by Jill Mansell
“That’s very noble of you,” she said in a low, controlled voice, “but all I ask is that you drop the pretense. It makes me feel quite sick.”
Camilla turned pale, stunned by the words, and Roz felt a surge of power. She felt more alive, somehow, more enervated now that she was finally ridding herself of that poisonous buildup of jealousy. Camilla had turned Nico against her, had taken him from her, and it was only right that she should feel pain in return.
“You hate me for what I once did to you,” Roz continued, grinding her cigarette into the washbasin. “You never wanted to see me again, and that certainly didn’t bother me. I went along with that. But now, simply because my daughter is dead, you think that my loss gives you the right to sympathize with me, to forgive me for what happened in the past. Well, it doesn’t. I have not become a nice person; I am exactly the same as I was before, and we really both know that. Pretending otherwise is sheer hypocrisy, so don’t even try it. So there’s no need to treat me any differently, because I neither need nor want your forgiveness. I’ll just carry on sleeping with your ex-husband and you can carry on sleeping with Nico if you want. Let’s leave it at that, Camilla. OK?”
* * *
How could Roz be so vindictive, Camilla wondered as she watched her stalk out of the cloakroom with her spiky dark head held high. Stunned, she sank into the only chair and tried to understand what she had done to deserve such a bitter reaction.
Roz was still distraught over Nicolette’s death, there was that, but was it the whole reason, or simply an excuse?
And yes, it was an excuse. Roz’s final words had given her away, and that was something else that hurt for a different reason. Roz knew about her and Nico, which could only mean that Nico had told her. Camilla felt betrayed. How could he have done that?
Minutes later, she left the cloakroom and made her way back to the party, more determined than ever not to let Roz spoil her evening. The two of them would never be friends. She knew that now.
She would just ignore her in future. One cautious overture of friendship had been thrown back in her face. There would be no need for any more.
What hurt most of all was the discovery that Nico had betrayed her.
That hurt a lot.
Seeking the reassurance of Matt’s smile, his strong arm around her shoulder, Camilla made her way back to the party. Vampires was still crowded; everyone was enjoying themselves immensely and the noise level had soared.
Christo Moran pressed a glass of champagne into Camilla’s hand as she passed him at the bar and gave her fingers a sympathetic squeeze. Dear Christo, she thought with a rush of gratitude. He didn’t say much, but like the excellent barman he was, he missed nothing.
“They’ve both left,” he said in an undertone that enhanced his smooth, southern Irish accent. “Don’t let the woman upset you, darlin’. She simply can’t bear the fact that you’re doing better than she is.”
“Better?” There was a catch in Camilla’s voice. “What does that mean?”
“Everyone likes you,” Christo stage-whispered, a smile curling at the corners of his wide mouth. “You have real friends. That’s what really counts and Roz Vallender’s only just begun to realize it.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised and cheered by his words. Impulsively she kissed his pale, freckled cheek. “What a nice thing to say. Thank you.”
“It’s the truth,” said Christo simply. “Be happy.”
* * *
Loulou was seated opposite Laszlo de Lazzari. They were playing poker now. Mac, looking distinctly alarmed, whispered to Camilla that in the ten minutes she had been absent, Loulou had lost £150,000. Camilla stared at him in disbelief.
“Why?” she said at last, so horrified that it was the only word she could formulate.
“She’s flipped. That pirate’s wiping the floor with her. She hardly even knows how to play poker.”
“Then stop her!”
Mac looked grim, his dark brows drawing down into a straight line. “I tried to. She said it was her money. Jesus…” He broke off, appalled, as Loulou threw down a pair of tens. De Lazzari regarded her blankly for less than a second before placing his own cards faceup on the green baize. A royal flush. Loulou smiled and shrugged and watched him write a new figure on the pad beside him.
Camilla, unable to simply stand by and watch, said, “Loulou, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Having fun,” Loulou replied cheerfully. “Now don’t nag, Cami. I’m enjoying myself.”
