by Jane Moore
Tony blew smoke out of the window. “He said that as long as I thought I could handle you, I was welcome to you. He’s so happy with Kate, I don’t think he cares either way.”
“And to think I’ve gone and spoiled your little plan by knocking you back,” she said.
“Never mind. Plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Hello?” She feigned indignation. “A minute ago you were claiming I was the only woman for you, now I’m just one of a thousand minnows.”
“Well, we all get setbacks, but life goes on, doesn’t it?” He threw his unfinished cigarette out of the window and started the engine. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
As they drove the final mile back to her flat, Faye’s mind went into overdrive, replaying their conversation. His suggestion of dinner had taken her by surprise, but his subsequent declaration of deep feelings had stunned her.
She could see Tony glancing at her occasionally out of the corner of his eye.
“Penny for them?” he said eventually, clearly hoping she were considering what he’d said.
“I was just thinking what I need to get at Waitrose tomorrow,” she lied.
“I’m flattered that my company inspires you so much.”
He pulled up outside her apartment building, left the engine running, and walked round the car to open her door. She stepped out and gave him a warm smile. “Thanks for the lift.”
“No problem.”
“You’re right, it was much nicer than getting a cab.”
“Good.”
They stood there awkwardly, her making conversation and him being monosyllabic in return. She wondered if she should give him a goodbye peck on the cheek, but he solved the problem for her.
Glancing at his watch, he took two steps backwards. “Must go. I have a breakfast meeting at seven.” He opened the car door. “Nice to see you, and I hope you keep well.”
Then he was gone.
Faye stayed on the pavement for a few more seconds, watching as his taillights faded into the distance.
Saturday, September 20
11 a.m.
Faye kicked the door closed behind her, threw the newspapers onto the sofa, and flopped down beside them. Starting with that morning’s Sun, she flicked through it rapidly, looking to see if the frock had worked its magic. The Middle East flaring up again, Prince William and his girlfriend. She read the headlines, but didn’t dwell. Then, on page seventeen, there she was.
“Whey-Faye!” read the headline, with a picture of her stepping out of the limo and revealing quite a bit of leg. Similar pictures with elongated captions were also in the Mirror, the Mail, the Star, and the Express.
Good, she thought, the Visage bosses will be pleased with the attention their new signing has attracted.
She made herself a strong black coffee and started to run a bath. She was supposed to be meeting her agent for lunch, but she’d already made up her mind to cancel. Instead she fancied a quiet day at home, giving her wardrobe the spring-cleaning she had been meaning to do for ages. She poured in a generous helping of Penhaligon’s Lily-of-the-Valley, swished it around, and watched the bubbles rise. With the latest issues of Glamour and Cosmopolitan on the side, she was ready for a long soak.
The doorbell rang.
“Damn!” She pulled her trousers back on, walked through to the hallway and peered through the spyhole. It was the concierge to her building, so she opened the door.
“Good morning, Miss Parker.” He was a middle-aged man with graying hair and kind eyes, always friendly without being too familiar. “This has just been delivered for you by courier.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harris.” She took the small package from him and closed the door.
About to throw it on the table to open later, she suddenly realized she didn’t recognize the writing and became curious. She tore off the brown paper and a slim book fell to the floor, facedown. Picking it up and turning it over, she noted it was The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. She frowned and opened it, her heart skipped a beat when she saw an inscription signed “Tony.”
It read: “Just to let you know, you’re never alone . . .”
Sitting down, she started to flick through the pages. She had never read this story, but she remembered her mother telling her about it a few years ago. Although primarily aimed at children, many adults loved it for its simplistic style and touching message.
Her bath forgotten for the time being, she had just begun to read the first page when she was distracted by a door opening. Adam suddenly appeared in the living room, his hair standing on end. He was wearing a pair of white Calvin Kleins and a baggy blue T-shirt with a large hole in the front.
“Hello,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you made it back here or not. How was the rest of the party?”
“Shite.” He yawned, revealing several old-style silver fillings. “I spent an hour chatting up a gorgeous man, only to find his girlfriend was at the party too.” He plonked himself on a chair at the other end of the table.
“You look like you need some coffee,” she said. “I’ll make you one.”
A couple of minutes later, she placed a steaming mug of decaf in front of him and sat down opposite.
“Thanks, honey.” He blew her a kiss. “What’s that?” He pointed towards The Little Prince, which was lying in the middle of the table.
“It’s a present . . . There’s also a long story behind it.”
Adam stretched his legs out in front of him. “Well, I have the whole day free, so do tell.”
Faye stared at her hands, deep in thought. She still hadn’t told Adam that her prewedding “night of shame” had been with Tony, fearful he might spill the beans to someone else. But since their friendship had become more confessional, she had discovered that he could be discreet when necessary.
“I have a feeling you’re going to love this story,” she said.
“Ooh, goody,” he said, in his best camp voice.
“You know the man I almost slept with the weekend before I was supposed to marry Mark?”
“Yeees,” he said distractedly, playing with the front of his hair.
“Well, it was Mark’s brother, Tony.”
