The Haunting of Pear Tree Cottage
Chapter Four

Without a second thought I ran into the hallway where, hastily, I shrugged on my coat—barely able to fasten the buttons my hands were shaking so hard—and left the house, pulling the door closed behind me. Thankfully I had picked up my phone so, standing stock still on the garden path, I rang Mum again. But there was still no reply, just an ongoing ringing that was beginning to drive me mad. I clicked off the call and put the phone in my coat pocket. I would have to try again later.

What had I seen in there? It was Morgan Bloom without a doubt, the woman I’d seen in my cellar, albeit in a different form, as some sort of smoky mist. But she’d taken Moses and disappeared into the fire. How could that be? It was impossible! Thank God the fire hadn’t been lit properly. Otherwise, what would I find when I got back inside, the burned body of poor little Moses in the fireplace? Oh my God, it didn’t bear thinking about.

To keep myself warm, I walked down the garden path and out of the gate, glancing at the house next door as I went by, noticing the cozy, welcoming light glowing around the edges of the drawn curtains. It was cold out here and a fine sleety rain had begun to fall, already soaking through my coat, making me shiver and rub my hands together. Hunching my shoulders, I turned up my collar, wishing I’d thought to bring a hat and gloves, or even a scarf. But the thought of going back into my lovely new home filled me with horror. And how sad was that.

Close to tears and dreading the thought of having to wander the streets until I felt ready to go home, I pushed open Mabel Montgomery’s gate and walked purposefully up the garden path. She had said I could visit any day but a Tuesday, and today was Thursday. And although it would be too dark at the moment to see the pear tree in her back yard, at least I would be able to see something, and I had to admit, the possibility of company was very hard to resist.

A bright white light came on as I neared the front door, illuminating the two steps up to the porch and the neat garden laid out either side, its pocket-sized lawn speckled with fallen leaves of crimson and orange and surrounded by well stocked tidy borders. She answered on the first knock, hurrying to the door, an anxious look on her face which cleared when she saw it was me. She was dressed as before in black trousers and a fluffy red jumper, although this one had silver sprinkles around the cuffs and the neck, so she still resembled a busy little robin redbreast.

“Hello, dear. Is everything all right?” She frowned, causing a deep vee to form in the little space between her eyebrows.

“No,” I shook my head. “Would you mind very much if I came in to talk? I know it’s too dark to see the tree, but—”

“Of course. Come in, dear.” She took my coat as we stood on the porch and hung it on an old wooden coat stand. I followed her through to the sitting room, which was similar to mine with its massive fireplace and beams that crisscrossed the ceiling, but with more furniture and more ornaments and clutter.

A coal fire burned hungrily in the grate, sending out tongues of orange flames so that the room was warm, cozy, and inviting. A large clock in a glass dome ticked loudly from its place on the mantelpiece, and the television was on, the sound muted, the flickering screen showing men wearing Stetson hats—reminding me, with a rapid beating of my heart, of my boss—hiding behind rocks and pointing guns at each other.

“Sit down, dear.” She indicated the settee and I sank down gratefully, leaning forward and putting my cold hands in front of the fire to warm them. Even though I barely knew Mabel as yet, the relief I felt at being with her was overwhelming.

“I’ve got something that you might like to try,” she said. “I won’t be a moment.” She bustled off into the kitchen, of which I could see just a little from the half open door. I got an impression of lots of white—white tiles, white paintwork, and a white butler sink, a glaring white light that lit every corner. It would be from that window that the pear tree could be seen. Maybe she’d show me later.

Mabel came back carrying a bottle and two glasses, which she placed on the small occasional table situated between the settee and her chair. “Pear wine,” she said with a smile, whilst pouring a generous measure into each glass. She handed one to me and, inviting me to clink with hers, said, “Tally Ho!” before taking a great gulp and then licking her lips in a tiny birdlike fashion.

“Tally Ho?” I questioned as I took a sip, “Don’t people usually say cheers?”

