Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-1-77362-089-3
Kindle 978-1-77362-090-9
WEB 978-1-77362-091-6
Amazon Print ISBN 978-1-77362-092-3
3rd edition
Copyright 1986 by Sheila Claydon
Cover art by Michelle Lee
Adapted by Catherine Brown
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
* * *
Spring 1986
Stephen crossed the room in two strides and crushed Sarah into a bear hug. “I knew I could rely on you,” he exclaimed, lifting her off the ground. “You’re a sister in a million.”
“I’m also completely mad.” Sarah wriggled out of his arms and gave him a rueful smile. “It’s killing me working in the shop all day and in your grotty wine bar every evening?”
“It’s not grotty.” Stephen dropped onto the sofa and piled the cushions comfortably behind him. “Anyway, I might have a buyer soon. Marlow Incorporated is interested, and I’ll sell if I can.”
“Is that the company that owns the Unicorn Hotel?” Sarah’s grey eyes were alert and interested as she curled into an armchair opposite him.
Stephen nodded. “It’s decided to diversify,” he explained. “I met Sean Marlow at a party and he was very interested in the wine bar. He said he’d get back to me.”
“Well I hope he gets back to you soon so I can stop working myself to death while you travel across India trying to find yourself.”
Sarah’s frown became a smile as Stephen slid to the floor and knelt beside her chair beseechingly. “Idiot!” She prodded him with one bare foot. “Just go and make some coffee before I change my mind.”
As her brother retreated into the kitchen, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was very tired, and the thought of having to be at work again in less than eight hours filled her with dismay. Establishing her own florist’s shop was a constant struggle, and there never seemed to be enough hours in the day. She knew she should have refused to work in Stephen’s wine bar every evening but she couldn’t do it, not when he had been given an opportunity to spend a year travelling and painting in India on a scholarship. She just hoped that Marlow Incorporated would come to a quick decision about his business.
The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her musing and, barefoot, Sarah padded through to the tiny hall to answer the door. Her boyfriend Nick was leaning against the wall outside, his slight build bulked out by a thick Aran sweater.
“Hello,” he said with a broad grin. “I thought I’d surprise you.”
“You succeeded.” She offered him her cheek with a barely suppressed sigh.
At twenty-four, she was two years younger than Stephen and Nick but already felt impatient with their careless happy-go-lucky attitude to business matters. True, they made a living from the rundown wine bar that Stephen had inherited from his godfather, but they treated it as no more than a pleasant diversion while they decided what they actually wanted to do. Friends since schooldays, they had left art college without any fixed ambition and drifted into the routine of the wine bar without much real thought. Sarah, involved in starting a business of her own, had given up trying to motivate them further.
Nevertheless, they sometimes prevailed upon her generosity when they were short-staffed, and because of that she had gradually slipped into a relationship with Nick, who gave every sign of wanting to take it further when he remembered she existed. What would he do if Stephen sold the business?
“You don’t seem very pleased to see me,” Nick said, ruffling her hair affectionately. “Is it past your bedtime?”
“Yes, it is.” She was not in the mood for his teasing and twisted away from him. “I can’t stay up talking until the early hours like you and Stephen and if you had to be at work by seven-thirty tomorrow morning you’d know what it’s like. I’m going to bed.”
“Let her go,” Stephen warned as Nick started to follow her. “She’s overtired and likely to say things she’ll regret in the morning.”
He peered into his lukewarm coffee and grimaced. “Would you like a beer? There are some cans in the fridge.”
Nick shrugged and allowed himself to be diverted. He was eager to hear the details of Stephen’s forthcoming trip and, after a busy evening at the wine bar, felt unequal to coping with Sarah’s sharp tongue.
Gratefully, he accepted a can of beer. A long time passed before Sarah heard the front door slam behind him. She gritted her teeth and tried to will herself to sleep. Despite her tiredness, she hadn’t succeeded so far because the drone of voices from the sitting room had driven her almost to fever pitch. Living with Stephen had definite disadvantages when he chose to entertain after midnight.
