Книга - The Summer House of Happiness: A delightfully feel-good romantic comedy perfect for holiday!

The Summer House of Happiness: A delightfully feel-good romantic comedy perfect for holiday!
Daisy James


‘The perfect summer read!’ Pretty Little Book Reviews on Sunshine After the RainLove is in the air…Gabbie Andrews thought that her dreams of becoming a professional perfumer at the prestigious House of Gasnier on the French Riviera were finally coming true. There’s nothing she loves more than creating the perfect fragrance for her delighted customers…So when her boss sends her to work in a laboratory in Paris for six months, she quits on the spot! Returning to her home in Devon, she soon finds that her herbal remedies are in more demand than she ever imagined.And when she bumps into Max, the gorgeous mechanic who works at her father’s garage, she realizes that life might just be about to change forever!Perfect for fans of Christie Barlow, Debbie Johnson and Cathy Bramley.Readers love Daisy James:“The perfect book of you're in need of a good mood boost.”“A light romantic book with a big heart.”“I love escaping into her heartwarming novels! ““The Summer House of Happiness is a perfect summer read.”“A brilliant read – with characters that you just want to be friends with.”







Love is in the air…

Gabbie Andrews thought that her dreams of becoming a professional perfumer at the prestigious House of Gasnier on the French Riviera were finally coming true. There’s nothing she loves more than creating the perfect fragrance for her delighted customers…

So when her boss sends her to work in a laboratory in Paris for six months, she quits on the spot! Returning to her home in Devon, she soon finds that her herbal remedies are in more demand than she ever imagined.

And when she bumps into Max, the gorgeous mechanic who works at her father’s garage, she realizes that life might just be about to change forever!

Perfect for fans of Christie Barlow, Debbie Johnson and Cathy Bramley.


Also from Daisy James

The Runaway Bridesmaid

If the Dress Fits

When Only Cupcakes Will Do

There’s Something about Cornwall

Sunshine after the Rain

Christmas at the Dancing Duck


The Summer House of Happiness

Daisy James






ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES


Copyright (#ulink_44265b51-46db-5971-a26e-58d8a2acb406)






An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Daisy James 2018

Daisy James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-828599-9


DAISY JAMES is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the north-east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and swift-flowing plotlines. She has written seven novels: The Runaway Bridesmaid, If the Dress Fits, When Only Cupcakes Will Do, There’s Something about Cornwall, Sunshine after the Rain, Christmas at the Dancing Duck and The Summer House of Happiness – all contemporary romances with a dash of humour. When not scribbling away in her peppermint-and-green summerhouse (garden shed), she spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. She loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must!

Daisy would love to hear from readers via her Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/daisyjamesbooks/) page or you can follow her on Twitter @daisyjamesbooks (https://twitter.com/daisyjamesbooks?lang=en) and Instagram @booksdaisyjames


To my family, especially my mum, who inspired the story.


Contents

Cover (#u427aa5be-989a-5b63-ba4b-11a8499a33e5)

Blurb (#u002f6784-6b63-5cd0-9161-43a995c34861)

Title Page (#u1a058925-9204-5396-af52-b0f857a63cfa)

Copyright (#ulink_ce54cb6f-be73-5337-bbf6-0b8937379742)

Author Bio (#u94c0049f-c49c-580c-9738-d211a1cc1902)

Dedication (#u313eac4f-e4fe-553d-b773-110514116dd1)

Chapter One (#ulink_2979898d-33bc-5c0e-ab37-6e25385d61fe)

Chapter Two (#ulink_c694db63-b8b7-5883-a8ff-d3dff876d701)

Chapter Three (#ulink_4e69cf0b-ed8f-5f23-99c4-6aec60d8f16b)

Chapter Four (#ulink_e6712a3d-0af8-505c-a817-760cfc5c636e)

Chapter Five (#ulink_940fa937-3f3d-5511-b449-660cbea79a7f)

Chapter Six (#ulink_bbc64964-90f7-525a-83bb-daaa4782f0ab)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Author Letter (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_e9461305-dc79-5a14-b43d-84c3d9732370)

Grasse, South of France

‘Okay, everyone!’ declared Jean-Pierre, rushing into the room, clapping his hands in excitement mingled with a little nervous trepidation. ‘Gird your loins! Monsieur Jules Gasnier, our esteemed and fragrant demigod, has just entered the building! Deep breaths, shoulders back, and plaster on those neon smiles!’

Nerves fluttered around Gabbie’s stomach as she took up her position in the welcoming committee between Fleurette and her boss, Marianne, to greet the great man himself. Jean-Pierre may have labelled Jules Gasnier a demigod but Gabbie preferred to think of the celebrated perfumer as more of a magician; an alchemist who could create not just a fragrance but an experience, a sensation, a dream. Every morning she thanked her often-elusive guardian angel for being on duty the day she was offered her dream job at the House of Gasnier – except not that particular morning, when she would rather have been hiding underneath the duvet in her attic studio, trying to shut out the world and the scorching pain that date on the calendar always brought.

‘Gabbie, darling, you could at least look like you’re enjoying yourself!’ chastised Jean-Pierre, stretching up onto his tiptoes to peer down the corridor for a sign that his hero was approaching. ‘I know this was supposed to be your day off, but who are we to question our commander-in-chief’s last-minute change of itinerary? Anyway, I don’t know what you’re worried about – you’re our star perfumer! Monsieur Gasnier is bound to select your fragrance for the summer range, especially after you won that award for best bridal perfume in Confetti! Magazine last month. Ah, what I wouldn’t give to possess a smidgeon of your creative flair!’

‘Sorry, Jean-Pierre, it’s just nerves,’ said Gabbie, stretching her lips into what she hoped was a smile but was probably more akin to a grimace. After all, it wasn’t Jean-Pierre’s fault she’d chosen not to confide in him, or Fleurette, that the real reason she’d been adamant about having the day off work was because it was the anniversary of her mother’s passing – two years and it still felt like yesterday. Yet that wasn’t the only thing playing on her mind that morning.

‘Nerves? Pah!’ snapped Marianne, every inch the sleek, elegant French woman with her glossy magenta bob and effortless style. ‘You are one of House of Gasnier’s most accomplished perfumers, Gabbie. Haven’t I told you a hundred times that you possess le nez? Were not your last three perfumes the most successful since Jules Gasnier launched his debut fragrance, Juliette, two decades ago?’

Initially, Gabbie had been a little intimidated by her boss’s stern, rather aloof personality, but Marianne had proved to be a fabulous mentor who had unselfishly shared her vast knowledge and experience of the perfume industry, quirks and all, with her enthusiastic students. Her perfectly applied Cupid’s bow of deep-burgundy lipstick gave the impression she had just taken a last languid sip of delicious red wine, extinguished her Gauloise, and strolled into work from the pavement café at the end of Rue de Bouvier.

‘Relax, Monsieur Gasnier is going to love every one of the fragrances we’ve created! And Gabbie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Smile! Like it or not, we work in the romance industry where there’s no room for anxiety, only for supreme confidence in our unassailable abilities to create liquid magic. How do you think Monsieur Gasnier made his eponymous perfume house one of the most prestigious in the whole of France? Today, we must strive to ensure that everyone – and everything – is joyeux or magnifique or incroyable!’

Gabbie knew Marianne was right. She adored her career and had been surprised, and grateful, for the accolades that had come her way. She had been told she had what was known as le nez; the ability to identify the individual components of any given perfume, and also to understand which aromas would combine to create the ultimate olfactory experience. She was confident she could answer any question thrown at her by Jules Gasnier – House of Gasnier’s maestro – who had decided to grace them with his aromatic presence in order to select next summer’s eau de parfum personally.

She knew the perfume she had spent the last three months pouring her heart and soul into was unique, and because Monsieur Gasnier was renowned for being a highly-strung perfectionist, she had practised her presentation speech until it was pitch-perfect. For once, her hair had not sprouted wings, but remained in a stylish chignon, courtesy of her flatmate Jasmine’s nifty fingers. Sartorial elegance usually provided her with a boost of confidence, and her friend had loaned her a beautifully cut lemon shift dress and pair of towering heels. Except, this morning, her careful preparations weren’t working their magic to eradicate her jitters.

Gabbie loved her life in Grasse, the acknowledged capital of the perfume industry. Just being there enriched her creativity and increased her desire to design the most exquisite perfume, not to mention providing welcome distraction from her heartache. She loved the tiny apartment she shared with Jasmine, the sunshine and hustle and bustle of the attractive town, and her French was improving every day. And yet she had started to realise that, despite all the career successes, something was missing, something she hadn’t been able to put her finger on until recently. She had hoped to spend the day dissecting what it meant for her future, as well as remembering all the happy times she had spent with her beloved mother, experimenting with fragrances, before the scourge that was breast cancer had snatched her away from her family.

Monsieur Gasnier’s timing couldn’t have been any worse. It wasn’t fair, but then she knew more than most that life wasn’t. She had known how difficult the anniversary of her mother’s death was going to be; that’s why she had asked for a day off work. But there were lots of good days too, like the long weekends she got to spend with her grandparents in a small village just outside Genoa, where she could submerge herself in their stories about her mother Sofia’s childhood: her love of ballet, of her pet Pekinese, and how she had met Gabbie’s father, Jeff Andrews.

‘I’m with Gabbie,’ announced Fleurette, her long, slender fingers fluttering at the silver, heart-shaped necklace around her throat. ‘I don’t know how you can remain so calm, Marianne. Monsieur Gasnier is the most notoriously demanding perfumer in the whole of France. I haven’t been this nervous since Didier introduced me to his mother – and look how that turned out! She still hasn’t forgiven me for breaking her precious Louis XVI vase.’

‘Just as long as you don’t touch anything, Fleurette, you should be fine,’ said Marianne, barely concealing her impatience with Gabbie’s famously clumsy colleague with the spectacular, liquorice-coloured ringlets. ‘Now, is everything ready?’

‘I think so.’

‘Don’t just think so, know so!’

‘Yes, everything is ready, Marianne,’ said Gabbie, surprised to detect a tiny crack in Marianne’s legendary composure. If Marianne, famous industry-wide for her Parisian poise, was apprehensive, then the rest of them had no chance.

‘Thank you, Gabbie. We are truly blessed to have your organisational skills as well as your expertise in fragrance. Every day I send up une prière de gratitude profonde for the day you arrived here from the Institute.’

Gabbie managed a real smile when she thought of the day she had graduated from the Grasse Institute of Perfumery the previous summer, ecstatic to learn she had secured a job in the French perfume industry and had also fulfilled her mother’s dying wish that she follow what was truly in her heart, even if others insisted on a different journey.

