After the One, Cass Lester [top romance novels .txt] 📗

the urge to pick up his drink and throw it straight in his smug, lecherous face. Stepping back to get away from him, she flicked the lager tap off while the glass was only half full.

Sensing trouble, Jacob came over. ‘Everything all right, Charley?’ he asked with studied calm.

‘I think this customer has had enough to drink.’

‘Bollocks! You were in the middle of pouring me a pint!’

Taking one look at the man who was still leaning over the counter, Jacob said politely, ‘I think my colleague is probably right, sir. I suggest you’d better go home.’

‘But I want another drink!’ The drunk had raised his voice almost to a shout, and heads turned in the rest of the pub.

‘Sorry, sir, not in here, not tonight.’

For a split-second, Charley thought the man was going to kick off, but, probably because Jacob was well over six foot and built like an international rugby player, the older man wisely thought better of it, and suddenly deflating, he practically slid off the barstool and zigzagged his way to the exit.

‘Wanker,’ muttered Jacob under his breath, but loud enough for Charley to hear. Then he turned and gave her a friendly nudge with his arm, ‘Don’t let him get to you. He’s not worth it, love.’

Charley nodded. She couldn’t have agreed with him more.

The next morning, she woke early. The sun was trying to get in through the curtains, so she yanked them open and then grinned at Josh’s photo on the bedside and, as ever, he grinned back. ‘It’s not exactly another day in paradise,’ she told him. It couldn’t be, not without him, ‘But it feels like it might be a pretty good day…’

She stripped her bed, bundled up the bedding and headed into the kitchen, only to find the washing machine was already on, churning away full of soapsuds. Pam had got there first.

‘I’m sorry!’ said Pam, abashed. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted to put some on.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ said Charley brightly, dumping her laundry on the floor. Then, as she belatedly remembered the kitchen was now a ‘shared living space’, she scooped it up again. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, it’s fine. I always leave laundry on the kitchen floor at home,’ said Pam, and then she hurriedly corrected herself, ‘I meant, back at the house,’ she clarified unnecessarily, and then she blundered on as if she were embarrassed by her evident breach of flat-sharing etiquette. ‘And anyhow, it’s my fault. I didn’t bring enough clothes. I have to keep washing everything. I suppose I should go back and get some more, but Geoff will be there and—’ She stopped herself, and took a beat before saying, ‘I’m being childish, aren’t I?’

‘No. No, you’re not,’ Charley assured her hurriedly, and then, much against her inner wishes, she felt compelled to add, ‘Do you want me to go?’ She didn’t really want to. No, make that, really, really, didn’t want to. The visit was bound to embroil her in an excruciatingly difficult conversation with her father-in-law, but she felt she had to offer. And seeing the expression of sheer relief that was now flooding Pam’s face, she was glad she had.

In the event, they both went, but in Charley’s car. Over breakfast they plotted the raid with the precision of a SWAT team: if Geoff was at home, Charley would go in, armed with the list of clothes that Pam wanted; if he wasn’t, then Pam would go in and Charley would stay outside, parked up the street, on lookout. If Geoff arrived while Pam was in the house, Charley would phone Pam and she would nip out the back and sneak to the car once Geoff had had time to get inside the front door. Pam resisted the urge to suggest they synchronised watches – not least because she didn’t actually own one. Anyhow, it all seemed like a fine well-planned operation… until Charley pulled into the driveway.

There were two cars in the drive. And Pam didn’t recognise the second one. She panicked. ‘Oh my God! She’s there! Reverse, reverse!’

‘Bloody hell!’ cried Charley slamming the gears into reverse, and shooting backwards out of the driveway, gravel spraying from her wheels. Then she had to slam the brakes on, because a steady stream of traffic had suddenly appeared, blocking her in and leaving them stranded on the pavement.

‘Go! GO!’ yelled Pam, clutching the door handle furiously, her eyes trained on the front door, dreading that someone might emerge.

‘I can’t! There’s a truck coming!’ cried Charley, with the car half in and half out of the drive.

Pam slunk down as low as she could in the passenger seat. She felt vaguely sick. Suppose Geoff and the other woman had heard the car on the drive? If they so much as glanced out of the front window they’d see them. She prayed furiously to the traffic gods to give them a break and grant them a speedy getaway. As soon as there was a gap in the seemingly endless stream of cars, Charley reversed swiftly onto the street and they tore off.

‘That was close!’ Pam sat back up and then burst out laughing, tension erupting from her like the cork from a shaken-up bottle of fizz. They drove away, giggling like a couple of school kids.

Although Pam was enormously thankful not to have had an encounter with the other woman, she was infuriated that because of the other woman she still faced spending the summer with four tops, two pairs of crops, five pairs of knickers and a spare bra. Which was, when you come to think of it, completely irrational. There was so much more to blame the other woman for than that.

Chapter Thirteen

After her success at the Avalon, Charley felt buoyed and enormously encouraged. She made up dozens more sample bags and phoned every possible venue in Bristol that might be interested in taking them, trying to book pitch meetings. Of course, not all of them had bitten, but she had secured a few