An Escape to Provence

by Sophie Claire

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Where there's a will, can love find a way?

When cynical divorce lawyer Daisy Jackson unexpectedly inherits a ramshackle farmhouse in Provence, she sets off for the French countryside to oversee renovations herself.

But Gabriel Laforet has other ideas. A local builder with ties to the property, Gabriel is determined to see Daisy off and preserve the characterful, charming farmhouse - which, but for a missing will, he knows is rightfully his.

When the two meet, it's clear they couldn't be more different: Gabriel has lived in the small country village all his life; Daisy is a city girl whose career means everything. He is laid-back and messy; she is used to being in control. As they begin to work together, sparks fly. Yet they're inexplicably drawn to each other and, in the heat of the Provence sun, secrets begin to spill. Perhaps Daisy can trust him with her carefully guarded heart after all?

But Gabriel is still searching for the missing will that proves the farmhouse belongs to him - and in doing so, risks upturning everything he and Daisy have started to build together . . .

(P) 2022 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: May 12, 2022

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter 1

‘Still no progress?’ Daisy Jackson gripped the phone tighter as she paced her office. ‘At all? Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Christine.

Her thick French accent was deceptive. Daisy knew Christine’s English was excellent. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘He’s . . . a difficult man to pin down.’

Daisy stopped in front of the window and gazed out over the stunning view. London’s rooftops glinted as sunlight bounced off wet glass and slate tiles. ‘Difficult to get hold of, or evasive in character?’

Christine hesitated before answering. ‘Both.’

‘Then fire him. Hire someone else.’ Daisy had no time for incompetence. Especially when she was paying him to do a job, which, so far, he hadn’t even started. ‘It’s been months now – almost a year since the papers came through – and that property is just sitting there, empty.’

There was a moment’s pause. ‘Ms Jackson, I know we came to an arrangement, but I feel I have done what you paid me to do.’

Daisy chose her words carefully. She respected ­Christine. From the moment Daisy had contacted her Marseille ­office, she’d been an invaluable help, and Daisy still needed her. She was too far away to deal with this personally. ‘You found me a builder as agreed, but he’s hardly the right one since he’s not actually doing any work.’

‘He’s the only one who was available.’

‘Really? I find that hard to believe—’

‘This is Provence, Ms Jackson, not London or Paris.’

‘I understand that, but—’

‘I’ve done all I can. You have his contact details, he has yours. I can’t do any more to help you.’

Daisy’s brows lifted. Christine was washing her hands of this?

‘Would it help if I increased your fee?’ she suggested. ‘How about I double it and you find me someone else?’

‘Your fee was already very generous,’ Christine said gently. ‘And there is no one else.’

‘No one? There aren’t any other builders in the vicinity?’

‘Monsieur Laforêt is the best. His reputation is excellent. And no. No one else is available.’

The call ended and Daisy frowned, her mind working furiously to sift through the options, searching for a solution. She’d made a flying visit to see the property when she’d inherited it and found it shabby, desperately in need of modernisation. She needed the builder to carry out the renovations he’d committed to doing.

She sat down and dialled Monsieur Laforêt’s number, but there was no answer. He’s a difficult man to pin down. How did he have a reputation for excellence when he didn’t answer his phone or emails? He’d asked for a big deposit, and they’d heard nothing more. It raised her hackles that she and Christine had been trying to get through to him for weeks now with no success. Daisy didn’t like to be ignored or played for a fool. When she’d taken on the house she’d understood that owning a property in another country could be problematic, but she’d hoped that by hiring the right people she’d get a certain level of service in return.

She pushed her chair back decisively and stalked through to the next room. ‘Tracy,’ she said, ‘I need to book some time off.’

Her secretary spluttered coffee over her keyboard. ‘Did you just say what I think you said?’

Daisy calmly handed her a tissue to mop up the coffee. ‘I did.’

Tracy stared at her, tissue in hand. ‘You’re taking a holiday?’

‘Kind of. There’s a problem with the house I inherited. I have to go to France. Can you check my diary for next week and reschedule my meetings? I’m due some annual leave.’

Something had to be done. She had years of experience in dealing with difficult people and was known for being a skilled negotiator. She’d fix this. She just needed to track down Monsieur Laforêt and speak to him face to face.

