Chloe's Rescue Mission (29 page)

There was a rattle as an old Citroen van made its way down the narrow street. I glanced up from my book. Sitting here, in the little French village, three days into my retreat, I was finally beginning to feel human. Not joyful, not even my old self, but some of the tension I’d gathered over the last few months had eased while I’d been staying here, and I was relieved not to have the phone ringing every five minutes with people wanting my time, guidance or money.

Two days after the family pow-wow, I’d packed my bag, loaded up my car and headed for Southampton ferry terminal.

When the phone did ring I knew it was Mum or Beth, since I’d left my own mobile with them and bought myself a pay-as-you-go phone, with a number only they knew.

I’d given them strict instructions not to pass it on to anybody else. ‘I don’t want to hear from Thorsen Leisure, Gemma Cox, the press or anybody else! I’m not even taking my iPad.’

‘Ooh, you’ll be like Agatha Christie,’ said Beth. ‘She disappeared for days and turned up in Harrogate.’

What Mum had said made sense. I hadn’t had a moment’s rest from the theatre project, and the build up to the variety show had spent all my energy. But lazing around at Juniper Cottage was impossible, since I was too close to the epicentre of the project.

When I’d arrived at Grandee’s old gite, and seen the late afternoon sunlight glinting off the windows and casting shadows from the crooked shutters, I’d been enormously grateful we hadn’t sold it to raise funds for the theatre. The fittings were ancient and, on opening the door, it smelled like a musty old barn but the view across the neighbouring vineyard was priceless.

I’d been delighted to see our elderly neighbours, Michel and Marguerite, again. I’d barely had chance to open all the windows before they were round with blackcurrants and apricots from their garden.

‘You will be tired after your journey,’ Marguerite had said. ‘You will come for dinner.’

I was tired. Possibly too tired to drag up conversational French but I knew better than to argue. It was a given that I would be their guest. I needn’t have worried. She’d prepared a lovely meal of grilled chicken, potatoes and salad, followed by cheese and fruit. No sooner had I put my napkin back on the table, than she was ushering me home to bed.

‘You look exhausted. Go home! Sleep well!’

At the door, she pressed her soft, downy cheek against mine, and made little clucking noises with her tongue. ‘You’re too thin.’

I laughed. That was a first.

Michel, shook his head and kissed my hand. ‘But still beautiful.’

They were the sweetest couple.

I thanked them again and headed home. At my door, I looked back and saw them, standing hand in hand on their doorstep, making sure I’d got home safely – all of twenty metres away.

Now that I was in France, I didn’t only have time to read. There were empty hours to think about Duncan too. And believe me, I was making quite a study of that man.

There was a whole library of images filed away in my brain; snapshots of the last few months and vignettes of shared experiences. It was all there – comedy, tragedy, farce and romance. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape the fact that Duncan had been the hero of the story, on more than one occasion.

I settled down on the terrace, one evening during the second week, to drink a glass of Chardonnay and watch the sunset, which was just warming up to mango against turquoise. And I thought back to that day at the race track, and the concern etched on Duncan’s face when he’d asked me to take very great care. Could he really have been comparing the loss of Lorna to the potential harm I might face? I’d been so cavalier, so stroppy. I’d mistaken his anxiety for irritation over not being in control of the programme.

Of course, he couldn’t have told me how he felt, then. Not so soon after we’d decided not to mix business with pleasure, and certainly not after my declaration that love was for optimists and mugs.

I sipped the cool, fragrant wine. If Duncan were sitting beside me now, I wondered, what would we talk about? Following that thought, I allowed myself to imagine how our life together might be; cooking a rustic casserole to go with a heap of buttery mashed potato; walking hand-in-hand along the beach at Sitges and getting our feet wet – both of us; curling up in front of the log fire, here at the gite, and dozing off together.

I remembered the glint in his eye when he’d pulled my leg about potholing. Teasing, yes, but only to help me put my stage-fright in perspective. And the surprise he sprang on me at the variety show, when he’d paced magnificently through the auditorium with the pipes and drums rousing the entire audience on to their feet, and the look of satisfaction it had brought to his face. It wasn’t self-satisfaction, he just looked thrilled to be a part of it all. I’m not sure I’d ever seen that look on his face before.

‘
Bonsoir
, Chloe!’ Marguerite’s voice nudged me back to reality. She and Michel were out for their evening walk along the track beside the vineyard.

I raised my glass in salute. ‘Evening.’

They paused, arm in arm, and beamed across at me. ‘You are already looking better,’ she said. ‘The sunshine has restored you.’

‘Good. I needed it.’

‘Come along, my dear,’ Michel said, leaning in to her, ‘She doesn’t want to chat to us. Let’s leave her to enjoy the sunset.’

She gave him a coquettish little nose wrinkle before confiding to me, ‘Really, he just wants me all to himself.’

Together, they waved and carried on along the track. A matching pair. Two people in contented union, who’d probably been taking this stroll for the last fifty years.

Fifty years. That was some achievement.

I could hear their chatter and chuckles fading into the distance.

Two people still very much in love.

The mango sky was now apricot touching lavender, and the air around me was cooling.

Duncan had told me he’d seen many spectacular sunsets over the loch. If he were here now, what would he think of this one?

At the thought of him sharing this with me, there was a lurch in my stomach that told me I really wished he could be but the ensuing twinge reminded me I’d blown my chances of that ever happening.

I studied my wine and registered the pulsing of my heart.

Or had I?

I replayed our last conversation. I hadn’t blown him out completely, had I? There’d been no, ‘Not if you were the last kilt-wearing Viking on the planet, Mr Thorsen.’

All I’d said was, I wasn’t ready for a relationship.

Then.

