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 was the slightest pause. ‘Do you need company?’
‘Are you offering to give me the benefit of your advice on the most suitable, um…design?’ she asked. She wanted to scream.
‘I was offering to drive you,’ he returned mildly. ‘You’re on your own in the fitting room.’ Then a slow smile lifted his features. ‘Belay that last remark. I’m more than happy to help with the hooks and eyes—’
‘Thanks, but you’ve forfeited any rights to play with my hooks and eyes. Besides, you’ve got plenty to keep you busy here. I called Crysse.’ Well, she had called her. It wasn’t a lie. Then, because she didn’t want him making a fuss, insisting on coming along, since she was so pale, she said, ‘She’s meeting me.’ Which was the biggest, fattest lie she’d ever told.
‘Crysse?’ he repeated dully, clearly far from reassured. She wished she’d said nothing, but it was too late now.
‘Who else?’ she demanded defensively.
After a moment he stepped back to let her pass. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure. And don’t worry about dinner,’ she said quickly as she clattered down the wooden stairs. ‘I’ll get a cooked ready meal to heat through. I may be useless at producing my own haute cuisine, but I’m an absolute whizz at heating through someone else’s.’
‘Willow…’ She turned at the foot of the stairs, made an impatient gesture when he hesitated. ‘It’s been a tough few days. Don’t do anything you might…’ He seemed lost for words.
‘What?’
‘Regret.’
Regret? As far as he was concerned she was going to buy a new suit. If she regretted it, she’d change it. But he looked so tense…
‘Don’t worry, Mike. I think I demonstrated my capacity for avoidance of regret on Saturday. We both did.’ Her attempt at a careless laugh echoed around the unfurnished house, sounding brittle and unconvincing.
‘No.’ He joined her at the foot of the stairs. ‘I mean it. I’ve hurt you, I know that. I’d give anything to change what happened, to have done it all differently but, please, don’t make it worse by doing something stupid.’
He sounded so serious that she shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about me, Michael. I’m in need of a little retail therapy, that’s all. Stupid will be restricted to the impulse purchase of a suede purple miniskirt when I should be buying something classic in black.’
‘Really?’
‘Wrong answer. You’re supposed to say “You’d look terrific in a purple miniskirt.”’
‘You’d look terrific in a purple miniskirt,’ he said, but he wasn’t laughing. ‘Just don’t get tempted by anything in black leather.’
‘I never wear—’ The words died in her throat as he reached out, cradled her cheek for a moment, his hand shaking slightly, or maybe she was the one who was shaking, as he slowly lowered his mouth to hers. It was like his first kiss. His first touch. Hesitant. Full of questions. Do you want this? Are you feeling this? As if we’re on the edge of an abyss and that, if we step off, there’ll be no going back.
It was
