by Jill Mansell
And to Roz’s fury, she couldn’t get over him. The more he ignored her, the greater her longing for him grew. It was so ridiculous, and so very ironic, that it was almost laughable. Here she was, the Ice Queen herself, the very person whom Nico had once begged to marry him—caught in the oldest and saddest trap of all.
* * *
When Caroline nudged open the door, she saw that Nico was only half ready. Dress shirt unbuttoned, bow tie dangling untied around his neck, he lay across the scarlet-and-gray-striped sofa, a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside him, his blond head bent in concentration over a copy of last week’s Sunday Times.
God, he was beautiful, she thought with a pang of longing. But so very remote that sometimes she felt as if she was unable to even touch him. If she reached out, her hand would pass, ghostlike, right through him.
Whereas in actual fact, she realized sadly, the body was there. It was the spirit that was missing.
“Hi, darling,” she said, as if she had just entered the room. If she didn’t always feel so stilted in his presence these days, she would have burst into the room, struck a pose, and sung, “TaaRaaa!”
And then, of course, if she had, Nico would have given her that particular look, the one that made it seem as if, for a fraction of a second, he didn’t recognize her, and Caroline would have felt foolish and embarrassed.
Nico looked up, and his smile suddenly seemed so warm and loving that she couldn’t help it. Like a junkie needed her fix, she needed some sign of affection. Crossing the room, Caroline paused when she reached him, then bent down and tenderly kissed his mouth. As she prolonged the kiss, she allowed her stocking-clad legs to rub sensuously against his thigh, while her left hand gently played with the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.
Slowly, slowly she sank down onto his lap, experiencing the thrill of achievement-against-the-odds when she felt how aroused he was.
“So what if we’re late for the party,” she murmured, reaching to unzip his trousers and moving her hips against him. “Oh, darling, everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” said Nico, breathing in the amber scent of her perfume and touching with sensitive fingers the soft tumbling waves of her tortoiseshell-shaded hair. He couldn’t bring himself to say yes—that would be too blatant a lie—but neither could he say no. “Mmm,” he sighed again as she unzipped his fly with practiced fingers. “Let’s go up to the bedroom.”
Smiling, triumphant, Caroline shook her head, so that her hair brushed across his cheek.
“No, no, my darling. We may be married, but we don’t have to do it in bed—it isn’t compulsory. Just let me move across a little…there…now slide down over here…what’s wrong with a little lovemaking on a rug in front of the fire?”
“We’re late,” said Nico abruptly, moving away with such suddenness that Caroline almost rolled over onto her back. Before she could even understand what was happening, Nico was standing before her, buttoning his shirt and zipping up his trousers. The grim expression on his face was almost scary.
She can’t help it, he thought, suppressing the anger inside him. It isn’t her fault; she doesn’t know. Christ, how was it possible that the memory of that one night with Camilla could still be so fresh…and still hurt so much?
Burning tears in her eyes, humiliation and resentment vibrating through her body, Caroline stared up at him.
“What the bloody hell’s the matter with you?” she shouted furiously, then sagged as the tears began to fall. “What’s the matter with me, then? Don’t I attract you? Aren’t I pretty enough for you, Nico?”
He looked away, embarrassed by her grief and by his own disinterest.
“I’m sorry. It’s me, not you. Come on.” He reached out, took her hand, and helped her to her feet. Awkwardly, he dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Let’s get ready. We really shouldn’t be late for this thing, should we?”
“I don’t know what I’ve done wrong,” said Caroline in a low voice, wondering if she was prolonging the discord so that she needn’t go to the charity gala. Her eye makeup felt smudged, and she didn’t know if she had the motivation to repair it.
He sighed. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Then it must be that I’m just not attractive enough,” she pleaded helplessly.
“Don’t be silly,” said Nico, turning to leave the room. “You look fine.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“Well?” demanded Matt. “Do I look irresistible or what?”
