Take a Chance on Me by Jill Mansell Read Free Book Online Page B

back the duvet and she caught a glimpse of bare torso.
    ‘No, no… really there’s no need.’ She backed hastily towards the door; anyone hearing a car at this hour on a Sunday morning could look out of their bedroom window and see him dropping her off.
    ‘OK, I know you’ve got stuff to sort out with Tom.’ He pushed back his tousled reddish-fair hair with the flat of his hand. ‘But… I meant it when I said you didn’t deserve to be treated like that. You’re lovely… amazing…’ He saw her flinch and went on hastily, ‘Look, you can call me or come over whenever you want. Anything I can do to help, please, just say the word.’
    ‘Right.’ Abbie nodded. ‘Thanks.’ If it wasn’t so tragic, it would almost be funny; they sounded so clipped and British, like something out of a 1940s black and white film.
    He blinked. ‘Will you tell him about this? I mean, you spending the night here?’
    ‘Don’t worry.’ As she shook her head, she saw the relief in Des’s eyes. ‘I won’t. It’s just between us. No one else is going to know.’ Awkwardly she added, ‘And you won’t tell anyone either?’
    Des’s expression softened. ‘Whatever you want.’
    ‘Thanks. Well, bye then.’
    He cleared his throat. ‘I hate to ask, but will you be able to work Magda’s shift on Wednesday?’
    God, this was what he’d phoned up to ask her last night. If he hadn’t, none of this would have happened.
    ‘Yes. Fine.’ Abbie nodded helplessly. She’d spent the night in Des Kilgour’s bed and nearly ended up having sex with him, and it was all Magda’s dead uncle’s fault.

Chapter 7
    The moment she saw Saskia and Shelley walk into the pub at three o’clock, Cleo knew where she’d be spending the rest of Sunday afternoon.
    How could she even have thought her casual offer would slip a determined six-year-old’s mind?
    ‘Cleo!’ Saskia came hurtling towards her, mittens-on-strings flapping as she flung out her arms.
    ‘Sass! You came!’ Picking her up and swinging her into the air, Cleo pretended to stagger. ‘Oof, you’re heavier than a house.’
    ‘I’m not. You are.’ Saskia had inherited her mother’s slender frame, dancing green eyes, and infectious giggle. ‘When are we going? Soon?’
    ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Shelley, her mother, ran her hands over her neatly tied-back dark hair and grimaced by way of apology. ‘She hasn’t stopped going on about it all weekend. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
    Of course she didn’t mind. Cleo knew how much she owed to Shelley. Following a series of less-than-thrilling jobs—waitressing, office work, tour guide—she had been more than ready for a change three years ago when she’d heard through a friend of a friend about the vacancy for a chauffeur at Henleaze Limos. Grumpy Graham, who owned the company and ran the tiny office from his home just off Henleaze Road in North Bristol, had wanted another male driver. Shelley, in her late thirties and divorced, had persuaded Graham to take Cleo on instead. She had then been the one who’d shown her the ropes and taught her how to stand up to Graham, who took his grumpiness seriously. She and Shelley had hit it off from the word go, and Saskia—three and a bit then, six years old now—was the light of her mum’s life. She also had the memory of an elephant; many months ago, Cleo had mentioned in passing that next Christmas, Saskia might enjoy a trip to Marcombe Arboretum, where an illuminated path through the woods led to a hut in a snowy clearing where good children got the chance to meet Santa. When she’d said, ‘You should ask your mum to take you there,’ Saskia had brightly replied, ‘Or you could take me,’ and when she’d responded with a vague, ‘Yes, but I expect your mum would want to go with you,’ Saskia had moved expertly in for the kill with: ‘Or you and me could go, wouldn’t that be good?’
    In years to come, when selling double glazing became a recognized Olympic event,