Two's Company

by Jill Mansell

  “Oh yes, you are,” whispered Cass.

  Chapter 18

  It had been a nightmare of a day for Jack, and the evening was turning out even worse. The press were back baying at the gate, the phone didn’t stop ringing, and the Standard had him on the front page. By tomorrow when the rest of the papers followed suit, he would be a national laughingstock.

  Cleo and Sophie, meanwhile, were being hailed as heroines, and Sean was finding the whole thing too funny for words.

  “That was a researcher for Good Morning Britain, wanting to know if you two could do Wednesday,” he announced, grinning his head off as he came back to the dining table. “I told them you were already doing This Morning.” As he passed Sophie, he rumpled her short hair. “Who’d have thought it, eh? Our little Soph, a celebrity in her own right! She’ll be getting herself a bodyguard next.”

  “Ruffle my hair once more,” said Sophie equably, “and I’ll punch you.”

  “Tell whoever it is to go away,” Jack ordered as the phone began ringing again, “and for God’s sake, leave it off the hook. What are you doing?” he demanded as Cleo, rising to her feet, took her dinner plate with her.

  “Answering the phone.” Cleo, who was still barely speaking to her father, was brusque. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Put your plate down.”

  “If I leave it here, Sean will pinch all my shrimp.”

  Exasperated, Jack said, “Don’t be so bloody childish.”

  “Excuse me,” jeered Cleo. “You think I’m the one acting like a child?”

  “Please don’t.” Wearily, Cass tried to stop another fight blowing up. Even attempting a normal family dinner was hopeless just now.

  Sean, next to her, had spilled red wine on the tablecloth. Mopping it up with the nearest thing to hand, the Evening Standard, he pulled out a couple of center pages and started to laugh.

  “Oh brilliant. They’ve got a cartoon here of Dad interviewing Prince Charles. Dad’s wearing a Muppets T-shirt and the yellow Elton John boots, and he’s saying to Prince Charles, ‘But don’t you worry that people might not take you seriously?’”

  “Very funny.” Jack glared at Cleo, who was back smirking in the doorway. “You’ve forgotten your precious plate.”

  “Too much excitement.” Cleo’s expression was jubilant. “That was a friend of mine who works for the BBC. She was just calling to say if we want a really good laugh to tune into Graham Norton next week.”

  During the course of the evening, Cass had developed a thumping headache. Unable to cope with the friction downstairs, she made herself a cup of tea, forced down two aspirins, and went up to bed.

  Jack followed her. “It’s only nine o’clock.”

  “I’m tired.” Cass shook her head, barely able to meet his gaze. “I’m so tired of it all.”

  “What?” Jack looked alarmed.

  Cass, who had been in the process of undressing, realized she didn’t want him to see her naked. Suddenly, her almost middle-aged body had become something to be ashamed of. At the same time, she hated Jack for making her feel that way.

  “Oh, not that kind of tired.” She forced herself to take her jeans off but climbed into bed still wearing the white T-shirt. Mockingly, she said, “I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what’s bothering you. If you want to leave, Jack, it’s fine by me. I’m not keeping you here…and we’re perfectly capable of managing without you.”

  The pain showed in Jack’s dark eyes. “But you are keeping me here, just by being here yourself. I don’t want to leave, Cass. I still love you.”

  “So what are you saying? That you’ll tell Imogen it’s over, it’s all been a terrible mistake, you’re going to stay with me and never have anything to do with her again?”

  A shadow fell across his face. “I can’t…”

  “Oh well then,” Cass said evenly, “that’s easy. Off you go.”

  “But—”

  “And don’t forget your toothbrush.”

  Cass turned away to hide the tears pouring down her face. She hadn’t even known they were there; they’d just suddenly started gushing out. And the oddest thoughts were going through her mind: if this really was it, the absolute end, she would never see Jack brushing his teeth again. She would never hear him sing in the shower again. They would never ever make love together again…

  It was this last thought, the realization that they had made love for the very last time and she hadn’t even known it, that upset Cass most of all. If only she’d known, she would have paid more attention, concentrated properly and made sure she remembered every moment, no matter how insignificant it may have seemed at the time. Damn, Cass thought as the tears continued to spill down her cheeks. It’s not fair. He should have warned me.