“Oh, very,” Camilla reassured him, and Matt turned his attention to Marty, bouncing on her lap.
“Am I pretty?” he glowered at the boy, who burst into fits of giggles and covered his mouth with his fists.
“You’re pitty.”
Matt struck a macho pose. “Stunning?”
“Stung,” Marty managed to say, squealing with laughter.
“Handsome beyond belief?”
“Hands!” Marty waved his fists, recognizing the word, and slid off Camilla’s lap. “Kiss, Matt,” he yelled, running to him.
Matt lifted him easily into the air, covering the top of his dark head with noisy kisses, while at the same time his eyes locked with Camilla’s. “Kismet,” he said, smiling. “That’s exactly what I thought, Marty. Although she had me worried for a moment when she said she had a date with someone else today. Boy, was I relieved when I found out it was with you.”
“Mind he doesn’t dribble on your jacket,” said Camilla, hoping she wasn’t as pink-cheeked as she thought she was, and pretending she hadn’t understood what he was saying. “Marty tends to drool when he gets excited.”
“He’s not the only one. Listen, I’m ready and you’re not. Why don’t I drive Marty back to the hospital, so that you can have the place to yourself and you don’t have to hurry? If we leave now, I’ll be back in an hour and a half, and we’ll be in plenty of time for the gala. Great idea?”
Camilla, to her horror, felt a lump form in her throat. Matt’s easy charm, his thoughtfulness, his effortless good humor were almost too much for her to handle, and she thought for a minute that she might burst into tears of relief. There were still some genuinely nice men around.
How many, after all, would invite a woman out for the first time and not be put out when she turned up with a thoroughly excitable little boy in tow, furthermore a little boy who demanded kisses constantly, slobbered freely, and emptied a box of fifty golf balls over the dining room floor during lunch? Even now, as she watched the two of them, Matt didn’t appear in the least concerned that Marty’s chocolatey fingers were clutching at the immaculate sleeve of his black dinner jacket. Marty—to her, at least—was adorable, but he was also as exhausting as the London marathon.
But if Matt really didn’t mind, it would be blissful to sink into a hot bath and take her time getting ready for the charity gala later on this evening. She gave him a grateful smile.
“If you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble…”
“No problem. Give me the address of the hospital, and between Marty and me and your wonderful British policemen, we’ll find it in no time. I’ll be back by eight o’clock at the latest, OK?”
“Wonderful,” said Camilla, holding her arms out to Marty. “Come say goodbye, darling. Give me a big kiss and a hug before you go.”
“Mrs. Stewart!” exclaimed Matt, his dark eyebrows shooting up, his tone deeply shocked. “You brazen woman! I hardly even know you.”
* * *
It had been such a happy day, Camilla reminisced as she tilted her head to gauge the line of her eye pencil, gentian violet merging with the shimmering Prussian blue that shaded the sockets of her eyes and made them seem dramatically larger.
It had been quite a time since she had enjoyed herself this much. Marty had adored every moment too, understanding that the big outside-broadcast cameras could “tak
e his picture,” and screaming and waving ecstatically every time he spotted one. The general good humor of the crowd had helped, of course, but Marty had won them over completely, endearing himself to the camera crew, the caddies, and the other players. Camilla, aware that everyone assumed she was Marty’s mother, had scarcely been able to contain her pride and laughter when Matt had introduced him into the conversation while he was being interviewed on live TV. Marty had promptly delivered an untidy kiss to the TV commentator’s cheek in full view of the cameras. Not many people had called this particular commentator “pitty” in front of eight million viewers.
Matt was unlike anyone she had ever met before in her life. Only with Nico had she been able to relax to the same degree, some inner confidence persuading her that her own personality was good enough, and not something to be slightly ashamed of, which was how she had always felt with Jack.
