Becky swallowed her bite of cake and asked, ‘How long has Rachel been managing the Coulson?’
‘She moved there about six months ago. She’d been working her way up through the family business at the Berlin, New York and London branches. Apparently she thought she was ready to come back to South Compton and step into the top job at Stone HQ but her mother had other ideas. So she defected to the Coulson where the owner lets her do what she likes.’
Becky ate her cake while listening to Ronnie and marvelling at the talents of her favourite gossiphound. What was her secret? It had to be cake. All that sugar was more powerful than truth serum.
‘Thanks, Ron. Let me know if you hear anything else that could be useful.’
‘OK, boss.’ Ronnie gave a mock salute, sunlight reflecting off the silver rings which adorned every one of her fingers. ‘Why do you want to know about this woman anyway?’
Damn. That was the problem with a gossiphound: you couldn’t restrict her nose to the areas you wanted her to investigate.
‘I told you already. If I get the green light for the new project then she could be important.’
‘Ah,’ said Ronnie in a tone Becky didn’t like at all. It dripped intrigue and lechery. Hell, it was a verbal wink. ‘The artist fancies her, does he? No wonder you wanted to know if she’s attached.’
Damn and blast. ‘Ron, you know I’m not supposed to talk to you about this stuff.’
‘Oh come on. Who am I going to tell? Besides, you’re not working for him yet. Client confidentiality doesn’t kick in until he’s hired you and that sort of thing is public domain anyway.’
‘It’s not a secret. I’m just not sure about it yet. He played it down, but his sister said he’s raved about Rachel each time he’s met her. Lauren said he described Rachel as “very pretty” and that’s Charlie’s way of saying she’s a goddess.’
‘Well OK then. Why didn’t you say?’ Ronnie took a large bite of cake and mumbled through it. ‘You got a lot of work this weekend?’
‘Yeah, but my parents are watching Dylan so you’re off the hook.’
‘That’s not why I asked. Look at you!’ Ronnie waved her fork at the dark circles under Becky’s eyes, causing Becky to sway back in self-defence. ‘You need a break.’
‘I need a well-paid project. I’ll rest later. And in the meantime,’ she said, digging her fork into the last piece of her cake, ‘I’ll eat sugar in lieu of sleep.’
Ronnie watched as Becky chewed and swallowed. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But you know what I think.’
‘Ron—’
‘Don’t pin all your hopes on this project coming through. Go into events work properly. You’re great with weddings, better than half the people who organise them already. It’s regular work, you’d make more money and could afford a childminder. And then,’ she said, winking, ‘you could find some time to try online dating.’
Becky brushed a few stray hairs from Dylan’s forehead. ‘I barely have time for the one man in my life. I don’t think I can find the energy to deal with another.’
Ronnie tapped her rings against her cup. ‘Of course, you could have time and money to spare if you made that bastard responsible for his son.’
‘No.’ Becky slammed her fork down, making the table shake. Ronnie talked a lot of sense, but she wasn’t right about everything. ‘Thanks for the cake and the gossip. We’d better be going.’
Chapter 5
By Thursday evening Becky had a rough outline for her proposal and was on top of things. Her parents had arrived earlier that day and were staying until Tuesday, allowing her to focus on an upcoming weekend wedding marathon and use Monday to finish her presentation for Charlie.
She had also finished his biography and had a good understanding of Charlie’s pre-slump career: twenty years of success which had paid for a wonderful home and stuffed an increasingly threadbare financial cushion.
At around ten thirty she sent an optimistic update to Lauren, cleared the draining board and decided to get an early night.
As she locked the back door, raindrops rapped at the kitchen window. She shivered, then shrugged. If it had to rain, better it tipped it down during the night than tomorrow or at the weekend. Three dry weddings in three days was a challenge, but three muddy and gloomy events would be a trial. More reason to get to bed. Though days of constant rain were unlikely, a good night’s sleep would leave her better prepared to tackle the issues that came with dark skies.
She was locking the front door when her phone rang. Throwing herself towards it, she fumbled to silence the ringer. Breathing a string of curses, she hurried into the kitchen, eased the door into its frame and accepted the call.
Twenty minutes later, Becky drove her parents’ car through the gates at the Old Station House.
The drive from her home in Great Compton, a 1960s commuter village, to the leafy and palatial suburbs of South Compton had done nothing to lighten her mood. Pulling up behind Charlie’s gleaming car, she ground her teeth. He drove a bloody Merc of all things and yet his life was supposedly unbearable. The seats were probably kitted out with massaging bum warmers. He should try getting everywhere on foot with a toddler in tow because he couldn’t afford to run a car any more.
She tugged the keys out of the ignition and sighed. She had loved her little car. It had stuck with her for eight years and never let her down. But three months ago she was forced to sell it, the latest victim of belt tightening.
Her brooding irritation balanced on a quivering layer of work-related anxiety. In a few short hours she would be insuring a fourth-of-July-themed wedding against disaster. If it stopped raining, the evening celebrations would include a fireworks display organised by a party of groomsmen who had no previous experience with controlled explosives. Becky would have to act fast to prevent minor burns and other stupidity-induced injuries, particularly if she were unable to dissuade the bridal party from putting sparklers in the bouquets.
Becky was raising her knuckles to knock when Phoebe opened the door and threw her arms around her neck.
‘I’m so glad you’re here! Thank you for coming!’
Slipping into mummy autopilot, Becky patted the girl on the back and cooed reassuring monosyllables, using her free hand to close the door. As she uncurled Phoebe’s trembling fingers, she silently pummelled Charlie with every expletive she could call to mind and a few colourful terms she coined for the occasion.
‘It’s going to be fine.’ She took both of Phoebe’s hands in her own. ‘Come on, you better show me what we’re dealing with.’
A few minutes later they ducked into the studio, shaking the worst of the downpour from their hair and coats. Charlie was visible from the doorway. Slouched on the sofa with his head back, he looked like a sleeping bear, although Becky wasn’t sure bears could snore that loudly. An almost empty bottle of whisky sat on the small table next to the sofa.
She clenched her fists as she noted the presence of the not-truly-blank canvas, sitting exactly where she had last seen it. Rather than follow her advice, Charlie had made another attempt at getting his ideas out onto the material. The faint terracotta streak in the centre of the canvas suggested he had failed once again and wiped his efforts away with the red-stained rag which was lying across his knees. Becky took the upended trolley and the resulting mess of tubes and pots on the floor as further signs of vented frustration. Charlie had lashed out before passing out.