Love Bug

by Zoe Barnes

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Don't get bitten...If love is a bug then Laurel Page is immune. Been there. Done that. Got over it. All she wants now is a quiet life. And while running a dating agency may not seem like the logical career path for a woman who has so fervently sworn off romance, for Laurel it's perfect. There's something deliciously safe about other people's romantic problems. Laurel's had enough drama in her relationships to last two life times. And then Gabriel Jouet walks into her office. Tall, dark and oozing with Gallic charm, he's an unlikely client and almost enough to make even Laurel contemplate abandoning her vow of singledom. Almost... But Laurel's scars run deep: Cupid really would have to be stupid to pick on her again...

Release date: August 30, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 448

Sample

There was no putting it off any longer.

Laurel Page stood in St Thaddeus Place, a lone fixed point in a two-way stream of people disgorged from buses and cars. Her second-best work suit itched horribly; all the little hairs in the woollen fabric seemed to have worked their way through her tights already, and it was only eight-thirty. But it was too late to go home and change.

Setting down her briefcase, she felt for the bunch of keys in her pocket – a brand-new set, cold and unfamiliar to the touch – and took a good hard look at the brass plate on the door in front of her. It read: DOVECOTE & MARSH MARRIAGE BUREAU (est. 1856). The very sight of that old-fashioned, mock-wood-grained door made her smile, sandwiched as it was between the Day-Glofronted One-Stop Copy Shop and The Happy Nappy: it looked for all the world like the portal to some other, more leisurely dimension.

And anyway, who in their right mind would run something that called itself a marriage bureau, in this day and age?

Me, she thought: that’s who. And the concept felt crazier than ever. What on earth are you doing, Laurel? she asked herself for the umpteenth time. You of all people, running a dating agency! Not to mention that by some odd quirk or another the job also included acting as agony aunt for the local rag, when frankly she could have used one herself right now, the way she was feeling. Not that she’d know what to say if one did pop up like a genie from a bottle.

She imagined a quill pen scratching across vellum. Dear Auntie Laurel, Today I’m starting my new job. Lucky me. No, scrub the cheap sarcasm. The thing is, it’s all so embarrassing. I’m thirty-two years old and I feel like a four-year-old on my first day at nursery school. And I keep wondering if I’m making this really big mistake, you know, setting myself up for another fall. After all, I did promise myself I’d never be in charge of anything again after …’ Her mouth dried at the memory. After you-know-what. But this is hardly some massive multinational, is it? It’s just a cute little old marriage bureau. Surely nothing can go wrong this time.

She swallowed hard. ‘Can it?’

A tiny shiver ran up and down her spine. And then the quill pen raced to the bottom of the page.

Yours sincerely, Laurel Page, spinster of this parish.

‘Right,’ she said out loud, determinedly ramming the key into the lock. Time to see the whites of their eyes.

Laurel sat down in her squeaky leather armchair, behind her monolithic mahogany desk, and revelled in her splendid new office. Not that the word ‘new’ could really be applied to anything at Dovecote & Marsh, where even the franking machine had Queen Anne legs: it was like walking into a Charles Dickens theme park. What with the converted gas lamps and the etched glass windows, it felt as though a gang of street urchins might pop up from behind the aspidistra at any moment and break into ‘Consider Yourself’.

I could really get to like this, she thought, and directed another beaming smile at Miss Gemma Brodie, her very first client. This matchmaking lark was turning out much easier than she’d thought; and better than that, it was fun. ‘Well, I’m sure we can help you,’ she said brightly, tucking a strand of collar-length blonde hair behind her ear. ‘As our brochure says, there’s someone for everyone at D&M.’

Miss Brodie’s impressive chest heaved with pleasure, and the giant panda on her rather tight T-shirt suddenly looked several dinners better off. ‘You really think so?’

Laurel ran a thoughtful finger round the rim of her teacup as her eyes darted around the five open files on her desk. No computer matchmaking here; everything at D&M seemed to live in pink cardboard folders, with an ad hoc filing system that had even colonised a cardboard box in the lavatory. It was certainly a change from the dot com company where she’d looked after publicity. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing.

Laurel’s gaze lighted on one file in particular, and she smiled. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I really do.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ Gemma gushed, grasping Laurel’s hand. ‘Thank you so much!’