From an early age, she had discovered that fragrance could enhance mood, and had witnessed firsthand the comfort, relief, even happiness, that her creations brought to those who used them. In her interview with Marianne, she had been relieved to hear that, as part of her training, she would not only be spending her time experimenting in the lab, but also engaging with their many customers, listening to their stories, delving into their memories for clues about the aromas that meant something to them so she could create a personalised fragrance to lift their spirits and make them smile.

That was why she had chosen to train as a perfumer in the first place: to hear their exclamations of delight when the fragrance she had designed especially for them reminded them of a long-forgotten childhood memory or much-missed relative – not to impress a snooty chief executive or fill the coffers of a multinational conglomerate. Over the last six months she had been allowed to spend a mere two weeks in the consulting rooms with House of Gasnier clients, despite her pleas to the contrary. She knew this was what lay at the root of her recent restlessness and her mother’s words urging her to follow her dreams rang sharply in her ears.

‘Oh, mon Dieu, here he comes!’ gasped Jean-Pierre, flapping his hand over his heat-infused cheeks. ‘Pass the smelling salts, I think I’m going to…’

‘Get a grip, Jean-Pierre!’ growled Marianne.

The clickety-clack of stacked heels on marble flooring echoed into the room. The group exchanged final, terror-filled glances, pinned on wide smiles and prepared themselves for the arrival of the great perfume virtuoso.

‘Ah, Monsieur Gasnier! Welcome!’ beamed Marianne, stepping forward to plant kisses on his cheeks. ‘I trust you had a pleasant journey?’

‘Non! I did not! The traffic was appalling. Why everyone and their dog must descend on the Riviera in August is beyond me. All those people just swarming along the roads and pavements… ergh…’

Jules Gasnier screwed up his nose and curled his lips in disgust at being forced to mingle with the hoi polloi, even if it was from the comfort of his chauffeur-driven, air-conditioned Mercedes.

Gabbie took the opportunity to scrutinise her boss. She had met him only once before when he’d presented her with the Confetti! Magazine prize he’d insisted on collecting from the glitzy, star-studded ceremony himself. At a little over five foot three, the office gossip-vine constantly speculated that the reason his shoes were hand-stitched was so the Italian designers could incorporate an additional two inches of lift in the heel. Nevertheless, his choice of footwear did not detract from his overall appearance and Jules Gasnier clearly made up for his lack of stature with a forceful personality that sent the meek-minded scuttling for cover.

Not only was he immaculately attired in the latest Parisian haute couture, but, unsurprisingly, he was surrounded by a cloud of the most delicious cologne – crafted from a secret recipe he refused to share with anyone other than his mother, with whom he lived in splendour in the fifth arrondissement in Paris. Jean-Pierre had spent many a late night in the lab trying to replicate the signature scent for his own personal use, but he hadn’t yet managed it. Gabbie thought he needed to add a drop of star anise and maybe a dash of bergamot, but she wouldn’t dream of muscling in on Jean-Pierre’s alchemy.

‘Monsieur Gasnier, you have met Gabriella Andrews and Jean-Pierre Bertrand,’ said Marianne, gesturing to them to greet their employer.

Starstruck, Jean-Pierre hesitated, so Gabbie stepped forward and stuck out her hand. To her surprise, Jules Gasnier’s handshake was unusually limp, barely a touch, and accompanied by a look of distaste. She had the distinct impression that, had manners permitted, her employer would have liked nothing more than to whip out a bottle of antibacterial hand cleanser.

‘Could I introduce you to our newest perfumer, Fleurette Deniel?’

Fleurette swallowed down on her nerves and whispered, ‘Monsieur Gasnier, it is an honour to meet you.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it is. Marianne, would it be too much to ask for us to move on to the business part of our meeting, s’il vous plaît?’

Without waiting for a response, he marched over to the white marble bench where four glass phials were lined up ready for his attention. Every precious tube represented months of labour-intensive work and thousands of euros of raw materials. Even after all this time, it still amazed Gabbie that five tonnes of rose petals produced a meagre kilogram of pure rose oil – no wonder it was so expensive. Consequently, she always treated each ingredient with the utmost care and respect; many of the oils she worked with were worth more than their weight in gold.

‘Certainly, Monsieur Gasnier. If you would like to start with this fragrance?’ said Marianne, maintaining her cool façade as she handed over the first of the phials of precious golden liquid, her lips tightening slightly at the corners.

The previous day, Gabbie, Fleurette and Jean-Pierre had spent hours discussing the fragrances they intended to submit to Jules Gasnier for evaluation. Then, they had gone on to argue over the order of presentation, having to resort to drawing lots in the end or else they might have succumbed to verbal blows.

‘Mmm,’ mused Jules, his eyes closed as he inhaled for a second time. ‘Passable. Next.’

Gabbie saw Marianne wince. Phial number one had been her fragrance. Twelve weeks of aromatic toil and it was back to the drawing board – but after twenty years at the House of Gasnier, Marianne was accustomed to Monsieur Gasnier’s rejections, always delivered without consideration for their effect on the recipient. He might be a genius when it came to creating liquid magic, but it was a well-documented fact that he possessed an indiscriminate sadistic streak that he liked to dish out to the unsuspecting at increasingly frequent intervals. Those unfortunate enough to be singled out for attention either slunk from the room in shame or stormed out muttering words such as ‘unhinged’ or ‘crazy’. Marianne had recently confided in Gabbie that she was becoming genuinely worried about their CEO’s mental health as he approached his seventieth birthday, and she had been shocked to overhear a whispered conversation containing references to dementia.

Gabbie offered Marianne a sympathetic smile, yet she crossed her fingers that Monsieur Gasnier was saving his effusive praise for the perfume in phial number four, the one she had sweated blood and tears over – literally. Her offering was a blend of jasmine, mandarin, green leaves and linen fragrances, melded together to suggest that ‘just out of the shower’ freshness for the summer months.

The next perfume was Jean-Pierre’s masterpiece. Gabbie mouthed ‘good luck’, but Jean-Pierre’s dark gaze remained glued to Jules’s facial expression as he inhaled a deep breath, taking the aroma deep into his lungs. As they all waited with bated breath, blades of golden midday sunshine sliced through the skylights overhead, but not one person was interested in anything other than the imminent pronouncement. Gabbie’s heart pounded so hard against her ribcage that she thought Monsieur Gasnier would hear it and send her out of the room with a vicious reprimand for disturbing the creative process.

‘Do I detect pink peppercorn?’

Jean-Pierre flicked a quick glance at Marianne before stepping forward from the line, his eyes widening with excitement. ‘Oui, Monsieur…’

‘And narcissus?’

‘Oui, Monsieur,’ repeated Jean-Pierre, his voice climbing an octave. Unfortunately, Monsieur Gasnier was clearly immune to the electricity of hope that sparkled from every pore in Jean-Pierre’s gym-honed body.

‘I thought so. This concoction of swamp water is nothing more than a poor imitation of last year’s L’Amour Antique, do you not think? It would be commercial suicide to replicate something that already forms part of our range. Please remove this from my presence! Next!’

Heat flooded Jean-Pierre’s cheeks as he grabbed the glass phial and ran from the room to nurse his shattered dreams. The third perfume belonged to Fleurette. By this time, Gabbie felt as though her chest had been invaded by a gang of marauding monkeys and she struggled to control a sudden bout of trembling.

‘Mmm, this one is interesting… very interesting. Humour me. Did I ask for snow-topped mountains and cosy log cabins as the inspiration for our summer fragrance? Anyone? Non! Do any of my employees actually listen to me? Eh?’

Monsieur Gasnier threw up his hands before eyeing the final glass tube with disdain. Gabbie tried to quash her rampaging emotions but found her throat was dry and constricted. Her breathing had become shallow and she began to feel lightheaded, as if she was about to spontaneously combust. She watched him lift her precious fragrance to his nose – the nose she knew was insured for over two million euros – before closing his eyes and puckering his lips in avid contemplation.

‘Who is the creator of this parfum?’

‘I am, Monsieur.’

‘Fetch me a bottle of frangipani oil!’

Gabbie stared at her boss, shocked at his abrupt tone of voice and the way he tapped his foot impatiently on the marble floor, palm outstretched as he rolled his eyes at the time she was taking to respond to his order.

‘Go on! What are you waiting for? Chip chip!’

Fortunately, Marianne defused the burgeoning tension by handed Jules Gasnier the oil he had demanded and the three women stood silently, watching as he added two drops of the precious liquid to Gabbie’s phial, then inhaled a second time.

‘Ahh, l’arme d’été. C’est presque parfait!’

Gabbie’s stomach performed a somersault of excitement. Was this her chance? Would she now be permitted to introduce her summer fragrance to House of Gasnier’s customers, to reconnect with the people she made her perfumes for, to reignite the passion that had been waning over the last few months while she had been confined to the lab? She managed to find her voice but when she spoke it was as though someone else was talking. ‘Merci, Monsieur Gasnier, I…’

‘I said almost perfect. There is still a great deal of work to be done before this parfum can take its place alongside its peers. However, I am prepared to allow you the opportunity to work on its enhancement, mademoiselle. You will present yourself at nine a.m. on Monday morning at our headquarters on Rue de Rivoli.’

‘Rue de Rivoli? In Paris?’

‘Oui, à Paris!’ Monsieur Gasnier tutted and rolled his eyes at Marianne. ‘I anticipate your relocation will be for an initial period of three months, during which time you will be working in our on-site laboratory as part of our award-winning perfume development team.’

Gabbie knew she should be feeling euphoric. Jules Gasnier had chosen her perfume for the summer collection! Wasn’t that what she had wanted? Why she had temporarily crammed her most fervent wish to spend more time with their customers into the box labelled ‘To be dealt with later’? She could see the delight written across Marianne’s face, and the broad, excited smile on Fleurette’s lips needed no translation, but she shared neither of those emotions.

‘I must warn you, however, that your focus on this project must be absolute; there will be no time for the frolics I have no doubt you and your friends enjoy down here on the C


te d’Azur!’

‘Will I have the opportunity to work with any of House of Gasnier’s Parisian customers? To gather feedback as the perfume is developed?’

Jules Gasnier looked scandalised at the audacity of her question. ‘Non, you will not! We have a separate team who will carry out this task. Your skills will be required solely in the laboratory.’

The conflicted feelings that had been brewing since Gabbie woke that morning rushed to the surface and something inside her snapped. While she loved creating perfumes, much more important to her was interacting with the customers she created the fragrances for; taking the time to understand their hopes, their dreams, their innermost desires, so she could blend the perfect combination of aromas that would lift their spirits, just as she had done for her mother during the most difficult period of her life. How could she continue to conjure up amazing fragrances for House of Gasnier if she was constantly denied contact with the very people who would be enjoying her creations?

