He’d told himself that he would call her; he’d picked up the phone a dozen times and then put it down again. Unable to see her face, read her body language, have a clue what she was thinking, he had no idea what to say. Men were from Mars...
His father relied on flowers to cover the word gap and he’d got as far as logging onto an online florist but stalled at the first hurdle when he was invited to choose an occasion. Birthday, anniversary, every cause for celebration you could imagine. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t an option that would cover this particular scenario.
And what flowers?
His father had been lucky—all it took was a tired bunch of chrysanthemums from the garage forecourt to provoke an eye roll, a shake of the head and a smile from his mother.
His own experience of married life suggested that nothing less than long-stemmed red roses would do if you were grovelling. No power on earth would induce him to send them to Miranda.
She deserved more. Much more. She deserved to hear him say the words. If only he could work out what they were.
He’d arrived back from Cyprus determined to clear the air but she was in the Gulf picking up a couple of mares that were booked for a visit to stud. Then he was in France and so it had gone on. Maybe it was coincidence, but if someone had arranged their schedules to keep them apart they couldn’t have done a better job.
Miranda couldn’t change his schedule, but she could swap her own around. Clearly she needed space and he’d had to allow her that.
Until today.
He’d flown back from Ireland determined that, no matter what, he’d talk to her. He still could.
‘I’ll stop by on the way home and take her some grapes,’ he said. It was okay to be concerned about someone you’d known, worked with for years. And grapes didn’t have the dangerously emotive subtext of flowers. Red, black, white—they were just grapes.
‘You’ll have a wasted journey. She checked the times of the trains to London before she left and then called her sister to let her know what time she’d be arriving.’
‘Which sister?’
‘Portia was on the box covering the post-awards parties, she’d have flown home if it was Immi, so it must be the one with the Royal Ballet.’
‘Posy. Did she say how long she’d be away?’
‘She asked me to take her off the schedule for a month.’
‘A month!’
‘She’s worked a lot of extra days covering for other people, including you. She’s owed six weeks.’ She gestured in the direction of his office. ‘Maybe she said more in the note she left on your desk.’
A cold, sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach as he saw the sealed envelope with his name written neatly in Miranda’s handwriting.
He didn’t have to open it to know that she wasn’t coming back.
He sat down, read the brief note saying that she was taking leave owed in lieu of notice. She didn’t give a reason; she didn’t have to. Determined not to let this happen, he reached for the phone.
‘Imogen, it’s Cleve Finch.’
‘Hi, Cleve. What can I do for you? There isn’t a problem with the new aircraft?’
‘No... No, it’s fine. I just need Posy’s address.’
‘Posy?’ She sounded surprised, but there was nothing guarded in her response. Evidently Miranda hadn’t shared what had happened with her twin.
‘I’m going to be in London this evening and I wanted to drop something off for Miranda,’ he said, trotting out the excuse he’d rehearsed. ‘Obviously I’d have asked her for the address but her phone appears to be switched off. She is staying with Posy?’
‘You’re kidding. Posy has a room you couldn’t swing a cat in. Andie was just dropping in to pick up the keys before catching her flight.’
‘Flight?’ So much for his plan to take her out to dinner somewhere, talk things through. ‘Where’s she gone?’
‘To L’Isola dei Fiori. Didn’t she tell you?’
‘I’ve been in Ireland all week.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, Posy inherited an amazing old house from her godmother. It’s got a fabulous conservatory and the most glorious gardens...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I imagine they’re all overgrown.’ There was a little sigh. ‘We used to stay there in the school holidays. It was magic.’
‘I’m sure it was wonderful, but—’
‘Sorry, I was having a moment... Posy can’t get away until late summer and she’s been worried about leaving it empty so Andie’s using her leave to give it an airing. It’s a bit off the beaten track,’ she added. ‘She might not get a signal. Is it important or will it wait until she comes back?’
‘What?’
‘Whatever you were going to drop off at Posy’s?’
‘Yes... No...’
She laughed. ‘Okay...’
‘Yes, it’s important. No, it won’t wait,’ he said, quickly.
‘In that case you’ll want her address.’
ANDIE GATHERED HERSELF AND, having braved the door for a second time, discovered that it was the scullery ceiling that had sagged and was blocking the door.
Afraid she’d bring the whole lot down if she tried to force her way in, she trundled her wheelie and shopping around to the main entrance, found the correct heavy iron key and let herself in.
There were no worries about wet sandy feet messing up the gleaming marble tiled floor now. It was thick with dust and there was a drift of feathers where a bird must have got in through the roof and panicked.
She gave a little shiver, hoping that it had got out again.
Everywhere was shuttered. The only light was from the open door and, as the sun slid behind the mountains, that was fading fast. Using her bag to prop the door open, she crossed to a light switch but when she flicked it down nothing happened. She tried another in case it was just a duff bulb but with the same result.
She’d remembered the house as inviting, full of light, air, laughter. She’d never given a thought to how it might be in the winter, to be alone here, but the damp chill, dark shadows were weirdly creepy and suddenly this didn’t seem such a great idea.
She could manage with candles for light—there had always been tall white candles in silver holders throwing their soft light in the evenings—but she was going to need hot water to clean the place up.
If rainwater had got into the wiring she was in trouble.
She hurried through the house opening shutters, letting in what light remained before braving the cupboard under the stairs in search of a fuse box.
There was good news and bad news. The bad news was that this had to be a regular occurrence. The good news meant that there was a torch and fuse wire on top of the old-fashioned fuse box.
More bad news was that the torch battery was on its last legs and she checked the fuses as quickly as she could, found the blown one and had just finished when the torch died. She shoved it back into place and breathed a sigh of relief as a light came on in the hall.
She carried