restricted her response to a smile. Jealousy was good. Jealousy meant he cared. She couldn’t believe how much she wanted him to care…
‘I’d better check with Emily before I get carried away with the representational art. Meanwhile, I have to make a start on the kitchen if you’re ever going to get out of here,’ she said, unable to resist pushing the little green buttons a little harder.
‘No, first you have to drink your coffee. Bring it outside and get the smell of paint out of your lungs,’ he said, steering her towards the door. ‘You can tell me what you think of the shelves. Gently,’ he warned, as she reached out to run a finger along the smooth finish. ‘They’re just fitted together, not glued and screwed.’
‘I had no idea,’ Willow said, taking in the scope of the project. ‘I thought you were making some little shelf unit to hang on the wall. This will fill the whole of that end wall, won’t it?’ She glanced up at him. Then she said, ‘I love the way you’ve smoothed out the sharp edges.’
‘Kids horse around.’
‘It’s all so clean, so professional. I didn’t know you could do this stuff.’
‘I didn’t know you’d applied for a job on the Globe.’
She spun round. ‘But I did that before I met you.’
‘Ditto,’ he said. Then, when she was quite lost for words, he stepped back, tossed the dregs of his coffee into the grass and put down the mug. ‘I’ll need some more timber if I’m going to make a start on the storage seating.’
‘Yes.’ Her mouth felt like glue. ‘And I need to make some phone calls. The girl at the Globe told me to call Toby Townsend today.’
‘From St Lucia?’ he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
‘No, of course not—’
‘Don’t be defensive, Willow. A career girl has to make these sacrifices, even on her honeymoon.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Or maybe even last week you were beginning to have doubts about where your best interests might lie?’ Then he shrugged awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t blame you, really. I didn’t exactly respond like a “new man” to your big chance, did I?’
‘Not exactly. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe your flight from commitment was the result of a sudden blinding flash of insight at the chancel steps. Was it?’
‘Not entirely.’
When he didn’t elaborate, she carried on. ‘The only reason Toby is expecting a call from me this morning is because he was out when I rang last week. His assistant said I should call today and it seemed easier to say yes than go into details…’ That did sound defensive. And details would have been a heck of a lot easier than this. ‘So I wrote a letter,’ she added lamely. She had no reason to feel bad. But she did. She felt terrible.
‘And now you have to phone and explain that it was all a mistake. That you didn’t mean it. I guess it’s been that kind of week.’
‘Actually the letter never got sent.’ Oh, hell! ‘It was on the hall table with a stamp, just waiting for someone to go to the box.’ Then she lifted her shoulders and dropped them again. ‘I picked it up from the hall table as I rushed out of my parent’s house on Saturday.’
‘That was quick thinking under pressure. I’m impressed.’
‘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