Somewhat embarrassed by this excess of gratitude, Laurel gently extricated her fingers. ‘Don’t mention it. It’s what we’re here for.’

‘Yes I know that, but old Mr Case – you know, the one that was here before you – well, he just didn’t seem to understand. I could talk and talk and talk, but it didn’t make the slightest difference what I said, he just kept staring at me.’ Gemma leaned forward and her chest spread out alarmingly across the desktop. ‘I’m sure his mind wasn’t on the job.’

Laurel could see why. ‘Oh, I’m sure that wasn’t the … er … case.’ She winced at her own terrible pun. ‘The important thing is that you’re here now and we’re going to introduce you to lots of suitable people. In fact,’ she confided, ‘I think I may have just the man for you right here.’

It was perfectly true. Laurel couldn’t think of anyone easier to find a match for than this voluptuous pocket Venus.

Miss Brodie’s eyes widened in delight. ‘Oh, how lovely!’

‘In fact if you’re comfortable with the idea, there’s someone in the waiting room now I’d love you to meet.’

Miss Brodie grinned broadly. ‘Really? That would be wonderful.’

Laurel mentally rubbed her hands together, and placed a tick in an invisible box. Job done. That nice Mr Coxon was in for a real treat.

Flushed with success, Laurel sauntered into her secretary’s office with the empty teacups. ‘Well! Are they all that easy?’

Connie Stanway looked up from stabbing at her aged typewriter with a pair of scissors. There was ribbon ink all over her bitten fingernails, and a blob of Tipp-Ex on her pale pink cardigan. ‘Sorry?’

‘Miss Brodie.’ Laurel lowered her voice. ‘The one with the chest.’

Connie’s face acquired a couple of extra frown lines. At forty-three it was still a pretty face, but one that didn’t smile quite as much as it ought. ‘Ah. That Miss Brodie.’

‘So, are they all that easy to match up?’

‘Match up?’ A hint of concern appeared in the cloudgrey eyes. ‘Actually, I meant to tell you about—’

Laurel wasn’t really listening; she was too busy basking in the afterglow. ‘Easy as anything.’ She bounced up and perched on the edge of her secretary’s desk. ‘As soon as I saw Mr Coxon’s file I knew they were perfect for each other. Fancy them walking into the office on the very same morning!’

Connie’s face turned the colour of stale hummus. ‘Miss Brodie?’

‘Yes, I told you.’

‘With Mr Coxon?’

‘That’s right. They’re having a nice little chat in the waiting room. Why?’

‘Because …’ Connie’s pallor acquired a nasty tinge of green. ‘Oh God.’

‘Connie?’ Laurel was sure nobody’s face should be that colour. ‘Are you all right?’

But Connie just kept repeating the same mantra, over and over again. She ran inky fingers through her mousy curls, leaving black streaks. ‘Oh God oh God oh God.’

This was just plain exasperating. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ demanded Laurel.

Connie looked up at Laurel with pleading eyes. ‘Just tell me you haven’t matched Gemma Brodie with—’

At that point, Connie was cut short as a masculine yelp resounded round the office, and Mr Adrian Coxon entered stage left, closely pursued by an extremely irate Gemma Brodie, a woman who looked as if she had something other than romance on her mind.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Connie. ‘You have.’

Laurel paced up and down her office, with Connie trailing in her wake.

‘You’ve prised them apart?’ demanded Laurel.

Connie nodded.

‘And they’re both OK?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And nobody’s suing us?’

‘No, but—’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘Everything’s sorted out now,’ said Connie, pausing by the fireplace to straighten the portrait of the first Mr Dovecote as Laurel caught it with her elbow.

‘No thanks to me,’ commented Laurel, flinging herself into the squeaky leather armchair. ‘How could I be so stupid?’

‘You weren’t to know they used to live together, were you? It’s my fault, I should’ve warned you about those two. I meant to add a note to Miss Brodie’s file.’ Connie hovered between the desk and the door. ‘The thing is,’ she began, then stopped and began fiddling with the Sellotape dispenser.

Laurel looked up and feared the worst. ‘What? What’s happened now?’

‘Nothing’s happened. It’s just … well, you’ve not to get yourself all in a panic over this, that’s all.’

‘I’ve not?’

‘Definitely not. Hey, we all make mistakes, don’t we?’