She laughed over the top of her glass, her eyes bright and beady as the little robin that she reminded me of. “Well, yes, I suppose they do. But I like to be different,” she said decisively.

“Mm,” I said. “Wow, this is good stuff!”

“I thought you’d like it—also made from my own pears. How did the pie go down? Did Lily Makepeace have a slice?”

“Very well, and yes she did. In fact, everybody did. Oh, sorry, I’ll bring your dish back tomorrow.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, dear. There’s no rush.”

“What do you do at your over sixty club?” I asked her.

“Oh, all sorts of things, dear. Embroidery, a book club, a bit of light exercise, yoga, Pilates, we listen to music—a bit of everything. Why? You’re far too young to join us yet!”

I laughed and said, “Yes, about thirty years too young. What does Lily Makepeace do?” I asked. “I’m just curious.”

“Well, Lily‘s only just joined, but she set herself up straight away for the book club. She’s very interested in the history of Whitby, and reads about Dracula and ghosts and such things.”

“Oh, maybe she knows the history of Pear Tree Cottage too.”

“Hmm,” Mabel replied thoughtfully. “Maybe she does.” We sat quietly sipping our wine when she said, “Do you want to talk now? I’ve got to say, you’ve got more color in your face. When you came in earlier, you looked as white as a sheet—actually, you looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” I told her. “I think I have, on at least two occasions.” I knew my voice was trembling, but I couldn’t help it.

Taking another sip of wine, Mabel said, “What have you seen, Chrissie?”

Everything came pouring out then; the sighting of who I thought to be Morgan and Seth Bloom in the cellar, the weird hunched figure in the mirror, and now tonight, Morgan Bloom appearing as some sort of mist and taking Moses with her into the fire.

“Hmm. Rita mentioned somebody called Morgan. Don’t worry, Moses will be fine. Morgan wouldn’t harm her familiar.”

“I hope not. I’m dreading going back indoors, scared of what I might see in the fire. Who’s Rita?” I asked.

“The lady who used to live in your house, Rita Peacock.”

“Oh, you mean my mum’s neighbor’s aunt who moved to Scotland?” Rita Peacock, an apt name. I wondered if she looked like a peacock just as Mabel was like a robin and Lily Makepeace a wren. It was all about birds. With a sinking heart I realized that crows were also known to be witches’ familiars. I hoped desperately that Morgan Bloom wouldn’t bring one of those fluttering, beady eyed black creatures into the house.

“Yes, she went away very suddenly—barely said goodbye, even though we’d been quite good friends for years.” She took another sip of wine. “Let me show you the pear tree, Chrissie.”

Painfully, one hand on the small of her back, she got slowly to her feet, and I followed her tiny hobbling figure, eager to see the pear tree, but also eager to find out what Rita Peacock’s experiences with Morgan Bloom had been compared to mine. It was so comforting to know the strange things I’d seen weren’t just a figment of my imagination.

It was dark in the kitchen, but Mabel didn’t put on the light, just stretched up a hand and pulled back the net curtain so I could see the tree, etched black against the darkness outside, its thick knobbly branches pointing up to a sky streaked red with sunset. It was a lot taller and wider than I’d expected, taking up most of the small back yard. Mabel suddenly produced a torch and shone it at the window so that in the white circle of light I could see its lower branches were hung with pears that wobbled in the breeze like little pale suicides. The rest of the yard was the same as mine, down to the three bins standing in a row against the wall.

“Can you see where it’s grown up through the flags?” she asked as she shone the torch to the bottom of the trunk so I could see where the stone flags had been pushed up by the tree’s twisted roots.

“Yes, how weird that it grows here and not in my garden, as it used to.”

“I know. It just suddenly appeared right here.” She switched off the torch, throwing the garden into blackness again, so we went back to the sitting room and sat by the fire that hissed and spat hot embers onto the carpet. Mabel put an old mesh fireguard in front of it and then, leaning forward with the bottle, topped up my wine. She told me then that Rita Peacock had had several encounters in her home with Morgan and Seth Bloom. “I think in the cellar, in her bedroom, and in the kitchen. She came round here a few times when it all got too much for her—just like you did tonight, I suppose.”

