by Jill Mansell
“Can you believe it? She’s gone out and gotten herself signed up with Jefferson’s no less.” Jack shook his head. It wasn’t the career he’d had in mind for his beloved younger daughter, the brightest of his three children, but he had, grudgingly, to admire her spirit. “I mean, of all people. Sophie, prancing around in front of a camera for a living…”
“Never mind going to help out in an orphanage in Uganda,” said Imogen, marveling at his failure to twig. “At this rate, she’ll be able to afford to build her own.”
* * *
They were due to go out at eight to a party in the Barbican. Jack, who had been writing his column from home, hadn’t even decided which shirt to wear. As Imogen emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a blue towel at ten to seven, she was further irritated to hear him on the phone downstairs. Having spent the last two hours attempting to get hold of Cass, he had evidently just managed to track her down.
All this fuss, Imogen thought for the hundredth time. How overprotective could you get? Rifling through her wardrobe, she took out the strappy black dress she had worn to Jack’s fortieth.
By the time he got off the phone, it was ten to eight. “Well, you were right.”
“Of course I was right.” Tight-lipped, Imogen chucked a clean white shirt at him. “And we’re going to be late.”
“She’s sixteen.” Not paying a bit of attention, Jack sat on the bed. “Why won’t she listen to us? Only yesterday, a piece came into the newsroom about two voluntary workers in Rwanda being shot dead.” He shook his head. “It isn’t as if we’re trying to stop her going out of spite. It just isn’t safe.”
When he was finally wearing the shirt, Imogen handed him two unmatched cuff links. Jack didn’t notice, fastening them into each sleeve without so much as a second glance.
Imogen’s patience snapped.
“When I was sixteen, I lived in a squat in Bayswater. A girl I shared with was raped by a tramp. One of the blokes overdosed on heroin and wasn’t discovered for a week,” she shouted. “So don’t tell me how dangerous it would be for poor little Sophie in Uganda, because compared with London, let me tell you, Uganda is about as dangerous as afternoon tea at the Ritz.”
* * *
The party had been an out-and-out disaster. Back at home, still barely on speaking terms, Jack and Imogen were in bed by midnight.
“Look, I’m sorry.” Imogen tried half-heartedly to make amends. The certainty that she was in the right, however, gave the words a hollow ring.
“What I don’t understand,” said Jack in unforgiving mood, “is how you can be so desperate to have children when you clearly don’t want the responsibility. It isn’t all bootees and sleepers, you know. Children grow up, but you don’t stop loving them.”
Bastard. Imogen turned onto her side, facing away from him. If she had children of her own, she would love them. She just didn’t see why she should have to pretend to love somebody else’s, particularly when they had made so little effort to like her.
Jack lay awake, gazing up at the ceiling, long after Imogen’s rigid spine had relaxed and she had drifted off to sleep. Her parting shot—the sarcastic suggestion that since it was only half past twelve at night, he might like to phone Cass and spend the next couple of hours discussing Sophie’s new haircut with her—wasn’t so wide of the mark. They could talk about Sophie at least. If it weren’t for Rory Cameron, he might have been tempted.
Jack suppressed a sigh. For over twenty years, he and Cass had had some of their best discussions in bed at night. It was something he missed more than he would have imagined possible, but Imogen regarded bed as the place for sex and sleep.
Feeling very alone, Jack turned onto his side and closed his eyes. He wondered if Rory and Cass talked much in bed.
Chapter 53
The first episode of Wide-Eyed and Topless was screened on the second Thursday in November at 9:00 p.m.
Heavily hyped by the network, already well reviewed and singled out by the press as a must-watch, the tale of nonidentical flat-sharing twins, one a page-three model, the other an assistant in a thrift shop, was being tipped as one of the major successes of the season.
“Betsy Tyler and Allegra Ash rise splendidly to the occasion,” observed the normally dour, rip-everything-to-shreds TV reviewer for the Mail. “Both script and situations are screamingly funny; we’re being treated here to comedy at its finest. Set your DVRs now. If tonight’s episode is anything to go by, you’ll be watching this series again and again.”
