parents. Speaking of which—
She sat on a grassy bank, took out her phone and called Brian.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ he demanded.
‘It’s a big estate, Brian, but I haven’t seen any sign of surveying so far.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’ Which was true. ‘But I have heard a whisper that Mr North is thinking about restoring the rose garden.’
‘And?’
‘It’s a famous garden. Bags of history.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’ll be a waste of time coming back to the office. I’ll do some research at home and maybe we can run something tomorrow?’
‘We’re running the Teddy Bear’s Picnic story tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t finished it.’
‘I have. Mr Mean Targets Teddies. The garden story can go in the home supplement on Saturday.’
She muttered an expletive she wouldn’t have used at home and dialled again.
‘North.’
‘Hal…’
‘Claire… Twice in one day.’
‘Sorry, but I need to talk you out of cancelling the Teddy Bears Picnic.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Not a chance?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a shame. The news editor’s wife is the treasurer of the animal-rescue charity that benefits from the event.’
‘Then I’ll brace myself for tomorrow’s edition.’
‘Don’t buy it unless you want to see a really sweet photograph of you, aged six, dressed as one of the three bears in a primary-school play on the front page,’ she said,
‘I take back everything I said. You are ruthless.’
‘Absolutely,’ she said, heart sinking.
‘Why don’t they hold it at Memorial Park?’ he suggested.
‘You’re not getting it. We need woods. If you go down to the woods today…?’ She sang a snatch of the song.
‘You are not doing your case any favours.’
‘You’ve got until the paper goes to press to reconsider.’
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
‘No. Right. Breathing in and out.’ She didn’t want to hang up. ‘I forgot to ask Gary when my bike will be ready.’
‘Apparently they don’t make wheels like that any more but he’s doing his best to find a second-hand replacement. I’d buy you a new bike, but I’m sure you’d just tell the world I’m trying to buy your silence.’
‘Not the world,’ she assured him, saying goodbye to any chance of that. ‘Just Maybridge.’
‘Shame. I saw one on the Net that would have been perfect. Pink and white. Just like the one you had when you were a little girl.’
‘I’m all grown up now, Hal.’
‘Goodbye, Claire.
* * *
Hal picked the newspaper out of the bin, looked again at the fairy lookalike. Claire’s hair was still the colour of rich cream with a tendency to escape the tortoiseshell clip she used to hold it back and curl in soft tendrils around her face. It was the kind of clip that gave a man ideas. Which was, no doubt, its purpose.
Not that he needed any help.
At a distance, he could be rational about her. Remember that she was the daughter of his enemy.
Close up, with her scent—a combination of shampoo, soap, the memory of bluebells—blanking out the smell of motor oil, her eyes smiling even when her mouth was trying not to, her mouth smiling because she forgot to keep it in line, he’d wanted a re-run of a kiss that should never have happened. To feel her body soften in response to him the way it had that morning on the path.
Taking Claire Thackeray in a ditch… Against one of the estate’s ancient oaks… In the Queen’s bed…
All grown up and he knew that he’d dream about letting loose her lovely hair to fall over pale, naked shoulders.
Daydream when he should be concentrating on the ballroom ceiling.
Night dream about doing things with raspberry jam that would put it on the Women’s Institute banned list but, more to the point, what was she going to do about him?
So far, she’d stuck strictly to the facts, although that first piece might have raised a wry smile amongst those who remembered him.
He’d anticipated some comeback to his crack about her not fulfilling her mother’s inflated expectations. It had hurt her. It had been his intention to hurt her.
She had been the estate’s little princess while he’d been the frog who was supposed to live under a stone.
So why hadn’t she struck back hard? She knew that he’d been thrown off the estate and that was the story any real journalist would have told.
But then no real journalist would have warned him about what was going to be on tomorrow’s front page.
He called up the Observer’s website and clicked on the link to the editorial staff. She was about halfway down the list, a cool blonde looking out at the world with a confident smile, very different from the mud-spattered creature, hair tumbled about her face that he’d picked out of the ditch. Full of sass and spirit one minute, flapping her eyelashes at him the next, when she thought he might be useful to her.
Still the estate princess despite her fall from grace. She might have been bright, but not bright enough to avoid the obvious trap.
Knowing her mother, he’d have thought an unwanted pregnancy would have involved a quick trip to the nearest clinic. But maybe it hadn’t been an unwanted pregnancy. After all, she’d told him herself, she’d been in love.
Not wanting to think about it, he swept the paper up, but as he was about to drop it where it belonged, in the waste-basket, his attention was caught once again by the fairy perched on the masthead.
He was here to make her pay, but so far she’d been doing all the running. It was time to bite back.
* * *
‘Okay, everyone. Can I have your attention for a moment?’ Jessica Dixon, the assistant editor, stood in the centre of the large open-plan newsroom and looked around. ‘As you all know we launched this year’s “Make a Wish” campaign last week and we’ve had lots of interesting suggestions.’ She glanced at the card she was holding. ‘A facelift for the Guildhall—’
‘That’ll be the mayor trying to get it done on the cheap.’
‘If it keeps the Council Tax down I’m all for that.’
‘The Mums & Minis group are pushing for an undercover children’s play area in Memorial Park and we’ve had several requests to restore the riverside gardens after last year’s bad weather,’ she continued determinedly, ignoring several more sarcastic remarks. ‘There have also been a lot of great ideas to help individual people in need. It will be our Fairy Godmother’s job to liaise with local youth groups and—’ she looked around ‘—the really good news is that this year we have a sponsor for the Make a Wish scheme.’
‘A sponsor? Does that mean our fairy will have to wear a company logo on her wings?’ someone joked.
‘No logo. Our sponsor isn’t a company, but a private individual and we have Claire to thank for that.’
Claire, busy on a piece of village-school closures,