The Return of Mrs Jones. Jessica Gilmore

‘They don’t. I allow it. Coombe End belongs to me. I own it now.’

      She stared at him, a surge of delight running through her, shocking her with its strength. So his parents had finally shown some belief in him.

      ‘They gave you Coombe End? Oh, Jonas that’s wonderful.’

      He shook his head, his face dark, forbidding. ‘They gave me nothing. I bought it. And I paid handsomely for every brick and every blade of grass.’

      He had bought Coombe End? Lawrie looked around at the immaculately styled office, at the glass separating them from the café below, at the smooth polished wooden floor, the gleaming tiles, the low, comfortable sofas and designer chairs and tables. The whole building shouted out taste, sophistication. It shouted investment and money. She knew things had grown, changed, but how much? Whatever Jonas was doing now it was certainly more than serving up coffee and cakes to friends.

      A lot more.

      ‘That’s great,’ she said lamely, wanting to ask a million questions but not knowing where to start.

      Besides, it wasn’t any of her business. It hadn’t been for a long time.

      ‘I was planning to head over there this afternoon, so I could show you around, introduce you to the rest of the office staff. It’ll probably be a couple of hours before I’m ready to leave, though, is that okay?’

      Lawrie shook her head, her mind still turning over the ‘rest of the office staff’ comment. How many people did he employ?

      ‘No problem. I want to go through this lot and make some notes, anyway.’

      ‘If you’re hungry just pop downstairs. Carl will make you anything you want.’

      And he turned back to his computer screen, instantly absorbed in the document he was reading.

      She had been dismissed. It shouldn’t rankle—this was hard enough without his constant attention. But it did.

      Lawrie sat down at the table and pulled the first file towards her, groaning inwardly at the thick stack of insurance documents inside. Deciphering the indecipherable, crafting the impenetrable—those were the tools of her trade and she was excellent at it—but today her eyes were skidding over each dense sentence, unable to make sense of them. She was trying to focus all her attention on the words dancing on the page in front of her but she was all too aware of Jonas’s every move—the rustle as he shifted posture, the tap of his long, capable fingers on the keyboard.

      Despite herself she let her eyes wander over to him, watching him work. She tried to pull her gaze away from his hands but she was paralysed, intent, as his fingers caressed the keyboard, pressing decisively on each key.

      He had always been so very good with his hands.

      ‘Did you say something?’

      ‘No,’ she lied, hoping he hadn’t turned round, hadn’t seen her blush.

      Please, she prayed silently, she hadn’t just moaned out loud, had she? For goodness’ sake she was a grown woman—not a teenager at the mercy of her hormones. At least she’d thought she was.

      It was coming home. She had been away too long and this sudden return at a time of stress had released some sort of sensory memory, turning her back into the weak-kneed teenager crushing so deeply on her boss that every nerve had been finely tuned to his every word and movement. It was science, that was all.

      Science, but still rather uncomfortable.

      ‘I’m thirsty,’ she announced. ‘I’ll just go and get some water.’

      His satirical gaze uncomfortably upon her, she slid out of the door, heading for the kitchens beneath, relieved to be released from his proximity. If she didn’t get a handle on her hormones soon then she was in for a very uncomfortable few weeks.

      Walking down the stairs, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, automatically checking it for messages. Just the simple act of holding it created a much-needed sense of purpose, of control.

      Nothing. Not from her old colleagues, not from her friends in London, not from Hugo. It was as if they had closed the gap her absence had created so seamlessly that nobody knew she had gone. Or if they did they simply didn’t care. Yesterday had been her thirtieth birthday. She was supposed to have been having dinner with twenty of their closest friends. Other professional couples. How had Hugo explained her absence?

      Or had he taken his secretary instead? His lover. After all, they had been his friends first.

      This was the year she had been going to get around to finally organising their wedding.

      This was the year they’d been going to discuss children. Not have them yet, obviously, but start timetabling them in.

      They were supposed to have been spending the rest of their lives together, and yet Hugo had let her go without a word, without a gesture. Just as Jonas had all those years ago. Just as her mother had.

      She just wasn’t worth holding on to.

      Lawrie leant against the wall, grateful for the chill of the tiles on her suddenly hot face. Don’t cry, she told herself, willing away the pressure behind her eyelids. Never cry. You don’t need them—you don’t need anybody.

      * * *

      A large glass of iced water and some fresh air helped Lawrie recover some of her equilibrium and she returned to the office feeling a great deal better. Turning her back determinedly on Jonas, she called on all her professional resources and buried herself in the insurance folder, finding a strange calm in returning to the legalese so recently denied her. Pulling a notebook close, she began to scribble notes, looking at expiry dates, costs, and jotting down anything that needed immediate attention, losing herself in the work.

      ‘Lawrie...? Lawrie?’ Jonas was standing behind her, an amused glint in the blue eyes. ‘Fascinating, are they?’ He gestured at the folders.

      ‘A little,’ she agreed, pulling herself out of the work reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry—do you need me?’

      ‘I’m heading off to Coombe End. Do you still want me to show you around?’

      Did she? What she really wanted was more time alone—more time to get lost in the work and let the real world carry on without her.

      But it would be a lot easier tomorrow if she knew what to expect.

      ‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ She pushed her chair back and began to pile the folders and her closely covered sheets of paper together. ‘I’ll just...’ She gestured at the files spread all over the table and began to pull them together, bracing herself ready to scoop them up.

      ‘Here—let me.’

      Jonas leant over and picked up the large pile, his arm brushing hers and sending a tingle from her wrist shooting through her body straight down to her toes. She leapt back.

      ‘If you’re ready?’

      ‘Absolutely, I’ll just get my bag—give me two minutes.’

      ‘I’ll meet you at the car; it’s just out front.’

      ‘Okay.’

      The door closed behind him and Lawrie sank back into her seat with a sigh. She had to pull herself together. Stop acting like the gauche schoolgirl she’d outgrown years ago.

      * * *

      Jonas pulled his car round to the front of the restaurant, idling the engine as he waited for Lawrie. Their first day working together was going well. He’d had a productive two hours’ work just then, not thinking about and not even noticing the exposed nape of her neck, her long, bare legs, not at all aware of every rustle, every slight movement.

      Well, maybe just a little aware. But they were just physical things. And Cornwall in summer was full of attractive women—beautiful women, even.

      And yet during the last two hours