thought.
‘My bedroom’s here,’ he told her, pushing open a door.
It was a large room on the same side of the house as her own, but with more windows. It had a huge bed set in a carved cherrywood frame.
‘Oh, Drew, I love this!’ she told him reverently, forgetting his socks and touching the carving with gentle fingers.
‘Do you? I’m glad… I did it myself.’ He saw her astonishment and smiled. ‘Woodwork has always been a hobby of mine.’
Holly looked round the bedroom with new eyes, noting the wardrobe and dresser. ‘Did you make those as well?’ she asked him. He nodded.
But, beautiful though the furniture was, it needed the right setting to show it off properly. The bedroom’s walls and ceiling were painted magnolia, and looked dull, like the plain brown carpet and the beige curtains.
As though he read her mind, Drew said apologetically, ‘Knowing my problem with colours, I played it safe and chose ones I knew I could recognise.’
He was unexpectedly tidy for a man, far tidier than she was herself, she acknowledged guiltily, and far more domesticated. The meal he had prepared for them last night had been delicious, but then, living alone, he had no doubt had to learn how to look after himself.
‘We’d better get the socks, otherwise we’re going to be late.’ He walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer, and then turned to Holly, and said, ‘I suspect it would save time if you got them out for me.’
Obligingly, Holly went to the open drawer. Because Drew had opened it to its fullest extent, there was hardly enough space between his body and the bed for her to get past, but she managed it by wriggling slightly.
‘Here you are. I think these are black,’ she told him breathlessly, rifling through the drawer until she found the right pair. ‘I’ll… I’ll wait for you outside while you put them on.’
She saw his eyebrows lift and blushed furiously, but he didn’t make the kind of scathing comment Howard would have made in the same circumstances, simply smiling at her and watching her go.
She had forgotten that he was colour-blind, she mused as she waited for him; that would, of course, explain the awful combination of red sweater and brown cords into which he had changed last night.
Howard had perfect clothes sense. So perfect, in fact, that at times he criticised Holly’s own choice. Take this dress she was wearing tonight, for instance. Howard didn’t like her wearing red, he preferred her in pastel colours; he considered them to be far more feminine.
Drew didn’t keep her waiting long, ushering her outside into the cool October evening.
She was about to cross the yard when he forestalled her, swinging her up into his arms as he had done the previous day.
‘Drew!’ she protested breathlessly.
‘You’re wearing those idiotic heels again,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you ever wear sensible shoes?’
‘I can’t,’ she told him sadly. ‘I’m only five foot two, you know. I need the height.’
‘What for?’
For some reason his question flustered her, and she was glad that they had reached the Land Rover. Or had they? She peered at the vehicle in front of them, realising that it wasn’t the one she had travelled in the previous day.
‘Drew, this is a Range Rover.’
‘So it is,’ he agreed laconically.
It was almost brand new as well, Holly recognised as she saw the number-plate, and so luxurious inside that her eyes rounded in surprise.
‘I didn’t know you owned this.’
‘No? Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’
‘But, Drew, they’re terribly expensive.’
She couldn’t help remembering how as a teenager Drew had always had less money than the rest of them, and she suspected he must have bought the vehicle in a last-ditch attempt to impress Rosamund.
Poor Drew, she thought, tears stinging her eyes as he got in beside her and started the engine. His situation was so much worse than hers. At least she could escape back to London, but Drew would be forced to live almost side by side with Rosamund and Howard. But at least that way he would be there as a constant reminder of what they had once shared, while Howard…
They drove through the village and out again along the road off which Rosamund’s father had built his house. The last time Holly had visited it had been for Rosamund’s eighteenth birthday. That had been one May, with a marquee on the lawn and every other fashionable expense Rosamund’s mother could think of.
Tonight there was no marquee, but the line-up of cars down the long drive was evidence of the new social sphere in which Rosamund and her parents moved—Porsche, Jaguar, Mercedes and Rolls—and a tiny tremor of fear quaked through Holly.
Drew found a parking spot half-way down the drive, parking the Range Rover with commendable expertise.
Someone was walking down the drive toward them; a couple, to judge from the light female voice and its deeper male counterpart.
The footsteps stopped as they drew level with the Range Rover, and a voice Holly vaguely recognised demanded, ‘Drew, is that you?’
‘Hello, Jane—and Guy. How are you?’
‘Oh, we’re fine.’
Of course, Jane Phillips; Holly remembered her now. She had been quite a few years ahead of her in school. In the same class as Drew, come to think of it.
‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed as Holly stepped forward. ‘It’s Holly Witchell, isn’t it? Well, now, how long have you two been together? Guy and I have just come back from the States. Guy’s been working over there for six months. Is this a new thing, or…?’
‘Stop gossiping, woman, I’m freezing,’ her husband interrupted.
When Drew would have fallen into step beside him Holly tugged on his arm and fibbed, ‘Drew, I’ve left my handbag in the Range Rover.’
While Drew patiently unlocked the door, Holly waited until the other couple were out of sight and then hissed, ‘It’s all right, Drew. I’ve got my handbag here, but I’ve just had the most marvellous idea! Well, it was Jane who gave it to me, really.’ She took a deep breath and then demanded, ‘Why don’t we pretend that we’re in love?’
Drew went so still and silent that Holly wondered if she ought to have broken the idea to him more gently.
‘With each other, I presume you mean?’ he said cautiously at last.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,’ Holly agreed, trying to control her impatience. Really, men could be so slow at times! Why on earth hadn’t she thought of it before? It was the ideal way for both of them to reconjure their ex-partners’ interest.
‘But I thought
