Ready to do a little baking of your own?
‘What did you say?’ Catherine whispered as Richard calmly sipped the last of his wine. Even as her insides churned, she knew her face gave nothing away. Fifteen years of practice with him gave her the kind of composure that poker players dreamed of.
Only this didn’t feel like a winning hand.
‘I’ve asked Magda to marry me,’ he repeated, this time at least having the decency to look contrite. He glanced around the busy Soho restaurant. ‘Kate, you’re not about to freak out, are you?’
‘Don’t call me Kate. And when have I ever freaked out?’
Catherine wasn’t a freaker-outer, at least not in public. Richard would have known that when he planned his matrimonial ambush. She glared over his shoulder at an empty spot on the wall. Don’t you dare cry, she warned herself. He’ll only get the wrong idea and then everything will be really awkward. Besides, it was none of his business any more how she felt. She took a shaky breath. ‘I’m …’ She stopped when the word came out squeaky. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you were so serious after only a few months.’
A few months! She’d been with him for years before she’d even left her toothbrush at his place. And now he was getting engaged to a woman he hadn’t even known for as long as his Waitrose delivery man.
‘It was a year last weekend, actually. We went to the rooftop bar at SushiSamba to celebrate.’
‘Oh, she’s finally legal then?’
Catherine probably had bras that were older than Magda.
‘You know,’ said Richard, signalling the waiter for the bill. ‘Cattiness isn’t flattering on you.’
Maybe not but it was better than letting her real thoughts fly.
‘Neither is dating someone who has to ask her dad to borrow the car keys.’
‘You know very well that she’s twenty-three. She’s mature for her age.’
‘And firm, I bet.’
A whisper of a smirk played around Richard’s mouth, despite the fact that she was savaging his girlfriend.
Catherine didn’t wish for her twenties back. Just some of their elasticity. Tall and slim, with thick dark hair that dried straight and swingy, her peaches-and-cream complexion and direct hazel eyes all helped her pull off the classically professional look she’d cultivated for so long. She knew she looked good for thirty-six. As long as she didn’t stand beside her ex-husband’s new fiancée.
He sighed. ‘Let’s not fight. I wanted you to be the first to know because you’re my best friend. Magda has her heart set on a spring wedding.’
‘Which spring?’ It was early November already.
His closed-lip smile told her it wouldn’t be a long engagement.
‘That’s only a few months away.’
‘Please be happy for me,’ he said.
His words shifted Catherine’s anger off the boil. She could probably be happy for him in time, but just now she wanted to sulk. It was the contrast that stung. When they’d got engaged, he hadn’t even officially asked her.
‘Just don’t expect me to be your best man, or woman, or whatever.’
He smiled. ‘Magda might find it a bit too twenty-first century to have you handing out the rings on our wedding day.’
His words caved in her tummy again. ‘Well, being from the twenty-first century herself …’
Richard shook his head. ‘We’ll work on your congratulations speech, shall we? I’d like us all to have dinner. Magda is dying to meet you.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
Some people sought refuge in the arms of a lover. Others enjoyed the warm embrace of a spicy Pinot Noir.
Red wine just gave Catherine a headache and relationships were usually a pain in the other end. Her job was her sanctuary.
It was a short walk from the restaurant to her office in Covent Garden and her thoughts cleared a little with each step. By the time she reached her doorway on the busy little street and politely moved aside the drunk teen she found there, she knew that her reaction to Richard’s news wasn’t really about him, or them. It was about her.
She’d just assumed that she’d be first to find love again after their divorce. She was the one looking, not him. So how had someone who never made it out of first gear overtaken her on the road to romance? She’d stalled along the way and her roadside assistance membership was out of date.
The office’s security door latch closed with a satisfying thunk, cutting off all the noise from the road. As her eyes swept over her reception area, taking in the colourful oil paintings and the richly patterned overstuffed sofa, the hungry little worm that was wriggling its way into her psyche paused for breath.
Work always did that.
In her office her desktop phone blinked with a message. Should she answer it?
She definitely shouldn’t. It was after ten p.m. It could wait till morning.
But the light taunted her. What else are you doing tonight? it whispered. Going home to watch another rerun of Don’t Tell the Bride? Come on, you know you want to.
She snatched the receiver and punched in the answerphone code.
‘You have one new message. Message received at eight fifty-two p.m.’
‘Catherine? This is Georgina. Did you mean to set me up with a dairy drinker?’
She made it sound like she’d been out with a mass murderer.
‘I’m sorry but I can’t see him again. The dairy thing is just too weird.’
Well actually, thought Catherine, it would have been weird if he’d shoved a wheel of Brie down his trousers. Pouring milk in his coffee was pretty normal.
But she wouldn’t argue with Georgina, even though her client’s list of technical requirements made a NASA space launch look simple. If she wanted a lactose-intolerant man who played piano and didn’t chew gum, then Catherine would find him.
That was her job, for better or worse.
Matchmakers had it easier before the internet, when clients were just grateful to have a choice beyond their next-door neighbour