Read Online The Secret of Happy Ever After by Lucy Dillon - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucy Dillon
Ads: Link
award-winning web designer to take a look at it and refresh your internet trade?’
‘Fine,’ said Michelle. It was typical of Owen’s luck that ‘redesign website’ had been the third thing on her to-do list for the new year. ‘But you can’t stay here. The flat above the shop’s empty at the moment – you can stay there while I work out whether to rent it out again. I’ve got my new season’s stock in the main room, but there should be enough space for you.’
‘Is that the equivalent of getting the stable with the manger and the donkeys? The flat with the storage boxes?’
‘It’s better,’ said Michelle, pouring herself a cup of coffee. ‘It has seagrass, and an en-suite bathroom.’ She pushed a mug towards him with a warning look. ‘But if there are any virgin births, Owen . . .’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ he said, with a straight face.
Michelle had another look into Quentin’s bookshop when she drove Owen round to the flat, and as soon as she got home, she started making phone calls.
Two days later, she was sitting in an empty office at Flint and Cook solicitors, dressed in her smartest suit, waiting to speak to the solicitor handling Cyril Quentin’s affairs.
Sitting, and waiting. Michelle hated being kept waiting, especially when she had a sale to run, one which inspired a queue of impatient bargain-hunters.
She was crossly inspecting a Victorian map of Longhampton (many tanneries, a jam factory, more pubs than churches) when someone coughed behind her, and she spun round.
A tall, floppy-haired man in a tweed jacket with a green round-neck jumper underneath – three things that set Michelle’s teeth on edge to begin with – was standing a bit too close to her.
Four things that set her teeth on edge.
‘Hello,’ he said, backing off a bit to extend a hand. His strawberry-blond fringe fell into his eyes and he pushed it back. ‘Rory Stirling.’
The handshake was firm and the accent was Scottish, which created two positives, but then Michelle spotted crumbs on his jumper, which knocked him down again. She couldn’t stand food debris. Beards made her want to heave.
‘Michelle Nightingale,’ she said. And, she added to herself, in semi-wonderment, how could a man reach the age of thirtysomething and not know that you wore a V-neck with a tie? ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, gesturing towards the chair opposite as he sat down at his cluttered desk. ‘It makes a change from drunk and disorderlies. And the usual rash of post-Christmas divorce consultations.’
‘Good to be busy,’ she said.
‘Oh, it gets busier after New Year,’ Rory replied darkly. ‘That’s when the real effects of a week with the in-laws kick in. Nearly always get a couple of wills rewritten, or people sneaking in to ask about conveyancing. And naturally it’s the people who don’t have happy families who get dragged in to deal with everyone else’s fall-outs. Anyway, enough of my festive joys . . .’
Normally Michelle would have sympathised with that sentiment, being used to staffing her shop single-handed while her assistants went off to parents’ meetings and birthday parties, but she was cold, and impatient.
‘I understand that you’re acting for Cyril Quentin,’ she said. ‘The bookshop on the high street?’
‘We are indeed.’
Rory moved some papers from one messy pile to another. Michelle hated a messy desk.
Rory caught her eyeing a dead plant on the top of his in-tray, and pointedly moved it, dropping it in the bin behind him without looking. ‘Have you spoken to Mr Quentin?’ he went on.
‘No, I noticed it was closed. I have the shop next door. Home Sweet Home, the interiors and homeware shop.’
‘Ah! Yes, of course. The knick-knack shop. So how can I help you, Ms . . . ?’ He patted the notes on his desk as if he were playing an invisible set of drums, then gave up when her details failed to spring up of their
‘Fine,’ said Michelle. It was typical of Owen’s luck that ‘redesign website’ had been the third thing on her to-do list for the new year. ‘But you can’t stay here. The flat above the shop’s empty at the moment – you can stay there while I work out whether to rent it out again. I’ve got my new season’s stock in the main room, but there should be enough space for you.’
‘Is that the equivalent of getting the stable with the manger and the donkeys? The flat with the storage boxes?’
‘It’s better,’ said Michelle, pouring herself a cup of coffee. ‘It has seagrass, and an en-suite bathroom.’ She pushed a mug towards him with a warning look. ‘But if there are any virgin births, Owen . . .’
‘I have no idea what you mean,’ he said, with a straight face.
Michelle had another look into Quentin’s bookshop when she drove Owen round to the flat, and as soon as she got home, she started making phone calls.
Two days later, she was sitting in an empty office at Flint and Cook solicitors, dressed in her smartest suit, waiting to speak to the solicitor handling Cyril Quentin’s affairs.
Sitting, and waiting. Michelle hated being kept waiting, especially when she had a sale to run, one which inspired a queue of impatient bargain-hunters.
She was crossly inspecting a Victorian map of Longhampton (many tanneries, a jam factory, more pubs than churches) when someone coughed behind her, and she spun round.
A tall, floppy-haired man in a tweed jacket with a green round-neck jumper underneath – three things that set Michelle’s teeth on edge to begin with – was standing a bit too close to her.
Four things that set her teeth on edge.
‘Hello,’ he said, backing off a bit to extend a hand. His strawberry-blond fringe fell into his eyes and he pushed it back. ‘Rory Stirling.’
The handshake was firm and the accent was Scottish, which created two positives, but then Michelle spotted crumbs on his jumper, which knocked him down again. She couldn’t stand food debris. Beards made her want to heave.
‘Michelle Nightingale,’ she said. And, she added to herself, in semi-wonderment, how could a man reach the age of thirtysomething and not know that you wore a V-neck with a tie? ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, gesturing towards the chair opposite as he sat down at his cluttered desk. ‘It makes a change from drunk and disorderlies. And the usual rash of post-Christmas divorce consultations.’
‘Good to be busy,’ she said.
‘Oh, it gets busier after New Year,’ Rory replied darkly. ‘That’s when the real effects of a week with the in-laws kick in. Nearly always get a couple of wills rewritten, or people sneaking in to ask about conveyancing. And naturally it’s the people who don’t have happy families who get dragged in to deal with everyone else’s fall-outs. Anyway, enough of my festive joys . . .’
Normally Michelle would have sympathised with that sentiment, being used to staffing her shop single-handed while her assistants went off to parents’ meetings and birthday parties, but she was cold, and impatient.
‘I understand that you’re acting for Cyril Quentin,’ she said. ‘The bookshop on the high street?’
‘We are indeed.’
Rory moved some papers from one messy pile to another. Michelle hated a messy desk.
Rory caught her eyeing a dead plant on the top of his in-tray, and pointedly moved it, dropping it in the bin behind him without looking. ‘Have you spoken to Mr Quentin?’ he went on.
‘No, I noticed it was closed. I have the shop next door. Home Sweet Home, the interiors and homeware shop.’
‘Ah! Yes, of course. The knick-knack shop. So how can I help you, Ms . . . ?’ He patted the notes on his desk as if he were playing an invisible set of drums, then gave up when her details failed to spring up of their
Similar Books