“What did I tell you?” murmured Mac through clenched teeth. He shook his head. “She’s flipped. Gone mad. I can’t watch anymore.”
As he turned and made his way through the mass of people behind him, Matt reappeared at Camilla’s side and trailed his finger down her bare back. Minutes before, she had yearned for such a gesture to break the dark spell of Roz’s vindictiveness, but that was forgotten now. She clung to his arm and said nothing, her gaze fixed unswervingly upon the cards that de Lazzari was dealing out with long, expert fingers and a bleak, dangerously intent smile.
* * *
At two o’clock exactly, the very last rocket exploded overhead into an inky, starry sky and Loulou sat back in her chair with a sigh.
The game was over. At last. And any minute now, the game would also be up.
“An exhilarating evening,” commented Laszlo de Lazzari, his voice barely making itself heard above the clamor of the crowd. Studying the writing pad with care, he added, “You owe me two million pounds. This is, I believe, the current market value of Vampires. I would, therefore, be happy to accept this property in lieu of cash.”
“Just as well, really,” said Loulou, grinning across at Camilla, who felt sick. “And since it would take far too long to sort out all the legal work now, here are some deeds that I had drawn up earlier.”
With due solemnity, Christo handed her the black briefcase from which, recently, she had seldom been parted. Adopting the teasing air of a magician, Loulou slowly drew out a sheaf of documents and laid them across the table. A dawning suspicion began to uncurl in Camilla’s mind, and when she glanced across at Mac, who had been drawn helplessly back to the table to watch and had been chain-smoking and drinking straight scotch, she saw her suspicions reflected in his own face. Poppy, who had been glued to the game from the beginning, leaned so far over Loulou’s shoulder to see the documents that her breasts came perilously close to escaping over the front of her white sequined dress.
“His name’s already printed on the deeds,” she squealed, and Loulou burst out laughing, holding her swollen stomach with both hands. A fresh buzz of noise broke out from the people clamoring around the table; some began to laugh with her.
Laszlo de Lazzari rose to his feet and raised one hand for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began as a flashbulb exploded. “I arrived in England only a few months ago, but it did not take me long to realize that the famous character of the English is still very much alive. Loulou is by blood only half English, but I think that no one will disagree with me when I say that she is a lady of true, and quite magical, character.”
Still not entirely sure what was happening, everyone nevertheless cheered and applauded. Camilla, riveted by de Lazzari, slowly began to realize that his former aloofness had melted like mist. His voice, too, was warm. And the terrifyingly bleak smile had been replaced by an almost shy, natural one.
“When she sold Vampires to me four days ago, it was on the understanding that this little game should take place tonight. Both fascinated and bemused by such an unusual stipulation, I was compelled to agree. It was to be good entertainment for her guests, she explained, although I have to confess”—he paused, his good eye sweeping the circle of faces around him—“that I began to be concerned for the health of some of you as the game progressed.”
Matt laughed uproariously at this although Mac, Cam
illa observed, was still looking concerned. But then he was also digesting the news that Loulou had sold Vampires. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why Loulou should have taken such a drastic step; the famous wine bar and restaurant had been her whole life. And what on earth would she do with the money?
“So I hope that you have all had the enjoyable evening she worked so hard to achieve,” continued de Lazzari. “And I trust that you will put your hands together and applaud your lovely hostess, particularly when I tell you that the money raised by the sale of Vampires—all the money raised by the sale of Vampires—has been donated by Loulou to the charity for which this evening was arranged. Funds for the much-needed research into the tragic condition known as Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or Crib Death, have been boosted by over two million pounds, thanks to this magnificent young lady. So will you please join me…”
Tears were streaming down Camilla’s cheeks as she applauded wildly along with everyone else. She couldn’t get close to her friend; at the moment, Loulou was being engulfed by hugs from people congratulating her. It was several minutes before she could manage to disentangle herself and make her way over to Mac, who had hung back. Camilla watched as she approached him, almost shyly, and held out one hand.
