by Jill Mansell
“True.” He almost smiled. “Thanks to Brenda, the slag.”
“Why?”
“Double-glazing salesman. The bloke who came here and persuaded her to have the whole house done, he’s the bastard she’s been seeing for the past year.”
“You poor thing,” Sophie said in soothing tones. “No wonder you lost your temper with her.” She glimpsed her reflection in the mirror hanging above the polished mantelpiece. “And look at me, what a sight. OK if I go upstairs and have a wash?”
He looked irritated. “Can’t you do it in the kitchen sink?”
“I want to clean this up too.” Gingerly, she touched the torn, bloodstained crepe de chine. “Think about it. I’m not going to be much use to you as a hostage if I’m dead.”
“It’s stopped bleeding,” Jez snapped. “You aren’t going to die.”
“It could become infected,” argued Sophie. “Haven’t you heard of septicemia? Tetanus?” Her gray eyes narrowed. “Look, I’ve given you my word. I won’t try and escape. I’ll be your hostage. But you have to treat me like a human being. That’s only fair.”
To her amazement, he nodded.
“OK. But no nosing around upstairs, right? You can’t get out.”
“Thanks.”
“And when you’ve done that,” Jez said softly, “we’ll phone your mum.”
Chapter 56
Just my luck, thought Sophie, to be kidnapped by a starstruck, wife-bashing burglar.
She dialed the radio station, spoke to her mother’s producer, and handed the phone across to Jez.
The transistor radio balanced on the coffee table sounded tinny—the batteries were on their way out—but at least Sophie could hear what was going on.
“And now,” said Cass, “we have a mystery caller on the line. All I know is he’s something to do with Sophie, my youngest. Personally, I suspect a setup. So hello, mystery caller from Gloucestershire. You’re on the air. Now, why don’t you tell us what this is all about?”
* * *
“That was great.” Jez replaced the receiver a minute or so later, running his fingers through his spiky, blond hair and looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “I’ve never been on the radio before.” He looked across at Sophie. “Bloody hell. What’s the matter with you now?”
How stupid she had been to think that because Jez was only twenty-three, he wouldn’t harm her. Panic welled up in Sophie’s chest.
“You’ve frightened my mother to death.” She felt sick. “How could you?”
“Easy,” said Jez. Bending forward, he picked up the torn photograph of Brenda and himself and crushed it with his fist. “I’m really glad I chose you now,” he told Sophie with a smile. “This is ace. I’m going to be famous.”
* * *
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The manager of the restaurant stared in astonishment as Terry Brannigan threw down his dishwashing sponge, stripped off his apron, and reached for his coat. “Where are you going? You can’t just walk out.”
“Didn’t you hear that?” Terry pointed briefly in the direction of the radio he only ever paid any attention to when Cass was on. “Cass Mandeville’s a friend of mine, and she’s in trouble. She needs me.”
“Blimey, it’s Superman,” jeered one of the waiters above a chorus of whistles and much muffled laughter. “Don’t forget to put your underwear on over your tights.”
There was a mountain of dishes still to be done.
“If you leave now,” the manager said icily, “you’re sacked.”
“Hooray,” said Terry. “About bloody time too.”
The restaurant was less than half a mile from the Kingdom Radio studios. Luckily, Terry had dropped Cass off there often enough in the past to persuade the security guard at the gate to let him through now.
“I know, I know,” the producer was shouting into a phone when Terry reached the studio from which Cass’s show was broadcast. “She’s in no state to do anything, but we don’t have a stand-in. Bob’s gone down with the flu, Serena’s in France, and Jenny’s buggered off to Egypt. There is nobody else to take over—”
“I’ll do it,” said Terry. Through the glass, he saw the petrified face of the weatherman valiantly attempting to hold the fort and failing abysmally.
The producer glared at Terry. “Who the fuck are you?”
A door behind him swung open. Cass, white-faced, threw herself into Terry’s arms.
