Secret Keeping for Beginners Page 7

  Simon grinned to himself thinking about it, rolling the cigar between his fingers. He must get one of the more glamorous magazine editors to come in soon – there were one or two who fancied their chances with him – so he could make a big fuss of her, get them chattering about that.

  He knew exactly what he’d say to his PA on the way out: ‘Not sure if I’ll be back after lunch, Sophie …’

  What a tasty morsel that would be for her to share with the rest of them, when he’d gone. He chuckled, then, remembering what he was supposed to be thinking about, dropped his head into his hands, elbows on the desk.

  He really had to come to a realistic decision about whether he could control his lustful thoughts and increasingly tender feelings towards a staff member whose input he could see would make a serious contribution to the business going forward.

  Rachel was across that social media stuff like no one else he knew in their section of the market and while he still didn’t feel entirely confident with it, he did understand how important it was. And ever more so.

  He’d set up a secret account on Instagram so he could see exactly what Rachel did on there that was so popular. Not in a stalkerish way, it was professional interest – ELLE Decoration had put her in their list of ‘taste makers’ after all – but he did slightly dread coming across a selfie on there of her snuggled up with some handsome dude. That wasn’t professional and he knew it.

  And if he couldn’t control himself and did something inappropriate in a heated moment he could lose a lot more. Thank god it was months until the Christmas drinks. Simon ‘The Iceberg’ Rathbone as the subject of a sexual harassment suit would have the whole decorating world in delighted hysterics.

  Mind you, he thought, if he did bid her a professional farewell after the six-month trial was up, at least then he could ask her out with impunity. For a moment he enjoyed the image of looking at Rachel over his favourite table at The Delaunay and then snorted at his own stupidity.

  She’d hardly be thrilled to have dinner with the man who’d just taken the food from her children’s mouths. And that was another thing that made this ridiculous teenage crush so out of character. Simon really couldn’t be bothered with children. He was sure it was very nice if you had your own, but other people’s were noisy, messy things who ruined restaurants and parks with their screaming and squawking, and put mucky hand prints all over the paintwork.

  She’d brought her daughters into the office once on a ‘go to work with Mummy’ day she’d claimed the school had insisted on, although none of the other staff had brought their brats in. That had dampened his ardour for a while. No one had got anything done.

  He’d found one of his account managers painting the toenails of the younger child bright yellow and the older one had entertained herself by photocopying her face on his Xerox machine about fifty times. And there were some other printouts he didn’t think were of a face. He’d been tempted to ask Rachel to pay for the wasted paper.

  But then she’d come in a couple of days later wearing a tightly belted navy blue dress, with buttons down the front – what did they call those things? a shirtdress? – and he’d had to avoid her all day, for fear of being revealed as the mooning swain she’d turned him into.

  Agghhh, it was no good, every time he tried to approach the problem as a simple HR issue his brain was distracted by thoughts like that. He stood up suddenly, the cigar back between his teeth, and, after taking his keys, sunglasses and gold Dunhill lighter out of his desk drawer, he walked out of his office.

  He needed some fresh air.

  At five after five he was not surprised to see, as he popped his head around the door of the big shared office on the same floor as his, that all of his employees’ desks were already deserted. He knew they’d have excuses if he called them on it in the morning – and he would dammit – but he knew where they were all off to. Collecting the kids, the hairdressers, some essential shopping in Peter Jones.

  He hired his staff as much for their looks, breeding, contact books and perfect manners, as any particular talent, so he knew what he got in return. A very thin veneer of work ethic. They all arrived perfectly on time, the need to be punctual had been so drilled into them as children, but they seemed to think that meant it was fine for them to leave on the dot as well.

  That’s why Rachel was such a gem. She didn’t have the aristocratic connections that appealed to the multitude of snobs in their business, but she certainly had the looks and the savoir-faire – and she had the hunger. That’s what he recognised in her.

  She was always late getting to work, arriving hot and bothered in a chaos of bags, take-away coffees and outraged explanations about the Tube, but once she was there, she gave it everything.

  He wondered where that came from in her. He had a pretty good idea in his own case, but he’d love to know what had put the stone in her shoe. Sounded like she’d had rather a rackety upbringing from what he’d been able to gather, including a year rattling around Australia in one of those camper van things, but she was so smart those experiences had stretched her horizons and made her thinking more imaginative.

  And one of her sisters was married to that chimneypiece chap who was on television now – hence the You mag story. He’d done some very good salvage work before all that had kicked off, Simon remembered. He’d seen a story about their house in a magazine years ago.

  It had looked rather filthy in an arty way, as he recalled it, messed-up sofas with the wadding coming out, falling-to-bits fabrics and revolting old stuffed birds, but there was no denying there was a certain bohemian style in the family, and that roughed-up look was very hot right down the supply chain now, nearly into the high-street stores.

  Simon was beginning to think that if he went into another restaurant with an exposed brick wall he might have to punch it.

  Reaching to open the front door, he looked down at his right hand and flexed his boxing knuckles. He still gave the punching bag a good going over every week at his gym. Great way to get the tension out and keep the ageing bod in trim. Did the skipping too. Nothing like a good sweat to get the brain cleared and doing plenty of that made up for the occasional puff on a cigar.

