Staying at Daisy's Page 10

  ‘A toy plane from Harrods.’

  He nodded gravely, acknowledging the difference. ‘I hadn’t taken you for the tree-climbing type.’

  ‘It’s one of my talents. What are you doing here anyway?’ As she spoke, Daisy unzipped the coveralls and stepped out of it, in case he thought this was the kind of gorgeous thing she normally wore on duty.

  ‘Like Wonder Woman in reverse,’ Dev observed. ‘Actually, I came to see you.’ He paused, quite deliberately, before adding, ‘I need to book a conference room.’

  ‘Really? And you’d like me to recommend a hotel? Well, there are several good ones in Bristol and Bath—’

  ‘I thought maybe here.’ He watched with amusement as Bert stepped forward to retrieve his coveralls, handing over Daisy’s boots in exchange. ‘Do you need a hand getting those on?’

  Daisy wished her balled-up purple socks weren’t unceremoniously stuffed into the tops of her tan leather ankle boots. Oh, sod it, just head for the hotel and sort the footwear out later. Why was she even worrying about being caught in possession of a pair of dodgy socks?

  Back in her office, she sat down and flipped through the bookings diary on her desk.

  ‘Yes, the conference room’s free on that day. We can do it. If you’re sure you want us to.’

  ‘I like this hotel.’ Dev was openly grinning at her now. ‘You’re handy for the motorway. Although I’d prefer it if your chambermaid didn’t seduce my guests.’

  ‘I’ll make a special note of it. Nooo sed…uct…ions,’ Daisy slowly repeated as she wrote it down. ‘How’s your friend Dominic, by the way?’ She raised her eyebrows, feigning interest. ‘Still married?’

  There was a knock at the door. Pam, the receptionist, stuck her head round.

  ‘Daisy, the electrician’s on the phone. Is tomorrow afternoon OK for the safety check?’

  ‘It’s my day off tomorrow. Could you arrange it with Vince?’ Vince was the assistant manager. Daisy watched Pam give Dev Tyzack a swift once-over and waggle her eyebrows in appreciation behind his back. Pam might be forty-three and a grandmother several times over but in her mind she was still twenty-two.

  ‘Would you like me to organize coffee?’ Pam was still admiring the view available to her of Dev in faded jeans and a charcoal-grey sweater.

  ‘No thanks, we’re fine.’

  Pam was dispatched back to reception. Asking questions and taking notes, Daisy arranged the conference booking for Dev Tyzack’s management development company. Modestly known as Tyzack’s. He also owned a video production company, Daisy learned, which made training videos.

  ‘Right. All sorted.’ She sat back in her chair finally, ran her fingers through her hair, and realized it was still dripping wet.

  ‘You looked like that the last time I saw you,’ Dev Tyzack observed with a brief smile. ‘Not quite so muddy this time. What are you doing tomorrow?’

  Caught off guard, Daisy wondered what he meant.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Your day off.’

  She felt water trickling not very seductively down one temple.

  ‘I don’t know. Brush up on my tree climbing, maybe. Get the crampons out and tackle one of the big oaks down by the river. Why?’

  ‘I just thought if you were free… well, there’s something you could help me out with.’

  Stalling for time, Daisy reached down for her boots. Slowly and deliberately, to prove she wasn’t embarrassed by her woolly purple socks, she put them on.

  ‘Help you out with what?’

  ‘Something important. A decision I have to make. How about if I pick you up at ten o’clock? We’ll drive into Bristol, do what we have to do, then I’ll treat you to lunch. Sound good to you?’

  The cheek of it. He was already assuming she’d say yes. Just because he was Dev Tyzack, who had once captained the England rugby team and earned himself God only knows how many caps, he was taking it for granted that she’d collapse in a heap of gratitude, clasp her hands together in girlish delight and squeal, ‘Oooh, yes please!’

  Bloody cheek!

  ‘If you aren’t going to tell me what this is about, forget it.’

