CATHERINE GEORGE - Reform of the Rake

Adam grinned. ‘Did he teach you to bowl, too?’

‘Only tame medium pace stuff.’

He handed her the ball. ‘Right. Come on, then.’

‘It’s my turn to bat,’ pointed out Rupert, aggrieved, as Adam took his stance in front of the wicket.

‘Later—I want my revenge first!’

But Adam, swiping mightily at the third ball Lowri delivered, sent it straight through the window in the coach house office in a hail of broken glass, bringing the match to an early close.

Astonished by the howls of laughter from her hosts, Fiona burst from the conservatory to hurl recriminations at Adam, winning her deep disapproval from Emily, who slid a small comforting hand into his large one in consolation as he apologised profusely.

‘Don’t worry—Mrs Parks can type in the conservatory tomorrow,’ said Rupert, clapping him on the shoulder.

With promises to settle the bill for the damage, Adam took reluctant leave, prompted by a petulant reminder from Fiona that they were expected for dinner elsewhere that night. Despite her urgings he took his time in parting from Dominic and Emily, even contriving a private word with Lowri while Fiona went upstairs to make unnecessary repairs to her face.

‘For a pint-sized lady,’ he said, his eyes glinting, ‘you pack an almighty wallop, Lowri Morgan.’

‘It comes in useful from time to time,’ she admitted demurely.

‘For beating off importunate lovers?’

‘Not too many of those around,’ she said candidly.

Adam Hawkridge shook his shiny brown hair back, frowning. ‘Why not?’

‘I wish I knew,’ she said without thinking, then regretted it as she saw the gleam in his eyes.

‘It’s not personal preference, then? You don’t have anything deep-seated against my sex?’

‘Not too deep-seated, no,’ she said warily.

‘Splendid.’ He smiled and shook her hand. ‘I’m very glad Sarah invited me here today. Goodbye, little cousin.’

Lowri, pressed to stay for supper once the others had left, accepted with alacrity. She helped Emily get ready for bed, read her a story, then gave Sarah a hand with the meal, which Dominic was allowed to share before he too went off to bed and left the other three alone. Lowri found herself listening with shameless avidity when Sarah and Rupert discussed Adam Hawkridge’s future destiny as they lingered over coffee round the kitchen table.

‘A bit of a playboy, our Adam,’ mused Rupert, ‘but a brilliant electronics engineer just the same, with a definite flair for marketing. He’ll fill his father’s shoes very ably—far more than his brother would have done.’

‘Rupert was in school with Peter Hawkridge,’ explained Sarah.

‘I often spent part of the holidays with his family,’ added Rupert. ‘Adam was only a kid in those days, of course. Can’t be much more than early thirties even now. He’s packed such a lot in his life that one tends to forget his youth.’

‘Why isn’t his brother taking over the business?’ asked Lowri.

‘He’s dead, pet. Smashed himself up in his car when his wife went off with another man. Adam was at Harvard Business School at the time.’

‘Gosh, how tragic. What sort of business is it?’ added Lowri, trying not to sound too interested.

‘Hawke Electronics rents software to a worldwide clientele. Adam’s father built the company from scratch, and believes in ploughing back a fair percentage on research and development.’ Rupert held out his cup for more coffee. ‘And since Adam’s return from the States the number of software programmes they provide has tripled. He’s one bright cookie, our Adam. Dan Hawkridge is damn lucky to have such an able son to follow in his footsteps.’

‘Adam switched off a bit at the prospect at lunch, though, wouldn’t you say?’ said Sarah, joining her husband on the sofa.

Rupert put his arm round her. ‘The weight of future responsibility, I suppose. Once Adam’s in charge, Dan’s taking his wife off on the world cruise he’s promised her.’

‘In the meantime Adam will work his way through as many Fiona types as possible, I suppose, before he knuckles down,’ said Sarah acidly.

‘Does his taste always run to brainless blondes?’ asked Lowri, chuckling.

‘I don’t think our Adam specifies hair colour, precisely. His women do tend to be leggy and well endowed in the bosom department, now I come to think of it. Why?’ added Sarah in alarm. ‘You’re not thinking—?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Lowri promptly. ‘I’m neither leggy nor blonde, remember. I like Adam, that’s all. Dominic and Emily like him, too.’

‘They dote on him,’ agreed their mother. ‘Adam will make a good father when he’s ready. Retired rakes always do.’ She smiled up at Rupert. ‘As I know from experience!’

LOWRI had very little time for daydreams about Adam Hawkridge next day. The department was short-staffed due to influenza, and she was run off her feet during working hours. When she got back to the flat, weary and footsore, she forced herself to do a thorough cleaning job on the room vacated that day by the outgoing occupant, spent the evening arranging her things, then took a much needed shower before allowing herself the luxury of something to eat.

As Lowri emerged from the bathroom, Barbara, the owner of the flat, told her she was wanted on the phone. ‘Man. Very attractive voice.’

Lowrie flew to the telephone, blushing unseen at her own disappointment when she heard her father’s resonant tones. She assured him she was fine, told him about her day with Sarah, promised to ring more often and sent her love to Holly, at which Geraint Morgan coughed, hummed and hawed and finally blurted out the reason for his telephone call. Holly was pregnant. Lowri would soon have a little brother or sister.