  He paused outside the building, at the top of the steps down to the pavement, and lit the cigar. Oh, the joy as that sweet smoke filled his mouth. He rolled it around in a moment of pure bliss before blowing it out again.

  Standing there with his eyes closed savouring the aromas as the vapour left his mouth and drifted up past his nostrils, he hadn’t realised someone had walked up to him.

  ‘Having a golden moment?’ said Rachel.

  Simon’s eyes popped open. He let out a stupid bark of a laugh, which sounded forced even to him.

  ‘Been trapped in my office for hours gagging for this,’ he said, settling it between his teeth and looking down on her from his vantage point on the top step. He was glad of the distance it afforded him.

  Maybe it’s true about him being gay, thought Rachel, looking at the cigar wagging in his mouth. He was right into that phallic symbol. She wondered if he knew the staff called him Arthur behind his back – or Martha when he’d done something they thought particularly camp.

  ‘So what are you doing coming back here so late?’ he asked, rolling the cigar around to the front of his mouth and taking it out, hoicking his forefinger round it and holding it against his sternum.

  ‘It’s barely even five yet,’ said Rachel, knowing full well it was at least ten past.

  ‘Most of your colleagues have already headed off,’ said Simon.

  ‘Really? My working day doesn’t finish until six,’ said Rachel, deciding to go for it, big time.

  She’d come straight to the office after getting back up to town from Tessa’s place, expressly in the hope that her boss would see her do so. She knew all the slackers would be halfway back to Fulham by now. Might as well lay it on a bit thicker.

  ‘And I need to pick up some stuff I want to go through at home tonight.’


  OK, that might be over-egging it, but she really wanted to leave the office a bit early the next day. If she couldn’t see Link, she was going to make the absolute most of the family weekend. Ideally she’d like to pick the girls up from school and head straight down there.

  A smile twitched at the corner of Simon’s mouth. What does she want? he thought. This will be amusing.

  ‘Remind me where you’ve been all day,’ he said, coming down the steps so he was on the same level as her. He kept the cigar by his chest as a kind of shield to stop himself in case he had an overwhelming urge to lunge.

  ‘Getting things prepped for the You magazine shoot,’ she said, ‘for Lawn & Stone.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Simon, who knew exactly where she’d been, ‘at your sister’s house.’

  He emphasised the word ‘sister’ to needle her. They both knew the promise of the You magazine shoot had clinched the Lawn & Stone deal, but it was too good to resist.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ replied Rachel, feeling like Serena Williams returning Roger Federer’s 264 km/h serve. She was tempted to do the grunt. ‘That house you remembered from Interiors …’

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Simon, trying not to smile as broadly as he wanted to.

  ‘Well, the shoot’s actually tomorrow,’ said Rachel. ‘I just went down today to install the furniture. It looks great, but I’d really like to go back in the morning, to make sure it all goes well. If you wouldn’t mind me being out of the office again …’

  The idea had only occurred to her while she was talking; that the ideal way to get the most out of the shoot for the client and maximise the family weekend was for her to spend the day there again. Branko could bring the girls down on the train after school. Simon hadn’t said no yet, so she kept going.

  ‘It would be so awful if the magazine came out and the furniture wasn’t featured and we’d have to explain to the client why they’d paid to have it shipped down, and it would be a good idea for me to be there anyway, to keep an eye on things and make sure it doesn’t get damaged.’

  ‘Judging by what I’ve seen of their house, your sister and brother-in-law would prefer the furniture if it looked as though it had been through a small hurricane.’

  Rachel couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Yes, they do like things to have the “character” of use, those two,’ she said, ‘but the magazine has issued strict instructions that they want new things in the shoot, as well as all the rusted iron and frayed canvas from the salvage yard, so she and Tom will have to go along with it. They do rather take patina to the next level.’

  ‘Actual dirt?’ said Simon.

  Rachel laughed again.

  ‘It might look a little grubby, but it does really work when you see it all together. You should come down sometime and have a look. There’s some amazing things in the salvage yard. I’ve often thought we should persuade Tom that he needs a PR company for it, now he’s so tied up with the telly thing.’

  Simon’s heart did a little dance. She was so like him in that way. Always seeing the angle.

  ‘Why don’t I come tomorrow?’ said Simon, the words out of his mouth before he’d even known he’d thought them. What had he just said? ‘I’ve got a breakfast thing, but we could go down mid-morning. We wouldn’t need to be there for the whole thing, would we? Just long enough to make sure they use the Lawn & Stone stuff, and it would be good for me to meet the You people and, as you say, I could see the house – I can probably get them some location shoot gigs as well, that’s very well paid – and we can do a pincer movement on Tom with your PR idea.’

  Now he was just babbling, but he’d started this. He couldn’t back down.

  Rachel’s head was racing at the same speed. How could she say no? She’d just sold it to him as a work trip rather than a crafty day off, so it would have to be one. And maybe if Simon saw how fabulous her sister’s house was, and if her mum, Tom and Natasha were in full charisma flow, and if Tessa could just float around being beautiful among it all, then perhaps he would see what an amazing asset she was to his business and confirm her in the job.

