Kitty Neale 3 Book Bundle. Kitty Neale

on refitting that shop opposite where we work.’

      ‘I haven’t noticed him,’ Amy said, ‘but it explains why you’ve been hovering at the window instead of serving customers.’

      ‘Yeah, well, he is a bit dishy.’

      ‘What does he look like?’

      ‘He’s cute. Not too tall, beefy, with a round face.’

      ‘He sounds like your usual type,’ Amy said, unable to share Carol’s taste in boys. It was funny really, Amy thought, considering that she was only four foot eleven she liked tall blokes, whereas Carol preferred them short and stocky.

      ‘Once the refit is finished he’ll be off. I need to catch his eye before then,’ Carol mused.

      ‘I doubt he could have missed you,’ Amy commented, aware how striking her friend was. ‘Unless of course you’ve been standing at the window so much that he thinks you’re part of the display.’

      Carol chuckled; Amy giggled, and soon the two of them were in fits of laughter. ‘Shush,’ Carol finally gasped. ‘If we wake my parents up I’ll be in trouble.’

      Amy managed to stop laughing. She liked Carol’s mum, Daphne Cole. Carol had inherited her mother’s good looks and colouring; however she could be hard on her daughter if she was in one of her moods. ‘Yes, you might get it in the neck from your mum, but you can’t do anything wrong in your dad’s eyes.’

      ‘Yours is the same, but your mum dotes on you too. I wish I was an only child.’

      ‘I’d prefer it if I wasn’t,’ Amy said. ‘It can be a bit stifling and you get far more freedom than me.’

      ‘Yeah, there is that I suppose,’ Carol conceded, ‘though I still have to be home by ten thirty. Talking of freedom, are you coming out tonight?’

      With Tommy ill in bed it didn’t seem right to go out dancing and if he got to hear about it he might be upset. Amy desperately sought an excuse. Carol didn’t know that Mrs Frost had turned her away earlier, so she clutched at that. ‘Sorry, I can’t come out with you. I’m going to see Tommy.’

      ‘Boring …’ Carol drawled.

      Amy hated fibbing to her friend, but she was really keen on Tommy, keener than anyone knew. She wasn’t too worried about Mrs Frost; after all, she’d be marrying Tommy, not his mother. Of course there had been no mention of marriage, but Amy had seen the way Tommy looked at her. He hadn’t said that he loved her yet, but she was sure he returned her feelings.

      At least she hoped so.

      Celia Frost was disappointed to see that Thomas had hardly touched his dinner. She felt his forehead, frowning. ‘You’ve hardly eaten a thing and if your fever hasn’t gone down by tomorrow, I think I’ll ask Dr Trent to call in again.’

      ‘There’s no need to make a fuss. I feel a little better today.’

      ‘You don’t look it,’ Celia told him.

      ‘Has Amy called in to see me?’

      ‘Yes, but you were asleep and I don’t think she’ll be back. Young girls are so flighty these days and while you’re ill in bed, no doubt Amy’s out and about enjoying herself,’ Celia said, pleased to see a frown cross her son’s features. She had planted a seed of doubt about Amy and she’d leave him to dwell on it. ‘Now rest, darling, and I’ll be up to see you again later.’

      Celia carried the tray downstairs, and after washing the plate she went back into the sitting room where she took a seat by the fire, her eyes resting on her husband in the opposite chair. He was asleep, snoring softly and her lips twisted in distaste. She’d had high hopes for George when they married, expecting him to be as ambitious as she was, but instead, with his problem, he’d never attempted to expand the business. There was plenty of work for glaziers, and by now George should have been in the position to employ men to work for him. However, he’d been too proud to accept her offer to help, instead remaining a one-man band.

      Of course Thomas worked with him, but that hardly counted. At least George made fairly good money and was generous with the housekeeping, Celia had to admit. Yet they could have had so much more, still could, if George would only listen to her suggestions instead of dismissing them.

      With a sigh of discontent, Celia picked up her tapestry frame to continue working on a cushion; the scene a quaint thatched cottage and garden filled with hollyhocks, delphiniums and roses in profusion. She would love a pretty garden, a place in the country away from the smoke and pollution which would be so much better for Thomas.

      There was a snort, a grunt and then George’s eyes opened. He yawned then said, ‘I could do with a cup of Rosie Lee.’

      ‘You sound so common. It’s a cup of tea, George,’ Celia chastised.

      The tiredness left his eyes to be replaced by annoyance. ‘When are you going to get off your high horse, woman? You may sound as though you were born with a plum in your mouth, but I know you came from a slum.’

      Celia felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She had been born in the East End of London, and when her father died, her mother had been left to bring up eight children on her own. Celia could remember the two small rooms they had been crammed into, the rats, and the bugs climbing the walls. Tuberculosis had been rife, and Celia saw three of her brothers and one sister die of the disease. She’d been terrified that she was going to catch it too, and with that fear came a fierce determination to escape the poverty and filth. Angrily she cried, ‘I may have been born in a slum, but at least I had the ambition to better myself, which is more than I can say for you!’

      ‘That’s it, bring me down again, but you seem to forget that you only worked in a dress shop when I met you.’

      ‘It wasn’t just any old shop! I had to improve my diction, posture and dress sense before I could gain a position in Knightsbridge. We catered for the wealthy and fashionable.’

      ‘Yeah, and you still try to emulate them,’ George said bitterly.

      ‘No doubt you’d prefer me to sound like a fishwife, but let me tell you I’m proud of my achievements.’

      ‘If that’s the case, how come nobody around here knows anything about it? Instead you’ve fabricated the story that you were born in Chelsea, of middle-class parents.’

      ‘I won’t have anyone looking down on me.’

      ‘No, you prefer to lord it up over them by pretending to be something that you’re not.’

      ‘You didn’t complain when we met,’ Celia told him, annoyed to find tears welling in her eyes. ‘In fact you said you loved my voice, my poise, and everything else about me. Lately though, all you do is criticise me and I have no idea why.’

      George shook his head, sighed, then said, ‘Yeah, you’re right and I’m sorry. It’s just that I wish you’d lighten up; learn to live a little, to have a bit of fun.’

      ‘We went to the dance at the Conservative Club, and there’s another one in a couple of weeks.’

      ‘You can’t call that fun. It’s all so formal, dress suits and cocktail dresses. We’re only in our forties, but we’re becoming a couple of old fuddy-duddies, and when was the last time we made love?’

      Celia stared at her husband, aghast. George didn’t seem to appreciate that lately she’d been worn out with looking after Thomas, sometimes so worried about him that she slept in a chair beside his bed. She didn’t bother to point this out; George would only say she was mollycoddling Thomas again, so she rose to her feet, only saying, ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

      ‘Yeah, do that, and then how about a bit of slap and tickle?’

      ‘George,’ she cried, appalled, ‘what on earth has come over you? It’s four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.’

      ‘As