by Jill Mansell
“Where’s my wife?” demanded Matt loudly, and Camilla met him halfway up the staircase, where he kissed her so thoroughly that they both ended up leaning against the elegantly curved banister rail.
“Hmm, not bad,” he remarked when they had regained their balance. “For a newlywed, anyway.”
“Maybe I need a little more practice,” suggested Camilla, squirming with pleasure as he gently nuzzled her neck.
“Fifty or sixty years should do it. Shall we start now?”
He was easing her back up the stairs. Laughing, she ducked away.
“You’re due at the television studios in less than an hour,” she reminded him, and Matt groaned in protest. Having missed several of the international tournaments during the relatively quiet season of the golfing calendar in order to spend more time with Camilla, he had agreed to allow his agent to step up the personality promotions. Public and TV appearances were lucrative and relatively hassle-free, and together with several new advertising deals, they ensured that as Matt became more familiar to the public his popularity increased. His tousled good looks, easygoing personality, and occasionally outrageous remarks endeared him to the general population, and in the space of four months, his fan mail had tripled.
This afternoon, he was taking part in a lighthearted sports quiz show for the third time and the only drawback, as far as Matt was concerned, was having to wear television makeup.
“No time for a quickie?” he wheedled, trailing a finger up the outside of Camilla’s tanned thigh.
“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, although it was an exciting thought. “Go get ready. I’m going to phone Loulou, see if I can persuade her to come over.”
Matt headed toward the bathroom, pulling his black sweatshirt over his head as he went. “Tell her that if she does,” he said, his voice muffled by the folds of material, “she can have my autograph.”
Still smiling to herself, thinking how lucky she was that Matt didn’t mind Loulou’s frequent visits—particularly when she was so often in low spirits—Camilla descended the stairs and made her way slowly across the hall to the sitting room.
Pausing in the doorway, she admired the sun-filled L-shaped room, temporarily free from the clutter of the children’s toys and games. It was really coming together now; all her hard work had paid off. The scent of roses from two enormous bowls of creamy-white blooms, one on each windowsill, filled the room. Picking up the phone and punching out Loulou’s number, Camilla wandered over to the mantelpiece and gazed with affection at the painting hanging above it. Matt, like so many Americans, was obsessed with the history of England. Having developed a love affair with antique shops, he regularly returned home with hopelessly woodwormy cabinets, bookcases, and curly-legged tables, exclaiming over their age and history. This painting, not woodwormy at all, displayed another aspect of his heritage; commissioned by him a week after their wedding, Toby and Charlotte had almost disowned him as a result.
“We’re a family,” he had informed them, so bursting with enthusiasm that he failed to comprehend their lack of it. “We’ve got to have a family portrait. It’s an heirloom, you ignorant bunch of heathens. In a hundred years’ time we’ll all be gone but our painting will live on.”
Camilla had cringed at the time. Really, Matt did have the oddest ideas. And Toby and Charlotte had wriggled and complained for hours each time they had been press-ganged into sitting for the young, rather intense artist. Marty, refusing to be left out, had adored every moment, his endless singing almost driving them insane. But Matt had kept them going, encouraging them and adopting an enormous variety of suitably paternal poses.
And of course he was right; the family portrait was a miraculous success. Now even Charlotte could be persuaded to admit that it was perfect.
Camilla had fallen in love with it. There were Toby and Charlotte curled up on the settee, mischievous childlike smiles captured forever, with Marty grinning up from his beanbag on the floor between them. Camilla, perched on one arm of the settee, was smiling down at the children, and Matt, standing behind them all, was linking fingers with her as if it were a secret gesture, his own expression one of quite magical joy and pride.
It was a wonderful family portrait, and now that Camilla had overcome her initial reluctance to the idea, she adored it.
“So you are there,” she exclaimed happily when Loulou at last picked up the phone. “Are you coming over here for dinner this evening or do Matt and I have to wade through an entire side of beef on our own?”
“Sounds great,” said Loulou with more enthusiasm than Camilla had heard from her for a long time. Then she added shyly, “OK if I bring a friend?”
* * *
Simon Mortimer was, without doubt, one of the most unsuitable men Loulou could possibly have chosen to help her back onto her feet emotionally, thought Camilla, trying very hard to find something likable about him and realizing as she caught Matt’s eye across the dinner table that he felt exactly the same.
Loulou, in her fragile state, had reverted to her old ways, finding the one man most likely to kick her while she was down. Attractive in a languid, Sebastian Flyte kind of way, Simon clearly found it amusing to slide obliquely snide comments into almost every sentence. Camilla couldn’t believe that Loulou let him get away with it. When Simon ran a hand over her knee with a possessive gesture and remarked that it was about time she shaved her legs—which was patently untrue—she merely sat there and smiled. Camilla could remember a time in the not-too-distant past when Loulou would have brandished a knife at the offender’s throat, and listened appalled as Simon ran down her dress sense, her laugh, and her choice of scent, which he declared made her smell like a whore’s handbag. Unable to help herself, she lied sweetly, “I gave Loulou that scent for Christmas,” and waited for Simon to show some small sign of remorse.