She sensed she stood at a crossroads, peering into a future that held differing options. She had no idea what to do and a helix of panic began to curl through her abdomen. She glanced at Marianne and suddenly knew the question she needed to ask herself.

What would her mother have done if she were standing in front of Jules Gasnier, the man who was glaring at her with such patent dislike? She didn’t have to try very hard to come up with the answer and immediately a sense of calm suffused her whole body. If staying at House of Gasnier meant she had to ditch her long-held dreams as well as risk losing her passion for something she had loved since she was a child, something that was as much a part of her as breathing, then it was too high a price to pay.

‘Thank you for your offer, Monsieur Gasnier, but no thanks.’

‘No thanks?’ spluttered Jules Gasnier, his eyes bulging from their sockets in disbelief and his expression darkening with repressed anger. ‘No thanks? No one in the history of House of Gasnier has ever rejected such a prize! I will not permit it! If you do not accept this position, I will fire you!’

‘No need. I quit!’


Chapter Two (#ulink_7eb22f4b-1327-5222-8f1a-78c992c94d2b)

No one spoke, everyone just stood motionless, jaws slackened in surprise, waiting for the verbal fireworks Jules Gasnier was famous for to erupt. Gabbie tried to leave the room but her feet felt like they were encased in concrete and refused to obey what her brain was desperately trying to tell them to do. She held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity and saw his surprise morph into fury and finally display a sprinkling of malice. While she knew she should get out of the firing line as quickly as possible, she couldn’t ignore her mother’s voice reverberating in her ears, telling her to stand her ground, to explain the reasons for her decision.

‘Monsieur…’

‘Get out! Get out of my sight, mademoiselle. You will not remain at House of Gasnier for one moment longer!’ he snarled, clearly taking her impromptu resignation as a personal insult and not in the slightest bit interested in hearing her explanation. ‘Did you hear me? Out! Now!’

This time, Gabbie’s feet responded immediately and, with a swift glance in the direction of a very shocked Marianne, she strode from the room, a sensation of lightness, of freedom, rushing through her veins, a thrill of elation settling in her chest. For a brief moment she felt the presence of her mother, smiling at her side, congratulating her on her decision to pursue what made her happy – creating bespoke aromas for real people. She had the training, she had the contacts, but she also had something she had come within a whisker’s breadth of losing – her passion for perfume!

She paused briefly at the end of the pristine white marble corridor to catch her breath and the dulcet tones of Jules Gasnier floated to her ears.

‘Marianne, please ensure that imbécile does not show her face here again! She is finished in this industry – I will make sure of that. Nobody quits House of Gasnier!’

Gabbie’s mood swiftly plunged from the heights of euphoria to the lows of panic. What on earth was she thinking? She had no pot of gold with which to purchase the essential oils needed to start such a business. And without her salary, how was she going to pay for her half of the rent on the little attic studio she shared with Jasmine? An explosion of alarm ricocheted through her body and she only just managed to make it to the bathroom before a wave of nausea enveloped her.

Seconds later, Fleurette burst into the room, concern etched on her attractive features. She reached for Gabbie and pulled her into a rib-crushing hug.

‘Oh, darling! What just happened? Why did you quit? Are you okay?’

Before Gabbie could connect her brain to her modem and even begin to explain the thought process that had caused her sudden loss of sanity, she heard raised voices coming from the other side of the door. She had to concentrate hard to understand what was being said as the exchange was conducted in rapid, irate French.

‘Jules, I implore you to give me the chance to speak to Gabriella, to find out what…’

‘Marianne, ma chère, I think you know me better than most, so let me ask you this. Can you recall a time in the last twenty years when I was persuaded to change my mind about anything? Mmm? Non! Jamais! I will interview Hélèna’s replacement myself.’

‘It’s Gabriella. Jules, please…’

‘Au revoir, Marianne.’

And a sharp clickety-clack signalled the exit of Jules Gasnier from the corridor – and the House of Gasnier from Gabbie’s life. She looked at Fleurette and almost crumbled when she saw the sympathy in her eyes. They both knew Marianne had put her own career on the line to argue Gabbie’s case, and she experienced a surge of gratitude towards her mentor, swiftly followed by a whoosh of shame for letting her down so spectacularly. She should have taken the time to do things properly. Oh, God! Why hadn’t she insisted on staying in bed that morning? The way she had felt, she should have known something like this would happen.

‘Chèrie! Are you in there? Prepare yourself – I’m coming in!’

Jean-Pierre flounced through the door, his arms in the air as he advanced on a surprised Gabbie and forcibly dragged her to his chest, enveloping her in a rich cloud of the heavy, woody cologne he favoured, which was soothing in its familiarity. Marianne followed swiftly on his heels.

‘Jean-Pierre, this is the ladies’ cloakroom! Please vacate immediately!’

Jean-Pierre opened his mouth to argue, then rolled his eyes and strode towards the door, clearly reluctant to miss any ensuing conversation about what Gabbie intended to do next. Marianne waited until the door had swung shut before turning to face Gabbie, her face pale beneath her immaculate cosmetics.

‘Gabbie, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how surprised I am. Tell me, chèrie, is this an aberration because of the stress of this day, or something that’s been fermenting for a while? If it is the former, I will do everything in my power to argue your case with our personnel department, but I have to warn you… Monsieur’s word is usually interpreted as law so I am pessimistic about the outcome. If it is the latter, rest assured I will provide you with the most excellent of references, should you require them.’

‘Thank you, Marianne.’

Gabbie gulped down the emotions spinning through her chest and assured her friend that her decision to quit, while probably not tendered at the most opportune of moments, was something that had indeed been festering for a while.

‘The thought of spending eighteen hours a day in a lab, disconnected from our customers, was never part of my dream. I’m sorry, Marianne. I will always be grateful for everything you’ve taught me, but it’s time for me to move on. If Monsieur Gasnier is serious about his threat, then it looks like my future career will not be in France!’

As the realisation dawned that her sojourn in the perfume capital of the world had come to an end, tears collected along her lower lashes, but she brushed them away, uncomfortable with the sympathy on her colleagues’ faces. She knew her reaction was just the shock of everything that had happened that day rather than regret at her decision.

‘I suggest you go home and spend a few days pondering your next step. If I can help in any way, please just ask. Fleurette will accompany you.’

‘No, there’s no need. Jasmine will be there – it’s her day off today and she’s waiting to hear about… well, about what’s happened. I’ll be fine, and thank you for intervening on my behalf. It was very kind of you.’

‘I did nothing you didn’t deserve.’

Gabbie followed Marianne and Fleurette out into the corridor where Jean-Pierre loitered, looking almost as distressed as she felt. She leaned forward to deposit kisses on his cheeks, unable to formulate words of goodbye for fear she would succumb to a deluge of sobbing. She hugged Marianne and Fleurette and, with mixed emotions and a final wave, left the cathedral of fragrant dreams on the Rue de Bouvier for the final time.

It was lunchtime and the pavement cafés buzzed with hungry diners in search of a tasty morsel and a little something to wash it down with. To Gabbie, this part of the town had always seemed to be bathed in a splash of gold, lighting up the shops and restaurants with warmth and welcome. In these picturesque surroundings, she really should have taken advantage of the glamorous social whirl Jasmine seemed to be consumed by, but she’d become so engrossed in her work that she’d had little free time.

Initially, that had suited her fine because she wasn’t in France to gather a wide coterie of like-minded friends with whom to party the night away, only to crawl into the lab the next day to find solace at the bottom of an espresso cup. In fact, the fewer people she let into her life the better as far as she was concerned.

She’d had a number of dates, the most persistent being motorbike fanatic François, but as soon as he’d suggested moving their relationship on to the next level, she had panicked. She’d explained that it wasn’t him, it was her, and refused any more trips along the Corniche on his Harley Davidson. After that she had limited her increasingly infrequent liaisons to just three dates before gently explaining that things weren’t working and suggesting they might want to take someone else to the beach party in Antibes or the cocktail party on their father’s yacht. Occasionally, there had been a guy whom she had thought she could connect with on a deeper level – Rafael for example. But the shattering truth was that loving someone meant getting hurt when the inevitable happened – and top of her list of life skills was self-preservation.

She wished her attic lodgings were further away so she had more time to process the events that had taken place at House of Gasnier that morning. But before she knew it, she was inserting her key into the sunflower-yellow front door and collapsing onto the vintage sofa Jasmine had acquired from the brasserie downstairs when it was being renovated.

‘Hey! You’re back early! How did it go? Am I looking at the new Coco Chanel? What did Monsieur Gasnier say about your fragrance?’ burbled Jasmine, appearing at the door in a pink silk peignoir before heading straight to the fridge for the bottle of champagne she had hidden there the night before.

As tall and slender as a shop-window mannequin, with a choppy, pixie-style haircut that emphasised her sharp cheekbones and ski-slope nose, Jasmine really should have considered a career in fashion rather than as a part-time hostess at the casino in Cannes. Gabbie struggled to understand her friend’s choice, especially when she had graduated top of their class at GIP. Instead, Jasmine had elected to follow her heart and apply as much of her time as possible to following her wealthy boyfriend around the globe as he competed in every yacht race known to the nautical world in search of his elusive first win.

However, as Jasmine often told her, winning was not the point – it was the taking part, especially in the fabulous locations where these races seemed to be held. Marco was chasing his dreams without so much as a backward glance and was one of the most cheerful and generous people Gabbie had met in France – not to mention the fact that he made Jasmine happy too.

‘You don’t need to open the champagne, Jazz, but thanks for the thought.’

‘Why? Did the famous Jules Gasnier have a spectacular lapse of judgement and choose someone else’s fragrance?’

‘No, it’s not…’

Gabbie was suddenly ambushed by a wave of emotion and struggled to formulate a brief synopsis of how she had tossed her future away in the space of five minutes.

‘Gabbie, what’s wrong? Tell me! What’s happened?’

The fear in her friend’s voice brought Gabbie to her senses. Whatever had happened, it was not the end of the world and no one had died. In fact it was the opposite; it was the beginning of something new, something fresh and exciting! She quickly spilled out every detail of her early morning drama in the presence of the eponymous head of the company she no longer worked for.

‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,’ sighed Jasmine, her dark eyes scouring Gabbie’s face, distress and sympathy written clearly across her expression. ‘So, what are you going to do? You’ll walk into another job, I’m sure of it. Hey, why don’t you come with me and Marco to Antigua next month for the Caribbean 600 yacht race? We’ll have a ball!’

