Free Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley Page A

blood pressure was sky high, my face was hot and I still had dried blood on my lip.
    Nick Cromwell had sounded very formal on the phone. I had tried to explain the situation with Great Aunt Jane’s bungalow and how cross I was about the estate agent’s ideas. He hadn’t seemed very talkative and when I said I was a massive fan of Grand Designs , he’d interrupted me, suggesting we meet up at the bungalow to discuss it.
    I might have made a mistake about him. He perhaps wasn’t as nice in real life as he’d come across on the radio.
    My sketch book lay on the passenger seat, mocking me. Since that Saturday night, I’d done a few more scribbles. Just a few ideas, like putting an extension on the back and making it all open-plan. Nothing I could show a professional. Surprising how much I’d enjoyed sketching again, after all this time.
    There was already a car on the drive taking up all the room. It was quite ordinary, grey and about five years old. Not the sort of thing Marc would go for. He didn’t look at anything without spoilers and twin exhaust pipes and preferably a souped-up engine.
    Stop thinking about Marc and focus!
    I pulled up on the grass verge and turned off the ignition. It was still raining, but luckily I had my umbrella with me. It was gorgeous, bright red with a black frill and a long old-fashioned handle. It made me look a bit Mary Poppins and it clashed with my green coat, but if it prevented my hair from turning to wire wool I didn’t care. The architect was already out of his car, waiting out of the rain under the porch, holding a rucksack. His face was hidden by the hood of his waterproof jacket, also grey. He looked big and bulky.
    God, I was nervous. My stomach was churning and I desperately needed the loo. He could be a psycho. I wished I’d told someone else where I was going. Perhaps I should send Emma a text? I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t fair to leave him out in the rain any longer. I was already twenty minutes late.
    Relax, you’re the client, it’s your prerogative.
    Stuffing all my things into my bag and grabbing my umbrella I made a dash for the house.
    There was a brown and white dog on the driver’s seat, I noticed as I squeezed past the architect’s Golf. It looked at me as I went past and then went back to sleep. I tried to stay on my tiptoes to keep my suede heels out of the puddles and got my umbrella tangled in some thorny branches overhead in the process.
    The architect was watching me struggle and I’m sure I detected a twist of a smile on his face.
    Don’t come and rescue me, will you? Ignorant lump.
    ‘Hello, I’m Sophie Stone. Pleased to meet you,’ I called, shaking his hand and lowering my umbrella. I hoped he didn’t notice the water running off the tip of it onto his shoes like a hosepipe. Served him right for not helping me.
    ‘Nick Cromwell, likewise.’
    ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Clients eh?’
    ‘Indeed.’
    I was referring to my client, who had made me late. My fault for not explaining, but he obviously thought I meant me. Surely that was his cue to say something polite like, ‘Not to worry’ or ‘I’ve only just arrived myself,’ not make me feel worse?
    He lowered his hood. He had grey eyes behind slim trendy glasses and thick dark eyebrows. His short hair was almost black and a bit tufty. Serious-looking but not scary.
    I breathed a sigh of relief.
    ‘Is that your dog? Will it be all right in the car?’ I hated awkward silences and had a tendency to fill them with mindless small talk. Of course the dog would be all right, it wasn’t as if it was scorching hot or anything.
    ‘Yes and yes.’
    ‘I never really know what dogs are saying,’ I persisted.
    He raised an eyebrow, quite understandably.
    ‘Well you know, body language-wise.’
    I was rambling. He clearly didn’t do small talk and I clearly didn’t do coherent conversation. I turned to unlock the front door. The key stuck in the lock. I set my bag and umbrella down and