But Matt was more forceful than Nico, an extrovert man supremely confident with himself and who quite clearly felt that hiding his own motives or feelings was an appalling waste of time. He wanted her, there was no question of it, yet Camilla still remembered her past life too vividly not to have moments of doubt. Sometimes she forgot how she had changed and imagined herself as the colorless creature who had been cowed by virtually everyone. She needed to see herself in a mirror to remind herself that those days were past, that she was good enough to merit such attentions.
But what would happen if Matt continued his bombardment of her emotions? Should she go to bed with him or not?
Fresh, too, in her mind was the memory of that single fateful night with Nico, when she had planned every move and realized only later—too late—how catastrophic her mistake had been.
So, don’t go to bed with Matt, she silently informed her reflection in the gold-tinted mirror. Sex hadn’t exactly done her past relationships many favors; maybe she should learn from those mistakes. Keep Matt at a safe distance. If he was really keen, he wouldn’t give up…
Pulling a face at her reflection as she untwisted a creamy-pink Chanel lipstick, Camilla realized that she sounded like every teen magazine advice columnist she had ever read during those long and painful years of adolescence. The advice might be good, and it was all very well, but what nobody was able to take into consideration was the fact that the man she was supposed to be keeping at arm’s length was the redoubtable, irrepressible, and quite irresistible Matt Lewis.
* * *
It was a glittering evening. Camilla, entering the vast mirrored foyer of the hotel on Matt’s arm, was enormously glad that she had taken the trouble to put her hair up; relieved too that she had borrowed Loulou’s pre-pregnancy best dress—a slippery silk Vera Wang in midnight blue. The color brought out the brighter turquoise of her eyes and accentuated the creamy softness of her skin, and when she glimpsed the reflection of her and Matt in the mirrors surrounding them, amid the noisy, expectant crowds of beautifully dressed guests, she realized with relief that she looked as if she belonged. Tonight, she was letting no one down. And she was going to enjoy every single, special moment of it.
Dinner passed by in a flash. Memories of her marriage, during which she had endured so many official functions without enjoyment, came back to her, and she recalled them as if they were misty, distant dreams. It had seemed then that she had always chosen exactly the wrong thing to wear, had been forced to smile bravely at Jack’s barbed comments when he pointed out that fact in front of everyone, and had always been seated next to someone dazzlingly witty, so much so that she was instantly rendered both speechless and invisible. Not worth talking to, or even noticing.
“It’s probably because you’re a housewife,” Jack had informed her without intentional cruelty when he had discovered her sobbing in the bathroom at home after one particularly terrifying dinner party. “You can’t expect the managing director of Calcom to be interested in your latest recipe, sweetie, now can you?”
Camilla had stared at him, wondering if he truly thought of her as some kind of mental defective, whose thoughts were so limited that they didn’t even bear listening to. And the circle had been an increasingly vicious one; the more she dreaded the necessary dinner parties, the more paralyzed with shyness she had become. Jack was right, she came to realize. She was utterly incapable of attracting or holding the interest of anyone for longer than it took to say her name. Sometimes even that was pushing it.
But the charity gala at the Glenroy Hotel was a lifetime away. No longer a pale shadow, Camilla was entranced to realize that she was meeting people and talking to them quite effortlessly. They approached her and Matt, introduced themselves, and stayed. Many asked about Marty, whom everyone had seen that afternoon either uttering his immortal line on TV or out on the golf course. Others admired Camilla’s dress, were charmed by her unpretentious air and her shy, dazzling smile, and bombarded her with questions about the modeling agency. She, in turn, quite forgot to be overwhelmed by the people she was introduced to, many of whom were either sporting celebrities or TV personalities, and enjoyed herself thoroughly throughout the exquisite six-course meal, which to her shame she barely even tasted.
She was engrossed in conversation with the wife of an Australian golfer when Matt tapped her bare shoulder.
“Sorry to break up the chat, Louise,” he said, winking at the dark-haired woman, “but I paid a lot of money to hire out my date for the day, and I’m beginning to feel neglected. If she doesn’t dance with me within the next thirty seconds I’m asking for a refund.”
