Gemma said after a pause, ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘You heard me, Gem. He’s just a bad memory now.’
‘Then you wouldn’t curse me and my progeny for a thousand years if I went out with him?’
Jo, tiptoeing as lightly as Gemma, said, ‘But what about Jake? Isn’t he your boyfriend?’
‘Jake?’ Gemma squeaked at the suggestion. ‘God, no. Don’t run away with that idea. He’s only a customer-at the printer’s, where I work. We’re doing some Christmas cards for the wildlife thing he’s part of, and he said he’d seen me at the bowling. When he asked me to play some ends with him I thought it was naughty talk, but it wasn’t. The guy’s got the sense of humour of a wombat. I felt sorry for him, so I went as an act of charity. He hasn’t a clue how to chat up a girl.’
‘He got a result with you.’
‘Get away.’ She laughed. ‘A game of ten-pin. Call that a result? Not where I was brought up, ducky. If you want the truth I was trying to think of ways of unloading him on someone else when we met last week and you were the unlucky one who copped him.’
‘So you won’t be seeing him again?’
‘The son of Frankenstein? You’re joking. I’ve done my bit for customer relations.’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘You don’t actually fancy him, do you? Omigawd, Gemma puts her foot in it again.’
‘I didn’t say I fancy him,’ Jo said-which was true. She hadn’t said anything about him. She hoped she looked indifferent. ‘He was okay with me. I’ve nothing against him.’
‘Me neither,’ Gemma said, ‘but you wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning and find that face next to you on the pillow. Know what I mean?’
‘His looks don’t bother me.’
Gemma gave her a nudge. ‘I think you do fancy him on the quiet. A bit of Rocky Horror, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t call him that.’
‘Nor would I-to his face. Well, you have a clear run as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ Jo said, and tried to make it sound ironic.
‘Got any plans for tonight?’
‘Nothing definite.’
‘Not for publication?’
‘Yet to be decided.’
‘He hangs out at the bowling place most Saturdays, I heard. Play your cards right and you could even get to see the penguins again.’
Jo screwed up her paper napkin and threw it at Gemma.
‘I was going to give you the latest goss on Mr Cartwright,’ Gemma said. ‘Don’t know if I will now.’
‘Goss on the boss? Go on. It had better be good.’
‘Well, he’s started chatting up this woman in accounts called Fiona. She’s a good twenty years younger, about twenty-four. This isn’t like him. Whatever I’ve said about him in the past, he’s not a skirt-chaser.’
‘Given the incentive, they all are,’ Jo said. ‘Pretty, is she?’
‘I suppose. Well, yes. A redhead.’
‘Say no more. Is he married?’
‘Divorced. He lives alone.’
‘Then I don’t see what the problem is.’
‘Fiona is the problem. The thing is, she’s a single mum. There’s a four-year-old son. She needs the work and she’s afraid if she gives him the big E she’ll lose her job.’
‘Are you sure she isn’t out to pull him?’
‘Jeez. You want to work with him.’
‘Some women are turned on by power.’
‘Running a print business in Fishbourne? It’s not exactly Microsoft International.’
‘Have you talked to her?’
Gemma nodded. ‘She’s the homespun type, a bit short of confidence. Doesn’t know how to handle it.’
Jo giggled a bit. ‘Handle what? What exactly has he been up to?’
‘Get a grip, girl. You’re positively slavering. No, it isn’t physical. Not yet, anyway. But the early signs are there. Yesterday he was in the stock room showing her the papers we use, telling her about quality and sizes.’ With a glare at Jo, who was grinning again, she said, ‘Sizes of paper. Today he was with her for over an hour explaining how the big colour printer works. She’s in accounts, Jo. She doesn’t need to know that stuff.’
‘And she spoke to you about it?’
‘In the loo at the end of the day. She knows I’m his PA. We haven’t talked much before this, but she said she’s getting embarrassed about all this interest and some of the other women are noticing. Basically she was asking if I think he’s got the hots for her.’
‘Obviously he has. Is that what you said?’
‘Come off it. I was trying to reassure the poor wee lass. I said I’ve never known him get heavy with a female employee, which is true.’
‘There’s always a first time. Was she asking for support?’
‘Not directly. No, I wouldn’t say so. I guess she wanted me to know it wasn’t welcomed-in case I was jealous, or something. Which I most definitely am not.’
‘But you’d like him to cool it?’
‘For everyone’s sake, yes.’
‘Does he know she’s got a kid?’
‘He ought to. He interviewed her when she joined. He could easily look at the file.’
‘I expect he’s conveniently put all that out of his mind. Randy old men are like that.’
Gemma rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘But you just said he hasn’t tried it on with you.’
‘Please! I was speaking generally. This is about Fiona, not me. She’s got to find a way of giving him the elbow without putting her job at risk.’
‘You want my advice?’ Jo said. ‘Don’t get involved or you’ll end up getting grief from both of them. She’s a grown-up. She can deal with this herself.’
She didn’t, after all, go bowling. There was a phone message from her dad to say Mummy was in Southampton Hospital with concussion after falling off Penrose, her white gelding.
‘Wasn’t she wearing a riding helmet?’ Jo asked him when they met outside the ward.
Daddy was a silent man with a large moustache that was his defence barrier. ‘You know Mummy,’ he said, as if that explained all. Really it did. This was the third time she’d fallen and ended up in the hospital.
‘Couldn’t she get a safer horse?’
‘I’m not sure it was the horse’s fault.’
‘He’s so tall. It’s a long way to fall.’
‘You could be right, but I don’t see your mother on a pony.’
‘She ought to think about giving up riding.’
‘Try telling her.’
Telling her wouldn’t aid the recovery. Margaret Stevens was a stubborn woman. The mother-daughter relationship had foundered years ago when Jo went through teenage rebellion and Mummy went through her room looking for unsuitable reading and cannabis. Harmless things all her friends were trying at the time, like coloured hair and ripped jeans, became issues. If her mother had treated her with a modicum of understanding some of this might have made sense, but it was handled in a vindictive way. Mummy’s own self-indulgence, the gin and cigarettes and all the expense on the riding, was not for comment. Jo had a suspicion there were other dissipations, and it had suited her mother to turn the spotlight elsewhere. The trust between them had never recovered.
She was in a side ward in Accident amp; Emergency and as pale as the pillow but still in good voice. ‘You look like death, darling. What’s wrong? ’
‘You’re what’s wrong, Mummy, giving us a shock like this. How did it happen?’
‘Don’t ask me. It’s a blur. They’re keeping me in overnight. What a bore. You two had better go out for a meal. Your father won’t cook for himself. If I remember, there’s a good Italian restaurant opposite the hospital.’
Typical of her mother, directing operations.
‘Don’t suppose I’ll get much,’ she ranted on. ‘They have a system of ordering here and I missed the chance to see what’s on offer. I’ll get the leftovers, I expect, cold stew and semolina.’
‘You must be feeling better if you can think about food.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a drink right now.’
Jo reached for the jug of water on the cabinet.
‘I mean a tipple, not that stuff.’
‘You’re here to get your head right, Mummy.’
‘Fiddlesticks. What have you been up to? Ages since we saw you. It’s a funny old world when it takes something like this to get you calling on your parents. Are you still working in the glasshouse?’