‘Overdue, more like. I can’t remember when you last had time off. It’s just a shame this doesn’t sound like it’ll be a restful break.’

‘No. Well, perhaps once the building work is done I’ll go back to check it and take a few days for myself. In the meantime, I want to meet Monsieur Laforêt and sort this out once and for all.’

Chapter 2

Daisy drove through a pair of tall metal gates and along the gravel driveway. Tall, umbrella-shaped pine trees and slim conifers jutted up into the blue sky, and sunlight bounced off the pick-up truck parked in front of the house. She was relieved to see it. She’d found him, then.

When she’d stopped in the village to ask where ­Gabriel Laforêt might be, there’d been a few raised eyebrows, a few questions, and perhaps she was cynical but she’d ­suspected that the tabac owner’s directions were delibe­rately vague. ‘Take the road up the hill until you reach the grotto,’ he’d said, ‘then turn left and follow the lane to the end.’

That was it? ‘Can you give me the postcode?’ she’d asked politely. ‘I have satnav in the car.’

The man had laughed. ‘I don’t know it.’

‘The address, then?’

He’d smiled. ‘You don’t need it. Just look for the grotto and turn left. Gabriel will be there.’

She’d bitten back an impatient sigh, tempted to tell him how ludicrously early she’d had to get up to catch the flight to Nice and make the long drive from the airport. But he had already turned back to resume his conversation with his other customers, so she gave up and left.

Yet now, despite the lack of address or postcode, it seemed she’d finally tracked down the elusive Gabriel ­Laforêt.

She stepped out of her hired sports car just as a man dressed in a cement-stained T-shirt and shorts came round the side of the house carrying a shovel, a fork and a trowel. His work boots crunched loudly on the gravel. Daisy’s breath hitched. So this was the man causing her so many problems? He was younger than she’d imagined. Bigger. More rugged, too. Actually, he was hot. A fizz of awareness made her pulse pick up. She watched as he set down his tools beside the truck. The late-afternoon sun cast shadows over his face, and a dark beard accentuated his strong jaw. He pulled a rag out of his pocket and began to wipe clean the shovel, glancing at her as she approached, but calmly continuing with his task.

Her heels sank into the gravel, and she had to be careful to step around the equipment scattered all over the place. It wasn’t easy in a pencil skirt that clung to her thighs in the afternoon heat. The temperature was higher than she’d expected for early May. ‘Monsieur Laforêt?’ she asked, in her best French.

‘Who’s asking?’ he replied, in English.

She tried not to be offended that her accent was so ­obvious. At least language wasn’t going to be a barrier if he spoke English. ‘Daisy Jackson.’ She walked round a concrete mixer and offered him her hand. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you – at last.’

He seemed amused by this. His hands were grey with dust and his handshake was solid, but his gaze narrowed as if he’d come face to face with the enemy.

She didn’t let this intimidate her. But she was equally careful not to antagonise him and kept her smile cool.

‘I’m the new owner of Le Mazet up there on the hill.’ She nodded in the direction of the next valley. The rooftop of the tumbledown wreck she’d inherited was just visible, and its leaning chimney looked even more crooked from that angle.

His expression turned to stone. ‘Le Mazet? There are lots of those round here. Do you know what it means?’ He slung the shovel into the back of the pick-up and picked up the fork. He began to wipe the prongs, his movements careful and methodical.

‘I thought it was the name of the house,’ she said, straightening her glasses. Had she got it wrong? She hated being wrong. In anything.

He examined the fork before throwing that into the truck too. It landed with a loud clang and was joined by the trowel and a paint-splattered spirit level. He wasn’t so methodical about storing his tools, she decided, eyeing the messy heap.

‘Un mazet is a farmhouse,’ he said, with a wry smile that set her teeth on edge. ‘A smaller version of un mas.’

‘Right.’ Who did he think he was? Superior because her A-level French hadn’t been up to par?

Breathe, Daisy.

His muscles bunched as he lifted the concrete mixer into the pick-up, and she tried to hide her surprise at how effortless he made it look. She glanced at the house. Was this where he’d been working the last few months? If he’d told her he was delayed because he had to finish another job she would have understood, but he hadn’t replied to any of her messages.

‘Well, I’m the owner of that particular farmhouse. The one that needs a lot of renovation. Work I was under the impression you were going to do for me. I sent you a cheque for the initial payment. Did you receive it?’

