‘Well, I can hardly come back and work at the Chronicle, can I?’
‘You can do what you like, Willow, I won’t be there.’
‘Won’t you? Why not?’
‘But maybe it would be a good idea to call and let someone know your plans. They’ll need to find someone to replace you.’
‘And you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. ‘And me.’
‘Replacing your son and heir is rather different from replacing a reporter, Mike.’
‘You can’t resign as a son, Willow. I’ve tried. At least, I’ve tried to resign the heir bit. I think this time I might have managed to convince the old man. I’m just sorry you got caught in the crossfire.’ Mike picked up a wide pine plank, the muscles in his back standing out as he turned away from her. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he asked when she didn’t move. ‘Hadn’t you better get on with it?’
‘Yes.’ She had so many questions, and now just the glimmer of an answer, but he couldn’t have made his position clearer. He didn’t want to talk about it. ‘I’ll call Toby right now.’
And then what? If she was going into London—if?—she’d need clothes. She glanced down at herself. Proper clothes. The kind of clothes that suited her new image as a journalist on a national newspaper. Sharp and sexy. But she couldn’t face the prospect of going back to her flat, creeping in, avoiding the neighbours. Avoiding her mother, who probably had the place staked out.
Maybe Crysse would have calmed down sufficiently to consider bringing her some stuff. Or maybe even to meet her and help her choose something new. Her casual, comfortable regional-newspaper image would probably make her look like a country cousin in the Globe’s London office.
Besides, she really needed to talk to Crysse, try to explain about changing her mind. But when she dialled the number, despite the fact it was the school holiday, there was no answer, not even from the answering machine which would at least have provided the comfort of her cousin’s voice.
Talking to Toby Townsend, delighted as he was to get her call, eager as he was to see her, didn’t do a thing to lift her spirits. She consoled herself with the vigorous application of white paint to the kitchen wall.
‘You’re beginning to get the hang of that,’ Mike said when he came in to wash his hands at the sink. Perched high on a stepladder, reminding herself that this was her choice, trying to convince herself that she’d done the right thing, she merely grunted. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t start at the other end, though. I could have installed the shelves this evening.’
‘Oh, heck. I wasn’t thinking.’ Or maybe she was. She wasn’t anywhere near as eager for him to leave as her mouth kept saying she was. ‘I’ll do that wall next, then, shall I?’
Mike shook his head. ‘No, don’t get out of your rhythm. I can carry on with the boxes for now.’ He wiped his hands on one of the red towels that had found its way down from the bathroom. ‘It’s your turn to make lunch, by the way.’
‘Is it? Who posted a rota?’ she asked, then realised that he might have a point. So far he and Emily had provided all the food. ‘I’ll open a couple of cans. Soup, or beans on toast?’
Mike leaned back against the sink, arms folded, looking up at her. ‘You’re not at your best in the kitchen are you, Willow?’
‘That depends what I’m doing in it.’
He ignored her attempt to make him laugh. ‘Admit it, you hate cooking.’
‘You’re wrong. I don’t hate it, I’ve just never seemed to be able to quite get the hang of it. All that rubbing in and whipping up…’ A spatter of paint hit her cheek and Willow gratefully seized this opportunity to deal with a totally unnecessary blush by wiping the drips from her face with the sleeve of her T-shirt. ‘All that washing up.’ Then she said, ‘Oh, I get it! It was the appalling prospect of having to cook your own Sunday lunch that sent you running from the church. Admit it!’ She could change the subject with the best of them. Mike, rather than owning up, disappeared behind a cupboard door. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting lunch before I starve to death. You’ve talked me into it.’
‘Works every time,’ she said flippantly. Her thoughts did not match the lightness of her voice, however. What on earth was so desperate that he couldn’t face talking about it? Hadn’t he learned anything about not talking? Hadn’t she? ‘I’ll have the soup,’ she added, propping her brush on the paint tin, stripping off the rubber gloves and climbing down from the stepladder. ‘With toast. Five minutes?’
‘Five minutes.’
She picked up her bag. ‘Just time to wash and brush up.’
Upstairs, with the bathroom door shut, she extracted her mobile phone and switched it on.
‘Directory enquiries, how can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for a Maybridge number. Michael Armstrong.’
‘Do you have an address?’
‘No, I was hoping you might be able to give me one.’
‘I’m sorry, we can’t do that.’
‘Oh, well, the number will have to do.’
A recording clicked in and she made a note of the number. It didn’t mean anything of course. He would have had a Maybridge number before he returned to Melchester. Nevertheless she dialled it and got a recording.
‘You’ve reached Michael Armstrong Designs. The workshop is closed at present, but if you leave your name and number I’ll get back to you,’ Michael’s voice assured her. She disconnected as if stung.
MICHAEL Armstrong Designs? Willow sat there in a daze.
She had no idea what she’d expected. Michael Armstrong, Accounts R Us, maybe. But Designs? A workshop? What on earth did he design? Business systems? Software? Did that require a ‘workshop’?
Far from getting answers, she had even more questions. She needed a local business directory, she needed to go to Maybridge, she needed—
A sharp rap on the door startled her so much that she dropped her phone.
‘Willow? Are you okay? I’ve been calling.’
‘Fine,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m fine. Sorry.’ She retrieved her phone and stuffed it in her bag, dragged her fingers through her hair and quickly washed her hands.
Mike was waiting for her on the landing when she emerged and his brows met in a quick frown. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No.’ She thought her face might crack as she smiled. ‘What could be wrong?’ The man she’d been about to marry had a life she knew nothing about. What could possibly be wrong with that?
‘You look a bit pale. Maybe it’s the paint fumes. Why don’t you give it a rest this afternoon?’
‘I intend to.’ She moved her arm before he could touch her. She was familiar with that tender little gesture. She loved the caring way he would rub his hand over her arm, look into her eyes, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled and then kissed away whatever bothered her. Kissed away questions. Not this time. She was going to get to the truth; she was going to confront him with it and then she was going to move into the pub until he’d finished making those damned shelves. ‘I’m going to London tomorrow to meet with my new boss and I need something suitably sharp to wear. I’m going shopping this afternoon.’ In Maybridge.
There