by Jill Mansell
“No. I know you’re right. Better to get out now.”
Tears were dripping steadily down Linda’s long, elegant nose. The young Australian barman tried hard to look as if he hadn’t noticed.
“And you won’t end up a spinster anyway,” Cleo reassured her. “You’ll find someone heaps nicer in no time at all. Look at you. Who wouldn’t want to snap you up and give you the kind of future you deserve?”
Linda sniffed and rummaged in her bag for more tissues, dumping the ball of soggy used ones in the already overflowing ashtray.
“I saw your brother on some Channel 4 program the other night.” She dabbed her eyes, sniffed again, and sat back with a sigh. “He’s awfully good-looking, isn’t he?”
Cleo beamed. “Takes after his gorgeous sister.”
“And he seems so nice too.” A flicker of hope showed in Linda’s red-rimmed but still spectacular eyes. “I mean, I don’t mean just yet of course,” she said shyly, “but I wouldn’t mind being introduced to him in a couple of months’ time.”
Poor Linda. That was all she needed. Cleo realized with alarm she had to act fast.
“No. You’re my friend, and I couldn’t do it to you.” This time, she spoke as firmly as she knew how. “Sean might be fun to have as a brother, but he goes through more women than you’ve had cold salads. He’s a tart, darling. Where bastards are concerned, he’s the biggest one of all.”
* * *
Sean wasn’t having the best evening of his life. He didn’t know what was wrong, and having looked forward to this evening for over a fortnight now, the sense of disappointment was crushing. It was pissing him off no end too.
The last couple of weeks had been crazy. No sooner had he finally gotten together with Pandora than his agent had come up with a five-day trip to Scotland where he was booked to appear on three different TV shows. Immediately after this, he had been booked to fly down to the Channel Islands for a couple of live gigs. Back in London, between shows at Comedy Inc. and interviews for the national press, he barely had time to do more than change his shirt. When he had finally managed to wangle a free thirty-six hours, repeatedly punching out Pandora’s number had gotten him nothing more rewarding than the endless, infuriating purr of an unanswered phone.
“I swapped shifts with one of the girls and took a couple of days off,” Pandora had told him last night when he’d finally managed to get hold of her. “I went to stay with friends in Bath.”
“Brilliant.”
“Sorry.” She had sounded amused. “Isn’t that allowed?”
“I wanted to see you.” Sean heaved a sigh, trying without much success not to sound irritable. “You don’t realize how hard I had to work to make that free time.”
“Well, how was I to know you’d be free? No need to get touchy,” said Pandora.
There had been a slight but definite edge to her voice. Impressed despite his annoyance that she wasn’t another simpering yes-girl—he had known as much already, but it made a refreshing change from the groupies who flocked to Comedy Inc.—Sean broke into a smile.
“OK. I’ve missed you, that’s all. So how about tonight?”
“I’m working.”
“After work. I’ll pick you up.” He decided to be magnanimous. “Which would you prefer, dinner or a club?”
Pandora hesitated for a moment. Finally, she said, “Could we just go back to my place? Um…I’ll cook.”
Something was definitely going on. As soon as he had picked her up from the Moon and Sixpence, Sean sensed a difference in Pandora, yet he was unable to put his finger on what it might be. It wasn’t quite nervousness, but she was undoubtedly less relaxed than before. Then, back at her house, she had handed him a bottle of cabernet and a glass the size of a grapefruit.
“We can eat in ten minutes. Why don’t you wait in the living room while I get everything onto plates?”
The photographs had disappeared from the mantelpiece. Sean wondered if it meant she didn’t want him to see them or that the relationship was now over. He still wanted to know why Pandora was so on edge. Surely, she wasn’t about to tell him their own relationship was over, almost before it had begun?
But that made no sense either; she could have told him as much over the phone. And why, Sean reminded himself, would she not want to see him again anyway?
