Forty Things To Do Before You're Forty

As a babbling Sophie led him over the lawn towards the gatehouse, with Pip licking every square centimetre of his face, Jake bit back a smile. This was like a comedy sketch – with Annie playing the lead role. He stifled a gurgle of laughter as he recalled how funny she’d looked in that helmet, brandishing the sword. By the colour of her cheeks, she’d obviously been mortified by the incident. And was no doubt desperate to get away from him. But how could he have refused little Sophie? Not only was the child leading him, quite authoritatively, by the elbow, but she was also completely adorable: the image of her mother with her riot of honey-blonde curls and sparkling emerald-green eyes. Still, it really wasn’t fair of him. He risked a look at Annie over his shoulder. She trailed miserably behind, staring at the ground. He felt a niggle of guilt that he’d lied to her about his surname. He hadn’t intended to. It had been a knee-jerk reaction by his self-preservation instinct, ever wary of the transparency of the internet. Oh well, he mused, as he swung his head back around and Pip stuck his tongue in his ear, it didn’t really matter. So long as he wasn’t a burglar, Annie Richards probably didn’t give a monkey’s who he was. And it wasn’t as if he intended launching himself on village society. He would keep himself to himself. Which was exactly what he should be doing now. So, once at the cottage, he’d make some excuse and beat a hasty retreat.

Following Jake and her daughter across the lawn to the cottage, Annie tried desperately to keep her gaze on the ground and not let it wander to Jake’s rear, showcased perfectly in those low-slung blue jeans. What was wrong with her? She’d never been fixated with a man’s behind before. Heavens. Maybe Portia was right. Maybe she had been without a man in her bed for too long. She normally didn’t give sex a second thought these days. She was far too busy. And frankly, what was the point in thinking about it when she had no intention of engaging in it? So why, then, was she focusing on Jake Sinclair’s buttocks? She was tired, that could be the only explanation. She’d run five miles today. No mean feat and the longest she’d run in her entire life. No wonder she felt light-headed. And she was disorientated because her nerves had been on edge. She had, after all, been prepared to confront an armed burglar. Yes – that was it. She knew there must be a logical explanation somewhere for her illogical behaviour. It wasn’t Jake Sinclair who’d set her head spinning, her stomach churning and her nerves aflutter, it was a combination of the aforementioned external factors. So, now that she’d established that fact, why did she desperately hope she had no underwear drying about the place and that she’d tidied up? Because, she quickly reasoned, Jake Sinclair probably lived in some minimalist designer pad with hot and cold running champagne, gleaming stainless steel surfaces, and an army of uniformed cleaners. Well, tough. He would have to take her and Sophie as they came. And if he didn’t like the cottage, he need never visit it again. Come to think of it, it would be better if the place was a complete tip and he ran a mile. Because she really didn’t want the man in her house. Or any man in her house.

By the time Annie reached the cottage, she found Jake leaning against the kitchen bench, looking, just as she’d predicted, completely out of place. His presence seemed to fill the room, sucking out all the oxygen. Sophie was nowhere to be seen.

At a loss as to what to do, Annie hovered in the doorway. ‘Would, you, er, like a glass of wine? Or something?’ she asked, her attempt at a light-hearted tone failing miserably.

‘Um, no, I’m fine thanks.’

Annie stared at him for a few seconds. All his previous humour seemed to have evaporated and he sounded a little … subdued. There was a strange expression on his handsome face. One she couldn’t decipher. ‘I think I’ll have a cup of tea,’ she blurted out. ‘Would you like one?’

Jake gave a hesitant smile. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

‘And please can we have more melted chocolate for the strawberries,’ chipped in Sophie, breezing in from the living room, clutching another of her colouring-in books. ‘Mr Sinclair, you can sit here beside me.’ She climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs and patted the one alongside her.

Jake raised an apologetic eyebrow at Annie, before doing as Sophie bid. No sooner had he sat down, than Pip jumped onto his lap.

‘Are you a good colourer-innerer?’ asked Sophie, flicking through the book.

‘I don’t really know,’ confessed Jake. ‘It’s a long time since I did any colouring-in.’

‘Mum’s rubbish. Oh, look. You can do this one if you like.’ She pushed the book over to him. ‘And then I can give you a mark out of ten like my teacher does.’

Jake choked back a surge of laughter. ‘Okay then,’ he said, doing exactly as he was told.

