Nadia Knows Best (7 page)

Annie, who was wearing extremely sturdy knickers, tugged at her skirt to make sure they remained hidden. Mortified by the nakedness around her, she attempted to wave her helper away.

“I'm fine, really. It's just a scratch. Was it the
Evening
Post
you were after?”

A daft question, seeing as this was the man who called in every evening without fail for an
Evening
Post
.

“Never mind that, let's get you sorted out.”

“The magazines,” Annie murmured, her cheeks flushing as she glimpsed yet another model, extraordinarily posed across a laundry basket. That couldn't be comfortable, surely?

“I'll take care of them.” Looking faintly embarrassed himself but adopting a businesslike manner, he swiftly closed each gaping magazine, gathered them up, and stuffed them on the bottom shelf of the magazine rack behind a bunch of
Woman's Weekly
s. Next, he set about collecting the scattered Mars bars. The door clanged open and his daughter rushed in.

“Yeeurgh, wasp.” With an exclamation of disgust, she swung her schoolbag and expertly dispatched the wasp through the open doorway. Her eyes widened as she spotted her father on his knees, retrieving Fruit Pastilles and Tic Tacs from beneath the sprawled legs of the woman who worked in the shop.

“The wasp tried to get me too.” Annie struggled to sit up a bit straighter. “I fell off the stool. Your dad's helping me clear up.” To prove it, she picked up the last Mars bar and handed it to the girl's father. At least the
Playboy
s were out of sight.

“Are you hurt?” The girl moved toward them, adding hopefully, “Did you break your leg? I've got my first aid badge.”

“Watch what you say,” her father murmured under his breath. “She's a demon with the bandages, have you trussed up like a chicken before you can say Jamie Oliver.” His dark eyes met Annie's and she broke into a smile.

“My leg's fine,” she told his daughter.

The girl looked disappointed. “Not even a sprained ankle? I'm brilliant at cold compresses.”

“It's just a graze. I caught it against the edge of the metal shelf on my way down.” The hole in her tights was the most annoying part; typically, they'd been new on today.

Having cleared the space around her, the man helped Annie to her feet. Her bottom hurt quite a lot—she'd have a massive bruise there tomorrow—but Annie kept this information to herself. There were some things you couldn't cold compress in public.

Unless of course you were a
Playboy
centerfold.

“It's Monday,” said the girl's father. “Why didn't you catch the bus home?”

“I forgot we had extra netball practice. And then it went on longer than I expected. When I reached your office they said you'd just left, so I raced down here to catch you before you drove home.” She hesitated. “That's all right, isn't it?”

He ruffled her hair. “Of course it's all right. You know I always pop in for a paper.”

Thinking how perfect they looked together, Annie said, “But if I hadn't fallen off my stool, you'd have missed your lift.”

The girl beamed at her. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

And every bottom has a huge purple bruise, Annie thought as she limped over to the desk. There was a packet of bandages in the drawer beneath the cash register; with a tissue she dabbed carefully at the blood through the hole in her wrecked tights.

“Here, let me.” With the air of a bossy head nurse, the girl whisked the bandage from her grasp, peeled off the backing strips, and placed it over the cut.

Annie was just glad it wasn't deep enough to need stitches. There were mini sewing kits on the shelf next to the till.

“There.” The girl stepped back, pleased with her handiwork.

“Excellent, Tilly. You've done a good job.” Her father paused, glancing at his watch, then at Annie. “You close up at six, don't you? Are you OK to get home or can we offer you a lift?”

“Oh! That's really kind of you.” Annie was touched by the offer, and sorely tempted. Literally. But she shook her head. “No, I'll be fine. But thanks anyway.”

By the time Tilly and her father had left the shop, it was time to start closing up for the night. When that was done, Annie hauled her shopping bags through from the back room, triple-locked the door, and set off for the bus stop. Her knee barely hurt at all but her bottom felt like Mike Tyson's punch bag. As Annie hobbled along, wincing as each step sent a jolt of pain radiating out from the base of her spine, she wished the bus stop was nearer. Was this how it felt to be ninety?

A car tooted behind her but Annie didn't look round; it was hardly likely to be an admiring toot for her.

Then the car pulled up just in front of her and the passenger window was buzzed down.

“You're limping,” Tilly announced sternly. “You can hardly walk.”

Leaning over and reaching behind Tilly's seat, her father pushed open the car's rear door and said, “Come on, jump in.”

