Wicked Caprice. Anne Mather
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to show too close an interest in her, was to ask herself what she had to gain from the liaison. If the answer was nothing, as it invariably was, she ended the relationship. In consequence, she had remained detached from any emotional entanglements.
Her own parents were hardly a good example of married bliss. Although she was sure they cared about one another, they each lived their own lives. Her mother ran a fairly successful interior decorating business in Stratford, and her father was the local doctor, and therefore absorbed in his work. Isobel was their only daughter, but they had never put any pressure on her. She supposed they would appreciate a couple more grandchildren one day, but her brother’s three seemed more than enough to be going on with.
Isobel’s cottage was situated off the high street, in a narrow lane that backed onto the church. It was another of the advantages that her grandmother’s legacy had given her. Until her grandmother died, she had been living and working in London.
Of course, she had been a part of the so-called rat race in those days. Leaving university with a double first in art and history, she had joined a well-known firm of auctioneers, with a view to becoming one of their in-house experts. The salary had been excellent and the work interesting, but the kind of social life she had been expected to enjoy had made her realise she was not really cut out for such political manoeuvring. She was basically a country girl who found life in the city rather shallow and specious. She was happiest with people who were not desperate to further their ambitions, and to whom an invitation to supper possessed no hidden agenda.
The crunch had come when her immediate superior had been dismissed because, according to her boss, she couldn’t handle it. It had not been until Isobel, promoted in her place, had discovered what the ‘it’ was that he had been talking about that she had given in her notice. The fact that her grandmother had just died had seemed just an unhappy coincidence until the solicitor had informed her of the legacy the old lady had left her. With it she had been able to buy the cottage, and take her time looking around for an alternative occupation.
The idea of opening the craft shop had been an inspiration, and it had been amazing how quickly the advertisement she had placed in the local newspaper had borne fruit. Until then, the many amateur craftsmen and women in the area had not had a shop window in which to display their wares. They’d been obliged to offer their work at fairs and jumble sales, often accepting less than the articles were worth to obtain a sale. With the opening of Caprice, they had their opportunity, and Isobel was always amazed at how the standard of the merchandise she was offered just went up and up.
The past five years had been the happiest of her life, and it was only the vague apprehension she was feeling about the coming increase in the rent for the shop that was looming like a cloud on the horizon now. It depended how much it was, of course, but it wouldn’t be easy absorbing the increase without putting up the cost of the goods she sold, and while she had great faith in the quality of the workmanship people often wanted designer names these days.
Still, she reflected, opening her front door and stepping into the cool, scented shadows of her hallway, Richard had promised to do his best to limit the increase. If he could persuade his employers not to be too greedy, he would, and the shopkeepers had little choice but to wait and trust his judgement.
Once again, an old lady’s death was proving decisive in determining the direction that her life was going to take. Old Mrs Foxworth, whose estate had once encompassed all the land and property in and around Horsham, had died a little over a year ago, and since then the majority of the estate’s remaining assets had been sold to Shannon Holdings. A public company, with dealings in many of the developed countries of the world, it was a world away from Mrs Foxworth’s agent, with whom they had had an almost intimate association. Barney Penlaw was retired now—compulsorily, some people said—and in his place they had Richard Gregory, who, for all his smiles and old-world courtesy, was still the face of capitalism, she supposed.
When he’d first appeared, about three months ago, Christine had made the same comments about him as she had made about the man who’d bought the shell necklace, and in Richard’s case Isobel had to admit they were not so misplaced. He had made no secret of the fact that he was attracted to her, and although she hadn’t encouraged him she knew his frequent visits to Horsham were not just to report on the expected increase in the rents.
But Isobel remained indifferent to his overtures. He was married, for one thing, and although he maintained that he and his wife were having problems the very fact that there were children proved that this hadn’t always been the case. Besides, she had no wish to get involved with him and possibly jeopardise the rights of her fellow shopkeepers, should their relationship come to grief. She liked Richard: he made her laugh. But she had yet to find a man who satisfied all her needs. Sometimes she thought she never would.
It was a warm evening. June had been a rather wet month so far, but for the past couple of days the weather had improved, and Isobel couldn’t wait to get the cottage windows open. In spite of the pot-pourri she’d brought from the shop and kept in dishes about the cottage to keep the air sweet and flowery, the heat had made the atmosphere a little musty, and dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that swept through an opened blind.
But, for all that, the cottage still charmed her in much the same way as it had always done. Perhaps it was because it was hers, her first real home of her own. The flat she had shared with two other girls in London had never been that, and returning to live with her parents would have created difficulties she could see more clearly in retrospect.
In any event, she had been glad not to have to test that relationship, and in the five years since she’d moved in she had made many small improvements. Not least the installation of an adequate heating system, she reflected wryly. The first winter at Lime Cottage, she’d shivered in her bed.
But now the cottage welcomed her, its oak beams and funny inglenook fireplace gaining in character now that its shortcomings had been dealt with. It wasn’t big, just a living room and breakfast room-cum-kitchen downstairs, and two bedrooms—one of which was little more than a boxroom—and a bathroom upstairs. She’d added an Aga and a shower, and both the kitchen and bathroom had needed modernising, of course. But she had retained the cottage’s harmony, and visitors always remarked on its feeling of warmth.
Isobel put the things she had bought on the kitchen table, unloading perishable items into the fridge before going upstairs to change and take a shower. It was one of her idiosyncrasies that she liked to bathe and change her clothes before sitting down to supper. Then she could look forward to a pleasant evening ahead, with good food, a glass of wine, and possibly some music on the radio.
She had a television, but she seldom watched it, preferring the radio or her own choice of music on compact disc. She wasn’t particularly highbrow in her choice of listening: she enjoyed a lot of modern music, particularly jazz. But her favourite composer had to be Chopin, his sonatas filling the cottage with beauty whenever she felt depressed.
Because it was a warm evening, she didn’t bother getting dressed again, but came downstairs wearing a dark red silk kimono with orchids appliquéd along the satin lapels. It was hardly her sort of thing, but her mother had brought it back from a buying trip to Tokyo, and although the colour was more vivid than she was used to there was no doubt that it was superbly comfortable to wear.
She was stir-frying some vegetables to go with the omelette she intended to have for her supper when someone knocked at the door.
She wasn’t expecting anyone, and although it wasn’t late she had hoped to spend the evening alone. Neither of her parents was likely to call without prior warning, and there’d been no messages on her answering machine from either them or her brother and sister-in-law.
For a heart-stopping moment, she thought of the man who had come into the shop earlier. Was it possible he had decided he wanted to take the necklace tonight after all? But no. That was ludicrous. He didn’t know where she lived, and in any case she never brought other people’s purchases home.
Removing the pan from the heat, she wiped her hands on a paper towel and surveyed her appearance with some misgiving. She had washed her hair in the shower, and although she’d used the drier on it