Rooting through the tin of crayons, looking for just the right shade of blue, Jake decided he must be losing it. He had to be. Why else was he allowing himself to be bossed about by a five year old child? Albeit a delightful one. Five years ago he’d been renowned for his persuasion tactics, his implacability, his intransigence. When Jake had made a decision everyone had known it was final. So why was he now sitting in the kitchen of a woman who obviously didn’t want him there, with a dog that wouldn’t stop licking his face, having his colouring-in ability assessed? It was madness. He should go. He really should. He had writing to do. Lots of writing. And he was wasting precious time.

The trouble was, the moment he walked into this tiny, bright, sunny kitchen, an overwhelming surge of emotion had assaulted him. So overwhelming, it almost knocked him off his feet. Because this was exactly the sort of kitchen he’d grown up in; exactly the sort of kitchen he’d imagined sharing with Nina and their child. During the few seconds he’d been alone in the room, he’d drank in every detail: the smell – a delicious mix of currant buns, orange peel, strawberries and chocolate; the glass vase on the window sill crammed with freesias; the little pots of fresh herbs; the buttercup-yellow walls peppered with postcards, photographs and Sophie’s paintings; and the small round spice cake with the words Happy Birthday George expertly iced on top. Jake didn’t know why, but his mood had dipped slightly when he’d read those words. Which was ludicrous. Why should it matter that Annie Richards had a man in her life? She might be gorgeous, have an adorable daughter, and be a very conscientious caretaker. But that didn’t mean he was interested in her. His interest in the fairer sex had died with Nina. His life – and his heart – were now, thanks to the impenetrable barriers he had spent the last five years constructing around them, definite no-go areas. No, he was only taking a neighbourly interest, he assured himself. And once he finished colouring in this picture, he would go back to the manor and carry on with his writing. Assuming, of course, Sophie allowed him to.

Annie set down the mug of tea on the table in front of Jake and slid the milk jug over to him. He looked up and smiled, causing her stomach to somersault and the colour in her cheeks to intensify. Honestly. Never, in all her thirty-five years, had she felt so awkward and embarrassed. Jake Sinclair was a friend of Jasper’s and, like Jasper, probably spent his life jetting around the world mingling with supermodels and starlets, and dining in Michelin starred restaurants. The last place he would want to be would be her tiny kitchen colouring in a picture of a donkey in a straw hat, and drinking a cup of tea. And, more importantly, she didn’t want a man like Jake Sinclair in her kitchen drinking tea. Or drinking anything. She really must have a word with her daughter about inviting strange men back to the house.

Leaning against the kitchen bench, cradling her mug, it occurred to Annie how few men had actually sat at her kitchen table. Lance certainly never had. She and Sophie always travelled to London to meet him during his fleeting visits to the UK. He was, so he claimed, far too busy to make the journey to Yorkshire. Which suited Annie. She didn’t want him here. This was her space, hers and Sophie’s, and she intended to keep it that way. She sucked in a deep calming breath, attempting to banish the panic that rose at the mere notion of male intrusion into their lives. But she was being absurd. Jake Sinclair was only colouring in a picture. And when he finished, he would return to the manor and that would be that.

‘Look, Mum,’ said Sophie, holding up Jake’s finished article. ‘Mr Sinclair is a very good colourer-innerer. I’m going to give him nine out of ten.’

‘Wow, nine out of ten.’ Annie pushed aside her detailed analysis and raised an astonished eyebrow at Jake. ‘You’ve done well. The most I’ve been awarded is an eight. And that was only once.’

‘Must be one of my hidden talents,’ chuckled Jake, reaching for his mug.

As Annie watched him sip his tea, her skin tingled at the thought of what other talents might lie within Jake Sinclair’s portfolio; ones that involved that gorgeous mouth brushing against her-

‘This is a lovely cottage,’ he remarked, leaning back in his chair. ‘Have you lived here long?’

Clattering back to the here and now, it took Annie a few seconds to dismiss all inappropriate thoughts and compile her answer. ‘Five years,’ she eventually replied. As long as we’ve lived in Buttersley.’

‘Mum used to live in London,’ chipped in Sophie, not looking up from her colouring-in. ‘That’s the capital of England and I was born there.’

‘Really?’ Jake’s lips twitched with suppressed laughter. ‘I think all the best people must be born in London.’

Sophie looked up at him. ‘Were you born there?’

He nodded. ‘I was. Many many years ago.’

