Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge by T. Belshaw (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

If looks could kill, I’d have been hung, garrotted, shot, stabbed and decapitated all at once. I gave her my wriggle walk as I left the office, then looked back over my shoulder and winked at her.

Mr Wilson opened the passenger-side door of the Alvis for me; I stepped onto the running board and slipped onto the seat as elegantly as I could. He slammed the door behind me and walked around the front of the car to get into the driver’s side. He started the car, gave it a big vroom, and we pulled out of the parking space, onto the road.

I had a big stupid grin on my face as the gangster and his moll drove away from the heist. I resisted the urge to wave to everyone we passed and just concentrated on enjoying the ride in the powerful car.

After a mile or so we slowed, and turned right into a posh looking eatery called Café Blanc. It was a white building, with tables set out in a rose garden, facing the road. He parked up at the back, and we walked between the shrubs at the side of the building until we arrived at the dining area. There were a dozen tables occupied by ladies in summer dresses and wide brimmed hats. The men sported short sleeved shirts; their jackets thrown over the backs of their chairs.

Mr Wilson nodded to one or two people he knew, led me to a round, wrought iron table, and pulled out a seat while I sat down. No one had ever done that for me before, I looked around to see that many of the café customers were taking sly glances at me whilst nibbling crustless sandwiches or sipping at tall glasses of wine.

‘White or red?’ he asked me as I patted at my curls, looking out of the corner of my eye at a very handsome man who was giving me the eye in no uncertain manner.

‘Pardon?’ I replied.

‘Wine. Would you like white or red? I’m happy with either.’

‘White please, that bubbly stuff.’

‘Champagne? You do have very expensive tastes.’

‘No, not that,’ I said, hurriedly. I put my hand to the side of my mouth and whispered, ‘Is it called, Martina, Mr Wilson?’

‘Call me Godfrey, outside of the office, Alice. I think you mean, Martini. So, you’re a cocktail girl. Excellent.’

I didn’t know I was a cocktail girl. I banked it in my memory in case I needed to impress anyone in the future… like Amy, for instance.

My gangster lawyer went into the café to order. As soon as he entered the building, the handsome young man who had been eyeing me up, weaved his way through the tables until he stood next to me.

‘Hello, there,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?’ he said smoothly.

I blushed and said nothing.

‘Out with your uncle, are you?’ he asked.

‘No, he’s not my uncle,’ I said, wishing he’d clear off before Godfrey got back.

‘Oh, I see,’ he winked at me and chuckled. He shot a glance at the café entrance where Godfrey was returning to the rose garden.

Romeo slipped a card into my hand. ‘If you every fancy a spin with someone younger, here’s my number. Slip it into your bag, there’s a good girl.’ He made his way back to his seat where two other men were waiting for his report.

Godfrey sat down and gave me that lovely smile.

‘I hope you like cucumber sandwiches,’ he said. ‘What did that young man want?’

I tossed the card he had given me onto the table. ‘He was trying to chat me up. He asked me if you were my uncle.’ I was going to add, I’m glad you’re not, but I managed to hold it back.

He picked up the card and read it before slipping it into his pocket. ‘He’s an assistant manager at the mill,’ he said. ‘With his surname, I’d guess his father owns it. I know him. The father that is, not the son.’

‘I bet Amy has seen him. She works at the mill,’ I replied.

‘Were you impressed with him?’ he asked.

‘No, he’s far too cocky for my tastes. He could get a part as the smooth-talking bad guy in the movies.’

Godfrey laughed. ‘Ah, here are our sandwiches.’

The waitress loaded our table with a plate of tiny triangle sandwiches with the crusts removed, and another plate with thick-cut slices of strawberry gateaux. Then a man with a silver tray brought us our drinks. I took a sip of mine as soon as it had been put on the table.

‘Ooh, that’s gorgeous. I could drink that all day,’ I said, licking my lips.

He laughed again. ‘You had better not do that; we have to go to my brother’s house yet.’

We chatted about his brother while we ate our lunch. I finished my Martini far too quickly, but I didn’t really care. When we were done, we made our way past the table with the three young men sitting around it. The man who had spoken to me, winked. Godfrey dropped the card on the table. ‘I’ll tell your father we met when I bump into him.’ He offered his hand. ‘My name is Godfrey Wilson, I’m your father’s solicitor, not this young lady’s uncle.’ The young man blushed while his friends laughed.

We got back into the Alvis and drove slowly up the dirt track path to the main road. As we waited to pull out, our farm truck came trundling along. Frank spotted us as he approached the turn off and slowed down to a crawl, to glare at us. Godfrey waved at him and nudged me, so I waved too.

Ten minutes later, we pulled into the drive of a large detached house. It was bigger than our farm house and barn combined. Godfrey got out of the car and walked around to open my door as his brother approached us. He was about five years younger than Godfrey, but you could see the family resemblance. His name was