Fast Friends

by Jill Mansell

  “I want to marry you, you know that,” he said helplessly.

  Roz laughed. “Of course you do.”

  “I’m wealthy, I’m so damned good-looking that hundreds of girls send me their phone numbers every week, I have a great future, and I’m brilliant in bed. Even you have to admit that I’m brilliant in bed.”

  Solemnly, Roz nodded. She couldn’t argue with that, and any minute now, Nico was about to prove it to her all over again.

  “So why, why won’t you marry me?” he exclaimed, throwing himself onto his back and staring hopelessly up at the midnight-blue ceiling.

  Outside, she glimpsed the mist rolling in like thunder, encircling the hills and the house in which they were cocooned. God, this was hard work. Not that she wanted to hurt Nico, of course, but sometimes she simply couldn’t help it.

  “I just can’t, darling. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “To me?” Nico, the superstar, looked shocked and ready to persuade her otherwise.

  Roz reached for him, pulling him against her slender body and burying her face against his neck to hide the uncontrollable, affectionate laughter threatening to escape.

  “No, sweetheart. I meant it wouldn’t be fair to me. Make love to me now, Nico. It’s getting foggy outside and you have a long drive home tonight. You mustn’t leave it too late.”

  “Bitch. Why on earth can’t I love a nice girl?”

  “Probably,” said Roz between kisses, “because they’re all so extraordinarily dull.”

  An hour later, Nico left. When she had watched the sleek black BMW accelerate away from the house until it was swallowed into the mists, Roz ran a hot bath and wandered back into the bedroom to choose what she would wear to dinner tonight with Jack.

  Jack, Nico, and Sebastian. Did having three lovers, wondered Roz idly, make her a tramp? But then they were all so nice, and in a way, she loved each of them, albeit an unpossessive, distracted form of love.

  But it works, she reminded herself. The more distracted I am, the more they think of me. Every time Nico appeared on television, he captured the undivided attention of literally millions of women, yet he came to Roz knowing that her own attention was divided.

  Jack, married to a woman about whom she knew nothing except that she clung to her husband like a burr, adored Roz because she was uncomplicated and undemanding. She didn’t make things difficult for him and she enjoyed sex.

  And Sebastian… Well, he was quite different, but the same principle still applied, except that it wasn’t always easy in his case. She had loved him for so many years now, knowing all the time that if she dropped her guard even once he would disappear from her life forever. Sebastian admired her because she was a career woman, because she worked as hard as he did. He had neither the time nor the patience for a clinging woman and Roz had learned to accept that. She adored their occasional meetings. To lose them would be to lose a small but vital part of her life. Some of Sebastian was better than none, she reminded herself. And during those long gaps between Sebastian’s visits, there were always the others to occupy and amuse her.

  In a way, she was controlling all their lives and she adored every moment of it. Almost every moment, anyway.

  * * *

  “One more sound out of either of you, and I swear to God I’ll boil you both in oil,” Camilla whispered under her breath as the beginnings of another argument filtered through to the kitchen from the sitting room. Out loud, she yelled, “Shut up!”

  “Didn’t say a word,” remonstrated Jack, appearing in the kitchen behind her and irritating her beyond belief by dumping a pair of black brogues on the table she had just finished setting for dinner. “Can you give these a polish when you’ve got a moment, Mill? I need them tonight and I’m running late already.”

  Deeply aware that Jack, in his gray city suit, was looking sleek and handsome, and feeling hideous in comparison, Camilla pushed her fingers through hair that badly needed a wash.

  “Clean your own bloody shoes,” she murmured through her teeth. A bad move. She saw the look of irritation in his eyes. “And don’t ever call me Mill again,” she added, only managing to sound sulky. “I’m going to have a bath.”

  “Oh, no.” Jack grabbed her arm as she attempted to slide past him. “There’s only enough water for one bath and I’m having it. You can have yours later.”