“This is stupid.” Pushing open the kitchen door, he announced the fact to Pandora’s back as she stood at the stove stirring shrimp and chunks of pineapple into a pan of bubbling Creole sauce. “Why don’t you turn that off? Let’s forget dinner and just go upstairs to bed.”
Pandora was wearing a slim-fitting, scarlet cotton dress, high-heeled red-and-gold leather sandals, and nail polish to match. Sean, deciding she really did have the most irresistible shoulders he’d ever seen, moved up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. Kissing each perfect collarbone in turn, he murmured, “Maybe that’s what we need to relax us. Get us used to each other again. You know something? You smell absolutely gorgeous…”
“I’d like to do that.” Pandora switched off the gas burners and put a lid over the saucepan of almost-cooked rice. She twisted around to face him, her big eyes serious. “But we have to talk.” She took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry about this, but I’m afraid I’m pregnant.”
Damn. Sean’s gaze slid automatically downward. She didn’t look pregnant. So that was that, he thought. The party was over. Great.
“Oh. I see.” No wonder she hadn’t seemed her usual relaxed self. He smiled, to show he was sympathetic to the problem. “Shame.”
Pandora’s mouth was slightly open. Finally, after staring up at him for several seconds, she said, “What?”
“Classic case of bad timing, I suppose.” Sean shrugged. “Just when we were getting along so well too.”
“What?”
Confused by this reaction, Sean took a step back.
“Look, obviously, I’m disappointed.” He spoke in ultrareasonable tones. “But what on earth else can I say? Just how excited do you seriously expect me to get about the fact that you’re having some other bloke’s baby?”
Another ominously prolonged silence, then, “It isn’t some other bloke’s baby.” Pandora glanced up at the kitchen clock, whose ticking seemed to have grown inexplicably louder. “It’s yours.”
“Oh, come on.” For a bizarre moment, Sean wanted to laugh. This was crazy—more than crazy…
“I’m sorry. It is.”
“But we only…did it…a fortnight ago! You can’t possibly pin this on me!”
Pandora’s expression changed. Her eyes seemed to darken. “I’m not pinning this on you,” she replied evenly. “I’m stating a fact. Two days ago, my period didn’t happen. I’m always pretty regular. I did the test this morning, and it was positive. It’s come as a shock to me too, you know. I’m sorry, but it’s definitely you.”
Sean was by this time feeling sick. He didn’t believe her for a second, and the idea that she was doing her damnedest to make sure he took the rap only fueled his anger. Did she take him for a complete fool? Had she decided that because he was becoming well-known and earning cash to match, he could be relied on to fork out huge sums in hush money, maybe even child support?
For God’s sake, did he look stupid?
“Oh dear,” said Pandora drily when he didn’t reply. “This is going well.”
“This is one bloody lousy trick.” Sean’s eyes narrowed. For all he knew, she could be a professional blackmailer. “I used condoms, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I know. And one of them obviously failed the medical.”
Pandora was doing a good job of looking outraged. At least she hadn’t attempted the floods-of-tears routine, Sean thought. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was that.
“How can you be so sure it’s mine?”
“Because you
’re the only man I’ve slept with in the last year.” Anger was beginning to creep into her voice. “Look, I know this isn’t the kind of evening you had in mind, but why on earth would I tell you this if it wasn’t true? Are you always so trusting?”
Sean couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He wished he could be back at the club, drinking with Danny and chatting up blonds—safe, giggly blonds who were on the pill and who wanted nothing more from him than the opportunity to boast to their friends about who they’d spent an evening with.
“Why should I trust you? This all seems amazingly convenient to me.” Sean lowered his voice to add extra emphasis. “A great opportunity to make the best of a bad job. You could be lying,” he went on, privately convinced of it. “You could have been seeing someone else and recently have broken up with him. Now you find out you’re pregnant, you know damn well he won’t want anything to do with it, so you decide to bestow the honor on me instead, because at least you know I can afford to do something about it.”
