‘But why?’ Susie had wailed so often. ‘It’s party time so forget your authors and their damned manuscripts for one evening and come with me. Everyone would be thrilled to see you. They ask about you all the time.’
And, invariably, her mind flinching, she’d used the excuse of work—deadlines—an increased list—and the very real talk of a possible takeover, to be followed, almost inevitably, by redundancies.
Explained, perfectly reasonably, that, to make sure of her job, she needed to put her heart and soul into her work. Which wasn’t any real hardship because she loved it.
And, as reinforcement, she’d created this new office persona, quiet, dedicated and politely aloof. Confined her cloud of dark auburn hair in a silver clasp at the nape of her neck. Stopped enhancing her green eyes and long lashes with shadow and mascara, restricting her use of cosmetics to a touch of lipstick so discreet it was almost invisible.
And only she knew the reason for adopting this deliberate camouflage. She hadn’t even told Susie, best friend from school days and now flatmate, who’d provided her joyfully with the refuge she needed from her solitary bedsit, and was now equally delighted to welcome her apparent renaissance.
Not that she planned to abandon her current version of herself. She’d become used to it, telling herself that safe was far better than sorry. Not, of course, that she’d ever gone in for fashion’s extremes or painted her face in stripes.
And Gerard seemed to like her the way she was, although she could, maybe, move up a gear without too much shock to his system.
Depending, she thought, on how things went at his grandmother’s party.
The invitation had surprised her. Gerard was undeniably charming and attentive, but their relationship so far could quite definitely be characterised as restrained. Not that she had any objections to this. Quite the contrary, in fact.
She’d only agreed to have dinner with him on that first occasion because he’d put himself at risk to save her from serious injury at the very least, and it would have seemed churlish to refuse.
And, almost tentatively, she’d found herself relaxing and starting to enjoy a pleasant and undemanding evening in his company. It had been their third date before he’d kissed her goodnight—a light, unthreatening brush of his lips on hers.
Not, as Susie put it, a martini kiss. She’d been, to her relief, neither shaken nor stirred. At the same time, it was reassuring to reflect that she’d have no real objection to him kissing her again. And, when he did, to realise that she was beginning, warily, to find it enjoyable.
‘We’re going steady,’ she’d told herself, faintly amused at the idea of an old-fashioned courtship, but thankful at the same time. ‘And this time,’ she’d added fervently, ‘I’ll get it right.’
All the same, she was aware that the coming weekend at Whitestone Abbey could prove a turning point in their relationship which she might not be ready for.
On the other hand, refusing the invitation might be an even bigger mistake.
On the strength of that, she’d spent a chunk of her savings on a dress, the lovely colour of a misty sea, slim-fitting and ankle length in alternating bands of silk and lace, demure enough, she thought, to please the most exacting grandmother, yet also subtly enhancing her slender curves in a way that Gerard might appreciate.
And which would take her through Saturday’s cocktail party for friends and neighbours to the formal family dinner later in the evening.
‘I hope you won’t find it too dull,’ Gerard said, adding ruefully, ‘There was a time when Grandam would have danced the night away, but I think she’s started to feel her age.’
‘Grandam?’ Alanna was intrigued. ‘That has a wonderfully old-fashioned ring about it.’
He pulled a face. ‘Actually, it was an accident. When I was away at school for the first time, she sent me a food parcel and when I wrote to thank her, I mixed up the last two letters of Grandma and it stuck.’
‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘I think it’s charming.’
‘Well, don’t think in terms of lavender and lace,’ he said. ‘She still goes out on her horse each day before breakfast, summer and winter.’ He paused. ‘Do you ride?’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘Up to the time I left home to go to university and my parents decided to downsize to a cottage with a manageable garden, instead of a paddock with stabling.’
‘Bring some boots,’ he said, his surprised smile widening into a grin. ‘We can fix you up with a hat and I’ll give you a proper tour of the area.’
Alanna smiled back. ‘That will be marvellous,’ she said, and meant it in spite of a growing conviction that the soon-to-be eighty-year-old Niamh Harrington was one formidable lady.
And then, of course, there was the rest of the family.
‘Gerard’s mother is a widow and his late father was Mrs Harrington’s eldest child and only son,’ she told Susie over a Thai takeaway at the flat that evening.
She counted on her fingers. ‘Then there’s his Aunt Caroline and Uncle Richard with their son and his wife, plus his Aunt Diana, her husband Maurice and their two daughters, one married, one single.’
‘My God,’ Susie said limply. ‘I hope for your sake they wear name tags. Children?’
Alanna speared a prawn. ‘Yes, but strictly with attendant nannies. I get the impression that Mrs Harrington doesn’t approve of modern child-rearing methods.’
She added, ‘She also had a third daughter, her youngest, called Marianne, but she and her husband are both dead, and their son apparently is not expected to attend the festivities.’
‘Just as well,’ said Susie. ‘Sounds as if it will be standing room only as it is.’ She paused. ‘Is it this Marianne’s son who owns Bazaar Vert?’
Alanna shrugged. ‘I guess so. Gerard hasn’t said much about him.’ She picked up a foil dish. ‘Share the rest of the sticky rice?’
‘Willingly,’ said Susie. ‘But I’m glad to be missing out on the sticky weekend,’ she added thoughtfully.
The stickiness, in fact, began early at the Friday morning acquisitions meeting.
Alanna walked from it into her cubbyhole of an office, kicked the door shut behind her and swore.
‘Oh, Hetty,’ she said quietly. ‘Where are you when I need you?’
Well, on maternity leave was the answer to that, which was why Alanna had been temporarily promoted to head up romantic fiction at Hawkseye Publishing during her boss’s absence.
Initially, she’d been thrilled at the opportunity, but now the rose-tinted spectacles were off and she realised she was in a war zone, the opposing foe being Louis Foster who produced the men’s fiction list, mainly slanted towards the ‘blood and guts’ school of thought, but also including some literary names. And others, as Alanna had just found out.
She had gone to the meeting to sell a new author with a fresh voice and innovative approach, who was her own discovery.
She had spoken enthusiastically and persuasively about acquiring this burgeoning talent for the Hawkseye stable, only to find herself blocked by Louis’s suave determination.
He could not, he said, having studied the figures, recommend such a high-risk investment in a total unknown.
‘Especially,’ he added, ‘as Jeffrey Winton told me over lunch the other day that he was very keen to extend his range, and what he was suggesting