Louise burst out laughing. Camilla shrugged. “He isn’t joking. I do have to dance with him.”
“He’s really paying you?” exclaimed the woman, her Australian accent becoming more pronounced as her eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Hey, Camilla, does that mean you’re some kind of hooker?”
Camilla grinned at her bluntness. Rising to her feet, she winked and replied, “Don’t worry, he doesn’t pay me that much.” And taking Matt’s hand in her own, she said with mock resignation, “Come on then, Mr. Lewis. Let’s dance.”
* * *
“Are you OK?” said Nico, his green eyes mirroring his concern. Caroline squeezed his arm and nodded, her own, slightly swollen eyes the only telltale sign of her recent tears. No one else would guess that she had been crying; he just hoped she wouldn’t do it again, at such a conspicuous event. Tomorrow, she had an interview lined up with a weekly magazine. Ironically, the interview was titled “The Time of My Life.”
As they made their way across the hotel parking lot, he said again, “Sure you don’t want to change your mind?” Earlier, she had told him, amid the tears, that she didn’t want to come tonight. He would have liked to have opted out himself, but the gala, following on from the golf tournament during the day, was in aid of the charity he publicly supported, and he had promised the organizers that he would attend. However, Caroline had decided that she would go with him after all, and now they were here. Two hours late—her face had needed time to settle—and they had undoubtedly missed the dinner, but at least he hadn’t let them down.
“I’m all right,” she assured him, her voice low but controlled as she attempted a smile, and Nico felt a spasm of guilt. He wasn’t used to making people unhappy, but despite all his efforts to the contrary, he was making a superb job of it with his own wife.
“It’ll be fun,” he said, forcing a note of cheerfulness into his voice. “We’ll have a great time, you’ll see.”
There must have been six hundred people in the ballroom, some still sitting and savoring their liqueurs, some madly table-hopping, and others dancing. It never failed to amaze Nico that such splendid, such very expensive events always managed to make so much money for charity. Then he recalled the last one to which he had been invited, and the fact that he had found himself, after many extraordinarily potent Brandy Alexanders, bidding £3,000 at the auction for a small Rupert Bear sketch executed by Paul McCartney. It had remained unfr
amed and pinned to one of the oak cabinets in the kitchen for six weeks before disappearing. When Nico had mentioned it to the efficient Hazel Hampton and learned that she had thrown it away, he diplomatically forbore to explain to her who Paul McCartney was and put the loss down to experience and his own laziness. Next time he spent £3,000 on a sketch, he would take the trouble to have it properly framed.
And it had been for charity, after all.
Nico Coletto hadn’t survived almost ten years in the music business without learning to cope with the unexpected. Whether dodging the sudden onslaught of fans, reacting smoothly to the unpredictable caprices of manic record producers, or sidestepping the most provocative journalists’ questions without skipping so much as a quarter beat, he had a quicksilver mind and unbeatable reaction times. Outwardly, nothing appeared to faze him; he could cope with any situation without turning a hair.
Which was how, when he spotted Camilla on the dance floor, he managed not to turn pale, exclaim aloud, or falter in the slightest as he and Caroline made their way toward the top table, where the charity organizers were waiting to greet him.
Inwardly, he felt as though he had been hit in the chest with an iron fist. No longer was it easy to breathe. His heartbeat appeared to have slowed to a heavy, funereal pace. The vague aura of unhappiness that had clung to him for months—surreal, gray, and unformed—abruptly solidified in his gut. Camilla was here, and her presence was so unexpected that he couldn’t even begin to evaluate his shocked emotions. But it wasn’t going to be easy, and it had to have happened tonight of all nights…
The next hour passed with interminable slowness as, switching on to automatic pilot, he was introduced to the event organizers, to other celebrities, and to the hotel management team who were there in force. Apologizing for his lateness and promising to do his best to help make the gala a success, Nico charmed everyone he met and was distantly aware that Caroline, too, was doing her utmost to appear normal.
