searched for an open spot. She couldn’t help wondering what she looked like, this new girlfriend of her father’s.
Was she one of those brisk, smartly dressed professional women one saw striding down the City pavements with a briefcase in one hand and a mobile phone tucked under her chin? Or was she a more boho type in swirly skirts and sandals?
Once he’d parked, they got out of the car and made their way across the street into the restaurant. Jools saw a slender woman with blonde hair and enormous blue eyes standing near the door. She wore a grey pencil skirt, a lavender cardigan, and kitten heels.
She was pretty. And oddly familiar…
Jools came to a stop. “Miss Brightly?” she blurted, confused. “What are you doing here?”
Miss Brightly was Jools’s former Latin teacher, and her presence here in J Sheekey was…well, wrong, somehow. She was meant to be standing in front of a chalkboard in the classroom, her hair held back with an Alice band, her hand upraised to write ‘Amos Amas Amat’ or ‘Study for upcoming gerund test on Wednesday’…
… not standing here in the restaurant, an uncertain smile on her lips, waiting for Jools’s father to say something.
The question was barely out of her mouth when she realized with dismay that Miss Brightly was her father’s new girlfriend. She was the one they’d come here to meet.
As Jools stood there, stupidly staring, her dad made the introductions. “Actually, I believe you’ve already met,” he said, in an awkward, jokey way that wasn’t the least bit funny.
“Hello, Oliver,” Miss Brightly murmured, and then turned to Jools and held out her hand. “Hello.”
Jools took it briefly. She saw, in the glance they exchanged, that Miss Brightly understood her confusion. “Hi,” she mumbled.
“It’s lovely to see you, Julia.”
“It’s Jools now, actually,” she said coolly, and dropped her hand back to her side.
“Oh.” Miss Brightly looked taken aback for a moment, then quickly regained her composure. “I’m sorry. Jools it is.”
“Let’s go in the bar to wait for our table, shall we?” Oliver said tightly, and put his hand at the small of Miss Brightly’s back. He gave Jools a pointed look over his shoulder.
She hadn’t much choice but to follow.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jools demanded later, when she and her father returned after dinner – minus Miss Brightly – to the car. She got inside the Peugeot and slammed the door shut. “You might have warned me you’ve been doing my Latin teacher.”
“Mind what you say, Julia,” he said sharply. “I did tell you, and I also told you she taught Latin—”
“Only because I asked,” she pointed out acidly. “And you called her ‘Felicity,’ Dad. To me, she’s only ever been ‘Miss Brightly.’ I don’t know what her first name is.” Jools scowled out at the dark, rain-slick streets. “God! That was the most painful dinner ever.”
“You didn’t make much of an effort.” His words were tight. “I must say, I’m disappointed in you, Julia. Felicity did her best to draw you out, but you responded in monosyllables, like a sulky child. There was no call to be rude.”
“I wasn’t rude. I was gobsmacked!” She turned towards him in the darkness. “Has she moved in with you yet, then?”
He slowed the car as they approached a roundabout. “No. But she will do, and soon. So you’d best get used to the idea.”
Have I a choice? Jools nearly said, but didn’t.
So… not only was mum seeing that insufferable television chef, Marcus Russo, now her father was about to move in with her sixth-form Latin teacher. Shit, what a turn up. Why couldn’t her parents work out their problems, like all the other happily married couples in the world?
They rode the rest of the way back to Oliver’s flat in silence, and the only sound was the swish of the windscreen wipers and the hiss of tyres against the rainy street.
Oh, well, Jools thought grimly. At least he didn’t ask me about my new boyfriend, Adesh.
“And…that’s a wrap. Thanks, everyone.”
Wearily, Marcus took off his apron and tossed it aside. Thank God he wasn’t on the call sheet for tomorrow; the crew was filming an interview with the owner of a local cider press for the next segment of his weekly cookery show. He picked up his mobile and scrolled with his thumb to Valery Beauchamp’s number.
“Marcus!” Pleasure warmed her voice as she answered his call. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow at the earliest. Are you done filming?”
“Yes. We wrapped a day early. Miss me?” he asked as he took a diet soda from the set’s refrigerator and took a swallow.
“That goes without saying, my darling.”
He smiled. He loved the plummy richness of her accent, so redolent of Oxford, and so different to his own. “What are you doing? No – let me guess. You’re having a glass of Cab Sauv and making edits to the latest issue, flagging pages with Post-Its and slashing paragraphs with red marker pens.”
Valery’s laugh was low and throaty. “You’re amazing. And exactly right.” She paused. “Oliver just came to pick up Julia – pardon me, Jools. He’s got her for the weekend.”
“Jools, is it? Since when?”
“Since last week. I tell you, that girl…” she sighed. “She wants no part of editorial work or fashion and regards my career with the utmost scorn. But I suppose I can’t complain, really, because she’s exactly like I was at that age. She likes to push me as far as she possibly can. Like she’s doing with this new boyfriend of hers, Adesh Patel.”
“And what does Oliver say about that?”
She snorted. “Oliver? He doesn’t know. If he did, I daresay he’d pack her off to Switzerland post-haste.” Her voice softened. “Are you coming down to London, then? We’ll have the place to ourselves until Sunday evening.”
“I should be there by noon tomorrow. We can have lunch somewhere – I’ll let you choose – and then we can do whatever you like.”
“In that case,” she murmured, “we’ll spend the entire afternoon in bed.”
He laughed. “I can’t think of anyplace – or anything – I’d rather do.”
“Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams.”
“G’night, love. Until tomorrow.”
Still smiling, Marcus rang off and remembered how he and Valery had met. He’d barged into her office at BritTEEN magazine determined to find his runaway daughter,