Instead, he winked at Matt and said, “Oh well, anyone can make a mistake.”
It was one of those very rare occasions when Matt was lost for words.
The evening dragged on interminably. When dinner was over, they moved from the dining room to the sitting room and Camilla held her breath as Simon lazily approached Matt’s treasured family portrait. If he said one word…just one condescending word…
And it seemed as if he was able to detect the tension in the rose-scented air, or maybe he caught a glimpse of the expression in Matt’s eye, for he turned and nodded at him. “It’s a good painting. Pick the right artist and you can make damn good investments these days. Ever thought of going into wine, Matt?”
It was the nicest thing he had said all evening. Matt grinned and replied, “Almost every night, before dinner.”
Luckily, Simon had to be up at five the following morning; at midnight he left, alone, leaving Loulou—and Lili, asleep upstairs—to spend the night with Matt and Camilla. Kissing Loulou’s forehead and affectionately patting her cheek, he said his goodbyes and disappeared into the night in his turbo-powered Porsche.
“I bet you hated him,” said Loulou with a teenager’s defiance as she tucked her legs beneath her on the settee and accepted a small sambuca from Matt. “But he’s very kind. He looks after me. And at least I know he isn’t after my money.”
“I’m sure he’s very nice,” said Camilla, casting helplessly around for something tactful to say.
Sensing her hesitation, Loulou went on eagerly, “He treats me like a lady. He hasn’t even tried to get me into bed yet.”
“Lou, he treats you like shit. You can do a million times better than that.”
Camilla winced; Matt’s normally endearing bluntness was sometimes downright alarming, although luckily if anyone could take it, it was Loulou.
“Maybe I can,” she replied with a spirited toss of her blond mane, “but right now, he’s what I need. Look at Mac—everyone likes him, but he still dumped me. And I paid out two million for that pleasure. At least Simon accep
ts me for what I am.”
“He’s still a shit,” said Matt, calmer now but wishing Loulou wouldn’t simply accept her fate as if she had no control over it. Some women, he thought with frustration, he would never understand.
“And that’s my trademark,” Loulou explained, draining her sambuca and watching the coffee beans slide lazily down to the bottom of her liqueur glass. “I always fall for the bastards. I’m too old to change my ways now.”
“How did the TV thing go this afternoon?” said Camilla, to change the subject. By the time Matt had got back from the studios, it had been a rush to get ready for dinner and she had had no time to ask him about it.
“Fine. Jerry’s leaving and they want me to be team captain for the next series. Guess who I saw in the canteen there?”
He glanced across from Loulou to Camilla and with a dull thud of premonition Camilla said, “Roz.”
“Right,” said Matt, visibly impressed.
“Did she say anything?”
“She looked like she was in a hurry. All she did was smile and ask me if I was still married.”
“Bitch,” hissed Loulou, far more upset by Roz’s behavior than by Matt’s criticism of Simon. “She’s been really good to me too. What on earth makes her act like a cow wherever Camilla’s concerned?”
Simple, thought Camilla, averting her eyes. Nico.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The applause was deafening as Nico moved into the last number of the evening, the finale to a two-hour concert that had electrified a wildly enthusiastic audience. Blue-white spotlights arced gracefully across the stage, panning out every thirty seconds or so over the crowds, now all standing, who had danced their way through the evening.
Roz, in the second row, smoothed her tan suede skirt over her hips and touched the breast pocket of her cream jacket to check that her digital voice recorder was still there. In the other pocket were her notepad and fountain pen. She didn’t really need anything; her excellent memory could cope with any facts or figures she might learn, but she was able to acknowledge to herself now that they weren’t the real reason for her presence here tonight. Officially, she would be interviewing Nico after the concert and assessing the feasibility of a ninety-minute TV documentary to be made, charting a week in the life of a rock star.
Unofficially, she was simply determined to get him back. Into her bed and into her life.
Hopefully, she thought with a secret smile, both projects would be successful.
Never having watched Nico singing live in concert before, she paid close attention now, admiring the skillful way he was able to keep the audience enthralled. Every single person there this evening had been totally won over by the brilliant production, the magical lighting system, the professionalism of the backing musicians, and, most of all, by the way Nico talked to his audience, joked with his musicians, and projected his charismatic personality throughout the auditorium. Blond hair gleaming, green eyes flashing, he moved around the vast stage with an athlete’s grace, his tanned skin glistening with perspiration and his beautiful voice caressing every woman personally. In his plain white shirt and white Levis, he held the audience in his gentle grasp, teasing them, swaying in time with the beat, and casting sensual glances in the direction of the front row. In that sea of faces, each one was convinced that he was directing those sultry looks at them alone.
The audience screamed with delight.
The concert was a dazzling success.
* * *
Roz eased her way through the side door as milling crowds yelled for an encore. Since they were pretty certain of getting one, it was relatively easy for her to explain to the security guards who she was, to show them her pass card and be escorted to Nico’s dressing room without getting crushed in the process.
