Reform of the Rake

He grinned lazily. ‘The brief in pink, the non-existent one in black.’ He raised one of his distinctive eyebrows. ‘You approve?’

Lowri nodded, pink-cheeked. ‘A popular choice, sir. Would you like them gift-wrapped?’

Her customer, as she’d expected, not only wanted them gift-wrapped, but clearly marked as to which was which, a male request familiar to her after four hectic weeks in the underwear department. And normally Lowri prided herself on deftness and speed at gift-wrapping, but under the bright, amused scrutiny her fingers changed to thumbs, a condition which worsened as Sarah bore down on them, tapping the watch on her wrist.

Lowri threw her an apologetic smile, but Sarah was staring at the man tucking his credit card back into his wallet.

‘Adam!’ she said in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

The man grinned and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘What do you think I’m doing, Sarah? I’m buying underwear.’ He shot a look at Lowri. ‘And damned expensive it is in this place.’

Sarah raised an eyebrow at the tempting packages. ‘I bet I know exactly what you chose, too.’

‘The same stuff Rupert buys you, I imagine,’ he said, the grin wider, and looked at his watch. ‘Let me ply you with tea and sinful cakes upstairs.’

‘Not today, thanks, Adam. I’m just about to feed my young cousin, Lowri, here. Lowri, this is Adam Hawkridge.’

Adam Hawkridge turned the bright gold eyes on Lowri again and held her hand rather longer than necessary as he gave her a white, mega-watt smile. ‘How do you do, Lowri—a pleasure dealing with you. Let’s all have tea together.’

To Lowri’s intense disappointment Sarah refused briskly, telling Adam this was a girls-only bun-fight and she’d take a raincheck for another time. Wistfully, Lowri murmured something polite as Adam took his leave, then raced after him with the packages he’d forgotten.

‘Your parcels, Mr Hawkridge!’

He swung round, smiling. ‘Thank you. Pity about tea,’ he added in an undertone. ‘Another day, perhaps?’

Lowri blushed again, said something incoherent and hurried back to Sarah.

‘Wow!’ she said breathlessly. ‘What a gorgeous man.’

Sarah shook her head emphatically. ‘Not for you, love. Gorgeous he may be, but he’s a notorious heartbreaker.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of marrying him,’ said Lowri tartly. ‘I’ll just get my bag.’

Once they were settled at a corner table in the coffee-shop Sarah fixed her cousin with a commanding blue eye.

‘Now,’ she ordered. ‘Talk! When did all this come about? Have you quarrelled with your father? Why haven’t you been in touch—where are you living?’

Lowri bit into a profiterole with enthusiasm. ‘I came up here a month ago, but no quarrel with Dad, since you ask. I’m squashed in with four other girls in a flat in Shepherds Bush pro tern, and I intended making contact soon, Sarah, really I did, but I—I wanted to get my bearings first.’

‘Which doesn’t explain why someone with perfectly good secretarial skills is selling underwear to earn a crust, Lowri Morgan,’ said her cousin severely. ‘I thought you had a steady job in Newport.’

‘So did I. But my boss took early retirement, and bingo, no place for little Lowri.’

‘Surely you could have found something in the same line?’

‘Not easy. Besides—’ Lowri shrugged, smiling wryly.

‘It gave me the ideal excuse to get away. Right away.’

Sarah poured tea, frowning. ‘You said no quarrel, but are there problems at home?’

‘Only for me. Dad’s in seventh heaven.’ Lowri sighed guiltily. ‘I keep telling myself my father’s only forty-seven and very attractive and perfectly entitled to a second wife only a few years older than me. And I adore Holly. Really I do. But sharing a house with two newlyweds who can’t keep their hands off each other—particularly when one of them is your father—is pretty hard to take, Sarah. I got a nice little cheque from my old firm in Newport, Dad gave me a bit more, and one of the girls I worked with knew someone who needed another flatmate up here, so I left the land of my fathers and managed to get this job pretty quickly, thank goodness. It’s only part time, but it’s financing me while I do some serious job-hunting.’