* * *
For the next few days the flat was littered with every conceivable necessity for Stephen’s trip to India and Sarah found herself eating at a table stacked high with pots of watercolours and thick pads of parchment, brushes and charcoal, water purifying tablets and insect repellent.
“I shall be glad when you’ve gone,” she grumbled good-naturedly. “This flat is becoming more and more like a jumble sale. Why can’t you confine your belongings to one room?”
“Sorry,” Stephen answered absentmindedly as he rifled through an untidy pile of papers. “Ah! This is what I was looking for.” He handed her a typed letter. “It’s from Sean Marlow, confirming his interest in the wine bar. You’d better have it in case he contacts you.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to deal with that as well,” Sarah’s straight brows drew together in a frown of annoyance.
“Not really.” Stephen shook his head hastily. “My solicitor will do most of the work. You’ll just be needed for signatures and that sort of thing. I’ve given you authority to act for me. It’s called power of attorney or something.”
“Well, thanks for letting me know.” Sarah scowled at him for a moment then gave a slight laugh. “I’m sorry, Stephen. I always seem to be grumbling these days. It’s because I’m tired. Of course I’ll do it.”
“Thanks.” He paused in his rummaging and gave her a worried frown. “You work too hard, you know. Nick’s always saying so.”
“Well, maybe he should try working a bit harder himself.”
* * *
Stephen left in a welter of bon voyage cards on a summery Sunday morning in May. Sarah breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. At last she could have the apartment to herself. She spent the rest of the day tidying the debris of his departure, aware that she would have little spare time in the immediate future.
Liz, her partner in the florist’s shop, had told her the previous day, and in no uncertain terms, that she was mad. “We’ve just managed to get Bouquet on its feet,” she grumbled, “and now you’ve agreed to take on another job for that idiot brother of yours!”
Liz, at thirty-one, had little time for Stephen’s whims. She was a hard-headed businesswoman who had seen great potential in Sarah’s flair with flowers and had persuaded her to leave the safety of paid employment to go into partnership with her. She ran the shop, coped with the orders, and did most of the bookwork while Sarah spent her time in the workroom, making wreaths, bouquets and floral arrangements to order. It worked well, and Sarah was mostly grateful for Liz’s down-to-earth attitude.
“It will only be for a few weeks,” she reassured her indignant partner. “And it’ll give me a chance to sort out something for Nick as well. All he needs is the right backing.”
“You mean, you’re going to ask Marlow Incorporated to give him a job,” Liz said acidly. “Really, Sarah, isn’t it time Nick stood on his own two feet?”
“He will.” Sarah coloured hotly as she jumped to his defence. “He just needs motivation.”
“Rubbish!” Liz put her arm around the younger girl’s shoulders when she saw Sarah’s downcast expression. “I’m sorry. I’ve no right to say such things. But don’t get too tired, Sarah, or you’ll make yourself ill.”
* * *
Entering the hot, cramped kitchen at the back of the wine bar for the umpteenth time, Sarah silently acknowledged that Liz was right. She felt more tired than she would have thought possible. Her legs ached, her head throbbed, and untidy tendrils of lank hair clung to her face in damp curls.
The promised letter from Marlow Incorporated had not materialized, and the weeks had lengthened into months while Sarah struggled to cope with both jobs. She couldn’t stop because the wine bar didn’t make enough money to hire extra help, not even now when it was at its busiest as a warm and sultry July followed a perfect June. And, because of the season, Bouquet was also busy. Sarah was frequently so inundated with orders for summer weddings that she had to work through her lunch hour in order to make the wine bar in time to serve the evening meals.
Mario and his wife, who produced the spaghetti bolognaise and the ploughman’s suppers, helped as much as they could, but their hearts weren’t in it because they knew they might soon be out of work. Even Nick was half-hearted, grumbling about the heat and the customers until Sarah could bear it no longer.
“Don’t say another word,” she flared as she reached for a bottle of red wine. “I’ve enough on my plate without listening to your constant moaning.”
