A Reluctant Wife

Sophie looked at him, speechless. ‘You may see fit, Mr Wallace, to address the women in your life like that, but let me tell you—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. This is the second time I’ve ever met you and I’m fast beginning to think that you are the most infuriating woman on the face of the earth. Now why don’t you just climb down off your high horse, escape the wind out here for a minute and come inside. You’re quite safe with me. There are dozens of workmen in the house.’ He glanced at her and his look was enough to tell her that even if his house had been completely empty of all signs of life she would still have been eminently safe with him.

She had no reason to even remotely doubt his word. She knew what she looked like. More than that, she revelled in what she looked like. Her face was bare of all make-up, her hair a mass of curls and knots, her curves well shielded in a long skirt, woollen tights, ankle-length, lace-up boots and two baggy jumpers under which nestled, even less erotically, a thermal vest and a T-shirt. The fingerless gloves were the final touch.

‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ Sophie said, because refusing now seemed childish.

‘If it was too much trouble,’ he said, leaning slightly towards her, ‘I wouldn’t have asked, would I?’

Sophie shrugged and looked away towards the gardens, wondering whether he had any plans for those as well. Perhaps a few fountains here and there, the odd statue sticking out from behind some plants. Who knew what the man’s tastes were?

She would be interested in seeing what he was doing to the house, though. She had been inside several times and had always been vaguely depressed at the gradual decline.

Wouldn’t Kat give her eye teeth for this? she thought with a sudden smile. Personal escort by the Big Man himself.

‘You’re smiling,’ Gregory said from next to her, and she suddenly realised that he had been observing her, which made her feel like a bug under a microscope. ‘I wondered whether you could.’

‘What exactly is that supposed to mean, Mr Wallace?’

‘Do you think we might dispense with the formalities?’ They began to walk around the side of the house, where builders were working in a manner never before seen by Sophie. Quite a few were local men, and she recognised them and nodded. One she stopped and spoke to.

‘James, can I ask how come you never seemed to work this hard for me when you were doing my kitchen?’ She smiled broadly and secured her hair with her hand. He was her age, married with four children and had gone to school with her a lifetime ago.

‘You would keep offering me cups of tea. Earl Grey is a killer on my concentration.’ They laughed.

‘How’s Claire and the children?’

‘Have four kids and you won’t need to ask that question.’ That made them laugh again.

‘You were lying about that gene pool,’ Gregory said, as they moved into the house.

‘What are you talking about now?’

‘You can relax. Which means it must just be me.’ He stood in the doorway and looked around him, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

Sophie ignored his remark. Ignored him, in fact, and began to walk around the hall, amazed at how much had been accomplished in a short space of time. The dingy carpets had all been ripped up, and black and white tiles had been laid, which opened up the hall. A new banister of oak was in the process of being constructed, and the walls were being primed for wallpaper.

‘I’ll show you around,’ he said, taking her by her elbow. She politely but pointedly removed his hand.

‘I’m not going to molest you,’ he grated, with an ill-humoured frown.

‘I never implied that you were,’ Sophie said coolly, looking at him and not blinking, ‘but I would still rather that you kept your hands to your sides.’

He muttered something under his breath, which she pretended not to hear, and began to show her around the bits of the house which had already been done.

It was a sprawling Victorian mansion. Her own cottage could have fitted several times into the downstairs alone. Everything was tasteful and immaculately done. Three of the rooms were already complete and the rest were fast on their way to getting there.

‘It’s rather a large house for one person, wouldn’t you say?’ she asked, as they strolled into the sitting room, which was now virtually unrecognisable from the fairly dilapidated affair it had been previously. She recognised several pieces of furniture, which he had clearly bought from Mrs Franks because, doubtless, they would have been too cumbersome to find a home for in her new premises.

‘Unless,’ she continued, walking around the room and reluctantly liking what she saw, ‘you’re very ambitious about having hordes of children.’

‘Oh, I think a dozen or so should do the trick.’ He looked at her, his eyebrows raised. ‘Does that come under the category of being ambitious about having children?’

‘No, it comes under the category of outright lie.’

He laughed and continued to watch her, which didn’t disturb her in the slightest. Let him watch as much as he liked, just as long as he didn’t touch. She didn’t feel threatened anyway because she knew that he was watching her with frank curiosity, and she suspected that that was because she so snugly fitted his idea of what a country girl would look like. He probably thought that things like make-up and fashionable clothes were difficult to get hold of so far out of London. No doubt he would change his mind when he met Ashdown’s semi-resident in-crowd. Much more his cup of tea.

‘Well,’ she said, when they were back in the tiled hall, ‘thank you very much for the tour of your house. It’s very nicely done.’

‘Why don’t you have a cup of tea before you leave?’ he said by way of an answer. ‘The kitchen is fully operational, as you’d expect with builders in the house.’

‘They do generally like their cups of tea, don’t they?’ Sophie said politely. She looked at her watch, shook her head and said that she had to go.

‘Where?’

‘What do you mean—where?’ The nerve of the man was beyond compare, she thought. Was it any of his business where she was going?’

‘To the library?’

‘No, as a matter of fact.’ Not that it’s any of your concern, her voice implied. When he remained, with his head slightly cocked, as though awaiting more on the subject, she said, clicking her tongue, ‘I have a lot of housework to do.’

‘Housework that can’t wait for half an hour?’ He began to stroll in the direction of the kitchen and, much to her annoyance, she found herself following. By the time she got there it seemed pointless to spend ten minutes pursuing the argument so she reluctantly took a seat at the kitchen table and waited while he made them a mug of tea.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked, sitting opposite her. He had removed his coat, but he still looked incongruous in the half-finished kitchen with his expensive suit. The units had been ripped out, as yet to be replaced, but there was a new Aga where the old one had been and, of course, the counter on which the kettle sat was littered with the evidence of builders in residence—mugs, sugar, a jumbo-sized bottle of instant coffee, an even more jumbo-sized box of teabags and two bottles of milk, both of which appeared to be on the go.

‘Within cycling distance of here,’ Sophie answered. ‘As does nearly everyone in the village.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘A long time.’ She sipped from the mug, cradling it in her hands, and hoped that he didn’t intend to pursue a personal line of conversation because she would soon have to steer him off firmly. He might not be interested in her as a woman, but any interest was unwelcome. She wasn’t in the business of dispensing confidences about her private life.

‘That tells me a lot.’

She didn’t answer. ‘You don’t intend to live here full time, do you?’ she asked, making no attempt to apologise for her abruptness.

‘It’s an idea,’ he said casually, ‘Why? Don’t you consider it a good one?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘Well, you can do as you please but, frankly, I don’t think this village is suited to a person like you.’ Which, she thought immediately, had come out sounding far ruder than she’d intended. She could see from the expression on his face that he was less than impressed with the remark.

Why beat around the bush, though? Men like Gregory Wallace—men like Alan—lived in the fast lane. She had brought Alan to Ashdown precisely three times and he had hated it.

‘Like living in a morgue,’ he had said. Lying in bed next to him, still invigorated with the newness of London, the newness of her job there, the newness of the man about whom she had initially been wary but who had eventually swept her off her feet, she had pushed aside the uneasiness she had felt, hearing him say that.

Apart from three years at university and six months in London, she had lived in Ashdown all her life and she had loved it. It was small but, then, so was she. If he hated Ashdown what did he think of her? Really? It had only been later she had discovered that, and by then she was already Mrs Breakwell.

‘A person like me?’ he asked coldly.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, finishing her tea and standing up. ‘I didn’t mean to sound rude.’