I nodded and said, “Yes, I’ve got to say it’s good to have your company. And to tell you the truth, I’m not looking forward to going back to my place at all.”

“Don’t you worry, dear.” She leaned forward and patted my hand. “I’ll go back in with you. A bit of moral support.” She thought for a minute or two, then said, “Rita said she felt as though she was just watching their lives—you know, Morgan and Seth Bloom—but not taking an active part. She didn’t think they could see her. Is that how it is for you?”

“Yes, that’s how I felt when I saw them in the cellar, when Morgan was holding Moses. I spoke to them, but there was no reaction. I reached out to get Moses back from her, but they disappeared.”

Mabel topped up our glasses again. “Did you see the hunched figure in your own mirror? A mirror that you brought with you?”

“No, the mirror was already in the house, in the sitting room. I assume it must have belonged to Rita. Now I know why she didn’t take it with her.”

“Hmm, yes, I remember her saying something about the mirror—the one hanging over the fireplace? So she didn’t take it with her. Hmm.”

“Thinking about it though,” I said, “The hooded figure could be Morgan Bloom.”

“Well, I suppose it could be, but—”

“Yes. Maybe her long black hair looked like a hood. I only had a brief glance before it disappeared.”

We nodded at each other as we sipped the wine. I was feeling pleasantly drowsy and loose limbed, my head limp on the back of the settee, as the wine snaked down my throat like a beautiful scented oil. My God, it was certainly potent stuff. Cowboys thundered across the TV screen on glossy black stallions, pursued relentlessly by Indians wearing elaborate feathered headdresses.

The great domed clock on the mantelpiece had chimed ten o’clock when I finally pulled myself unsteadily to my feet. Getting back to my house was a blur, but I remember vaguely standing on the doorstep waving goodnight to Mabel after we’d poked at the cold dead fire, searching the ashes for the remains of Moses. But thank God we found nothing there. And although we called for him and looked in every room, there was no sign of the fluffy black cat.

I went to bed then and fell immediately into a deep sleep, spiraling down deeper and deeper as if into a spinning black hole. I had vivid dreams of the ghostly wraith like figures of Morgan and Seth Bloom as they re-enacted their tempestuous lives, the tip tapping of a beak on the window as a fluttering shiny black crow peered in with its beady all-seeing eyes, and the frantic meowing of Moses as he materialized from the ashes of the long dead fire. Then I slept the long peaceful sleep of the dead, of the dreamless, not waking until a weak sun glowed yellow in the sky and showed its face at the window.

***

A sharp rat a tat at the front door made me jump, and as I was in the middle of painting my nails with a thick black polish borrowed from Layla, it certainly wasn’t a good time either. Keeping low, I peered through the sitting room window, but all I could see was half a person—one leg of a skinny jean, a high heeled boot, and one arm covered in some sort of fluffy leopard print coat. Slowly, carefully opening the door—it’s very difficult when your nails are wet—I peeped through the crack.

“Who is it?”

“Good God, Chrissie, it’s me, your mum.”

“Mum!” I flung the door open, totally shocked to see her standing there.

“Well, aren’t you going to let me in? Oh my, what are you wearing?”

She stepped into the hallway trundling a tiny pink suitcase behind her as I stood there, open mouthed.

“What’s up? Cat got your tongue?” she asked brightly.

The word “cat” made me think of Moses—the still missing Moses—and reminded me of the fact that ever since that night I was still afraid, looking over my shoulder, in my own home. Suddenly I found my voice. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for ages. Why don’t you answer your phone?”

“Oh, don’t even go there, Chrissie. It’s either been stolen or I’ve lost it, I’m not sure. I suspect it was when I had too much red wine at The Lamb a couple of weeks ago and somebody nicked it off me. You can’t trust anybody these days.” She stood in the sitting room doorway looking around, “Oh my God, it’s like stepping back in time. Old fashioned, isn’t it?” Gazing around and seeing the room with Mum’s eyes, I could see what she meant. Not Mum’s scene at all. Well, not now at any rate.

