Free 11 The Teashop on the Corner by Milly Johnson Page B

each stride of his long legs powered by pure unadultered rage.
    Nicole’s parents lived in one of the very grand houses at the back of Barnsley park. The Views had a long private drive flanked by romantic stone armless statues every ten yards. Will
passed them in a blur of speed. He hoped that Barnaby Whitlaw wouldn’t set the dogs on him – or, worse, his wife Penelope – before he got to Nicole. Then again, the way he felt,
he could have taken them all on: wife, parents, Dobermanns, the lot.
    Parked on the large paved circle outside the house were two delivery vans, and men were carrying Will’s furniture out of them and into one of the outbuildings. He slammed on the brake
which squealed like a terrified mouse. The blubbery-bodied Barnaby Whitlaw appeared as soon as he spotted his son-in-law springing out of the old white van. He opened his mouth to speak but Will
got the first words in.
    ‘Where is she?’
    ‘If you mean Nicole, then she isn’t in . . .’
    Will had already noticed Nicole’s sports car parked in the open garage. She didn’t walk anywhere, so he knew the likelihood was that she was in the house.
    ‘Unless you want an almighty show in front of the delivery men, Barnaby, I suggest you get her out here now.’
    Penelope Whitlaw came striding out of the front door, smoothing her steel-grey hair away from her face as if she meant business.
    ‘I’m calling the police,’ she said flapping her long bony hands.
    ‘Oh you do just that, Penelope,’ said Will, pushing his sleeves up his arms, ready for a battle. ‘But it won’t be me they’ll be taking away. It will be your darling
daughter.’
    Barnaby was aware that the delivery men could hear all this.
    ‘Get inside,’ he barked at Will. ‘Penelope, go and fetch Nicole. Let’s get this over and done with in private.’
    ‘Thank you,’ nodded Will and headed inside, where he stood in their spacious hallway at the bottom of their grand staircase, seeing as no one asked him to go into the lounge, sit
down and take tea. Barnaby paced around impatiently, hands behind his back as Penelope trotted upstairs. There was no love lost between Will and his in-laws. The Whitlaws might have admired his
bank balance, but never
him.
He wasn’t ‘their type’. He had a ‘common accent reminiscent of that provincial Southern soap opera’ and would never have been
accepted into their social circle. Will hadn’t inherited his money like the Whitlaws; he had worked his nuts off for it. He was a mere barrow boy made good and as such would never have class.
He came from impoverished East End stock. His mother and father were kind, lovely people but struggled constantly for money after his dad developed a lung condition and couldn’t work. Will
wanted more for himself and his family, and worked as soon as he was old enough to get a job. He ran errands for neighbours, served on markets, laboured for Jimmy McKintosh, one of the famous local
builders who quickly realised that his Saturday boy was as lithe as a monkey on roofs. Will was bright, but he hated school as much as he loved working with Jimmy, who took him on officially as an
apprentice at sixteen. Will bought his mum and dad and sister a cottage by the sea before his twenty-first birthday. By twenty-five he was an orphan and had moved up north and opened his own
roofing firm. But his money would never be clean enough for the Whitlaws senior. It was tainted with sweat and rough hands and labour.
    Nicole still hadn’t arrived after five minutes.
    ‘You better tell her to hurry up,’ growled Will. ‘I’m losing patience.’
    ‘Just wait,’ snapped Barnaby, temporarily halting his rather annoying pacing.
    ‘I’ve waited long enough,’ replied Will, dodging past his father-in-law to take the steps two at a time, blocking out Barnaby’s splutters of protestation. He presumed
rightly that she would be in her old room. He burst in through the door, making her mother, who was in there