Happily Ever After...

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Polite, cool, collected. Of course she was, just as she always was.

Clara was playing her part to perfection. His house, his life were seamlessly run by her employees while she stepped into her role as his girlfriend with grace. His employees liked her, she had charmed every business associate he had introduced her to and even his grandfather was showing signs of thawing.

But as soon as they were alone she retreated behind a shield of courtesy and efficiency. A shield he made no attempt to push aside.

It was better that way even if he did keep getting flashbacks of hot kisses, silky skin and fevered moans. After all, he usually kept his relationships short and sweet, superficial. Just not usually this short.

Or this sweet.

‘I think we’ve shown our faces long enough if you want to leave.’ Raff liked music as much as the next man but the benefit for ill and destitute musicians was a little out of his comfort zone. ‘Unless, of course, you’re enjoying it.’

The corners of her mouth tilted up, as close as she had got to a genuine smile in weeks. ‘The violinist sounds just like Summer when she’s practising,’ she whispered, her breath sweet on his cheek. ‘I had no idea I was raising a musical genius.’

‘He sounds like Mr Simpkins when I’ve forgotten his evening fish,’ Raff retorted. ‘I think they’re trying to extort money from us with menaces. Pay up or the music continues.’

‘The percussionists were good and the harpist wasn’t too bad...’ She broke off, biting her lip, laughter lurking in her eyes.

‘Until she started singing.’ Raff glared over at the harp. ‘If she isn’t some sort of banshee then that voice was genetically engineered for warfare. There’s no way those howls could be natural.’

‘Come on.’ Clara placed her hand upon his arm, just as she had done at every party, every dinner, every benefit over the last few weeks. His blood began to heat up until he was surprised his sleeve didn’t burst into flames, but he didn’t betray his discomfort by a single twinge.

‘Only if you want,’ he demurred. ‘There’s still the Cymbal Concerto to go. I’d hate for you to miss out.’

‘So considerate.’ She might look as if she were wafting along on his arm but her hand was inexorably steering him towards the open doors. ‘Successful night?’

‘When it was quiet enough to hear myself speak. Polly must be exhausted, spending her free time at these things.’ Raff routinely worked twelve-, fourteen-hour days out in the field but give him those any day over his sister’s routine of office by day, business socialising by night. ‘I would give anything for a quiet night in The Swan.’

‘Me too. You know, I thought my life was in danger of getting into a rut.’ Clara breathed in a deep sigh as they left through the double doors that led from the ornate banqueting hall into the equally ornate but much quieter and cooler vestibule. ‘But after several weeks of social events I am yearning for my sofa, a film and something really plain to eat. A jacket potato, salad, a piece of grilled chicken.’

‘That sounds amazing.’ It really did. Canapés and fancy dinners had lost any novelty after just a few days. ‘Can I join you?’

It was supposed to be a joke but he made the mistake of looking directly at her; their gazes snagged, held and colour rose over the high cheekbones. ‘It would be a rom-com,’ she warned him, looking away, her voice light.

‘My favourite.’ Right then he almost meant it; a night lazing on a sofa, something undemanding on the TV, sounded like paradise. But he could feel the phone in his pocket almost physically weighting him down stuffed as it was with commitments and appointments and functions, all as serious and important and necessary as tonight’s. ‘I might have a spare evening in, oh, about three weeks.’

Rafferty’s had to be represented, had to be seen to be there. This was where business was discussed, decided, where deals were struck. Under the sparkling lights, a glass of something expensive in one hand, a canapé in the other.

‘Actually...’ Clara sounded almost shy, tentative, completely unlike her usual assertive self ‘...I wondered if you were free tomorrow morning?’

‘On a Sunday?’ Raff didn’t even try to hide his shock. Apart from that very first week, Clara had kept Sundays sacrosanct. They were her family day, a day she was very firmly off duty.

Did that mean her daughter would be there? Raff rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a little warm. Just because he and Clara had shared a moment didn’t mean he was ready to play at happy families. Especially as that particular moment had been well and truly brushed under the carpet.

And although there were times when he wished it hadn’t been quite so rigorously filed under ‘let’s never mention this again’, this was a stark reminder why it had to be.

Families, children, commitment. All very nice in principle, but tying. Even more weighty than the phone.

‘I know we don’t usually work on a Sunday.’ She made the statement sound like a question and Raff shrugged non-committally.

