by Jill Mansell
“It’s my best friend, you see.” Marianne from Coventry was on the line, sounding agitated. “She thinks she’s married to the most wonderful man in the world. The thing is, I found out last week he’s been seeing another woman, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Nothing,” Jenny replied promptly. “You may be mistaken. Forget it. Put it out of your mind.”
“Oh please, how can you say that?” Cass protested. “I can’t believe you said that! What about her poor friend if it’s true?”
This was how they operated, as a double act arguing the pros and cons of each situation as it presented itself. Cass wasn’t putting it on either. She had automatically assumed Jenny would belong to the string-the-bastard-up-by-his-gonads brigade.
“Ah, but I’m speaking from personal experience.” Jenny wiggled her expressive eyebrows at Cass. “Bitter personal experience too! I was in exactly the same situation as Marianne, and since my friend had once said she’d want to know if it happened to her, I told her. Well, it turned out she didn’t want to know after all. She called me a spiteful bitch and said she never wanted to speak to me again. And that was it, the end of a beautiful friendship. She stayed with her lying rat of a husband and never forgave me. Take it from me, Marianne,” Jenny firmly concluded, “keep this one to yourself. If you tell her, she won’t thank you for it. As you said just now, as far as your friend’s concerned, she’s married to Mr. Wonderful. If her illusions end up being shattered…well, then you can offer endless comfort. In the meantime, don’t breathe a word.”
Cass, still astonished, said, “Yes, but not all women are like that! I imagine most of them would want to be told by a sympathetic friend if they were being cheated on. I know I certainly would.”
“Well, aren’t we the helpful ones?” Jenny put in cheerily. They were only forty seconds away from the news at midday; it was time to wrap up the call.
“Maybe some others of you out there have opinions about this.” Cass prepared to slot in a jingle. “Please, call in and tell us what you think Marianne should do. We’ll be back after the news and weather, so get dialing. We want your views.” Grinning across at Jenny, she added, “Especially if you agree with me.”
“She’s only being this brave,” Jenny countered, “because she knows she’d never have to deal with this kind of bombshell herself. Vote for me, everyone out there, because this time, I’m definitely right!”
Chapter 13
Almost a fortnight had passed since Sean had been hit by his own personal bombshell, in which time he had neither seen nor heard from Pandora. Like an ominous-looking envelope from the tax collector, however, not opening it because it probably contained an outrageous tax demand wasn’t going to make the problem go away.
Once again, Pandora was occupying virtually his every waking thought, only this time, he wasn’t enjoying it one bit. She had lied to him, denying the existence of anyone else in her life, but he was still uncomfortably aware that his behavior had been atrocious. If what she’d told him about the baby was true, he would feel terrible…almost as terrible as Pandora was probably feeling now.
And there was, of course, still that sliver of a chance that it might actually be true. Sean, never having given the matter much thought before now, had sidled into the drugstore, bought a pregnancy test, and discovered upon reading the instructions that it was indeed possible to get a positive result as quickly as Pandora had claimed.
Each time it occurred to Sean that he might really be responsible for the mishap, he was seized with shame. One night, he even dreamt he was holding his own baby. Finally, unable to live with the guilt any longer, he called Pandora at home.
“Hi, it’s me.” His heart began to race when she picked up the phone. “Um…how are you?”
Pandora, as he supposed she had every right to be, sounded cautious in the extreme.
“Fine, thanks.”
“Still…?”
“Pregnant? Oh yes, still that.”
Sean’s palms were sweating. He wiped his free hand on the side of his jeans. At least she hadn’t slammed down the receiver. “Look, maybe we should talk.” He spoke hesitantly. The sound of Pandora’s cool voice still had an unnerving effect on him. He just wished this crazy baby thing hadn’t happened. Under different circumstances, they could have had such a great time together.
“Go ahead,” said Pandora. “I’m listening.”
“Not on the phone. Can I come around?” Sean consulted his watch. “I can be there by five.”