“But—”
“Right, let me put it this way,” Sean continued smoothly. “I know you’ve been seeing someone else. I’ve seen the two of you together. I’ve seen photographs of the two of you together. Bloody great blond chap, ring any bells? So as far as I’m concerned, you can leave me out of this. Run back to that Incredible Hulk of yours and see if he won’t marry you or—”
Thwannngg went the frying pan against the side of Sean’s head. Bloody hell. That really hurt.
“Get out!” Pandora yelled as he staggered sideways against the fridge, knocking a mesh bag of oranges with his elbow. One by one, the oranges rolled off the fridge and bowled along the black-and-white tiled floor. “Get out now before I hit you again. You’re disgusting, and I hate you,” she hissed, visibly shaking with rage. “You told me you loved me, and now you’re calling me a liar! How dare you?”
Chapter 12
It was lovely to see Imogen again and lovelier still, Cass decided, that Jack had managed to overcome his initial mistrust of her. Not that they were ever likely to become bosom pals—on the couple of occasions all three of them had met up at the Cameron Club, Jack had adopted the kind of polite-but-distant manner more usually encountered between off-duty doctor and hypochondriac patient—but at least Jack was no longer downright, blush-makingly rude.
Cass thought how nice it would be if only Imogen had a boyfriend. Then she could invite them to dinner. It was the kind of entertaining she liked best.
“There was someone,” Imogen finally admitted as they relaxed out on the terrace one afternoon after a particularly muscle-wrenching aerobics class. She stirred her Pimm’s with a lazy forefinger. “We were together for almost two years, until last autumn when he was offered a terrific job in Los Angeles. I didn’t want to leave Hi! so that was it.” She shrugged. “There hasn’t really been anyone else since.”
“You put your career first.” Cass, who never had, still found it an admirable quality in a woman, a sign of true inner strength.
“I’m not that driven.” Imogen’s face softened. “If I’d really loved James, I would have gone with him like a shot. I was scared, I suppose, of packing everything in here, moving out to California, and realizing too late we didn’t have a future together anyway.”
Even the most apparently sophisticated career woman, Cass realized, could feel insecure. And Imogen was so nice. Here she was, at the peak of attractiveness and without a man in her life when she would clearly like one. What a dreadful waste. Cass, eager to help, racked her brain, running through all the available men of her acquaintance, thinking that a spot of gentle matchmaking wouldn’t go amiss.
Imogen stretched and yawned. “Where’s Jack today?”
“Do you know, I can’t remember.” Cass thought for a moment and shook her head. “Nope, it’s gone. Nothing enthralling, anyway—either the TV studios or Fleet Street. I’ll find out when he gets home tonight.” She smiled. “I know I’ve said this before, but I’m so glad you two are friends now. It makes such a difference.”
“His bark’s worse than his bite,” Imogen said easily. She smiled. “Once you get to know him, Jack’s all right.”
* * *
Imogen’s mews flat, with its sugar-almond pink exterior, white window boxes, and picturesque wooden shutters, was surprisingly sparse inside.
“Not what you’re used to,” she said, instinctively on the defensive even though Jack hadn’t uttered a word. She liked her flat but it wasn’t the be-all and end-all of her existence. Simple, efficient lines, modern furniture, and good-quality abstract prints suited Imogen; they were easy to live with and no trouble to keep clean. Compared with what Jack was used to, however—the vast, sunny, cluttered-but-glamorous Hampstead family home he shared with Cass—it suddenly seemed cool, impersonal, and oddly masculine.
Although what her choice in wallpaper had to do with anything was scarcely the issue. Imogen dropped her blue jacket over the back of a polished beechwood chair.
“There’s wine in the fridge if you’d like some.”
There was a well-chilled bottle of Bollinger as well, but she didn’t say so. It sounded too corny for words.
He was here, which was all that really mattered. It was happening. At last.
“Better not,” said Jack. “If I have one glass, I may not be able to stop, and Cass thinks I’m at the office. I don’t want to roll home legless.”