Jumping anywhere was currently beyond her, but Annie managed to heave both her shopping bags and herself onto the Jaguar's roomy backseat.

“Thank you, but you shouldn't have waited for me.”

“We didn't.” Swiveling round, Tilly beamed at her. “We had to queue to get out of the parking lot, that's all. When we pulled out onto the road, I spotted you limping along with your bags.”

How embarrassing, assuming they'd been lying in wait for her. Feebly, Annie said, “It hurt more than I thought. I think I jarred my spine.”

Tilly gave her a told-you-so look. “You should probably have an X-ray.”

Annie was distracted. Oh crikey, walking had set the bleeding off again, blood was oozing out from beneath the bandage on the side of her knee. Terrified of it dripping onto the cream leather upholstery, she hurriedly crossed her legs.

“So, where are we going?” Tilly's father sounded cheerful.

“Kingsweston.” Annie prayed it wasn't miles out of his way. “Thanks, um…”

“His name's James,” said Tilly. Helpfully she added, “Mine's Tilly.”

“And I'm Annie.”

“Like Little Orphan Annie! Are you an orphan?”

“Tilly!” In the rearview mirror, Annie saw the girl's father raise his eyebrows in despair.

“What? I'm only asking.”

“Well, kind of. I lost my father years ago. And my mother died in January. But I think I'm probably too old to count as an orphan.”

“Why? How old are you?”

More eye-rolling in the mirror.

“Thirty-eight,” said Annie.

“Oh.” Tilly sounded surprised. “I thought more than that.”

James was by this time looking sorrowful and shaking his head.

“Yes, well.” Gravely Annie said, “I've had a hard life.”

“I lost my father too,” Tilly announced. “He walked out on my mum when I was a baby.”

Oh.

“Oh.” Annie was taken aback and embarrassed all over again. When she'd talked to Tilly in the shop, she'd definitely referred to James as
your
father
. “I'm sorry, I thought—”

“That James was my dad? No.” Tilly shook her head.

“So he's your stepfather,” Annie said encouragingly.

“Not even that. I used to think he was my stepdad, but he isn't. It's a bit complicated. But he's just like a real dad,” Tilly added. “Makes me do my homework, moans about my taste in music, all that sort of thing.”

Drily James observed, “Years of practice with your sisters.”

Now Annie was definitely confused, but she could hardly start bombarding them with questions. And in typical teenage fashion, Tilly was now digging a CD out of her backpack and persuading James to play it.

The remainder of the journey was spent listening to American rap, with James intermittently complaining that he couldn't understand a word and what was wrong with a nice tune you could sing along with?

Swiveling round in the passenger seat, Tilly said, “See what I mean about being just like a real dad?”

“Mine used to say the same about my David Bowie LPs,” said Annie.

Tilly frowned. “What's an LP?”

In the rear mirror, James gave Annie a sympathetic, see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with look.

They had reached Kingsweston. Smiling, Annie said, “Just up here on the right, the little row of cottages. Mine's the one on the corner, next to the phone box.”

***

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Miriam sighed, snatching up James's copy of the
Evening
Post
. Stalking across the living room to the window, she took aim at the fly that had been bouncing noisily off the glass and—
bam
—killed it.

“Nice to know I haven't lost my touch.” Pleased with herself, she handed the rolled-up murder weapon to James. “Darling, I don't know why you buy this paper. Half the time you don't even open it.”

“I do,” lied James. To prove it he opened the paper. “See? There's a piece in here about… that new restaurant in Stoke Bishop. They're clients of ours.” He nodded seriously. “You see, it's all relevant.”

“Fine, fine.” Diamonds flashed as Miriam made calm-down gestures with her hands. “In that case, why don't we have it delivered? Save you having to call into a shop on your way home every night. It's simple, just get the paper boy to pop it through the letter box.”

Rustling through the pages, James hastily buried his head in the obituary column. He didn't want the paper boy to pop his
Evening
Post
through the letter box. He liked the routine of calling in to the newsagents and picking up his paper, whether or not he was giving Tilly a lift home.

“Shall I arrange that, then?”

“No thanks.”

“But—”

“
No.
” James knew how much he owed his mother, but there were still times when she drove him to distraction. “I'll carry on buying my own paper, OK? It's not a problem.”

“If you say so.” Miriam's dark kohl-lined eyes flickered with concern; it was unlike James to snap. “I was only trying to help.”