After the intense heat of the concert hall, and the clamor of a thousand different perfumes jostling for attention, the air-conditioned coolness of Nico’s room was blissful. Pushing up the sleeves of her jacket and rapidly checking her appearance in the mirror above the makeup table—now littered with half-empty lager cans, two toothbrushes, and a copy of last week’s Sporting Life—Roz perched on the edge and took a sip from one of the cans of lager. Her pulse was racing, her knees were like jelly, and she realized that she hadn’t experienced such a buzz of anticipation for years. It was almost like being sixteen again.
Ducking her head once more to glance at her reflection in the mirror, she reassured herself that she was looking good. Modesty aside, very good… This time, Nico wouldn’t be able to resist her.
* * *
On the last occasion, when she had gone to his house with Nicolette in her arms, she had been in a position of weakness. That had been so alien to her character that she hadn’t been able to pull it off.
But a fortnight ago, Sebastian had phoned her, his call as always coming out of the blue, and had informed her that he was coming over for a long weekend. No business meetings, no conferences to attend; he was simply going to spend three whole days relaxing with Roz at the cottage.
And it had been a blissful three days. Her toes still curled at the memory of their lovemaking. When Sebastian decided to relax, he did so with as much dedication as he afforded his high-powered business in Zurich. They had eaten wonderful meals, drunk glorious wines, lazed in each other’s arms, talked almost nonstop, and indulged in the most delicious sex, blocking out the outside world completely and reveling selfishly only in each other.
Sebastian was the biggest ego boost of all time, and his visits to Roz seemed to be all the more precious because they were so limited.
And now, she thought with renewed confidence, examining her manicured fingernails and drumming them experimentally against the Formica-topped dressing table, now she was strong again. Which was how Nico liked her. So there would be no more begging or pleading, she reminded herself as she lifted her spiky, dark head and smiled at her reflection. This time, she was going to get what she wanted.
And preferably, this time, for good.
As the dressing room door was kicked unceremoniously open, Roz slid down from the ledge upon which she had been perched. Monty Barton, sweating and joyful, burst into the room with one of the backup singers plastered against his plump side.
He was beaming like a Cheshire cat, delighted that the concert had gone so well. Roz had caused her share of problems in the past—he had been fending off the press for weeks over that controversial pregnancy of hers—but that was in the past now. He felt sorry for her, losing the baby so tragically, and she was, after all, a damn good TV presenter.
“Roz, it’s great to see you!” he bellowed as the rest of the band poured into the room behind him. Suddenly, the place was heaving with stage crew, lighting and sound technicians, singers and musicians. Everyone was there except Nico.
And then suddenly he was there too, and Roz caught her breath. On stage, he had been brilliant. Close up he was even more spectacular. She watched, unnoticed, as the two female singers hugged and kissed him with the abandonment of post-concert euphoria. Champagne corks popped, flying through the air, and the noise level soared.
Without moving a muscle, she waited for him to notice her. Not even Nico at this moment had as much adrenaline pumping through his body as she did.
When their eyes at last met, it seemed to Roz that the room had suddenly gone quiet. Her gaze fixed, she watched him move slowly toward her, past Paddy the guitarist and the blond backup singer, his expression as inscrutable as ever. At the last moment, she allowed her mouth to relax into a faint smile. “Hi, Nico. You’re looking good.”
And almost as if she had willed it, the old glitter of interest was there in his narrowed green eyes once more.
“I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.” He had known, of course, about the interview. It was when he had agreed to it that Roz had had her first inkling that their stormy relationship could be on t
he turn.
“Oh, I was watching you. Second row, right at the side,” she said, gazing now at his mouth. “I didn’t want to miss a thing.”
He nodded at the crowded room. “They’ll be going strong for hours. Do you want to stay, or shall we go somewhere quiet to talk? The limo’s outside.”
Roz, joyfully back in command again, realizing that she knew all she needed to know, automatically dropped into a lower gear. The sweet rush of adrenaline slowed to a steady stream. Nico wanted her and she was back in control.
“Oh, this is fun. Let’s stay,” she said in a low voice, and registered the flicker of uncertainty in Nico’s eyes. It wasn’t what he had expected her to say, which was what made the situation so absolutely perfect.
“Right,” he said, his manner deliberately offhand. “Can I get you a drink?”
Roz smiled again. “That would be nice. And then I’d like to talk to the band. I need some quotes to take back with me. Maybe you’d introduce me to that tall, rather gorgeous drummer of yours…”
The drummer’s name was Shaun and he was about as quotable as a gorilla, but Roz strung out their conversation for as long as possible, savoring the buzz of anticipation. Briefly, she spoke to the other members of the band, explaining to them the projected format for the documentary. All the time she was aware of Nico watching her across the smoke-filled room. The sensation it induced was like an addictive drug and Roz, frantic with lust inside, totally ignored him for over forty minutes.
When she eventually returned to his side, he was emptying the remains of a bottle of indifferent champagne into a pint glass. A cigarette drooped from the corner of his exquisite mouth, and his expression was less than sunny.
“Let’s go,” she murmured, removing the glass from his hand. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