  Infuriatingly, Dev Tyzack smiled. ‘Oh, come on. Where’s your sense of adventure?’

  ‘Up a tree.’ Picking up her left boot, Daisy stuffed her foot into it, willy-nilly. The bad news was, it was her right foot. His smile broadened.

  ‘I thought you of all people would be game on. So that’s it, is it? You’re turning me down?’

  Daisy managed to get the right boots zipped up on the right feet. She gave him her best don’t-mess-with-me stare.

  ‘Am I supposed to be overcome with curiosity? Because I’m not. If you won’t tell me where we’re going, I’m not doing it.’

  Even more infuriatingly, Dev Tyzack shrugged. ‘OK.’

  She waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more.

  ‘Bye then,’ said Dev.

  Bastard.

  ‘Bye.’ Daisy flashed him a professional smile as he moved towards the door.

  He was leaving, he was actually leaving, dammit.

  This was outrageous.

  ‘OK,’ said Daisy, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. God, he was probably loving every second of this.

  Dev Tyzack paused in the doorway, as if he’d known she wouldn’t be able to resist him. No doubt he’d used this ploy dozens of times—the old magical mystery tour ploy—and it had never failed him yet.

  ‘Good. See you tomorrow then. I’ll pick you up at ten thirty.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Daisy blurted out as he was about to leave. ‘This isn’t a date, is it? I’m just checking, making sure it’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Good grief, the very idea. I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Dev Tyzack’s wicked dark eyes flashed with triumph. ‘No worries, Wonder Woman. It’s definitely nothing like a date.’

  Chapter 13

  Maggie’s trysts with Hector MacLean were the highlight of her week. For over eighteen months now, their secret meetings had been what she looked forward to with frantic, almost teenage anticipation—fluttery stomach, feeling sick with excitement, the works. And, thanks to mobile phones and text messaging, nobody else was any the wiser.

  Which suited them both, down to the ground.

  Hector, of course, had no idea how much he really meant to her, and Maggie worked hard to make sure he never would find out. As far as he was concerned, theirs was a mutually beneficial arrangement. He enjoyed meeting her for pleasurable, uncomplicated sex without the hassle of an emotional relationship. And in return he paid her, enabling her to enjoy a better lifestyle than she would otherwise have been able to afford.

  Maggie had agonized endlessly, in the early months, over the money. She would have much preferred not to accept it. But any mention of this had brought a categorical response from Hector. If she refused to accept payment, their arrangement would have to end. It wasn’t fair on her, he explained; he couldn’t expect any woman to sleep with him when there was no relationship between them. And a relationship—with anyone—was the last thing he needed. Since his beloved wife’s death, Hector had become one of Gloucestershire’s most sought-after singles. He had been chased and propositioned by startlingly shameless women, both married and single themselves.

  It had all happened quite out of the blue, one summer’s night at a party in the grounds of the hotel.

  ‘I don’t need the hassle,’ Hector had confided to Maggie. ‘I don’t want a new woman in my life and, God help me, I can’t imagine anything more horrible than getting into the dating scene again. The only thing I miss is sex.’

  There had been a fair amount of alcohol consumed. If Maggie hadn’t been tipsy she would never have said what she did. But with several glasses of excellent wine inside her, it had bee
n incredibly easy to rest a hand lightly on his arm and murmur, ‘You need someone trustworthy and discreet.’

  Then she had paused significantly, and their eyes had met. Well, why not? Hector was a lovely man. She’d always liked him.

  Hector had remained motionless for several seconds.

  ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  Touched by the uncertainty in his voice, she had nodded and smiled.

  And that was how it had begun. They had slipped away from the party, unnoticed. Falling into bed with Hector had been a revelation.

  Afterwards, he had insisted on giving her the money. By this time already half in love with him, Maggie had been forced to agree that it made a certain kind of sense. And now, all these months later, it made more sense than ever. If she were to put her foot down and refuse any more of Hector’s money, she knew he would stop seeing her, because he was a gentleman, for crying out loud.

  A gentleman with principles.