“It’s a nightmare.” She shook her head, choking back tears. “Jack’s on his way over. We’re flying straight down there now.” Her body began to sag. “Oh God, and to think when Sophie phoned, I thought it was some kind of silly joke.”
Terry held her. The producer was still glaring at him. “I had to come. I want to help. I was going to offer to drive you, but—”
“There’s no one to do the show,” Cass said shakily. “The stand-in’s off with the flu. You could do it.”
“I can do it,” Terry assured the producer.
“Yes, yes.” The producer, who was too hyped up to be grateful, ground his expensively capped teeth. “So you keep bloody saying. But just who the fuck are you?”
* * *
The siege moved into its second day, and Cass began to wonder if she had the strength to stay sane. The cottage was surrounded by police snipers. A trained negotiator was attempting to build a rapport between himself and Jez Potter. He had also spoken to Sophie, who appeared to be bearing up well.
This was partly due to the fact that she didn’t know all there was to know. Jez Potter, the police had carefully explained to Cass and Jack, was in fact serving seven years for the manslaughter of a nightclub bouncer who had dared to wink at his wife. There were possible psychopathic tendencies. And nobody had seen or heard from Brenda Potter since the morning of Jez’s escape.
* * *
“I can’t bear it,” Cass sobbed, clinging to Jack and trying to blot from her mind the terrible sight of Jez Potter using their daughter as a shield while he gesticulated wildly with his gun. “Why did he have to pick Sophie? It’s so unfair.”
The cruel irony of the situation hadn’t escaped Jack. Having deemed the Uganda trip too dangerous, he had driven Sophie to this instead, a modeling shoot in deepest Gloucestershire…and more danger than he could ever have imagined.
They were staying at the Salutation Inn, the picturesque pub on the outskirts of Cinderley from whose parking lot Sophie had been taken hostage. The place was crawling with press despite the fact that a news blackout had been imposed. The police had no intention of pandering to Jez Potter’s lust for fame.
Susie Wheeler, the landlady of the Salutation, felt desperately sorry for Cass and Jack Mandeville. She had also, two years ago, avidly followed the public breakdown of their marriage and had felt every sympathy for Cass.
That they should now be sharing a room—along with their grief—was only right and perfectly natural as far as Susie was concerned. Which was why, when Imogen Trent called from London for the third time that day, sounding rather more suspicious about Jack than worried about how Sophie might be, Susie decided she was bored with being discreet.
“The thing is, he said he’d phone me, and he hasn’t.” Imogen paused, then added furtively, “I know you’ve left a message in his room. But I wonder if I could trouble you to leave one in Mrs. Mandeville’s too.”
“No need, my dear.” Susie Wheeler smiled; she couldn’t help it. This was too good a chance to miss. “You see, they’ve only got the one room. And the note’s right there waiting for him, slap-bang in the middle of the bed.”
* * *
“Are you going to kill me?” asked Sophie.
“Course not.” Jez was sitting on the floor playing with the revolver, twirling it between his fingers like Billy the Kid. “Well, probably not.”
“I think you should give
yourself up.”
It was three o’clock in the morning. Arc lights beamed outside. Sleep was out of the question. Sophie was cold too, but Jez’s offer of one of Brenda’s sweaters for some reason gave her the creeps.
“Never.” He shook his head. “I told them to send a helicopter, didn’t I? It’ll be here in the morning.”
“Where’s it going to land, in the vegetable patch?”
“Shut up.”
“No need to get cross. I’m just trying to be realistic.”
Jez looked as if he were about to cry. “I can’t give myself up.”
“Why not?” Sophie shivered.
“Just shut up.”
* * *
“How much longer?” whispered Cass, clinging to Jack and wondering if she would ever feel warm again. “Something has to happen soon.”
Imogen had no need to worry. They might be sharing a bed, but sex was the last thing on either of their minds.
“The police will sort everything out,” said Jack.
“But what if they don’t?”