And this from a man who never seemed to like anything. Pandora, who had been secretly rereading the review at fifteen-minute intervals throughout the day, was amazed the page was still in one piece.
The phone had been ringing nonstop too, with requests for interviews. Rose, realizing that something was going on but not knowing what, grew increasingly boisterous. As nine o’clock approached, Pandora felt the first flickers of apprehension. Sean had gone out at lunchtime, casually promising to be back by eight. He was late already. The series of excuses he had made for not watching Pandora’s own advance tapes of Wide-Eyed and Topless had been feeble to say the least.
Donny phoned at a quarter to nine.
“He’s been at the club all afternoon. I’ve just put him into a cab.”
And told him in no uncertain terms to grow up, Donny could have added but didn’t.
Pandora winced. “Is he drunk?”
“No, but I’ve seen sunnier smiles on traffic wardens. Congratulations on all that stuff in the papers by the way.”
“It’s all thanks to you.” Pandora knew how much she owed him and was grateful.
“For wrecking everything between you and Sean?” Donny’s brief laugh contained an edge of bitterness. He wished he could be there with her now. On impulse, he said, “Look, Sean’s on his way home in a shitty mood. You don’t have to put up with that. Why don’t I come around?”
“No.” That wouldn’t help at all. As brightly as she could manage, Pandora said, “I’ll be fine. It’s not as if he hits me. I don’t need a minder.”
But as she waited for Sean to arrive home, her stomach began to really churn. The vague, nagging ache that had been bothering her all day became a stabbing pain at the base of her abdomen.
Never mind traffic wardens, Pandora thought when Sean walked through the door at one minute to nine; she had seen sunnier smiles on bulldogs.
“There’s a goulash in the oven,” she offered despite the unpromising start. “And baked potatoes. Are you hungry?”
“No.” Sean helped himself to a brandy and sat down in front of the TV. “Come on. You too. You can’t start dishing food out now. This is your big moment.”
Pandora felt perspiration break out all over her forehead. She hoped she wasn’t about to be sick. Filling her own glass with ice water, she sat cautiously next to Sean. Within seconds, a plaintive wail drifted downstairs.
“Mum-mee.”
“For God’s sake,” Sean sighed.
Pandora winced as she rose to her feet once more. Her legs were shaking. On the television, the blond continuity announcer said brightly, “And now, the first episode of a brand-new series I personally can’t wait to see…”
“Bet you say that to all the boys.” Sean was looking bored already, his dark eyes narrowing as if he were on the verge of falling asleep.
“Mum-meee!”
* * *
Sean wasn’t proud of himself. The way he was behaving was, he knew perfectly well, nothing short of shameful. The bollocking Donny had given him earlier had been along much the same lines. The trouble was, none of it helped.
He could hardly blame Pandora, either, for staying upstairs with Rose. The funnier Wide-Eyed and Topless was, the more impossible it became for him to laugh. That awful familiar mixture of pride and jealousy gnawed away at his gut like battery acid. He was proud of what she had
achieved; he just wished it didn’t have to make him feel so washed-up in comparison. It was like A Star is Born all over again, only this time with jokes, Sean thought bitterly.
And the joke was on him, he realized. From upstairs came the sound of the toilet flushing for the third time. Downstairs, as the show ended and the credits began to roll—series created and written by Pandora J. Grant—the phone began to ring.
It was a tabloid journalist with an oily voice, scarcely able to believe his luck.
“Sean, my man! The very person I wanted to speak to. So, how does it feel to at least know someone with a successful TV show?”
Bastard.
“Feels great,” Sean replied evenly, “thanks.”
“Oh, and do you have a contact number for Donny Mulligan?” The journalist, disappointed by the lack of response, went on, “I need to confirm the rumor that your good lady has written a part for him into the next season—”
Sean put the phone down. Then he switched it off. Upstairs, the toilet flushed again.