Now, as she carried two more steaming bowls of spaghetti from the kitchen, pushing the swing doors open with her foot, she knew she had reached the end of her tether. Tears of weariness misted her eyes and she blinked rapidly as she picked her way between the tables.
Reaching the far side of the room, she tried to identify who had ordered the spaghetti but without success. The customers’ faces had merged into an unidentifiable blur as she whisked dirty crockery into the kitchen and took order after order, and she stood looking around her in puzzled despair.
Two youths, their arms bare under cut-down denim jackets, grinned at her. “If you want a home for those, darling, try our table,” one of them said with a wink.
Sarah looked at him doubtfully. He wore a gold hoop in his ear which glinted in the late-evening sunlight. She couldn’t remember taking his order but, too tired to care, rested her tray on the edge of his table while she unloaded the spaghetti, a basket of bread, cutlery, and red paper napkins.
“Excuse me,” a deep voice interrupted her passage back to the kitchen.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, sir,” she said, half-turning towards him. “We’re very busy this evening.”
“So, I see.” The voice contained a note of grim humour that didn’t escape her. In other circumstances, she would have smiled in sympathy, but she was anxious to collect her next order. She glanced quickly at the speaker, hoping to mollify him, and found herself fixed by a pair of piercing blue eyes fringed with thick brown lashes.
Her heart sank in dismay as the customer shifted in his chair. Like everyone else in the wine bar, he was casually dressed, but the expensive cut of his clothes and a heavy gold wristwatch told her he was used to prompt service. She had dealt with difficult customers before, but tonight she just couldn’t face it. She turned away with a shrug, hoping to avoid a confrontation.
“Just a moment.” The voice was cool, clipped and arrogant. Sarah’s self-control snapped.
“Can’t you see we’re short-staffed?” she answered, exasperated. “I’ll serve you when I’ve finished with my next order, and not before.”
“In that case, I’d like to see the manager.” The customer stood up decisively while Sarah registered his neat beard and thick mane of well-cut hair with a growing feeling of unease.
“Did I just give your order to the table by the window?” she blurted out, disturbed by the implacable blue gaze of his eyes.
“You did.” The ghost of a smile quirked beneath his moustache. “But I imagine you have a perfectly good explanation?”
“Yes…no. That is… I’m terribly sorry.”
Sarah felt uncharacteristically flustered as she stared up at him. The width of his shoulders beneath his thin cotton shirt blotted out the evening light, leaving his face in shadow. Unable to read his expression, she supposed it was scornful and tried to justify herself.
“It’s the sort of mistake that can easily be made—” she began, only to find herself interrupted.
“Surely not?” A cool female voice cut across her attempted excuse. “After all, there’s nothing very complicated about serving two plates of spaghetti.”
Sarah dropped her gaze and found herself staring into a pair of disdainful hazel eyes. The woman was wearing a beige silk dress, and her beautifully cut chestnut hair hung in a burnished curtain to her shoulders. Her nails, as she toyed with a gold bangle on her wrist, were long and red, each one polished to perfection.
Sarah hid her own work-roughened hands behind her back and took a deep steadying breath. Their complaint was perfectly justified. She was entirely in the wrong and would normally have been prepared to admit it, but the woman’s air of superiority irritated her.
“I imagine you’re used to better,” she retorted. “Did you decide to slum it this evening?”
“Is something the matter?” Nick’s voice cut across the woman’s gasp of indignation as he joined them at the table.
“I gave somebody else their meal by mistake,” Sarah snapped at him, “and now they’re being nasty about it. I told them this isn’t the Ritz.”
Nick stared at her in disbelief and then turned back to the couple at their table. “I’m sorry about this. We are very short-staffed and Sarah has been trying to cope with too much.”
He managed to calm the whole situation by giving the customers a complementary glass of wine while Sarah reordered their meal. When she returned, some minutes later, with two more bowls of spaghetti, they were deep in conversation. They raised their glasses in a toast as she reached the table and then turned, smiling, towards her, as she began to unload her tray.