Gabbie’s heart squeezed at Jasmine’s support and generosity. It was a kind offer, but even if she had wanted to join them, she couldn’t afford the flight and nor did she have enough funds to cover her half of the rent for any length of time. While she knew Jasmine wouldn’t even blink an eye at paying the full cost herself until she got back on her feet, she couldn’t allow her friend to do that. She had always paid her way and that wasn’t going to change.

So what was she going to do?

It wasn’t hard to come up with the answer. She would go home to Devon, a place she loved but which, after her mother’s death, held so many painful memories. Apart from the last couple of months, when she had been working flat-out on her summer fragrance, she had made it a priority to meet up with her father in London, because she knew how difficult it was for him to leave the garage and fly to France. She missed him tremendously, and some of the best times she’d had were when he had flown over to Nice and they’d spent the weekend together, sitting at a pavement café, sipping espressos and soaking up the sunshine, watching the beautiful people promenade and the sleek, shiny yachts glide across the sparkling water of the bay.

She knew he too was still grieving for her beloved mother, but the last time she had seen him, at the beginning of summer, she’d noticed that the sunken shadows underneath his crinkly blue eyes had softened. Relief had rippled through her – after all, he was the only family she had left and she worried about him all the time; about how hard he worked, how much he fretted about his car-maintenance empire and the maelstrom of paperwork and red tape that went with running a small business. When she had mentioned his more relaxed demeanour, her father had told her he’d taken on a new mechanic to help him meet increased demand and to step up as his deputy while he was sunning himself on the French Riviera.

It had been one of the most enjoyable, carefree weekends she had spent with him, chatting about her mum, reminiscing about the hours Gabbie had spent with her in the cream-painted summerhouse in the back garden, laughing at the myriad concoctions the two of them had come up with to relieve the strain of her cancer treatment, but some of which had just made Sofia feel more nauseous. Gabbie wished with all her heart that she’d had the benefit of her GIP training during that difficult time, when she had yearned to create a fragrance, an aroma, a scent, a lotion, anything that could alleviate her mother’s suffering, even for a short time.

With some difficulty, she dragged her thoughts back to the present and smiled at Jasmine. ‘A trip to Antigua sounds wonderful, Jazz, but I’ve decided to go home. I miss Dad, and I know he misses me too but doesn’t want to stand in the way of me pursuing my dreams. I even miss the garage, would you believe, and maybe this is fate giving me a gentle nudge in that direction, telling me it’s time to face my demons head-on, instead of giving them headroom where they can relax and be pampered. If I do that then maybe I’ll be able to move on and find someone to share my life with, like you have with Marco.’

‘An excellent plan! I’m sorry about what happened with Jules Gasnier, Gabbie, but if it means you’re going to have the time and space to work through your grief at last, instead of hiding from it under the guise of a manic work schedule, then it’s the best thing that could have happened to you – and I know Jeff is going to be overjoyed to have you home. Hey, maybe Marco and I can call in when we come over for the Royal Regatta?’

Gabbie laughed for the first time that day. Jasmine always had her mood-o-meter switched to positive and she knew her friend’s influence had a huge impact on her life. She and Marco had been there to celebrate every accolade she had achieved with her perfumes, every namecheck in the trade press and glossy magazines, not to mention the fact that Jasmine insisted on wearing nothing else but her creations! She would miss her friend’s talent for introducing a little ray of sunshine into the darkest of days, and resolved to ensure they stayed in touch, even if an ocean separated them. Friends like Jasmine, and Clara, her best friend at home, were just too precious to lose.

‘I’d love to see you and Marco in Devon – and so would Dad!’

‘Then it’s a date. Gabbie, you know what I’m always telling you, yes? When one door closes, another is ready to be flung open! I know you thought House of Gasnier was your dream job, but dreams can and do change, you know, and being back home will help you figure out what the next stage of your life has in store – professionally and romantically. Sofia would never have wanted you to shy away from finding someone who makes your heart sing – because that’s exactly what she found with Jeff.’

Gabbie knew her friend was right. No matter how confused she felt at the sudden turn of events that had resulted in her resignation, nothing came close to the pain she still nurtured in her heart and carried with her every day, no matter where she chose to make her life. It was time she worked on coming to terms with her loss, just as her father was, and allowing someone into her heart again.


Chapter Three (#ulink_da5f53a9-14ee-580a-86c8-b534f2879a51)

The journey from Nice airport to her childhood home in Devon passed in a blur of frenetic activity. She had flung everything she couldn’t bear to part with into a suitcase, then told Jasmine she could keep what she wanted from whatever remained and take the rest to the homeless charity which the two of them, along with Marco, had raised money for in a canoe race the previous month during one of her rare days off.

When she arrived at Gatwick she had stupidly glanced in the bathroom mirror and a jolt of shock reverberated around her body. The previous day she had faced the world – albeit courtesy of Jasmine – looking polished and elegant in a pair of Louboutins and a three-hundred-euro dress. Now look at her – she looked as if she’d been dragged through Customs on the back of a tractor! Her hair was no longer pinned in a sleek mahogany chignon but had ballooned into a candyfloss mess.

However, Gabbie didn’t care what she looked like. Until she had relocated to France, sartorial perfection had been low on her list of priorities. She much preferred to sport a pair of comfortable old dungarees, more than likely enhanced with a splodge of oil from when she had helped her father change an exhaust or fit a new clutch. Sadly, jeans were frowned upon at House of Gasnier and she’d been towed around the boutiques in Grasse by Jasmine, who’d been intent on giving her a lesson in French couture. She hadn’t argued because her theory had always been that if she kept busy, even if it was shopping for dresses – something that had never hung in her wardrobe – there would be no time to contemplate the grenades life had strewn in her path.

She had utilised her time during the flight back to the UK to formulate a believable explanation for her impromptu visit home. Her father had mentioned, only in passing, that the finances at the garage were squeezed, and the last thing she wanted to do was cause him any additional anxiety over the fact that she no longer had a source of income. Despite this complication, she was looking forward to being back.

Yet, Oakley would never be the same ‘home’ as the one that still existed so vibrantly in her thoughts. How could it be when one of the most precious people in her world was no longer there?

Shoving her anguish into the dark crevices of her mind, Gabbie smiled brightly at the monosyllabic taxi driver who picked her up at the station and settled down to enjoy the familiar ride through the Devonshire countryside. When, twenty minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of the white-painted signpost declaring Oakley’s award for Best Village in Bloom – something her mother had loved to be a part of – she almost unravelled. She squirmed at the thought of succumbing to tears in the taxi, but surely it was better than the alternative scenario – to feel nothing at all, to be cold and unmoved by life’s tragedies, wading through life like some kind of automaton?

She paid the driver, watched him screech off to collect his next victim of the silent treatment, and inhaled a steadying breath, taking a few moments to cast her eyes around the place that had been her home for twenty-one years. No matter how hard she had tried to block out this image of bucolic beauty and replace it with an equally picturesque image of Grasse, she had never quite managed it.

Her heart hummed with affection. The village had once been selected as the setting for a TV murder-mystery drama and the locals hadn’t stopped dropping the fact into dinner-party conversations ever since. It was no surprise it had been a star performer, with its thatched roofs, painted window boxes bursting with scarlet geraniums, and the welcoming allure of the village pub – The Pear Tree. However, for Gabbie, it was the people who made the place so special. Every single one of the residents had rallied round to support her and her father in their hour of need; in fact, they still did.

An upsurge of emotion tightened her throat as her eyes were drawn to the church on the other side of the village green, but she just didn’t have the courage to linger on what had happened within its walls. She hitched her canvas bag higher up her shoulder, hooked her fingers around the handle of her wheelie suitcase, and fixed her gaze on the sign in front of her. Immediately the corners of her mouth perked upwards.

Jeff Andrews Autos.

For the first time, she noticed that the blue-and-silver paint had started to peel like sunburnt skin and a couple of the letters were missing. When had that happened? Further inspection revealed that the double doors, currently flung wide open in an expansive and welcoming gesture, could also do with a fresh coat of paint, and there was a tangle of weeds sprouting from the hanging baskets instead of the pale-pink fuchsias her mother had planted every year as part of the RHS Britain in Bloom competition.

Gabbie cringed. Had Andrews Autos let the side down this year?

She stepped onto the forecourt that had been her playground and classroom for as long as she could remember. The familiar tang of engine oil, mingled with a soupcon of rusty nail and the freshly ground coffee her father loved, invaded her nostrils and caused her lips to curl even higher. Some people loved the smell of roses, or perhaps the whiff of lavender or recently mown grass, but for her the aroma of old engine oil caused her memories to scoot back to her childhood, to the happy times when she had performed the role of mechanic’s mate in her father’s beloved garage.

By the age of six she could name every make and model of vehicle, and at eleven could deliver a confident diagnosis of potential engine faults. She had been Jeff Andrews’ secret weapon when the car repairs were behind schedule because a part had taken ages to arrive from the manufacturer – for who could get annoyed with a cute eleven-year-old dressed in her own oily dungarees, her chestnut-brown ringlets tied back in a red handkerchief, and waving a spanner like a magic wand? She had never had the slightest interest in playing with dolls or wearing pretty dresses, preferring to climb trees or race the local boys down to the river where she could swing from the branches with the best of them.

So engrossed was she in her memories that she had failed to notice the mechanic wiping his hands on an oily rag and surveying her from beneath the longest, darkest eyelashes she had ever seen on a guy. When their eyes met, she was surprised at the way sparks of electricity shot through her veins and rippled out to her fingertips.

‘Hi, there. Can I help you?’ asked the Adonis, striding out to greet her with a wide smile on his face, causing a pair of cute dimples to bracket his surprisingly full lips. He smirked when he caught her eyes lingering on his mouth and heat seeped into her cheeks.

God! What was the matter with her? She swallowed quickly, astonished to find her throat was dry, mortified when her words came out of her mouth in a strangled squeak.

‘Oh, I… erm…’

‘You know, if you need the help of a garage mechanic, you really should bring the vehicle with you!’ Even the guy’s chuckle was music to her ears.

‘Yes, I…’

Gabbie couldn’t remember the last time she had been tongue-tied in front of anyone, even someone as handsome as the man standing in front of her – who was clearly revelling in the effect he was having on her, which made her feel even more awkward. What was going on? It was as though her heart – and body – had taken on lives of their own, taunting her brain to pull them back into line like a pair of naughty schoolchildren.

‘And before we go any further, let me ask you this. Have you checked the fuel gauge? I know how inconvenient it is, but engines don’t run on fresh air, you know. You do have to top them up with petrol occasionally.’

