Love on the Rocks Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Love on the Rocks

  Veronica Henry has written four previous novels, Honeycote, Making Hay, Wild Oats and An Eligible Bachelor, all of which are published by Penguin. She lives in North Devon with her husband and three sons.

  www.veronicahenry.co.uk

  Love on the Rocks

  VERONICA HENRY

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2006

  1

  Copyright © Veronica Henry, 2006

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject

  to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,

  re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s

  prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in

  which it is published and without a similar condition including this

  condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  EISBN–13: 978–0–141–91196–0

  To Val and Araminta

  1

  Lisa Jones was struggling desperately to minimize her cleavage. Breathing in only enhanced it; hunching her shoulders had a similar effect. No matter how hard she tried, sixty-five per cent of her bosom was on display. Which wasn’t surprising, as she was a 36DD and her jacket was a size ten.

  She was convinced Milo had done it on purpose. The single-breasted red jacket with matching skirt was a departure from the usual skimpy outfits promotions girls wore at motor shows, but Lisa refused to conform to the stereotype. That wasn’t what she was about any more. If Milo wanted her on his stand, then he had to accept that she would dress like a businesswoman, not a hooker. On her thirtieth birthday, six months before, she had decided she was too old to have everything on display. Her glamour days were over. From now on she was to be fully clothed, on or off camera, and if her clients didn’t like it they could choose someone else to promote their wares.

  Milo obviously disagreed with her decision and bringing her an outfit two sizes too small was his idea of forcing her into a compromise. Once she’d managed to squeeze herself into it, Lisa decided she looked more voluptuous and inviting than if she’d been wearing one of the gold bikinis sported by the girls on the next stand. The jacket acted like a corset, squeezing her waist in and her breasts out. Had Lisa had time she would have gone and bought a polo-neck jumper to go underneath, but thanks to the traffic on the motorway she only had fifteen minutes to get ready before the show opened.

  She struggled with the skirt zip, tutting as she discovered that it was only just mid thigh. She was grateful that she had worn tights and not hold-ups, otherwise she would have spent all day tugging the hem down to cover the tops of her stockings. She surveyed her reflection in the mirror, and narrowed her eyes at Milo, who nodded in approval.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ he reassured her. Milo had a large showroom on the outskirts of Coventry, selling ‘previously enjoyed’ prestige motor cars. This show was the high point of his year, his chance to show off to the general public.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t realize you did it on purpose,’ Lisa retorted, tying her mass of brunette ringlets back into a ponytail in a vain attempt to look businesslike. Even wearing flat shoes wouldn’t help. Lisa sighed as she slipped on her black suede courts with the three-inch heels. She didn’t want the clients towering over her. There was nothing worse than having to look up at someone who was leering at your décolleté.

  Lisa was used to men staring. She was only five foot two, with creamy, luminescent skin, wild dark curls, dancing brown eyes with incredibly long upturned lashes, and rosebud lips that were generally curved into a smile guarded by two of the deepest dimples. That she was ravishingly pretty was the icing on the cake, however, for her real attribute was her hourglass figure, the ultimate glamour girl proportions. It might not be fashionable to have such generous curves – she would never in a million years make the catwalk or the pages of a fashion magazine – but for promotion work, she was ideal: she attracted custom like a magnet. And of course the warmth of her personality, her infectious laugh, her irresistible charm combined with her total professionalism meant she was much in demand.

  Despite her misgivings, ten minutes later she was on the stand, smile at the ready, leaflets in hand. The exhibition hall was boiling hot and airless, and she could barely breathe in her restrictive clothing. The bones of her bra were digging in; there was sweat trickling down her back. A burst of music from a neighbouring stand blared out as four dancers writhed around a low-slung black sports car to rapturous applause, drawing an instant audience of middle-aged men who weren’t sure which to lust after more, the motor or the totty. Sadly for the majority of them, both were out of reach. The show peddled wares attainable by only a few, but dreaming, as everyone knows, is free. Thus men strode around the exhibition hall looking knowledgeable; surveying the vehicles with arms crossed, nodding their heads sagely in agreement as they debated their various merits, pretending to themselves and those around them that they could actually afford what they were looking at; that it was just a question of weighing up the pros and cons before making their final choice. It was for the most part a charade. Ninety-five per cent of the people attending the show couldn’t come close to affording as much as a spare tyre. But that didn’t matter: it was the remaining five per cent the exhibitors needed. The five per cent who stood back and kept their counsel, not wishing to look too eager. Although there was always one who couldn’t resist showing off, doing a deal in full view of the other visitors, anxious to display their usually new-found wealth and revelling in the envy of passers-by.