  * * *

  Jack couldn’t bear it. For all her softness, Cass wasn’t a crier. These were the first tears he had seen her shed all week.

  When he pulled her into his arms, she let out a low moan of grief, hiding her wet face against the front of his blue-and-white striped shirt.

  But Jack lifted her chin, forcing her to look up at him. This was the woman he had loved unwaveringly for twenty-four years. Behind her on the bedside table were framed photographs of their three children as babies, children they had created between them and whom he also loved beyond all imagination.

  Having to bear the brunt during the past few days of Cleo’s fury and Sophie’s quiet disgust had been seriously getting to Jack. The fact that as a family they had always gotten along so well together only made the current situation that much harder to bear. He had hurt them just as much as he had hurt Cass, and they weren’t afraid to let him know it. If I leave, thought Jack, could I ever forgive myself, let alone expect them to forgive me?

  “What are you doing?” Cass gasped, though as her white T-shirt was pulled off over her head, it became pretty obvious.

  “I love you.” Jack pushed her gently back against the massed pillows. Having removed his own shirt and flung it behind him, he kissed Cass as he hadn’t kissed her for years.

  Their lovemaking was only heightened by the strength of their emotions. Helplessly, Cass raked his back with her fingernails. As Jack’s climax approached, she had to smother his groans against her shoulder so the whole street wouldn’t hear. All the pent-up hurt and anger of the past week was spilled out as passion took over, blotting out the unimaginable pain.

  “Oh my God,” Cass sighed, her rib cage still heaving, when it was finally over. “That was…I don’t know what that was… I can’t think of the word…incredible.”

  Jack, beside her, grinned. “Now I see why people break up to make up. Cass, now we really need to talk.” He ran his tongue over dry lips. “Are you as thirsty as I am? If I don’t get a drink…”

  Lazily, Cass nodded. “Please. Orange juice, splash of tonic, loads of ice.”

  “Two minutes.” Sliding out of bed, Jack reached for his dark-blue terry robe. He couldn’t resist leaning across the bed and kissing Cass’s warm, flushed cheek. Then, more lingeringly, he found her mouth.

  “Orange juice,” ordered Cass, smiling. “Before I dehydrate.”

  Downstairs, because one meal was never enough, Sophie was making one of her beloved peanut-butter-and-honey sandwiches. Glancing up as Jack came into the kitchen, taking in the expression on his face, the terry robe, and tousled dark hair, she said hopefully, “Is this good news?”

  Jack smiled. Kids today.

  “Could be, sweetheart. Your mother wants a glass of orange juice.”

  Sophie winced. “I’ve just finished it.”

  But all her father did was open the fridge and take out a bottle of Bollinger instead. Reaching up to the cupboard for two glasses, he said, “Maybe this is more appropriate anyway.”

  “Oh, Dad, I’m so glad.” It was Sophie’s turn to spout helpless
tears. Abandoning the sandwich—which was as thick as a dictionary—she flung her arms around Jack’s neck and breathed dreadful peanut-butter fumes all over him. “This is the best news ever.”

  Jack kissed the top of her head and patted her bony spine before gently disentangling himself. “I know, I know. Come on now. Don’t want to keep your mother waiting. You could probably do with an early night yourself,” he added mildly. “To make up for yesterday.”

  * * *

  “Orange juice,” Cass protested when she saw the dark-green bottle, beaded with condensation, in his hand. “Jack, what on earth do you want to open that for? I said I was thirsty.”

  “We can celebrate, can’t we?” Dropping the glasses into her lap, feeling as if a great weight had fallen from his shoulders, Jack began to ease the cork out with his thumbs. He couldn’t stop grinning. “Cass, it’s all over. Behind us. I won’t see Imogen again. You’re my wife, and I love you. We belong together.”

  Cass stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing.

  “You mean I’ve won?”

  The cork shot out of the bottle with a whoosh, ricocheting off two walls and a light fixture before landing in one of Cass’s strappy high-heeled evening shoes.