“OK.” She didn’t sound exactly thrilled. “It won’t take long, will it? I have to be at work by six.”
* * *
All Sean wanted to do was get matters straightened out, as much for his own peace of mind as anything else. When he arrived on Pandora’s doorstep forty minutes later, he certainly wasn’t expecting the door to be opened by the big blond boyfriend who had been the cause of all the trouble in the first place.
He was big too, even taller and wider close-up than Sean remembered. For a hideous second, he wondered if Pandora had set him up for this. Was he about to be pounded to a pulp? Were all his teeth going to end up clattering down his throat? Would he ever live to tell a joke again?
But his erstwhile rival, much to Sean’s confusion, was grinning broadly at him.
“Hi, you must be Sean. Come on in. Pandora’s upstairs, but she’ll be down any second. I’m Joel, her brother.” He glanced at his watch and grabbed a tennis racquet from the hall table behind Sean. “And I’m late. Sorry, have to go. Nice to meet you anyway—maybe see you again some time.”
The next moment, the door had slammed shut behind him. Sean, who had instinctively winced as the tennis racket whistled within inches of his left ear, took several seconds to make sense of what he had just heard.
Pandora appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a pale-gray T-shirt and combat boots.
“That expression on your face,” she observed. “Interesting. I take it the penny has just dropped?”
“He’s your brother,” Sean replied stupidly. He felt quite numb. “Really? I mean, he really is your brother?”
“Well, half brother. We share the same mum. She’s white,” Pandora explained. “So was Joel’s father. My dad was black.”
“Terrific.” Sean stared at her in exasperation. “Thanks a lot. You could have mentioned this, you know. When I said I’d seen you with some big blond guy, you could have told me…”
Slowly, one step at a time, Pandora came down the stairs. “Oh? Would it have made a difference?”
“Of course it makes a fucking difference!” Sean shouted back at her. What was she doing, being deliberately obtuse?
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t see it that way. Look at it from my point of view,” Pandora said calmly. “You spied on me, and you rummaged through my personal possessions. You refused to believe for one second that you could be the father of this baby, you called me a liar and a cheat, and you made it perfectly plain that all I’d been to you was a bit of a challenge, an amusing diversion…a…a…”
As Sean watched, her complexion turned greenish brown. With a groan of resignation, Pandora spun around and bolted back upstairs. Concerned that she was on the verge of passing out, he raced up after her.
“Go away,” Pandora moaned between retches, her head over the toilet bowl and her right hand blindly casting around for the toilet paper. “Don’t stare. If you want to do something useful, go down and make a cup of tea.”
Appalled by the sight of her vulnerable neck and heaving shoulders, Sean leaned across, unraveled the roll of paper, and pressed a great wad into her hand.
“What is it?”
“Ooh,” wailed Pandora. “Morning sickness, you moron.”
“But…but it’s twenty past five.”
“Tell that to the baby. Sean, I mean it. Get out of here.”
He was hopelessly confused. His whole life was in the process of being turned upside down. Pandora was still trying to argue with him, and all he wanted to do was hug her. He didn’t even care that she was being sick.
But since it clearly bothered Pandora, he retreated. When she staggered downstairs ten minutes later, pale and subdued and reeking of toothpaste, Sean handed her a cup of hot sweet tea and a McVitie’s digestive biscuit.
For the first time that afternoon, having sipped the tea, Pandora smiled.
“I don’t take sugar.”
He knew so little about her.
“Here, have mine.” Sean did a swap. “And eat your cookie.”
“What are you all of a sudden, my doctor?”
“Just do it. Shall I phone work and tell them you won’t be in tonight?”
“If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.” Pandora shook her head. “It’s OK. I’ll be fine.”
“Look, I came here today because there were things we need to sort out.” Sean’s eyes softened. The urge to reach out and touch her was overwhelming, but he still didn’t quite dare. “So far, we’ve gotten more sorted out than I’d bargained for, but there are still a couple of questions I have to ask.”
