The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows. Jenni KeerЧитать онлайн книгу.
rel="nofollow" href="#uc108290a-c6c0-583b-a70e-99cd7a4dc7c5">Chapter 40
Was it love? It certainly made her feel all tingly, although perhaps that was more to do with his magical fingers than the irrevocable connection between two people destined to spend an eternity having buttock-toning sex and finishing each other’s sentences. Currently those naughty fingers were tracing a delicious trail up her arm, over her shoulder and drawing tiny circles on her neck.
She shivered, despite the blistering August temperatures. The air-conditioning had struggled all week at work, but away from the office and enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon in the quaint Suffolk market town of Tattlesham, the hot sun soaked into her skin and bathed her in joyful expectations of the coming months.
‘Do you realise that skirt is see-through, you little minx?’ said Gareth. ‘Especially when you stand with the sun behind you.’
Maisie sat up abruptly and glanced down at her legs. She was lying on the freshly mowed recreation ground behind the town hall feeling slightly tipsy. Gareth had provided a picnic of sorts (Prosecco and a packet of Hobnobs) and Maisie determined next time she’d be in charge of refreshments. She had a delightful wicker basket at home; she could make tiny sandwiches, bake fresh white chocolate and raspberry muffins, perhaps provide a selection of cheeses, and, of course, bring proper glasses. It was embarrassing drinking from the bottle but Gareth seemed unconcerned.
She smiled at her boss – a man she’d admired from behind the Apple Mac for so long that her neck had adopted as its default position the slight angle necessary to view his delicious face without it being obvious. Suddenly, her tidy, ordered, quiet life had changed. The whirlwind that was a proper romantic relationship brought with it an infuriating chaos but also gave her much-sought-after company. And anyway, she had time to domesticate him.
Hopefully, all the time in the world …
4 months later
‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ said Maisie, as she unwound her mile-long knitted scarf, and finally liberated the chunky bright green coat buttons straining across her ample bosom. ‘There were no unpleasant scenes and no hysterical screaming.’ Largely because the screaming and shouting had been conducted in her head.
Nigel peered over to the door, watched as she disappeared back into the hall to hang up her coat, and waited patiently to hear more of the tale.
‘Actually, that’s not true.’ Her golden curls bounced up and down like slinky springs as she returned to the room. ‘Finding Gareth in the basement was a decidedly unpleasant scene.’ She shrugged. ‘So I now have no boyfriend and no job.’ Her sun-soaked expectations of the summer had curled up in a dark corner and were shivering with cold.
That afternoon, she’d been sent down to the archives to research the names of chief brewers from years gone by as the brewery looked to relaunch a historic ale. Entering the basement, she heard the huffing and puffing often associated with lifting down heavier box files from high shelving, but as she got closer, there were an awful lot of squelchy noises that didn’t fit the scenario. The naked bulb hanging from the high concrete ceiling failed to light the back row adequately and, as she turned the corner, she recognised the Hollister polo shirt she’d bought Gareth for his birthday. He was not only showing the new girl from HR around the archives but also giving her a guided tour of his tonsils. Maisie’s world stopped for that moment. She squeaked and dropped her notebook, Gareth turned and flushed traffic-light red, and the young girl slid out from under him and made for the fire exit.
Maisie brushed the unpleasant memories from her cluttered mind as she sat primly in her upholstered armchair. Time to move on, she told herself, and bit back treacherous tears.
Nigel took another nut from the ceramic bowl in front of him and popped it in his mouth. They made eye contact across the low-backed sofa where three aubergine satin cushions were set at precise forty-five-degree angles. The question he hadn’t asked hung in the air between them.
‘I could hardly stay. He’s my boss. Hashtag awkward,’ Maisie said, in her defence. ‘It’s fine. Another job will come along. I might even look for something different. Four years in the same office has been suffocating. You have to pick yourself up and embrace new things.’
Nigel looked momentarily worried, probably because the bowl in front of him was empty, more than an overriding concern for her crummy job and relationship statuses. He shuffled through the tummy-high sawdust, lay on his back and stuck his stumpy legs in the air. Never one for convention, he slid underneath his wheel to place his tiny limbs on the exterior of his well-nibbled exercise device, and a low droning rattle began as he scampered like mad, almost as if his tiny life depended