ceilidh that won’t clash with the Douglas plaid.”
“Sarah...”
Her brows lowered. “You cannot be so unkind as to let me go alone, Robert Douglas, not when the entire village will say I’m out to steal a boyfriend or three if I show up without a date. You have to come with me.”
He felt like a bastard, but he had to say it. “As friends.”
“Of course,” she said firmly. “And friends don’t let friends dance alone.”
Rob’s thoughts drifted to Anjuli. She wasn’t his friend and he didn’t want her to be but if he had his way she wouldn’t be dancing with Damien.
Chapter Seven
Damn Brendan to hell. Anjuli’s visit to Glasgow had been pointless. Brendan didn’t have the money and probably never would. He’d been apologetic, but that hadn’t stopped him from reminding her he hadn’t signed an IOU. If she sued he’d let his new wife tell the papers it was a desperate attempt to keep him at her side.
Bastard.
What’s more, he’d kissed her goodbye and a paparazzo had snapped a picture and run off, delighted. Anjuli’s lips twisted. If she could make a pound off of every photo taken of her she would be rich again. There was nothing for it, a teacher’s salary and a bank loan would have to see her through the restoration. That is,
if
she convinced Rob to take it on.
Trying to feel confident, Anjuli walked up the tree-lined path to Heaverlock Primary School, hoping with all her heart that she made a good impression. The 1960s eyesore she remembered had disappeared, and in its place was a building that looked like a cross between a space ship and a wagon wheel. It was on one level, circular, with classrooms on the outer rim and the library at the hub. Rounded glass walls overlooked grassy areas between the centre paths. A separate, domed walkway led to similar building, smaller in scale, which housed the school gym.
The headmistress’s office was as charming as the rest of the school, though its occupant looked anything but. Mac had warned Anjuli that Mrs. Spedding was a difficult boss. At the time she’d wondered whether that was a euphemism for “occasionally moody” or “coldhearted bitch.” Looking at the middle-aged woman’s rigid posture and unsmiling face, Anjuli hoped for the former but suspected the latter.
The headmistress brusquely shook her hand and invited her to sit. Then she glanced at Anjuli’s top, frowned, and perused her CV. Self-consciously, Anjuli smoothed a hand down her skirt. Had she worn the wrong thing? She’d gone for her best interpretation of the “teachery” look in a brown, pinstriped pencil skirt and blue silk top. The skirt was a bit tight around the hips, but it was a far cry from the sexy dresses she’d worn for her concerts.
For a second Anjuli wished she was backstage, preparing to sing to thousands of fans. Sitting in front of Mrs. Spedding was more nerve-racking than her first live performance at Wembley Stadium.
Sharp blue eyes seemed to cut straight through her thoughts. “Am I right in assuming that you don’t have any formal teaching qualifications, Ms. Carver?”
“That’s right, but all the same I believe I can inspire a younger generation of students to pursue their love of music.”
Long lines indented Mrs. Spedding’s thin cheeks as she spoke. “Please forgive me for being candid, but I read that you were in a rehabilitation centre in America.”
And I read that all middle-aged headmistresses are frigid.
“Not everything one reads is true,” Anjuli said, aiming for confident dismissal. “I decided early on in my career to ignore the tabloid press. I can assure you that I am not, nor have I ever been, addicted to illegal substances or a resident at a rehabilitation centre.”
Mrs. Spedding nodded and her posture relaxed—somewhat. “The Local Education Authority takes drug and alcohol abuse very seriously. Teachers are expected to be of upstanding moral fibre. And also qualified.” She handed Anjuli her CV. “That
“Sarah...”
Her brows lowered. “You cannot be so unkind as to let me go alone, Robert Douglas, not when the entire village will say I’m out to steal a boyfriend or three if I show up without a date. You have to come with me.”
He felt like a bastard, but he had to say it. “As friends.”
“Of course,” she said firmly. “And friends don’t let friends dance alone.”
Rob’s thoughts drifted to Anjuli. She wasn’t his friend and he didn’t want her to be but if he had his way she wouldn’t be dancing with Damien.
Chapter Seven
Damn Brendan to hell. Anjuli’s visit to Glasgow had been pointless. Brendan didn’t have the money and probably never would. He’d been apologetic, but that hadn’t stopped him from reminding her he hadn’t signed an IOU. If she sued he’d let his new wife tell the papers it was a desperate attempt to keep him at her side.
Bastard.
What’s more, he’d kissed her goodbye and a paparazzo had snapped a picture and run off, delighted. Anjuli’s lips twisted. If she could make a pound off of every photo taken of her she would be rich again. There was nothing for it, a teacher’s salary and a bank loan would have to see her through the restoration. That is,
if
she convinced Rob to take it on.
Trying to feel confident, Anjuli walked up the tree-lined path to Heaverlock Primary School, hoping with all her heart that she made a good impression. The 1960s eyesore she remembered had disappeared, and in its place was a building that looked like a cross between a space ship and a wagon wheel. It was on one level, circular, with classrooms on the outer rim and the library at the hub. Rounded glass walls overlooked grassy areas between the centre paths. A separate, domed walkway led to similar building, smaller in scale, which housed the school gym.
The headmistress’s office was as charming as the rest of the school, though its occupant looked anything but. Mac had warned Anjuli that Mrs. Spedding was a difficult boss. At the time she’d wondered whether that was a euphemism for “occasionally moody” or “coldhearted bitch.” Looking at the middle-aged woman’s rigid posture and unsmiling face, Anjuli hoped for the former but suspected the latter.
The headmistress brusquely shook her hand and invited her to sit. Then she glanced at Anjuli’s top, frowned, and perused her CV. Self-consciously, Anjuli smoothed a hand down her skirt. Had she worn the wrong thing? She’d gone for her best interpretation of the “teachery” look in a brown, pinstriped pencil skirt and blue silk top. The skirt was a bit tight around the hips, but it was a far cry from the sexy dresses she’d worn for her concerts.
For a second Anjuli wished she was backstage, preparing to sing to thousands of fans. Sitting in front of Mrs. Spedding was more nerve-racking than her first live performance at Wembley Stadium.
Sharp blue eyes seemed to cut straight through her thoughts. “Am I right in assuming that you don’t have any formal teaching qualifications, Ms. Carver?”
“That’s right, but all the same I believe I can inspire a younger generation of students to pursue their love of music.”
Long lines indented Mrs. Spedding’s thin cheeks as she spoke. “Please forgive me for being candid, but I read that you were in a rehabilitation centre in America.”
And I read that all middle-aged headmistresses are frigid.
“Not everything one reads is true,” Anjuli said, aiming for confident dismissal. “I decided early on in my career to ignore the tabloid press. I can assure you that I am not, nor have I ever been, addicted to illegal substances or a resident at a rehabilitation centre.”
Mrs. Spedding nodded and her posture relaxed—somewhat. “The Local Education Authority takes drug and alcohol abuse very seriously. Teachers are expected to be of upstanding moral fibre. And also qualified.” She handed Anjuli her CV. “That
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