“I did it for you too,” Loulou told him, her voice husky. “Vampires was the cause of our splitting up. I decided that I could do without it.”
Wordlessly, Mac took her into his arms and held her.
“And if you tell me off for playing such a lousy game of cards,” Loulou added some time later, “then all I can say is how well would you play if you’d been in labor for the last two and a half hours?”
“Jesus!” exclaimed Mac, his black eyes filled with horror. “You really are mad. You should be in the hospital…”
Loulou hesitated for a second before asking the most difficult question of her life. “Mac, I was wondering. I know it’s an enormous favor to ask…but would you come with me? Please?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Pacing the tiny waiting room, Mac watched a murky-gray dawn break over the spires and roofs of London from his eighth-floor window. Earlier, another man had paced with him, accentuating his own tormented anxieties.
“Your first baby?” he had asked Mac, and Mac had felt a tightening in his chest as he sought a suitable reply. How on earth could he say “It might be” to this equally agitated stranger?
In the end, he had nodded and prayed that a nurse would not erupt into the room announcing, “Mr. Mackenzie, your ex-wife has given birth to a fine, healthy black baby.” If she had to say it, then at least let it be when he was on his own…
And thankfully, when the nurse did at last arrive, she had beamed at the other man. “Congratulations, Mr. Rowlands, you have a handsome baby son. If you’d like to come along with me now…”
Mac had shaken hands with the stranger, had wished him and his family well. “A son,” the man had said over and over again, pumping Mac’s hand and shaking his head with disbelief. “I have a son. Well, good luck,” he had added over his shoulder as he left the room with the nurse.
“Thanks,” said Mac awkwardly. Good luck. That was something he needed. He might be just about to become a father himself. And on the other hand, he thought with dismal uncertainty, he might not. He might be just about to become…nothing at all.
He would know, of course, from the expression on the nurse’s face when she arrived. What he would do after that he had absolutely no idea.
At 9:24 on the morning of November 6, the nurse returned.
He knew, of course, from the expression on her pink face. And turned away to gaze fiercely at the pale-green wall.
“Mr. Mackenzie?” she inquired, and with reluctance, Mac turned slowly back to look at her.
“Yes?” He felt sorry for her. It couldn’t be easy, having to alter the format.
She spoke carefully. “Miss Marks has a beautiful baby girl. If you’d like to come with me…?”
He felt as if he were being slowly torn apart. His whole world had collapsed. For a brief moment, the sea-green walls swam before him. He wasn’t a new father. The nurse knew that. He was nothing.
“Miss Marks asked to see you,” said the young nurse, embarrassed by his silence and by the entire situation. She had only been working in obstetrics for four months and it was the first time something like this had happened. The mother should have told them, she thought with a trace of resentment. Then, at least, they could have been more prepared.
Mac wanted to say, “Give me five minutes on my own first,” but he knew that if he did, he would never go in. Still without saying a word, he moved toward the door and indicated with a slight nod of his head that she should lead the way.
Loulou lay back, propped up by half a dozen pillows, strands of blond hair clinging to her damp forehead. Her enormous silver-gray eyes, Matt noticed, were filled with incandescent joy, and for just a fraction of a second he felt a surge of hope.
It was dashed forever, a moment later, as Loulou folded back the white blanket in which the baby—not his baby—was wrapped. Mac, trying hard not to look, briefly glimpsed honey-colored skin and a tangle of delicate black hair. Loulou reached out to him with her free hand, just as she had last night at Vampires, and fighting the sick, stonelike sensation in the pit of his stomach, Mac went toward her, forcing himself to plant a dry kiss on her temple.
“Oh, darling, isn’t it incredible? I’ve done it…actually done it,” breathed Loulou.