When Pandora finally made it back downstairs, he only had to take one look at her puffed-up eyes and drawn face to realize what had been going on.
“Been bringing our boots up, have we?” His eyes glittered. “Oh well, if you’re pregnant again, at least this time you can’t hang it on me.”
Luckily, Rose had done no more than whimper for a couple of minutes before falling back to sleep. Pandora, who had never felt more dreadful in her life, realized she was in danger of bursting into noisy, uncontrollable tears.
“You bastard, I’m not pregnant. My stomach hurts…I’m ill…owww!!”
Still wounded by the oily journalist’s phone call, Sean said, “You’ve written Donny fucking Mulligan into the next season. You’ve put him in it, haven’t you? Without even telling me—”
“I offered it to you first.” Pandora clutched her stomach as another wave of pain seized her in its viselike grip. Through clenched teeth, she said, “You turned it down, remember? Sean, I don’t need this… I think you’re going to have to call the doctor.”
She really was ill. Sean watched, with a pang of guilt, as Pandora collapsed onto the sofa.
He frowned. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. Please, just phone…”
Sean picked up the receiver. As he did so, the doorbell rang. “That was quick,” said Sean.
Pandora groaned. “Speaking of quick, get a bucket—”
* * *
Cleo, woefully underdressed as usual and hopping up and down on the doorstep to keep warm, had just pressed the bell a second time when she heard footsteps coming up the path behind her.
“I don’t believe it.” Staring into the darkness, she felt her heart skip several beats. “What are you doing here?”
“I’d have thought that was pretty obvious.”
Joel glanced at the bottle clutched in her hands, then at the one in his. Cleo’s, needless to say, had cost three times as much.
“I kept calling and calling and couldn’t get through.” Cleo’s teeth had begun to chatter from a combination of cold and sheer nerves. “So I just jumped into the car and came over anyway.”
“Me too.”
“You’ve just watched it? Of course you have. How silly of me!” Damn, she was gabbling. Cleo waved the bottle at him and tried to smile, except her upper lip had somehow gotten itself stuck to her front teeth. “Wasn’t it brilliant? I thought we should celebrate!”
The garden was wreathed in mist, the footpath silver with frost. Cleo was wearing, of all things, a pink micro-mini and a white tank top.
Joel nodded. “Me too.”
* * *
“Are you mad?”
Once inside the house, Joel recovered himself. Removing the phone from Sean’s grasp, he closed the Yellow Pages with a great thud. “Never mind calling the doctor. Look at her. What she needs is to get to a hospital, fast. My car’s right outside. I’ll take her.”
“I could.” Cleo made the offer, but she looked uncertain. Pandora was still throwing up like nobody’s business. Cleo wasn’t awfully good with vomit.
“I’ll take her,” said Sean. He was seriously worried now. He glanced from Cleo to Joel. “Can someone stay here and keep an eye on Rose?”
* * *
As soon as Sean and Pandora had left, Cleo felt herself slipping into chatter mode once more. Joel had caught her off guard—yet again—and she felt like a panicky party hostess trying desperately to entertain a two-hours-too-early lone guest.
“Well, poor Pandora, what do you suppose it is? Could be food poisoning…you can catch food poisoning from lettuce, you know. Marsha Collins went down with it in the middle of a shoot for a hairspray ad, which mucked up six weeks’ scheduling and pissed the director off no end—”
“Should you be opening that?” Joel nodded at the bottle of Taittinger she was busily de-wiring. “I thought it was for Pandora.”
Cleo was nervous enough as it was. The last thing she needed was criticism from the person who was responsible for making her nervous in the first place.
“I’ll replace it. Don’t worry.”
“Good.”
The cork was on its way out. “And if you want to make yourself useful,” said Cleo, “you could unearth a couple of glasses.”
* * *
“Now what are you doing?” Joel demanded an hour later.
