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  The whole day stretched ahead. She should take herself off for a walk. Walking alone was a chance to clear her thoughts. When she returned she’d put her timetable for the week on the laptop and email it from her personal address to her business one. Next Saturday she was catering a wedding reception for 150. This was taking place in a marquee in the grounds of a stunning Regency house and preparations were well in hand.

  Later, she’d go into work and make more petits fours so they could dry, be painted with egg white and rested ready for packing in waxed paper. The wedding cake, three dark and delicious tiers already baked, was currently in the hands of an artisan who decorated Zillah’s celebration cakes, transforming them into wondrous creations. The tiers of this cake would be cloudlike, the icing dusted with gold leaf to match the bridal gown. Sadly, their expertise didn’t come cheap, therefore leaving very little profit for Mrs Robinson.

  *

  At noon, Zillah arrived at Planet Robinson, as Abi called their workplace. The first thing she noticed was the black jeep next to her usual space. Did this man have no home to go to? As it was Sunday, she parked parallel to the building. Childish it might be but she found the thought of their two vehicles side by side oddly off-putting.

  She hesitated beside her van. Then, deciding to unload the clean crockery later, she let herself into her office where she found the answer phone light flashing. She listened to the only message, grimacing as the caller announced himself. She could meet him tomorrow but her response could wait until first thing next morning. Zillah, meticulous about hygiene whatever day of the week it was, pulled on her work clogs, apron and hat before unlocking the food preparation area.

  The kitchen, left immaculate after disgorging yesterday’s feast, gleamed as if telling her to get going and make it look like it had a life. She filled the kettle then reached for her stainless steel basin and the big pan she used when melting chocolate. From the dry goods store-cupboard she took two packs of cocoa-rich confectioner’s couverture. These she unwrapped and placed in a plastic bag which she tapped with a rolling pin, preparing the blocks for melting and forming the glossy basis of a nut and dried fruit concoction. Drizzling orange liqueur over the chunks, she filled the pan from the steaming kettle, leaving the basin perched above the simmering water.

  Zillah took down her favourite copper weighing scales from the shelf above, ignoring the state of the art digital version Abi preferred. She placed a weight on the stand and tipped almonds, walnuts and golden sultanas into the oval bowl. Next, she switched on the extraction unit. Open windows were great but sugary smells invited winged invaders and the UK summer seemed to provide the ideal holiday conditions for wasps.

  There was no sound of anyone else being in the building. When she glanced outside, she saw hers was the only vehicle on the forecourt. Good. He must have left without her noticing. She’d no desire to fritter time with Mr Christmas before their appointed meeting but she wondered what exactly he planned on doing up there. Did he not need just a telephone, computer and filing cabinet? These items would fit into even an average-size sitting room. Did he really intend to audition acts in his office? She’d spoken in jest but now wondered if it might be true.

  Zillah peered into the rich well of melting chocolate. It smelt divine. It shone like satin. But she wouldn’t disturb it until she was sure of its perfection. Only then would she probe with the fine skewer designed for testing sponge cakes. She reached for a pack of miniature foil cups and arranged them on a baking sheet ready for moving to the walk-in pantry.

  Job finished, she could almost smell that cup of coffee. Carefully she carried the tray and shut it away, came back and ran water into the scraped-clean bowl. Her hand was reaching for the first size cafetière when she heard a tap on the door.

  Why did her heart flip when it should have sunk? Had Mr Christmas returned without her hearing his engine? There was no way to pretend she wasn’t there. A tall person could easily peer through the clear-glazed window panel. And he was certainly tall. She opened the door.

  ‘Good morning. I brought a peace offering.’ His gaze travelled lazily over her, his eyes amused.

  Zillah tensed. Okay Mister Christmas. My outfit might not raise pulse rates but it proves I’m looking after my livelihood.

  He, on the other hand, looked annoyingly relaxed in a pale grey long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans not tight enough to make him appear to be trying too hard. There was a Sunday paper tucked under his left arm. Propped against his chest was a cardboard box, displaying the logo of her favourite supermarket. He was, she thought, temptation on legs.