  By midday, Lisa was dealing with just one of those. In his late fifties, wearing a petrol-blue washed-silk shirt under a leather waistcoat and sporting a neatly clipped grey beard, he was hustling Lisa for a price on a mouth-watering navy-blue Maserati.

  ‘There’s no point in trying to negotiate with me. Mr Sweet will be back in a moment,’ she said politely, willing Milo to reappear. He always spent most of the show networking, bartering with other dealers. They swapped cars like little boys in a playground swapping Dinky toys, apparently oblivious to the sums of money involved.

  ‘Come on,’ he persisted. ‘If you can get me some discount, I’ll see you right.’

  He leaned right in to Lisa, and she breathed in a noxious layer of aftershave.

  ‘I’m sorry. But I’m nothing to do with the negotiations. I’m just here to hand out leaflets.’

  ‘Now don’t do yourself down. I’m sure you’
ve got influence. And I bet a bit of extra cash wouldn’t go amiss, would it?’ His eyes gleamed behind his tinted glasses as he gawped at her chest. ‘Get yourself something nice to wear.’

  Lisa smiled a smile that anyone but a fool would see meant ‘piss off’.

  ‘Mr Sweet will be back in a moment.’

  The man pursed his too-red lips into a little moue of disapproval. Then he gave Lisa another appraising glance. He obviously liked what he saw, as his apparent sulk dissolved and he gave her what he thought was a charming smile.

  ‘Why don’t you come out for dinner with me after the show finishes?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But thank you.’

  ‘Come on. Admit it. That’s why you work here, isn’t it? So you can meet someone rich? You’d love to go out in one of these, wouldn’t you?’

  He indicated the Maserati. Lisa tried hard to bite her tongue, but she’d had enough. Enough of being ogled and propositioned.

  ‘Not if it meant being seen next to you.’

  The man stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I wanted a car like that, I’d buy it. I don’t need to prostitute myself.’

  ‘There’s no need to be uppity.’

  ‘Yes, there is. You seem to think that I’m for sale.’

  ‘Hold on a minute. I only offered you dinner.’

  ‘And what were you expecting back? A quick how’s-your-father in return for steak and chips at the nearest Berni Inn?’

  The man opened and shut his mouth like a goldfish. Lisa realized that people were staring, but she was in full flow. Nothing was going to stop her now.

  ‘Why don’t you go to that stand over there? I know for a fact that some of those girls do extras, if you’re that desperate for a leg-over.’

  By now, Milo had reappeared.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  The bumptious little man turned on his heel to confront Milo. Lisa stood her ground patiently.

  ‘You’ve just lost yourself a sale. I was about to buy one of your motors, and if this jumped-up little cow hadn’t been so rude to me –’

  He turned to glare at Lisa, his eyes baleful. She stood with her hands on her hips, knowing that her stance was probably accentuating her embonpoint more than ever, but she was beyond caring. She’d had enough. Enough of peddling dreams to people who couldn’t afford it or, worse, to people who could and thought she was part of the package. She didn’t want to dress up any more, spend half an hour doing her face before a job because, although she didn’t need it, full make-up was expected and you never looked anything less than done up. She didn’t want to be a slave to sunbeds and pedicures and leg-waxing, because you never knew what the job might entail and an even tan, painted toes and smooth skin were expected. Even fully clothed, she was still being treated like a piece of meat.

  ‘I’m sorry, Milo.’ Her voice was calm. ‘I can’t do this any more.’

  Milo, desperate to retrieve his sale, smiled at the two of them, poised like prize fighters either side of him.

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. I’m sure this gentleman didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘Me? Rude? I just wanted to buy a car. I didn’t expect to be insulted.’ The man looked self-righteously indignant. ‘Not that I’m going to buy it now. No bloody way.’

  ‘Don’t be rash.’ Milo was alarmed. Selling the Maserati would cover several of the rather disconcerting invoices piled up in his in-tray. ‘We can talk about it. That’s a beauty, that is. It’s got a host of added extras and only eighteen thousand on the clock. I’m sure we can do a deal.’

  ‘I’m sure we can. But I want an apology first.’

  Triumphant that he had the upper hand, the man squared his shoulders and tilted his chin, challenging Milo, knowing that extracting an apology from Lisa was less likely than the Maserati sprouting wings and flying out of the exhibition hall. There was no doubt he was enjoying the scenario.

  Milo looked pleadingly at Lisa.

  ‘Lisa…’

  ‘No way.’

  Milo took her by the elbow and led her out of earshot, speaking sotto voce.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you. I can’t afford to lose this sale.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Milo.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lisa. I can make the best part of fifteen grand. Just apologize.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Oh yes I can.’

  ‘You’re expecting me to grovel to that patronizing, lecherous lowlife?’

