Fast Friends

by Jill Mansell

  For twenty minutes, during which time his beige shirt grew darker with perspiration and he grew increasingly homesick, Nico strode grimly on. Eventually he found a narrow street not entirely populated with casinos and amusement arcades.

  Stopping first at a slightly tatty supermarket, he emerged with a sturdy brown-paper bag containing crusty bread rolls, smoked ham, ripe Camembert, and several cans of beer. Plain, normal food, if not exactly English. When he had asked the bored assistant if she had any Marmite, she had responded with a blank stare compatible with brain death.

  In this blistering heat, he wasn’t even hungry, but just clutching the bag of food was reassuring. Nico paused on the sidewalk, wondering which way to turn. To his left stood a hairdressing salon from which a middle-aged woman with bouffant hair was emerging. Across the road was a McDonald’s, next to it a clothing store with its windows full of screamingly loud Hawaiian shirts and over-embellished cowboy boots.

  He turned right, simply because there seemed no other choice.

  “Oh shit, shit, bugger, and shit!” wailed a voice, and his heart leaped. The despairing tones, and the particular choice of words, reminded him acutely of Loulou. It wasn’t, of course. But it was an English voice, and the first he had heard for days—since even his manager adopted a sliding mid-Atlantic drawl the moment he stepped onto foreign soil. Slowly, praying that the voice wouldn’t turn out to belong to something horrific, Nico made his way toward it.

  He ducked just in time as a carton of soap powder hurtled toward his head, spraying blue-white powder like artificial snow in all directions. But if the box missed him, bouncing on the sidewalk and landing in the dusty road, the powder did not. He halted dramatically, his spirits rising. She might not be Loulou, he thought triumphantly, but she was giving a damn good impersonation of her. Whoever would have guessed that there could be two of them?

  “I’m so sorry!” exclaimed the girl, clutching his arm and attempting to brush away the soap powder that had settled on it. Nico’s skin was so warm that it actually seemed to be melting.

  “Can you forgive me?” she continued frenziedly. “I couldn’t help it—I’m English. We have no control over our actions, you see.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Nico, shaking his head and watching the powder fly like dandruff. “I thought it was an extremely controlled action. Out of interest, was it kicked or thrown?”

  She looked remorseful. “I kicked it. Are you dreadfully angry with me?”

  “Dreadfully,” he told her, straight-faced.

  She looked even more appalled. “You could take off your shirt and throw it into one of the machines… Oh, you’re joking! You naughty thing! As if I didn’t feel bad enough.”

  “And I’m from England too,” he observed with a faint smile, holding out his hand. “My name’s Nico. How do you do?”

  As she smiled and shook his hand, he waited for recognition to dawn.

  And in that same split-second she both recognized him…and realized with absolute certainty that recognition was exactly what he didn’t need right now.

  Maybe it was female intuition, maybe the expression in Nico Coletto’s fabulous eyes…that scarcely discernible hesitation before he had spoken his name…that wary smile…but somehow she just knew that this was her chance of a lifetime and that recognizing him now would not be the smart thing to do.

  Nico, awaiting her reaction, realized that he was holding his breath.

  It didn’t happen.

  “Caroline Marriott,” she said, her tones pure Kensington, her grip surprisingly firm. “How lovely to meet a fellow foreigner. But I really do feel you ought to let me wash your shirt. I promise not to do with it what I did with my own.”

  Stripped to the waist and feeling like a Levi’s advert, Nico watched Caroline set the washing machine in motion and attempted to analyze his feelings.

  Was it simply his acute homesickness that was bringing back so many memories today? First of all, this girl’s fluid cursing had reminded him of Loulou. Now, the smell of the Supawash Laundromat was taking him home; it was almost as if he were sitting in his own kitchen once more, gossiping with Camilla while she sorted through mountains of washing and cleaning all in one efficient go. He had loved being there, teasing her and keeping her company while she worked.

