Lessons in Love. Kate Lawson

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       Chapter Two

      ‘Ah, Jane, there you are. Do come in. Thanks for coming down. Nice to see you. If you’d just like to take a seat.’ The first floor of the new library was dedicated to Human Resources. It said so on a shiny brass plaque as you stepped out of the lift.

      Mrs Findlay waved Jane into her office. Just inside the door a large tank of tropical fish basked and bubbled under the glow of a daylight strip lamp.

      Mrs Findlay was a plump woman in late middle age, who wore various pairs of spectacles on a tangle of chains around her lard-white neck, had an office full of begonias, and was something big in internal human resources, which always sounded a bit medical and slightly unsavoury to Jane.

      ‘Well, here we are then,’ said Mrs Findlay brightly, easing herself in behind the desk and settling herself down. ‘Now, as I’m sure you’re aware recently we’ve been looking at ways to restructure and improve our current levels of service. And I think we are developing some exciting strategies to meet that challenge.’ She had a file with Jane’s name on it spread out across the desk. ‘I’ve been looking at the projects you’ve been involved in since you began working with us here at Buckbourne and some of the things you’ve initiated—and I have to say it’s all terribly impressive.’ Mrs Findlay smiled warmly. ‘A lot of very intriguing and innovative ideas, Jane, lots of outreach to take library services into the wider community, identifying and targeting groups with special needs, good use of resources, coming in under budget, as I said, this is very impressive, just the kind of thing we want to encourage, which is why…’

      It was the following Monday morning and it felt to Jane as if she had just survived the longest weekend of her life. It was the second weekend since Steven Burney Day—13 days 19 hours and 11 minutes since Lucy had just popped in to her office to tell her all about Steve. The first weekend Jane had been so stunned she could barely remember it. Barely breathe. It felt like one great red raw emotional blur. But this one, the first one out of the fire and into reality, had been interminable, even given the trip over to Creswell Close to deliver the post. In quiet moments Jane reran the last conversation she had had with Steve, phrase by phrase, syllable by syllable.

      He had turned up at her house after she rang him. He’d brought flowers and a balloon and some ridiculous card shop bear that had, ‘Pwease don’t be cross wiv lickle me,’ embroidered across its T-shirt.

      Now, as Steve filled her mind Mrs Findlay’s voice faded to a distant drone.

      ‘Jane, I’m so sorry, the thing is, it really wasn’t my fault,’ Steve had said. ‘Please don’t look at me like that. We were both a little bit tipsy. I didn’t mean it to happen. Really. Lucy and I had been talking about the new strategic county policy document and I suggested a glass of wine. Neither of us had eaten. It could have happened to anyone. I know that is no excuse but I’d been on tablets as well—you remember, I’d had that nasty cold. And she was, well, you know Lucy—she’s a lovely girl but…We started talking about life and all that stuff and…and, well, it just happened. Let’s be adult about this. It was nothing. You have to believe me, Jane. We all make mistakes. It was a moment of madness. And I’m really sorry.’ Steve looked down at his nice shiny shoes, the very epitome of contrition. ‘Trust me, sweetie, it was an accident.’

      ‘So you’re telling me that your clothes accidentally fell off and by some miracle not seen since the days of the Old Testament, Lucy Stroud was instantly covered in Greek yogurt, chocolate sauce and strawberries?’

      ‘Ah…’

      ‘You know I’ve wondered for weeks what those stains were on your sofa.’

      There was a very interesting pause and then Steve gathered himself together and said, ‘Well, the thing is—’

      But Jane was ahead of him. ‘The thing is I could probably understand it happening once, Steve. It’s the regular Wednesday evenings ever since that are proving a little more problematic.’

      ‘Ah…’

      And then Jane had trashed the flowers, popped the balloon СКАЧАТЬ