  ‘I thought it might be sensible if we shared a cup of coffee and got to know one another a bit.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I only just picked up your phone message.’

  ‘But this is Sunday. I imagine you do allow yourself the occasional break?’

  She knew it would be churlish to refuse. ‘My office is unlocked,’ she said. ‘Take a seat and read your paper. I was about to make a brew.’

  She reached for the second size cafetière. What, she wondered, had brought about this sudden thaw?

  When Zillah entered her office again, she almost drooled. The open cake box contained two squares of honey-soaked baklava. Beside these sat two fresh fruit tartlets, juicy red berries nestling in confectioner’s custard swirled with cream. Her unwanted guest, one long leg slung over the other, was browsing the sports section of the newspaper. She averted her gaze from his feet, big and bare in buttery leather loafers.

  He looked up and smiled at her. Today his eyes were barley sugar. Just like Ruby the kitten’s.

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Just tell me if you take milk or sugar.’

  ‘Neither, thanks.’ He rose and looked down at her. This immensely pleasurable experience caused her to focus elsewhere and fast. She remembered what Abi had said about his height. An instant desire to hide within the shelter of his arms hit her, dismaying her with its intensity.

  ‘Would you like to point me in the direction of the plates and knives?’ He followed her as far as the kitchen doorway.

  She felt disarmed by his concern not to breach her rules, almost as if she was the one in the wrong.

  ‘‘The coffee needs a couple more minutes.’ She handed him plates, paper serviettes and knives.

  He retreated. Zillah tore off her hat, smoothed down her hair and unfastened her apron, jigging up and down with impatience when her fingers didn’t free the knotted strings fast enough. She pulled up her T-shirt and sniffed under both arms. All was well. She shucked off her bovver boots and divided the contents of the cafetière between two thin porcelain mugs. Barefoot, carrying the drinks carefully, she walked through to join her visitor.

  He rose and went round to her side of the desk, pulling out the chair. ‘Coffee smells great. But then you’re a professional,’ he said. ‘No milk for you either?’

  ‘Nor sugar.’

  His huge laugh rumbled. It was the first time she’d heard his voice let rip. If dark brown velvet could be made audible, this had to be how it would sound. He was close enough to reward her with a hint of cologne. Her mouth dried and to her fury, her stomach lurched again.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ She so needed to ground herself on Planet Robinson.

  ‘You and me. Black coffee addicts about to get high on sticky pastries.’ He put a plate before her and held the box so she could choose first. ‘Come on. No one’s watching.’

  She couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth. He’d better be a tidy eater. If just one crumb should linger on that top lip, she doubted her ability not to lick her fingertip and lean closer.

  Robbed of her power to concentrate, she felt relieved when Hal Christmas quizzed her on good places to eat in and around Bath. By tacit agreement they totally avoided the enormous animal with a trunk sitting in the corner until he insisted on showing off his handiwork on the top floor.

  ‘Come upstairs with me a moment,’ he said, rising.

/>   She followed him, trying to keep her imagination under control and painfully aware of her legs turning to jelly with every step. ‘It certainly seems more welcoming now,’ she said, relieved to focus upon the creamy walls and buttercup gloss window frames resulting from his DIY skills.

  ‘I’m so used to number crunching I’d forgotten how much I enjoy working with my hands.’

  She was forced to tiptoe across the dust-sheeted floor to the window and take a deep breath before her thoughts raced off with her serenity. Serenity? Who was she kidding? She was no better than that naughty little puss, Velma.

  ‘I’m having blinds fitted in the morning. Carpet tiles in the afternoon.’ He hesitated. ‘Ach! You must be bored to screaming point. I’m sorry, Zillah. I may call you Zillah?’

  She could do nothing else but nod.

  ‘‘I know we’ll be laying our cards on the table tomorrow. You can make tomorrow, I hope?’

  She nodded. Again.

  ‘Excellent. But I think I need to say, if I’ve caused you any inconvenience whatsoever, then I apologise. I was out of order. I hit upon the name two years ago when I was a partner in a London accountancy firm.’