Nadia was pleased with herself. She'd done a really good plan of the garden. She had even bought a brand-new set of top-of-the-range felt-tips in order to create the requisite blaze of color. It had taken her hours last night, stretched across her bed surrounded by discarded ideas and empty potato chip bags. People didn't appreciate quite how much planning went into a plan.

And Jay Tiernan, annoyingly, wasn't here to appreciate it.

He was a busy man, Nadia realized that. As well as organizing the kitchen and bathroom installations, it was Jay's job to make sure the electricians, plumbers, and carpenters were called in to carry out their work at the right times. He was also liaising with estate agents and solicitors, preparing to sell this house when it was finished and already on the lookout for the next house to buy. This meant he was out and about a lot. Which was fine, but it would have been less annoying if he didn't spend so much time with his mobile switched off.

“Still no luck, love?” Bart came outside as she was jabbing at the buttons of her own phone.

Nadia shook her head. She'd already left two messages but Jay hadn't called back. “He said he'd organize a truck.” She gestured at the mountain of garden waste piled up next to the side gate. “It's nearly midday and no one's here, and I don't know if he's fixed something up or not.”

“If he said he would, he probably did.” Bart shrugged and began to roll a cigarette.

“But what if he hasn't? And I've got my plans here for him.” Crossly, Nadia prodded her polyethylene folder—also new yesterday. “I need him to see them before I start the next phase. I mean, where can he be? What's he doing?” Her corkscrew hair bounced around her shoulders as she shook her head in disbelief. “Why does he always have to have his bloody phone switched off?”

Bart didn't quite give her a wink and a nudge, but the expression on his face told her exactly what he thought Jay might be up to. Lighting his roll-up, he took a long drag all the way down to his toes.

“Like I told you, he's a busy chap. Popular with the ladies. Had a bit of a thing going with the woman who sold him the last place we done up. Dunno if he's still seeing her, but if he isn't there'll be someone else.”

Was Bart warning her not to get her hopes up? Was he subtly letting her know that any hint of flirtation from Jay should be taken with a wagonload of salt?

Speaking of wagons…

“I'm not interested in his love life.” Nadia's tone was clipped. “I just want all this rubbish cleared away, and I need Jay to approve the plans so I can make a proper start on this garden.”

“Tell you what,” Bart said soothingly. “It's twelve o'clock. Why don't you take your lunch break? Maybe he'll be here by the time you get back.”

Nadia was away for twenty minutes. By the time she returned from the deli on Henleaze Road with her sandwiches, chips, and Snickers bar, Jay had been and gone.

Allegedly.

“Just missed him, love,” said Bart. “He turned up just after you left.”

Dismayed, Nadia said, “Are you serious?”

“I told him what you needed. He gave the clearance company another ring and they'll be here by one o'clock. Oh, and he's taken the garden plans with him but he says you can make a start on the terrace.”

Nadia felt like a six-year-old beginning to have suspicions about Father Christmas. Had Jay really been here, or was Bart only saying it to humor her? What if Bart had stuffed her painstakingly constructed plans into the bottom of the backpack he kept his packed lunch and tobacco in?

Kevin, Bart's son, was plastering one of the sitting-room walls. Poking her head round the door, Nadia said, “Did you see Jay?”

“What?” Kevin looked taken aback.

“Was he here just now?”

“Um, yes.”

Except Kevin would say that, wouldn't he? Bart would have told him to.

Nadia's eyes narrowed. “What was he wearing?”

“Eh?”

Not a clue.
Ha
.

“T-shirt and jeans?” Kevin said hopefully.

Brilliant.

“Actually,” Nadia told him, “it was a green polo shirt and black trousers.”

“Oh, right.” Kevin nodded with relief. “Yeah, that's it, I remember now.”

Dear old Kevin. Not too bright, but always eager to please.

When the truck arrived shortly after one o'clock, Nadia wondered if Bart had phoned them himself.

***

Miriam and Edward were sitting in Edward's back garden when he proposed to her. Again.

Miriam briefly closed her eyes, wishing he wouldn't do this to her, wondering why he just couldn't take no for an answer.

“I'm serious,” said Edward, removing the folded-up
Daily
Telegraph
from her hands and placing her Biro on the garden table. “I don't see what the problem is. I love you and I want you to marry me.”

“And I want you to stop asking me.” Miriam's spine stiffened instinctively; her shoulders went back. “We're fine as we are.”

