The Millionaire's Christmas Wife. Helen Brooks

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СКАЧАТЬ beginning of the year, she acknowledged, descending the steep stairs to Clara’s bedsit on the bottom floor of the three-storeyed Victorian terrace. But plenty of elbow grease, several tins of paint, new laminate flooring and her own furniture had transformed the place.

      It was her tiny sanctuary, she told herself, pausing outside Clara’s room. Her cream sofa converted to a bed at night, and her bistro table and chairs set by the large window afforded a panoramic view over London rooftops and the wide expanse of sky above that never ceased to thrill her, night and day. The minute kitchen area in one corner served culinary needs fairly adequately, and the built-in wardrobe and cupboards along one wall—now painted barley-white—meant the room was always spick and span without stuff lying about. She’d learnt very quickly that even a jumper or jacket draped over a chair made the compact space appear untidy.

      She knocked on Clara’s door. They cooked each other dinner now and again and tonight was Clara’s turn, but she didn’t think her mother would have appreciated knowing what her ‘appointment’ entailed.

      The door opened immediately. ‘You’re bang on time as always,’ Clara said with a note of amazement. Punctuality wasn’t Clara’s strong point. Nor was tidiness, Miriam reflected, picking her way over the floor, which was strewn with clothes, magazines, shoes and umpteen other things, to the kitchen area.

      ‘Something smells fantastic.’ It was one of Clara’s quirks that she could take a load of ingredients and seemingly fling them together and they always came out utterly delicious. ‘What are we having?’

      Clara wrinkled her snub nose. ‘I’d got nothing in so it’s onion and mustard mash with sausages; nothing special. Help yourself to a glass of wine,’ she added, inclining her head at the opened bottle on the tiny breakfast bar which separated the kitchen from the rest of the room. ‘It’s a good one. Dave brought it the other night.’

      Since Miriam had known the other girl Clara had had a number of boyfriends, none of whom lasted for more than a month on average. As soon as Clara had got them interested she got bored and yet another hopeful beau was shown the door. The fact that they all fell madly in love with her seemed to be the death knell as far as Miriam could make out. It wasn’t that Clara was shallow exactly, but once the challenge was gone, so was Clara. Dave was two weeks strong at the moment but already a note of disinterest had crept into Clara’s voice.

      Miriam eyed her friend. ‘You’re going off him, aren’t you?’ she accused mildly. ‘Don’t tell me he’s talking about for ever already?’

      Clara giggled. ‘He wants me to meet his mother,’ she admitted. ‘I mean, can you imagine me meeting anyone’s mother? They’d die of shock.’

      Miriam smiled as she was meant to but inside she found herself envying Clara’s carefree approach to life and love. They were so different, she thought as she sipped at the wine—which was a very good one—but perhaps that was why they hit it off so well. Clara was the original free spirit, which was reflected in the way she looked and the clothes she wore; she, on the other hand, had aspired to be nothing more than a wife and mother since she was a little girl playing with her dolls. Clara was a television researcher, a job that was as varied as it was hard work, and she was brilliant at it. She was secretary to a successful lawyer and loved the fact her job was nine-to-five with no hidden panics or surprises. Clara was quicksilver, she was quiescent, which was probably why Jay had strayed so early in their marriage, she told herself broodingly. She was too dull, too uninteresting to hold a man like Jay Carter.

      ‘You’re thinking of him again, aren’t you?’ Clara said suddenly. ‘I can always tell. You get this haunted look. Has he phoned again?’

      Miriam shook her head.

      ‘Written?’

      ‘No, we haven’t been in contact since the spring.’

      ‘Was that the time you told him you loathed even the thought of him and wished you’d never set eyes on him?’

      Clara’s memory was too good sometimes. She hadn’t felt proud of that last conversation when she had said far too much. ‘Uh-huh,’ she mumbled, taking a big gulp of wine.

      ‘Then what’s prompted the face?’

      ‘I can’t help my face,’ Miriam said reasonably. And when Clara just raised one pierced eyebrow and waited, she added reluctantly, ‘My mother phoned and I told her about Christmas.’

      ‘Ah…’ Clara dished up two platefuls of fragrant, steaming mash and added three fat, done-to-a-turn sausages per plate. ‘And she asked if you had told Jay you were spending Christmas with the wild witch of the west, and you told her it was none of Jay’s business.’

      It was moments like this that revealed why Clara was so highly regarded in the career she’d chosen, despite her outward nonconformity. Under the mauve hair was an acutely intelligent and discerning mind. ‘Something like that,’ Miriam murmured.

      ‘Right. We’re going to finish this bottle and open another and forget all about men. OK?’ Clara’s blue eyes held Miriam’s soft brown ones. ‘And then we’re going to talk about Switzerland and what clothes we need to buy for the evenings with all those gorgeous men about.’

      ‘I thought we were going to forget about men.’

      ‘Only the ones in the past and present. The future is something else. Oh, no, I’ve just thought of something. I can’t go to Switzerland.’

      Miriam sat up straighter at the note of alarm in Clara’s voice. ‘Why not?’

      ‘How is Father Christmas going to fill my stocking if I’m in a different country?’

      ‘You’re a nut.’ Miriam smiled, nudging Clara with her elbow. But a very nice nut.

      It was gone ten o’clock when Miriam climbed the stairs to her bedsit and she was in a far better frame of mind than when she’d left it earlier. Clara was a tonic, she thought, smiling to herself as she let herself into the room and switched on the lights. She had left her mobile in the bedsit because she hadn’t been able to face the thought of talking to her mother again that night, but as she passed it her conscience took over and she picked it up to check her messages.

      There were two. The first one was from her mother, as she had expected, terse and to the point, saying of course Miriam must do as she wanted with regard to Christmas but everyone was going to be terribly disappointed not to see her, and with Great-Aunt Abigail’s health being so poor it might be the old lady’s last Christmas.

      Miriam wrinkled her nose. Emotional blackmail. Her mother was a dab hand at it. But, considering she had never liked Great-Aunt Abigail and Great-Aunt Abigail had never liked her, she didn’t think her absence would cause too many tears.

      She pressed the button for the next call. ‘Hello, Miriam.’ Jay’s deep, smoky voice was the same one that featured in her dreams far too often for her liking. ‘I think we’ve got things to discuss, don’t you? I’m not prepared for this state of affairs to continue any longer and, in spite of the fact that you don’t want to be on the same planet as me, I suggest we tackle this as adults rather than petulant children. I’ll call again if you don’t call back. Just so you know. Goodbye for now.’

      Miriam sat down very suddenly. Jay. For a moment all she could do was repeat his name in her head. Taking hold of her whirling emotions, she forced herself to listen to the message again, and this time the cold, businesslike СКАЧАТЬ