  ‘Two years ago. But –’ Zillah couldn’t believe this.

  He held out his hands, palms upwards. ‘Please let me explain. At that time, to my knowledge there was no business trading as Mrs Robinson. And remember I was still living in London. I acquired one or two actors among my accountancy clients.’ He walked over to the window and stood beside her. ‘You may or may not be surprised to learn what lengths luvvies will go to when they’re resting and the rent’s due. I enjoyed their anecdotes. I discovered a whole new culture.’

  Zillah raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t expected his life story. Hopefully it would stop her fantasising about him nuzzling her neck.

  ‘One day my neighbour told me she wanted to hire a children’s entertainer. I researched and booked one. Her yummy mummy mates latched on. I liked the idea of a bit of light relief from my day job and there it was.’ His face darkened. ‘When my personal circumstances changed, I decided to relocate.’ He paused and turned to face her. ‘I relish a challenge.’

  Suddenly she longed to find out what triggered his need to relocate. Longed to know if he lived anywhere near her and whether or not he was on his own, though that seemed unlikely. How could someone who seemed so unapproachable, make her feel the way she did? It’s too soon. Her schedule nagged her. She checked her watch and broke the spell.

  ‘Enough already. The rest can wait until we meet tomorrow.’ He pushed his hand through his hair. ‘I have a load of stuff to sort out.’

  Back downstairs, tidying her workplace and collecting linen for laundering, Zillah decided it best to wait until early next day to start another batch of petits fours.

  She set the alarm, double-locked the outer door and was almost at the van when she remembered the crockery. Well, it would just have to stay where it was until tomorrow. This out of character attitude startled her. This whole weekend seemed slightly surreal. Zillah liked routine. It kept her going. Already she was anticipating her usual Sunday evening with a good book, glass of wine and plate of nibbles, followed by an early bedtime.

  *

  Hal was back to the chaos of the over-stuffed thatched cottage that was his new home. He sighed as he unlocked the front door and gave it the customary shove with his shoulder in order to gain access. He must do something about that. Damp had a lot to answer for. In the hallway he had to side-step boxes and bulging black plastic bags. Using the back door would only be an option if he wielded the strimmer that had never figured on his shopping list in his London flat-dwelling days. He’d never imagined himself moving to the country. Jessie had adored city living.

  But though they lived together for almost three years, he’d always felt she was marking time with him. His pride was hurt when she moved out, leaving him with an emptiness he found depressing. He consoled himself by planning a drastic change in his lifestyle after Jessie proved him right by taking a job in Amsterdam. Hurt pride he could cope with. It would fade. A sense of time slipping away and nobody to share his leisure hours with presented more of a problem.

  His flat would sell at a profit. Eventually. He had some money in several baskets and the world, or rather the UK, was open to him. He deliberately chose not to live in a city. But he wasn’t daft enough to consider donning green wellies and buying a smallholding halfway up a mountain. One of his clients used to own a second home near Bath. It was in an attractive place called Bradford-on-Avon and Hal had visited and taken a liking to the countryside.

  He had thrown ideas in the air and waited to see how they landed. Taking a gamble, he handed in his notice, having talked things through with his close colleagues. Their suggestion he should be retained as a consultant boosted his ego and potentially his finances. His fellow partners probably reckoned they’d wave goodbye to more than one valued client if they didn’t do a little carrot dangling. He was, after all, planning to become another bead threaded on the long necklace that was the M4 motorway.

  He went upstairs, stripped to his boxers and pulled on a pair of faded khaki shorts and a T-shirt saying Something for the Weekend. His computer and various books and files made up part of the downstairs clutter. Office equipment was to be delivered mid-week but he was fired up to create some space. He wouldn’t leave it until morning in case it rained again. His colleagues had teased him about moving not to the West but to the Wet Country but he still felt he’d made the right decision.