A bit of background. My mum had been on her own for a few years now, maybe four or five, because Dad left her for another woman. A younger woman called, wait for it, Myrtle Groves! If it had a number in front of it, it could be somebody’s address. Anyway, the whole thing was all a bit much for Mum, who had always been such a devoted wife. It left her a bit…what’s the word? Brittle? Although she swore she didn’t care at all now, and she’d changed a lot, not only in her ways but her appearance. A total transformation from the slightly plump mousy downtrodden woman she’d been before. Even so, Mum looked alarmingly thinner than ever, making me, with my somewhat curvy body, look almost obese.

Anyway, imagine the Zandra Rhodes bob but in a blonde shade—flaxen, I think it’s called—thick black eye makeup, and pale pink lipstick. Well, that was Mum’s look now. And her clothes were different too. She wore skinny jeans a lot, sometimes even short skirts, with little cropped tops and high heeled boots. She was wearing the skinny jeans ensemble now, with a short furry leopard print jacket over the top. The whole look didn’t go well with her name, Doreen, but I was sure if Mum had her way, she’d change that too. She looked so different now I didn’t think even Dad would recognize her.

“Sit down, Mum. I’ll put the kettle on, make you a cuppa.”

“Thanks love, a coffee would be great.” She followed me, exclaiming over the long narrowness of the kitchen, peering from the window at the plain back yard, and then watching as I took mugs from the cupboard, got out sugar and coffee, and milk from the fridge. “Why are you dressed like an old washer woman, Chrissie?”

“Oh thanks, Mum, I thought I looked okay.” I gave her a scathing glance. “I’m a Goth,” I explained. “It’s the Whitby Goth weekend, and almost Halloween too, so I’m meeting up with some people from work later for a few drinks.” I looked down at my long flowing black skirt, corset type top, and heavy Doc Martin boots. I was even wearing a long black wig to cover up my very un-goth like Shirley Temple hair. “I was painting my nails when you arrived, look.” I spread out my hands to show her my shiny black nails.

“A Goth? Oh, yeah, nice. I wondered who all those crow like people hanging about at the station were. Wow,” she said thoughtfully. “So that’s why that bloke was wearing fishnets. I quite like your black lipstick. Can I borrow some?”

I shook my head, feeling like the adult with the child, as we went in to the sitting room, me carrying a tray laden with mugs and the sugar bowl, and Mum sashaying across the room in her heels. We sat in front of the fire, sipping our drinks and inhaling the rich smell of the coffee.

“What are you doing here anyway, Mum?”

“Well that’s nice, isn’t it?” she said, mock offended, “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am,” I told her. “I was worried. I’ve been ringing you a lot.”

She frowned and said, “What for?” She leaned forward and added another spoon of sugar to her half empty mug. “I know,” she said, seeing my look. “Shouldn’t have too much sugar.” She patted her non-existent stomach.

“Well, it was about the black cat. He’s gone missing, and I wanted the contact for your neighbor’s aunt.” I took a gulp of coffee but it was too hot, burning my lips and making me grimace. I waved my hand in front of my mouth.

“I told you, my neighbor’s aunt said she never even had a black cat. It must have been a stray. Cats are like that, they don’t always stay. If they can find somewhere better, then they’re off. Selfish like that, they are.”

I wished I hadn’t mentioned Moses disappearing now. There was no way I was going to tell her about the strange happenings at Pear Tree Cottage. I knew I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I did. And, anyway, if she had any idea that there were ghosts in this house, before I could blink an eye she’d be trundling her little case along the garden path in search of a cheap B&B. “Well, there’s no reason why Moses wouldn’t stay here. What’s wrong with it?”

“I never said there was anything wrong with it. To tell you the truth, Chrissie, I think you’ve imagined the whole thing. Black cats indeed!” She took a grateful sip of coffee.