  She’d just have to make sure he left well before the girls arrived. She didn’t want to remind him about Daisy photocopying her bottom that time.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, mustering fake enthusiasm, ‘that would be great. I’ll check the train times.’

  ‘I’ll drive us,’ said Simon, mouth on autopilot again, brain already wondering how on earth he was going to get through a car journey with Rachel in close proximity.

  But she was nodding in agreement.

  He’d just have to cope.

  Friday, 30 May

  Queen’s Park, London, 9.07 a.m.

  The door was wide open but Link didn’t seem to be in the shop when Rachel walked in.

  ‘Anyone here?’ she called out.

  ‘Hey,’ said a voice nearby and turning towards it, Rachel saw him kneeling on the floor next to an upturned bicycle.

  He smiled up at her, a spanner in one hand. Something inside her fluttered and for a moment she just stood there gazing down at his lovely face.

  But then he was up, wrapping his arms around her.

  ‘Mmmm,’ he said, nuzzling his head against hers and kissing her neck. ‘Where have you been, pretty lady?’

  Rachel couldn’t answer. Her heart was beating too hard, her breath shortening. She pressed herself into his embrace, the side of her face against his chest, inhaling the glorious smell of him. Freshly washed T-shirt, slightly sweaty man inside it.

  Link pulled away and bending down slightly, lifted her chin with his finger and looked right into her eyes.

  ‘I miss you when I don’t see you,’ he said.

  Then he kissed her. Really kissed her, until Rachel thought she might stagger and fall over. She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled back.

  ‘This is the first chance I’ve had,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got to get off to work in a minute, but I wanted to come in and say hi.’

  ‘You OK?’ asked Link.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry about this weekend …’ Rachel started, but he shook his head, smiling gently.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Stuff happens. Let me know when you can make it. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Well, hopefully next week. I’ll text you, as soon as I can, to confirm it.’

  ‘Great,’ said Link, reaching both his arms over his head and moving them from side to side.

  His T-shirt – ‘Supergrass 1999’ it said across the front – stretched across his chest and lifted up from his jeans to reveal a slice of hard, flat belly and a line of hair going down from his navel. Rachel experienced a stab of pure lust. She was going to call Michael to double check he was having the girls next weekend the minute she left the shop.

  ‘My shoulders are sore,’ said Link, bringing his arms down and rotating each one in its socket. ‘Rode it hard coming in this morning. Where’s your bike?’

  Rachel felt her cheeks growing a little pink.

  ‘Oh, I’m getting the Tube today. I’m going straight on to my sister’s in the country and I’d rather have the bike back at home ready for Monday morning.’

  Which was a massive lie. She’d be getting the Tube on Monday like she always did. Bakerloo line to Paddington, Circle line to South Ken, job done. She had tried cycling to work. That’s why she’d come into the shop and bought the bike in the first place – well, that and the handsome young dude she’d noticed in there and looked out for every time she passed, which was pretty often as her favourite neighbourhood café was right next door.

  He’d smiled at her one morning – first when she’d walked past en route to the café and then again on her way back holding her coffee – and she’d gone in the following weekend and ordered the bike. Which had meant he’d needed her phone number to let her know when it was ready.

  ‘Does your husband need a bike as well?’ he’d asked, glancing up at her with a mock-innoc
ent cheeky expression, as he wrote her details in the orders book.

  ‘I don’t have a husband at the moment,’ Rachel had replied, smiling back at him.

  ‘Good,’ he’d said, closing the book with a snap. ‘Then perhaps I can call you anyway … not just about the bike?’

  ‘You certainly can,’ Rachel had said, feeling quite brazen. She didn’t think she’d ever been so blatantly picked up. And she loved it. Especially as he had called her – that very afternoon. They’d been seeing each other ever since.

  It was a few months now. Months of simple, easy times together. No complications, no expectations, but not just a casual sex set-up. In its own way, her time with Link was probably the most romantic Rachel had ever spent with someone. He was so blissfully uncomplicated. He said exactly what he was thinking and feeling when he was thinking and feeling it, never playing games with her head.

  She sometimes thought it might be the best relationship she’d ever had with a man, which was why she didn’t want to change anything about it. Or tell anyone about him.

  And why she hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell him that the bike thing hadn’t really worked out for her. The first time she’d hacked in to town from home on it, she’d arrived at the office in such a mess, her hair flat from the helmet, her skin stinking of exhaust fumes, her clothes a crumpled mess, that Simon had laughed out loud when he saw her.

  She had friends who cycled everywhere, with their heels and fresh clothes in a bag on the back, but it was all Rachel could do to get herself dressed once in the morning. The one time she’d tried that changing lark, she’d got to work to find she had the trousers, shoes, jacket and belt in her bag – but no shirt. She’d had to spend the day in her sweaty T-shirt.

  She still loved the idea of cycling – at weekends, in the summer and preferably in a flat park – but the two-wheeled commute just wasn’t for her. So it was a matter of finding the right moment to explain that to Link, who still happily believed she was another convert to his mission to get the whole of London cycling for health and sustainability.