Laurel caught sight of her reflection in the giltframed mirror by the door; she’d bitten most of her lipstick off, her nose was all shiny, and her hair was sticking up on one side like a honey-blonde cockade. ‘Oh no, how long have I been walking around like this?’

‘A while. I didn’t like to say.’

Laurel did her best to flatten down the unruly tuft. ‘Thanks a bunch Connie, I look like a one-eared koala!’

Their eyes met and after a brief moment’s awkwardness they both burst out laughing.

‘Have a biscuit,’ urged Connie. ‘Go on, there’s a chocolate one under all those digestives.’

‘I’m not sure I deserve a chocolate one,’ said Laurel, biting into it ruefully.

‘It’s OK, it’s medicinal.’ Connie perched her pink polyester bottom on the windowsill, munching. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, everybody gets stuff wrong to start off with.’ She chuckled. ‘And you’d be amazed, some of the folk we get in here. Ask Bette about the time she had that Sir Marlon what’s-his-face on the phone, and she thought he was a heavy breather!’

‘No!’ Laurel gasped.

Connie’s cheeks coloured. ‘Then there was the time I got locked in the loo with an Arab sheikh who was looking for wife number fifty-two.’

Laurel choked on a biscuit crumb. ‘How on earth did you manage that?’

‘It’s a long story. If we hadn’t found a twenty-fourhour locksmith it could’ve turned into a diplomatic incident! So you see, matching up the gruesome twosome isn’t really in the same league, is it?’

‘Well, since you put it like that.’ Laurel decided she could forgive herself enough to the extent of a Bourbon cream and two fig rolls. As she nibbled, she mused. ‘Looks like I’m going to need help,’ she announced.

‘No problem.’ Connie didn’t just look willing, thought Laurel; she positively oozed eagerness. ‘Whatever you need.’

‘Thanks. I suppose Mr Case had some kind of routine for running this place?’ Not that he bothered leaving me any notes or anything, Laurel added silently. That would be far too helpful.

‘Well yes, as a matter of fact he did. I know you wouldn’t think so from all the cardboard boxes and the equipment here’s straight out of the Ark, but we’ve kind of built up a system over the years. You know, ways of doing stuff, places to put things so they don’t get lost.’

‘Ah, so that’s why the spare safe key’s with the custard creams.’ Laurel swallowed the last mouthful of biscuit, wiped her hands on her skirt and came to the only sensible decision. ‘OK then, no more jumping in at the deep end for me. I’d be really grateful if you could help me get into the same daily routine, so I can ease myself in gently, get a proper idea of how this place has been run in the past. And then …’

‘Then?’ enquired Connie.

Laurel winked. ‘Then we start making changes.’

That afternoon, Connie was humming to herself as she sorted through her files, piecing together Mr Case’s typical working week. Haphazard Dovecote & Marsh’s systems might be, but Connie’s own files were as ordered and professional-looking as pink cardboard would allow. Of course it hadn’t helped that Mr Case had been in the habit of taking files home, only to leave them on the bus, have them chewed by his dogs or return them back to front and covered in jam. But Connie was made of stern stuff: her desk drawers never lacked for Sellotape, a damp cloth or the telephone number of the bus company.

As she was hammering out a list on her antiquated typewriter, she spotted a flash of red lurex jumper out of the corner of her eye. Looking up, she was just in time to see Stacey’s three-inch steel stilettos tottering past her door for the fifth time that afternoon.

‘Stace?’

Stacey didn’t seem to notice, so Connie raised her voice and bawled. ‘Stacey Biggs!’

A startled ginger poodle perm appeared in her doorway, framing a heart-shaped face dominated by large doll-blue eyes. ‘Did you say something?’

‘Honestly Stace, you’re in a world of your own half the time.’

The doll-blue eyes blinked. ‘Sorry.’

‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed you accidentally wandering past my door every five minutes.’

Stacey coloured up. ‘I was just on my way to, er—’

Connie wagged a mock reproving finger. ‘It’s no good, you won’t get a look at Miss Page now, she’s gone off to buy a fireproof filing cabinet.’ She smiled at Stacey’s crestfallen expression. ‘It’s OK, she’s fine.’

The bounce returned to Stacey’s poodle curls, making her look more than ever like a twenty-five-yearold version of Shirley Temple. ‘Really?’

