didnât mean they had to turn into the kind of couple who fought over the last curtain hook.
Anyway, what use would he have for a clock like that? He was moving in with his old mate Adrian, whose own wife had run off last year with a stockbroker. The last thing he needed was the chiming brass monstrosity his grandmother had ordered through her catalogue.
Much as he loved her, there was no getting away from the fact, Greg decided; it was one seriously tacky clock.
The gilt-edged invitation was propped up next to it on the mantelpiece. With time on his hands, Greg picked it up and idly read through it again. Last night, Chloe had produced the invitation from her bag and said: âWhy donât we go to this? Look, Daisy Schofieldâs going to be there. Youâd like to meet her, wouldnât you?â
It had been, he guessed, her way of trying to pretend nothing had happened.
âChloe, whatâs the point?â He had been gentle with her, but firm. âIâve already told you, Iâm moving out. If you want to go to the party, you go.â
âI couldnât.â Chloeâs blue eyes had filled with tears. âNot on my own.â
That had been it. Greg had shrugged, indicating that this was hardly his fault, and Chloe had flung the invitation to the floor before rushing from the room. Greg had been the one to bend down, retrieve it from beneath the coffee table and put it safely on the mantelpiece.
Daisy Schofield.
God, she was gorgeous.
That body â¦
Oh, what the hell, Greg thought as he slid the invitation into the back pocket of his jeans. It wasnât as if Chloe was going to be using it, was she?
Letâs face it, some opportunities are simply too good to miss.
***
It was a cold, bright Sunday. For what seemed like the first time in months, the sky was blue and the sun was out.
Florence was sitting gazing out of her window when she heard Miranda clatter down the stairs.
âItâs me, Iâm going shopping.â She poked her head around Florenceâs door. âAnything I can get you?â
âAbsolutely. A bottle of Montrachet, please.â
Mirandaâs expressive eyebrows slanted at right angles.
âSounds like a sneeze. What is it, some kind of cough medicine?â
âWine. Better than medicine.â Florence wheeled herself across to where her handbag lay. âHere, let me get you the money.â
âItâs all right, Iâll pick it up in Tesco. Pay me later.â
Florence waggled a fifty-pound note at her.
âWe arenât talking plonk here, this should just about cover it. And youâll have to go to the wine merchants in Kendal Street.â
âBlimey. Special occasion?â Privately Miranda thought Florence must be mad. Tesco did some great special offers. If she was in the mood to push the boat out she could get a really nice Australian Chardonnay for £3.99.
âItâs April the tenth. Rayâs birthday. We always drank Montrachet on his birthday.â Briskly Florence snapped her purse shut, determined not to sound like a sentimental old fool. âIâve kind of kept up the ritual. Well, we always said we would. It was Rayâs favorite wine. Flashy bugger,â she glanced fondly at his photograph, on the table next to her, âhe reckoned he was worth it.â
***
When Miranda arrived back with the wine an hour later, she found Florence waiting for her by the door.
âWhy are you wearing a hat?â
âItâs cold outside.â Florence adjusted the tilt of her jaunty red fedora. âYouâve been ages. The cab will be here any minute.â She took the tissue-wrapped bottle as carefully as if it were a newborn baby. âWas the fifty enough?â
âThree pounds change. Where are you going?â
âHampstead Heath. Parliament Hill.â Florence grinned at the expression on Mirandaâs face. âThe sunâs shining. I could do