Sophie went back to her colouring-in. ‘Mum’s old, too. But she used to work in a museum with even older things.’

Annie caught her bottom lip between her teeth and gave a despairing shake of the head. ‘I’m sure Mr Sinclair isn’t remotely interested in what I used to do.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ countered Jake, fixing her with those gorgeous dark eyes. ‘Really. Where was this museum of yours?’

Annie sucked in a deep breath. It felt like she was divulging her entire life story to someone she had only known a few minutes. Not something she was particularly comfortable with. ‘Hampton Court,’ she replied at length. ‘I used to be a conservator, specialising in historic interiors.’

Jake’s eyes grew wide. ‘Impressive. But you don’t do that now?’

Still leaning against the bench, Annie shuffled her feet awkwardly. ‘No. Things … changed … when Sophie came along. So we moved here.’

‘Mum has a cake shop in the village,’ Sophie informed him. ‘She makes lots of yummy things. And on Fridays she bakes cakes for my class and I take them to school in a big basket.’

‘Well, that’s very generous of her,’ said Jake, throwing Annie a look she couldn’t quite decipher.

Right. That was enough, Annie decided. If they carried on at this rate, the man would soon know her weight, as well as her shoe size. She glanced at the kitchen clock and was relieved to see that it was a little after eight. ‘Okay,’ she said, plonking down her mug on the bench behind her. ‘That’s enough colouring-in now. It’s time for you to go to bed.’

‘Oh, but do I have to?’ Sophie crossed her arms on the table and dropped her head onto them.

‘I’m afraid so. Say goodnight to Mr Sinclair. Then upstairs.’

Muttering all the while, a reluctant Sophie bade Jake goodnight, tickled Pip under the chin and disappeared up the stairs.

‘I’ll have to make sure she brushes her teeth,’ said Annie, battling the urge to run up the stairs after her daughter and put some space between her and this man who was having the most unsettling effect on her.

‘Of course.’ Jake picked up Pip from his lap and placed him gently on the floor. ‘I’d better get going. Thanks for the tea and the, er, colouring-in.’

‘No problem. I’ll, um see you around.’

‘No doubt.’

Jake rose to his feet, his impressive height and width seeming to fill the room. It was more than Annie could bear. Not waiting to see him out, she flew up the stairs as fast as her aching legs would carry her.

It took all of five minutes and three pages of The Fantastic Mr Fox before Sophie fell asleep. Clearly, entertaining strange men had worn the child out. Hopefully she’d learned her lesson, thought Annie as she made her way down the stairs. She, too, was exhausted. No doubt as a result of the roller coaster of emotions her body had been subjected to during the last hour or so, all of which she could attribute to the newly-arrived Jake Sinclair. Thank goodness he had gone now. She would tidy up, then sit in the garden and read for an hour before heading up to-

‘Ah!’ Annie jumped as she entered the kitchen. Because there, still sitting in his chair at the table, was Jake Sinclair – with a very smug-looking Pip on his lap.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he grimaced. ‘I’ve been trying to leave but Pip has other ideas. Look.’ He set the dog down on the floor, rose to his feet and took a step towards the door. In a flash, Pip was in the doorway making a strange throaty sound which sounded suspiciously like a growl.

Annie’s mortification returned – tenfold. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ she blustered, marching over to the mutt and scooping him up. ‘He’s never done that before.’

‘Maybe he hasn’t quite grasped the guard dog concept yet,’ chuckled Jake.

‘Maybe,’ muttered Annie, burning with embarrassment. Honestly, what must he think of them all? First she waved a sword in his face like some kind of deranged Power Ranger, then her five year old daughter railroaded him into their house and now their psychotic Jack Russell wouldn’t let him out.

‘Well, I’ll definitely be going now then.’

‘Of course,’ mumbled Annie, still standing in the open doorway with Pip in her arms.

Jake came to a standstill directly in front of her. Annie’s heart began hammering wildly and her head started to spin.

‘Would you, um, mind if I squeezed past?’ he asked.

Annie hurtled back to reality. God! What was she doing? Standing in the doorway gawping at him, that was what. She opened her mouth to say something – anything. But her gaze locked on his and all words flew from her head. Stupefied, she watched as Jake raised his hand and gently brushed the pad of his thumb against her cheek. The slight roughness of his skin against hers caused red-hot desire to shoot down her spine, her breath to catch in her throat and her legs to weaken. Her eyes moved to his mouth. That wickedly sensual mouth she’d been fantasising about a few minutes before. At that precise moment she wanted nothing more than to feel it on hers. To-

‘Chocolate,’ he said softly, his eyes twinkling.

