Becky hesitated. ‘Well, his mother’s staying with him at the moment, helping him settle in.’
‘My God.’ Tara felt an unholy bubble of glee well up inside her. ‘He’s thirty-something and he still lives with Mummy?’
‘Nothing of the kind. It’s a purely temporary measure. She has a very nice home of her own. And she’s desperate for him to meet the right woman.’
‘I’m sure she is.’ Tara’s tone was dry. ‘She probably has the poisoned dagger ready and waiting.’
‘I don’t think that job is doing you any good,’ Becky said severely. ‘It’s made you disagreeably cynical.’
‘It’s certainly taught me to differentiate between people’s public faces and private agendas,’ Tara agreed. ‘Whatever, I’m afraid I’m not tempted to change my plans. I’m going to spend the weekend relaxing in my own way.’ Not to mention the following two weeks as well, she added silently.
‘And on your own, I suppose?’
There was something about the question that flicked Tara on the raw. ‘Not necessarily.’
‘Tara,’ Becky shrieked. ‘You mean you’ve actually met someone. Tell me everything.’
‘No,’ Tara said, already regretting that she’d allowed herself to be provoked into the fib. ‘There isn’t anything to tell. Not yet.’ Which was no more than the truth, she placated her conscience.
‘You slyboots,’ Becky said gleefully. ‘You’ve got to give me a hint. Is he tall or short? Dark or fair?’
‘No comment.’
‘But he is gorgeous, right?’ Becky persisted. ’And with money?’
Tara sighed. ‘It’s a pity they did away with the Spanish Inquisition, Beck. I could have got you in at the top level, no problem.’
‘Naturally I’m going to be interested,’ her sister said with dignity. ‘Do you realise how long it is since you had even a marginal involvement with a man?’
‘Only too well,’ Tara said gently. ‘And why.’
‘Well, it’s time you put all that behind you,’ Becky said firmly, after a pause. ‘I’ve been telling you for ages that not all men are rats. Let’s hope this weekend is a step in the right direction.’
A vision rose in front of Tara’s eyes of a sunlit creek, a boat’s mast dark against the bright water. A square white house set amidst trees, and no sound except the cry of birds.
Involuntarily her mouth curled. ‘Oh, I think I can promise that. Now I must go, Becky. I have a report to finish.’
‘And you’re not going to give me even a teensy idea what your new man is like—so that I can tell Harry.’
‘Just say that it’s early days. He’ll understand.’
‘Yes,’ said Harry’s loving wife, with something of a snap. ‘I expect he will.’
Tara was laughing as she put the phone down, yet it wasn’t really funny, she thought ruefully. She should have stuck to her guns. Admitted that she was going to spend her holiday alone, and what the hell. But Becky’s assumption that this had to be the case had riled her for some reason. And it would also have provided her sister with extra ammunition in her bid to persuade her down to Hartside, she reminded herself defensively.
Becky could not be allowed to organise her life as if she was some extension of the carol concert, or the village fête. Or continue to dangle allegedly eligible bachelors in front of her, not to mention the occasional divorcé, or, in dire straits, widower.
Yet it was still genuinely stupid to let her think there’s a new man in my life, she told herself. Beck won’t leave it there. She’s like a ferret. Thank God she doesn’t realise where I’m going. She’ll assume I’m jetting off somewhere for sun, sangria and sex—as I used to do with Jack.
Something closed in her mind at the memory. Like a shutter coming down to defend her against pain. Except there was no defence.
Becky was right about one thing, she thought. It was more than time to let go. To release herself from the dead hand of the past. And maybe a new relationship was what she needed to help the healing process along.
But, like a burned child, she’d hung back from the fire, letting the demands of her career fill the aching space that Jack had left. And now perhaps it was too late.
She pushed her chair back restlessly, rising to walk over to the picture window behind her, staring out at the vista of City offices which confronted her. This was what was important. This was what mattered, she told herself. She was a partner in a top recruitment service—a headhunter who could smell the blood in the water. Too busy setting executive traps to offer any personal bait herself.
As she turned away, she glimpsed her reflection in the glass and halted. Scrutinised what she took for granted each day—the mid-brown hair, immaculately bobbed just short of shoulder-length, the white silk shirt, buttoned to the throat, topping the dark skirt ending discreetly on the knee. Neat, efficient and unthreatening.
An image which she’d actively sought, and now, suddenly, found vaguely unsatisfying.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she apostrophised herself impatiently. You must need a holiday more than you thought.
She sat down and applied herself with new determination to her report, scanning swiftly through what she’d already written.
Tom Fortescue had come highly recommended, she thought. He was well-qualified, and a man in a hurry. And yet...
Tara shook her head. Her usually reliable antennae seemed to be sounding a warning, and she didn’t understand why.
There were no significant gaps in his CV, and he’d interviewed well. She had nothing to go on but sheer intuition. And that intuition was telling her not to suggest Mr Fortescue for the highly paid position at Bearcroft Holdings for which he seemed so eminently suited.
Her doubts were there, loud and clear, in every line of her report. On the surface, it was a dispassionate, professional assessment, but Tara could see she’d been non-committal where she should have been enthusiastic, guarded when she should have been singing his praises. She sighed and saved the file to disk.
It would be up to her associates to make the final judgement, of course, and in some ways she was glad she would not be there to justify her assessment. Or to express any regrets to Tom Fortescue, who would not be pleased to find himself sidelined on her say-so. He was sharp and ambitious, and he’d come to Marchant Southern specifically because he wanted to fill the Bearcroft spot, and Tara was sure he regarded the appointment as in the bag.
But by the time she came back from leave the dust should have settled, she told herself philosophically. And Mr Fortescue could advance his career with another firm of headhunters.
She retrieved the disk from her machine, and went out to give it to Janet. And checked, registering with shock the figure perched with easy familiarity on the edge of her secretary’s desk.