“I like to do things properly. Properly means getting married.”

“Well, that isn't going to happen, so can we please get back to the crossword?”

She would win, of course. She always won, because she'd long ago made up her mind and Edward couldn't force her to change it. But he would make sure she knew he wasn't happy with the situation. He did this now by heaving a sigh, rising to his feet, and moving away from the table. With his hands clasped behind his back he walked stiffly over to the far wall, ostensibly to admire the rambling roses basking in the afternoon sunlight.

Miriam, watching him, wondered how he would react if she told him the real reason why she refused to marry him. Ironically, she suspected he wouldn't even care, once he got over the initial shock.

But the reason she would never marry Edward had nothing to do with whether or not he knew about it. Not allowing herself to marry him was the punishment she had meted out to herself after… well, after
the
thing
had happened. And once you made a bargain like that, you had to stick with it.

Even more ironically, Edward was standing in the exact spot where it had happened.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Miriam picked up the
Telegraph
and called, “Darling, that's enough, come and help me finish the crossword now.”

What she actually meant was,
Don't sulk
, but she couldn't bring herself to say it.

Poor Edward. He'd already been through enough.

***

The next day, Thursday, was hot but showery. Nadia, stripped to a tank top and shorts, worked through the rain to level the ground where the French windows at the back of the house led out onto the garden. Raindrops dripped steadily from the ends of her corkscrew curls. Clumps of mud were stuck to her workboots. She looked appalling but didn't care. All the exercise was doing her good, and there was nobody around to see what a fright she looked. Nobody who counted, anyway.

Jay's mobile was still switched off. For all she knew, he could be in New Zealand now.

He turned up at twelve thirty. Nadia carried on working in the rain while he checked on progress in the house with Bart.

Finally he came outside, carrying her folder of plans in one hand and his mobile in the other.

“These are fine. Go ahead. I've set up an account at the garden center, so you can chalk up anything you need on that.”

No friendly greeting. No “Hi, how are you, sorry I missed you yesterday.” He wasn't even smiling.

Nadia stopped digging and leaned on her shovel. Somehow she'd expected a more enthusiastic reaction to her plans than just “fine.”

“Are you OK?” she asked Jay.

He didn't look OK, he seemed offish and distracted.

“Of course I'm OK,” he replied coolly. Not a hint of flirtatiousness about his manner. It was like suddenly being faced with Jay Tiernan's scary bank-managerish twin brother, the one who was in fact a cyborg.

Maybe this was just the way things were going to be, now that she was actually working for him.

“Right.” Fair enough, effusive praise might have been too much to ask for, but Nadia still thought he could have called her garden plan something more constructive than just
fine
. “Can I make a comment?”

Indignation turned to anger as Jay glanced at his watch, then shrugged. “Go ahead.”

He clearly couldn't be less interested in anything she might have to say.

“It's none of our business where you go during the day, and it really doesn't bother any of us what you get up to when you aren't here.” Skillfully Nadia included Bart and the others in her complaint. “But you can't keep leaving your phone switched off. I was trying to reach you yesterday and I couldn't. I tried again this morning and I
still
couldn't.”

“Right.”

Rain dripped from Nadia's eyelashes as she stared at him in disbelief. Was that it? Was that his idea of an apology?

“I'm serious. It's unprofessional. We need to be able to contact you.”

Jay, his expression as hard and detached as an Indian chief's, said, “There's such a thing as using your initiative. If you were that desperate, you could have organized another truck. Anyway, I have to go. Tell Bart I'll speak to him tomorrow about the electrician.”

And without another word he was gone. Nadia, her hands on her hips, watched him disappear through the side gate. Moments later she heard the sound of his car's engine starting up. He couldn't have been less interested in her complaint if she'd been an ant on the heel of his boot.

What the hell was going on here? Was Jay Tiernan a bastard who had formerly masqueraded as a nice person? Was his business in trouble and he was on the verge of being made bankrupt?

Or was he none too subtly pointing out to her that if she fancied him she may as well stop it right now because she was wasting her time?

From the kitchen window, Kevin yelled, “I'm off to the fish and chip shop. Want some?”

It was one o'clock. Nadia, discovering that she could murder a bag of battered cod and chips, felt her spirits begin to rise, just by a fraction.

First rule of employment: if your boss turns out to be a complete pig, you deserve a nice lunch.