‘I did.’

‘But you haven’t cashed it.’

‘I’m not ready to start work on it.’

Not a hint of apology, nothing. She tried to put out of her mind her frustrations that he hadn’t returned her emails or calls. Her experience as a divorce lawyer had taught her that the best way to achieve success in negotia­tions was to stay detached, identify what the other side wanted, then make them believe they were getting it.

‘Because you’ve been busy here? You’ve done a good job,’ she said, with genuine admiration. The exterior walls looked as if they’d been re-rendered and the wooden shutters were freshly painted in a vivid cyan. No one could fault the quality of his work, but his communication skills left a lot to be desired.

‘I always do a good job.’ He grinned, eyes gleaming as they met hers and held.

Was he flirting with her? A lick of heat flickered in her centre. ‘Monsieur Laforêt, we agreed a schedule. You should have started work three months ago.’

His lip curled a little. ‘You issued a schedule. I didn’t agree to anything.’

‘I asked you to write one and, when you didn’t respond, I put forward a proposal for you to check and amend.’ She’d been careful to word it so his inaction would be ­taken as agreement.

He didn’t look worried, though. In fact, his wry smile made heat rise in the back of her neck. He walked off and scooped up more tools, which had been left hapha­zardly scattered about. She had to walk quickly to keep up.

‘I took your lack of response to mean you were in agreement.’

‘A dangerous assumption to make.’

His English was really very good. She tried not to be impressed. She also tried to ignore the way her body ­responded to his good looks with a fizzing in her blood.

‘But a valid one. You left me no option, Monsieur ­Laforêt. Perhaps you should deal with your paperwork rather than ignoring it.’

Count to ten, Daisy. If only he’d be polite enough to stop and talk to her. Instead, she was following him back and forth as he picked up his things and loaded them into the pick-up, and it wasn’t easy. She was breathless from taking a dozen short steps for every long stride of his.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my paperwork.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? That you’ve been ­deliberately ignoring me?’

She hated the way he made her sound like an outraged schoolmistress. But she valued politeness, and she believed it was important to behave honourably. Clearly he didn’t. She gave up trying to keep up with him and paused, one hand on the truck, to catch her breath.

When he didn’t reply, her teeth clenched, her fists curled. ‘Don’t you want the job, Monsieur Laforêt?’ she called after him.

He stopped, and a muscle pulsed in his jaw. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You’re behaving as if you don’t. Ignoring my calls and emails, not sticking to the schedule, not doing anything to begin the job you quoted for. Why did you accept the work if you don’t want it?’

He turned slowly. ‘Oh, I want it all right.’ His features were steely, and his confrontational tone startled her. For the last ten minutes he’d appeared completely unperturbed, yet now she seemed to have touched a nerve. Why?

‘Right. Well – good. In that case, when are you going to start?’

‘When I’m ready.’

‘I’d like a specific date. When will you finish here? ­Tomorrow? The day after?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

Her patience wore thin. ‘Monsieur Laforêt, I’ve taken time off work to come here and speak to you. Do you know how much my time is worth? How much I bill ­clients per hour? I can tell you, it’s not cheap!’

He smiled. Which made her blood boil.

‘I’ve already spent –’ she checked her watch ‘– over ­seven hours travelling here. I’d really appreciate it if we could ­resolve this as fast as possible so I can get back to London.’

‘Don’t let me stop you.’

His eyes, treacle dark, glinted and all her intentions of staying calm evaporated. Her pulse hammered furiously. ‘You are stopping me! Why are you being so deliberately uncooperative?’

He didn’t answer. Instead, the hint of a smile played on his lips. It made her skin prickle. He was laughing at her.

‘Fine. Then I have no option but to sack you.’ She ­remembered what Christine had said about there being no one else available, but she didn’t believe it. And she couldn’t understand how this guy had any business at all if this was how he treated his customers. ‘Don’t say I didn’t try,’ she muttered, as she marched off.

She must tell the bank to cancel the cheque she’d sent him. She half expected him to try to stop her, but he just watched as she got into the car, slammed the door and started the engine. She glanced at him before she drove away and did a double take. She frowned, puzzled. The expression on his face didn’t make sense.

He’d looked positively triumphant.

