Her life was busy and fulfilled. She had good friends, an interesting career, her independence, both financial and emotional, and if ever there were times when, while cuddling a friend's child, the soft, warm body weakeningly close to her own, she ached for a child of her own, she only had to remind herself of the traumas she had seen her friends go through at the hands of those same men, who had given them their children, to make herself realise that the price she was paying for her independence, while high, was perhaps worthwhile.
She would have liked children. She enjoyed their company, their conversation, their innocence and naturalness, but Little Marsham was not the kind of place where one could fearlessly and modernistically announce that one was going to become a single mother. No, for Charlotte, her present way of life was the best way: single and celibate.
She pulled a face to herself, and then realised that her shortest route to Paul's office was straight across the car park in front of the driver whose parking spot she had appropriated.
It was a large dark blue Jaguar saloon car, driven by an equally impressive male, of the type most likely to cause susceptible female hearts to beat faster.
One quick guarded look told her that he was tall, dark-haired and with the kind of raw maleness that his expensive suit and white shirt did little to conceal, and that his eyes were almost the same colour as his car!
Reminding herself that she was the kind of woman who was not affected by such physical manifestations of male sensuality, Charlotte hastily averted her eyes from the car and its driver. The faint heat she could feel burning up under her skin was due to the guilt she felt at pinching his parking spot, she told herself.
She had only glanced briefly at him, but in that short space of time she had registered the fact that he was regarding her with a certain wry irony that told her he knew quite well that she was the one who had deprived him of his parking place.
She told herself that if she hadn't done so she would probably still have been driving around, making herself later than ever for her appointment. She was going to a dinner party tonight; she still had to do her monthly supermarket shopping; she had some reports to dictate on the properties she had seen today.
The influx of new, wealthy London-based buyers had seen an increase of property on to the market, especially those situated outside the town-often large and rather dilapidated houses with owners on the verge of retiring, who were looking for something smaller and more economical to run. Rather as she ought to be doing, she reminded herself. The house her father had bought when he first moved to the area over thirty years ago had originally been a vicarage. Several miles outside the town, on the edge of a small village, it was a rambling, draughty place with an enormous garden, and far too many rooms for one person.
She ought to sell it now, while the market was buoyant, buy herself something smaller and invest what was left. She had not had a particularly happy childhood; there was no reason why she should feel that she ought to keep the house. It should be filled with a family, with children, dogs, and perhaps a pony in the paddock. She could sell it tomorrow and virtually ask her own price, despite the fact that the central heating was fired by an ancient and temperamental boiler, the rooms all needed redecorating, and the garden was like a wilderness.
So why hadn't she done so? Shaking her head at her own impracticality, she crossed the road and hurried into the building which housed her solicitor's office.
Like her, Paul was the second generation of the family business. He was three years her senior, and they had known one another virtually all their lives. At one time Paul had tried to date her, but it had been just after she had come home, still sore from her broken engagement, too drained by the hard work of adjusting herself to living at home with her father. They had remained friends, though, and she liked Paul's wife Helen very much indeed.
Paul greeted her affectionately when his secretary showed her into his office, telling her it didn't matter when she apologised for being late.
'Business good?' he asked her when she was sitting down.
'Pretty hectic.'
'Mm … Recently there seems to be a lot of outside interest. That should be good for you.'
Charlotte pulled a face.
'Yes, financially, but there are broader implications. I had John Garner and Lucy Matthews in the other week. He and Lucy are getting married this summer. They've been looking for a suitable house locally for months. John will take over his father's farm eventually, but there isn't room there for them to move in. John's the eldest; there are four other children still at home. Naturally he and Lucy want a place of their own, but we just haven't had anything they can afford. His wages are low, and Lucy doesn't earn much either.'
'Can't one of the farm buildings be converted into something for them?'
'Not without planning permission, and you know how keen the local council is on keeping new building to a minimum. In theory that's something I approve of, especially when it comes to new estates, but … '
She gave a small shrug and, watching her, Paul said gently, 'The trouble with you, Charlie, is that you take things too much to heart.'
She flushed a little. Everyone who knew her well called her by the diminutive name she had been given while still at school-another sign that she was lacking in femininity, she reflected wryly.
Treacherously her thoughts slid to the driver of the blue Jaguar car; she'd bet that the women in his life weren't given boyish nicknames.
Instantly she was furious with herself. What on earth had made her think that? Was she so very predictable after all? she asked herself scornfully. A brief glimpse of a handsome face, an awareness of the scrutiny with which a pair of dark blue eyes were studying her face, and suddenly she was seeing herself through those blue eyes and finding herself lacking.
She tried to concentrate on what Paul was saying.
'It will mean extra business for me, but, of course, it's bound to affect you.'
She tensed, suddenly realising what he was talking about.
It had been just after her father's death that she had first heard the rumours that a new estate agent was contemplating opening up in the area. The influx of newcomers into the area had obviously attracted the attention of people looking for new business activities. Over recent months a rash of expensive small shops supplying luxury goods had opened up in the town; the owner of the local garage had been bought out, and the newcomers had knocked down the old building and rebuilt a large custom-designed showroom, which was now filled with shiny expensive cars, and small, prettily covered four-wheel-drive dinky toys with exotic and unpronounceable names.
It was a long way from the old days when Fred Jarvis supplied petrol, did repairs and maintenance, and could when pressed find you an ancient but roadworthy Land Rover.
Perhaps she ought to have been more prepared for competition in her own field, but she had been so exhausted by the effort of nursing her father through the final weeks of his illness that, when she had heard the gossip about the new estate agency opening up in the town, she had merely absorbed it without thinking about its impact on her own life.
Now she said evenly, 'Well, there's enough business for both of us.'
She didn't add that she suspected the newcomer would be after a quick killing, that he would take advantage of the surge of buying and selling, no doubt taking the cream off the top of her business with the larger, more expensive properties.
Paul was looking dubious, and Charlotte could guess what he was thinking. The townspeople were set in their ways, traditionalists in the main like her father; they had dealt with her when they had had no choice, but now, with a new agency opening up, no doubt run by a man, would they still give her, a woman, their business?
'At the moment, yes, but when this boom is over … '
'When it's over he'll probably close up his office and move away again,' Charlotte told him shortly. 'After all, from what I've heard this office is only going to be one of several.'
'I believe so, yes,' Paul agreed.
Charlotte sighed, knowing all that he didn't want to say. She knew quite well how these modern agencies worked: brash, pushy, promising the earth, persuading people into taking on much larger mortgages than they could afford, and taking a commission on selling the finance to them. That was not the way she did business.
Paul was speaking again.
'I'm surprised they didn't approach you with an offer to buy you out.'