Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage. Sophie Pembroke

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СКАЧАТЬ to blow off steam. He was keeping himself together but his jaw was clenched tight and a muscle was working in his cheek. Clara had been treated like dirt before, dismissed out of hand—but her own family had always been there to support her. She couldn’t imagine her own grandfather looking at her with such cold, disappointed eyes. Even a teen pregnancy hadn’t shaken his love and belief in her.

      Polly had called Raff ‘The Golden Boy’ but it seemed to her that his exalted position came with a heavy price. No wonder he had needed to employ Clara, to take some of the pressure his demanding grandfather was heaping on as he took advantage of his illness and frailty. An unexpected sympathy reverberated through her—Raff’s need to be as far away from his family as possible was a little more understandable.

      She kept pace with a silent, brooding Raff as he walked briskly through the busy streets expertly avoiding the crowds of tourists, the busy commuters and the loitering onlookers. Clara rarely visited London despite the direct rail link; if you asked her she would say she was too busy but the truth was it scared her. So noisy, so crowded, so unpredictable. The girl who once planned to travel the world was cowed by her own capital city.

      But here, today, it felt different. Friendlier, more vibrant, the way it had felt when she was a teenager, down for the day to shop for clothes in Camden and hang out in Covent Garden where Maddie hoped to be talent-spotted by a model agency whilst Clara spent hours browsing in the specialist travel bookshop. Was it even still there? All her books and maps were boxed away at her parents’ house. Maybe she should retrieve some of them, show them to Summer.

      ‘I need to organise a nurse to look after him,’ he said, breaking the lengthy silence. ‘The hospital won’t allow him home without one. He needs to have a specialist diet too, and he is going to hate that.’ His mouth twisted. ‘At this rate it’s going to be weeks before I can talk about the company with him again.’

      ‘Isn’t there anyone else who can intercede? Your grandmother?’

      Raff shook his head. ‘They’re separated. She’ll have a go, if I ask her to, but he’s never quite forgiven her for leaving.’

      Clara knew that Polly and Raff had been raised by their grandparents but not that they had split up. She swallowed, her throat tight; it was becoming painfully apparent how little she knew of Polly’s life. They were supposed to be friends and yet she had no idea where she was or why she’d gone.

      But was Clara any better? She didn’t confide either, happy to keep the conversation light, to discuss work and plans but never feelings, never anything deep. Maybe that was why they were friends, both content with the superficial intimacy, their real fears locked safely away.

      ‘Have they been split up long?’

      ‘Nearly twelve years.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘She waited until after Christmas our first year at university. Didn’t want to spoil the holidays, she said. We were just amazed she made it that long. She’d wanted out for a long time.’

      ‘I can’t imagine your grandfather is easy to live with.’ That was an understatement.

      He huffed out a dry laugh. ‘He’s not. Poor Grandmother, from things she let slip I think she was on the verge of leaving when we came to live with them. She only stayed for Polly and me. Now she lives in central London and takes organised trips, volunteers at several museums and spends the rest of her time at the theatre or playing bridge. She’s very happy.’

      ‘What about your parents?’ She flushed; curiosity had got the better of her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

      ‘That’s okay. We are meant to be dating, after all, and none of this is exactly state secrets.’ He didn’t look okay though, his eyes shadowed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. ‘My father had a stroke when we were eight.’

      ‘I am so sorry.’ Tentatively she reached out and touched his arm, awkward comfort. ‘That must have been awful.’

      ‘We thought he was sleeping. The ambulance man said if we had called 999 earlier...’ His voice trailed off.

      Cold chilled her, goosebumping her arms, her spine as his words hit her—they’d found their father collapsed? Her heart ached for the two small children who had to suddenly grow up in such a terrible way.

      ‘The stroke was devastating.’ There was a darkness in his voice, the sense of years of regret, of guilt. ‘He had to go into a home—oh, the very best home, you know? All luxury carpets and plush chairs but we still knew, even at that age, that it was a place where people went to die.’

      Clara felt for the familiar cold curve of her bangle and began to twist it automatically; she wanted to reach out and hold him, hold the small boy who had to watch his father disintegrate before his eyes.

      ‘Our mother couldn’t handle it,’ Raff continued, still in that same bleak tone. ‘She went away for a rest and just stayed away. So my grandparents stepped in, sent us to boarding school and gave us a home in the holidays—and my poor grandmother had to wait ten years for her escape.’

      ‘Her choice.’ Clara knew she sounded brisk, the way she sounded when encouraging Summer to sleep without a nightlight, to go on a school trip, to walk to the corner shop on her own. ‘It was the right thing for her at the time. There’s no point dwelling on what-might-have-beens. You go mad that way.’

      She knew all about that. If she hadn’t stayed in that particular hostel, hadn’t met Byron. If she’d tried harder with his father, if she’d stayed in Australia. ‘Our lives are littered with the paths not taken,’ she said. ‘But if we spend all our time staring wistfully at them we’ll never see what’s right in front of us.’

      ‘A sick, unreasonable grandfather, a missing twin and an unwanted job?’ But the dark note had gone from his voice and Clara was relieved to see a small smile playing around the firm mouth. He stopped in front of her and turned to look at the golden building in front of them. ‘We’re here. Welcome to the millstone round my neck.’

      * * *

      It had been a long time since Clara had set foot in Rafferty’s. The flagship department store occupied a grand art deco building just off Bond Street and, although it was a little out of the way of the tourists pounding bustling Oxford Street and Regent Street, it was a destination in its own right. Discreet, classy and luxurious; just the name Rafferty’s conjured up another era, an era of afternoon tea, cocktails and red, red lipstick.

      Tourists flocked here, desperate to buy something, anything, so they could walk away with one of the distinctive turquoise and gold bags; socialites, It Girls and celebrities prowled the halls filled with designer items. Anyone who was anybody—and those who aspired to be—drank cocktails at the bar. Rafferty’s was a well-loved institution, accessible glamour for anybody with money to spend.

      As a child Clara had visited the store every Christmas to see the spectacular window displays, admire the lights, to confide her wish-list to Father Christmas. It had been one of the highlights of her year—and yet she had never brought Summer. She had never even made the seventy-five-minute-long journey into London with her daughter. London was too big, too noisy, too unpredictable.

      But as she stood on the edge of the marble steps, remembering the breathless excitement of those perfect days out, Clara’s throat tightened. Choosing the perfect gift, admiring the other shoppers, having afternoon tea in the elegant restaurant, those memories meant Christmas to her. How could she not have passed those memories on to her daughter?

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