Their Scandalous Affair

‘I’m surprised you had a Saturday evening free, Frances,’ teased Avery over the meal.

‘I told Philip he’d have to wait until tomorrow,’ said her friend, and smiled smugly. ‘He’s cooking Sunday lunch for me at his place.’

‘You mean the man cooks, as well?’ said Helen enviously. ‘Can I send my Tom round to him for lessons?’

Avery joined in the laughter, pleased that life had taken an upward turn for her friend, but on the leisurely stroll home she couldn’t help feeling wistful as she thought of Frances spending Sunday with her Philip. Avery Crawford would spend hers as usual—catching up on laundry and household chores.

As she watched a late burst of fireworks light the sky nearby she thought with nostalgia of Sundays past, some spent at home with her mother for a rest and some home cooking, others in London, where she’d been part of a group of friends who ate brunch together, or drove into the country to some eating place reviewed in the Sunday glossies. But when she’d met Paul he’d demanded her undivided attention. By the time their relationship had ended Avery’s group of friends had dispersed to different jobs and locations, and she’d been needed at home with her mother.

There’d been no time for socialising during that first harrowing year. It had taken all Avery’s time and energy to keep the business going while she cared for her mother, who’d insisted on keeping to the work she loved as long as she could, despite a rapidly deteriorating heart condition. Before the year was out Ellen Crawford had been dead, and, swamped and sodden with grief, Avery’s first instinct had been to run away, back to her life in the City. But out of loyalty to her mother she’d stayed on to complete standing orders, and coped with more work as it came in. Eventually she had decided that as a fitting memorial to her mother she would expand the business. And now, two years on, it was a commercial success. But Avery was increasingly conscious of a lack in her life.

She sighed. This was Jonas Mercer’s fault. He was the catalyst. She had long ago given up any idea of returning to the City. That part of her life was over. And until she’d forced her company on Jonas at the Angel she’d been content to jog along in the comfortable little rut she’d made for herself back in her home town. He was the first man in years to raise even a spark of interest in her. Not that there was any hope of seeing him again. The heir apparent of Mercom would send underlings to the town in future.

Avery came out of her reverie to realise that the smell of smoke was growing stronger. And the glow in the sky was too constant for fireworks. With sudden dread she began to run. As she skirted the deserted cattle market a group of youths rushed past her in the opposite direction. One of them tripped, his anguished face clearly visible for a moment under the street lamp before he fled after the others. A blood-curdling wail of sirens filled the air, and Avery raced in panic towards the glow—then gave a screech of horror as the Stow Street shops came into view. The betting shop next to Avery Alterations was on fire.

By the time she’d been allowed through the cordon at the actual scene the Fire Brigade and the police were in full control, and Sergeant Griffiths turned from consultation with one of his constables to make sure Avery kept well back as hoses were directed at the betting shop.

‘Don’t worry, Avery, the fire’s already contained,’ he said firmly. ‘The betting shop’s in pretty bad shape, but yours is intact, as far as I can tell. You’ll have smoke damage, though.’

‘Any idea what happened?’ she panted, gasping for breath.

‘PC Sharp’s just been talking to the manager of the Red Lyon on Cheap Street. Apparently some lads were letting off fireworks on the waste ground behind the shops earlier. One of their rockets must have gone through the betting shop roof.’ He smiled grimly. ‘One of them had a social conscience and rang for the Fire Brigade before they scarpered.’

Avery turned to smile in rueful sympathy as Harry Daniels, the betting shop manager, came running to join them. ‘How are you, Harry?’ she asked, as he stared, stunned, at his blackened premises.

He turned to her, shaking his head. ‘Bloody furious, love. I’d like to get my hands on the little devils that did this!’

‘Now, then, no vigilante stuff, Harry,’ warned Sergeant Griffiths. ‘Leave it to the professionals.’

Eventually the fire chief told Avery she could make an inspection, and, escorted by two firefighters armed with torches, Avery looked round her premises, her heart sinking as she examined the smoke damage on the wall shared with the betting shop.

‘Don’t worry—no broken glass or structural damage,’ said one of her hefty young escorts. ‘Just needs a lick of paint on the party wall.’

‘Better check on the sewing machines,’ warned his colleague.

Avery thanked them warmly. ‘I’ll take them home with me. And as much fabric as possible.’

There were plenty of willing hands to stow the bolts of cloth and two of the machines in her car, and to save a return trip for Avery the sergeant ordered one of his constables to transport the other machines, and anything else she wanted, to Gresham Road.

It was nearly four in the morning before Avery said goodbye to the constable, who had insisted on making tea for her before doing his fetching and carrying. Avery thanked him warmly as he left and finally trudged off to bed, heaping curses on Guy Fawkes for leaving a legacy of firework displays and bonfires every November 5th from 1605 onwards.