Lowri congratulated her father enthusiastically, assured him she was overjoyed, then put the receiver down feeling rather odd. Deciding it was lack of food, she made herself scrambled eggs in the poky, chaotic kitchen, added a pot of tea and took her tray back to her room, in no mood now to join the others in the communal sitting-room. Later she rang Sarah to share the news.

‘You sound shattered,’ said Sarah bluntly.

‘I am, a bit. I’m really very happy for Dad, but it was a bit of a body-blow, just the same.’

‘Only natural. You two were so close after your mother died. Not your usual father/daughter arrangement.’

‘Sorry to moan at you, but I had to talk to someone.’

‘I’m glad you did—I can moan at you in exchange. Rupert’s Mrs Parks threw a wobbly today.’

‘Why?’

‘It started with the broken window in the office and the move into the conservatory while it was mended. Then Rupert topped it off with twice as much work as usual this morning because he was struck with inspiration last night and dictated into his machine into the small hours—’

‘Sarah, can’t you think of a way to keep him in bed?’ gurgled Lowri. ‘I’ll get you a sexy nightie at cost, if you like.’

‘Don’t be rude!’ Sarah retorted, then sighed heavily. ‘Anyway, Mrs Parks has taken herself off, vowing never to darken our door again, and I’m saddled with the typing, heaven help me. I don’t know how I ever coped with working for Rupert in the old days before we got married—too besotted with him to mind all the fireworks, I suppose.’

‘Can I help? I get Friday and Saturday off this week. I could lend a hand then, if you like.’

‘Oh, Lowri, would you? Rupert pays well—’

‘I don’t need money!’

‘Of course you need money. Don’t be a goose. Anyway we’ll sort that out when you come.’

In the end Sarah insisted Lowri come for a meal on the Thursday evening and stay the night, fresh for work in the morning. Lowri needed little persuasion. A couple of days’ typing for Rupert was a small price to pay for a stay in the airy, comfortable house in St John’s Wood.

The coach house window was intact, and the comfortable little office behind it in perfect order when Lowri settled down to start work on Rupert Clare’s current novel a few days later.

‘First of all,’ advised Rupert, ‘read through the draft so far. Sarah’s printed the disks Mrs Parks typed, so spend this morning familiarising yourself with the characters and the plot. There’s a kettle and coffee and so on in the other room when you take a break, but come over to the house for lunch before you start on any typing.’

Lowri, long one of his most ardent fans, smiled happily. ‘Right, boss. I’m looking forward to a sneak preview of the latest Rupert Clare bestseller—nice work if you can get it!’

‘It may not be a bestseller,’ he said gloomily. ‘I’m tackling a new period for me in this one: dark deeds in fog-bound Victorian London.’

Lowri breathed in a sigh of pleasure. ‘Sounds great to me.’ She rustled the sheaf of papers on the desk. ‘Right then, eyes down and looking for the next hour or so.’

The story gripped her so completely from the first paragraph that Lowri hardly noticed Rupert leave, and looked up at Sarah blankly when her cousin appeared a couple of hours later to announce that lunch was ready.

‘Lunch?’

‘Yes, you know—soup, sandwiches, stuff like that,’ said Sarah, laughing, then frowned. ‘No cups? Didn’t Rupert tell you to make yourself some coffee?’

Lowri bit her lip guiltily. ‘He did, but I forgot. I was so absorbed I didn’t notice the time.’

‘That’s a novelty! Mrs Parks could never work for more than half an hour at a time without a dose of caffeine to keep her going.’

Lowri stood up, stretching. ‘Sounds as though the lady’s no loss.’

‘She will be to me if I have to stand in for her,’ said Sarah with emphasis. ‘Come on. Dominic’s in school, Emily’s gone off to spend the afternoon with her chum, and Rupert’s having lunch with his agent so it’s just the two of us.’

It was pleasant to gossip with Sarah over the meal but Lowri was adamant about returning to the office after half an hour, eager to finish the first portion of the draft so she could start on the real work of typing up Rupert’s next tapes. The novel, which bore all the hallmarks of Rupert’s style in the vivid characterisation and complex, convoluted plot, was an atmospheric story of revenge.

‘It’s riveting,’ said Lowri, as she finished her coffee. ‘All that underworld vice simmering away behind a façade of rigid Victorian respectability. I can’t wait to find out Jonah Haldane’s secret!’

Lowri’s enthusiasm resulted in more progress in one afternoon than the less industrious Mrs Parks had achieved in the two previous working days. When Rupert came to blow the whistle at six that evening he was deeply impressed, and obviously found Lowri’s reluctance to call a halt deeply gratifying.

‘Enough’s enough for one day, nevertheless, little cousin,’ he said firmly. ‘Sarah says you’re to pack it in, have a bath, then if you can bear it, read a story to Emily. We had to promise her that to keep her from storming your citadel hours ago.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Lowri, stretching. ‘Though something a bit different from yours, Rupert.’ She shivered pleasurably. ‘It’s a bit terrifying in places.’

‘Sarah says you like it.’

‘Like it! I can’t wait to see what happens next.’

‘You’re very good for my ego, Lowri,’ said Rupert as he walked with her across the garden. ‘A little sincere encouragement does wonders. Writers get bloody depressed some days.’

‘You needn’t,’ returned Lowri with certainty. ‘This is your best ever, Rupert. And I should know. I’ve read every book you’ve written.’