It was chilly outside, cold enough for Clara to pull her wrap around her shoulders as they exited the building and began to make their way down the wide stone steps into the brightness of a London night. If the stars were out Raff couldn’t see them, the streetlamps and neon signs colluding to hide the night sky from the city dwellers.

He had arranged to meet their driver on the corner of the street and steered Clara along the cobbled pavement, waiting for the inevitable comment about how much her feet hurt.

It didn’t come. ‘I have an appointment,’ she said instead, looking down at the uneven cobbles. ‘I wondered if you would come with me. You said, a few weeks ago...’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Yes.’ He frowned as he remembered. ‘Of course.’ He had said he would attend a meeting with her. Only, that was before.

People must be talking about them, about the amount of time they were spending together, about the way he picked her up almost nightly in a chauffeur-driven car—maybe it was his turn to act the graceful escort. Only, it seemed worse somehow. Her family were so close, it felt deceitful.

The thought of getting to know her family, of possibly being accepted by them, twisted his stomach. What if he liked them? Or God forbid felt at home?

‘It was the only day they offered me.’ She finally looked up, her face pale, her features standing out starkly from the almost unnatural pallor of her skin.

‘They?’

She took a deep breath, her body almost shaking. ‘Summer’s father isn’t involved. It’s his choice. I really tried.’ Raff had to take a deep breath of his own to dampen down a sudden, shocking anger. How could anyone have left her to raise a child on her own?

‘I send him photos, videos, school reports, tried to get him to Skype with her. He’s never been that interested. But a few weeks ago, the day you asked me to help you out, he emailed.’

‘He wants to see you tomorrow.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘He’s here with his father. They have money—’ She came to an abrupt stop, her throat working.

‘So do I.’

She gave him a tiny smile but he wasn’t joking. They wanted to play powerful and well connected? He was brought up to play that game.

‘Byron’s father thought that I, well, it doesn’t matter now, but we don’t have the best relationship.’ She twisted her bangle round. ‘I wanted to be strong enough to do it alone.’

Raff’s heart squeezed, painfully. It couldn’t be easy for her to ask for help. ‘Is Summer going?’

She shook her head. ‘They don’t want her there.’

‘Of course I’ll be there.’ It was just returning a favour, right? The cold, still anger that consumed him when he saw the stricken look in her eyes, heard her voice shake, watched her search for words no mother should have to say had nothing to do with his decision. It was just a favour. No big deal.

‘I’ve been dreading this,’ she confessed, the shadows under her eyes making them look even bigger than usual. ‘All I’ve ever wanted is for Byron to be part of Summer’s life. And now he’s finally here, in London, just an hour away from her, I’m terrified.’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘I don’t know why. I should be stronger than this.’

Raff stopped and turned her around to face him, tilting her chin up, making her look at him, see the truth of his words. ‘Clara, you are incredible. You raise Summer alone, you run a business, half of Hopeford relies on you one way or another. You are the strongest woman I know.’

She stared up at him, doubt in her eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’ He squeezed her shoulders, ignoring the urge to pull her in a little closer.

She exhaled. ‘Thank you, I appreciate it. I really do.’

Raff knew instinctively that it wasn’t easy for her to lean on him; he was honoured, of course, that she had asked him, had confessed her fears to him. It must have hurt her to show him the vulnerable side she kept so locked away. But it was terrifying as well. Physical intimacy was one thing, emotional intimacy, honesty, secrets? Another ballgame altogether.

But she’d been let down enough already. One morning, that was all she was asking. He was capable of that at least.

* * *

As they approached the hotel Clara’s demeanour subtly changed, as if she were going into battle. There was little outward sign of her stress although her grip tightened on his arm. Her face was utterly calm as if she were going to any business meeting, her hair had been ruthlessly tamed and coiled back in a neat bun, not one curly tendril allowed to fall about her face. It made her eyes look even bigger, emphasised the catlike curve of her cheek; Raff thought she looked vulnerable, a child playing dress up.

She had dressed for battle too, sleek and purposeful in a grey suit.

But Raff could feel the faint tremors running through her body. Her lips were colourless under her lip gloss.

The Drewes were staying at one of the most exclusive hotels in London, an old Georgian town house discreetly tucked away in a square in Marylebone. It was an interesting choice. Not overtly glitzy but it suggested old money, power and taste.

Raff was looking forward to this. He knew all about old money, power and taste. Bring it on.

Clara was all purpose now, marching up the stone steps and through the double doors, turning with no hesitation towards the hotel’s sunny dining room.