  So the clean, soapy atmosphere of this Las Vegas laundromat reminded him—almost painfully—of Camilla, the girl who was now washing his shirt reminded him of Loulou, and her very Englishness reminded him of…England. But was the attraction he felt for her simply a result, a natural progression, of those memories—or did it exist in its own right?

  While Caroline was engrossed in the business of sorting through her own pink-streaked washing, searching for anything that might possibly have escaped the ravages of the crimson silk shirt, he leaned back against a dryer and covertly studied her, searching for clues.

  She was beautiful, with her dark-blue eyes, pert nose, and wide mouth. Tawny-brown hair, sleek and shiny, swung to her shoulders and perfectly complemented her deep tan. Small in stature, maybe five foot two or three, she possessed voluptuously curving breasts and hips, but her waist, clinched by a wide, tan-leather belt, was tiny. Also, he concluded thoughtfully, Caroline Marriott had an extremely good pair of legs.

  But were all these attributes really enough to explain this rising attraction he felt for her, he wondered—or did it have more to do with the fact that her eyes reminded him slightly of Camilla’s? That her curving hips reminded him of Camilla’s curvy hips? And that at this moment she was sorting through her laundered clothes with precisely the same expression of concentration that Camilla had always adopted?

  “How about some lunch?” he suggested. After all, if he got to know her better, he might be able to sort this strange situation out. Instant attractions weren’t his line of business, at all.

  “It’s gone four o’clock,” Caroline reminded him, straightening up and tossing a marbled pink-and-white skirt into the bin. “And you,” she added with a lopsided grin, “are practically naked.”

  “Come sit down,” said Nico, patting the wooden bench beside him. “I have a picnic. And dress is purely optional.”

  * * *

  She really was from Kensington, he learned during the course of the impromptu picnic. Having fled from London following the breakup of a tortuous relationship with a Lloyds underwriter, she had taken up a post as nanny to a New York family who were “friends of Mummy’s.” Six months later, realizing that six-nights-a-week babysitting was not conducive to the formation of a new and exciting social life—and by now emotionally recovered enough to want one—Caroline had moved to Las Vegas and obtained work as a croupier at the Happy Larry Casino. Here, the hours were punishing, but at least they were varied. She learned to work from two in the afternoon until midnight and go night-clubbing afterward until dawn. Another week she would dance until dawn, go home to shower and change, and then work on the blackjack tables from eight in the morning to six in the evening.

  “I’m impressed,” said Nico, finishing his third can of beer and tossing it in the direction of the bin. “When do you sleep?”

  “Oh, we Marriotts are a hardy breed,” Caroline confided, tucking her slender brown legs beneath her and breaking open another roll with capable hands. “We don’t need much sleep. Waste of time. I don’t like wasting time.”

  As she leaned forward, he caught her scent—warm, spicy, and alluring. She was hypnotizing him with her low, English voice. Her skin, smooth and velvety, intrigued him; she was like a soft fruit, rounded and ripe. And what did she mean, saying that she didn’t like to waste time? Nico wasn’t normally slow on the uptake, but today was different—he felt different. He wanted another drink; maybe it would sharpen his senses.

  “Tell me about you,” said Caroline. Her dark-blue eyes softened and looked for a second astonishingly like Camilla’s. Nico watched,
mesmerized.

  “I can’t stand it here in Vegas,” he said, “but there are problems back in London, so being over here for a few weeks is a smart move.”

  “Woman trouble?”

  “You could call it that.” He shrugged, thinking of Camilla, and Roz, and his bossy housekeeper. “It’s slightly complicated.”

  It was certainly intriguing, thought Caroline, studying him intently and noting the edge of desperation in his voice. Having been away from England for a year and a half, she was out of touch, with absolutely no idea of what could be troubling him. She hadn’t worked in a casino for the past year without learning to recognize a gambler when she saw one. Nico wore that same air of impulsiveness borne of despair. He was in the mood, she sensed, to take a risk because a risk was a challenge and accepting a challenge was better than dwelling uselessly on the past.

