Beyond Compare. Penny Jordan
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the local Young Farmers’ ‘dos’.
He was even wearing a fashionable wing-collared shirt, so crisply laundered that it could have rivalled one of Howard’s. However, as she glanced downwards Holly forgot her doubts about attending the party and exclaimed, ‘Drew, you’re wearing green socks.’
‘Am I?’ He looked completely unperturbed. ‘I’d better go up and change them. It would help if you came with me and supervised.’ He saw her face and said quietly, ‘I’m colour-blind, Holly. Don’t you remember? Or at least, partially colour-blind. I could spend the rest of the evening up there trying to find the right pair.’
Of course, now that he mentioned it, she did remember him once saying to her about his inability to differentiate between certain colours.
‘To tell the truth,’ he confided as they went upstairs, ‘that’s one of the reasons I’ve hesitated about redecorating. I’m terrified of choosing the wrong colours.’
‘Oh, but surely Rosamund would have chosen those?’
At her side Drew heaved a sigh that lifted his chest and made her wonder absently how wide it was… certainly much wider than Howard’s. Howard’s chest was inclined to be uncomfortably bony, but then Howard didn’t have the benefit of working outside, she told herself loyally.
‘Perhaps once,’ Drew agreed mournfully. ‘Although she never really liked this house.’
‘I suppose she thought it wasn’t good enough for her,’ Holly said wrathfully, remember Rosamund’s snobbery.
At her side, Drew gave her a considering look which she didn’t see. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘She must be blind,’ Holly told him roundly. ‘I think it’s lovely, but I suppose Rosamund would prefer one of those horrid little boxy things her father used to build.’
Ignoring her reference to the way in which Rosamund’s father had made his money, Drew agreed.
‘Yes, I think she would. She says old houses are dirty.’
Yes, Holly could just imagine her saying it, too.
‘That’s all she knows. Why, with a little bit of thought and care this house could be far more attractive than that awful place her father built.’
‘Do you think so?’ Drew commented doubtfully.
Resenting this aspersion on her knowledge and ability, Holly said firmly, ‘Yes. Yes, I do. In fact, I could prove it to you, Drew. You know I work for an interior designer now. Decorative paint finishes are my specialty. You know, dragging, sponging, marbling… that kind of thing. Perhaps you haven’t heard of them,’ she added kindly, ‘but they’re very much in demand.’
For some reason Drew looked as though he was having a problem controlling his facial muscles, probably because talking about the house and Rosamund brought home to him the reality of what had happened, Holly reflected compassionately.
‘Well, anyway, they are very much in demand.’ Modestly, she didn’t add that she herself was also very much in demand, as much for her inventive and imaginative trompe-l’oeil scenery as for her stencilling and dragging. ‘I’d love to have the opportunity to paint your kitchen,’ she added wistfully.
She could see it now, the cupboards dragged in sunny yellow, with perhaps a circlet of ivy and white dog-roses painted on the fronts. She could sponge the walls to match and make roller blinds that faithfully copied the landscape outside the windows.
Upstairs, this long corridor just cried out for something jolly and period… a scene from an alehouse, perhaps. There must be something she could use as a base in Chester library’s local history section. Carried away with enthusiasm, she forgot her nervousness.
‘It’s a pity you can’t stay up here longer and get this place sorted out for me,’ Drew commented, watching her.
‘I’d love to,’ she admitted, her eyes sparkling at the thought.
‘My bedroom’s here,’ he told her, pushing open a door.
It was a large room on the same side of the house as her own, but with more windows. It had a huge bed set in a carved cherrywood frame.
‘Oh, Drew, I love this!’ she told him reverently, forgetting his socks and touching the carving with gentle fingers.
‘Do you? I’m glad… I did it myself.’ He saw her astonishment and smiled. ‘Woodwork has always been a hobby of mine.’
Holly looked round the bedroom with new eyes, noting the wardrobe and dresser. ‘Did you make those as well?’ she asked him. He nodded.
But, beautiful though the furniture was, it needed the right setting to show it off properly. The bedroom’s walls and ceiling were painted magnolia, and looked dull, like the plain brown carpet and the beige curtains.
As though he read her mind, Drew said apologetically, ‘Knowing my problem with colours, I played it safe and chose ones I knew I could recognise.’
He was unexpectedly tidy for a man, far tidier than she was herself, she acknowledged guiltily, and far more domesticated. The meal he had prepared for them last night had been delicious, but then, living alone, he had no doubt had to learn how to look after himself.
‘We’d better get the socks, otherwise we’re going to be late.’ He walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer, and then turned to Holly, and said, ‘I suspect it would save time if you got them out for me.’
Obligingly, Holly went to the open drawer. Because Drew had opened it to its fullest extent, there was hardly enough space between his body and the bed for her to get past, but she managed it by wriggling slightly.
‘Here you are. I think these are black,’ she told him breathlessly, rifling through the drawer until she found the right pair. ‘I’ll… I’ll wait for you outside while you put them on.’
She saw his eyebrows lift and blushed furiously, but he didn’t make the kind of scathing comment Howard would have made in the same circumstances, simply smiling at her and watching her go.
She had forgotten that he was colour-blind, she mused as she waited for him; that would, of course, explain the awful combination of red sweater and brown cords into which he had changed last night.
Howard had perfect clothes sense. So perfect, in fact, that at times he criticised Holly’s own choice. Take this dress she was wearing tonight, for instance. Howard didn’t like her wearing red, he preferred her in pastel colours; he considered them to be far more feminine.
Drew didn’t keep her waiting long, ushering her outside into the cool October evening.
She was about to cross the yard when he forestalled her, swinging her up into his arms as he had done the previous day.
‘Drew!’ she protested breathlessly.
‘You’re wearing those idiotic heels again,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you ever wear sensible shoes?’
‘I can’t,’ she told him sadly. ‘I’m only five foot two, you know. I need the height.’
‘What for?’
For some reason his question flustered her, and she was glad that they had reached the Land Rover. Or had they? She peered at the vehicle in front of them, realising that it wasn’t the one she had travelled in the previous day.
‘Drew, this is a Range Rover.’
‘So it is,’ he agreed laconically.
It was almost brand new as well, Holly recognised as she saw the number-plate, and so luxurious inside that her eyes rounded in surprise.
‘I didn’t know you owned this.’
‘No? Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’
‘But, Drew, they’re terribly expensive.’