on then.’ Chivvying beside him, Bryony’s voice was lighter, now she sensed she was about to get what she wanted.
As she reached over to swirl the ocean of colour, he caught sight of a card. One image. Incongruous. Nothing to do with brides or weddings.
He leaned in, plucked it from the pile, held it in his palm. A blast from the past. For a fraction of a second his face cracked into a smile, then he tossed the card back on the table.
‘Thanks Brando. I owe you.’ She flashed him a grateful smile which melted into a slow grin. ‘You know Gloria’s right though?’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’re thirty five, a wife would be great for you.’
‘You have to be joking?’
One blink of Bryony’s clear blue eyes said she was not only serious, but back on his case. ‘And a little bit more footage from Edgerton, would make all the difference too. You with your trial wife perhaps?’
Now he’d heard it all. Would she never back off?
‘Okay, Bry, I’ll say this one time only. This far I’ve done what you wanted, but as of now I’m through with this, out. That’s O-U-T as in ‘I’m having zero involvement.’ Understand?’
‘I’m only thinking of you – and your long-term happiness.’ Bryony, as usual, giving it everything she’d got.
‘For happiness, read TV rankings?’ He gave a bitter laugh. Deep down he knew her concern was genuine, but she had to butt out. ‘I’m a lost cause, you’re wasting your time.’
‘Brando … ’
He gritted his teeth, hardened himself to her wail. ‘Sorry Bry, but I’m done here.’ He screwed out of the jacket, making a lunge for the door. ‘And that means, no more Country House Crisis, no TV crews, but most of all, NO WIFE!’
Sorry, no matrimonial ambitions whatsoever, but great at organising …
For the ninety-ninth time that afternoon Shea Summers wondered how those few short words she’d scribbled on a postcard had catapulted her into the air. Private helicopters didn’t happen every day, even in affluent North Cheshire, at least not to her.
Brando Marshall, of Edgerton Manor, in need of a wife, applications on a postcard. Women had been fighting for the opportunity apparently. It seemed ironic that she was the one the TV company had chosen, when she didn’t give a damn about it, and had zero intention of becoming anyone’s wife.
She clutched her stomach as it gave another unnerving lurch. Beneath her white knuckles it was performing the same impromptu tango it had before her first ever dancing exam when she was seven, the same one it did every time she psyched herself up now, as a wimpy twenty four year old, for the misery of a bikini wax. And she had an idea that a bikini wax might be a walk-in-the-park compared to what she had let herself in for here. She delved into the pocket of her tailored jacket in search of fortification, and gesticulated wildly, in the direction of the co-pilot.
‘Fancy a sour worm, or a pink shrimp?’
The co-pilot, turned, ran an eye swiftly up her legs, then winked as he gave a half shake of his head. She returned his grin, slipped a sour worm into her mouth, and shuddered as the sugar hit zapped her taste buds. Then she shuddered again as she took in the panorama below. Worryingly green. Green as in rural, rolling countryside. Green as in miles from anywhere.
Damn. She definitely hadn’t expected a middle-of-nowhere scenario. Her insides squished as she recalled all the stuff she hadn’t asked. Bryony, the nice girl from the TV company, had been very persuasive and reassuring, but she hadn’t let her get a word in edgeways.
‘Just a bit of that organising you’re obviously so good at and a few pieces to camera … a new angle for the follow-up programme … Brando is very rarely there … you could make it your holiday … ’
‘Closing in now Miss Summers!’
The pilot’s gruff tones hauled her back to the present with a jerk that caused her to gulp her last pink shrimp practically whole. A weird shiver of déjà-vu slithered down her back as she peered down at the collection of stone-tiled roofs flashing gold in the autumn sun, took in a classical facade of the elegant house with its perfect rhythm of Georgian sash windows. The same spinning view of Edgerton Manor she’d last seen on the closing credits of the Country House Crisis programme. As she took in the real-life extent of the property her heart faltered. She hoped she hadn’t over-exaggerated her organisational skills. She was used to working in big houses, but this one was something else.
Dragging her eyes away from the view below, she brushed the sugar dust off the pleats of her skirt, slipped her feet back into the patent stilettos she’d eased out of earlier, and dug the spike of the heel softly into her ankle. Just enough pain to remind her she wasn’t dreaming, without the nightmare of a ripped stocking. She wasn’t sure that helicopters mixed with towering court shoes, but she knew if she could only nail that all-important first impression, the rest was usually easy-peasy.
‘Almost there now, I’ll be bringing us down on the grassy area in front of the house, Miss Summers.’
She hurled a mental pillow over the voice in her head which was yelling ‘Eeeeeeeek’, snatched up her bag and made a grab for her lip gloss and her heavily framed Dolce & Gabbana glasses.
‘Oh, lordy, look at that!’ She stifled a groan of dismay. Grassy had to be a man’s way of describing the expanse of mud where they were about to land.
Mud and high heels. Not the best combination.
Wriggling her skirt into place, she tugged her jacket into submission over her cleavage, and widened her smile to the max. So much for her impressive entrance, it was going to take a miracle just to get her to the front door.
* * *
‘Dropping women onto me out of the sky is not going to make me settle down!’
Brando Marshall’s loud protest down the phone to his sister was simultaneously heartfelt and indignant. ‘What part of ‘I don’t do relationships’ don’t you understand Bryony?’ Not that he was about to enlighten her, but as far as women went he had three rules: plenty of them, never at home, and no repeats, although recently he’d put business before sex too often. He raked his fingers through his hair, shuddering at the fleetingly awful thought that Bryony might have any idea of the hard, hot sex he enjoyed, or worse, the hard, hot women he enjoyed it with. Slamming a mental door on that one, quickly, he shook his head at the realisation that this time she’d almost out-witted him. He could already feel the vibrations of the approaching helicopter.
‘I’m only going to say this once, Bry! Regardless of what your motor-mouthed TV presenter boss with the hideous pink lips might have told the nation, I do not need a wife! And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be hooking up with some fortune-seeking low-life who writes in to some down-market TV show!’
‘Okay. Take a chill pill Brando … ’
One vault took him over the sofa and to the window. He peered at the lawn in front of the house, scrutinising the descending helicopter through a flurry of leaves, as it nudged to the ground.
Damned cheek of the girl! Bryony was only flying the woman in, using his chopper!
His face cracked into a slow smile. Giving him the perfect means of escape.
He vaulted over the sofa, and grabbed the phone again.
‘Nice of you to borrow my helicopter without asking, but handy – I’m out of here! I’m off back to London right now, and you can get rid of the woman …