Part 17 (1/2)

I'd call Mum tomorrow, I promised myself, as I put a pillow over my head to block out the light from Carson's bedside lamp, and tried to fall asleep.

At least, with the window dressing job, I had something pleasant, and true, to tell Mum.

CHAPTER NINE.

Tuesday, December 5 *Life is fun. Get naked.'

Jocelyn Priestly NO ONE HAD BETTER get naked today, I told my calendar, reading the latest rubbish Ms Priestly offered as inspiration for the day.

Since I'd taken the kids out for dinner, putting my foot in the sand in terms of our abject poverty, things actually seemed to be going my way.

For a start, both Carson and Cecily 2 were trying their best to appease me. I put this down to the fact that Cecily 2's *a.s.signment' had been extended until Christmas, so they needed me to agree to her continued presence on my sofa.

When I didn't agree straightaway, Cecily the First had called me up and the word *please' had been used.

I was so shocked by my mother-in-law's unnatural politeness that I stupidly agreed.

Meanwhile, Hammetro's uncle had agreed to recreate my boxes, and Robert Simpson had no problem with extending the time taken to do the job. *As long as it is done a couple of weeks before Christmas,' he'd said, relieving me of a mountain of worries.

I still had to find the boxes a that was proving difficult, but other than that, my plan for the Chocolato windows was coming together nicely.

If only the remaining part of my relations.h.i.+p with Robert was so easy to a.s.sess.

- Cue recent memory of awkward lunch with Robert Simpson: *Do you take sugar?' He'd lashed out on a coffee and sandwich at some place in Greenwich Village that he insisted was trendy, but I felt looked more like the dying days of a salmonella diner.

The sugar had lumps of something unidentifiable in it. *Um, no, thanks.'

*So, how's the job going?'

I wanted to keep it a secret until the big reveal, mostly because if he said he hated the idea, and pa.s.sed the information onto the ultimate client, it would scupper the whole project.

And there wasn't a Plan B.

Robert seemed on the verge of wanting to say something the entire lunch but didn't.

I figured he wanted to follow on from our conversation of the other day.

To follow on from that *x'.

And he did. In a way.

A horrible way.

*I like those tight leather boots you're wearing.'

I was wearing ten-year-old scuffed knee-lengths. I couldn't date them exactly because they were from a charity shop. Thanks to the size of my calves, the boots were quite floppy around the ankles. I hated them, but they were good for walking in wet and icy conditions.

*Really? These?'

A strange dark frown clouded his face for a moment, but quickly disappeared.

What was with him?

*Just trying to compliment you. Women like compliments, don't they?'

Depends on what they are.

*Sure, thanks. I think.'

*So, tell me about your kids . . .'

With that segue into a change of subject, Robert Simpson moved the conversation back to more acceptable territory, but I began to feel that any attraction I had originally felt might have been misplaced.

He really was more than a little odd.

While I worked in Manhattan on the shops, Robert Simpson managed to pop up at least every second day, usually at the front of whatever store I was working on. And he always offered to buy me a meal.

My penury meant I never refused, even if I couldn't stop thinking about the weird boot comment of the other day.

Apart from that awkward early conversation during which we'd dodged around our feelings, he hadn't mentioned the issue of us being more than friends again, and I was glad.

So, a few days a week we ate and talked and laughed. He seemed to know a lot about the chocolate business a but I figured that was because he was friends with the owner of Chocolato.

*Have to know your market,' he told me.

The initial allure I'd felt for Robert Simpson eventually faded completely. Yes, he was George Clooney-esque, but there was something about Robert that made me shy away; something not completely trustworthy.

And after all, I did love Carson.

Once.

I may not love him in the same way now, or love how he treated me or the kids, but if I tried hard, I could believe that things would get easier.

So I put any illicit romance with Robert out of my mind and concentrated on my work.

The shop windows were coming together. I was a.s.sembling the look in the rear of Store Three, which, being downtown, had the most s.p.a.ce out back.

Hammertro's uncle had done a marvelous job, not only cutting my boxes into arks but sourcing them, too.

I'd looked and looked and looked, but had no luck.

When Uncle Rabbit saw the modern light beech squares I'd finally found online, he told me to send them back and that he had the perfect thing.

*Legal,' I warned him, picturing some irate owner banging on the windows of the Chocolato in anger, claiming theft.

*I swear,' Uncle Rabbit said, giving me a semi-toothless grin.