Smiling, but feeling a slight twinge of impatience with her, I shook my head. “No, I didn’t imagine it, Mum.”

Suddenly I remembered the awful feeling of loneliness I’d had only a couple of days before, and the relief that Mum was here with me now felt so good that, putting any irritation aside, I jumped up and enveloped her in a tight hug. It was so unexpected—we’ve never really been that cuddly with one another—that she fell backwards into the cushions on the squashy settee.

She felt so tiny and bony compared to the squishy softness of her body from years before, but she hugged me back and said, “You don’t mind if I stay for a few days, do you love?” And unusual for Mum, “I’ve been feeling a bit lonely back there in Leeming. Felt like I needed a break.”

“Of course you can, Mum.” Relief coursed through me, and the thought, At least I won’t be alone if anything ghostly happens, went through my mind. I watched her closely, and for all her young woman’s clothing and look, there were new lines around her eyes and her mouth that I’d never noticed before.

My heart ached for her until she said irritably, “I don’t know how you stand the racket from those squawking seagulls though, Chrissie. I bet they’ll drive me up the wall. And the sea as well, all that shushing up onto the sand—drives me nuts!”

I shook my head, thinking of the noise she put up with all the time from the swans, ducks, and honking crazy geese that fought all the time on the reservoir in Leeming.

“Oh, by the way,” she said casually as I took her upstairs, her boots clunking on each stone step, to show her the spare room. “My name’s Zandra now. No more boring Doreen for me.”

“Zandra?” I said. Blankly I stared at her, thinking how weird it was that this very thing had passed through my mind earlier, although I hadn’t thought for one minute that she would do it.

“Changed it by deed poll,” she said sweetly, before trailing in with her suitcase and closing the bedroom door in my astonished face.

***

The Rose & Crown Pub, situated on a tiny steep back street in Whitby town center, was lit up like a Christmas tree as Mum and I walked towards it later that evening. The building, with its tiny bulbous windows and black and white exterior, looked like a relic from the days of the Tudors, and I half expected Henry the Eighth to come out of the great wide-open door carrying a foaming flagon of ale and wearing an embroidered vest and jeweled cod piece. Loud music was pumping out into the street and, mingled with the inevitable cawing of the gulls, it made for an almighty din. People looking like large scary black crows stood in the doorway smoking and drinking.

Inside, the bar was heaving with queues three deep, a lot of the women looking very similar to Morgan Bloom. But Mum, having changed into a short black dress over which she still wore her furry leopard print jacket, pushed her way to the front and quickly ordered. “Two glasses of red wine please, and make them large ones.” I’d tried to dissuade her from accompanying me, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “A daughter of mine going out to the pubs on her own? You must be joking!”

“But I’m meeting friends, Mum.”

The answer was still a definite no, and a “What sort of mother would I be if I didn’t want to meet your new friends from work?”

Hands waving in the air alerted me to Milly, Layla, and Pat, who were sitting at a table with Norman, Pete Horner, and even Lily Makepeace who, joining in the Goth type fun, wore a long black cape and red lipstick that she’d purposely let bleed a little at the corners of her mouth so it resembled blood. Ah, Dracula and vampires! My heart beating hard, I searched the table for a Stetson hat and a loud checked overcoat, but unfortunately my boss, Richard Curtis, wasn’t there. Seriously, though, it was far better that he wasn’t. Being sworn off men was extremely difficult when he was around. I noticed the pub was decorated for Halloween, all wispy cobwebs in the corners and along the bar, and creepy plastic spiders and furry bats. Ugh!

“Gordon Bennett, it’s Chrissie Lewis,” said Pete Horner, his sharp weasel face breaking into a grin, as he stood up and made a little mock bow. He was also dressed as something resembling Dracula in the whole ensemble of high collared cape lined in red silk, beneath which I caught a glimpse of a crimson waistcoat and black trousers, his hands encased in white gloves. “And who is this vision of loveliness that you’ve brought with you tonight?”