  “Are you married?” she asked casually, her heart pounding against her rib cage.

  Nico shook his head. “No.”

  “Would you like to be?”

  He laughed. “Married? To whom?”

  With outward calm, she took a small sip of her beer and balanced the half-eaten roll on her knee.

  “Me. If it would help. I’m willing if you are.”

  * * *

  “Nico? It’s me.”

  He blinked slowly, struggling to properly awake. The phone slipped from his grasp and fell onto the pillow beside him. Cursing softly, not wanting to wake Caroline, he picked it up and held it to the ear farthest from her. He’d forgotten his cell phone in the rush to escape the UK.

  “Nico?”

  “Who’s me?” he murmured. As if anyone could fail to recognize Roz’s voice even with the Atlantic separating them.

  “Roz.” She sounded impatient. “I called your record company and they told me where to reach you.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t be dense, Nico. We’re having a baby, aren’t we? I rang to let you know how everything’s going.”

  He didn’t have the energy to argue with her. Lying back against the pillows, he glanced across at Caroline, still sound asleep. Sunlight streamed through the window, turning her golden skin to warm silk. Her sleeping form seemed suddenly even more desirable compared with the unwelcome sound of Roz’s low, sly voice on the phone.

  “So, how’s it going?”

  “Fine. Very well indeed.”

  “Terrific.”

  She sighed across thousands of miles. “Such enthusiasm. I also wanted to find out how you are. How’s the conquering hero getting on in the States?”

  Despite himself, Nico smiled at the unwitting Americanism. “I’m getting on just fine,” he replied evenly.

  Several dollars’ worth of silence followed. Then: “I miss you, Nico. We should be together.”

  Ah, this was more like it. Roz at her most persuasive, sincerity oozing down the phone. Next to him, Caroline shifted, her warm, bare thigh brushing against his. Recalling last night, he began to feel better and returned the pressure.

  “This is a waste of time,” he said quietly. “Even if that baby is mine, I still don’t trust you. I don’t love you.”

  “You did!”

  “That was when I didn’t really know you. That was then, Roz.”

  “But can’t you understand how I feel?” she urged, and he heard desperation in her voice. “At least think of the baby, Nico. We should be married.”

  Perhaps we should, he thought. Maybe that was the best idea yet. He and Roz really should get married.

  But definitely not to each other.

  * * *

  Five hours later, Caroline kissed him on the mouth and said, “Well, this will be one in the eye for Roz, won’t it?” and Nico realized that she had not been asleep during that fateful phone call earlier.

  “You were listening,” he said, his green eyes surveying hers for her reaction and finding only fun. Maybe it was just as well that she already understood the situation; it saved any awkward explanations later. “I don’t want you to think she was the reason for all this.”

  Which wasn’t strictly true, he told himself with a trace of guilt, but Roz hadn’t been the entire reason, after all. She was part of it, just as Camilla was part of it. And of course, there was Caroline herself—she had to be included as well. He might grow to love her; he was definitely sure that he fancied her like hell…and she had told him continuously last night how fantastic he was in bed. Wasn’t it supposed to be true that if two people had a successful sexual relationship, nothing too terrible could go wrong between them?

  But not, he recalled wryly, if the woman was Roz Vallender. He gazed down at Caroline, beautiful in a beige silk dress, her tawny hair artfully pinned up to reveal the slender curves of her neck and smoothly tanned shoulders. Feeling his eyes upon her she looked up, her smile bewitching, her eyes mischievous and lustful.

  “It doesn’t bother me,” she said, lightly touching the tip of his nose with her finger. “I’m not afraid of competition. And I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.”

  “But it wasn’t because of Roz,” he repeated with determination, almost managing to convince himself, if not her.

  “Five dollars a photograph, mister,” yelled an undersized boy as they emerged from the coolness of the building and were blasted by heat and dazzling white sunlight. He waved an ancient camera, his dark eyes alight with hope.

