Weddings Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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She picked up her tea, walked through to the day room. She’d abandoned her work when Mike had arrived, and expected to find her paintbrush stiff and in need of washing. Instead, it was sitting beside the paint tin, clean, soft and ready to use. She flipped the bristles across the palm of her hand and smiled.
‘You’ll have to do that yourself from now on.’ She looked back over her shoulder at Mike in just his jeans leaning against the doorway, cup in hand, watching her. He really should wear more clothes, she thought. But maybe his T-shirt was still damp from double duty as a towel the night before. She’d hung hers over the window catch to dry, along with the underwear she’d rinsed out in the middle of the night when the chocolate high had suddenly dropped to sea level.
‘Thanks for taking care of it. I won’t be such a paintbrush slob again.’ He didn’t seem in any hurry to move. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Make myself a fried egg sandwich. Sure I can’t interest you?’
‘Absolutely certain. I meant where are you going to start painting?’
‘I’m not, I’m going to a D-I-Y store. Want to come?’
She just about managed to stop her jaw from dropping. ‘Be seen in public with you after yesterday?’ she asked, once she’d got her breath back. ‘Risk meeting someone I know? Wouldn’t that make a tasty morsel for the Evening Post’s gossip column.’
‘You have a point, but I’m not going to the one on the bypass, I’m going to one at the business park.’
‘Near Maybridge?’ The words were out before she could stop them.
He grinned. ‘That’s the one. Are you sure you don’t want to come?’ His voice teased, as if he knew that her curiosity was straining wildly at the leash. ‘We could take a walk by the river. Feed the ducks,’ he offered, temptingly. ‘Have lunch somewhere quiet.’
‘Quite sure,’ she snapped primly, carefully dipping the brush in the paint, wiping off the excess against the side of the tin and then applying it to the wall. Then curiosity got the better of her. ‘What are you going to a do-itself-yourself place for? We’ve got all the paint and brushes and stuff we need to finish this job.’
‘I’m going to get some timber. I thought I’d make a start on some shelves for the kitchen.’
‘You?’
‘Me.’
‘Don’t you think you should ask Emily before you do that?’
‘Emily?’
‘She’s the Trust’s co-ordinator. I’d assumed you’d read my article in the Chronicle. Isn’t that how you worked out where I was?’
‘I assumed you left it behind so that I would.’ She snorted, outraged. ‘You don’t have to worry, I wasn’t planning on charging her for them.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I meant—’
‘You meant, do I know a hammer from a chisel?’
‘Well, do you?’
‘Just because you’ve never seen me use anything more dangerous than a fountain pen, Willow, doesn’t mean I don’t know how.’
‘There’s an awful lot about you I don’t know—considering I was going to marry you.’ For instance: she knew why she’d jilted him, but why had he jilted her? ‘What were you thinking about while you were waiting, Mike? In church?’
‘WILLOW—’
‘No,’ she said quickly, holding up her hand. ‘Forget I asked. Please.’ There were some questions that shouldn’t be asked.
For a moment she thought he was going to tell her anyway. Then, with a shrug, he let it go. ‘What colour is the kitchen going to be?’
‘White,’ she snapped, irritated by the ease with which he changed the subject. Just because a question shouldn’t be asked, didn’t mean she didn’t really want to know!
‘Red paint for the shelves, then? Or yellow? Or is that a bit obvious?’
‘Purple, green, sky-blue, pink with orange dots. They’re your shelves, you decide.’
He tutted, tormentingly. ‘There’s no need to get in a snit just because your blood-sugar level is low. Sure I can’t tempt you to some breakfast before I measure up?’
‘Quite sure.’
Her stomach grumbled pitifully as the smell of eggs frying reached her, but she stayed where she was, covering the wall and herself with blue silk emulsion.
She’d almost finished one side of the room before Mike interrupted her again. ‘Okay, you’ve made your point. Now take a break, have some coffee.’ She straightened, eased her back and took the cup from him. ‘Chocolate biscuit?’
‘You know all my weaknesses.’
‘Intimately,’ he agreed as she took a biscuit from the packet he offered.
Her gaze collided with his. ‘Memo to brain,’ she murmured. ‘Engage thought processes before opening mouth.’
‘Don’t do that. Never do that. Always say what’s in your heart…’ Then he, too, seemed to think twice and the words faltered, stopped. ‘I’m going now. You’ll be all right here on your own?’
‘For heaven’s sake—’ she began irritably. Then she shrugged. ‘Anyone would think I wasn’t fit to be allowed out unaccompanied.’
Mike grinned and the dangerous moment passed. ‘I refuse to comment on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. See you later.’
‘Mike!’ He turned back. ‘You’d better take a key. I’m going to drive down into the village and see if I can get a few things from the 8 ’til Late. Shampoo and stuff. They might even have some towels.’ For a moment Willow stood there, thinking about the pile of fluffy white towels that a great aunt had sent them for a wedding present. They were at her flat, along with all the rest of their presents, waiting for the new house to be ready so that they could move in. They’d all have to be returned with some attempt at an explanation. A job she couldn’t ask anyone else to do for her. ‘There’s a spare in the kitchen drawer.’ Then she said, ‘Do you need anything?’
‘I refer to the answer I gave earlier,’ he said. By the time she’d mentally backtracked through their conversation and settled on his refusal to answer on the grounds of self-incrimination, his four-by-four was disappearing in the direction of the main road.
Hinton Marlowe boasted a small general store and Willow browsed along the shelves of the shop, searching out the essentials she’d forgotten. Most of them, in fact, except a toothbrush and toothpaste, which were part of her handbag kit. Body wash and shampoo, definitely. Hand cream, absolutely. Rubber gloves seemed like a good idea. Could you paint in rubber gloves? She turned to a man stocking the shelves.
‘I don’t suppose you sell towels, do you?’
He looked up, then straightened, smiled. ‘I think there are some tea towels over there by the washingup liquid,’ he said in a brown-velvet voice. As she followed him across the shop it was impossible to ignore the way his jeans clung to his backside. ‘Will they do?’ She’d bet he was on the shopping list of every woman in a thirty-mile radius of the village.
She realised he was waiting for an answer. ‘Oh.’ The tea towels were small, but thick. Better than nothing. ‘Yes, thanks.’ She browsed for a while, filling her basket with a supply of basic foods to keep them going for a few days, then crossed to the counter. The shelf stocker followed her to take her money.
‘Have you just moved into