Read Online All That Mullarkey by Sue Moorcroft - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sue Moorcroft
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day, chattering, stowing pens, calling cheerio, fishing out car keys. Cleo responded brightly, flashing her best smile. ‘Thanks for attending! I hope you enjoyed your day.’ Collapsing her flip chart, binning pages covered with coloured headings and emphatic arrows.
At last the door shut and she halted, sagging against a table. Her professional smile flicked off. Slowly, she rubbed her temples. Bastard Justin. Backing her so publicly into a corner, making her heart pump as she broke out into a sickening all-over sweat. Bastard.
‘It was meant to be funny. And then I realised it wasn’t.’ His voice, from the doorway, startled her upright.
She wanted to turn to him coolly, arch an eyebrow and say, ‘Oh that ? Don’t worry, I can handle your pranks.’ But a ball had jumped into her throat and her eyes burned. She pushed her finger and thumb against her eyelids to stop the tears from spilling over.
His footsteps rustled over the nylon carpet tiles. The table moved as he perched beside her, his arm sliding around her shoulders. ‘Sorry.’ One arm became both and he pulled her against him, his cheek hot against her hair.
And when her breathing evened, when she had fought the silly tears and won, he tightened the hug momentarily, kissed the top of her head, and left.
The motorway was Friday-evening hell. Lorries and coaches lumbered nose to tail in the inner lanes and the outside lane was infested with headlight-flashing maniacs. By the time she reached her in-laws’ pebble-dashed home, Cleo had developed a pounding headache.
It went with the pain in the neck when Yvonne opened the door, beaming. ‘Hello – I’m just leaving!’
Cleo waited for her sister-in-law to step back and allow her into the house. ‘Not just because I’m here, I hope?’
Giggle. ‘’Course not! Oh, I’m stopping you getting in, aren’t I?’ Giggle. ‘Gav and Mum are at the hospital. I’ll get you a cup of tea before I go.’ Yvonne checked her watch.
‘No thanks, it’ll hold you up.’
‘Won’t take a minute.’
Yvonne could never resist trying to make Cleo the guest. She bustled importantly towards the kitchen. Instead of following, Cleo strode upstairs, calling, ‘I’ll make one when I’m ready.’
The guest room was scattered with Gav’s stuff. Shirts on hangers hung from the picture rail; his bag stood on the dressing table with jogging pants hanging half out – probably Pauline would allow no one else in the world to stand a sports bag on that beautifully polished surface – and an electric razor sat on top of a Bernard Cornwell paperback on the bedside table.
Cleo stepped out of her skirt, shrugged off her jacket and slotted the hanger into the otherwise empty wardrobe, balling her blouse back into the bag for washing. A bath would be nice but other people’s hot water arrangements were delicate; one unscheduled bath might sabotage the household routine. Maybe she’d wait and ask Pauline. She sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Yvonne, who’d find a way to say no, subjecting her to an earnest, apologetic explanation of the timer and the cylinder capacity.
It would’ve been far better, she realised belatedly, if she’d showered and changed at home rather than coming straight from the office. Gav and Pauline would have been home and Yvonne wouldn’t.
But a wash and a change of knickers would have to do for the moment.
‘Here’s your tea … Oops!’
‘Don’t bother to knock.’ Cleo, knickers in hand, raised both eyebrows at Yvonne with her best ‘You’re a total arse’ look.
Blushing, Yvonne cast about for somewhere to deposit the steaming mug. ‘But I did shout!’ she protested. ‘Your tea was getting cold.’
‘And now my bum is.’ Cleo stepped into clean undies and unfolded her jeans.
‘Anyway’ – Yvonne studied the doorknob as Cleo dressed – ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with Gav.’
Armed with a clean T-shirt and her sponge bag, Cleo waited.
Yvonne shot her a
At last the door shut and she halted, sagging against a table. Her professional smile flicked off. Slowly, she rubbed her temples. Bastard Justin. Backing her so publicly into a corner, making her heart pump as she broke out into a sickening all-over sweat. Bastard.
‘It was meant to be funny. And then I realised it wasn’t.’ His voice, from the doorway, startled her upright.
She wanted to turn to him coolly, arch an eyebrow and say, ‘Oh that ? Don’t worry, I can handle your pranks.’ But a ball had jumped into her throat and her eyes burned. She pushed her finger and thumb against her eyelids to stop the tears from spilling over.
His footsteps rustled over the nylon carpet tiles. The table moved as he perched beside her, his arm sliding around her shoulders. ‘Sorry.’ One arm became both and he pulled her against him, his cheek hot against her hair.
And when her breathing evened, when she had fought the silly tears and won, he tightened the hug momentarily, kissed the top of her head, and left.
The motorway was Friday-evening hell. Lorries and coaches lumbered nose to tail in the inner lanes and the outside lane was infested with headlight-flashing maniacs. By the time she reached her in-laws’ pebble-dashed home, Cleo had developed a pounding headache.
It went with the pain in the neck when Yvonne opened the door, beaming. ‘Hello – I’m just leaving!’
Cleo waited for her sister-in-law to step back and allow her into the house. ‘Not just because I’m here, I hope?’
Giggle. ‘’Course not! Oh, I’m stopping you getting in, aren’t I?’ Giggle. ‘Gav and Mum are at the hospital. I’ll get you a cup of tea before I go.’ Yvonne checked her watch.
‘No thanks, it’ll hold you up.’
‘Won’t take a minute.’
Yvonne could never resist trying to make Cleo the guest. She bustled importantly towards the kitchen. Instead of following, Cleo strode upstairs, calling, ‘I’ll make one when I’m ready.’
The guest room was scattered with Gav’s stuff. Shirts on hangers hung from the picture rail; his bag stood on the dressing table with jogging pants hanging half out – probably Pauline would allow no one else in the world to stand a sports bag on that beautifully polished surface – and an electric razor sat on top of a Bernard Cornwell paperback on the bedside table.
Cleo stepped out of her skirt, shrugged off her jacket and slotted the hanger into the otherwise empty wardrobe, balling her blouse back into the bag for washing. A bath would be nice but other people’s hot water arrangements were delicate; one unscheduled bath might sabotage the household routine. Maybe she’d wait and ask Pauline. She sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Yvonne, who’d find a way to say no, subjecting her to an earnest, apologetic explanation of the timer and the cylinder capacity.
It would’ve been far better, she realised belatedly, if she’d showered and changed at home rather than coming straight from the office. Gav and Pauline would have been home and Yvonne wouldn’t.
But a wash and a change of knickers would have to do for the moment.
‘Here’s your tea … Oops!’
‘Don’t bother to knock.’ Cleo, knickers in hand, raised both eyebrows at Yvonne with her best ‘You’re a total arse’ look.
Blushing, Yvonne cast about for somewhere to deposit the steaming mug. ‘But I did shout!’ she protested. ‘Your tea was getting cold.’
‘And now my bum is.’ Cleo stepped into clean undies and unfolded her jeans.
‘Anyway’ – Yvonne studied the doorknob as Cleo dressed – ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with Gav.’
Armed with a clean T-shirt and her sponge bag, Cleo waited.
Yvonne shot her a
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