Imogen didn’t want him to roll home at all. Weeks of planning and breathless anticipation had led up to this. They had three heavenly hours alone together, and already Jack was talking about getting back to Cass.
Turning to face him, Imogen slid her slender, freckled arms around his waist.
“I think we’ve wasted enough time admiring my flat. I’d much rather admire your body.”
Up until this afternoon, their relationship had been classified only as a flirtation. Scarily aware that he was about to take that final, irrevocable step, realizing that the strength of his feelings meant he couldn’t not take it, Jack cupped Imogen’s pale, quivering face in his hands and slowly kissed her mouth. His arousal was almost instantaneous. It was going to be so strange, making love for the first time in over twenty years to someone who felt and smelled and reacted differently from Cass. He only prayed he wouldn’t disgrace himself, leaving Imogen to wail, “Was that it?”
As if reading his mind, she murmured, “I’m scared too, you know.”
“I think you’d better take me to your bedroom.” Jack half smiled. “I’m too old to do this kind of thing on the floor.”
He didn’t want to run the risk of going home with carpet burns either.
* * *
“That,” Imogen sighed much later, “was seriously, seriously good.”
Maybe she would open the Bollinger now anyway, to celebrate. She couldn’t help wondering whether Jack took as much trouble with Cass or if all those years of familiarity had taken their toll. Maybe the longer the marriage, the shorter the act until you were both too ancient to do it anyway.
Jack, lying beside her, risked a surreptitious glance at his watch. It wasn’t yet time to leave, he knew that; there was just that overwhelming compulsion to keep double-checking. How, he wondered, was it possible to feel so happy and so racked with guilt at the same time?
“Don’t get up.” He put out his arm to stop Imogen sliding out of bed. “Speaking of serious. This is, isn’t it?”
“I bloody hope so!” She raised her eyebrows in mock outrage. “I’d hate to find out you’re only here because you had a bet with your friends at the club.”
Jack pinched her wrist. “You could have been doing that. I’m not completely naive, you know. I may not have done anything about it before, but I have been approached by the bed-a-celeb brigade before now.”
“I’ve never wanted to go to bed with anyone more,” said Imogen. “But I wish you weren’t a ce
leb. As far as I’m concerned, all it does is make things a million times more difficult.”
She had indirectly answered his question, although he’d known the reply already. What had happened this afternoon wasn’t simply a matter of satisfying mutual curiosity. This was no casual, short-term affair. The prospect of being found out—of hurting and maybe even losing Cass—was too horrible to contemplate, but at the same time, Jack knew he was powerless to stop what had begun.
They would just have to be ultracareful, he decided. That was all. Fate was already lending a hand, having supplied a door that led from the back of Imogen’s drive-in garage up to the flat above. This meant he would be able to enter and leave the flat without being spied on by nosy neighbors. They might not be able to go out and about much, but at least they had a safe house. Other people in his situation managed it anyway; look how often you heard about some respectable married media personality or politician suddenly announcing that he had been involved with another woman for the past six or seven years.
If they can do it, Jack decided, comforted by the thought, so can I.
* * *
The Tuesday morning problems phone-in on the Cass Mandeville show was a big ratings grabber, one of the highlights of the week. Cass, discovered all those years ago by Terry Brannigan, had made an equally happy discovery of her own. Hauling big, bosomy Jenny Duran out of the radio station’s dingy mail room and into the studio had been one of the most inspired moves of her life.
Jenny, a natural problem solver, was never stuck for an answer. Her brash, no-nonsense, go-for-it attitude contrasted perfectly with Cass’s gentle, more laid-back style. Their differing senses of humor complemented each other. Jewish, in her late twenties, and an inveterate collector of boyfriends—most of them wildly unsuitable—Jenny knew everything there was to know about the singles scene. When listeners called in with more family-oriented complaints concerning interfering in-laws, boring husbands, and nerve-racking kids, they turned instinctively to Cass. Between them, no problem ever went unanswered. Together, they were a resounding hit.