The man laughed as he tossed the oily rag onto the bonnet of the gorgeous, lipstick-red E-Type Jaguar he had been working on before she arrived. He turned back to face her, hands on his hips, confident in his environment and clearly taking her for a typical woman driver who had as much idea how the internal combustion engine worked as how to split the atom.

‘I’m not here for car repairs,’ Gabbie managed, casting a quick glance round the cathedral-like room where, apart from the Jaguar, there was a Volvo, a Fiat 500 and a Ford Transit van jacked up over the inspection pits.

‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all that’s on offer here… for the moment.’

The way he said the last three words sounded like liquid caramel flowing over chocolate ice cream and caused sparkles of desire to shoot through Gabbie’s abdomen and southwards. She watched him reach up to run his fingertips through the quiff at his forehead and scratch at the back of his neck. At last able to bring her errant emotions under control, she almost laughed out loud. Had she somehow inadvertently stumbled upon a rehearsal for a Diet Coke ad?

Despite the fact that his navy-blue overalls had seen better days and were liberally dotted with splodges of oil, the uniform suited him perfectly. The sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows to reveal a smattering of golden hairs on his forearms and he clearly worked out because his biceps stretched the fabric covering his upper arms to bursting point. However, the image of photographic perfection was tempered by the distinct whiff of creosote which seemed to emanate from his direction, which, for other women, might have proved a mood dampener. Shame she wasn’t one of those women, because she felt the pull of physical attraction strengthen.

Suddenly, conveniently, she remembered his name. Max Fitzgerald. But from the way her father had described his new deputy when they had met in London at the end of June, she had pictured him much older than in his early thirties – and a lot less like a Fifties’ matinée idol! Perhaps she should have quit her job at House of Gasnier sooner!

‘Hey! The wanderer returns! Welcome back!’ came an excited voice from the office whose window onto the forecourt had been blocked by a tottering pile of cardboard boxes. ‘I didn’t know you were coming home!’

‘Wil! Great to see you!’

Gabbie enjoyed the confusion on Max’s face as she hugged the guy her father had taken on as a trainee when he’d failed every one of his GCSEs after his father’s death in a road-traffic accident ten years ago. He wasn’t the best mechanic in the world but their customers loved his cheeky grin and his insistence on accompanying their MOT invoices with a cupcake whipped up and decorated with his own fair hands. Unsurprisingly, the generous gesture had increased business and Wil could usually be heard extolling the virtues of coupling cars and cupcakes to anyone who queried the business model.

‘How’s your mum?’ Gabbie asked.

‘She’s doing fine. She’ll be so pleased to hear you’ve made it home for a visit – what’s it been? Three, four months? She’s just back from a girls’ trip to Majorca with Aunt Helen. Loved it – even threatening to take a Spanish conversation class at the high school next month, would you believe!’

‘Sounds like a great idea.’

‘It would be if she wasn’t insisting on dragging me along to do my maths and English exams again.’

Wil pulled an expression of disgust, as if his whole world had ended, before realising that Max had been staring at them with amused curiosity for the entire conversation.

‘Ah, yes, sorry. Max, this is Gabriella Andrews – she’s a famous agriculturist.’

Gabbie couldn’t prevent a burst of laughter from erupting at the look of surprise on Max’s face.

‘I think what Wil meant to say was aromatherapist. But I’m not famous, and I’m not an aromatherapist! In fact, I’m not even…’ She had been about to spill all the intricate details of her spontaneous resignation but managed to haul in her urge to divulge the story just in time.

‘Pleased to meet you, Gabbie. Sorry I didn’t recognise you earlier. Jeff didn’t mention he was expecting you.’

‘Oh, no, I’m, well…’

For a fleeting moment, Gabbie had the sensation that Max knew exactly why she had arrived in Oakley unannounced. His eyes, the colour of espresso coffee, held hers for slightly longer than necessary, causing her to feel flustered and self-conscious. How did he do that?

‘It’s actually a surprise. Where is Dad?’

‘Ahh, it’s my favourite girl!’

Gabbie’s father appeared on the forecourt, his arms outstretched, a grin splitting his cheeks. She rushed into his embrace, leaning her head on his chest as he stroked her hair, like she’d done a thousand times before, listening to his heart beating. As she pulled back to meet his eyes, she struggled to conceal her shock.

It had only been eight weeks since she had seen him last and, while his hair was as luxuriously silver and bouffant as it had always been, his blue eyes just as bright and clear, what she hadn’t been prepared for was the expanded waistline and hint of a double chin. A kernel of concern sprouted in her chest as she also detected a rasp of breathlessness caused by the exertion of launching himself across the forecourt upon spotting her arrival.

Max and Wil were watching their reunion with diverse reactions; Wil’s face was swathed in pleasure and excitement at her unexpected visit, while Max’s expression held curiosity and a soupcon of suspicion.

‘Boys! Doesn’t she look amazing? Something good must be happening in all that sunshine they get in the South of France. Ah, Gabbie, it’s so good to see you, baby, but why didn’t you call? I would have driven over to collect you from the train station!’

‘Just wanted to surprise you, Dad,’ she said lightly as she snaked her arm around his waist and noticed again the few extra pounds he’d gained since their last meet-up. ‘I could murder a cup of decent coffee.’

Gabbie raised her nose in the air and sniffed, but, for the first time ever, the aroma she had expected to be floating from the direction of the kitchen was absent.

‘Come on!’ Jeff laughed, his joy at the unexpected arrival of his daughter clear for anyone to see. ‘Let’s put the kettle on.’

‘I want you to fill me in on all the village gossip – leave nothing out!’

Gabbie steered him towards the door that led from the garage forecourt into the kitchen of the house next door, which had been her home until she’d left for Grasse two years ago, not only to pursue her dream career, but to put as much distance between her and the place where her heart had been broken as she could.

She had expected to be enveloped with a familiar blanket of comfort when she entered the kitchen, but other, more pressing, emotions invaded her body. Her first reaction was shock at the chaos that met her eyes. Everywhere she looked there were discarded cardboard boxes, brown-paper packages for the garage, used milk cartons, old newspapers. There was even a motorbike carburettor on the table, next to a plate of leftover crusts – which her father never ate – not to mention the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

It took her a few moments to locate the kettle and, as she filled it, her back to her father to conceal her shock, she noticed a pile of paperwork on the draining board. She inhaled a couple of steadying breaths, trying to formulate the right words to ask her father what was going on. Her mother, like Gabbie herself, had loved orderliness and her attitude to cleanliness had bordered on the obsessive at times, not to mention the fact that she insisted on the necessity, even in a car-maintenance business, of having a pleasant aroma at all times.

What stopped Gabbie from blurting out her alarm at the state of the room was that, when she turned back round to face her father, she noticed an unexpected tinge of grey in his skin and decided to shelve her concerns until later. She watched as he slumped down heavily into a chair at the scarred pine table and heave a long, tired sigh, shoving the breakfast detritus away so he could prop his elbow on the table and rest his chin in the palm of his hand.

‘Dad, I can’t find the coffee. Don’t you usually keep it in this cupboard?’

‘Probably ran out. There’s a box of teabags over there in that carrier bag, I think.’

Gabbie located the bag and the tea, failed to find the teapot and so put two chipped mugs down on the table, dislodging an old pizza box that had been balanced on top of a parcel waiting to go to the post office.

‘Dad? Are you okay?’

‘Never better, sweetheart. Oh, I’m a little tired, and perhaps it’s a bit more difficult to get under the engines these days, but now I have Max I can start to concentrate on some of the other things I may have let… well, let slide.’

Her father shot a quick glance around the kitchen, once so pristine and tidy but now looking as though a paper bomb had exploded.

‘So, anyway, enough about me. To what do I owe the pleasure of an impromptu visit from my globe-trotting daughter? Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to have you home…’ Jeff reached across to squeeze her hand. ‘…But I wasn’t expecting to see you until I flew out to France in October.’

‘I just wanted…’

On the plane, Gabbie had rehearsed what she was going to say to her father when he asked this question. She knew he would be upset about her quitting what he thought was her dream job without having a plan in place for what she was going to do next. She’d intended to tell him the truth because she had no idea how long she would be staying in Oakley, how long it would take her to work out where she was going, or to find a new position. However, seeing the extent to which his grip on housekeeping and administration had deteriorated, and the way he was grasping his mug as though it held the elixir of life, she suddenly didn’t want to burden him with her problems.

‘…I was due a couple of weeks off from House of Gasnier and wanted to spend the time with you.’

‘Ah, that’s music to an old man’s ears!’

Oh, God! Gabbie felt tears prickling at her lashes. Why was he saying that? Sixty wasn’t that old! Something was definitely going on and she was relieved that fate had seen fit to step in and send her home.

‘Dad, is everything okay? What are you not telling me?’

Suddenly an explosion of pain erupted in her chest, shooting its arrows of fire down her veins like red-hot pokers. Of course – his pale complexion, his weight gain, his tiredness… no, no, no, please God, no, she couldn’t bear it. Surely life couldn’t be that cruel?

‘Dad?’ she whispered.

‘Oh, no, darling, sorry, no, it’s nothing like that!’ Jeff grabbed Gabbie’s hand between his rough, calloused palms and forced a smile onto his lips. ‘It’s just a few problems with the business that need a bit of attention, that’s all. We’ve got loads of work on, but the bank has started hassling me about turnover and whatnot. Nothing for you to worry about. Now, how about I take your suitcase upstairs and you can get settled in before I treat you to dinner at The Pear Tree?’

‘Dad, I can help you with the business stuff, you know that.’

‘No, I won’t hear of it. You work really hard in that laboratory of yours and this is your holiday. Why don’t you link up with Clara while you’re here? I know she’ll be excited about seeing you. How long is it since you two had a real girly get-together?’

Gabbie was so relieved her father hadn’t divulged some dreadful, life-limiting illness that she felt lightheaded. A flash of pleasure erupted, mingled with a tiny grain of guilt, when she thought of her best friend, Clara, whom she hadn’t seen for four long months. She hoped Clara would forgive her for her lack of texts and emails over the last few weeks when things had been manic at House of Gasnier. She couldn’t wait to see her, to hear about what was happening in her life, and to confide in someone about what was going on in hers and ask for her always-sensible advice.

She allowed herself a brief smile as she kissed her father’s bristly cheek on her way upstairs to freshen up. He might be one of the best mechanics in the whole county of Devon, but dealing with the garage’s accounts and finances had never been her father’s forte and he had happily left all the admin to her mother, who had handled both with ease and precision. So, if there was one thing she could do while she was home, it was sort out the paperwork – and maybe persuade him to ditch the extra pounds he had added to his frame, which, she suspected, were probably the cause of his tiredness.