Sarah eyed her narrowly. ‘And are you enjoying life more?’

Lowri pulled a face. ‘I didn’t at first. I was even feeble enough to feel homesick for a while. But I’m settling down now.’

‘How did my favourite uncle take to the move?’

‘Torn between objections to the idea, and euphoria at the prospect of privacy and solitude with Holly.’

‘Are you jealous?’

Lowri thought it over. ‘Not of Holly,’ she said slowly. ‘Only of what they’ve got together, I think. And Mum’s been dead a long time. Dad deserves his happiness. Only I just couldn’t stand playing gooseberry.’ She smiled cheerfully. ‘Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about Dominic and Emily—and that scrumptious husband of yours.’

‘Rupert’s the same, only more so.’ Sarah smiled wryly. ‘Up to his ears in his latest book and prone to vile moods when the flow doesn’t flow, as usual. My son seems to have some of his father’s brains, but a far sunnier disposition, thankfully, while Emily sails through life happy in the belief that everyone loves her.’

‘Which they do!’

‘Up to now,’ agreed Sarah. ‘But she starts proper school in the autumn, so things may change.’ She gave Lowri a militant look. ‘I shall expect you for the day on Sunday—no excuses.’

Lowri smiled happily and got to her feet. ‘Try to keep me away! Sundays in London can drag a bit.’

‘Then why on earth didn’t you get in touch before?’

‘I didn’t want to cadge, Sarah.’

‘You, Lowri Morgan, are an idiot. But I understand—no one better,’ added Sarah, and kissed her. ‘I was just the same when I first came to the big city. Right, I’m off. Come any time after breakfast on Sunday—or even before, if you like.’

Lowri shook her head, chuckling. ‘I’ll come in time for lunch—but thanks, Sal. I’ll look forward to it.’

As she fought claustrophobia in the Underground on her way home, then battled for tenancy of the bathroom later that evening, Lowri’s mood remained buoyant as she thought of Sunday with the Clares in St John’s Wood. Her cousin Sarah, one of the three beautiful daughters of the Reverend Glyn Morgan in Lowri’s native village of Cwmderwen, near Monmouth, was the wife of Rupert Clare, a novelist bankable enough to sell film rights to his books. Sunday would be fun. And she would enjoy it all the more because she hadn’t given in and invited herself as she’d longed to do ever since her arrival in London.

The Clares’ house in St John’s Wood was a large, light-filled house with a sizeable walled garden at the back, and a converted coach house which housed the family cars on the ground floor and provided a self-contained flat on the floor above for Rupert’s constant stream of secretaries, few of whom stayed for long. After a heart-warming welcome from Dominic and Emily, Lowri looked up to see Rupert loping down the curve of the graceful staircase, hands outstretched, Sarah close behind him.

‘Who’s a sly one then, little cousin?’ he said, shaking his head, then gave her a hug and a smacking kiss. ‘Escaped from the claws of the dragon, I hear!’

‘If that’s your way of saying I’ve left home, yes.’ She grinned up at her cousin’s charismatic husband. ‘Hello, Rupert, nice to see you.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d had to live with him this week,’ said Sarah with feeling. ‘Mrs Parks is not only the least efficient secretary Rupert’s ever had but also the most timorous, which brings out the sadist in him. She’s driving the great author mad. And I flatly refuse to take over from her—but you don’t want to hear about that. Come into the conservatory. We’ll picnic in there to enjoy the April sunshine.’

With Emily clinging to her hand, and Dominic telling her all about the new school he was going to shortly, Lowri basked in the glow of Clare hospitality as she leaned back in a comfortable wicker chair, sipping happily from a tall frosted glass decorated with mint and slices of fruit.

‘Pimms for us, fruit juice for the small fry,’ said Rupert, handing a beaker to his daughter. ‘You, Dominic, are promoted to the dignity of a glass.’

‘Gee thanks,’ said his son with sarcasm. ‘Couldn’t I have just a sip of Pimms, Dad?’

‘No fear,’ said his mother, smiling to soften the blow. ‘There’s the doorbell. Off you go to answer it, please.’