“Feeling better now?” The man’s eyes twinkled as he met her gaze and a dimple hollowed one of his cheeks.
A warm flush coloured Sarah’s face. He was treating her like a naughty child while his elegant companion looked on in amusement.
“Yes, thank you.” She ground the words out, unaccountably angry at his good humour. In her annoyance she pushed at the bread basket, trying to make room for the bowls of spaghetti on the overcrowded table. It knocked against a glass of wine, tipping it over so that the liquid spilled in a steady stream into the woman’s lap, staining her dress purple.
For an endless moment Sarah stood aghast while the woman leapt to her feet, knocking over her chair in her haste.
“I’m so dreadfully sorry,” Sarah gasped, after a horror-stricken pause. “I should have been more careful. I really am so sorry.”
“You are a stupid, clumsy, ignorant girl!” The woman snatched up a napkin, her face distorted with fury. “Do you realize how much this dress cost? And now you’ve ruined it.”
Her companion righted the chair and then put his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t upset yourself, Geraldine,” he said. “It was a complete accident, and your dress can be cleaned.”
“It will never be the same,” the woman shook her head vehemently. “Red wine stains dreadfully.”
“Then I’ll buy you a new one,” he soothed as he helped her to mop up the worst of the wine.
Nick hurried across the room while the rest of the customers fell silent. Sarah was in imminent danger of bursting into tears. If the tall, bearded man noticed her distress, he ignored it. Instead, he spoke to Nick in brusque and businesslike tones.
“I assume that you won’t expect me to pay for the meal?”
“Certainly not, sir.” Nick shook his head miserably. “And please send the cleaning bill to us. We’ll be glad to recompense you for any damage.”
“Too right you will.” The woman shook back her chestnut hair and glared at him, her face hard and angry. “I’ve every intention of claiming for a new dress if I have to.”
Ignoring Sarah, she retrieved a leather bag from beneath her chair and swept towards the doorway.
The man turned to follow her and Sarah read the grimness of his expression as a rebuke. Unable to stop herself, she blurted out, “You shouldn’t have brought her here. She’s out of place in a scruffy wine bar.”
“Indeed.” His blue eyes were like ice as he stared at her. Then he turned to Nick. “May I give you a piece of advice? Get yourself a new waitress before you lose all your customers.”
Then, his face set and angry, he strode from the hushed room. As a subdued hum of conversation started around them, Sarah and Nick looked at one another.
“Don’t say anything,” she warned. “I know it was my fault, and I’m sorry. I’ll get my bag and go home.”
“Don’t be silly.” Nick caught her arm. “You behaved badly but you were quite right. This isn’t the sort of place that people with their sort of money normally patronize. I doubt if we’ve lost any regular customers.”
Sarah shrugged his hand away. She didn’t want Nick to make excuses for her. She was utterly ashamed of her behaviour, and squirmed inwardly at the memory of those cold blue eyes. If Nick wasn’t prepared to act in the wine bar’s interests, then she was.
“I’m going home,” she repeated. “Find yourself another waitress, Nick, someone who needs the job. And if there’s not enough money to pay her wages at the end of the week, then I’ll make up the difference myself. I’ll just postpone employing a junior at the shop for a little longer. Anything for a free evening to myself once in a while.”
“And how am I supposed to cope in the meantime?” Nick frowned. “I can’t run the place single-handed, you know.”
“Well you’ll just have to manage the best you can.” Sarah untied her apron. “I expect Mrs. Mario will help out for a few days, but you had better get organized quickly because some of your customers are looking distinctly fed up.”
She handed him her apron and turned away. The sight of Nick’s incredulous disbelief made her want to both laugh and cry as reaction from the ugly scene set in. Abruptly, she pushed open the swing doors to the kitchen and collected her bag. Then, ignoring Mario and his wife, she let herself out into the service road behind the wine bar where a cool evening breeze soothed her flushed face and dried the tears as they trickled down her cheeks.
