Happily Ever After.... Jessica Gilmore

Rafferty’s, but remember I’m not playing Professor Higgins,’ he said as offhandedly as he could. ‘I’m just ensuring you have the right outfits for the job I have hired you to do. I supply the, what did you call them? Instruments of torture? You wear them.’

      She looked at him searchingly for a long moment before nodding, a short reluctant agreement. ‘Of course,’ she grumbled, ‘these clothes aren’t designed for real women. If I was a size-zero giraffe I might find this easier.’

      Raff ran his eyes over her approvingly. Clara wasn’t built like a model, it was true, nor did she eat like one, thank goodness. The year after university, full of pent-up energy he couldn’t expel at work, he had partied hard and dated several models and socialites. He had soon got bored with the shallow crowd he was running with.

      And women who thought a piece of lettuce meant a full dinner.

      No, give him someone like Clara, not too tall, not too small, curves in all the right places. That shift she was holding, for instance, it would fall to mid-thigh, showcase those fantastic legs, cling to the curve of her bosom.

      The room felt very small, just a curtain separating him from the area where Clara would be unbuttoning all those tiny buttons, slipping her dress off, replacing it with the short shift.

      He took in a deep breath. It was warm in here, roasting in fact. He should talk to someone about the temperature.

      ‘I think you’ll look perfect,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Why don’t you get started? I’ll just be...’ He waved at the entrance. ‘I need to get something.’ A brandy, a cold shower, some air.

      * * *

      Left alone, Clara felt curiously deflated. There had been something in Raff’s eyes. Something hot, something terrifyingly honest. Something that had awakened feelings she had spent so long hiding from: what it was like to be wanted, what it was like to want.

      Clara sank down into the hard-backed chair, the sole piece of furniture in the spacious curtained-off area. For the first time in a really long time she wished she had someone to lean on, to confide in.

      Raff, Byron’s impending visit, deciding how to best use the money Raff was paying her. There was so much going on she didn’t know where to turn.

      But there was no one. She didn’t want to worry her mother, Summer was too young, Maddie so busy. She had nobody. It hit her like a blow to the stomach as hot, unwanted tears pricked at the backs of her eyes; she blinked them away, wrapping her arms around herself as if she could ward off the unwanted knowledge. She would be so ashamed if her mother or cousin or the handful of friends she kept in contact with guessed just how she felt.

      Lonely.

      ‘Come on, Clara, where will self-pity get you?’ She hadn’t succumbed when she found out she was pregnant, only eighteen, thousands of miles away from home. She had stayed strong when Byron walked out of her life a month before their baby was born.

      She wouldn’t, couldn’t give in now. She had a wonderful, healthy daughter, a thriving business. She was lucky, even if it was hard to remember that sometimes.

      Slowly, feeling a little punch drunk, Clara rose to her feet and began to unbutton her dress. She was here to do a job. Feelings had nothing to do with it.

      The shift was heavy and yet it felt wonderfully cool and soft against her skin, the sequins sparkling as the spotlights hit it. Reflected in the many mirrors that lined the room, Clara gave in to the temptation to pirouette, loving the way the fabric flattered her. Raff was right: annoyingly, she did feel more confident, more sociable in this fabulous, exorbitantly expensive dress.

      Muttering, she forced her feet into a pair of strappy heels. She had thought that pairing silver shoes with a silver dress would be too much, that she would end up resembling a giant glitterball, but she had been wrong. The outfit looked amazing even with bare, pale legs, minimal make-up and a ponytail. Her stomach fluttered at the thought of really going out dressed like this; hair, make-up, accessories. Raff on her arm.

      If she could just walk in the shoes that would be a considerable bonus.

      A rustle from the other side of the curtain alerted her to another person’s presence. Raff must have returned.

      Clara took another look in the mirror. Was that really her? So elegant? The shoes added another four inches to her height, giving her legs the illusion of endless length. The urge to hide, tear off this costume and become her own safe self again was almost overwhelming but Clara sucked in a deep breath. She would walk through the curtain; she would show Raff.

      She would hopefully see that heat in his eyes again.

      Heart hammering, the wobble in her step not solely caused by the unfamiliar heels, Clara pulled the curtain open, a self-deprecating remark on her lips. But there was no need to utter it.

      The room was empty. Another rail of clothes and matching accessories had joined the first one.

      Her stomach plummeted as the adrenaline disappeared. It must have been Susannah she had heard. ‘Fool,’ she muttered. Clara chewed her cheek, indecisive. Should she wait, try on something else, look for him? Unsure, she walked to the door and peeked out, worry turning to irritation as she saw him, right in front of the door, deep in conversation with a small brunette who was smiling up at him.

      ‘Clara?’ Darn it, he had spotted her. ‘Sorry, I bumped into an old colleague.’ Was it her imagination or did he hesitate over the word ‘colleague’?

      ‘Hi, I’m Lisa.’ The brunette smiled over at Clara. ‘It’s so great to see Raff. I thought he was in Afghanistan.’

      She thought what? Beach bum or adrenaline junkie, either way Afghanistan was the last place Clara imagined Raff Rafferty.

      Or was it? A picture flashed into her mind. That first afternoon, his face grey with weariness, the kind of weariness from hours and hours of travel, sitting in trucks and small airport waiting rooms not from the pampered world of First Class. The battered jeans, the old kitbag.

      None of it had added up at the time but she’d been so convinced that she knew the man she was dealing with she hadn’t even stopped to consider that her preconceptions might be skewed.

      ‘No, not this time,’ he said with a quick glance over at Clara. Was that embarrassment in his eyes? ‘I was in Jordan. We’re trying to make sure there are some medical facilities in the camps there but I was needed at home so had to take some leave. How about you?’

      Lisa blushed. ‘I’m based back in the UK at the moment. Did you know I married Mike, Dr Hardy?’

      ‘I had heard. Congratulations. I did a brief stint with him out in Somalia. He’s a great bloke.’ Again a swift, almost pleading glance at Clara.

      Somalia, Afghanistan, Jordan? Polly had said that Raff was abroad, she had been dismissive, giving Clara the impression that he was partying on a beach somewhere, not working in some of the most dangerous places in the world. Wasn’t she worried about him?

      ‘Mike is setting up a paediatric programme here in London for kids that just can’t be treated in the field so I’m based here too now. It’s not the same but there’s a lot to do. Actually...’ Lisa eyed him speculatively ‘...this could be a massive piece of luck running into you like this. What are you doing in five weeks’ time? Will you still be here?’

      ‘I think so. Why?’

      Lisa clasped her hands together and looked up at Raff hopefully. ‘We’re holding a fundraising ball, all the great and the good digging deep, you know the kind of thing! We had Phil lined up to speak but he had to pull out. Could you speak in his place?’

      Raff shifted from foot to foot, his expression one of deep discomfort. Clara watched him with some amusement.

      Good, she thought, let him get out of this.

      ‘People don’t want to hear from me,’ he said eventually. ‘They want to hear