  She knew what she should do, of course. Find herself another man. Except she didn’t want anyone else. Only Hector.

  So this had been Maggie’s dilemma. Which should she choose? Delicious, illicit sex with a man who meant the world to her and paid her for it? Or no sex and no money?

  Let’s face it, there really was no contest.

  ***

  ‘Bloody hell, who’s that?’ sighed Hector. They had only just reached Maggie’s bedroom when the doorbell began to ring downstairs.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not expecting anyone.’ The only person Maggie had been expecting was Hector. They stood and stared at each other, willing whoever it was on the doorstep to give in gracefully, slope off, and leave them to it.

  Brrrrinnnggg.

  ‘God, I hate this kind of thing,’ Maggie whispered. ‘It’s like being in a Brian Rix farce. Do I just pretend I’m not here, or bundle you into the wardrobe, or what?’

  Hector grinned. ‘Not wildly keen on the wardrobe idea.’

  ‘OK. Just wait here.’ Maggie slid out of the bedroom and crossed the landing avoiding the creaky floorboards. Crouching down as she entered Tara’s messy bedroom, she approached the window sniper-style.

  Bugger, bugger. Maggie gripped the windowsill in frustration when she saw the distinctive red and white van parked outside the cottage.

  This was so unfair. When she’d rung Carver’s Superstore in Bristol to complain about her washing machine breaking down, they had hemmed and hawed and finally arranged to send out a repair man on Monday afternoon. They weren’t able to specify a time, naturally, but it would definitely be between two and six o’clock.

  Maggie checked her watch. Eleven fifty-three. How bloody, bloody typical.

  Well, sod it. He was too early and it simply wasn’t convenient. In fact it was outrageously inconvenient, and she jolly well wasn’t going to let him in.

  Except if she told him this, there was always the possibility that the repairman might take umbrage, come over all temperamental, and storm off in a big stroppy huff. Far simpler to quietly retreat from the window and pretend to be out.

  ‘Shit!’ bawled Maggie, her inconspicuous withdrawal scuppered by the object on the floor behind her. The upturned post of Tara’s earring buried itself in her bare foot. Lurching to one side—the pain was acute—Maggie grabbed the bookcase next to her and promptly tipped it over. Tara’s selection of blockbusters—even gaudier than her earrings—crashed to the floor. She couldn’t have made more noise if she’d set off a volley of fireworks.

  Gasping with the pain and pulling the earring out of her foot, Maggie hobbled back over to the window.

  So much for silent withdrawal.

  Oh, what a surprise, and there was the repairman standing back on the pavement in order to be able to peer up at her. Possibly the tallest, skinniest repairman Maggie had ever seen.

  Now he was waving enthusiastically and pointing to the identity tag pinned to his chest. As if the red and white Carver’s van wasn’t giveaway enough.

  Maggie sighed and opened the window.

  ‘Mrs Donovan? Phew, that’s a relief! For a minute there I thought you were out. Gerald Porter.’ He tapped his identity tag with pride. ‘I’ve come to take a look at your washing machine.’

  ‘You’re too early,’ Maggie called down. ‘They told me you’d be here this afternoon, between two and six.’

  ‘No, no, you’re booked in for a morning appointment.’ Gerald consulted his clipboard. ‘Between eight and twelve.’

  Maggie clutched the edges of the windowsill. ‘The girl said between two and six. She definitely said that.’

  ‘Did she? I can’t see how. Still, never mind. I’m here now,’ Gerald announced cheerfully. ‘And you’re here now. So why don’t I just come in?’

  He looked like Popeye without the muscles.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but it’s not convenient,’ said Maggie. ‘In fact it’s very…’ she searched for the perfect word, ‘inconvenient.’ I mean, for heaven’s sake, can’t a woman be allowed to entertain her lover in peace?

  OK, client.

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, never mind.’ Gerald shrugged, clearly disappointed. He turned and headed back to the van.

  Delighted by her victory, Maggie gaily called out, ‘Thanks very much. See you this afternoon then!’