  Tears welled up in Camilla’s eyes, and for a moment, she remembered when she had always fought them back, purely to save her makeup. It had been months since she’d even worn any, so she let them fall—and instantly hated herself for it.

  “You had a shower this morning,” she argued.

  “And now I’m having a bath,” insisted Jack, knowing that since he didn’t feel sorry for his wife, he would win. God, she’d been so pretty when he’d married her.

  “For your mistress?” gasped Camilla recklessly, then held her breath. There, she’d said it. For weeks, it had stuck in her throat like a golf ball and suddenly it had been said, popping out almost of its own accord. All she needed now was the courage to hear Jack’s reply.

  “No, for the window cleaner,” he said coldly, without a trace of guilt. Damn him, he was an insurance broker, she thought as he released his grip on her arm. He was used to looking people in the eye and lying to them.

  “And I’ll be late for the meeting if I don’t get washed and changed now, so be a good girl and stop behaving like a neurotic housewife. We need this contract if we’re going to have a decent vacation this year.”

  Camilla blinked and turned away from his clever, lying eyes, picking up a saucepan of boiled potatoes and tipping them into a colander. But if he really did have a mistress, why would he keep talking about a month in the States, dangling it like a carrot in front of her?

  “Whatever happened to shared baths?” she said wistfully and felt Jack’s irritated sigh like a slap in the face—a reaction either to the suggestion or to the nauseating little-girl voice with which it had been made. He hated it when she spoke like that, but she really couldn’t help it.

  Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder. “Not such a good idea when I’m in a hurry, old thing.” The lame excuse was a peace offering so that she could pretend their marriage was happy, and Camilla felt the tears burning at the back of her eyelids once more. What was the point of having a beautiful house and a beautiful husband, when all she ever did was feel ugly and cry? She sniffed, and turned away.

  “And don’t call me ‘old thing’ either.”

  * * *

  Lying back amid the silk cushions of the chaise longue—which sounded romantic but was incredibly uncomfortable unless there were piles of cushions—Roz twisted onto her side and flipped channels on the TV with the remote control. It was pretty uncool, she knew, to watch oneself on television—“Oh my dear, I can’t bear to!”—but she loved it. It was no worse than looking in the mirror and talking to yourself, after all—and it wasn’t as if the interviewer had made mincemeat out of her. She hadn’t had any trouble with him at all.

  Roz ran her hand absentmindedly along the slim curve of her thigh, naked beneath the silk wrap, and watched a commercial for cat food that sent shivers of revulsion along her spine. Cats were fine, but the advert was so appalling that if she’d owned a cat she would be forced to buy some other brand of food, purely on principle.

  And she was feeling rather catlike herself now, she realized, stretching lazily and admiring the smooth brown lines of her arms. Jack, married Jack, would have told his wife by now that he had a business meeting tonight and that she shouldn’t expect him home before midnight. It was only thanks to Roz that he ever returned when he said he would; Jack was always ready to spend the night with her.

  Going to bed with a man, she thought, was one thing. Sleeping with him was another matter entirely. Besides, she didn’t want Jack to stop feeling unsure of himself and to start taking his good fortune for gran
ted.

  The chat show was starting and Roz put Jack instantly from her mind, a convenient habit she had learned as a child. The television host showed a lot of teeth and launched into his introductory monologue, pitted with excruciating bons mots that made Roz shiver out of sympathy. Though why she should feel sympathetic toward a man who earned so much, so undeservedly, she couldn’t understand for the life of her.

  “And tonight we have with us the beautiful and talented Roz Vallender,” he lied, for the program had been made two days ago. Roz watched herself and smiled with satisfaction.

  * * *

  Camilla, immersed in the program, watched intently with almost vicarious pride as Roz dealt with the interviewer’s clumsy attempts at flirtation. Roz answered his questions with that famous razor-sharp wit yet at the same time managed to convey the impression that he was clever too, a trick that Camilla remembered she could just as easily reverse.

