A Risk Worth Taking Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  ROBIN PILCHER’S NOVELS

  A RISK WORTH TAKING

  “Fans of acclaimed novelist Rosamunde Pilcher will queue up to read A Risk Worth Taking, a new novel by her talented son Robin. Robin Pilcher not only writes with his mother’s style and fluency, but also writes about the same type of ordinary people . . . engrossing . . . more than one reader will relate to it with painful clarity . . . Robin Pilcher, like his mother, obviously loves people and has a knack for conveying that . . . a poignant and thought-provoking book that makes one want to cheer for the Dan Porters in this world. This is a perfect novel for a wintry day.”

  —Roanoke Times

  “This is an engaging character study of a person who once was riding the crest, but since has lost his self esteem . . . the cast is a delightful ensemble . . . Robin Pilcher provides a deep look at what really counts as Dan reassesses his values and how he has lived.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  “A short novel that is one evening’s reading delight . . . Robin Pilcher is good with the details of people’s lives and his skill at dialogue makes for fast reading.”

  —Charlotte Observer

  “Pilcher offers a charming story about life in the new millennium and one man’s pursuit of happiness, a tale that will appeal to both men and women.”

  —Booklist

  “Pilcher crafts another engaging, happy-ending tale in the tradition of his mother, beloved British novelist Rosamunde Pilcher . . . [Readers] will care about Dan . . . and his children and friends, and will approve [of] Dan’s belief that risks are worth taking, and that life can be a great game.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  STARTING OVER

  “Pilcher writes with an excellent sense of the pace of his story. It’s easy to feel you know these people and to grasp the complexities of their relationships . . . a worthy novel.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “Pilcher has definitely inherited his mother’s talent . . . and his second novel should prove that he isn’t riding on her coattails. [Pilcher’s] characters are ordinary people enriched by [the] quiet rendering of their lives in a tale [with] lots of emotion . . . one of those smart, charming stories that leaves readers feeling content and very happy that they chose to read it.”

  —Booklist

  “As the story comes to an end, all of the characters must make decisions that will affect the direction of their lives. After we, as readers, have come to know them, we can’t help but care what they choose.”

  —Chattanooga Times

  “Warmly written . . . down to earth.”

  —Deseret News (Salt Lake City, UT)

  “Every once in a while, a romance writer like Robin Pilcher comes along with a story that is just plain fun to read, that introduces characters that are worth getting to know, and that isn’t necessarily predictable, even though it may tell a story we already know on some level . . . it is not surprising, then, that he clearly understands the expectations of the romance novel. What is also clear is that Pilcher, the son, understands much about families . . . and he encourages us with the thought that, even in the worst of times, there is the hope of starting over.”

  —Anniston Star

  AN OCEAN APART

  “Warm and readable.”

  —The Washington Post

  “With . . . Scottish sensibility and captivating wordplay, Pilcher crafts a fine and fulfilling novel that will please fans not only of [Rosamunde Pilcher]’s books, but of Maeve Binchy’s as well.”

  —Booklist

  “[Robin Pilcher] shares . . . a warmth that seems quite genuine, a real fondness for . . . characters, a reverence for family that’s rare these days.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “[A] long, full tale . . . AN OCEAN APART is told by a born storyteller.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Pilcher’s Scotland [is] peopled with faithful retainers, loyal workers, doughty veterans, cricketers, and dog lovers . . . it’s a land Pilcher knows intimately.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “AN OCEAN APART engages you from the start . . . the plot benefits from a nice touch of humor. A good easy read.”

  —Greensboro News & Record

  “Rosamunde’s fans will not be disappointed . . . An enjoyable read.”

  —Chattanooga Times

  “A fast, easy read with the happy ending the reader wants.”

  —Knoxville News-Sentinel

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles

  by Robin Pilcher

  An Ocean Apart

  Starting Over

  A Risk Worth Taking

  A Risk

  Worth Taking

  ROBIN PILCHER

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The song “Little Goldfish” on pages 159-160 is reprinted by permission of Andy Munro, trading as Sprocket Music Publishers, 1986.

  A RISK WORTH TAKING

  Copyright © 2004 by Robin Pilcher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  ISBN: 0-312-99726-4

  EAN: 80312-99726-7

  Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2003058564

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / February 2004

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2005

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Oliver, Alice, Hugo, and Florence.

  And for Tia Buffy,

  who has always been my brilliant first-time reader.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My greatest appreciation goes to Nick Tudor, whose stories inspired the writing of this book.

  Thanks also to Pippa and Kirsty, who gave the world the comfort of Tinkers, Pedlars, and Pippers clothing; to Graham and Sandra, who acted as the Railway Children, waving me on along the track to completion; to Flora and Rosannagh, who so tunefully sang to me one of Mr. Boom’s greatest hits; to the staff at Fastnet, Fort William; and to Lisa Keany, Caroline Charles, Christo Sharpe, Jim Best, Charlie Cox, and Chris Clyne for keeping me straight on all things technical.