It took a couple of seconds to sink in, then Adam’s hand dropped into his lap and his expression transformed from one of serenity to total shock. His eyes widened and his jaw fell open, then his hand rose again to cover his mouth. “Oh, my God.” His voice sounded muffled through his fingers.
“Yes, that’s pretty much what I felt when I found out.”
“What are the chances of unwittingly getting off with your fiancé’s brother? It’s almost a bad miracle, if there is such a thing.”
Faye nodded.
“Hang on, let me get a ciggy.” Adam darted out of the room and returned a few seconds later with a pack of Camels. “Right, I’m ready. Tell me everything.”
Saturday, September 20
10 p.m.
Jean’s eyes were red from crying, the mascara-stained tears running in rivulets down the side of her nose. Derek passed her a napkin, gave her a “there, there” pat on the back, then looked over at his sons and rolled his eyes.
“Oh, gawd, Mum’s off again,” laughed Mark. “It must have been your speech.”
“I’m flattered you should think so,” said Tony, taking another gulp of red wine, “but I think it’s more likely that she’s crying with relief that you’ve finally got married without a hitch. She hasn’t stopped since the ‘do you take this woman’ bit in church.”
“I know. Poor old Dad, he looks really pissed off at having to deal with it. I’ll bet he’d rather be sitting here with us, getting hammered.”
They were sitting at one of the fifteen tables for ten set up for Mark and Kate’s wedding reception at Claridges in Mayfair. They had all been delivered there on coaches from the vast St. Bride’s church in Fleet Street, where the ecstatically happy couple had made their vows in a traditional service.
The dinner and speech
es over, the guests were now mingling in the elegant art-deco ballroom. Some were dancing to the band, others were slumped at their tables, unable to move due to an excess of food and fine wine.
Tony had been fairly abstemious before his speech, but afterwards he had sunk several glasses of red wine in swift succession. Unusually for him, he felt drunk. Finding himself an empty table away from the small talk, he sat down to try to compose himself. Within minutes, an equally weary and inebriated Mark had joined him. “God, these things are wearing,” he muttered. “All these relatives I haven’t seen in ages wanting to know what I’ve been up to for the past five years.”
“Yes, I’ve had all that too,” slurred Tony. “Except that I’ve had the added pain-in-the-arse questions about whether or not I’m seeing anyone special at the moment.”
Mark looked over to the dance floor where their aunt Lydia was being helped back up after doing the twist and falling over. “At least they all seem to be having a good time.”
“Aha! So this is where you’re hiding!” Kate fell into the chair next to Mark and flung her arms round his neck. She gave him a lingering kiss. “Hello, husband,” she murmured.
“Hello, wife.” He nuzzled her neck.
“Hello, husband and wife.” Tony raised his glass towards them, nearly spilling it as his elbow slipped off the table.
“You’re pissed!” squealed Kate. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pissed before.”
“Come to think of it, me neither.” Mark frowned. “Except maybe that Christmas when you were about eighteen and drank too much of Dad’s brandy.”
Tony adjusted his tie unnecessarily. “I’m drinking to your health!” he said. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be at your wedding.”
“Thanks,” said Kate. She was wearing a long white dress with a lace, bias-cut skirt and satin bodice covered in tiny pearls. She had grown her hair into a softer style, and it was decorated with tiny pink roses that matched those in her bouquet.
A makeup artist with whom she worked regularly at the magazine had offered to help her on the day, and consequently she looked stunning, with a natural-looking foundation, smoldering eyes, and a pale-pink glossy lipstick. But it was her joy at being with Mark that gave her an extraradiant beauty.
She watched Tony refill his glass and Mark’s. “Right!” she said brightly, getting to her feet. “I can see you two are happy here for the time being, so I’m going to have that dance I promised Uncle Simon. See you later.” She gave Mark a quick kiss and wandered off.
“Great girl,” said Tony. “Great, great girl. Bloody great.”
“Yeah, she is.” Mark’s eyes followed her across the room. “This all feels entirely natural,” he said, with a sweeping gesture, “whereas France didn’t. I felt I was bit player in someone else’s drama.”
“It certainly was a drama,” mumbled Tony, staring into space.
Mark stood up and moved a couple of chairs closer to his brother. He was now just inches away from him, a devilish look on his face. “Which reminds me, did you ever do anything about you-know-who?”
Tony struggled to focus on him. “Sorry? I’m not with you.”
“Faye.” Mark’s eyes were gleaming with intrigue. “Did you ever get round to asking her out for dinner?”
“Oh, that.” Tony’s face had clouded. “Yes, I saw her at the Visage party the other night.”
“And?”
“And she let me know in no uncertain terms that she would rather spend an evening with a serial killer than with me.”
Mark threw back his head and laughed. “Did she really say that?”
“No, but that was the sentiment.” He looked glummer with each passing second.
“She’s probably just playing hard to get,” said Mark. “She always was one for games.” Curiosity got the better of him. “Did she ask after me?”
Tony pursed his lips. “Yep. She asked how you were and said she’d seen a piece about you opening a restaurant.”
“Did you tell her about Kate and me?”