  “Glasses, glasses,” shouted Jack as foam cascaded over his hands, but who really cared if the champagne spilled out? He was back, and that was all that mattered. God knew how Imogen would take it; he couldn’t think about that now. He would simply have to make her understand.

  “Well,” said Cass, “thanks, as they say, but no thanks.”

  The contents of the bottle, which he must have shaken running up the stairs, were still overflowing onto the duvet. Jack stopped smiling.

  “What?”

  “You heard.” Cass spoke clearly, all trace of tears gone. “You wanted to leave, Jack. You know you wanted to. You just couldn’t bring yourself to make the decision. So I’m doing it for you. There you are, see? I’m making it easy for you. All you have to do is pack your things and go.”

  It was blissful, watching the expression on his face. Such a handsome face, thought Cass, steeling herself to see it through. He was only forty, still young, still toe-curlingly attractive.

  Jack stared at her. “I’ve just said I don’t want to go.”

  “Too late.” The duvet was safely tucked up over her breasts. Cass folded her arms as if insulating herself from attack. “I want you to.”

  “But why?” Jack was stunned, clearly unable to believe this was happening. “I’ve just told Sophie—”

  “Better go and untell her then.” Furious that he should have so pointlessly raised Sophie’s hopes, Cass felt the heat begin to rise in her cheeks. “How bloody dare you, Jack? Without even bothering to ask me first! How bloody patronizing can you get?”

  “Cass, please—”

  “No,” she shouted. “No way. Forget it! Why should I forgive you for screwing that little tart? Why should I be the one to have to spend the next fifty years listening to you blaming me for ruining your life? Jack, you want her, you can have her. You’re forty years old. Divorce me, marry Imogen, and when you’re ninety, you can celebrate your golden wedding anniversary with her. Don’t you see? You can start a whole new life—”

  “Stop this,” Jack hissed, his eyes very dark against the sudden pallor of his face. “You’re hysterical.”

  “Hysterical ha-ha or hysterical scream-scream?” Bitterly, Cass glared back at him, her whole body rigid with fury. “You’re the one who’s hysterical ha-ha, Jack. You’re the one everyone’s laughing at.”

  “What about just now?” he shouted. “We made love. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “Of course.” Cass was mocking him now. It was so easy to be cruel. “Just what I wanted, to go out with a bang. I thought it finished things off nicely.”

  Chapter 19

  Cleo knew she had done the right thing, letting Linda discover for herself just how eager Colin was to be unfaithful to her, but it had still been a depressing experience. Were all men, she wondered, as untrustworthy as that? Were they physically incapable of remaining faithful to one woman?

  When Maisie, her booker at the agency, began asking tentative questions about the way she had gone about catching Colin, Cleo backed away in despair.

  “Oh, Maisie, no. Not Tom. I can’t bear it.”

  “Not Tom.” Maisie smothered a giggle. At forty, she was about as far removed from lithe, blond Cass as it was possible for a forty-year-old to be, but Tom adored every shapeless, gray inch of his beloved wife. “No, it’s my mother’s new boyfriend. I’m sure he’s up to no good, but she’s smitten. If you ask me, he’s after her money.”

  “Hmm. So it’s for a good cause.” Cleo, perched on the edge of Maisie’s desk, drummed her heels thoughtfully against the wastepaper basket and began to cheer up. “What is he, ancient?” She’d met Maisie’s mother, a vivacious sixtysomething widow, a couple of times and liked her a lot. “Some kind of 1940s bounder with a leer and a waxed moustache?”

  “Guess again,” said Maisie wryly. “His name’s Damien, and he’s younger than me.”

  * * *

  Damien Maxwell-Horne, with his expensively highlighted hair, overpowering aftershave, and boyish crinkle-at-the-corner eyes was, as far as Cleo was concerned, guilty from the word go. Such suspiciously blue eyes must be the result of tinted contact lenses.

  Apart from anything else, anyone who wore bright-red socks had to be all bad.

