Not all men, of course, but the majority. She thought of Lucas Ryecart. Another compartmentaliser. One moment she was a woman and he was making it damn plain he fancied her. The next she was one of his employees and he clearly had no problems treating her as such. Then he was gone, and no doubt she’d been forgotten the second he’d climbed into his car.
So very different from women. Women stood at windows, watching cars pull away while they sorted out what they felt and why. Women carried their emotional baggage between cubicles until they were bowed with the weight.
There were exceptions, of course. Her own mother was one. Maura Lloyd had a simple approach to life. Create what havoc you liked, then shut the door on it and move on. It had worked for her—if not for the people round her.
Tory had been Maura’s only child. She’d had her at eighteen. Tory’s father had been a married lecturer at art college. At least that was one of the stories Maura had told her, but at times he’d also been a famous painter, a cartoonist in a popular daily paper, and an illustrator for children’s story-books. Tory was never sure whether these were total fantasy or a selection of different men who might have sired her or the same multi-talented many-careered individual. Whichever, Maura had consistently avoided naming the man throughout Tory’s twenty-six years, and, having met some of Maura’s later partners, Tory had decided to leave well alone.
At any rate, Maura had decided to keep her. After a fashion, anyway, as Tory had spent her childhood shuttling back and forth between gentle, unassuming grandparents who lived in a semi in the suburbs to various flats her mother had occupied with various men.
The contrast couldn’t have been sharper, order versus chaos, routine versus excitement, respectability versus an extravagantly Bohemian lifestyle. Tory had never felt neglected, just torn and divided.
She loved her mother because she was warm and funny and affectionate, but, in truth, she preferred living with her grandparents. When she’d become sick as a child, her mother hadn’t pretended to cope. Grandmother Jean had been the one to take her to chemotherapy and hold her hand and promise her her beautiful curls would grow back.
It wasn’t that Maura hadn’t cared. Tory didn’t believe that. But it had been a selfish sort of caring. When Tory had needed calm, Maura would be playing the tragic figure, weeping so extravagantly a ten-year-old Tory had become hysterical, imagining she must be dying.
She hadn’t died, of course, and the childhood leukaemia was now a distant memory, although, in some respects, it still shaped her life. She supposed everything in childhood did.
She looked round her kitchen—everything in its place and a place for everything. Grandmother Jean’s influence, although she’d been dead ten years and her grandfather for longer.
There was no visible sign of her mother but Tory knew she carried some of her inside. She just kept it locked up tight.
‘Tory?’ A voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Sure. I’ve made coffee.’ She loaded a tray with the cafetère and cups and a plate of croissants.
Alex followed her through and, after a slow start, they began to trawl up some ideas for future programmes.
They worked all day, with only the briefest break for a sandwich lunch, and as Alex got into his stride the man who had won awards re-emerged. Tory remembered why she had wanted to work for him in the first place. When he wasn’t bed-hopping or pub-crawling, Alex Simpson was a fairly talented programme-maker.
In the end they came up with four firm proposals for future programmes and a promising outline of another. Alex sat back, looking pleased with himself, as well he might, while Tory had some satisfaction in imagining Lucas Ryecart’s reaction.
‘Where’s your nearest take-away?’ Alex asked, consulting his watch to find it after six.
‘There’s a Chinese a couple of streets away,’ she replied. ‘I have a menu list somewhere. We can phone in an order, then I’ll collect it.’
She went to a notice-board in the kitchen and found the menu list for the Lucky Dragon. They made their selection and she did the calling.
Alex followed her through to the hall, saying, ‘I should go,’ as he watched her sling on a lightweight jacket.
‘You don’t know where it is.’ Tory slipped out the door before he could argue.
The Lucky Dragon was, in fact, easy to find. The problem was one had to pass The Brown Cow pub on the way, and Tory wasn’t sure whether Alex would manage to pass it.
She went on foot and the food was ready by the time she arrived. She walked back quickly so it wouldn’t go cold. She didn’t notice the Range Rover parked on the other side of the street or its owner, crossing to trail her up the steps to her front door.
‘I’ll do that,’ he offered just as she put the take-away on the doorstep so she could use her key.
Tory recognised the voice immediately and wheeled round.
Lucas Ryecart took a step back at her alarmed look. ‘Sorry if I startled you.’
Tory felt a confusion of things. As usual, there was the physical impact of him, tall, muscular and utterly male. That caused a first rush of excitement, hastily suppressed, closely followed by the set-your-teeth-on-edge factor as she realised a series of things. He had her address. Her address was on a file. He had her file. He owned her file. He owned Eastwich.
He just didn’t own her, Tory reminded both of them as a frown made it plain he wasn’t welcome.
‘I wanted to speak to you,’ he pursued. ‘I decided it might be better outside work hours… Can I come in?’
‘I…no!’ Tory was horrified by the idea. She wanted no one, especially not this particular one, to find out Alex was using her flat as a base.
‘You have company?’ he surmised.
‘What makes you say that?’ Her tone denied it.
He glanced down at the plastic bags from which the smell of food was emanating. ‘Well, either that, or you have a very healthy appetite.’
Sherlock Holmes lives, Tory thought in irritation and lied quite happily. ‘I have a friend round for tea.’
‘And I’m intruding,’ he concluded for himself. ‘No problem, this won’t take long. I just wanted to say sorry.’
‘Sorry? For what?’
‘Yesterday morning. I was way out of line. Wrong time, wrong place, and I was moving too fast.’
Tory was unsure how to react to what seemed a genuine apology.
‘I—I…this really isn’t necessary,’ she finally replied. ‘We both said things. I’d prefer just to forget the whole incident.’
‘Fine. Let’s shake on that.’ He offered her his hand.
‘Right.’ Tory took it with some reservations.
His grip was firm and strong and it jolted her, as if his touch were electric. Warmth spread through her like a slow fire.
Quite alarming. To be turned on by a handshake. Even the thought brought a flush to her pale cheeks.
He noticed it and smiled. Did he know?
‘You’re very young,’ he said, out of nowhere.
She shook her head. ‘I’m twenty-six.’
‘That’s young.’ He smiled without mockery. ‘I’m forty-one.’
Tory’s eyes widened, betraying her surprise. He didn’t look it.
‘Too old, I reckon,’ he added, shaking his head.
‘For what?’ Tory asked rather naively.
‘For girls young enough