Cleo, daring him to stop her, said, “What does it look like?” and carried on prizing the cork out of the second bottle. The contents of the first had disappeared at an astonishing rate, chiefly because it had given her something to occupy her hands when all she really wanted was to grab hold of Joel, swear passionate, undying love, and kiss the life out of him.
Under the circumstances, it seemed safer to drink.
“You won’t like it,” Joel warned as the cork flipped out. “I called in at some liquor store on the way over, and this was all they had. It’s only cheap, probably as rough as sandpaper.”
“I like a bit of rough.” Cleo beamed. Joel’s expression darkened, and she clapped a dramatic hand over her mouth. “Oops, wrong thing to say.”
“I think you’ve had enough to drink already.” Looking less amused by the second, Joel shook his head as she attempted to refill his glass.
“And I think you’re being boring.” Cleo sloshed some over his hand for good measure. “Come on,” she urged. “Be a sport. Time to toast Pandora and the success of Wide-Eyed and Whatsit.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Joel had never seen her like this before.
“Me? I’m fine.” Taking her first gulp of the champagne he had brought along, Cleo couldn’t help but pull a face. Joel had been right: it was rough. “I’m absolutely fine,” she repeated with a shudder. “You’re the misery guts around here.”
It might have been some time ago now, but Joel would never forget one of the most heart-stopping moments of his life.
“That TV interview,” he said, “at the film premiere you went to. All that garbage about finding true love and being about to marry Dino Carlisle…had you been drinking then too?”
“Oh, so you did see it.” Cleo was unable to hide her satisfaction. “Good. And no, of course I hadn’t been drinking. I just felt like saying it. Why?” She wagged a triumphant finger at him. “Did it make you jealous?”
Joel hesitated, then shook his head. “It made me realize how much better suited you were to him than to someone like me.”
The look of resignation on his face was gut-wrenching. Cleo’s dark eyes promptly filled with tears.
“But I didn’t mean it. There never was anything between Dino and me.”
“So I gathered when he went back to the States and started an affair with that new Bond girl.” In contrast with Cleo’s histrionics, Joel spoke without emotion. “But
the fact remains, he’s the type of man you need. At least he’s in the same celebrity league.”
Cleo was torn now. Part of her wished she hadn’t drunk so much, so fast, and on such an empty stomach. On the other hand, she thought hazily as the room began to undulate around her, would I have the nerve to come out with this stuff if I were sober?
“I wish you’d have another drink.” She said it hoping it might have a similar effect on Joel.
“One of us,” he pointed out, “has to babysit.”
“And one of us has to be at Heathrow to catch the eight o’clock flight to Tunisia tomorrow morning.” Cleo groaned, belatedly remembering she had to be up at five. Ugh, now she really wished she hadn’t had so much to drink.
In the meantime, however, she had something to say. Encouraged by the fact that Joel was evidently trying hard not to look at her boobs, braless beneath the white top, and wishing she had the courage to just fling herself at him—except she feared he would only fling her smartly back—Cleo took a deep breath.
“Look, I don’t give a toss about celebrity leagues. I don’t care whether or not someone’s famous. If I loved someone, I wouldn’t care if they swept roads for a living.” Struggling to keep her thoughts ahead of her mouth, Cleo gazed wildly about the room for inspiration. She spotted Joel’s bottle of barely touched, truly awful champagne. “If all they could afford to buy me was swill, I’d drink it! And they wouldn’t need to feel inferior because they wouldn’t be inferior. The thing is, as long as two people love each other and are happy together, nothing else in the world matters—”
“Phone,” said Joel, because Cleo hadn’t even heard it ringing. Worried sick about Pandora, praying that whatever was wrong with her wasn’t serious, he reached past and grabbed the receiver before Cleo had a chance to answer it.
“You could have let me speak to her,” Cleo protested when he put the phone down again. “Poor thing, food poisoning’s the pits. You can get it from lettuce you know. How is she anyway? Feeling better yet?”
So much, Joel thought bleakly, for touching speeches about the meaning of true love. Cleo was absolutely plastered.