There was no way she could contemplate losing him too.


Chapter Four (#ulink_f9fdc5c7-4ad5-5226-b7c3-c4154c87ca13)

When Gabbie woke the next day, the birds were still busy chirping the overture of their morning chorus. Shafts of ivory light streaked through a gap in the pretty rosebud curtains to dance on the sheepskin rug at the side of her bed. She remembered the day she and her mum had chosen the material and then made the curtains using the ancient black-and-gold Singer sewing machine that had belonged to her grandmother. She smiled at her recollections of that day of creativity, at the hems that had always been lopsided, at the way the whole room screamed childhood memories, every one filled to bursting with her mother’s laughter.

She swung her feet to the floor, her toes luxuriating in the woolly rug. She picked up the silver-framed photograph on her bedside table and ran her fingertips over her mother’s features, so like her own. People often remarked on their similarities – but not so much since Sofia had passed away. That, of course, was down to Gabbie’s decision to move not just to a different town, or even the next county, but to another country entirely, where no one knew her history so couldn’t comment on the fact that she had inherited her mother’s Italian genes in the colour of her hair and eyes, or the determined tilt of her chin, or her penchant for tidiness and order. She was simply Gabriella Andrews, would-be perfume princess, lover of seafood and the occasional bellini.

At the time, it had been a relief to escape the sympathetic glances, the offers of casseroles and cheese quiches, the heartfelt words of condolence from friends and neighbours who were themselves grieving. But Jasmine’s observations had been spot-on; her move to the South of France, a mere three months after her mother had passed away, had meant she hadn’t taken the time to process her sorrow because, as she sat there, staring at her mother’s image, she could still feel the heavy block of concrete, cold and hard, lodged somewhere between her throat and her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

With a sigh, she shoved her meandering memories to one side and jumped in the shower. Yet even there she felt her mother’s presence. For as long as she could remember, they had both harboured an unshakeable obsession with toiletries, from the mundane to the exotic. Soaps, bubble bath, hand wash, shower gel, shampoos, conditioners, facial scrubs, candles… you name it, they had collected them. Her mother had adored the fancy French soaps, like the one she held in her hand that smelled of gardenias, but Gabbie had always preferred the more natural aromas such as coconut, strawberry, pineapple, lemon.

She towel-dried her hair and selected a pair of cream-linen trousers – a birthday gift from Jasmine – and a hand-knitted pink cardigan. She was about to gallop down the stairs to grab her first coffee of the day when she paused on the threshold and glanced down at her outfit. What was she doing? It wasn’t as if Jules Gasnier was going to arrive on the Andrews Autos forecourt and bawl her out for her lapse of taste. She returned to her wardrobe and pulled on a pair of jeans, her enthusiasm for the day ahead increasing in line with the comfort of her attire, not to mention the possibility of spending some time with Max… and Wil, of course.

There was a lot of work to be done, and now she was home she intended to make herself useful. On their walk back from dinner at The Pear Tree the previous night, with her arm linked through her father’s as he boasted about his latest archery win, Gabbie had made a plan – and when she stepped into the kitchen, she was pleased she had made it the first item on her to-do list. However, she intended to move swiftly into the garage, which looked as though a metal firework had gone off. She had no idea how anyone could work surrounded by such chaos.

She wondered what Max thought about the clutter but quickly quashed his reappearance in her thoughts. Why couldn’t she get him out of her mind? Why had his dark, come-to-bed eyes, with those long, luscious lashes she would give her eye teeth for, invaded her dreams last night?

Locating the Jamaican coffee her father had always sworn he couldn’t start a day’s work without behind a pile of unopened Pirelli calendars from the previous year, she fixed herself a morning brew. After a few fortifying sips, she was ready to tackle the washing-up. She pulled on a pair of Marigolds, filled a bowl with hot, soapy water, found a threadbare scrubbing brush and set to work. By the time her father appeared at eight-thirty to throw open the garage doors, the kitchen was almost recognisable as the room that had wrapped her in a blanket of comfort and love as she grew up.

‘I’m sure I had a bottle of Coke in the fridge?’

‘I’ve made a fresh cafetière of your favourite coffee. Help yourself. And there’s scrambled eggs and granary toast in the oven.’

‘Wow! You didn’t have to do that, Gabbie.’

‘The Coke thing? Is that a new twist on what you and Mum always used to tell me was the most important meal of the day?’

Jeff had the grace to blush. ‘Sorry, darling. It’s just such a hassle cooking for one. All I need in a morning is a quick injection of caffeine and I’m ready to go.’

Gabbie rolled her eyes but enjoyed the delight on her father’s face as he settled down to devour his breakfast with gusto and drain the cafetière.

‘The kitchen looks amazing! Thank you for clearing up – I was actually going to get round to it today. So, now you’ve completed the household chores, you definitely deserve to take some time out for yourself. Give Clara a call. I know she’ll be pleased to hear you’re back.’

‘I think I’ll give it a couple of days,’ Gabbie hedged, suddenly unsure about subjecting herself to Clara’s famously razor-sharp enquiries that always got to the crux of anything that festered beneath the surface. There were no secrets when Clara was around and while she was keen to share what had happened in Grasse, she also wanted to be able to present her friend with a well-researched strategy for what she was going to do next – and she didn’t have one.

‘Okay. Right, sitting here won’t get Gordon Fielding’s MOT sorted out. I’m going into town this afternoon – do you want to come along?’

‘No, thanks. I thought I’d sort out the garden.’

‘I told you, you don’t have to do any of that stuff – you’re on holiday. Relax, read, do whatever you do when you have downtime in France. Perhaps you could… No, never mind. Catch you later, sweetheart. Love you.’

‘Love you too, Dad.’

Gabbie hugged her father, breathing in the lemony body wash he used in the shower that still clung to his skin at the end of the day despite the onslaught of exhaust fumes. As he opened the door between the kitchen and the garage, she noticed there was a discernible spring in his step, as though his hearty breakfast had delivered a surge of energy with which to tackle the day ahead.

As she finished the washing-up and returned the crockery to its rightful place, she knew what he had been about to suggest and why he had pulled back from pursuing it when he’d seen the fear in her eyes.

Even now, two years on, it was the one place she could never go, the place she had to avoid at all costs in order to keep her sanity intact – and she certainly had no intention of going there the morning after she had arrived.

In fact, she could see the pitch of the summerhouse roof beneath the cherry tree from where she stood, elbow-deep in suds, so she studiously averted her eyes to focus on the garden, and the grass that was so overgrown she wouldn’t have been surprised to find Doctor Livingstone lurking about in there. After she had mowed the lawn, she would take a stroll to the village shop to see Martha and ask for her suggestions for a healthy supper.

She slotted her feet into an old pair of flower-bedecked wellies and spent the next few hours communing with nature, taking care to keep her back firmly towards the summerhouse. When her neck and shoulders began to object to the unfamiliar physical exertion, she made a plate of salad sandwiches, but when she checked her watch she realised her father would have left for town already. She fingered the phone in her pocket, battling the urge to call Jean-Pierre or Fleurette for an update on life at House of Gasnier, but she knew that whatever they said would upset her, so she tossed it on the kitchen table and sauntered into the garage.

That morning there were three vehicles in the workshop, two jacked up for easy access to the chassis and the third, the lipstick-red E-Type Jag Max had been working on the previous day, parked in the far corner. On closer inspection, the iconic car might have seen better days as far as the paintwork was concerned, but the leather seats had been replaced and the chrome metalwork shone under the overhead lights.

A radio tinkled a cheerful tune in the background, providing the cadence for the day, and Gabbie inhaled a lungful of that special scent that caused her senses to sparkle. If she had confessed her love of Castrol GTX to her colleagues back in Grasse they would have looked at her askance. But that’s what some aromas did to people – sent their memories zooming back to happier times, whether it was freshly mown grass, warm buttered toast, newly laundered sheets, or the waft of wax furniture polish.

‘Don’t just stand there! Pass me the wrench! And this time, don’t drop it on my hand!’

Gabbie bristled. While she had no objection to being a mechanic’s mate, and would welcome the diversion if she were honest, she did object to being ordered around, even if Max had acquired the badge of her father’s new right-hand man.

‘Wil! Did you hear me?’

Max slid out from under the Jag, his face covered in random splatters of dirt and oil, the top of his overalls rolled down to reveal his taut abs and impressive biceps beneath a tight black T-shirt. Despite her irritation, Gabbie couldn’t prevent a gasp of appreciation from escaping her lips. Wow! She felt like she was an extra in a remake of Grease!

‘Oh, sorry. I thought you were Wil. He promised he was going to get the first-aid box, but it looks like he’s decided to disappear instead. I really don’t know how your dad managed to run this place with Wil in tow. He’s a complete liability!’

Max pushed himself up to standing and inspected his arm where a two-inch-long gash oozed blood. He lowered his lips and sucked the blood away, a gesture that caused an uncomfortable feeling in Gabbie’s lower abdomen.

‘What happened?’

‘Wil thought he’d imitate his favourite cocktail waiter while he waited for his next set of instructions. Circus clown, more like. Anyway, the wrench slipped out of his hand and I have this trophy to show for it.’

‘Whose is the Jag?’

Max raised his eyebrows and those tiny dimples appeared again. ‘Like it?’

‘I love it.’

‘Really? I thought you’d prefer some little French number, like a Citroen 2CV or maybe an Alpha Romeo for driving at speed along the Corniche.’

‘Well, that just shows how little you know about me, doesn’t it?’ Gabbie retorted, for some reason annoyed by the continual unfavourable assumptions Max seemed to make about her. ‘Have you forgotten I’m the daughter of a car obsessive? I grew up listening to bedtime stories from car-maintenance manuals and hearing about the workings of the internal combustion engine. As with people, when it comes to cars, it’s not what’s on the outside that matters, but what’s underneath the bonnet.’

Max looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners and a smirk playing around his mouth. Once again, she was shocked at the strength of her body’s reaction to his proximity. Okay, Max was attractive, there was no denying that. She’d even go as far as to say he could give Danny Zuko a run for his money! But she was no stranger to handsome men. She had dated several in France – Rafael, for instance, with his Spanish heritage, was no slouch in the charisma stakes. So what was it? Could it be the slight tang of clean engine oil – not every girl’s cup of tea – that enhanced his allure?

‘Well, in that case, if you appreciate quality engineering, you’ll be impressed by this little beauty.’ Gabbie watched Max’s eyes light up with excitement as he released the catch on the bonnet and displayed his handiwork. ‘There’s just the final paint job and it’ll be ready to go.’