So Daisy Jackson was even more uptight than she sounded in her messages, thought Gabriel. Younger and prettier, too, he acknowledged grudgingly, and pictured her long blonde hair and slender legs. Even glaring at him from behind her enormous red glasses, her intelligent grey eyes had snared him. But perhaps he’d succeeded in running her off.

He locked up the client’s house and stood back, sweeping his gaze over the front, assessing his work. She’d been right about one thing: he had indeed done a good job here. But, then, he treated every job as if he were working on his own home. Better, in fact, because the old shepherd’s hut he’d converted and moved into was only meant to be temporary. His jaw tightened with frustration and he focused on the boundary wall he’d just patched up, making sure the new stones and mortar blended with the old, that his lines were straight, the structure solid. Satisfied, he walked back to his pick-up truck. With any luck, he’d get paid for this job soon, and he’d add the money to his slowly accumulating funds in the bank. And when Miss Uptight from London finally gave up and put Le Mazet back on the market, he’d have enough cash to raise a loan and buy the place. Hopefully.

Once showered, he drove back along the country lane into La Tourelle, where his friends were already at the café. He waved as he passed them, parked in the main square, and walked the short distance back to join them. The café’s burgundy chairs and tables were set back from the main road, and Gabriel hadn’t even taken his seat ­before Jacques asked, ‘Did she find you, then, the English woman?’

Heads turned. The conversations stopped, and his friends all looked at him expectantly. It was no surprise. When Gilles from the tabac had called him to say an ­English woman was on her way up, he’d known it wouldn’t be long before the whole village was talking about it.

He nodded to the waiter, Jean-Paul, for his usual cold beer. ‘She did.’

‘They say she’s beautiful,’ said Patrice. ‘Tall. Blonde. Fierce-looking.’

He laughed. ‘She’s nothing I can’t handle.’ Though now he remembered how determined she’d looked, her brows knotted together when she’d seen him. And when he’d ­refused to give her the answers she wanted, her eyes had sparked behind those big square glasses.

But he wasn’t going to do the renovations she ­wanted. All those plans to knock down walls and extend left, right and centre. Floor-to-ceiling windows, expensive air-­conditioning – no. He’d made a promise to Jeanette. So Miss Uptight could take her silly yellow sports car and drive right back to the airport because she was wasting her very expensive time.

‘What did she want?’ Patrice drew his chair closer. ‘Why is she here?’

Jean-Paul put down his beer and waited, as keen as everyone else to hear his answer. Gabriel lifted his drink in thanks. He took a sip, savouring the icy chill on his lips and the fizz on his tongue before it slipped down his throat. Finally, he said, ‘She wants to know why I haven’t started work.’

‘Ah,’ said Jacques.

‘What did you tell her?’ asked Laetitia, as she rocked the baby in her arms. Her daughter, Giselle, put her doll down and trotted over to Gabriel, arms outstretched. He scooped her up and settled her on his lap, where she ­began to fiddle with his hair.

‘Not much. She shouted a lot,’ his lips twitched, ‘and then she sacked me.’

Laetitia’s sharp scowl told him she wasn’t impressed with his attitude. Jacques whistled.

‘Is she moving in?’ asked Patrice. ‘I heard she’s up there, at Le Mazet. Arnaud saw a car as he drove past.’

Gabriel took another swig of his beer, amused by this. Le Mazet was barely visible from the main road. Arnaud must either have been craning his neck or he’d taken a detour to check. ‘She’s there. I don’t know if she’s staying.’ His fingers curled around the beer bottle, squeezing the cold glass dangerously tight. He’d felt a kick in the gut at seeing the hire car parked outside Le Mazet as he’d driven home. The thought of her touching Jeanette’s things made him flinch.

Yet the rational part of his brain knew there was nothing of importance left in the house. He’d made sure of that. He’d been through everything half a dozen times, at least.

‘Giselle, leave Gabriel’s hair,’ Laetitia told her daughter.

‘It’s fine,’ he said, waving away her concern.

The little girl giggled mischievously and continued to tug at his hair. Patrice smirked.

‘What?’ asked Gabriel.

Giselle giggled again.

‘My daughter’s styled your hair.’ Patrice snapped a photo of him on his phone and held it out for him to see.

His hair had been pinned back with a glittery pink hairclip. He pulled a face of mock-horror and Giselle giggled louder.

‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Laetitia.

‘She sacked me. What can I do?’