  Fifteen years, she realized. It was almost exactly fifteen years since she had last seen Roz when, at seventeen, they had both left Elm House and had vowed fervently to keep in touch. She had written to Roz once, the letter returning unopened, with “Gone away” scrawled across it, and she had never received a single letter or even a postcard. So much for keeping in touch. Roz was my best friend, she thought with a trace of bitterness. And I was Roz’s…roommate.

  Well, they’d certainly both changed in fifteen years. Camilla even managed a wry smile at the thought. Here she was in her velour robe and matching slippers, hugging a mug of tea, glasses perched precariously on her nose, and remembering that she hadn’t plucked her eyebrows for weeks.

  And there was Roz, gypsy-eyed and glossy-mouthed, in scarlet silk that shimmered each time she spoke. She was as clever and beguiling as ever, of course, and it was a sure bet that she was wearing silk stockings. The memories were coming back now, old jealousies resurfacing as the initial burst of pride faded and sank.

  I ought to contact her, thought Camilla. It would amuse her to see me now, how I am. Roz had grown into her looks; always striking, she was now almost breathtakingly beautiful. And her old roommate? I was pretty, Camilla told herself fiercely. Now I’m simply…faded. Almost as if Roz had drawn my looks from me like a vampire and added them to her own.

  “And how’s your love life, Roz?” the interviewer was saying with what he hoped was an impudent grin.

  “Fine, thanks. How’s yours?” said Roz, examining her polished fingernails and smiling as the audience erupted with raucous laughter. Camilla glanced at her own nails around the mug, short and unvarnished and flecked with white. A housewife’s hands. Roz had lovers, while she was stuck with two children and a husband who said he had a headache whenever she kissed him in bed.

  “And you’re living in Gloucestershire now, I understand.” The interviewer decided to move on to safer ground, and Roz, from the chaise longue, nodded her approval before listening carefully to her reply. As her television self described the house, she glanced around the sitting room for confirmation. Cotswold stone walls, tapestry curtains, exotic rugs strewn over polished parquet, “architectural foliage,” and miraculous concealed lighting. Next week, Homes & Gardens would feature it: the ultimate in country chic and effortless stylishness, and women—it was almost always women—would sigh over the photographs and storm down to Neiman Marcus in search of tapestry curtains of their own. According to the features editor, anyway.

  “…so you don’t miss the bright lights of London?” asked the interviewer with an enormous wink, and Roz saw out of the corner of her eye the headlights of a car drawing nearer, along the narrow lane leading to her house. Plenty of bright lights to keep me amused on these long winter nights, she thought with a momentary twinge of annoyance because Jack was here earlier than she’d expected him.

  “I’m never bored,” she told the interviewer smoothly. “There’s always something to do, even in the country. Plenty of people have learned that over the years.” It was exactly the kind of double entendre the audience loved, and they erupted once more, laughing and applauding idiotically as if she had said something original.

  The car stopped outside, and Roz flipped the remote control once more, switching herself off. As she rose to her feet, the doorbell rang twice, as it always did when Jack had his finger on it. This habit of his, she reflected, was just beginning to irritate her; maybe the affair was on the wane, after all.

  * * *

  Dear Roz, Camilla wrote for the third time that evening. It was extraordinarily difficult to know what to say to someone you hadn’t seen for fifteen years. The first attempt had sounded like a cross between a fan letter and a very dull diary, but now that the idea had taken root, she was determined to reestablish contact. Anything that might liven up her life was worth a try, and she didn’t have the nerve to parachute out of a plane.

  Guess who—a voice from the past! This is Camilla (no longer Avery-Jones, I’m now Mrs. Stewart), and having just watched you on TV, I thought how nice it would be if we could get together sometime and catch up on all the gossip. What a lot has happened since we left Elm House! (Camilla didn’t mention that most of it had happened to Roz—let her think that she wasn’t the only one with the thrill-a-minute lifestyle.) I’m living in London, so next time you’re in town, why don’t you give me a ring and perhaps we could meet for lunch. Do get in touch. It would be so nice to see you again.