  He clattered back downstairs, propped open the sulky front door and went out to the car. The boot still held all the kit he’d used to paint his new office. He groaned. He owned a garage but it was packed with junk like an antiquated lawn mower and boxes containing colonies of empty jam jars. He’d need to ask around. There was sure to be someone locally to take them off his hands. Or were women too high-powered to make jam these days? Spiders scuttled as he double-stacked boxes to make space for his decorating equipment.

  He wondered how the lovely Mrs Robinson would spend the rest of her day. She hadn’t mentioned a Mr Robinson but nor had she mentioned anything relating to a personal life. It was no business of his. He just hoped they could work something out regarding the name clash. Maybe he should ring his lawyer buddy and establish his position. What a pain. What a way to start a new business. What a good job he enjoyed trouble-shooting. And what a good job he’d decided living with one ambitious career woman was more than enough. Zillah might be a stunning woman but if there was a man in her life, he must need the protection of a safety helmet and flak jacket.

  But Hal wanted her. He wanted her so much that just picturing the shape of her pretty mouth jolted him in the solar plexus.

  Chapter Four

  By nine the next morning, rows of Zillah’s plump and rosy marzipan fruits were lined up on wire trays. Next up was a batch of crunchy brown-sugar meringue Pavlova bases. She could do without meeting Hal Christmas later. Certain of her rights, she didn’t intend giving an inch and risk letting him trample over them. Hopefully he’d back down and tell her he planned to choose a new trading name.

  The telephone rang. She picked up on the extension.

  ‘Mrs Robinson.’

  ‘Good Morning. I wonder if Hal’s around. Are you his secretary?’

  She sucked in her breath, tempted to pretend and hear more of these dark chocolate tones. ‘Might I enquire if this is a catering inquiry?’

  ‘Sorry? I’m trying to make contact with Hal Christmas but he seems to have got a new mobile number. I remembered him emailing something about starting a new business called Mrs Robinson so I typed it into a search engine and found you.’

  ‘Well, if you’d paid more attention, you’d have noticed my company offers a gourmet catering service. Mr Christmas and his capering clowns have no connection with us whatsoever.’

  Silence. The caller seemed to digest this. ‘What a crock,’ he said at last.

  ‘I
couldn’t agree more.’

  Zillah relented. This man sounded much more human than Hal. ‘Mr Christmas has leased the office above mine. I can relay a message if you like.’ If I must.

  ‘You can? That’s really very kind. Ask him to give me a call, would you? Zak Silver’s the name. He’ll know. I’m very sorry to have troubled you. I must have got the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘I can assure you this isn’t your fault. I’ll make sure your friend gets your message.’ She rang off.

  Now wasn’t that the perfect name for an entertainer? It had to be made up. Briefly she wondered what particular talent Mr Silver focused upon in order to make a living. Surely he wasn’t a clown or a conjuror? That sexy voice must surely belong to a singer. She put such thoughts behind her, tuned in her radio to the afternoon drama and set about whisking egg whites into clouds. She wanted those bases in the big oven so they dried out before she finished for the day.

  To her delight, The African Queen was just about to sail up the river. Zillah was immersed in the play, enjoying the banter between Rose and Charlie, when she realised something was happening outside. She could hear voices and she’d been vaguely aware of vehicles arriving but that was what happened weekdays. She peeped out anyway. A van belonging to a local firm was parked nearby. Of course, the upstairs office blinds were being fitted.

  ‘Oh, bananas,’ she muttered. She couldn’t pass on that phone message from Zak Silver without physically leaving her office and poking her nose into his domain. Guiltily she remembered the gold business card sitting on her coffee table at home. Well, she was a busy person and couldn’t be expected to take note of every single thing. No doubt Abi had committed the number to memory but she wasn’t in today. Zillah wasn’t prepared to act as Mr Christmas’ answering service. The sooner he got himself both land line and name change, the better.

  Slipping through to her office, she wrote RING ZAK SILVER on a post-it note, went to the outer door and gazed around. The man fitting the blinds was obviously upstairs. The door to the stairs gaped and loud pop music filtered from on high, drowning her call of ‘hello.’ She tried to stick the fluorescent pink rectangle to the banister but the note fell off and plummeted to the floor.