‘You could be straight with her. You could explain the situation.’

He felt a spur of guilt. But then he remembered Miss Uptight’s haughty manner, and the way she’d stalked about in those ridiculously high heels, pointing at her enormous silver watch. ‘She’ll be gone soon. She was ­already ­counting the hours she’d “wasted” coming here.’ He put down his beer with a thud.

‘And you’ll be happy with that?’ asked Laetitia. ‘To have driven her away from the house that is rightfully hers?’

Gabriel scowled. Truth was, none of this was sitting well with him. But what choice did he have? He’d given his word to Jeanette that he’d look after Le Mazet.

‘So what is she like?’ asked Jacques.

Gabriel remembered how her hair had been scraped back into a long ponytail, and how slender her hand had felt in his. ‘The city type. Skinny. Full of herself.’

Do you know how much my time is worth? He reckoned she’d last two minutes before she was whinging about the Wi-Fi or the lack of fast-food outlets.

But she was also quick, clever and confident. A woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t prepared to be taken for a fool. He couldn’t help but admire that. Even now sparks skittered through his body just thinking about her.

That was only surprise, he told himself quickly, because she’d turned up out of the blue. And her confrontational attitude had woken the gladiator in him. All those clipped questions, that pinched expression. But he’d seen her off and he hoped that would be the end of it. With any luck, she’d soon be gone and the house would remain empty.

‘You need to put yourself in her shoes.’ Laetitia’s brown-eyed gaze met his steadily. ‘She’s innocent in all this. She just inherited a house. She knows nothing about it or about you.’

‘This isn’t about her. It’s about Jeanette.’

‘Jeanette is gone,’ she said gently.

‘I made her a promise.’

‘I know. But you made it thinking you would inherit. Circumstances have changed.’

‘So?’

‘So you need to adapt too.’

‘What – and roll over to the English woman and her demands?’

‘Her demands?’

‘You should have heard her, talking to me as if I were the hired help. She’s superior and bossy.’

‘Is that what this is about?’ He didn’t like the way ­Laetitia was looking at him – or her slow, dawning smile. ‘She’s bossy?’

‘That’s not what it’s about, no. I’m just trying to do the right thing – as Jeanette asked me to.’

Laetitia held his gaze. ‘But you need to think about the English woman too.’

Daisy finished the last in a string of phone calls, and snapped her laptop shut in frustration. No luck so far.

Still, she wouldn’t allow herself to be despondent. ­Tomorrow she’d carry on working her way down the list of builders in the area. She stretched and checked her watch. Long shadows had crept across the terrace while she’d been on the phone, casting an eerie glow over the neglected house. Creepers smothered the old stone walls, threatening to choke the wooden shutters and terracotta-­tiled roof, and the trees at the back of the house waved their branches ominously. She looked at the silent, dark fields in front that stretched to the forest beyond, and shivered. This place was so quiet, so still. So lonely.

She wrapped her arms around herself, more unsettled than she cared to admit. It was nothing like London and she missed the hum of crowded streets and city traffic.

It didn’t matter what she thought of the place, she told herself. She was only here for a few days. She’d soon have all the problems fixed and be able to go home knowing the place would soon be generating a healthy profit.

She fetched her case from the car and went inside, wrinkling her nose at the archaic kitchen, doing her best to ignore the musty smell as she got things ready for tonight. She’d much rather have booked into a hotel, but the nearest one of decent quality was an hour’s drive away.

Her heels clicked against the stone-tiled floor as she marched through the lounge. If Gabriel Laforêt hadn’t put a spanner in the works, she wouldn’t have needed to come here at all. Her jaw tightened as she thought of how he’d answered her questions with infuriating indifference. Why had he taken on the job if he had no intention of ­doing it? It didn’t make sense. And why couldn’t she shake from her mind the picture of his muscles flexing as he’d slung his tools into the van?

Upstairs, she pushed open all the bedroom doors, quickly identifying which had been the old lady’s. Her relative. Family she hadn’t even known she had until the solicitor had tracked her down. The thought tugged at her, but she brushed it aside. No point in getting sentimental now. Besides, family wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She knew that better than anyone.

