knew it made sense. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me already?’ she tried to tease. But she realised Alex was already gone, if not in body then certainly in spirit.
‘No. But I have neglected business long enough. As long as you work, we are going to have to get used to spending time apart. Not desirable, but in the present circumstances inevitable.’ And, slipping his hand into his pocket, he withdrew a bunch of keys and removed one. ‘Here is a key to the penthouse. I will inform Security to expect you.’ He handed her the key. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ Lisa had only been to his apartment once, on their wedding night, when Alex had introduced her to the joys of love for the very first time. She would have reminded him but he didn’t give her the chance.
He glanced at his gold Rolex. ‘I must go. Make sure you are in London by six tomorrow night, Lisa. We are dining with my father at seven thirty.’ And, with a brief kiss on her open mouth, he spun on his heel and walked out. Lisa followed him into the hall, in time to see him open the front door and disappear through it without a backward glance.
‘Was that the door?’ a gruff voice queried from the top of the stairs.
Lisa turned around ‘Yes, Harold.’ She smiled up at the elderly man descending the staircase. ‘Alex has just left. Give me ten minutes to get dressed and then I’ll get breakfast.’ Running lightly up the stairs, she gave her stepfather a little peck on the cheek as she passed him.
Later, when the two of them sat side by side at the breakfast table, the bacon and egg Lisa had cooked long since eaten, they lingered over their coffee, talking about work.
‘Mary, your PA, has been wonderful,’ Harold said firmly. ‘In fact, no disrespect to you, dear, but I think the woman could almost handle your job.’
‘Thanks very much. Glad to know I was missed,’ Lisa drawled mockingly.
‘I didn’t mean it like that, Lisa, but you are very much a new bride, and your husband has to come first. You should be at Alex’s side, not sitting here with me.’
‘Yes, I know. Alex said pretty much the same. As it is, I won’t see him until tomorrow—pressure of work…’ She shrugged her shoulders and, with a rueful smile at Harold, she pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. ‘Tonight I’ll be dining with you but right now we’d better get to the office.’
They took Harold’s car, a blue Jaguar, and after pulling up in the courtyard of Lawson Designer Glass, Lisa slipped out and viewed her surroundings with a contemplative air. The firm had been the brainchild of her parents. She remembered her mother describing to her how she had met Peter Lawson at a dance in Oxford, and had fallen in love on the spot. He had been the only child of the main partner of the Lawson Lee Glass Factory in Stratford-upon-Avon, a long rambling place that sat alongside the river. Her mother had been an accountant. They had married, and by the time they were thirty, and Lisa had arrived, her grandfather and the silent partner Lee, had died.
Her parents had transformed the factory into one of the leading producers of Tiffany lamps and designer glass in Europe. The Lee heirs had had no interest, other than the twice-yearly dividend, and had made no objection to the change of name to Lawson Designer Glass. Her mother had looked after the financial side, and her father, the more artistic, had simply loved designing. Unfortunately he had died in a car crash when Lisa was nine. Two years later her mother had married Harold Watson, a man who had worked for the firm as sales manager for several years and was a true friend.
Lisa had worked here in the school holidays, and then after graduating from university full time. She loved the place; it had been her whole life so far, but now she had Alex. Juggling a husband and a business would be no easy matter. There were going to have to be some changes.
In fact the changes had already started with the death of her mother last year from stomach cancer. Three short months after the diagnosis her mother had been gone. But when she was dying she’d confided in Lisa; she had loved Peter completely, they had been soul mates, and she had thought it her duty to carry on with his work after he died. Her marriage to Harold, she’d admitted, had not been built on the same kind of love.
Harold had been alone ever since his first wife had left him with a small son to look after years before. That small son had been a twenty-seven-year-old man, with his own commercial estate agent business in London, by the time Lisa’s mum had married Harold. As her mum had later confessed, it had been more for companionship than love on her part, but she had hoped Harold would be a good father figure for Lisa.
In that respect her mother had been right. Lisa adored Harold, and the brief visits of his son Nigel had not really impinged on her life. Except for the year when she was sixteen and Nigel had made a pass at her. But, as she’d already been a big girl, she had quickly disabled him with a hard knee to the groin, and it had not been a problem. On the subsequent rare occasions they had met they’d managed to uphold a polite façade.
Smoothing the fine linen of her short skirt down over her hips and adjusting the collar of her jacket, Lisa entered the building, a worried frown pleating her brow.
Her mother had died in Saint Mary’s Hospice, and her dying wish had been that five per cent of Lawson’s be gifted to the hospice. She’d had no time to change her will to encompass this, so Lisa had received fifty-two per cent of the company, and Harold had got the house. He also owned thirteen per cent of the company—shares he had accrued in bonus payments over the years in a scheme her father had set up. The will had passed probate the week before Lisa had married and against her better judgement, she had done as her mother requested the Friday preceding her wedding. The trouble was, she had yet to tell Harold, because she knew he would have insisted on making the donation himself. But realistically she could not see it being a problem as between them they still controlled the company. Now, Lisa had no more time to dwell on the subject, as various members of the staff greeted her return with huge smiles and a few suggestive remarks.
Mary was already in the office when Lisa walked in. A widow of forty with two teenage children, she had worked for the firm for seven years, and as Lisa’s PA for the last year.
‘Welcome back,’ Mary said, looking up from behind her computer terminal. ‘I won’t ask if you had a good honeymoon; I can see it in your face.’ She grinned.
Lisa had invited all the workforce to her wedding. It had been a traditional service in her local church on a Monday afternoon. The reception afterwards at Stratford’s leading hotel, apart from the fact that the best man had taken off immediately after his speech, had been a great party. Lisa and Alex had finally left late in the evening to spend the night in Alex’s London apartment, before flying out to Athens the next morning to board his yacht at the port of Piraeus. Thinking about it now brought warmth to her cheeks.
‘Yes, it was very nice,’ Lisa responded primly, and then winked. ‘My husband is all that, and more!’ Crossing the room, she lingered for a moment at the picture window, glancing at the view of the River Avon and fields beyond. It was a clear, blue-skied June day. A day for lovers to take a picnic and explore the countryside hand in hand. ‘And why I am here working when Alex is in London, I do not know,’ Lisa said out loud, before sitting down on the chair behind her desk and glancing up at Mary. ‘I must be mad.’
‘Madly in love,’ Mary quipped, placing a sheaf of papers on Lisa’s desk. ‘Priority messages, okay?’
Two hours later, musing over a cup of coffee, Lisa realised that Harold was right, all the work was up to date except for a few items that demanded her personal attention.
‘Congratulations, Mary, you’ve done a great job in my absence,’ she surprised the other woman by remarking.
Mary beamed back at her from her desk. ‘Thank you. It’s good to know I’m appreciated, but can I ask you something?’
‘Sure, ask away.’
‘Well, there have been rumours, now you’re married…’ Mary hesitated. ‘Well, rumours you might sell up.’
‘I promise you, Mary, the rumours are completely