Web site stood in front of her. It was good to see that he hadn’t exaggerated his details. He was incredibly handsome. In fact, he looked better in the flesh, so to speak, than he had on the Macho Men Web site. He was tall, tanned and toned. That would do for her.
“Hello,” he said with a warm smile. “I’m Jazz.”
“Come in,” Chantal said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
He was wearing a smart suit with a shirt and tie, highly polished shoes. It was a good look for him. If you’d have passed him in the street you would have assumed that he was a successful businessman—maybe a slick City trader, just like her husband. His face was kinder than she’d imagined and there were fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, showing that he smiled a lot. There was no way that you would guess he was a male hooker. Jazz set the small attaché case he was carrying on the coffee table and she wondered what it contained.