Perfect on Paper Gillian Harvey (free romance novels .txt) 📖

rather grey handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow. ‘Just a bug; I don’t seem able to shake it.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘You know,’ he said, once his colour had returned to normal, ‘seeing as we’re working together closely … well, perhaps it would be nice to meet up for a drink or something. Not just us of course, perhaps I could bring my wife, and you could, erm, bring Toby? Might be, well, a pleasant evening? We could talk to him about … well, his TV stuff?’

‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she lied, wondering how much sway he really thought the presenter of Woman’s World TV show would have over the repurposing of greenbelt land, and whether he really thought he was being subtle.

‘Great. Great.’

‘Well, I’ll wait for your call Stefan, on the properties.’

‘And, um, yes, I’ll contact you about that dinner,’ he said, turning towards her as he left. ‘See if we can’t pencil something in.’

Yes, why not, she thought. Perhaps she’d invite Hatty as well – that could make for an entertaining evening. Friends in high places indeed.

Minutes later, Ann stepped in with a document for Clare to sign.

‘Was Mr Camberwaddle all right?’ she asked, leaning on the desk conspiratorially. ‘He looked a bit flustered when he left.’

‘He said he felt a bit off colour; but I think he’s OK.’

‘Right. I was quite worried about him when I saw him walking through reception just now. He looked – I don’t know – frail almost.’

Probably weighed down by the weight of his own subterfuge, thought Clare meanly. It was annoying that the client she thought she’d landed fair and square seemed to have his eyes on her husband rather than her. Having Camberwaddle in her corner was great – but she’d rather have him on the books because of her great legal brain, rather than her husband’s great connections.

As it was, things with Toby were, if anything, looking more rocky than before. He was trying, he’d really started to listen to her, but this was the wrong time for him to notice her – he’d begun to worry what she was up to. And she didn’t know how to tell him about Martha B. How could she begin to explain when she’d done so much behind his back already? Besides, it would all be over soon.

‘It’s just … all these phone calls. Sudden late nights. It’s nothing to do with this Camberwaddle bloke, is it?’ he’d said last night.

‘What? Of course not!’

‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said. ‘It’s just … you never seem to tell me anything.’

‘That’s because you never listen!’ she’d snapped.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I do tell you things, but you’re always so preoccupied with your job you don’t really listen to me,’ she’d said, feeling tears prick at her eyes. ‘Last time I told you about a work problem you told me I should make a lasagne.’

‘Now come on! Your lasagne is legendary,’ he’d said, missing the point. ‘I thought you’d be pleased that I liked it so much.’

‘But I wasn’t … I was telling you about a work meeting, not meal planning for the week. You just assumed I was talking about dinner. Probably because I’m a woman – that’s what you think, isn’t it? That I should be at home, in the kitchen.’

‘How can I listen if you never talk! I don’t understand women!’

‘Coming from the presenter of Woman’s World, that comment is pretty alarming.’

‘But seriously, how can I understand how you feel,’ he’d replied, more softly now, ‘if you don’t ever tell me?’ He’d reached out and touched her upper arm, pulling her lightly towards him.

‘What?’

‘I know I’ve been a bit crap. Preoccupied. But I love you, you know. I do want to know how you’re feeling. Even if I get things wrong sometimes.’

‘Oh.’ Telling him directly how she felt hadn’t actually crossed her mind recently, she’d realised. She’d tried to show him instead. She’d felt her skin prickle – had she really become an online rap sensation simply because she was avoiding having a proper conversation with her husband? Was that a proportionate reaction?

Steph was right, she should have opted for a new lipstick, not a new identity.

‘It’s like that Martha B. character,’ he’d said, suddenly.

Her heart had somersaulted. ‘What?’ she’d squeaked.

‘Yeah, well, she’s great, right? Women love her. She goes on TV, creates a furore, the whole hashtag thing, but when I actually want to contact her, to come on the show, for christsake, she’s nowhere to be found. Like she doesn’t really exist. Doesn’t actually want to talk about it.’

‘But … Martha B.?’

‘Yeah, I contacted The One Show, and they gave me the number of a guy called Dan – her manager, or whatever. But he was really cagey when I rang him.’

‘But why … why would you even want her on your show? Most of the time you speak to business leaders, lawyers, politicians … sometimes a film star.’

‘Yeah, but she’s like the voice for women at the moment. Hatty reckons she’s going to be a big thing. That hashtag business. You know that women are suing their bosses now?’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, and it’s like she’s united all these women with problems. Not just the big take-your-boss-to-court problems. But the little problems that mount up. Being ignored. Overlooked for promotion. Being expected to do stuff that isn’t really their job.’

‘Right?’

‘But what’s the point of having this important message, if when people actually want to hear it, you’re nowhere to be found?’

Clare was just beginning to look through the brochure that Camberwaddle had passed to her when she heard the sound of running footsteps. Ann burst into her office, glasses on a slant, eyes wide with alarm.

‘Come quickly!’ she said. ‘It’s Mr Camberwaddle! He’s collapsed in the street!’

‘What?’

‘Yes! He had a glass of water in reception, got a couple of paces out of the door and just went! I’ve called an ambulance. They’ll be here in a second, but I think it might be serious!’

Without really knowing what she’d do when she got there, Clare leapt