  Frowning, Gerald craned his giraffe-like neck around. ‘What?’

  ‘This afternoon. Between two and six.’ Maggie gave him an encouraging nod. It would probably be two o’clock, thinking about it. He could have his lunch break now and fix her washing machine in… ooh, an hour if he liked.

  ‘Oh no, Mrs Donovan, you don’t understand. I haven’t got you booked in for this afternoon. You’ll need to ring Carver’s and fix up another appointment.’

  What?

  ‘OK, could you come back tomorrow morning?’ Maggie thought of all the washing piled up in the cupboard downstairs. The machine had been playing up for over a fortnight now. She’d been banking on getting it fixed today.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Donovan, you have to phone Carver’s. They’ll arrange everything…’

  In their own inefficient fashion, Maggie thought crossly.

  ‘…but I have to warn you, shouldn’t think you’d get another appointment before next week.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you’re not serious. I can’t wait that long!’

  ‘Nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.’ Gerald shrugged his gangly shoulders. ‘Unless you let me take a look at your machine now.’

  God.

  Behind her, Maggie heard Hector quietly clearing his throat.

  ‘Maybe I should leave.’

  ‘No!’ She turned and shook her head, then had an idea and leaned back out of the window. ‘Look, if you do come in, how long will it take to fix it?’

  Gerald brightened considerably. ‘Well, if it’s something simple, five minutes.’

  ‘Go downstairs and let him in,’ whispered Hector from the doorway. ‘I’ll wait up here.’

  ***

  The operative word, needless to say, had been if. If it was something simple. But it wasn’t, of course. It was, apparently, something very complicated indeed.

  Maggie, hopping from foot to foot in the kitchen, checking and rechecking her watch, silently urged him to hurry up and work faster. But Gerald was one of those slow, methodical types who took a genuine interest in their work and prided themselves on their thoroughness. Worse still, he kept trying to explain what he thought the problem might be and pausing to point out particularly riveting electrical components.

  Stop it, stop it, just shut up and get on with the job, Maggie longed to yell, I don’t want to know how a washing machine works, you moron!

  She also itched to flick him with a whip, like a jockey approaching the last fence at the Grand National, just to see if it would speed him up a bit.
<
br />   Twenty minutes crawled by. Then thirty. Gerald was still on his knees exclaiming with pleasure over an integrated circuit board when Maggie heard a footstep on the stairs.

  Sidling out of the kitchen and closing the door firmly behind her, she met Hector in the hall.

  ‘Bloody man’s still got the machine in bits. He looks as if he’s settling in for the afternoon.’

  ‘And I have an appointment in Bath at two o’clock. I’m going to slip away.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault.’ He smiled and gave her a reassuring kiss on the cheek. ‘We’ll arrange something for another day.’

  Hector was taking it well but he must have been disappointed. Nearly as disappointed as me, thought Maggie, who had been looking forward to their assignation all week.

  Luckily, sneaking Hector out wasn’t a problem; Gerald was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t even see him cross the kitchen and exit via the back door before vanishing down the path into the woods behind the cottage.

  So that was that.

  ‘Oh, you’re back.’ Emerging from his own little washing machine dreamworld, Gerald raised his long neck and said happily, ‘This is fascinating, you know. Completely fascinating. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a coffee?’

  The other trick Maggie had fallen for was to believe—idiotically—that the washing machine repairman might actually repair her washing machine. When what Gerald had in fact told her was that he had come out to ‘take a look’ at it.

  Oh yes, and he’d certainly done that. By three o’clock he had taken the machine to bits, put it together again, and pushed it neatly back into its slot between the oven and the fridge.

  ‘What I’m going to do, Mrs Donovan, is place an order for a new circuit board and see if that does the trick.’

  Maggie couldn’t believe it. Three whole hours, five cups of coffee, a chicken sandwich, six chocolate biscuits, and he still hadn’t even mended the bloody thing.

  ‘How long before the circuit board gets here?’