Chocolate? Annie furrowed her brow.

‘You had a smudge on your cheek.’

Of course she did. Just to complete the picture of her being a total idiot. ‘Right. Thanks,’ she mumbled, attempting to ignore the disappointment flooding her veins. What did she think he’d been going to? Kiss her? Okay, so maybe that idea had fleetingly skipped across her mind. Very fleetingly. But it was a ludicrous one. She didn’t want any man to kiss her – let alone one of Jasper’s playboy friends. So what, then, was happening to her? It could only be the running. Completing five miles had clearly affected her in a very strange way. Goodness only knows how she would behave after ten or thirteen. If she carried on at this rate, she would be locked up, a danger to the entire male species. Still, there was one way to minimise making a plank of herself again and that was to keep well out of Jake Sinclair’s way; a situation which he, too, would no doubt be happy about given that he probably thought her household on par with some kind of mental institution.

She stepped out of the doorway. ‘Goodnight,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could muster.

‘Night. And thanks again for the tea. I’ll, er, see you later.’

Annie managed a feeble smile in reply. Not if I see you first, she resolved.

‘Oh. My. God!’ In shocking-pink hot-pants and impossibly high heels, Lydia Pembleton almost toppled into Crumbs - Annie’s cake shop. ‘I have just had the most delicious mirage,’ she gushed, fanning her face with her hand. ‘And I say “mirage”, darling, because no man could possibly be that good-looking and be wandering around Buttersley unsupervised. Any idea who he is?’

Arranging limoncello cupcakes on a tiered stand in the window, Annie rolled her eyes. It did not require the services of a famous Belgian detective to know that Lydia must be referring to Jake Sinclair. She guessed his presence in the village would cause a stir – particularly amongst the single female brigade, over which Lydia reigned supreme.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she muttered disinterestedly. There was no way she was going to admit to Lydia that she’d already met Jake. To do so would be to subject herself to an interrogation of which any member of the secret service would be proud.

‘Well, I’m going to find out,’ resolved Lydia, tapping a long scarlet fingernail against her chin. ‘It’s a long time since a man’s had that effect on me, I can tell you. I wonder if it’s one of Mrs Coombes’s long lost relatives. Where did she say they were from again?’

‘Devon.’

‘Hmmm. He didn’t look very Devon-ish to me. He looked more … cosmopolitan. Like one of those really fit South African swimmers at the Olympics. I might go and bump into him – accidentally on purpose. Or do you think that’s a bit obvious?’

‘Possibly,’ sighed Annie. She really didn’t want to have this conversation. Or any conversation that involved Jake Sinclair. After the idiotic way she’d acted in front of him yesterday, she wanted to forget all about the man. And she had. She hadn’t given him a second thought until now. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Perhaps she’d given him a second one. And a third. But by the tenth, she’d wised up. That thought, and any subsequent ones, had been batted away with all the aplomb of a world-class cricketer.

‘I know,’ piped up Lydia, ‘I could sprain my ankle. Right in front of him. That wouldn’t be too obvious, would it? Not in these heels. Mind you, I wouldn’t want to damage them. They cost a fortune. Still, might be worth it for just one night with a man like that. I bet he can do things that would make a girl –’

‘Good morning.’

At the sound of Jake’s deep voice from the doorway, Annie’s heart sank. So, too, did the limoncello cupcake she’d been holding. As she whipped around to face him, the cake landed with a splat, right on top of her sandaled foot. Lydia appeared no less startled. For the first time in the five years she’d known her, Annie detected a slight flush under the woman’s lashings of fake tan. Like a true professional, though, Lydia slipped effortlessly into character.

‘Good morning to you too,’ she purred, her voice dropping several octaves and taking on a strange husky quality. ‘And isn’t it a glorious one?’

‘It is,’ agreed Jake. He turned to Annie. ‘Hello again. Sorry for interrupting but I couldn’t resist a look in. Your window display is far too tempting.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Annie, failing to quell the wave of pink stealing over her own cheeks, and desperately hoping he hadn’t noticed the squashed cake on her foot.