* * *
It was several days before Nick telephoned Sarah, but when he did he was full of enthusiasm. He had managed to employ two students on a shift basis and he had reorganized the tables. Mario and his wife had also agreed to come in slightly earlier for the time being. And was she okay?
Sarah smiled at his afterthought. She had been miserable about leaving him in the lurch, so she was glad he had managed to pick up the pieces without too much damage to the wine bar’s reputation.
“I’m sorry you were so tired,” Nick continued. “I should have done something about the wine bar earlier than this, I suppose, but I keep expecting to hear from Marlow Incorporated.”
“So did I.” Sarah felt more rested after several early nights, so was prepared to cement the peace between them. “Can your students be trusted for a couple of hours on Friday, so we can have lunch together?”
“I expect so.” Nick paused for a moment, and then said hurriedly, “I want to talk to you anyway, Sarah. We need to sort things out between us. I mean, I hardly ever see you alone these days.”
“Do you mean that you want to move in with me now that Stephen’s away?” Sarah said coolly.
“Not exactly.” He sounded embarrassed. “But, well… after all, we are going out with one another.”
“We’ll talk about it on Friday,” Sarah said and cut the call. Whatever was the matter with her? Nick’s comment was perfectly reasonable. Despite being in a relationship they spent remarkably little time alone, and the fact that she now lived in an apartment by herself made the situation doubly ridiculous.
* * *
The letter from Sean Marlow of Marlow Incorporated arrived the following morning. It was short and to the point.
Dear Miss Jones, I understand you are to act for your brother in connection with the sale of The Carousel Wine Bar, 11 Hartley Road.
I am anxious to discuss this matter with you and suggest 12 noon on Friday I5th July, at my office in the Unicorn Hotel, as a possible date.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sarah stared at the bold black signature with fascination, trying to imagine what Sean Marlow looked like. He was probably old and fat and bald. She just hoped he would be reasonable and agree to employ Nick as part of the deal.
* * *
Friday dawned bright and clear. Sarah pulled on her jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt, and gave her hair a hasty brush. She would have to take a dress to the shop and change there for her twelve o’clock appointment with Sean Marlow.
Nick had been relaxed about her telephoning to cancel their lunch date, merely arranging to visit her after the wine bar closed that night so she could tell him about the meeting. Walking across the park on her way to the shop, she hoped that was all he was coming for, because she knew, after several restless nights while she struggled with her feelings, that she wasn’t ready to commit herself to a more intimate relationship.
Liz was waiting for her when she arrived at the shop, the van already full of the flowers that Sarah needed for the day’s work.
“You must have been up at the crack of dawn,” Sarah exclaimed as she helped her unload the blooms and plunge them into buckets of water.
Liz nodded. “It occurred to me that your midday appointment might overflow into a business lunch, so the sooner you start on the wedding orders the better.”
“A business lunch for one dismal little wine bar.” Sarah grinned at her. “You’ve got ideas above my station.”
“Maybe.” Liz accepted her teasing with a smile. “But you never know. And when you get that wine bar off your hands, I’ll take you out for a celebratory lunch.”
Sarah gave a wry smile. “You’re a love to have put up with my bad temper these past weeks. Little does Mr. Sean Marlow suspect, but if he agrees to buy the wine bar, I’ll kiss him—even if he’s ninety-five, bald as an egg and twenty stone.”
* * *
Sarah smoothed her hair nervously as she approached the Unicorn Hotel. It was the largest hotel in the town and its central position kept it full of business executives and wealthy tourists. She was a bit overawed by its splendor.
Aware of the need to impress, she had selected a soft blue button-through dress, its wide skirt emphasizing her slender waist, and she had swept her blonde hair into a loose chignon, securing it with matching blue combs. Only her hands let her down. She looked ruefully at her short nails and roughened fingers. It was one of the occupational hazards of floristry.
With a deep breath, she knocked at a door labelled S. Marlow, Managing Director, and gave her name to Mr. Marlow’s secretary before following her through to an inner office. The heavy mahogany furniture and the deep red window drapes swam out of focus as Sean Marlow came forward to meet her.
“