‘So who is the lucky owner?’ Gabbie asked, smoothing her hand over the chrome wing mirror and along the graceful curve of the vehicle’s side panels.

‘None other than Yours Truly.’

‘What? This car belongs to you?’

‘It does.’

‘But…’

‘I know what you’re thinking – how do my meagre wages stretch to something like this?’

‘No, I…’

Again, Gabbie felt a surge of heat invade her face because Max was right.

‘I was left this car by my uncle when he passed away a couple of years ago and I’ve been restoring it ever since, bit by bit, when I can afford it. I’ve always loved classic cars, but for me the E-Type is the epitome of elegance and style. And you don’t have to take my word for that – Enzo Ferrari said it was the most beautiful car ever made, or words to that effect.’

Max’s eyes caressed the vehicle in front of him like an art critic would the Mona Lisa. When he saw Gabbie was watching him, his cheeks reddened.

‘Sorry, I can get quite evangelical when I talk about cars.’

‘You don’t have to apologise – I love them too! In fact, this workshop and the garage forecourt were my playground from the time I could lift a spanner! Dad and I would spend hours dismantling, cleaning, oiling and reassembling engine parts like other parents do jigsaws with their children. I loved it!’

‘I know exactly what you mean. My uncle also had an Austin Healey Sprite and an old clapped-out Rover P6 that he let me work on. My obsession with engines is what kept me out of trouble all through my teenage years. And I’m still learning something new every day from your dad – he’s an amazing mechanic, not just on the technical side, but he seems to have this affinity with an engine, an instinctive ability to understand what’s wrong and how to fix it.’

‘Yes, that’s my dad!’ Gabbie smiled with affection for her father.

‘You know, it’s my dream to own my own garage one day, too. But I want to specialise in restoring classic and iconic cars. What better way to spend the day than bringing these magnificent vehicles back to their former glory so they can grace our roads for years to come?’

Max ran his hand over the bonnet of the Jag as a Casanova would his lover. It was abundantly clear to Gabbie that her father had selected his deputy wisely, for she recognised some of his personality quirks in Max. She was beginning to understand what had drawn her so powerfully to Max Fitzgerald, and if there was one thing she could appreciate it was how important it was to have passion as the driving force behind your ambitions.

‘I know exactly how you feel. I feel the same about creating perfumes.’

Gabbie saw Max scrunch up his nose and laughed. It was a typical reaction from people who knew nothing about her industry. Perfumers didn’t just produce the liquid itself; they created a dream, a style, a statement, a mood. But she wasn’t sure it was the perfect moment to regale Max with her sales pitch.

‘I guess I won’t be bending your ear about my obsession, then?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

‘It’s okay,’ she laughed. ‘So when do you think you’ll have your project finished?’

‘Depends how much spare time I get. I only work on her during my lunch hour, or if I come in early in the morning. Your dad’s been great – he’s even opened up the garage on the occasional Sunday so I can get stuck in. I need to have everything done by the end of October, though, because I promised my aunt I’d take her to my cousin’s wedding in it. Can’t let her down, can I?’

Max extracted a dirty cloth from his pocket and polished away an invisible speck of dust from the headlamp, pride in his achievement glowing on his handsome face. Gabbie recognised that expression as one she wore more frequently than she would care to admit; the fervent desire to spend every spare second with the non-human objects of her affection.

Max had taken several steps towards her, causing her heart to perform a flip-flop when she felt the whisper of his breath on her cheek. He might dismiss the perfume business, but he clearly enjoyed the benefits of its products. She inhaled slowly so as not to alert him to her scrutiny of his choice of cologne – a habit Jasmine constantly chastised her about.

Mmm, frangipani with monoi and a nip of galbanum. Delicious. She realised too late that she had closed her eyes briefly, her nostrils lifted in the air in an almost snooty fashion as she savoured the intoxicating aroma. She quickly averted her gaze and changed the subject to more mundane matters.

‘Dad says the garage has got plenty of work on. Is that true?’

‘Yes, in fact we’re too busy – winter services, MOTs, repairs after the long drives over summer. We’ve had to start turning customers away, which isn’t something Jeff likes to do.’

Gabbie wondered if her father had confided in Max about the problems he had mentioned the previous day but brushed off as issues of ‘turnover and whatnot’ when she had queried them. She didn’t want to breach any confidences in relation to the business so she didn’t ask the question that had formed on her lips – if they had so such work on, and an extra pair of hands since Max had arrived, why were there concerns? It didn’t make any sense.

She made a mental note to ask her father about it, and if he refused to discuss it with her, as he had yesterday, she would take a look at the accounts and work it out for herself. She had often helped her mother with the filing and entering the invoices and receipts in the old-fashioned ledgers, so she knew what to look out for. In fact, there was no time like the present.

‘Well, I can’t stand here chatting all day,’ announced Max, striding over to a VW Beetle that looked like it had just driven off the set of a Barbie film, its sugar-pink paintwork dotted with huge white daisies.

As Max leaned over the engine, Gabbie found her eyes drawn to the taut curve of his buttocks. However, she also recognised that her attraction to Max was caused by more than simple physical desire. For one thing, they had a great deal in common; she sensed, too, that beneath the brooding exterior something much more vulnerable lurked and she was keen to find out what.

As she made her way towards the office, another ripple of interest swept through her, and she was flustered by the strength of her reaction to someone she barely knew. Jasmine was right. It really was time she got back on the dating horse.


Chapter Five (#ulink_b91caecf-e335-5d1d-9503-02bbb73e3f34)

Gabbie wove her way through the labyrinth of cardboard boxes and toppling stacks of old car magazines to the office in the far corner of the garage. She reached for the grubby handle and paused. Anxiety gnawed at her abdomen as she wondered what she might discover behind that door.

Well, she wasn’t going to find out by just standing there, was she?

She inhaled a deep breath and went in. It was even worse than she had imagined. The gargantuan mahogany desk that had been in the Andrews family for years was almost unidentifiable – strewn with car manuals, crumpled correspondence, discarded envelopes, pots of pens, used coffee cups. Even the drawers had been wrenched open so that more paperwork could be balanced on top.

The shelves behind the desk were crammed with box files, all higgledy-piggledy and no longer in alphabetical order, and the gun-metal-grey filing cabinet was covered in blisters of rust and, incongruously, missing a drawer. But the thing Gabbie found most disconcerting was the odour of dirty dishcloths and mould. It had always been a standing joke that Andrews Autos was the only garage in the whole of Devon, and perhaps even England, that emitted a faint smell of roses, or lavender, or jasmine, depending on her mother’s mood that week. A mantle of sadness draped its weight over Gabbie’s shoulders at discovering yet another slip in standards since her mother had passed away and she had left Oakley to pursue her dreams in France.

She slumped down into the burgundy captain’s chair and sighed. Why did things have to change? Why couldn’t the garage at least have retained the familiarity she was expecting? After all, nothing had changed for the first twenty-one years she had been there – apart from the Pirelli calendar on the wall. As she ran her eyes over the newspapers scattered over the floor and the overflowing wastepaper basket, she felt as though she wasn’t in Andrews Autos at all, but some other garage belonging to a proprietor who didn’t care about his business, and that thought jerked her out of her melancholy and into action.

She made a start on the in-tray, separating the coffee-stained invoices into those that had been paid and those that required attention before moving on to the filing. By the time she stopped for a break it was after six o’clock and her stomach growled with objection at the lack of attention, but she was on a roll and had no intention of stopping for such mundane necessities. She could now see the leather inlay on the top of the desk and had located the missing drawer from the filing cabinet in the gents’ toilet of all places!

‘Okay, I’m… Oh, my God! What’s going on?’ said Max, appearing at the door. ‘I can hardly recognise the place. I wondered why I hadn’t seen you around this afternoon. Wow, you’ve certainly been busy.’

‘Mum always kept this office so shipshape that it ran like one of your shiny engines. Orderliness is the engine oil of an efficient business, she used to say. Customers would tease her, saying they felt like they should put their cars through a carwash before bringing them for their annual service at Andrews Autos. She secretly loved the thought of that.’

Gabbie flashed a glance through the office window into the workshop, but her view was blocked by the mountain of cardboard. She knew exactly what her next task was going to be.

Max followed her line of sight. ‘The place was like this when I joined at the beginning of summer. I thought this was what it was always like so I just accepted it as normal. There was enough to do sorting out the vehicles without donning an apron and washing down the surfaces. Anyway, it didn’t take me long to discover where everything was and the system sort of works. If I can’t find something, Wil usually knows where to look. Right, I just popped in to tell you I’m finished for the day and if you fancy joining Wil and I for a pint in The Pear Tree later, you’d be very welcome.’

‘Oh, thanks, but I think I’ll finish up here. I could be a while.’ She laughed.

‘No problem. Another time. See you tomorrow.’

Gabbie watched Max snatch up his car keys and stride out of the garage without looking back. She enjoyed the view, the swing of his hips, the denim jacket slung casually over his shoulder, but she wasn’t sure how she would feel if the tables were turned and he’d been watching her retreating backside.

Half an hour later, she paused at the office door, finger on the light switch, surveying her handiwork. She was satisfied with the results and made a decision. She collected the three box files that held that year’s business accounts, locked the door and pocketed the key, determined to have a word with her father about letting the paperwork slide.

Unfortunately, she had forgotten he played archery on a Tuesday evening and the house felt strangely quiet, the joists overhead creaking like arthritic limbs. She dropped the boxes on the kitchen table and decided to make herself a tuna sandwich before settling down to wade through the muddle of documents that made up the financial affairs of Andrews Autos.

She flicked through the TV channels, but she hadn’t watched a British television programme in years. She selected an apple from the fruit bowl she had replenished in the hope of tempting her father with a healthy snack rather than a packet of crisps, and checked her watch. The archery shoot usually finished around eight when the light started to fade, and he would then retire with his fellow archer, Mike Sanderson, to The Pear Tree for a few pints and a discussion about their respective scores – that meant she had a couple of hours to kill.

Gabbie wondered briefly whether she should call Clara instead of spending her evening hunched over rows and rows of figures. The longer she put it off, the harder it would be to explain to her friend why she hadn’t told her she was home. She yearned to hear Clara’s soft West Country burr that had caused tears of homesickness to fall in the early days as she had struggled to settle into her tiny studio in Grasse. Over the two years she had been away, their phone calls had dwindled, yet every time they spoke, Gabbie felt as though she’d just seen her yesterday. A sharp spasm of guilt shot through her when she realised that, because of the recent frenzied work schedule at House of Gasnier, she hadn’t spoken to her childhood partner-in-crime for a couple of months.