  Camilla hesitated, then signed it Love from Camilla and hoped it didn’t sound odd, although Yours sincerely would have sounded even odder. And then before she could have second thoughts, she stuffed the letter into an envelope and addressed it to Roz c/o The Johnnie Mason Show at the BBC. There, she had done it. From now on—as always, thought Camilla with a rueful smile—the ball was in Roz’s court.

  Chapter Two

  “Why on earth should Roz Vallender want to get in touch with you?” sneered Jack. Camilla fixed her gaze on the television and felt her stomach lurch. She wished now that she hadn’t mentioned it, that she had waited until she had received a reply. It would have been far better if she could have casually announced that she had a lunch date with Roz.

  “We were best friends at school,” she muttered.

  Jack waved away her words with an impatient gesture. “Don’t I know it. You’ve told me enough times, for Christ’s sake. And if she’d wanted to stay friends, she could have contacted you years ago. You’re only making a fool of yourself.”

  Apprehension mingled with annoyance, but for a moment, he experienced a rising spiral of excitement too. Unsure whether he was actually in love with Roz, but definitely infatuated with her nevertheless, the thought of his wife and mistress renewing their old friendship added an irresistible frisson of danger to the situation. Which was, after all, partly the reason for most extramarital affairs, he acknowledged without guilt. And his affair with Roz was undoubtedly exciting.

  “She was interviewed on The Johnnie Mason Show last night,” Camilla tried to explain. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. It doesn’t matter, anyway, if I don’t hear from her,” she added defensively. “I just thought it was a good idea at the time.”

  What would you say, wondered Jack as he watched his plump wife take another cookie from the tin in front of her, if I told you that, while you were watching Roz on TV last night, I was making love to her on her living room floor?

  “It’s ridiculous,” he said flatly. “You won’t hear from her. Roz Vallender’s wealthy and famous. Why on earth should she want to see you again, now?”

  * * *

  Nico spotted the letter lying beneath Roz’s glass coffee table and read it while he waited for her to finish dressing upstairs.

  “Are you going to phone her?” he said when she appeared in the doorway, shimmering in silk the color of old gold, a long jacket, and short skirt that showed off her slender legs.

  “We went to school together.” Roz smiled. “I ought to reply
to her letter really, but…”

  She gestured helplessly with her hand, and Nico frowned. Close to his own family and friends, he was never able to understand why Roz chose to remain so remote from her own. She had mentioned in passing the other week that she hadn’t seen her mother for three years, and the knowledge had upset him.

  “Why don’t you want to see her?” he persisted, risking her annoyance. “It would be nice. She only wants to meet you so that you can catch up on each other’s news.”

  Roz looked doubtful but not, thankfully, irritated by his insistence.

  “I suppose,” she said slowly, “I’m just not terribly interested in hearing about other people’s lives. If they are more exciting than mine, I’m envious. If they are dull and unhappy, then I’m bored. So there really doesn’t seem to be much point, darling, do you see?”

  “No.” Nico shrugged. “But it’s your affair.”

  Roz grinned, picked up her bag, and slipped her arm through his. Their table at the restaurant was booked for nine and although she and Nico would be seated immediately whatever time they arrived, she was starving.

  * * *

  Harrods was revving up for Christmas even if no one else was, thought Camilla, shifting her shopping bag from one hand to the other and surreptitiously rocking back on her heels to ease the weight from the balls of her feet. She always felt like this in Harrods. The customers were generally so chic, so flawlessly dressed and made-up that she felt compelled to make an effort herself.

  And now, after three hours, she thought unhappily, my high heels are killing me, my face is red and shiny because my coat is too hot, and my hair is falling down.

  To add insult to injury, the impossibly elegant girl standing a few feet away was looking effortlessly cool and comfortable in black lace trousers and black leather boots. People like that, Camilla decided, people with all-year-round tans, expensive blond hair, and twenty-two-inch waists, were always around when you didn’t need them.