“Stop it.” His arms tightened around her, and his mouth brushed her forehead. “They will.”
* * *
Sophie had finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, but the dreams racing through her brain were as hard to bear as reality. Almost glad to be rid of them, she woke with a start. Terrible sobbing noises were coming from the hallway.
“Jez?” Stumbling to her feet, she crossed the sitting room. He was on his knees by the front door, peering through the mail slot, his wet face contorted with grief.
“I didn’t hurt you.” He turned and stared up at her, his eyes pink-rimmed. “Did I? I didn’t hurt you?”
Sophie felt numb. She shook her head.
“Tell them I didn’t.”
“What now?” Did he want her to shout through the mail slot?
“Just tell them.” Wearily, Jez shook his head. “I couldn’t help it. She made me do it. Just so long as they know I didn’t hurt you.”
The next moment, to Sophie’s bewilderment, he rose slowly to his feet and unlocked the front door. Pushing her outside, he disappeared back into the house. Like a rabbit caught in car headlights, Sophie stood there blinking. A voice through a megaphone said evenly, “Sophie, walk down the path. It’s OK. Keep moving toward us. We’re here. You’re doing fine…just keep walking…”
Sophie did as she was told.
Behind her, upstairs in the cottage, a single shot was fired.
Chapter 57
Jez Potter had shot and killed himself. The body of Brenda Potter, as the police had suspected, was discovered lying in the spare bedroom. Considering what she had been through, the police told Cass and Jack, Sophie had come through her ordeal remarkably well.
“I can’t believe she’s safe.” Cass hung on to Jack’s arm, giddily euphoric and teetering on the brink of tears. Their reunion with Sophie in the early hours of the morning had been indescribable. Now, having been thoroughly checked over by the police surgeon—the knife wound in her side was only superficial—she was catching up on some much-needed sleep.
By eight o’clock, they were back in their room at the Salutation. Dawn was breaking; the spectacular view of the valley beneath them was shrouded in veils of mist. Everything looked just the same as it had yesterday, but everything was different. Sophie was safe. Cass, so happy she didn’t know what to do with herself, kept gazing out the window, thinking guiltily of all the people they should be calling with the news.
“You should phone Imogen.” As far as Cass was aware, Jack hadn’t even responded to her calls yesterday.
“I know.” He came to stand beside her.
Instinctively, Cass found herself leaning into his shoulder. “Go on then.”
“I don’t want to.”
Cass hardly dared look at him. She tried to sound reproachful.
“Oh, Jack.”
“This is our time together. Why spoil it now?”
He took her into his arms, and Cass felt her insides dissolve. She knew exactly what he meant.
“We shouldn’t,” she gasped, minutes later. “We really shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Wrong.” Jack stifled her half-hearted protests with a kiss. “We really, really should.”
* * *
Their lovemaking only proved to him beyond all doubt what he had suspected for months.
“I love you.”
As he spoke, Jack rolled onto his back, suddenly unable to look at Cass. He had to say the words first and gauge her reaction afterward. “You know that, don’t you? I think I love you more now than I ever have. If you knew how much I wish I’d never met Imogen…it’s tearing me apart. And as for Rory Cameron… Christ, when he told me the two of you were planning to marry, I just wanted to kill him.”
He stopped and turned his head, his heart pumping wildly in his chest.
Cass, lying next to him, was fast asleep.
* * *
Imogen was still in her dressing gown, huddled on the sofa, watching the six o’clock news. The TV cameras had been out in force to catch Sophie’s triumphant return to Hampstead. She was being hailed as a heroine. The driveway leading up to the house was clogged with reporters. Cleo Mandeville and Pandora Grant were both there in floods of tears. When the cars finally drew up outside, all hell broke loose. Imogen bit her nails as Sophie, her natural pallor accentuated by her new ash-blond hair, waved briefly for the cameras before hugging Sean and disappearing into the house.