She sauntered over to the kitchen sink. Through the window she inadvertently caught a glimpse of the summerhouse and sadness seeped into her veins. She knew that unless she kept herself busy she would be overcome by an avalanche of painful memories. If she didn’t yet have the courage to ring Clara and spill out every detail of what had happened over the last few weeks, she would need to find something else to occupy her thoughts.

She returned to the garage workshop, so calm and peaceful in the evening. A perfect image of that room had been imprinted on the inside of her eyelids, an image she could call up whenever she craved a slice of home. But the picture was now totally distorted by the jumble of random objects scattered everywhere, not least the huge pyramid of cardboard blocking the office window. She reached up to remove the box balanced precariously on the top and was surprised to find it was empty.

That was the start of it. By the time she saw the headlights of her father’s ancient Volvo swing onto the driveway in front of the house, the garage looked exactly like it always had; clean, uncluttered and, more to the point, smelling amazing, even if the chosen bouquet did include a top note of disinfectant.

Gabbie decided the makeover would have greater impact if she revealed it in all its glory the next morning, so she hustled out of the garage, locked the connecting door and slid into a kitchen chair, feigning nonchalance as the front door opened.

‘Hi, Dad! How was Mike?’

‘Fine, fine. He sends his love.’

‘And how was the meeting at the bank this afternoon?’

‘Oh, that was fine too,’ Jeff said far too breezily as he hung his coat on the peg, his back to Gabbie for just a second longer than necessary.

Gabbie knew immediately he was avoiding the subject.

‘Dad…’

‘Not now, sweetheart. I’m shattered, what with the trip to town, the shoot tonight and our favourite seats in the Pear being commandeered by a bunch of inebriated tourists down from London for a week of team building! I think I’ll grab an early night, if you don’t mind? New day tomorrow, though, so how about I take you with me to see an MG one of Mike’s friends is looking to offload? It’s a V8. You’ll love it.’

Gabbie was about to press him on the outcome of the bank visit but his haggard expression and the weary slump of his shoulders forced her to agree that getting some rest was a priority.

‘Sounds great. I’d love to come with you. Night, Dad. I love you.’

She hugged him a little tighter than she usually did, enjoying the affectionate squeeze he gave her in return, before stomping up the stairs behind him and surrendering to the safe hands of sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.


Chapter Six (#ulink_2ac16e50-6092-5046-baf5-dacfaa385a71)

‘For God’s sake! Where is she?’

Gabbie heard the angry exclamation clearly from the workshop, followed by a sharp rap on the connecting door as she was busy spooning instant coffee into a mug.

‘Come in. Do you want a…’

‘What the hell’s the matter with you? What were you thinking? Okay, sort out the office – I get that. But the garage? Where are all my tools? My own personal belongings that I saved up to buy with my hard-earned cash? I told you yesterday, the place might be a little disorganised, messy even, but I know where everything is. Wil and I have a system. You might not recognise it, or approve of it, but it is our system and it works for us. I’ve come in extra early this morning to work on the Jag and I can’t find anything. It’s all hidden away…’

‘Max…’

‘And what on earth is that smell?’

Gabbie abandoned the coffee and followed Max onto the forecourt, unsure how to deal with the onslaught of indignation. She had assumed he would be grateful for her intervention in the car chaos.

‘It’s elderflower and passionfruit.’

‘Passionfruit? Passionfruit?’ Max ran his fingers through the quiff at his forehead, his eyes skimming every corner of the garage. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Andrews Autos is a car-maintenance garage, not a French tart’s boudoir. What on earth possessed you? What made you think you could march in and organise our lives in accordance with your own vision? You might be the proprietor’s fragrantly doused daughter, but you don’t work here – Wil and I do, and we can’t do our jobs when all our tools are filed away in alphabetical order! Every day would be like embarking on a treasure hunt. I thought you understood how busy we were?’

‘Hey, wind back a bit. You might not know this but Andrews Autos has been in business for three generations and throughout that time we have prided ourselves on efficient repairs at a fair price, timely MOTs and services, but also on providing a spotless, and safe, working environment…’

‘Arggh!’

Gabbie swung her eyes over her shoulder towards a silver Peugeot behind which the sharp grunt of agony had come, followed by a clattering of metal tools falling to the floor and spinning in all directions.

‘What was that?’

‘Not sure.’

Max sprinted the few yards to the other side of the car with Gabbie only seconds behind him.

‘Jeff!’

‘Dad! Are you okay? Dad?’

Gabbie rushed to her father’s side to help him up from the tangle of spanners and old rusty paint tins in which he was sprawled, his face as grey as an overused dishcloth. Max took his other arm and together they guided him to a chair at the kitchen table. With her heart pounding out a medley of anxiety, Gabbie asked if he’d hurt himself and made sure he was comfortable, while Max set the kettle to boil.

‘I’m fine, really, I’m fine, darling. No need to fuss.’

‘But what happened?’

‘Seems I inadvertently stumbled over a leaning tower of paint pots!’

Jeff patted Gabbie’s hand reassuringly, then smiled his thanks to Max for the proffered coffee, adding a spoonful of sugar to his mug and taking a sip before letting out a long sigh of relief.

‘Ahh, that’s better. No one should even attempt to start the day without a cup of coffee – and maybe some of those delicious scrambled eggs on toast of yours. Sorry for alarming you, Gabbie, but as you can see, I’m right as rain now.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

Gabbie scrutinised the face she loved more than any other in the world. While her father’s colouring had returned to normal, there was a wary look in his eyes that put her on her guard. Was he telling her the truth, or what he thought she wanted, or needed, to hear?

‘Okay,’ announced Max, draining the contents of his mug and dropping it into the kitchen sink. ‘I’d better get back to work. Harriet Bradshaw’s new exhaust won’t fit itself. If you need anything, just holler.’

‘Thanks, Max, and sorry for the commotion.’

‘No problem, boss.’

It was only when the door to the garage swung shut behind Max, and Gabbie replenished her father’s coffee mug, that she noticed with alarm the slight tremor in his fingers on the handle, and her gaze fell on the brown envelope in the middle of the table.

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, just some information from one of our suppliers.’

Her father’s attempt at nonchalance raised Gabbie’s suspicions and she knew immediately that this correspondence was the cause of her father’s wobble. She reached out to pull the letter towards her, removed the paperwork and scanned the contents. Her stomach performed a swift somersault of concern when she realised the implications, and she looked up to meet her father’s silver-grey eyes.

‘Dad, this is a final demand – for twenty thousand pounds! Don’t we usually pay our invoices on time?’

‘It’s just a temporary cash-flow problem. I spoke to the bank about it yesterday afternoon – everything is in hand and there’s nothing for you to worry about.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘Okay, but I’m still worried about you. I think you should make an appointment at the doctor’s, just to get checked out.’

‘I was there last week for a routine check-up…’

‘And?’ urged Gabbie when her father paused to take another sip of his sugary coffee.

‘Well, the practice nurse might have mentioned losing a few pounds, but that’s nothing I didn’t know already. They want to keep an eye on my cholesterol levels and blood pressure and I have an appointment with the dietician. It’s all pretty routine. I want you to stop worrying about me, please. If you worry, I worry, and that’s not good for either of us.’

Gabbie made a valiant attempt to staunch the unease swirling around her chest and plaster on a smile. What she really wanted to do was abandon her stiff upper lip and howl at the director of fates for even contemplating interfering with her father’s health. Fortunately, she was saved from that embarrassment by a familiar and very welcome face appearing at the back door.

‘Ah, Mike, come in, come in. Want a coffee?’

Gabbie almost laughed out loud when she saw the look of relief on her father’s face at the timely arrival of his best friend. If she hadn’t known better, she wouldn’t have put it past him to have arranged Mike’s visit at that precise moment to prevent any further cross-examination on the state of his health and the business’s precarious finances.

‘Thanks, Jeff, I’d love one. Hello, Gabbie, it’s good to see you back home in Oakley. What’s it been? Two, three months?’

‘Almost three, but Dad and I did have a fabulous couple of long weekends in London in June, didn’t we, Dad?’

‘We sure did, darling!’

Gabbie pushed herself up from the table to make a cafetière of coffee. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she considered Mike’s words and although she knew he hadn’t meant his enquiry as an accusation of neglect, a loop of what ifs curled through her mind on an eternal tickertape of anxiety.

She wasn’t daft, she knew her father was glossing over the incident in the garage. What would have happened if she hadn’t been at home? What if she hadn’t quit her job at House of Gasnier after Jules Gasnier had selected her perfume for the summer fragrance and she had been on her way to Paris to showcase her expertise to the guys at head office? Would her father still be sitting at his kitchen table discussing the benefits of recurve bows as opposed to compound bows or long bows with his best friend of fifty years?

‘Darling, I can see you’re going to be bored with our archery gossip. Why don’t you go get some fresh air, take a walk down to the post office and say hello to Martha? I’m in safe hands here.’

Gabbie intended to refuse so she could personally watch over her father but didn’t want to come over like an overzealous mother hen because she knew that would embarrass him. She leaned forward to kiss his cheek, struggling to disguise her distress at witnessing his vulnerability when he had prided himself on being a tower of strength through the darkest of times.

‘Well, I’ll just go and tidy up the garage first.’

She saw her father roll his eyes at her, then smile. ‘Love you, darling.’

‘You too, Dad.’

Gabbie left the men to their chatter and returned to the garage forecourt where she took a moment to collect her thoughts. Outside the open doors, the birds were well into the second verse of their daily symphony, and the sun was determined to send shards of sunshine through the cracks in the clouds. The village was as picturesque as always, like something from a holiday postcard extolling the virtues of spending time in the English countryside. She inhaled a long, slow breath and knelt down to collect together the tumble of paint pots and scattered tools.

‘Here, let me help you.’

‘Thanks, Max.’

‘No thanks needed.’

It only took a few minutes to separate the mechanical detritus into things to store in the lockable metal cupboard and things to relegate to the dustbin. Gabbie’s spirits edged up a notch when she deposited the final empty oil can in the recycle box.

‘You know, Jeff will be okay – though I’m not so sure about his super-organised daughter.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.’

‘Look, you’ve had a shock. Why don’t I take you for a drive to clear your head?’

‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t leave Dad…’

‘Mike’s with him, isn’t he? I heard the two of them laughing just now.’

‘Well, yes, but…’

‘Come on, a bit of fresh air will work wonders.’

‘That’s exactly what my dad just said!’ she giggled.

‘Sensible guy!’

‘Okay, just give me a minute to make sure he’s okay and Mike’s not in a rush to leave.’





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