It didn’t feel right to sleep in the dead woman’s room so she unwrapped the new sheets she’d had the foresight to bring with her and made the bed in the second bedroom. As she did so, she eyed the ancient dressing-table and the imposing dark wardrobe. The old lady might have been able to live in the house like this, but it wasn’t up to the standards Daisy was used to. Everything looked so tired and worn, yellowed with age. The builder’s first job, when she found one, would be to strip the place of all these horrors, and when the renovations were finished she’d pay an interior designer to kit the place out in a more modern style.

The bed made, she grabbed her car keys and drove towards the village for food, remembering the signs she’d seen for a big supermarket. However, the supermarket was in darkness. She checked her watch. It had closed an hour ago. Daisy sighed. In London there were always lights on somewhere, shops open and traffic rumbling by even at night.

She tried to think: what had she seen when she’d stopped in the village earlier? Hadn’t there been a restaurant opposite the tabac? There’d certainly been a café next door, although she couldn’t be sure if they’d serve food. She hopped back into the car.

Five minutes later, she stood in front of the restaurant and her shoulders sank again. She rattled the door impatiently, but it was no good.

‘It’s closed!’ a man called.

She whirled round. The tabac owner who’d given her directions this afternoon was standing outside his shop. She hurried across the street to speak to him, conscious of heads turning outside the café. ‘But the sign says they’re open on a Tuesday,’ she said.

The man waved this away with a flick of his hand. ‘Family emergency,’ he explained, and nodded at the café next door. ‘You can get something to eat there.’ He gave a sharp whistle and the waiter turned around.

Daisy’s gaze travelled past him to the group of a ­dozen or so friends seated behind him, and she stilled. In the midst of them, with a toddler on his lap, was Gabriel ­Laforêt. His gaze met hers, and ice crept down the back of her neck.

‘This lady here is looking to eat,’ said the tabac owner.

The waiter smiled at Daisy. ‘I can make you a croque-­monsieur.’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘I – er – I was hoping for a ­salad,’ she said, ruffled at the thought of eating her meal feet away from the builder she’d fired this afternoon.

‘Sorry. Croque-monsieur is all I can offer you,’ he said regretfully.

‘It doesn’t matter. Thank you anyway,’ she said quickly.

Her stomach growled as she drove away, and she cursed this place with its archaic opening times and services. She might as well have travelled back in time to the middle ages.

At the farmhouse again, she got into bed and pulled up the sheets. She’d left the shutters open, but even so the darkness was thick and heavy, the silence overwhelming. Le Mazet was completely isolated. Earlier she’d walked all around the house but there hadn’t been another building in sight. Only endless trees and empty fields.

She tried to imagine the sounds of the city and the bright lights that studded the darkness when she looked out of her apartment window. The thought comforted her, and she was just beginning to nod off when she heard a long, urgent scream.

She froze. The noise was bloodcurdling. Too distant to be on her property, but too unsettling to ignore.

Was it a woman? It had sounded human, yet there was no living soul for miles around.

Or was there? She pulled the sheet tighter. She’d locked the kitchen door and the shutters were closed in all the other rooms – but still. She was alone here. What if someone tried to force entry? She tried to remember if there’d been a knife in the kitchen she could arm herself with, or a poker near the fireplace.

She lay still, fingers curled tightly. It had probably been a night bird, she told herself, and a faint memory trickled through from her early childhood but was gone before she could grasp it. The noise had probably been an owl screeching, or its prey screaming.

But she couldn’t relax, and she knew it would be a long time before sleep would come.

‘Why won’t you take the job?’ Daisy asked in French.

‘I told you – I’m busy,’ said Bertrand, turning away. He dropped his small notebook into the pocket of his blue boiler suit. He was old-school, he’d told her, as he’d scribbled her name and number. He preferred a pen and paper to computers, and she’d liked this about him. He’d seemed reliable – until he too had joined all the others in saying he couldn’t help her.

‘Your first answer was yes. It was only when I gave you the address that you suddenly remembered how busy you are.’

She shot a pointed look at the two men on the building site behind him. Both were perched on a wall; one was eating sandwiches, while the other leafed through a newspaper. They weren’t in a hurry to finish shovelling the mound of rubble beside them – and she didn’t know how anyone could work in this heat. The temperature seemed to have climbed ten degrees since yesterday.

‘Yeah – well, I made a mistake. I have a bad memory.’ He pointed a finger at his thinning hair and shot her a weak smile.

She didn’t be. . .