‘Clara.’ Both men rose to their feet; although they both wore smiles the brown eyes were alike—cold and assessing.

‘Byron, Mr Drewe.’ She shook hands in turn, strangely formal considering one of these men was the father of her child. ‘This is Raff.’ She didn’t qualify their relationship. Good girl, Raff thought, keep them guessing. ‘Raff, this is Byron and his father, Archibald Drewe.’

Raff reached over to shake hands in his turn, unable to resist making his own handshake as strong and powerful as he could. So this was Summer’s father, this tall, handsome man, whose smile didn’t reach his eyes and who wore his privilege with ease.

‘Please, sit down.’ The elder Drewe looked very similar to his son, the dark hair almost fully grey and the tanned face more wrinkled but with a steely determination behind the affable façade.

Raff pulled out Clara’s chair for her, a statement of intent.

‘It’s been a while,’ she said to Byron. ‘You’ve cut your hair.’

‘You look great.’ The other man was looking at her with open admiration. ‘Haven’t changed a bit even if you have changed the sarong for a suit.’

He had seen Clara in a sarong. The hot jealousy that burned through Raff at Byron Drewe’s words shocked him. Of course he had seen Clara in a sarong—and a lot less too. He was her ex-lover, the father of her child. At some point Clara had been enamoured enough with this guy to have a baby with him.

And at some point he had allowed her to come home, alone. To raise their child alone.

The jealousy ebbed away, replaced with cold dislike and even colder contempt. ‘I am trying to persuade her to link her business with mine. But you know Clara.’ He smiled at her. ‘She has to be in control. Even a name like Rafferty’s doesn’t reassure her!’

‘Rafferty’s?’ The older man’s eyes were now assessing Raff. ‘Impressive.’

The contempt deepened. Now they knew who he was his stock had gone up. Raff hated that.

‘What do you do now, Clara?’ Should Byron Drewe be smiling at her in that intimate way? Raff allowed himself a brief, self-indulgent fantasy of leaning across the table and planting one perfect punch on that perfect nose.

‘I run a concierge service.’

‘Half of Hopeford couldn’t manage without her, including me,’ Raff said.

‘How interesting.’ The older Mr Drewe couldn’t sound less interested. Maybe it was his nose that Raff should fantasise about punching.

‘It keeps me busy.’ If Clara had heard the snub she wasn’t reacting. ‘And it’s thriving. Between work and Summer I don’t have much free time.’

Raff bit back a smile as he mentally applauded. Nicely done, Clara. Remind them why we’re here, ignore their put-downs and make sure they realise you’re doing them a favour.

She didn’t need him to step in at all. He might as well help himself to the coffee and sit back and enjoy the show.

‘And how is Summer?’

Surely Summer’s own grandfather shouldn’t pronounce her name in that slightly doubtful way, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was right.

Or maybe he just didn’t like the name. Clara could scrape her hair back and put on a suit but she knew full well that Archibald Drewe still thought of her a teenage hippy with long hair, tie-dye dresses and a happy-go-lucky attitude who had named her daughter accordingly.

She had been that girl once, but it was a long time ago.

‘She’s good.’ Clara pulled out her tablet. ‘I have pictures.’

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’

Time stopped for a long moment, the blood freezing in her veins. How could he dismiss her daughter, his own flesh and blood, in that cold, cavalier way?

‘She has your hair, your eyes.’ She looked directly at Byron, willing him to stand up for her, for his daughter, for once in his pampered life. ‘If you ever look at the pictures I send you you’ll know that.’

‘I look.’ He had the grace to sound ashamed. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘She is, but she is also smart and kind and very funny. You’d like her.’

He shifted in his seat, evidently uncomfortable. Beside her Raff was leaning back, ostensibly totally at his ease, sipping a cup of coffee. But the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw told her that he was utterly alert, following every word, every intonation.

Every put-down.

Her hands tightened on her cup; it had been like a game of chicken, leaving asking him along to the last possible moment, kidding herself that she might be able to do this alone. Afraid that his presence might make the whole, nasty situation even more humiliating. She’d thought she’d be ashamed, for him to see this side of her. The dismissed, ‘unwanted single mother’ side. But having him next to her filled her with the strength she needed to battle on. After all, he had his demons too.

She reached over and laid her hand on his forearm, squeezing very slightly, letting his warmth fill her as she lifted her head and stared evenly at her daughter’s father.