Jill Mansell - Sheer Mischief

Unlike Maxine, thought Janey, who had no pride at all. She still wasn’t entirely happy, either. The last thing she needed was to be patronized by a younger sister who thought the entire situation too amusing for words.

‘You needn’t worry,’ Maxine assured her now. ‘From this moment on, he’s all yours. I shall treat Bruno like a brother. We shall he friends.’ She grinned. ‘And I shan’t even try to imagine what he looks like naked.’

Janey was tired. She sensed, too, that Maxine was still poking gentle fun at her. ‘It’s past midnight,’ she announced pointedly. ‘You’re allowed back into the house now. And I have to be up at five.’

But Maxine was still prattling on about Bruno. ‘He is fun, though. I still can’t believe he practically booted those customers out into the street just so we could sit at the best table. You have to admit, darling, that takes style!’

‘Oh, please,’ sighed Janey. ‘Don’t tell me you fell for that old routine. Nick and Tony run the antique shop next door to the restaurant. Bruno does that to them every night.’

Chapter 16

In for a penny, in for a pound. Having given the matter a great deal of thought, Janey replied to the advertisement in the paper, posted it at once so she couldn’t change her mind, then began drafting out an ad of her own. The chances of Mr Presentable turning out to be Mr Ideal might be slim, but if she received a dozen replies she would at least have a selection to choose from. And if eleven of them were duds it wouldn’t even matter, because number twelve could be perfect and one perfect male was all she needed.

It really was extraordinarily difficult, though, describing oneself in just a few brief sentences. If she exaggerated the facts she risked ridicule when she eventually came to face it out. The prospect of being greeted with a look of horror and a derisory ‘I thought you said you were attractive’, was positively bone-chilling. The bald facts, however, – ‘plumpish, blondish deserted wife’ – might be so off-putting that no man would even be tempted to reply.

It took longer than filling out a tax return and was about as harrowing. Every time a customer came into the shop she jumped a mile and shoved her writing pad under the counter.

When Paula returned from making the morning deliveries, Janey was so engrossed she hardly heard her words.

‘I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

The pad was hidden but the pen was still in Janey’s hand. Twiddling it frantically between her fingers and pretending she’d been writing down an order, she managed, ‘What?’

‘If you placed one of those ads yourself, you could arrange to meet each man somewhere busy and ask them to wear a white carnation in their buttonhole.’

‘So?’

Paula, looking pleased with herself, pulled herself on to the spare stool and swung her legs.

‘So, all we have to do is sit here and wait for men to come in asking for a single white carnation.

You’ll be able to have a good look at them first, incognito. And if they’re too hideous for words you wouldn’t have to bother turning up.’

‘Cruel!’ protested Janey, starting to laugh.

‘Sensible. Not to mention good for business.’ Paula threw her a sidelong glance. ‘Do you think you might advertise, then?’

Paula was trustworthy, but some items of gossip were just too good to pass up. Her mother worked at Trezale House and Janey was determined that Maxine shouldn’t find out about this.

Now, more than ever, she needed to keep the last vestiges of her self-confidence intact.

‘Maybe when I’m fifty,’ she replied with tolerant amusement. ‘But for now, I think I’ll give it a miss.’

Maxine, unable to understand why she couldn’t simply scrawl the names on with pink Magic Marker, was struggling ill-temperedly to sew name tapes into Josh’s school shirts. Guy hadn’t helped, earlier, when he had remarked, ‘Not that anyone else is likely to mistake Josh’s shirts for their own, the way you iron them.’

He had said it jokingly, but Maxine had detected the dig. And although she’d been sewing for the last two and a half hours the pile of new school clothes still waiting to be attacked seemed more mountainous than ever.

‘Dad’s taking photographs of Serena,’ Josh reported from his position in the window seat overlooking the back garden. He frowned. ‘She doesn’t have very big bosoms for a grown-up.’

Maxine suppressed the memory of what she’d imagined working for Guy would be like. In her innocence she’d envisaged organizing games of hide-and-seek for the children, accompanying them to the pantomime and in her free time socializing happily with Guy. In her more elaborate fantasies, she was the one being endlessly photographed. And because Guy was so famous and respected, interest in his stunning new model would spread like wildfire ... the life of a super model beckoned ... she would become wealthy, a celebrity, loved by everyone ...

especially Guy Cassidy.

‘But then your bosoms are only little, as well,’ said Josh, who had been studying her with a critical eye. ‘Your sister has much bigger ones than you.’

‘A word of advice.’ Maxine clenched her teeth as she bit off a length of thread. ‘You’ll find life a lot easier if you don’t go through it telling people what small bosoms they have.’

‘Bosoms’ was currently his favourite word. Josh smirked.

‘And don’t you think you should be getting changed into something more suitable?’

Guy and Serena were supposed to be taking both Josh and Ella into St Ives for lunch and it was one o’clock already. Maxine, who had set her heart on an afternoon of serious sunbathing, was beginning to wonder if they’d forgotten.

Josh shrugged. ‘Oh, we aren’t going now. Dad’s taking Serena to meet some of her friends instead. They’ve got a yacht moored at Falmouth.’

Maxine’s heart sank. Bang went her peaceful afternoon. She wondered whether Serena had done it on purpose.

‘So we’re staying here with you,’ said Josh cheerfully. Then, in conversational tones he added, ‘Why do you keep pricking your fingers, Maxine? I hope all that blood’s going to wash out.’

Maxine was battling with the washing machine, which was making alarming noises like a jailer rattling his keys, when the doorbell rang. Glancing out through the kitchen window she saw a silver-grey Rolls Royce parked majestically in the drive. What fun, she thought, if the visitor was yet another of Guy’s ritzy model girlfriends, complete with sneer and a bootful of suitcases. He could install her in the other spare bedroom and visit them on alternate nights like some Arab sheik.

But just as the identity of the last unexpected caller had turned out not to be the milkman but Serena, so thisone appeared not to be a pouting, leggy model at all.

Wrong again, thought Maxine, realizing that she was grinning inanely at the visitor on the doorstep. What a good job she hadn’t set her heart on a career as a fortune teller.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the man, and although she was certain they hadn’t met before, he looked vaguely familiar. Hastily rearranging the grin into a more suitable smile, Maxine shook his outstretched hand and wondered if he might know something about erratic washing machines.

‘You must be Maxine, the new nanny,’ he continued warmly. ‘I’m Oliver Cassidy.’

Realization dawned. ‘I spoke to you on the phone earlier,’ she said, recognizing the deep, well-bred voice. ‘How nice to meet you, but I’m afraid Guy isn’t back yet. We aren’t expecting him home until this evening.’

‘I know.’ Oliver Cassidy looked a lot like his son but Maxine felt he possessed a great deal more charm. Now he shrugged and smiled. ‘But it seemed a shame to pass up the opportunity to see my grandchildren. It’s been quite a while, you see, and I’m only down here for the afternoon.’