His Runaway Bride. Liz Fielding

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      The letter from the Globe was offering her that. Once she was established she could freelance, but first she needed to make a name for herself.

      Surely Mike would understand.

      Of course he would.

      He looked up as she eased herself into the chair on the visitor side of his desk. She propped her elbows on the desk and said, ‘Can I buy you lunch, boss?’

      He leaned back, grinned at her. ‘Do you really want to eat?’

      ‘You choose. I’ve got half an hour before a session of hell at the hairdresser, so it’s a sandwich in the pub, or we can lock the door, draw the blinds—’

      ‘It may come to that. I’ve scarcely seen outside the office all week.’

      ‘You’re opting for the sandwich?’

      He rose, came round the desk and took her hand. ‘Call me pathetic, but the idea of making love to you with the entire staff exchanging knowing looks on the other side of the door isn’t my idea of a good time.’

      ‘You’re no fun now you’re officially the boss, do you know that?’

      ‘No kidding?’ he said, as they crossed the road to the pub. ‘Well, it’s not official until we get back from St Lucia. Maybe I should resign now.’

      ‘That’s my line,’ she said, jumping at the opening he’d given her. ‘I’ve been offered another job and unless I start getting some serious perks as your number one reporter, I might just take it.’ The words came out in rush, but they came out. She’d said it. It wasn’t so difficult. But she kept her gaze fixed on the board above the bar. ‘A ploughman’s and a tomato juice, please, George,’ she said to the barman. An ominous silence from Mike forced her to turn and face the music.

      ‘What job?’

      ‘Make that for two, George.’ She paid for their lunch and headed for a table near the window.

      ‘What job?’

      This was it. No going back. Too late to wish she’d just written back to say thanks, but no thanks. ‘The Globe have offered me a job.’

      ‘The Globe?’ He seemed to be searching for a cross-match in his memory bank. She could see the exact moment when he connected. The shock. ‘You don’t mean The Globe in London?’ He frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit…’ She lifted her brows, inviting him to finish. ‘Downmarket for someone like you?’

      What the heck did that mean? Like her? ‘It’s a national daily with a circulation of millions.’ He said nothing. ‘You’re supposed to be impressed.’

      ‘Okay. I’m impressed,’ he said, after a pause in which the world turned. ‘Would you have taken it?’

      ‘Would?’ His calm assumption that she wouldn’t be taking the job without even discussing the possibility, without discussing how they might handle it so that it would be possible, seriously irritated her. ‘You don’t think I should?’

      ‘Not unless you’re planning to move to London and save married life for the weekends.’ Then he added, ‘Are you?’

      ‘I could commute.’ She checked his expression. It was totally blank. ‘No?’ Still nothing. Her decision. No help, no encouragement. ‘Oh, well, I’ll ring Toby Townsend this afternoon and tell him.’

      ‘When did you apply for this job?’

      ‘Months ago. I had an interview but nothing came of it.’ She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘That is, until Toby’s letter arrived on Monday.’ George brought their lunch, launching into a long complaint against the new parking restrictions that were killing his business, demanding to know why the paper wasn’t doing something about it. Somehow, after that, the subject of the job offer never cropped up again.

      Later, back in the office, she told herself that Mike was right. Probably. No, absolutely. It was impossible. Stupid to even imagine… She’d ring and tell them that she was no longer available. It was fine. She loved Mike. She was going to marry him. But a little niggle at the back of her mind kept saying that if she hadn’t pushed it, hadn’t pushed him into proposing, she could have had it all. A career in the week, Mike at the weekends. A girlfriend could do that but being a wife meant compromise. Being a wife was a full-time job.

      She punched in the number before she could weaken again. Toby Townsend wasn’t in the office, she was told. She should phone on Monday. Explanations were beyond her. She’d write. Composed the letter in her head while the hairdresser snipped at her hair, teasing at it until her bridal coronet sat perfectly in a nest of curls. Typed it as soon as she got back to the office, putting it into her bag to post later. Then she went in search of Mike, needing to have him hold her, reassure her that she was doing the right thing.

      But he’d left the office right after lunch and his secretary didn’t know where he’d gone. Just that he wasn’t expected back.

      Willow took out her cellphone. Tapped in the text message, ‘Where are you? Can we meet?’ He used to do that all the time when they’d first started dating. When she was out in the sticks covering some local event. She’d reply with something like, ‘If you can find me, you can buy me dinner.’ All he had to do was check the editorial diary and he was always there, waiting for her. It seemed like a century ago. A different life.

      She looked at the message she’d keyed in. She couldn’t begin to guess where he’d be. So she cancelled it.

      Mike opened up the big double doors of his workshop, letting in the light. There were plans tacked up on the far wall. Long lengths of beautiful hardwoods filled the racks. A small table, finished but for the final polishing, stood on the workbench, abandoned when he’d got a call to say that his father had been taken ill.

      He’d woken up with it on his mind. Unfinished business. Something that had to be completed before he could finally shut the doors on that part of his life. Before he called the letting agent and told them to look for a tenant.

      He peeled off his jacket, tugged at his tie, stripped off the formal shirt, shedding the invisible shackles for half a day. There was an old work shirt hanging on a peg and, as he pulled it over his head, it felt like coming home.

      He walked around the deceptively simple piece of furniture, remembering the way the design had formed in his head, the satisfaction as his hands had turned the line on the paper into reality.

      He’d give it to Willow. He wouldn’t tell her he’d made it, but every time he saw it he would know that he had once been more than a man who pushed numbers around on a balance sheet.

      Mike was outside her flat when she got home. ‘More presents?’ he said as she opened up the back of the car.

      ‘My mother rang, that’s why I’m so late. Where have you been?’ She looked up as he took her bag. ‘You smell as if you’ve been hugging trees.’

      ‘Close,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you a present, too. A piece of furniture.’ He opened the rear of the four-by-four, took out something wrapped in sheeting and carried it up to her flat. ‘Well, go on. You can look.’

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