she rose to her feet and walked slowly back through the large sitting room into her bedroom, Harriet realised that she now had no choice. She was just going to have to tough it out. After all, Finn was only going to be renting the upstairs apartment for six months. So, with any luck—and a firm contract—she should be able to make sure that she saw as little of him as possible.
CHAPTER THREE
IF SHE had hoped to see virtually nothing of Finn, once he’d moved into her second-floor apartment, Harriet very soon realised that she’d been badly mistaken.
It could just be that men, on the whole, were far more demanding than women. Certainly she’d never had any problems with Sophie, whose occupancy of the lower-ground-floor flat now seemed angelic, when compared to the almost daily hassle and problems she experienced with Finn Maclean.
In fact, having taken a great deal of time and trouble over converting the second floor into a bright and cheerful one-bedroom flat—containing just about every modern convenience—she was now totally fed up with the constant stream of queries and complaints from the damned man.
No sooner had he moved in—and that alone had been a four-act play!—than he’d been down banging on her door and complaining that the washing machine and dishwasher weren’t working.
‘What do you mean “not working”?’ She’d frowned. ‘They’re brand-new, for heaven’s sake!’
Finn had merely given a cool shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Whether the machines are new or old isn’t the point,’ he’d informed her flatly, before insisting that she do something—right away.
After ringing a plumber, who’d charged an arm and a leg just to call at the house, the problem had been very quickly sorted out.
‘The next time you want to use one of these machines in the kitchen—try putting in a plug and switching on the electricity,’ she’d stormed, refusing to see the funny side of the situation as she’d glared at Finn and the plumber, both doubled up with laughter.
‘Reading the instructions might not be a bad idea, either,’ she’d added, throwing the booklet on to the kitchen counter, before stumping furiously out of the flat behind the plumber, who had still been chuckling with amusement as he’d made his way down the stairs and out into the night.
But that had only been the beginning of what seemed like one long nightmare of continuous hassle, all emanating from the second floor.
There had been the case of the blocked sink—another visit from the plumber; the blown fuse—the electrician; an accidentally broken pane of glass in one of the windows—ditto the glazier. Not to mention the bath overflowing which, as Finn had confessed with a grin, had occurred while he’d been talking on the phone to a girlfriend.
‘I couldn’t care less about your private life!’ she’d ground out furiously. ‘Except that—thanks to you—this house seems to be paying for the plumber’s next Caribbean holiday.’
‘No problem,’ he’d assured her with a careless, dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Just have the bills sent to me.’
The fact that he’d cheerfully paid all the huge invoices presented by the tradesmen, didn’t seem to make up for the sheer inconvenience of having to arrange for them to call and sort out the various problems. Nor had she been amused by a huge consignment of champagne, arriving with no notice in the middle of the day and totally blocking the hallway. With the delivery man claiming to have a bad back, no prizes for guessing exactly who had found herself hauling the cases up the stairs, to the second-floor flat.
But those minor annoyances were as nothing to the constant noise and disturbance caused by a stream of beautiful female visitors, all laughing and chatting at the top of their voices as they made their way up and down the stairs to the second floor.
If Sophie fancies her chances with this man, I reckon she’s way out of luck, Harriet had told herself grimly, while letting in yet another young, slim, highly glamorous blonde, who’d pressed Harriet’s doorbell by mistake.
However, it had been Finn’s birthday party, last week, which had been just about the last straw.
‘You’ve got a lot to answer for!’ Harriet told Sophie accusingly, as she and Trish joined her for breakfast at Cullens, in Holland Park Avenue, the following Sunday morning.
‘Oh, Lord—what have I done now?’ Sophie grinned, ordering a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat before sinking down on to the red leather seat beside her.
‘It’s not you.’ Harriet gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s that damned boyfriend of yours. He’s driving me absolutely up the wall!’
‘Hmm…?’ Sophie muttered, her attention distracted for a moment as the waitress placed a cup of coffee in front of her. ‘That’s funny. I didn’t know that you’d met Rodney?’
‘Rodney?’ Harriet frowned in puzzlement for a moment, before giving a slight shrug. ‘I’m talking about Finn Maclean. Not only is he turning into one long headache—but after that birthday party of his, the night before last, I could cheerfully murder the awful man!’
Sophie laughed. ‘Oh, I’m not interested in Finn any more.’
‘What…?’
‘I went off him ages ago,’ Sophie told her airily, before taking a large bite of her chocolate croissant.
‘Do you mean to say…?’
‘I’ve got this new boyfriend now, called Rodney Granger. Not only does he own a travel agency, but he’s promised to take me off to the south of France in two weeks’ time. How about that?’
Harriet could only glare at her, almost speechless with fury.
‘I simply don’t believe it!’ she eventually managed to grind out through clenched teeth. ‘Are you seriously telling me that, after twisting my arm—and virtually forcing me to let my newly done up flat to that foul man, Finn Maclean—you’ve already chucked him and got yourself a new boyfriend?’
‘Now, Harriet—calm down!’ Sophie muttered hurriedly. ‘I did fancy him, for a while. Which is not surprising, since you have to admit that he’s a real case of “sex on legs”—right? But I soon realised there was no point in having to compete with all those other women, who seem to surround him like a swarm of flies.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Finn may be diabolically attractive,’ Sophie admitted. ‘But I like a man to run after me—not the other way round. And besides,’ she added with a giggle, ‘who wouldn’t prefer to spend two weeks sailing around the Mediterranean in a huge yacht—with a guy who’s crazy about you—rather than queuing up for a chance to go out on the town with Finn? What do you reckon, Trish?’
Trish, who’d been buried in the Sunday papers, gave a quick nod of her head. ‘I’d take the yacht, every time,’ she agreed, before becoming absorbed in reading her horoscope for the coming week.
‘Well, thanks a bunch!’ Harriet grated angrily, before quickly grabbing a cigarette from the packet on the table in front of Trish. ‘You’ve really messed up my life—big time!’
‘Hey!’
