Max's Proposal. Jane Donnelly
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the years they had had a few skirmishes. Once her paper had had to print an apology to him when Sara had misread her notes reporting a quote of his. But he had never shown any interest in her personally. She could be married or a single parent for all he knew. ‘They’re my sister’s,’ she said. ‘They were staying at my place last night and they ate half a pound of chocolate truffles between them.’
‘You sound about as useful a babysitter as you are a reporter.’
She prided herself on being accurate and conscientious in her work—that slip-up had been years ago—and she snapped, ‘How the hell would you know what I’m like as a babysitter? I didn’t give them the chocolates. They found them after they’d been put to bed.’ Sleeping pills had kept her sister Beth deep asleep in the little bed in Sara’s tiny spare room, and she had come into the kitchen this morning white-faced and heavy-eyed, as Sara had boiled a kettle for early-morning tea.
Sara had explained that the twins had passed a sickly night but were sleeping now, and Beth had said, ‘Wouldn’t you know it? I’m sorry, Sar, but we’ll have to go back. I know what you’re going to say and you’re right, of course, but I can’t help loving him.’
It was no more than Sara had expected. ‘Can’t help loving that man’ seemed to be the curse of the Solway women. Not Sara, but both her sister and her mother.
Head down now, Sara fumbled with her shoe, her hair veiling her face so Max Vella couldn’t see the shadow that crossed her face. She had had plenty of practice at hiding her personal problems, and when he said, ‘You didn’t finish the story of taking your shoes off in the cinema,’ she looked up and forced a smile.
‘I got them on again. It wasn’t easy but I hobbled out and snapped at the man I was with and he never asked me for another date.’
‘And you never asked him?’
She pulled a face, ‘If he couldn’t handle a little thing like that I couldn’t see much of a future for us.’
‘And you’re not a girl who does a lot of snapping?’
‘I do not. I have a very sweet nature.’
‘Now why don’t I find that tallies with what I know of you?’
‘I wouldn’t know why.’ She put on a look of injured innocence. ‘Unless, maybe, you bring out the worst in me.’
Whether he was roaring with laughter or chuckling, as he was now, his laughter sounded genuine. Tonight she liked his laughter. And she quite liked the way his crisp dark hair curled back from his forehead and round his ears. In a superbly tailored evening suit, white silk shirt and black tie, he was the lord of this manor house. But she’d heard he had started off locally on a market stall and had gone on from there with the devil’s own luck.
She blurted, ‘You started on the markets, didn’t you?’ She should be trying for an interview.
‘That was another life,’ he said.
‘I’d love to hear about it.’
‘I’m sure you would.’
She was never going to get a chance like this again—a tête-à-tête with Max Vella, him thanking her for brightening his evening. She took a deep breath and pleaded, ‘It wouldn’t hurt you, would it, to talk to me? It would be a scoop for me and I’m sure you don’t have anything to hide.’
She was sure that he had, and that he would never incriminate himself to a reporter. But her editor would be glad of any entertaining copy of the local tycoon with the Midas touch who never gave interviews. Starting with whether he was from gypsy stock. That was one of the rumours, and it could be a talking point.
‘You’re an opportunist,’ said Vella.
She had overheard him making a business arrangement just now and he thought she was using that as a gentle persuader. But he still seemed amused, and she said, ‘Takes one to know one,’ astonishing herself at her own cheek.
‘I’ll consider it.’ He was going to give her something to publish. She had an entrée here, and a lousy day was becoming surprisingly special. He sat down in one of the other chairs. ‘Now tell me about yourself,’ he said. He leaned back, arms folded, hooded eyes fixed on her, and she would have liked to get up off the footstool and sit in a chair herself. She was not too happy down here, crouching at his feet. It was flattering in a way, him being prepared to listen to her talking about herself, but he was probably the toughest man she had ever come across and she was going to have to watch what she told him.
‘Have you worked anywhere else but the Chronicle?’ he asked her.
‘I was taken on as a trainee journalist there and when I qualified I joined the staff.’
‘That’s it? No urge to move on?’ He must always have been hungry for success. He wouldn’t understand how anyone could stay in the same smallish job for years, and she had been with the Chronicle for over four years.
He made her feel a real stick-in-the-mud, and she said loftily, ‘Of course, I’ve got ambitions. I’m not planning on staying put till I draw my pension.’
The door opened again, the sound of voices drifting in, and Max stood up. ‘Can I help you?’ he said curtly.
‘Just looking around,’ trilled a woman. ‘It is all right, isn’t it?’
‘Not in here.’
Sara peeked round the side of the chair and heard the large lady in blue velvet say, ‘Pardon the intrusion,’ eyes popping at Sara as she turned to leave.
‘That was the mayoress,’ said Sara, as if he didn’t know.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is a nosy old bat who didn’t believe what she was told and came to see for herself.’
The town’s mayoress was a great one for gossip, and hearing that Max Vella was wrestling in here with the local reporter would be a juicy item.
‘This is crazy,’ said Sara.
‘You didn’t help much. You could have stood up instead of peering up from floor level.’ He was grinning again. She had leaned sideways from the footstool to look round the chair so that it might have seemed she was lying on the floor. ‘Is some man with a claim on you likely to be barging in next to get you out of my clutches?’ he asked.
‘There’s nobody here with a claim on me.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Which meant of course he was glad there wouldn’t be another silly scene, rather than pleased there was no man at the centre of Sara’s life right now. The idea of anybody she knew standing up to Max Vella was extremely unlikely, but perhaps she ought to be getting out of here. She badly wanted to interview him but she was not so keen about him cross-questioning her. She had her shoes on. They were still tight and she took one off again and tried flexing it.
‘Why come to a dance in shoes that don’t fit?’ he enquired.
‘They felt fine earlier. They felt all right when I bought them; I got them in a sale last week and they seemed such a bargain.’
‘You get what you pay for,’ he said.
‘That’s rich, coming from you. You were setting up a bargain just now, weren’t you, that sounded like a very dodgy deal?’
He shrugged that off. ‘Life’s a dodgy deal. It’s a tough world.’
She couldn’t argue there, and she looked ruefully at her ‘bargain’. ‘Mostly,’ she said, ‘you get what you can afford, or have you forgotten how that was?’
‘I don’t forget much.’
For a moment she almost felt as if they could swap hard-luck stories, which was ridiculous when his luck was brilliant and he had everything, including a house that Sara had always loved. Vella had lived locally in the penthouse of a riverside block of apartments he owned, before