Before I could reply, Mum gave a loud braying laugh and said, “Zandra, pleased to meet you,” and held out a limp hand, which Pete grabbed hold of and began to shake heartily.

I cringed at her new name wondering what she’d do if I shouted out, “No, wait a minute. Her name’s Doreen.” That’d take the wind out of Pete Horner’s sails a bit, wouldn’t it?

“Well, I gotta say, what a doll.”

“She’s my mum,” I told him, as I sat down next to Milly and Layla, and nodded to Lily Makepeace and Norman. “Everybody, this is my mum, come to visit from Leeming.” They all raised their glasses and said hello, at the same time chinking against each other’s glasses with a resounding “Cheers.” Layla looked much the same as she did at work, and Milly looked much the same as Layla did at work. Norman, his attempt at Goth simply wearing blue jeans and a black top, the hood pulled over his head and most of his chin—to hide the acne?—sipped morosely at his pint.

Pete’s expression was one of shock. “Well, I don’t Adam and Eve it. Come sit next to me, Zandra, I wanna know all about you.”

I turned away then and began to make conversation with Milly, whilst Layla spoke to Lily Makepeace and the miserable looking Norman, still keeping an ear on Mum’s conversation.

“What’s your name then?” she asked as she plonked herself next to him where he sat in the corner.

“Pete,” he told her, and when she looked at him questioningly, “Pete Horner.”

“Oh yeah,” she said, nudging him hard in the ribs and, from the expression on his face, almost winding him. “Little Jack Horner, sat in a corner.” She gave another loud braying laugh before taking a big glug of wine.

“Is she really your mum?” asked Milly, whispering right in my ear.

“Yes. Why?”

“She’s a one, isn’t she?”

I nodded. “Yeah, you could say that. She’s all right though.”

“You from London?” I heard Pete ask her.

“Ooh no, from Hampshire originally, but I’ve lived up here in the North for years.”

“Got a pot and pan, have ya?”

“You what?”

“Pot and pan—old man?”

“Oh. I see what you mean! Thought you meant in me kitchen cupboard.” Another great bout of braying donkey like laughter spouted from both of them as they moved even closer, thigh touching thigh, on the old worn seating.

Norman suddenly got up, clutching his empty pint glass. When he was far enough away, queuing at the bar, Milly, glancing over her shoulder first, turned to me and said, “What was wrong the other day, Chrissie, in the office? From the look on your face, I gather that you might have seen something in the safe room.” When I didn’t answer straight away, she pleaded, “Come on, Chrissie, you can tell us.” By now Lily Makepeace, Pat, and Layla were in on the conversation. “Did you see Norman take something from the petty cash tin?”

“I think I did,” I whispered, and then cringed as a song by The Cure suddenly blared out from the speaker above me and a group of Goth girls standing at the bar screamed, “Aaah! Robert Smith, I love him!”

“Yeah, we’ve all seen it, but we’ve got no proof.”

“Take a picture on your phone or a film if you see anything again,” said Lily in her tiny bird like twitter. “God knows, as his boss I’ve tried to speak to him, but he just won’t respond. Just keeps saying, “No comment, no comment,” just like you see in the films.”

“Yeah,” put in Layla. “He can’t keep getting away with it. We didn’t even have enough money saved up for tonight, so God knows how much we’ll have for our Christmas do.”

“Whoa,” said Milly suddenly, catching me in the ribs with her elbow. “Look who we’ve got here!” before giving me a knowing nod.

I turned around just in time to see a Stetson hat bobbing along in the crowd like the snout of a dolphin moving through water. Then, not the loud checked overcoat as I expected, but a black Gothic vampire jacket with a silver bats wing collar over snug black trousers, and a black frilly shirt open at the neck, so his chest hair was clearly visible. Everybody turned to stare as he threaded his way through the tight knit throng to our table. Norman came back from the bar with his pint and, sitting down, gazed at Richard Curtis as if he was an apparition.

“Hey there.” Richard nodded and, bending closer to me, said, “Hi there, Chrissie.”

