Sally sat where she was told and watched with mild surprise as Logan arranged the bouquet of white roses in a beautiful pink crystal vase. His long fingers worked deftly and the results were surprisingly pleasing to the eye.
‘Thank you, darling.’ His grandmother smiled at him fondly, then, with an extra twinkle in her eyes, she asked, ‘And now, how about pouring us a little sherry?’
Obediently, Logan went to a pretty cupboard in the corner and extracted three fragile gold-rimmed sherry glasses and a matching carafe with a heavy glass stopper.
‘This must be a special occasion,’ he said.
‘Of course it’s a special occasion. It’s the first time you’ve ever brought one of your young lady friends to visit me.’
Sally wished she hadn’t been looking at Logan then, hadn’t seen his frown and the sudden tightening of his mouth. Clearly, he wasn’t pleased that his grandmother had jumped to incorrect conclusions about their relationship.
Serves him right for tricking me into coming here.
If she’d had time, Sally might have asked herself why Logan had brought her here, but right now she decided it was more important to set the record straight with Hattie and to make sure she understood that Sally wasn’t one of her grandson’s ‘young lady friends’.
Too nervous to take time to find a delicate way of putting this, Sally blurted out quickly, ‘I’m not actually Logan’s girlfriend. I work at Blackcorp, you see. I started there a couple of weeks ago as a receptionist, but then Mr Black needed dancing lessons and I’ve been helping him.’
Sally felt better now that she’d got that out, but Hattie’s air of excitement hadn’t dimmed one jot.
‘How interesting,’ she said and she beamed at her grandson. ‘So you’re finally learning to dance, Logan.’
He tried to shrug this aside. ‘It’s all Carissa’s doing. She talked me into a charity do at the Hospital Ball, even though she knows I can’t dance to save myself.’
‘But he’s learning fast,’ Sally told her.
‘I’m sure the dear boy’s a very fast learner.’ Hattie made no attempt to hide her delighted amusement.
Still flustered, Sally said, ‘And…and he’s taking me to dinner tonight, but it…it’s only a kind of thank you.’
Hattie actually laughed. ‘What an excellent idea!’
Worried that Logan’s grandmother might still have the wrong end of the stick, Sally considered further explanation, but Logan thrust a glass of sherry into her hand.
‘Why don’t we drink to my grandmother’s health?’ He spoke smoothly, but his eyes signalled a clear warning that Sally had said quite enough.
Lifting his glass, he said to Hattie, ‘Here’s to your good health, old girl.’
‘Your good health,’ echoed Sally.
‘And yours, darlings.’ Hattie beamed at them both as if they were very good children who had pleased her greatly.
Unused to such sweet fortified wine, Sally sipped carefully.
Hattie downed a hefty swig, then waved her glass in the direction of the roses. ‘Aren’t these blooms lovely, Sally?’
‘Gorgeous.’
‘Did you know Logan brings them to me every week?’
Sally squashed her urge to explain that she’d been mightily deceived about those roses. ‘How kind,’ she said instead.
‘It’s very extravagant of him, the naughty boy. Some weeks I pass on perfectly good roses to my friends. They’re very happy to take them, of course.’
Leaning closer, Hattie actually winked at Sally. ‘I used to grow white Bianca roses like these when Logan and his sister were children. Logan used to love playing in my garden, so the roses bring back happy memories for both of us.’
For a moment Sally was lost in a picture of Logan as a black-haired little boy, playing in a garden with grubby knees and a torn T-shirt, letting out blood-curdling yells as he threw himself into the same rough-and-tumble games her brothers had loved.
And now here he was, all grown up and successful and bringing roses to his grandmother every week. She wondered what everyone at Blackcorp would think if they knew their serious and career-oriented boss had such a kind streak.
How many men would bother?
Sally realised that Hattie’s gaze was fixed on her, watching her face intently, and she hoped she hadn’t been looking too wistful. Smiling quickly, she struggled to think of a way to change the subject and remembered what Logan had told her at the team-building workshop. ‘Am I right in believing that you used to be a concert pianist, Hattie?’
‘I was indeed.’ Hattie looked down at her knuckles gnarled with age and her fingers knotted with arthritis. ‘How I loved my piano. But I can barely knock out a tune now.’