“I’m not getting rid of it, if that’s what you’re dying to know.” Pandora laced her fingers around the teacup. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Don’t say sorry.” Sean’s tone was sharp, covering up the guilt he felt at ever having considered such an option himself. Something else occurred to him. “You haven’t told your brother yet.”
“I’m still getting used to the idea myself.” Pandora looked apologetic. “He thinks I’ve come down with a stomach bug. I have to say, he isn’t going to be thrilled when he does find out.”
“Don’t worry about it. Between us, we’ll manage.”
Pandora’s eyebrows lifted. He had changed his tune. “You trust me now? You don’t still think I’m lying?”
“I trust you.” This time, Sean took her hand, gently massaging the slender, ringless fingers. He wanted to say “I love you” but sensed it wouldn’t go down too well.
“You don’t know me,” said Pandora sadly. “You don’t even know if I take sugar in my tea. And we’re having a baby. I never lie, by the way.” Her huge brown eyes fixed on his. “If you ever do get to know me, you’ll find that out for yourself.”
“I think I already have.” Sean smiled, leaned across the kitchen table, and kissed her soft, tea-and-toothpaste-scented mouth. “You never lie. You just don’t say the things other people might automatically say.”
“You mean like ‘Oh no, I think I’m going to be sick again’?” Even as she spoke, Pandora was turning green once more. Covering her mouth, she bolted back toward the stairs. “OK, I’m saying it now…”
Chapter 14
Weeks of glorious weather ended with a crash of thunder the following Tuesday. Imogen, who had just spent a tiresome couple of hours interviewing an actor with a brain the size of an acorn, was driving across town to her next appointment. Switching on the radio, she tuned in to the Cass Mandeville show just as the first raindrops pelted like lead against the windshield. The sky was dark gray, exactly the same shade as the Agnès B. silk shirt she was wearing, which Jack had bought her last week.
A Coldplay album track was currently being played on the radio. Imogen briefly amused herself making the swish of the windshield wipers fit in with the beat of the music, then turned her attention to tomorrow night’s dinner party. It had been Cass’s idea, of course, and Jack hadn’t been able to object. Two of the couples were long-standing friends of theirs, which was fair enough, and the third couple were Imogen and the newly appointed producer of Kingdom Radio’s breakfast show. His name was Roly Brent, and he was Imogen’s blind date for the evening, much to her own amusement and Jack’s disgust. Cass, the only one who had so far met him, had high hopes for the outcome. “He’s lovely,” she had enthused to Jack. “Terribly good-looking and the weeniest bit shy. I think he’s just what Imogen needs.”
“Don’t you dare flirt with him,” Jack had growled only half jokingly when he and Imogen had met up at her flat yesterday for a lunchtime session.
“I’ll have to a bit,” she’d protested, laughing. “To keep up appearances. And it’s what Cass so desperately wants. The least I can do is seem grateful.”
Coldplay came to an end. Imogen turned up the volume as the rain drumming on the roof of the car almost drowned out Cass’s voice. Oh good, it was the problems phone-in. Imogen turned the sound up another notch. Other people’s problems were always a good laugh.
* * *
“And now we have Beryl on the line, calling from Islington. Beryl, I understand you have something to add to last week’s debate about what to do if you find out your best friend’s husband is having an affair.”
“Or wife,” Jenny chimed in before a thousand outraged husbands could jam the switchboards, complaining that they had been cheated on too.
“Yes, hello.” Beryl from Islington sounded middle-aged and breathless. “The thing is, Cass, I listened to what you said—that the wife has a right to know if her husband’s carrying on—and I’ve given the matter a lot of thought this past week.”
A semi trundled past Imogen, sending up a wave of scummy water. The driver of the truck leered down at her, evidently approving of her short red skirt and shapely, fake-tanned thighs.
Neanderthal oik, thought Imogen.