My heart was beating so hard I was afraid it would jump out of my throat and land, a pulsating lump, on the table between us. And what would everybody say to that? I gave a shaky nod and said quietly, “Hello, Rick.”

“Hey, if it ain’t Mr. Tex and his sex-o-lets,” said Pete Horner in a silly sing song voice. “I like your whistle and flute.”

Rick frowned and shook his head slightly. “Whistle and what?”

“Whistle and flute—your suit.”

“Oh gee thanks, Pete. Hey, you’ll have to teach me some of that old rhyming slang.”

“Good God,” I heard Mum say as we all gazed at my boss, hanging on to every word between him and Pete Horner, a total vision of loveliness. “What’s this then—Mills & Boon? You look exactly like a hero from a romantic novel. High cheekbones, sexy green eyes, the lot.” All of this followed by the loud braying laugh.

“Well, thank you, ma’am. I’ll take that as a compliment.” I noticed that his face colored as he gave a slight nod of his head.

“My mum, Zandra,” I said, having to say her new name almost choking me.

“Mighty pleased to meet you, Zandra,” he said. “Okay, drinks all round.” He gave a great wide grin showing all his lovely white teeth, and then, with a wink in my direction, turned around and went to the bar.

“Good God,” said Mum again, peering around Layla, her eyes as round as saucers. “Who’s that, Chrissie?”

“It’s my boss, Mum,” I told her.

“What, Mr. Wigglesworth?” she said slyly, glancing sidelong under her lashes. “Well, I didn’t expect him to look like that—and I bet you didn’t either.”

Everybody, even the miserable Norman, burst into hysterical laughter whilst I gave what must have passed for a watery grin and shook my head in despair.

“It’s complicated, Mum,” I said. “Mr. Wigglesworth was called away just as I started the job, and Mr. Curtis kindly stepped in—”

“Mr. Tex, you mean,” said Pete Horner quietly, giving Mum a sideways grin.

“He’s only going to be here for six months,” I said. “Then he’ll go back to Arizona.” Loud pulsing music echoed around, making me shout.

“Arizona?” said Mum shrilly. “Don’t let him go back there, Chrissie. If I was you, I’d dig my claws in and keep him right beside me. He’s too much of a dish to end up alone in Arizona!”

Pete Horner butted in again. “Who said he’s gonna be alone, eh, Zandra?” He nudged Mum hard with his elbow. “Girl in every port, I bet.” Once again the loud braying laughter erupted as they shifted even closer, their thighs rubbing against each other, so close Mum was almost sitting on his lap.

A hot wave of annoyance flared up in me and, with the whole table watching and listening intently, I said icily, “I’m not the type to dig my claws in, Mum. And, as I’ve already explained, Mr. Curtis is my boss and only my boss. Is that clear?”

“Okay, love,” said Mum good naturedly. “Keep your hair on. Only having a laugh, aren’t we, Pete?” She took a sip of her drink as the two of them exchanged glances and yet more braying laughter. “You’ve just got to forget all about that two-timing rogue back home, and open yourself to something new.”

Questioning eyes turned to me at the words “two-timing rogue back home,” just as a tray of drinks landed on the table, glasses rattling noisily against each other. Glancing up, I met the sea green gaze of my boss, Richard Curtis, who, after squeezing my shoulder with his large warm hand, sat down next to me and, picking up his foaming pint glass, raised it high and said, “Well, cheers everybody. Here’s to letting go of the past and something new for us all!”

“Cheers,” said everybody, holding their glasses in the air and clinking them against each other’s, even staggering to their feet as if Richard Curtis was King Henry the Eighth himself. I gave him a grateful glance and he smiled back, giving me a sexy wink that sent shivers hurtling down my spine. I felt weak and watery as a pint of bad beer. All the signs were there. All the cracks in the armor I’d so carefully built around me were appearing slowly but surely, and I definitely didn’t need Mum to tell me to “forget about that two-timing rogue back home and open yourself to something new,” because I think I already had.

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