Jake strolled over to one of the cabinets which housed several large iced novelty cakes. ‘Wow. These are impressive. Very impressive.’ He turned to look at her, his mouth stretching into such a delicious smile that Annie’s insides dissolved to mush. Which was pathetic, she chided herself – on so many fronts. Firstly, the ability to make cakes was unlikely to impress any of Jasper’s friends, and secondly, whether he was impressed or not mattered little. She didn’t need Jake Sinclair’s approval. Using her skills and bags of initiative, she’d built up a very successful business over the last few years.

‘Have you made all of these?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Every one.’

‘Annie is our own little Nigella,’ tittered Lydia, whose presence Annie had almost forgotten. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your … friend, Annie?’ she asked archly.

‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ mumbled Annie. ‘Lydia, this is Jake Sinclair. Jake, this is Lydia –’

In a flash, Lydia’s teetering heels had her standing directly in front of Jake. ‘ – Pembleton.’ She extended an orange hand to him. ‘I used to be married to Darren Pembleton.’

Annie watched as Jake took Lydia’s hand and stared at her nonplussed. Due to the woman’s meaningful tone, the name was obviously meant to impress. By Jake’s baffled expression, it obviously didn’t. As if to confirm Annie’s suspicions, Jake cast her a questioning look.

‘Footballer,’ she mouthed.

He gave a subtle nod of gratitude.

‘When My Darren played for the Premier League I went to see one of his matches,’ continued Lydia, oblivious to Jake’s bewilderment. ‘I sat with all the other WAGs. Some of whom are very famous in their own right. Of course, I’m not one to name drop, but I’m sure you know precisely who I mean.’

‘Right,’ muttered Jake, evidently having no idea. ‘That must have been very … interesting.’

‘There was a picture of us on the front of the Daily Mirror,’ ploughed on Lydia, shaking back her straightened mane of overly-highlighted hair. ‘Not that I like to brag about it or anything.’

Jake raised his eyebrows to Annie.

‘So what are you doing in Buttersley?’ asked Lydia, still clutching his hand and running her tongue along her glossy bottom lip.

‘I’m staying at the manor for a few weeks. I’m an old friend of Jasper’s.’

Annie watched as Lydia’s perfectly made-up eyes grew wide. It was common knowledge that the woman’s unabashed and unrelenting attempts to wheedle her way into Jasper’s crowd always met with rejection.

‘How marvellous. Any friend of Jasper’s is a friend of mine.’ Her dazzling smile showcased two rows of ludicrously expensive dental work. ‘And if you’re staying a few weeks we’ll have to find something to occupy your time.’ She lowered her false lashes and shot him a knowing smile. ‘I’ve a few ideas already.’

As Jake extricated his hand from Lydia’s, Annie watched a cloud of something that looked suspiciously like horror settle over his handsome face. She wasn’t surprised. Lydia on a man-mission was more terrifying than a fortnight’s holiday in Gaza.

‘Now, is there anything you fancy in here?’ she asked, her voice dripping with innuendo. ‘Or should I take you around and introduce you to the other shopkeepers? Of course…’ she lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘… I much prefer shopping in Harrogate myself but I do consider it my duty as a celebrity to be seen supporting local businesses. Someone once asked for my autograph outside the greengrocer’s, you know.’

Annie bit her tongue. That had been a case of mistaken identity. The old guy thought Lydia was one of the breakfast TV weather presenters.

Lydia linked her arm through Jake’s and steered him towards the open door.

‘Look, it’s very kind, but there’s no need. Honestly,’ he protested. ‘I’m perfectly capable of – ’

‘Let me show you what a friendly bunch we are here. Although, of course, some of us are friendlier than others,’ she chortled.

As they disappeared through the doorway, Annie released a long sigh of relief. Thank goodness he’d gone. She was far too busy for a distraction like Jake Sinclair today. She only hoped Lydia was kind to him. Even a man like Jake would be risking it walking into Lydia’s lair. Not that Annie cared. It made no difference to her what Jake got up to with Lydia. None at all. She was just thankful that he hadn’t noticed the squashed cake on the top of her foot. Now that really would have been embarrassing.

CHAPTER FOUR

Three hours later, Jake arrived back at the manor completely exhausted. He could hardly believe what he’d just experienced. In fact, the idea even crossed his mind that he’d been set up. That there might be hidden cameras dotted about the village monitoring his every move because this couldn’t be normal village life. Could it? He’d always imagined Yorkshire villages to be quiet, sleepy places, populated by farmers and old ladies with lilac hair and tweed skirts, not the likes of Lydia Pembleton in shocking-pink hot-pants and silver stilettoes.