“Yep.”
“And?” Mark said irritably. “Bloody hell, Tony, it’s like getting blood from a stone.”
His brother shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were interested in her anymore.”
“I’m not, but like most men I have a gigantic ego, and I want to know if she tried to end her life when you told her.”
“No, she didn’t. I think she was genuinely happy for you. She seems to be getting on with life, just like you.”
“Is she seeing anyone?”
“She says not, and there’s certainly been no mention of a significant other in the newspaper coverage about the Visage deal.” This was the closest Tony had come to admitting he had read every word of it all.
Mark had another swig of wine, and wiped away a droplet that ran down his chin. “Well, in that case, how come she was so averse to having dinner with you?”
“I think she probably remembers that I was rather unpleasant to her in France,” replied Tony, his heart racing at the thought of quite how unpleasant he’d been.
“True, but it was for the best in the end,” said Mark.
“I said that too, but she didn’t seem convinced.”
For a minute they were quiet, watching Kate attempting to last the course of “Disco Inferno” with Uncle Simon, who was bright red in the face and clearly struggling for breath.
“So is that it?” said Mark, after a while. “Are you just going to give up on her?”
His brother shrugged. “She doesn’t strike me as someone who says something unless she means it. I doubt I could talk her into it.”
“So prove it by your actions.”
“I’ve done a little of that already.”
“Let me guess. You turned up naked with a rose between your teeth.” Mark grinned.
“Bit cold for that. No, I sent her The Little Prince with a message inside.” The book had been one of Tony’s favorites when he was a child, and he’d passed on his copy to Mark, who also loved it.
“Nice one.” Mark didn’t ask the content of the message. “Have you heard anything?”
“No, but I only sent it this morning. I doubt she’ll call anyway. After all, it’s only a book.”
“Well, I think you should at least give it one more try in person.” Mark had noticed that “Disco Inferno” had finished and was scanning the room for Kate. “If she knocks you back again, then you’ll know for sure.”
“I think I already do,” said Tony, suddenly overwhelmed by depression. Unused to discussing his feelings with anyone, the alcohol was loosening his tongue. “I just wish I could forget about it and move on, but I can’t.”
Mark turned back to him. “You always did like a challenge.”
“No, it’s more than that. As soon as I wake up in the morning, she pops into my head, and I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Blimey, you have got it bad. You sound like me a couple of years ago, and look what happened.”
His brother said nothing.
“Mind you, if anyone can handle her, it’s you,” said Mark, painfully aware that he was now casting around for something, anything, to say. Apart from those weeks and months after Melissa’s departure, he’d never seen Tony look so despondent. He was usually so positive: nothing was ever a problem—there were only solutions. “Failing that, there are plenty of other women out there.”
Tony looked unconvinced. “My wild oats have turned to All-Bran and, besides, I don’t want anyone else.” He caught sight of Kate heading in their direction again. “Anyway, let’s drop the subject. Kate’s on her way back.”
“That’s OK, I told her,” said Mark, as she sat down next to them.
“Told me what?” Her face was flushed pink with the exertion of dancing.
“About Tony wanting to ask Faye out on a date.” He stroked her leg. “I tell my wife everything,” he added.
“Oh, that.” She grabbed Mark’s glass and took a few sips.
“About you and Faye?” She was clearly surprised that the usually secretive Tony was asking her advice about a woman. “Um, I suppose I think it’s a good idea.”
“You do?” Now it was Tony’s turn to be surprised. “I thought you’d hate her.”
She frowned a little. “No, I don’t. After all, it’s not as if she stole Mark away from me or anything like that.” She gave Mark a reassuring kiss. “She’s not my kind of person, but I can see that she would probably suit you very well.”
Tony smiled for the first time in an hour. “You mean we’re both totally spoiled bastards?”
Kate winked at him. “Something like that. Although nice ones.”
Mark pulled her on to his lap, and wrapped his arms round her waist. “Anyway, it’s all irrelevant, because she told him where to get off.”
“Did she?” Kate grinned at Tony.
He nodded, with a rueful smile. “Yep, ’fraid so.”
“Wow. How does it feel to be treated like us mere mortals?” she said, prodding his arm.
“Like shit, actually. But life goes on,” he replied, looking as if life would do anything but.
Kate leaped up, walked round to his chair, and grabbed him under the armpit. “Come and dance with your new sister-in-law.”
“I don’t do dancing,” he said gruffly.
“You do now.” She gave him a firm hoist and he stood up reluctantly. “Life’s too short to just sit and watch everyone else having a good time. You need to join in.”
“It depends what your idea of a good time is,” he said, leading her on to the dance floor as the familiar intro of George McCrae’s “Rock Your Baby” blasted out.
Moving in time to the music, Kate took a couple of steps away from him, then a couple of steps back, holding his waist and circling him. Every so often, she shouted something in his ear. “Do you really like her, then?”
He nodded.
“You didn’t seem too keen on her in France,” she screeched above the music.
“That was because she was marrying Mark,” he shouted back. “But I like her a lot. She seems really tough, but she’s not.”