  “Do you have five dollars, mister?” said Caroline, squeezing his arm.

  Nico reached for his wallet. “I think we can afford to splash out, just this once,” he confided and extracted two ten-dollar bills. “Four photos for the family album, please. And make them snappy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The day really couldn’t get much worse, thought Roz wildly, wrenching the parking ticket from her windshield and attempting to rip it to shreds. The plastic bag enclosing it resisted the assault, to her fury, and she threw it to the ground, grinding it beneath her heel.

  Morning sickness that had continued into the eighth month of her pregnancy, a sodding parking ticket, and no job.

  She had been sacked because she was having a baby out of wedlock. How bloody provincial could you get?

  Right, kiddo, she told her unborn child as she grimly dragged open the car door and started up the engine. We’re going to Vampires. It’s time you had your first drink.

  Loulou was leaning against the bar, exchanging gossip with Christo and secretly yearning for a ham-and-banana sandwich, when Roz appeared in the doorway looking tragic.

  Loulou expertly tipped a young tell-it-to-the-tabloids actor off his stool.

  “How charming of you to offer the lady a seat,” she said smoothly, steering Roz onto it. Her glossy dark hair looked limp, and the pallor of her skin was almost startling. Even her long-lashed eyes seemed less bright than usual as she glanced almost furtively around her and adjusted the folds of her charcoal-gray Calvin Klein dress with agitated fingers.

  “Something bad?” said Loulou in a low voice, as Christo moved diplomatically away. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

  “I want,” replied Roz in a low, controlled voice, “a drink. Give me a spritzer.”

  Despite herself, Loulou hadn’t been able to help reading baby books. Her own baby had not been planned, but now that it was clearly going to arrive anyway, she had found it easy, almost exciting, to take good care of it. No cigarettes, no alcohol, hardly any late nights, and plenty of real food… She hadn’t known she possessed such self-control before.

  “How about an orange juice?” she offered casually, and Roz fixed her with a glare that would have stripped paint.

  “Don’t get maternal with me, for Christ’s sake—one glass of wine won’t hurt it. I’ve just been sacked.”

  “Oh, Roz, no. The bastards.”

  “Oh, Loulou, yes,” said Roz, signaling to Chris
to. Her eyebrows, those slanting black lines that so clearly relayed every emotion, lifted as she gestured impatience with the TV company.

  “It’s hardly the end of the world, I suppose, and it isn’t as if I wasn’t half expecting it. There’s trendy old Channel 4, of course. I could always go over to them.”

  She sipped her drink, then took a larger swallow, licking her lips appreciatively while Loulou watched her, attempting to gauge the true extent of her despair.

  “So you were pissed off anyway and losing your job was the final straw?”

  Roz shrugged and nodded. “Pregnancy is the pits, Lou, it really is. And I got a parking ticket. My father sent me a postcard this morning, from Peru. It said, ‘How’s the most desired woman in England?’ You should have seen the postman’s face when he handed it over—Littleton Gray is burning with gossip about me at the moment, and that card was just the icing on the cake for them.” She paused, lacing her fingers around the sides of her glass. “They’re laughing at me because Nico doesn’t want to know. That’s what I really can’t handle.”

  “You should get away,” Loulou told her firmly. My God, she thought with a rush of surprise. I sound like a mother already.

  “I should stay and fight,” declared Roz, the light of battle at last reappearing in her dark eyes. “What happened this morning has made up my mind, Lou. I’ve lost my job. I’m not going to lose Nico as well.”

  Beyond Roz, Loulou became aware that Christo was frantically waving to catch her attention.

  “Telephone for you,” he called across, and she frowned, puzzled by his expression.

  “Bring it over here, Christo.”

  “The connection is faint and there’s too much noise over there,” he replied with determination, and Loulou sighed, sliding down from her seat and patting Roz’s hand.