  Milo swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  Lisa took a deep breath in. The situation encapsulated everything she hated about her job. The bullshit, the posturing, the egos. The fact that money was the driving force, that all morals were jeopardized in its pursuit. That Milo, who she’d done shows for on and off for nearly ten years, cared more about his profit margins than her feelings. Yes, she could have swallowed her pride and apologized. But she would have felt degraded and belittled and worthless – even though Milo would have bunged her a couple of hundred quid as a sop.

  Lisa decided that she was worth more than that. She shook her head defiantly, her curls springing loose from their ponytail.

  ‘I’m off.’

  ‘You can’t just leave.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘You won’t work for me again.’

  Lisa looked him in the eye.

  ‘Milo,’ she said gently, ‘I don’t want to.’

  Milo blinked once as he debated how to retrieve the situation. Bribing Lisa wasn’t going to work, so he tried a threat.

  ‘I’ll do you for breach of contract. And loss of business, if I don’t get this sale.’

  ‘I’ll do you for sexual harassment.’

  ‘I’ve never laid a finger on you!’

  ‘Expecting me to wear this uniform is degrading and humiliating. I’m sure a good solicitor would find a case.’

  Milo looked shocked.

  ‘Lisa – I didn’t mean to offend you. I never knew you felt so strongly –’

  ‘Well, I do. I’m a human being, you know. Not just a pair of tits.’

  She took off her jacket and threw it at him, well aware that now she was in full view of the entire hall in just her best Rigby & Peller bra and a tiny skirt.

  ‘There you go. Is that what you want?’

  Milo’s mouth was hanging open. Lisa put out her arms and did a twirl for the audience that was gathering round his stand.

  ‘Happy? Now you’ve got everyone’s attention?’

  A flash went off, followed by another, and Lisa struck a Page Three pose to tumultuous applause, then turned on her heel and stalked through the screens at the back of the stand to the tiny cubicle which acted as both changing room and office. With shaking hands she pulled off the red skirt and tugged her jeans and T-shirt back on as quickly as she could.

  ‘Well, Lisa Jones. I think that’s called making an exhibition of yourself,’ she said to her reflection, before putting on her coat and dashing for the exit.

  Twenty minutes later, she flung her parking money at the startled attendant and was out of the car park before the barrier was fully raised. As she drove back down the motorway, her mobile chirruped into life. She pushed the hands-free.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Lisa. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  As she’d expected, it was her agent.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tony. But I’ve had enough.’

  ‘You can’t just walk off a job. You’ll never work again. You know what this business is like. I want you to turn your car straight round and get back on that stand.’

  ‘Not if you paid me a million pounds.’

  ‘What the hell’s happened?’

  Lisa knew that nothing short of being gang-banged by the entire exhibition centre would be a good enough reason. She sighed.

  ‘Nothing. I’ve decided to jack it in, that’s all.’

  ‘Jesus, Lisa. You could have picked a better moment. You could
have picked a less important client to fuck over. Milo Sweet’s one of my best customers. And he’s got the biggest mouth in the West Midlands.’

  Lisa felt a momentary pang of guilt. But then she recalled how Tony had strong-armed her into the job against her will in the first place. She wasn’t going to be manipulated any longer.

  ‘Get one of your other girls to help him forget,’ she said tartly. She was under no illusion about some of the services Tony provided.

  ‘You won’t get paid.’

  ‘Of course I won’t. I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘And you’re off my books. You’re fired.’

  Never mind that it was the first time she’d let him down since she started working for him when she was seventeen. Never mind that she had stood in for his less reliable girls time and again, when they hadn’t been able to make it in because they had drunk too much the night before or needed to rush to the chemist for the morning-after pill. She knew that when he’d calmed down he would remember this, that he would be back on the phone pleading with her.

  She grinned, revelling in the sweetness of the realization that he needed her more than she needed him.

  ‘Actually, no, Tony. You’re fired.’

  She cut him off, turned on the CD player and flipped through the changer until she found her favourite Fleetwood Mac album. The music was of another age, soothing and reassuring. She put her foot down, eager to put as many miles between her and the exhibition centre as possible. On the other side of the motorway she saw an Aston Martin zip effortlessly past all the other vehicles. The driver was obviously on his way to the show, perhaps to choose a replacement for his status symbol. Well, good luck to him. She’d be home by four. Just time to nip into Marks & Sparks for something to eat. Not to mention a bottle of wine to drown her sorrows.

  Before she sat down and decided what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

  In his office, George Chandler had his head in his hands. He was on speaker phone. The tone in his boss’s voice was not to be argued with.

  ‘You’re not to make any contact at all. Don’t phone the hospital. Or his wife. We don’t want to make any move that will incur liability.’