She shook her head, reality coming back to her. She had work to do before she opened the shop in the morning, and it was already after seven. Besides, the cat would be hungry and would take the hump and go off in a sulk if she didn’t get back soon.
‘I ought to go,’ she told him, and he nodded.
‘OK.’ He looked up and caught the waiter’s eye, and a bill appeared a moment later.
‘Could you please split it?’ she asked him, but Owen shook his head.
‘No. Leave it. Here.’ He counted out a pile of notes, told the man to keep the change and ushered her out.
‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she protested, but he just smiled.
‘Yes, I should. I talked you into it—and, anyway, it was a pleasure having your company.’ He walked her to her car, and as she reached it he looked down into her eyes and searched them in silence for a moment.
‘Thank you for rescuing me from the doldrums,’ she said, a touch breathlessly, and he smiled, just a slight shift of his lips in the harsh glare of the outside lights. His eyes were in shadow, but they seemed to burn with an inner fire that she didn’t dare interpret.
‘My pleasure,’ he murmured, and before she could move or speak or even blink, he bent his head and brushed her lips with his. ‘Goodnight, Cait. Take care.’
He slipped a card into her hand. ‘Here. This is my number. Ring me if you need anything.’
Then he was gone, his long legs striding round his car. He slid behind the wheel and waited for her to get into her car, then once she was settled and pulled forward a fraction, he raised a hand in farewell and followed her out of the car park.
His lights trailed her all the way home, then as she pulled up they flashed a couple of times and he drove away.
How chivalrous, she thought with a tiny smile, and then looked up at the dark window in her flat over the shop. Oh, lord. No Milly to nag and bully and hug. None of her various friends to trip over, no festering coffee-mugs on Milly’s bedroom window-sill, no frenzied searching for a bag, a phone, a piece of paper.
Just silence.
Cait braced herself, and got out of the car. It was time to start the rest of her life.
She slid her hand into her pocket to pull out her house keys, and the sharp corner of Owen’s card scratched the palm of her hand. She pulled it out and looked at it in the dim light of the streetlamps, and a smile curved her lips.
Maybe—just maybe—her new life had already started.
CHAPTER THREE
CAIT would have gone crazy in the next few days without the cat to keep her company. They were both a little lost without Milly, and to comfort herself poor old Bagpuss took up residence in Cait’s immediate vicinity.
Wherever she was, the cat was too. She slept with her, she followed her round all day, and she cried piteously if Cait shut her out.
It was getting on her nerves, but since she could understand it, it was hard to get cross with her.
Well, most of the time. On the second Sunday Milly was gone, she put down a wedding dress for ten seconds and came back to find the cat making a nest inside the piles of tulle.
‘Out!’ she ordered firmly, not daring to pick the cat up for fear of plucking the fine netting, and Bagpuss stalked off with her tail in the air. It didn’t last long, though. Within moments she was back again, scratching at the door until Cait relented and let her back in.
She jumped up and settled down on the sewing table next to the pins and bobbins, tucking her paws under her and purring gloatingly because she’d got her own way again. Every now and again she reached out an idle paw and batted at the threads trailing from the needles in the pin cushion, making Cait nervous. She moved the pin cushion out of reach.
‘I don’t need a vet bill,’ she said, but the cat just washed herself and settled down for a snooze. ‘Tired?’ Cait asked unfeelingly. ‘That’s because you were miaowing all night and keeping me awake. I told you, she’s gone. She won’t be back for ages. Maybe even Christmas.’
Christmas? Good grief. It seemed such a long time away, but it wasn’t really. She was just finishing off this last of a run of wedding dresses, and then she’d have to overhaul her winter ball gowns, all the reds and blacks and deep greens that were so popular for the Christmas balls.
Some would need revamping, others would go in the pre-season sale, and she would have to do a lot of restocking, so she wouldn’t have time to miss Milly.
Not really. Only every time she got out two plates for supper, or cooked two jacket potatoes instead of one, or weighed out the wrong amount of spaghetti. Only whenever she went into the bathroom and it was tidy, with no soggy towels dropped on the floor or nightdress abandoned over the edge of the bath or the scales missing.
Only whenever she heard something funny and wanted to share it with her daughter, and then remembered she wasn’t there.
She was getting on fine, by all accounts—or at least she seemed to be. She’d rung a couple of times, between one party and another, and she seemed to be having a great time.
Unlike Cait, who was submerged under a pile of tulle that had to be ready by tomorrow.
And then, of course, there was the evening class she’d enrolled herself on.
She sighed. Maybe she was trying to take too much on, but she couldn’t afford to get someone else to run the shop and she didn’t dare farm out the sewing. She’d tried that before, with disastrous consequences.
So she’d struggle, and she’d probably have to stay up half the night every now and again, but she’d get there.
She had an essay to finish for tomorrow night, come to that, but her bride was coming for a fitting at nine in the morning, and she had to get the dress to the right stage by then. Still, it was straightforward enough, a variation on a pattern she’d made several times before.
She stayed up until eleven working on it, then started on the essay. Not a good move. Her brain felt like treacle, and the words seemed doubly impenetrable through the fog of exhaustion.
She fell asleep with her head in the book at one, went to bed and tried to carry on, and finally at three she admitted defeat, turned out the light and disappeared into blissful oblivion until eight thirty-eight.
Twenty-two minutes till her fitting.
Great!
She shot out of bed, had the fastest shower in the history of mankind and gave the cat a double portion of food by accident as she rushed out of the flat and downstairs to the shop, the dress carefully held aloft so she didn’t trip over it and shred the bottom.
Her bride was late. Almost half an hour late—time for a cup of tea and some toast while she finished off her essay, had she but known, but she didn’t, so she spent the whole time waiting for the young woman to arrive.
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