  Damien, lounging against one of the black marble pillars of the Kellaway wine bar in Fulham, exactly where Maisie had said he would be, was pitifully easy to pick up. All Cleo needed to do was saunter up to the bar, order herself a lemonade, and choose an empty table for two by the window.

  He was over faster than you could say slimeball. “You’re Cleo Mandeville.”

  Cleo widened her eyes and smiled up at him. Of all the dumb statements in all the world, he’d had to come out with this one.

  “So I am.”

  “Damien Maxwell-Horne. I must say, you are even more beautiful than your photographs.” Having taken Cleo’s hand, he showed no sign of giving it back. “I’m a huge fan of yours, by the way.” The crinkly-eyed grin widened. “I’m also allergic to the sight of gorgeous girls buying their own drinks. You can’t possibly drink that stuff anyway. Please, let me get you something decent.”

  Cleo hesitated. “Well…”

  “Come on.” Damien gave her a complicit smile. “How about a glass of chilled chardonnay?”

  “Chardonnay would be great. Thank you, Mr. Maxwell-Horne. You’re very kind. I’m supposed to be meeting a girlfriend, but I was half an hour late getting here myself.” Cleo glanced at her watch and gave a shrug of resignation. “Looks as if I’ve been stood up.”

  “Her loss,” Damien smugly announced. “My gain. Let me tell you, Cleo, anyone who stands you up, male or female, must be off their heads. One chardonnay coming up. And,” he added with mock severity, “call me Damien, please.”

  Annoyingly, Damien was having far too good a time greeting everyone he knew who came into the wine bar—and making sure they noticed who he was with—to say anything wholly incriminating. Cleo, stuck with him until he did, forced herself not to yawn. Maisie’s mother, Harriet, must really be smitten if she could put up with hearing the same jokes almost every fifteen minutes. OK, so Damien was good-looking enough in an over-groomed kind of way, but if Harriet thought a man like him could love her for the maturity of her mind, she had to be kidding. Harriet’s last facelift, thought Cleo, had evidently gone to her head.

  “So you’ve been divorced for two years.” Valiantly, she soldiered on, covering her glass with her hand as Damien tried to top it up for the fourth time. “Any plans to try again, or was once enough?”

  “Twice”—Damien smirked—”and that’s more than enough. Won’t catch me getting
trapped again. Play the field and have some fun, that’s my motto. Unless you’re volunteering for the job…”

  Cleo smiled and managed not to kick his legs from under him. Last week, Damien had suggested to Harriet that they might get married. The fact that he was having trouble finding financial backing for some new business project in Baltic Wharf and Harriet had inherited squillions from her own beloved late husband had, of course, nothing whatsoever to do with it.

  But the doors had swung open, giving Damien yet another heaven-sent opportunity to show her off.

  “Hey, it’s the lads.” Swiveling around in delight, squeezing Cleo’s hand as he waved to attract their attention, he almost knocked a brimming ashtray into her lap. “Sorry, sorry. Great crew, the lads from the rugby club! Hey, boys, my round. C’mon, what’ll it be? Sweetheart, how about you? Another chardonnay?”

  Cleo was really beginning to wish she hadn’t come here. Doing Harriet a major favor was one thing, but this was horrible. Her own integrity was being put on the line. What if people were secretly laughing at her?

  Only the mental image of Maisie, sad eyed and helpless to do anything herself, kept her there. Maisie was a darling who had done her endless small favors in the three years they had known each other. Having come this far, Cleo knew she couldn’t let her down now.

  Enjoying the momentary breather while Damien was ostentatiously waving tenners across the bar, Cleo wasn’t overjoyed to see one of his rugby-playing “lads” looking toward her. With that sun-bleached blond hair and impressive body, he might look OK, but Cleo had no illusions. Any friend of Damien’s was bound to be as awful as he was. Men like that always went around in packs.

  “Hi. My name’s Joel Grant.” Introducing himself in a low voice barely audible above the yells and whoops coming from the bar, he smiled briefly at Cleo as he took Damien’s seat. “I was introduced to your brother a few weeks ago, coincidentally. He’s been out a few times with my sister.”