I sipped more of my wine and, as the sunset faded, my fantasies escalated, as did my breathing. My lungs were working like a pair of bellows.

I stood up.

I sat down again.

The outlook was changing – my outlook.

Suddenly, like some maddening puzzle, pieces began sliding into place and allowing a grinning idiot – me – through. But this grinning idiot wasn’t about to screw the game up by doing anything rash. No. I would wait until I went home and could meet him face to face. The last thing I needed was him thinking I was some flaky mare who didn’t know her own mind.

Even if I was. A bit.

Maybe I should practise.

‘Duncan Thorsen,’ I told the crickets, who were tuning up around me, ‘I think I love you, too.’

*

Back in London, ten days after his accident, Duncan had taken to running the business from his apartment. Living only a five minute walk from the office, staff could easily come to meetings with him. This afternoon, he was sitting in a large, leather armchair, with his broken leg supported on a footstool, as he held his last meeting of the day with Marlean and the company lawyer, Laurence Craig.

After running through a number of the company issues, Duncan reached for the air-conditioning control and winced at the pain in his ribs. Maybe his doctor was right, he should have taken more rest. He pressed the button twice to reduce the temperature by a couple of degrees.

Laurence shuffled some papers and fixed him with a stern look. ‘I understand your Challenge programme is awaiting the green light. Unfortunately, Chloe Steele hasn’t signed her contract.’

Duncan frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Oversight, possibly. Cold feet. I don’t know. According to her family, she’s out of the country.’

Was it possible she didn’t want to go through with it, now that she knew how he felt? He picked up his near-empty water bottle and swallowed the last dregs. He tried to relax back into his chair but nothing seemed comfortable.

‘Laurence, you’re a resourceful man. I’m sure you can track her down and get a contract to her. Just sort it out, please. We can’t afford too much delay.’

Laurence pursed his lips and nodded.

Duncan ran a hand across his brow. ‘Right, Marlean, I think we’ll call it a day, now. We’ll meet again, tomorrow.’

*

The day after my revelation, I found the turmoil of my mind was settling, and I was finally enjoying my temporary exile. I hadn’t told Mum or Beth how I was feeling about Duncan because I was still marvelling at it myself. I’d had a little wobble, around six o’clock that morning, though. I still couldn’t be certain Duncan was genuinely falling for me or just declaring it from his sick bed. That’s why I had to pace myself.

When I returned to England, I would put into play some appropriate and kindly strategy to build bridges with Duncan. I hadn’t quite formulated that strategy, yet, but I was working on it. We were still friends and colleagues, I hoped, so there was no reason why he wouldn’t see me. And in my current state of mind, I figured I might be a better judge of how he really felt about me.

Yes. That was settled. This time, next week, I would face my demons, lay my pride at his feet and ask the universe to smile on us.

As I went into the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich, a musical chirping sound came from my phone on the table. It was Beth. ‘
Bonjour, cherie
!’ I announced, sitting on the edge of the table.

She began making inane and totally out-of-character small-talk. ‘What’s wrong,’ I asked. ‘You sound odd.’

‘Well, the thing is, you need to come home.’

‘Why? What’s happened? Is it Mum?’

‘No, no, Mum’s fine. It’s Duncan.’

My stomach pitched forward, followed immediately by my heart. ‘Duncan? Are there complications? Mum told me he was out of hospital.’

I’d heard all about blood clots killing people, weeks after surviving accidents.

‘He is. But there are complications – kind of. You need to come home and sign the contract for Business Angel Challenge or it won’t go ahead.’

‘What?!’ I shrieked, incensed that my sister had unwittingly led me to believe something awful had happened. ‘Can’t you post it to me?’

‘It’s more than that. Right now, you’re actually in breach of your main contract. The lawyer says if you don’t come back, the company could sue.’

We’ve all heard the saying, ‘The bottom fell out of my world.’ Right then, I experienced it.

‘Of all the…!’ I lowered the phone from my mouth and shrieked into the old kitchen. I paced across the flagstones. Finally, I lifted the phone back to my ear, and said, ‘Tell that lawyer it would be a pretty dirty trick to sue me, and if he even tries, I’ll tell every bloody paper in the UK; I’ll write to every newspaper where they have hotels and I’ll undo all the good publicity they got on the back of their involvement with the theatre. Ooh! To think I actually believed...I mean, I even thought…Jeez!’

Duncan was behind this, I was sure of it. He was punishing me for turning him down.

In the background, I could hear young Tom bashing around. I hoped Beth didn’t have me on speaker-phone. Eventually, she said, ‘I’ve seen the contract and, legally, you’ve taken extended leave without permission.’

‘Beth!’ I yelled. ‘You just send me a copy of that contract, and I’ll bet I can find something in there to sue them over. Extended leave without permission! What a nerve!’

‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do. Leave it with me.’

I was panting with exasperation as I put the phone down. All the calming work of the previous week had been completely undone in seconds. How dare he? It wasn’t like I’d not been pulling my weight for the last few months, was it? I’d done everything the project team had suggested, I’d even run presentation coaching for his bloody staff. There had been no meetings scheduled in my diary that couldn’t be handled by the family. I needed this break. I was suffering from exhaustion; all I needed was a sick note from my GP back home and I’d be laughing. I picked up my phone and rang Beth – engaged. I rang Mum – also engaged so undoubtedly talking to Beth about me. I could just imagine it: Whatever will we do with Chloe?

I went over to the fridge and poured myself a glass of local wine and took it onto the terrace. He wasn’t going to get the better of me. Not bloody likely! That’s what Grandee would have said. Not bloody likely!

Minutes later, Mum rang. ‘Chloe, darling, I really don’t think you should fight this, you know. All you have to do is come home, sign these papers and everything carries on as before.’