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“Six months!” she shouted out to nobody. It was worse than she had expected. Her solicitor had told her she would lose her licence, but she hadn’t envisaged a six-month driving ban.
“At least you passed the breathalyser,” he had said unsympathetically, following the latest court order for speeding.
“I’m not stupid. I never drink and drive,” she had said vehemently. Unfortunately, in recent weeks, she’d had a tendency to drive recklessly fast.
Wandering into the kitchen, staring at the cupboards, she slumped into a nearby chair, the letter still trapped between her fingers. A cascade of tears descended her cheeks. She let them fall unhindered, splashing on the table, forming droplets. Shoulders heaving, what began as a silent weeping quickly became a sobbing wretched display of misery. Alone and the sole occupant of the house, she could not depend on anyone to offer words of commiseration or comfort. Gradually, she regained her composure, the tears of regret dried up and she wiped away the droplets using the screwed-up letter.
Since her graduation six months earlier, life had gone from a resounding high point through a rollercoaster of ups and downs. This ban was the latest to add to the down list.
The lowest point by far had occurred just two weeks after she had obtained her degree. Applying for jobs, she had been determined to stand on her own two feet and not rely on her trust fund. Since turning twenty-one, she was finally free of her father’s allowance and had her own income from the estate, a guaranteed source of money. Her plans fell to the wayside when it quickly became apparent that years of chain smoking had left her father incurable and dying of emphysema.
It was the main reason she had never taken up the popular habit. Puffing away like a chimney, starting with the first one in bed in the morning to his final cigar at bedtime, her father had not been able to curtail his addiction, even though the doctors told him it would kill him. His demise had come rapidly and traumatised Leah. One minute he was head of his empire, turning the handle to make the money, the next struggling for breath in a private hospital. Holding his hand in his last hours, Leah had been struck dumb and later regretted not saying more words of comfort.
“Shock,” her mother had told her upon her arrival for the funeral, wrapping her arms about Leah and offering words of condolence. Leah had been surprised by her mother’s appearance and grateful that Gregor had not come to upset her aunts and uncles. However, it quickly had become apparent that her mother had her own agenda to fulfil. Within days, she had seen her solicitor and ensured that when probate was complete, the family home would be back in her possession. Once it was, she had promptly put it on the market and sold it to a competitor of Leah’s father.
The loss of the family home brought about another thunderous down for Leah. She had argued with her mother to no avail. Her absent parent had already returned to Italy, having no desire to live in the house and could not understand why Leah would want to either.
“It takes so much money to maintain, darling. I should know,” her mother had said. “I’ve saved you the responsibility.”
Leah had her own house by then. She had used her trust fund to purchase a newly built detached house in Blundellsands to the north of Liverpool. She could have afforded a grander house, but she was glad that she kept her ambitions small. However, there lay the problem with losing her licence. It was a commute into the city centre to her job at Littlewoods. She had started out at the company as a proofreader for the clothing catalogue. Praised by her supervisor, she had been promoted to work on the new season’s impending issue—writing the descriptions and working with the editors on the layout.
Much of her inheritance went to the taxman, and the rest was tied up in shares in the company. Now that she was a nominal non-executive on the board, she occasionally had to take an interest in her father’s massive company. Most of the discussions and decisions went over her head and she left the running of her father’s legacy to the board, grateful for their expertise and integrity.
As a board member, she had the benefit of using company facilities and that included a certain secretary who came in handy for sorting out mini-crises.
“I need a driver,” she explained down the telephone. “By tomorrow.”
The secretary didn’t question the reason why. “How long for?”
“Six months,” cringed Leah, embarrassed. She couldn’t even give the excuse her nifty little soft-topped sports car had been taken into a repair garage. There was no problem that couldn’t be fixed within six months.
“I’m sure we can rustle up somebody. I’ll ring the agency.”
Leah sighed in relief. No reason had been necessary. She tossed the soggy document in the kitchen bin, determined to move on; an attitude she had tried to apply to many areas of her life and not always with success.
She put down her reckless behaviour to grief. She had hidden it well from her friends and work colleagues, but it gnawed at her in the solitude of her house. A homely construction with modern features, but too large for one person, she had assumed she would fill it with parties and further attempts at finding the perfect mate. All her previous liaisons had failed dismally. She had discovered sex; that had been advantageous and rather enjoyable, but not love. That aspect of the bedroom had circumvented her repeatedly.
Her work for the last few months during the turbulent days of bereavement had been her salvation. It had been in the last few weeks her world had begun to fall apart at the edges. The deep-seated feelings of loss bubbled to the surface. She drank too much at parties, turned up late for work, and lost the respect of her friends. At the last minute, her mother had cancelled Leah’s planned Christmas visit, opting to go skiing and there was no room at the chalet for her daughter.
After spending the vacation with her rather indifferent aunt and uncle, December had become January and her lack of self-preservation had begun to manifest itself. Pulled over by the police for speeding up the coastal road, Leah had been caught not once, but three times by February. She had sobbed a pathetic story at the officers, but they had showed no sympathy for a rich heiress in her snazzy car. That little Midget MG had now cost her the freedom to drive.
Waking up the next morning, she waited in the hallway for the chauffeur car to pick her up and take her to work.
The doorbell rang, making her jump slightly. The driver arrived at spot on eight-thirty and she opened the door in response to his summons.
The man stood back, hands clasped behind his back, and she almost stumbled over the threshold with surprise.
“Rick!” she gasped.
* * *
She had changed. He could see it immediately. The face fuller, even more beautiful and less girlish. The hair much longer, cascading down straight and dark, while above her eyebrows a neat fringe framed her face. Across the bridge of the nose were a few speckles, but under her eyes, a line of darkness that told him she still kept late hours.
He couldn’t help letting his eyes drift downwards. Around her neck, a pearl necklace, each one a shimmer of whiteness and not fake. The straight neckline of her floral dress, brightly coloured and ending above the knee, was eye catching: she still favoured the shorter styled skirt. Keeping her warm on the winter morning, a large lapelled jacket, with double-breasted buttons. Her sheer nylons were almost invisible and on her feet, sensible slip-on shoes for work.
Her clothing had the presence of a stylish fashion-conscious follower, not something he had seen before from her; it made for a promising start.
Rick smiled, a cautious but genuine smile, especially when she said his name. Shocked and pleased, he could see both expressions blurred into one—at least she hadn’t slammed the door on his face.
