Shirley Jump - A Forever Family - Falling For You

‘I kept my expenses to the bare minimum,’ she said, as his eyebrows rose at the amount. ‘Worth it simply for the information that he’s unattached, I’d say. How many copies is a front-page photograph of a good-looking, eligible millionaire in the neighbourhood going to be worth?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Women buy the local newspaper,’ she pointed out.

‘True, but how often can we use him on the front page? Until we know what his plans are he’s not going to be headline news.’

‘You don’t need headline news. I’ll give you stories,’ she promised. ‘All you need on the front page is a photograph and a caption leading on to page two. It’s how they use the royal family to sell papers.’

‘Shame he doesn’t have a title to go with all that money, but you can’t have everything.’ He grinned, signed the sheet and handed it back to her. ‘With the way circulation is falling, anything is worth a try, but no more trips to London.’

* * *

The phone rang once, twice, three times. He checked his watch. Ten on the dot.

He picked up the receiver, sat back in the leather chair worn smooth by generations of Cranbrook men. ‘What do you want, Claire?’

‘And good morning to you, Hal.’

‘Is it good? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Shame on you. I was earthing-up my potatoes as the sun rose with a robin for company.’

He was at his desk dealing with the reports and emails that, these days, seemed to multiply faster than he could deal with.

‘I hope you weren’t late for work again.’

‘I was, but only because the bus was late. Any news on my bike?’

‘I’ll chase it up. If that’s all?’ he prompted, knowing full well it wasn’t.

‘How about an update on your plans for the future of Cranbrook Park?’ she asked, in a clear, bright musical voice that was inextricably tied into a burning sense of injustice, of longing for something beyond his reach. Was Robert Cranbrook right? Was this the end rather than the beginning he’d envisaged? ‘Just a little hint?’ she prompted. ‘Something I can use in tomorrow’s paper?’

‘It’s none of your business?’ he offered. That ‘boy’ in the Observer’s headline had been too reminiscent of Cranbrook’s bile.

‘No…I’m going to need more than that.’

Was she laughing?

‘It’s none of your business, Claire Thackeray?’ he offered, restraining the urge to join her.

‘Okay. We’ll leave that for now but I was hoping you’d explain to our readers why you’ve blocked off the public footpath beside the Cran?’

‘Do your readers care?’ he asked. ‘No one has complained.’

‘Clearly you don’t read our letters page.’

‘I don’t read the Observer,’ he lied, ‘but I have no doubt that “outraged of Maybridge” is an inside job.’

‘How cynical you are. People do care.’

‘No comment.’

‘So that’s a “no comment”, a “no comment” and a “no comment,” then. Okay,’ she said—definitely laughing— ‘That’ll do nicely.’

‘Claire… How’s your foot?’

‘I’m scarred for life. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers any day now. How’s your, um, rod?’ she asked.

‘I refer you to the answer I gave earlier.’

‘It would make a great story. Millionaire Landowner Mown Down by Tenant. Archie has form, you know. He ran some quad bikers into the stream last year. I’ll send you a link to the article.’

‘You wouldn’t rat on Archie,’ he said, as an email popped into his inbox. ‘How do you know my email address?’

‘No comment and no comment. It’s a good picture of him, don’t you think?’

He clicked on the link, looked at the photograph of Archie, the picture of sweet innocence as he peered over the hedge.

‘Believe nothing that you read and only half what you see,’ he replied and thought he caught a sigh from the other end of the phone.

‘Any progress with my bike?’ she asked.

‘Ask Gary. He’s working on it.’

‘I will and, Hal?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks for giving him a chance. The offer of a cake is still open. Any time.’

‘Just stop ringing me and we’ll be quits,’ he said, hanging up before he relented.

The estimate for re-leading the roof dealt with the smile.

* * *

‘Made the front page again, Claire?’

‘Homing instinct,’ she said, glancing at the pulls of the front page. The Maybridge Wish-List fairy might be draped over the masthead, but it was her story that was the lead. ‘“Closed for Fun…” It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’ she said, doing her best to sound enthusiastic.

‘It was a slow news day.’ Tim Mayhew, the sports editor, made a virtue of being a grouch.

‘This is Maybridge, Tim. It’s always a slow news day. The ambitious journalist has to get out there and create her headlines.’

That would be the journalist who was desperate to hang on to her job. The journalist who wished she hadn’t promised the news editor a constant feed of Hal North stories.

‘There’s nothing wrong with ambition,’ Tim said, ‘but you’re going to have to come up with something better than local landowner closes footpath if you’re going to repeat your local-boy-makes-good coup.’

She didn’t need him to tell her that. Brian was already on her case.

‘It’s not the footpath that makes the story, Tim, it’s the “new,” “millionaire” and “landowner” that does the business.’ Along with the tall, dark. The classically handsome element was cancelled out by rich and available.

‘People will soon get fed up of being fed a diet of Hal North stories.’

The sooner the better. She couldn’t wait to get back to the WI meetings, meanwhile…

‘I’ve just heard that he’s cancelled the traditional Teddy Bears Picnic. Just who the heck does think he is?’ she asked, trying to put some real feeling into it.

‘Henry North? New millionaire landowner?’ he said, quoting her own words back at her.

She stared at the front-page picture of the pile of scrap metal blocking the footpath across the Cranbrook estate.

The photographer had used a marker to write “Closed For Fun” on a piece of cardboard and propped it against a handy piece of junk. It made a great picture, she didn’t deny it. And Brian had found a photograph of Hal at a white-tie dinner. The juxtaposition suggested arrogance, distance, a man who didn’t care.

Tim grunted. ‘Personally, I don’t blame him for refusing to have dozens of kids running riot on his newly acquired country estate.’

‘Next to you the Grinch is warm and cuddly.’

Hal wasn’t like that.

She mentally rolled her eyes. She kept telling herself that ‘Hal wasn’t like that’; she hadn’t a clue what he was like. All she had was this fantasy figure she’d created in her head—a cross between Prince Charming and the Beast. And if she’d cast herself in the role of Beauty, it was because she’d been a kid and didn’t know any better.

What she did know was that it hadn’t been ‘Mr Henry North, millionaire businessman’ who’d mocked her, reminded her that she had once had a goal in life. A place at a good university, every advantage, and she’d wasted it. And it sure as heck hadn’t been ‘Mr Henry North, millionaire businessman’ who’d kissed her socks off. Well, her tights, anyway…

That had most definitely been Hal North, Cranbrook bad boy, doing what he did as naturally as breathing. She’d put his bad temper down to the fact that she’d run into him. That must have hurt. But having reinvented himself it must have come as quite a shock to discover that she was still on the estate and working for the local newspaper.

He’d got off lightly, she reminded herself.