Anjuli glanced at the doorway. “You would have to join the queue.”
Chapter Eight
Anjuli walked into the offices of Robert J. Douglas Architects and Builders at promptly ten minutes past eleven the next morning. Well, it was prompt for her anyway, and she was pleased she’d been able to manage it. Viking had picked her up in plenty of time, but she’d asked him to stop at the pet shop and somehow a two-minute errand had turned into a twenty-minute conversation at the till.
The cashier had recommended a brand of dog food and a good flea treatment for Reiver. She’d also recommended Dr. Mitchell with a big smile and advised Anjuli to change her appointment to the last one on a Friday afternoon. Evidently the athletic vet played football after work and changed into his gear between his last two appointments.
Rob’s firm was in a converted mill on the banks of the River Redes, halfway between Heaverlock and Halton. The building had been restored sympathetically, retaining many features of its textile industry heyday. Original pieces of factory machinery were displayed in various corners and some of the old brickwork had been left exposed.
Charcoal drawings of historic Borders landmarks dotted the walls and a large drawing of the original mill held pride of place behind the reception desk. Plush black sofas formed a waiting area on the left, making the overall effect a tasteful fusion of Victorian memorabilia and twenty-first-century style.
The floor hummed underneath Anjuli’s feet. It was laid out in thick squares of semi-transparent glass over a section of the Redes. She could feel the water’s powerful vibration and hear the muted bubbling as it rushed below.
Mrs. P. sat at the reception desk, her corpulent frame spread over her domain. As soon as she saw Anjuli her broad face split into a delighted smile. Her incongruously dainty hands set down her tea mug and she stood, arms outstretched. She was a squeezer.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. P.,” Anjuli said when she got her breath back.
“It’s lovely that you’re back, my dear, and a famous singer now, imagine that. I’m so pleased you’re wasting no time.” Her smile turned coy and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I cleared Rob’s schedule after your appointment so you two could catch up properly. He’s changed very little, but even so I’m sure you have a lot to say to each other. I’ll bring in bannock and tea and leave you two alone to talk things over.”
Anjuli blinked. Oh no, no and no. “The house is in a bit of a state,” she said stiffly.
“Well, that’s one way to put it, I suppose.” Mrs. P. sighed and gave Anjuli a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Not to worry, my dear, all will be restored as good as new. Rob can take you to lunch if you need to go over it in detail. There’s a lovely new tapas place in Halton, private and cosy.”
Anjuli groaned internally. One should always be cordial to well-meaning gossips. “I’m here on business and then I’m working at the pub.”
Mrs. P. sipped her tea, eyeing Anjuli as if she were the largest biscuit in the tin. “I knew you’d insist on Rob for the restoration. I told Mr. P. as much. ‘Donald,’ I said, ‘the lass will only want the best.’”
She stared at Anjuli’s ring finger. “None of the local lasses have caught Rob yet and now that you’re back they won’t have a chance. Brazen hussies, the lot of them. Of course, that Costa Rican he dated—” She hesitated, then gave Anjuli another pat. “Well, it was only to get over you, dear. That’s what we all thought or else why would he start seeing her only a week after you left? You had to follow the path to stardom, but men will be men.”
Anjuli’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand twitched and she resisted the urge to bring it to her face, sure that she’d find deep fissures spreading over its smooth façade. It had taken Rob only seven days to forget her? Sunday to Saturday. One week, not one month or even one year. No wonder Ash had been cagey when she’d asked about Rob’s reaction to her flight from Heaverlock. Her sister must not have wanted to add to her pain, but she was feeling it now. While she’d been crying herself to sleep at night Rob had been enjoying the company of a new girlfriend. She’d been hugging her pillow and he’d been hugging something much more comforting and—
She wasn’t going to think about it. Not now, not later, not ever.
Mrs. P. glared down the corridor. “Rob is being interviewed by that dreadful reporter who moved here from Edinburgh. Another brazen hussy, that one. Ethics of an African dictator, she’s got. What was wrong with Ethel Portree? She kept our gardens straight and never failed to mention my award-winning courgettes in the paper. This one’s a dragon dressed in Dior, breathing down Rob’s neck everywhere he goes. It’s a ring she’s wanting, not an article for her Borderland Persons of Note column.”