‘Breath of fresh air if you ask me. You’ll like her.’ She nodded towards the main office. ‘Go on, tell the others, you know you’re dying to.’

It wasn’t until Stacey had skipped happily out of earshot that Connie added under her breath: ‘Oh yes. This one I can really make something of.’

By the time Laurel had bought a nice electric-orange filing cabinet, arranged for it to be delivered to D&M, had a coffee and chatted with her staff about paper clips, it was getting on for five and she decided to go home. After all, she was her own boss now: who was going to tell her off for stealing the odd five minutes here and there?

Besides, she was knackered. She stifled a contented yawn as she turned off the London Road into Oriel Gardens, and parked outside a square-cut, creamcoloured Georgian pile with several TV aerials bristling out of it like cocktail sticks from a lump of cheese. It rejoiced in the name of Rivendell, but the nearest it had ever got to an elf was the solitary garden gnome, dangling its fishing rod rather pointlessly over the rockery.

Grabbing her briefcase from the passenger seat, she walked up to the front door, unlocked it and stepped into a rainbow of softly coloured light, filtered through the stained-glass panel. There were several neat piles of post on the half-moon-shaped hall table, one for each of the six flats. Laurel’s consisted of a TV licence reminder, a mailshot about cosmetic surgery, and a picture postcard depicting a cowboy roping a steer.

Laurel climbed up the stairs to her first-floor flat, made a beeline for the fridge and drank half a litre of orange juice straight from the carton. Then she flicked on the CD player, threw her itchy jacket and skirt over the sofa bed and flopped into the chintzy depths of her favourite armchair to read the postcard.

Dear Laurel, it ran. having a lovely time here in Montana with your Uncle Greg. Going to rodeo tomorrow, your dad’s threatening to take part!!! Weather hot, noses peeling, you’d love it. Love Mum and Dad XXX. PS How’s the love life?

Laurel shook her head and smiled. The love life? God Mum, you never give up do you? Laurel had lost count of the number of times she’d told her mum she’d given up men for ever, end of story. One of these days it might finally sink in. Yeah, and the Isle of Man might win the World Cup.

Hauling herself out of the chair, she ambled over to the cork board she’d hung above the telly and pinned up her mum’s postcard with all the others. So far she had Tipperary, Copenhagen, Reykjavik, Boston, Louisiana and Montana. Who’d have thought the Page family could have spread itself so widely, or that Laurel’s parents might take it into their heads to visit every last one of their distant relatives? A tiny flicker of irritation disrupted Laurel’s serenity; there was something annoying about being less well-travelled than your own mother, even if you’d never particularly felt the urge to go llama-trekking in the Andes.

She took a deep, calming breath and sprinkled a few flakes of fish food into the aquarium. ‘Hi Neil. How’s my favourite guy today?’

Neil mouthed back soundlessly, a little piece of the tropics that had come to her. Not a very interesting piece admittedly, but Laurel liked to think she saw through those drab greyish-brown scales to the essential Neil beneath.

‘Not bad for a first day,’ she reflected out loud. ‘OK, so I nearly witnessed a murder in my own office, but hey, things could definitely have gone worse.’ She bent down and looked Neil in the eye. ‘What do you reckon? Any words of fishy wisdom on offer?’

But Neil just scarpered and hid, quivering, behind a lump of plastic coral.

‘OK, be like that.’ She stuck out her tongue at him. ‘I’m off down the pub.’

Nice quiet drink: that’s what I need, thought Laurel as her inner remote control guided her out of Rivendell, across the road, past the corner shop and into the saloon bar of her local. Ah yes, some quality time slumped in a corner with a half of lager, letting the day’s adrenalin seep away into the sweat-stained moquette. Just the very thing.

Unfortunately the Ram was not the best place to find it, at least not tonight. Half the chairs and tables had been stacked up against the wall, and in the middle of an improvised stage a man in a sequinned stetson was directing colourful oaths at a tatty old amplifier. Bugger, thought Laurel; I forgot Monday was country and western night.

Heads swivelled at her arrival, clocked the newcomer as One Of Them From The Flats, then returned to the much more interesting spectacle of Burford Bill trying to thump some life into his amp.

‘Plug it in,’ somebody shouted helpfully. Everybody laughed. Burford Bill made an obscene gesture.

‘Nah, give it a kick.’

