CATHERINE GEORGE - Reform of the Rake

The coach house window was intact, and the comfortable little office behind it in perfect order when Lowri settled down to start work on Rupert Clare’s current novel a few days later.

‘First of all,’ advised Rupert, ‘read through the draft so far. Sarah’s printed the disks Mrs Parks typed, so spend this morning familiarising yourself with the characters and the plot. There’s a kettle and coffee and so on in the other room when you take a break, but come over to the house for lunch before you start on any typing.’

Lowri, long one of his most ardent fans, smiled happily. ‘Right, boss. I’m looking forward to a sneak preview of the latest Rupert Clare bestseller—nice work if you can get it!’

‘It may not be a bestseller,’ he said gloomily. ‘I’m tackling a new period for me in this one: dark deeds in fog-bound Victorian London.’

Lowri breathed in a sigh of pleasure. ‘Sounds great to me.’ She rustled the sheaf of papers on the desk. ‘Right then, eyes down and looking for the next hour or so.’

The story gripped her so completely from the first paragraph that Lowri hardly noticed Rupert leave, and looked up at Sarah blankly when her cousin appeared a couple of hours later to announce that lunch was ready.

‘Lunch?’

‘Yes, you know—soup, sandwiches, stuff like that,’ said Sarah, laughing, then frowned. ‘No cups? Didn’t Rupert tell you to make yourself some coffee?’

Lowri bit her lip guiltily. ‘He did, but I forgot. I was so absorbed I didn’t notice the time.’

‘That’s a novelty! Mrs Parks could never work for more than half an hour at a time without a dose of caffeine to keep her going.’

Lowri stood up, stretching. ‘Sounds as though the lady’s no loss.’

‘She will be to me if I have to stand in for her,’ said Sarah with emphasis. ‘Come on. Dominic’s in school, Emily’s gone off to spend the afternoon with her chum, and Rupert’s having lunch with his agent so it’s just the two of us.’

It was pleasant to gossip with Sarah over the meal but Lowri was adamant about returning to the office after half an hour, eager to finish the first portion of the draft so she could start on the real work of typing up Rupert’s next tapes. The novel, which bore all the hallmarks of Rupert’s style in the vivid characterisation and complex, convoluted plot, was an atmospheric story of revenge.

‘It’s riveting,’ said Lowri, as she finished her coffee. ‘All that underworld vice simmering away behind a façade of rigid Victorian respectability. I can’t wait to find out Jonah Haldane’s secret!’

Lowri’s enthusiasm resulted in more progress in one afternoon than the less industrious Mrs Parks had achieved in the two previous working days. When Rupert came to blow the whistle at six that evening he was deeply impressed, and obviously found Lowri’s reluctance to call a halt deeply gratifying.

‘Enough’s enough for one day, nevertheless, little cousin,’ he said firmly. ‘Sarah says you’re to pack it in, have a bath, then if you can bear it, read a story to Emily. We had to promise her that to keep her from storming your citadel hours ago.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Lowri, stretching. ‘Though something a bit different from yours, Rupert.’ She shivered pleasurably. ‘It’s a bit terrifying in places.’

‘Sarah says you like it.’

‘Like it! I can’t wait to see what happens next.’

‘You’re very good for my ego, Lowri,’ said Rupert as he walked with her across the garden. ‘A little sincere encouragement does wonders. Writers get bloody depressed some days.’

‘You needn’t,’ returned Lowri with certainty. ‘This is your best ever, Rupert. And I should know. I’ve read every book you’ve written.’

He gave her a friendly hug and pushed her into the kitchen, where Emily and Dominic were eating supper while Sarah clattered saucepans on hobs set into an island which gave her a view of the large kitchen while she worked. At the triple welcome showered on her Lowri felt suddenly enveloped in something missing in her life since her father had married again: a sense of belonging. ‘About time you knocked off,’ said Sarah, waving a wooden spoon. ‘The idea was to help Rupert out a bit, not work yourself to death, Lowri Morgan.’

When Lowri was packed and ready to return to Shepherds Bush, Rupert fixed Lowri with a commanding green eye.

‘Sarah and I have a suggestion to make. Feel free to refuse if you want, but hear me out.’

Lowri looked from one to the other, her dark eyes questioning. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘It’s about the work you’ve been doing for me—’

‘Something wrong?’

‘Wrong!’ snorted Sarah. ‘The exact opposite, Lowri. I’m the only one who’s ever worked so well with Rupert. Though you haven’t seen him in a tantrum yet,’ she warned.

‘Tantrum?’ said Rupert, incensed. ‘I may be subject to the odd mood—’

‘Your moods are not odd, they’re horrible,’ corrected his wife flatly. ‘Anyway, Lowri, the gist of all this is that if you’re not totally dedicated to selling knickers Rupert wondered if you’d fancy working for him full time.’

Lowri’s eyes lit up like stars. ‘You mean it?’

‘You bet your sweet life I do,’ said Rupert emphatically. ‘And what’s more, you can pack in that flat and come and live here with us.’

‘But I couldn’t impose on you like that,’ said Lowri swiftly.

‘Not even in the coach house flat?’ said Sarah, smiling. ‘You can be as private as you like over there, live entirely your own life as much as you want, or be part of ours whenever the fancy takes you. We’d even take a small rent for the flat if it would make you feel any better.’

‘Are you doing this because you feel sorry for me?’ asked Lowri suspiciously.

‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ Rupert patted her shoulder. ‘It’s you who’d be taking pity on me. I’m offering you the job, Lowri, because you do it so well. Better than anyone since the reign of my lady wife here. And you won’t have hysterics if—when—I shout at you. Because shout I will when things go wrong, believe me. So before you answer you’d better think that bit over. But if you can stand my moods, and you fancy the job, how about it?’

From the day she moved her possessions into the Clares’ coach house life was transformed for Lowri. The bedsitting-room adjoining her little office was a comfortable little apartment, complete with bathroom and a minuscule kitchen just large enough for Lowri to cook a meal for one occasionally. After the flat in Shepherds Bush the privacy was wonderful, unmarred by the slightest tinge of loneliness, since at any time Lowri knew she could stroll down the long, beautiful garden to a warm welcome in the house. This, however, was a privilege Lowri rationed herself strictly from the start.

But there were definite advantages for the Clares in the situation, nevertheless, since Lowri was happy to act as baby-sitter when the busy social life of the Clares demanded it. Since the retirement of Mrs Dobson, Rupert’s original treasure of a housekeeper, Sarah had taken on Brenda, who came in daily to help with the house. But Brenda enjoyed a hectic social life, and wasn’t keen on baby-sitting too often in the evenings, which left a gap Lowri was only too glad to fill.

As the horse-chestnuts came into bloom and a green smell of spring came floating through her open office window, Lowri felt that fate had been very kind to her indeed. She sniffed at the heady vanilla scent of trees in blossom and heaved a contented sigh as she applied herself to the work which grew more absorbing by the day. The novel was now in its third quarter and working up suspensefully to the climax which Rupert flatly refused to reveal to Lowri in advance. Not even Sarah was any wiser, which apparently was nothing unusual. Rupert liked to keep his plot to himself until the very last sentence was recorded on tape.