After what felt like only a few minutes’ sleep the phone woke her up again.

Oh, God—what now? ‘Hello?’ she croaked.

‘Avery?’ said an urgent voice.

‘Yes?’

‘Jonas Mercer. Are you all right?’

‘Oh, hi. Yes, yes—I’m fine.’ She cleared her throat and struggled upright. ‘Unlike my shop.’

‘Never mind the blasted shop,’ he said roughly. ‘Were you there when the fire started?’

‘Not in the shop. I was walking home from the other side of town. I saw the blaze in the distance and ran like the wind when I heard sirens. It was a lot worse for the betting shop. Harry Daniels, the manager, was still in shock when I left for home with my sewing machines—well, with two of them. Tony brought the rest.’

‘Who’s Tony?’

‘A strapping young police constable who heaved all my other machines into the house and even made me a cup of tea.’

‘Good for him.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘I’ll be there to make an inspection tomorrow. I assume you carry insurance?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. I need to do some juggling with my diary first thing tomorrow. I’ll ring you some time during the morning to fix a time.’

‘Jonas—’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

Avery rang off without specifying what she was thanking him for, and heaved herself out of bed to make for the bathroom, where the red-eyed, pallid apparition in the mirror sent her diving into the shower.

While she sluiced the smell of smoke from her hair Avery made a mental list of things to do. Normally Frances would have been the first one to contact, but knowing that her friend would rush round right away, instead of going off to lunch with Philip, Avery rang Helen instead. And, just as she’d hoped, Helen’s husband—who serviced their machines on a regular basis—was good-natured enough to give up part of his Sunday to lend a helping hand.

Avery left a message on Louise’s phone, then threw on jeans and a sweater and managed to swallow some coffee before Tom Bennett arrived with his anxious young wife in tow.

‘We packed the boys off to Tom’s parents for Sunday lunch, so I came to help,’ announced Helen. ‘Gosh, Avery, what a shock! Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. But poor Harry Daniels was in quite a state last night.’

‘Do they know who did it?’

‘Some local lads let off fireworks on the waste ground behind Stow Street. A rocket must have got out of hand and set fire to the betting shop roof.’

‘And they ran off without being identified, of course,’ said Tom, and hoisted his tool bag. ‘Right then, Avery. Bring on the machines.’

She led him to the dining room, now transformed into a temporary workshop. ‘I’d brought the outstanding orders home for the weekend as usual, thank God, and the wedding gear had already been delivered to the Keith-Davidsons.’

Helen shuddered. ‘Just imagine those frilly pink taffeta jobs covered in black soot.’

‘Don’t! By the way, I brought all the bolts of fabric home I could. Let’s have a look at them.’

After every yard of it had been examined Avery decided that after a few lengths had been cut off each roll the rest of the fabric would be fit to use again in an emergency.

‘But the insurance will cover replacements, so I’ll order more right away.’

The machines were eventually confirmed as in good working order, and after making a big fry-up for a late lunch Avery saw her helpers off, resolving to buy Tom a bottle of the most expensive single malt she could find by way of thanks.

She was yawning over her insurance policy later when Louise rang.

‘What’s up, Avery? We’ve just got back from Sunday lunch with the parents.’

When Avery had explained Louise exclaimed in horror, and promised to be at the house first thing in the morning. ‘Does Frances know?’

‘No. I couldn’t spoil her lunch with Philip. I’ll ring her this evening.’

‘It might be a good idea to do it sooner than that. She might hear it from someone else before then.’

Louise was right. Frances heard it on the local radio while she was helping Philip clear up, and rang before Avery could contact her, fizzing with indignation that she hadn’t been informed sooner.

‘Why spoil your day, Frances? There’s nothing for you to do at this point. Tom came round to check the machines, and Helen came with him to help—’

‘Louise, too, I suppose?’ said Frances ominously.

‘No, she was with her family at Sunday lunch with Grandma as usual. I’ve only just spoken to her. Don’t be cross. Please.’ To her embarrassment Avery’s voice cracked, and Frances, immediately contrite, assured her she was worried, not cross.

‘I’ll be there in five minutes—’

‘You most certainly will not! Enjoy the rest of your day with Philip. I had no sleep to speak of last night, and I’m desperate for a good long nap.’

‘If you’re sure?’ said Frances doubtfully.

‘Very sure. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll need you far more in the morning.’

Avery had been telling the simple truth about needing a nap. She stacked the dishwasher, made herself some tea, and sat at the table with the Sunday paper to drink it. When she found her eyes were crossing she trudged up to her room, then groaned in frustration. Her bed reeked of smoke.

After she’d heaved the mattress over and put fresh linen on it she was reeling with fatigue. She undressed, and crawled under her duvet at last, feeling as though she could sleep until next morning. And when she woke at long last, she found to her astonishment that she had.

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