He straightened, stood awkwardly beside the bed, avoided looking at the baby cradled in her slender arms. “Congratulations.”
“Isn’t she fabulous? Don’t you think she’s just the most gorgeous thing ever? Would you like to hold her, darling?”
How is it possible to feel this empty? wondered Mac, his mouth set with pain, his fists clenching. How could he be grieving for the loss of a baby that had never existed, not even for a moment? And how the hell could Loulou lie there and ask him to hold this baby, this cuckoo that had lain so long in the nest of her womb, and that was nothing to do with him at all?
The grief and unfairness of it all threatened to engulf him, and he turned away. “I have to go. I’ll let Camilla know… She’ll come see you…”
“Mac, wait,” said Loulou, but he had gone. So quickly that she hadn’t even realized he was leaving.
She sighed and sank back against the pillows, stroking the dusky, petal-soft skin of her daughter’s perfect cheek. Mac didn’t understand, she realized. He was upset. She could understand that, because she had expected to feel the same way herself, after hoping for so long that the child would turn out to be his.
But what she hadn’t expected was the incredible tidal wave of rapturous, uncomplicated, delirious joy that had swamped her at the exact moment of birth. Nothing had prepared her for that, and it was presumably why Mac had been unable to understand, as she did with an incredible, perfect certainty, that it didn’t matter who the father of her baby was. The fact that she had been born was all that mattered…
* * *
Nico and Caroline were having a monumental row when the phone rang, the first really major one of their relationship. It was almost a relief, Nico realized, to hear her screaming out her grievances, to know that she, too, had recognized the faults in their marriage.
And how ironic, he thought to himself as Caroline yanked a nicely framed Hockney print from the wall and hurled it across the room, that the source of this fight should be Loulou, of whom Caroline had so reminded him when he had first encountered her on that hot, dusty street in Las Vegas.
At least she had gone up in the world, he decided, struggling to keep a straight face; then she had been throwing a packet of soap powder around. Now it was an expensive bit of artwork.
“You care more about that tart than you do about me,” she yelled, reaching for the next print along the wall. Nico
lunged forward and grabbed both her hands, his green eyes fiery with anger.
“She is not a tart, and if you throw one more picture I’ll…” Words failed him; he didn’t know what he would do. And how could he deny the former accusation when they both knew it to be true?
“Of course she’s a tart.” Caroline winced as his grip on her wrists tightened, but the expression on her face remained ferocious, mean with jealousy. The healthy tan she had worn when she first met him had faded now and her pale skin looked tired and dull. Even the striking dark blue of her eyes seemed to have dimmed in the months since they had been back in England. Only the thick, tawny-brown hair and her spectacularly curving figure were unchanged, he realized. And they no longer thrilled him.
The attraction—it had never been love—had withered and died.
“I’m your wife,” she was shouting now, pulling against the iron grip of his fingers, “and you told me on the phone last night that you couldn’t get back from Paris until the weekend. Oh, but then, this morning,” she went on, her voice awash with sarcasm, “you somehow managed to hear that your precious Loulou had given birth. And somehow you managed to drop everything and catch the first plane back here. And without even letting me know that you were back, you went straight to the bloody hospital to see her. You bastard, can’t you understand how that makes me feel? Hasn’t it even occurred to you to wonder what other people are going to make of it all…not to mention the press?”
Nico shook her, not hard enough to hurt her, just enough to make her listen.
“Lou’s been a friend of mine for years. A damn good friend. She’s just had her first child. She isn’t in the easiest of situations, and at the moment, she needs her friends. The last show in Paris was canceled because of a television strike and maybe, just maybe, if you had just given birth to your first child I would have flown back and visited you first.”
“Well, that really would be a miracle,” shrieked Caroline, her mouth stretching into a furious narrow line, “because I don’t know how they think it happens in bloody Italy, but over here you have to have some kind of a sex life before the woman gets pregnant.”