  1

  The alarm clock went off, as it had for the past fourteen months, at seven o’clock. Not at six, as had been the case when he had to get up to go to work. Nevertheless, it was still a shock to the system. Dan Porter groped out an arm from under the duvet and felt for the lever that would stop those infernal bells, but they rang with such vehemence that the clock juddered away from his searching hand and toppled from the bedside table onto the carpeted floor. There it continued its muffled clanging whilst the hand still blindly explored the surface of the table.

  “Where the hell is it?” Both verbal and physical explosions came simultaneously. The duvet was thrown aside and Dan swung his legs over the bed and sat up. Not a wise act, he thought, as he screwed up his eyes to stop himself from being so completely aware of the oxygen pumping into his brain. As the sensation subsided and his hearing became oriented, he looked down at the clock on the floor, where its fading momentum spun it slower and slower, like a fly in its death throes.

  He groaned and keeled forward to pick it up. It was still o
ut of reach. He slid off the bed onto his knees and stretched out for the clock, but he never made it. He watched blearily as it was picked up by a beautiful, slim hand, its fourth finger bearing a band of gold that was held in place by a raised cluster of rubies set around a glinting diamond. A red-painted thumbnail flicked the lever on the clock and put it out of its misery. Dan turned his head to follow up a pinstriped arm, stopping when his eyes came to rest on the gold pendant that hung in the cleavage of her breasts, these being wholesomely accentuated by the way in which she had left open the top three buttons of her white cotton shirt. He turned his head only degrees more and looked up at his wife’s face. He had often thought that if ever he had been called upon to write down a full description of her features, he would have sat forever in front of a blank piece of paper because he could never have written all that crap about her eyes being too wide set, or her nose too flat, or her ears too big. Maybe one word was sufficient. PERFECT in big black letters. Jackie always had been, and still was, a complete turn-on. Halfway through their twentieth year of marriage, and she still had that effect on him.

  Today, however, it was obvious that the feeling was not reciprocated. Her mouth bore a trace of a smile, but it was one that he could read as meaning “Dan, you really are a sorry sight” rather than “Hullo, my darling, how are you this morning?”

  Dan pushed himself to his feet and flopped back on the bed. He lay there with his hand supporting the side of his face and watched as Jackie placed the alarm clock on the dressing table before slipping all her makeup necessities for the day into her handbag.

  “Hey,” he said, creasing up the corner of his mouth into what he hoped might be taken as an evocative and sexy smile.

  “What?” Jackie asked in a clipped voice, without looking in his direction. She walked over to the wardrobe and took a raincoat off one of the hangers.

  Dan decided to persevere. “Any chance of you lying back on this bed while I ravish you?”

  Flipping the raincoat over her arm, Jackie now turned to look at him. She gave him concentrated appraisal, taking in his regular nighttime attire of grey baggy sports shorts and faded blue T-shirt with the moth hole just above the left nipple.

  “I wonder if I’m in the least bit tempted,” she said, slowly shaking her head.

  Dan’s hand fell away from his face and he slumped over in feigned dejection. “Well, at least someone makes the suggestion every now and again,” he mumbled into the duvet.

  “What was that?”

  Dan pushed himself to his feet. “Nothing.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Yes, well, it was just meant to be a joke.”

  “And I don’t think it was very funny.”

  Dan let out a deep sigh. “All right, then. Sorry.” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Do you want me to make you a cup of coffee?”

  Jackie shook her head. “No, I’ve got to be in the office by eight. There’s a finance meeting at nine, but before that I’ve got to give our set designer a kick up his backside. He was asked at least three months ago to do some modifications on our set for the show in Paris, and so far he hasn’t come up with the goods.” She scanned the room briefly to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, then turned and walked towards the door, reaching up and brushing a meaningless kiss onto Dan’s cheek as she passed him. He followed on close behind her as she made her way along the narrow landing and down the staircase.

  “What are you doing today?” she asked, throwing the question over her shoulder.

  “I don’t know. I might entertain myself once again with a spot of light housework.”

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Jackie turned to look at him, and once more he realized that his witticism had fallen on a stony face.

  “Did you call Ben Appleton?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Right now he’s firing, not hiring.”

  Jackie’s eyes narrowed, as if trying to detect some evidence of an untruth being told. “Did you really call him?”

  “Of course I did.” Even though innocent of the apparent crime, he felt his face flush under Jackie’s continued stare. “Listen, contrary to what you think, I am still looking for a job.”

  “Really? Excuse me if I find that rather hard to believe, Dan. There’s certainly not much evidence of it up in your office.”

  Dan’s eyes momentarily flickered up the stairwell. “When were you up there?”

  “This morning.”

  “Why?”

  Jackie let out a long sigh. “I wasn’t actually going to your office, Dan. I went up to fetch the hairdryer from Millie’s room. But the door of your office was open, and I did happen to notice that your computer didn’t have its screensaver on.”

  “So?”

  “It still had an unfinished game of solitaire on it.”

  Dan laughed. “Oh-oh.”