He tried that, but all he got out of it was a dull thud and a sore toe. ‘Buggerin’ thing’s busted.’

Thank you God, thought Laurel, getting herself a bottle of Beck’s and squeezing into the remotest corner she could find. And please could you see your divine way to giving him laryngitis as well, just for tonight?

Kicking off her shoes, she slid down on the poorly disguised church pew that called itself a settle, took a swig from the bottle and pondered the day she’d just had.

Dovecote & Marsh. The very name had an inch-thick layer of dust on it. There was oak panelling in the one and only toilet, one of the desks looked like genuine Chippendale, and a stack of brochures she’d found in the stationery cupboard listed all the prices in guineas. If anybody had asked her a few weeks ago whether places like that still existed, she’d probably have laughed. If they’d told her she’d be managing one of them, she’d have told them to get their heads examined. Still, at least D&M was distinctive. And that was what she’d been looking for lately, wasn’t it? An escape from dot com hysteria, a little time to stop and smell the flowers rather than flog them over the Internet.

She smiled, recalling the big Deco vase on her office windowsill. Freesias, a great big scented cloud of them. They smelt great.

And then there were the staff. Four of them, too many for such a small business if it hadn’t been so resolutely old-fashioned. You could probably run the whole outfit with one iMac and a mobile, but that wasn’t really the point. And the staff seemed normal enough, from the little she’d seen of them. At any rate nobody had more than one head, and the rumours of cloven hooves had been vastly exaggerated.

But first impressions were only that, and maybe she had them completely wrong. After all, she’d made mistakes in the past. There were some who might say she was no judge of people at all.

Her hand closed on a beer mat and scrunched the cardboard circle until it snapped in two. Not going to think about the past, she told herself firmly. The past can’t hurt you any more. What matters is what you’re doing now, and the people you’re doing it with.

Fluffy Stacey, eager Connie, jokey Ravi, and Connie’s no-nonsense sister, Bette. Laurel could already frame their faces in her mind’s eye, make dumb, one-dimensional guesses about their lives; so what were the odds that at this very minute they were doing exactly the same about her?

It was quite an uncomfortable thought.

The minute Bette got home to the Connelly stables, she threw her work shoes into the back of the Land Rover and slipped on the pair of gumboots she always kept under the passenger seat. If you lived around horses you had to dress the part, and Bette couldn’t recall a single happy episode in her life that hadn’t had a horse in it.

‘Where’s Jack?’ she asked a girl grooming a bay mare in the stable yard.

‘Top field, Mrs C.’

‘He’s not with that damn donkey again?’

‘’Fraid so.’

The ground squelched comfortably underfoot as she thrust her hands deep in the pockets of her ubiquitous Puffa jacket and headed for the top field. As she took a brisk and muddy short cut, she wasn’t thinking about her husband and his stupid donkey fetish, but weighing up the new manager of D&M like a piece of prime bloodstock.

Sixteen hands, presentable teeth, mane could do with a trim but coat in passable condition. No obvious problems with colic or staggers, nice athletic build and a good solid rump. Ah, but temperament, that was the key, ask any tipster. How would the filly shape up when the pressure was on and you were hanging on to the rail with two furlongs still to go?

As she reached the top field, where a tatty grey giant of a donkey was stuffing itself with carrots, a man in a checked cap and Barbour jacket waved to her and called: ‘How’d she shape up?’

‘Game filly. Haven’t checked out her form yet though.’

Yes, Bette nodded to herself, that was the important question. Did Laurel Page have the stamina to go the full distance, or would wily old Edwin Case bring her down at the first fence?

The pink Fiesta lurched backwards into the residents’ car park, only just missing the tub of marigolds it had clipped on its way out that morning. It wasn’t easy to park while wearing three-inch heels, and Stacey was thrilled to bits whenever she got between the white lines first time.

More through habit than anything else, she checked out her reflection in the rear-view mirror before grabbing her shopping and heading for the seventies’ block of flats where she lived. She liked to look nice; in fact, she thought everybody had a duty to make the most of what they’d been given, even if what they’d been given was a bit mousy and past its best. You could do an awful lot with a bottle of hair dye and an uplift bra, as she was always trying to reassure Connie, not that Connie ever stopped working long enough to listen. And Bette; well, Bette was just plain not interested.

All Stacey really wanted was to make the world a lovelier place, filled with kittens and big red h. . .