Cass and Jack, emerging from the car moments later, had their arms around each other. Imogen winced as she peeled one of her nails down to the tender quick.
“All I can say is that we’re very tired and very happy,” Jack told the ITN reporter. “It’s been a harrowing couple of days. Thank God it’s all over.”
“Yes, Sophie’s in brilliant shape.” Cass’s smile, when the reporter turned his attention to her, was positively radiant. “She’s fine, but we think she’ll give modeling a miss from now on. Maybe stick to something less risky, like lion taming.”
Imogen’s stomach churned. Cass and Jack vanished into the house. The newsreader, putting on his “and now for the bad news” voice, moved on to the latest unemployment figures. Imogen wondered when Jack would remember she even existed.
* * *
Jack, preparing to leave the house at close to midnight, braced himself. He had to know.
“There’s something I need to say,” he told Cass, who was looking stunning with her blond hair up. She had changed into a dark-blue velvet dress and was wearing Shalimar. Behind them, in the sitting room, Sophie’s welcome-home party roared on. Terry Brannigan was launching into song, to howls of derision from Cleo and Rory Cameron. For the moment, in the paneled hallway, they were alone.
“Yes?” prompted Cass.
Jack swallowed. “This isn’t easy.”
“No?”
“Um…”
Cass’s blue eyes searched his face. “It wouldn’t by any chance have something to do with this morning’s little speech?”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I thought I should appear to be asleep,” said Cass, “just in case you changed your mind. It was a bit of an emotional moment after all.” She paused. “You might not have meant it.”
Jack leaned against the front door. “I’m not going to change my mind.” He had never meant something more in his life. “The question is, could you ever change yours about me?”
The door to the sitting room flew open.
“Oops.” Spotting them, Cleo promptly closed it again.
“Change my mind?”
He wondered if Cass was being deliberately unhelpful.
“I suppose what I mean is, could you ever trust me again?” Rory Cameron was in the next room. It was, Jack realized, hardl
y the time or the place to be making possibly the most vital speech of his life. Still, he’d come this far. “Could you ever forgive me?” His voice was low. “Could you ever love me? Is there even the faintest chance of you being willing to try again?”
“Excuse me,” said Cass, “but how does Imogen feel about this?”
Jack shook his head. “Imogen doesn’t know.”
“Ah well, I know how that feels.” She pulled open the front door. Infuriatingly, giving nothing away, Cass said, “Maybe she should.”
* * *
“You don’t mean it. You can’t mean it. You can’t!”
Imogen, on her knees, clutched blindly at Jack’s trousered leg. She knew she was howling like a dog. The humiliation was unbearable. But still she clung on, screaming in disbelief, refusing to accept that what he was saying could be true.
“I’m sorry, but this hasn’t worked out. You know it hasn’t.”
Jack wasn’t finding it much easier. Imogen’s torment was a painful thing to have to witness. He was also uncomfortably aware that he could be doing all this, making the break, for nothing. Cass hadn’t exactly thrown herself into his arms. She hadn’t yelled, “Yes! Yes! You’re all I’ve ever wanted.” There was every chance she might turn around, laugh in his face, and tell him it served him damn well right.
But that was a risk Jack was prepared to take. Cass was the one he wanted. His relationship with Imogen was over. All he wanted was his old life back.
“I know you slept with her,” Imogen wailed. Her eyes, red-rimmed and piggy, begged him not to go. “I know you shared a room at that place. Look, it’s OK; I forgive you. But Sophie’s back now, that’s all in the past, and we can just carry on as before, Cass and Rory Cameron, you and me—”
“No.” Jack shook his head. “We can’t. I’m sorry, but we can’t.”
He winced as Imogen’s fingernails dug into his leg. Any minute now, she’d have his kneecap off.
“You bastard, I know what this is about! It’s because I can’t get pregnant, isn’t it?” She was desperate now, clutching at straws. “I can’t make babies, so you’re dumping me—”