  “Don’t think it’s funny, Dan,” Jackie replied sharply. “You cannot go on hiding up there, day after day, doing nothing.”

  “For heaven’s sakes, I’m not doing nothing!”

  “But you’re not bringing any money into the household, Dan. That’s what we need.”

  “I know we do, but hey, listen, we’re not on skid row yet.”

  “We’re not? In that case, I seem to have misunderstood our present circumstances. You’ve lost your job and most of your money on the dot.com fiasco, and because of that, the children have had to change schools, we cannot afford to go on a summer holiday for the first time since Josh was a baby, and you’ve also been forced to trade in your rather comfortable Mercedes for a fifteen-year-old Saab. Well, forgive me, Dan, if my opinion differs from yours. I would say that we’re pretty damned close to being on ‘skid row.’ You need to get a job, Dan Porter, because my income won’t support us forever. I may be the managing director of Rebecca Talworth Design Limited, but the position doesn’t carry huge bucks with it, because we’re still ploughing profit back into growth.”

  “I understand all these things, but as I’ve said countless times before, it’ll take a bit of time to find another job.”

  “We don’t have time, Dan!” Jackie cut herself short by glancing at her wristwatch. “And I certainly don’t have time to discuss all this now.” She walked along the short hallway, avoiding the schoolbags that lay ready for the day, and opened the front door, allowing the warm September sun to flood in across the stripped pine floorboards. Dan followed on behind her into the small front garden. He stood barefoot, his hands still thrust into the pockets of his shorts, as he watched his wife open the gate that led out onto the tree-shadowed pavement of Haleridge Road.

  “Could you tell Nina that I will try to make her concert tonight?” she said, closing the gate behind her.

  Dan nodded. “See if you can be there this time.”

  Once again, her expression demonstrated only too well her reaction to the remark. “Not only is my job extremely important to the whole family, Dan, but it also happens to be quite full-on right now.”

  Dan held up a hand in silent apology. He didn’t want her to say any more, having just heard the front door of the adjoining house slam shut. There was no love lost between himself and Mrs. Watt. She was their busybody of a neighbour, and Dan, on more than one occasion, had expressed those exact sentiments to her face. Nothing would give Mrs. Watt more pleasure than to listen in on one of their marital disagreements, even though, over the past few months, she would have every reason to have become bored with their regularity. Her front gate clicked open and Dan watched as Jackie turned to smile a good morning to her. Mrs. Watt appeared from behind the overgrown yew hedge that surrounded their property, and as she passed by Jackie, she slowed down long enough to shoot Dan a tight-mouthed glare of disapproval. He returned the disparaging greeting by thrusting forward his hands in the pockets of his shorts, giving the impression that he was more than a little excited to see her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Watt,” he calle
d out in an airy voice.

  The woman quickly averted her eyes and, with a loud sucking of teeth, walked quickly on.

  Jackie shook her head. “For goodness’ sakes, Dan. When will you ever start to take things seriously?” She turned on her heel and disappeared from view behind the yew hedge.

  Dan stood for a moment peering up into the cloudless sky as a Boeing 747 roared low overhead on its final approach to Heathrow Airport. He watched it disappear over the roofline of the houses opposite, then walked to the gate and peered over. He was in time to see Jackie’s neat figure cross the street and head off down the low-stone-walled alleyway that led to South Clapham tube station. He thought about calling out something like “Have a good day, my sweet!” but knew that she was in no mood for any of his lighthearted banter that morning, so he turned and went back into the house.

  As soon as he opened the door into the kitchen, he could tell that one of their recent fosterlings from the Battersea Dogs’ Home had done it again. What’s more, it took no great powers of detection to work out who the culprit might be. Biggles, the cross collie/spaniel, lay cowering in his basket, whilst his smaller companion, Cruise, made a solid show of proclaiming his innocence by dancing energetically around Dan’s feet.

  “Bloody hell, Biggles!” Dan exclaimed, pinching his nostrils. “Not again!”

  He found the unwelcome evidence of the dog’s misdemeanour centre stage in the conservatory extension to the kitchen. He picked up the coal shovel that now resided permanently beside the sliding glass door that led out into the small back garden.

  “I don’t know how good your geography is, my boy, but I should remind you that the dog home is only a half-hour’s brisk walk from here.” He gave Biggles a hardened glare just to demonstrate how displeased he was, and the dog reacted by closing his eyes in shame, displaying the dark-ringed “flying goggles” that had given rise to his name.

  Having cleaned up the floor and clandestinely discarded the contents of the shovel over the fence into Mrs. Watt’s garden (he reckoned that, on that particular morning, she more than deserved it), Dan returned to the kitchen and picked up his mobile phone from the sideboard. As he filled up the kettle, he punched out a joint text message to Millie and Nina, informing them that it was time to get up. It was a ruse that seemed to work much more effectively than a yell up the stairs, his subtlety of thinking being that, even though his daughters were almost one hundred per cent sure that the text was from him at that time in the morning, there was always the slimmest chance that it could have been from someone considerably more exciting than their father.