“Yes, go on,” prompted Cass.
“Right, well, so I’m calling to tell you that your husband’s been up to no good.” Beryl sped up. “And I know I’m not your best friend, but I felt you should know about it anyway, because I’ve watched him, see, sneaking into this girl’s house on my road. He wears dark glasses and slides down in the passenger seat of her car—it’s a bright-green BMW—but it’s definitely him, and why would he need to act like that if he isn’t doing something he’s not supposed to do? Never trust a redhead, that’s what I say, Cass. Slyboots, that’s what they are. My husband, he left me for a redhead—”
“Oh dear, we appear to have lost Beryl.” Reaching across a frozen Cass, Jenny cut off the call and lined up the next track. Briskly, she said, “Coming up after this from Michael Bublé, we have a call about shoplifting. Let’s hope it’s not from my boyfriend, eh?”
As Michael Bublé’s voice filled the studio, soulfully singing “Feeling Good,” Cass realized she simply couldn’t move. No matter how hard she tried, nothing happened. Through the plate-glass wall of the studio, she saw interested faces peering in. So this was how it felt to be a monkey on show at the zoo.
“Come on, Cass. You should have cut her off straightaway,” Jenny chided. “That’s what the nutter button’s for! Any longer and she’d probably have told you she was the one having an affair with Jack.”
“No, she wouldn’t.” Clutching the edge of the desk, wondering if she was about to faint, Cass stumbled clumsily to her feet. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“But, Cass—” The shoplifter was still waiting on line three. Alarmed, Jenny signaled through the glass to the producer for help. “You can’t go! What that stupid woman said isn’t true. I mean, of all people, what on earth would your Jack want with a redhead?”
“I don’t know,” said Cass numbly as her whole world caved in. “But it seems he does. And I know who she is.”
* * *
“Shit, shit,” Imogen gasped, so stunned she almost smashed into the car ahead of her. Who the bloody hell was Beryl, and whatever had possessed her to blab like that on live radio?
What a way to be outed. Moments later, ridiculously, Imogen found herself cringing at a street crossing as pedestrians swarmed in both directions in front of the car. How many redheads drove around London in an emerald-green BMW? Were people likely to start pointing her out? Damn, she hadn’t wanted this to ha
ppen. Jack was going to blow a gasket when he found out.
* * *
Cass knew she hadn’t helped matters, bolting from the studio like that. If she could have somehow forced herself to remain calm, dismiss Beryl from Islington as a mere nuisance caller, perhaps made a joke or two about it and cheerfully carried on with the show, there was a good chance they would have gotten away with it.
Making a lightning escape, leaving Jenny to cope alone, and having to be helped into a taxi because there was no way in the world she could drive had pretty much given the game away. Word had spread like wildfire. By the time Cass arrived home, the phone was already ringing off the hook. A flustered Mrs. Bedford handed her a list of messages telling her the Sun, the Mail, and the Express had already called, sounding most insistent.
“They wanted me to give them a quote,” Mrs. Bedford wailed, confused by all the frantic goings-on. “I didn’t know what to say, so I just put the phone down. Whatever’s happening, Cass? I didn’t know anything about a divorce.”
Cass, functioning on autopilot, shook her head and switched the kettle on without putting any water in. “It’s OK. There isn’t going to be a divorce. The press have gotten hold of some silly story from heaven knows where. Look, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? You go home. I’ll deal with everything here.”
“Blow the house to kingdom come, more like.” Unplugging the kettle, Mrs. Bedford filled it with water at the sink. Her own panic gave way to pity as she realized how shocked and vulnerable Cass was. “It’s all right, duck. I’ll stay.”
But Cass shook her head.
“I’ll take the phone off the hook. Jack will be home soon. Really, I’m OK.”
Chapter 15
Jack, who had been at the newspaper offices when the first whispers of the story began to filter through, knew he had to get home right away. Cursing, he drove at top speed past a gaggle of photographers at the gate.
