by Jill Mansell
They slipped out without being noticed. About a hundred teenage girls were still hanging around by the stage door, but Nico’s driver, Ken, was an old hand. Spotting Nico, he revved the engine. The security guards swiftly formed two lines and Nico and Roz ran between them, jumping into the back of the car and slamming the door shut behind them. Expertly nosing his way through the screaming crowds, Ken turned and winked at Roz.
“Easy when you know how. Where to, Nico?” Normally he said “Straight home?” but then normally, he thought with a chuckle, the boss didn’t have a bird with him. He doubted whether Mrs. Coletto would appreciate it if Nico turned up at the house with a woman as gorgeous as this one on his arm. And he’d only had a quick glimpse of her, but wasn’t it Roz Vallender, the one who had caused so much trouble with the boss last year?
“My hotel?” said Roz in an undertone designed to send shivers down Nico’s spine. “I gave up the flat last year. Whenever I’m in London now, I stay at the King’s, off Shaftesbury Avenue. We’d be undisturbed there.”
Nico thought of Caroline, waiting at the house for him. He wasn’t late home yet. He knew exactly what would happen if he went with Roz to her hotel. It wasn’t too late to change his mind and instruct Ken to drop Roz off there before taking him back home to his wife…
“Fine. King’s Hotel, off Shaftesbury Avenue,” he told Ken, then sat back and felt the great weight of fidelity fall away from his chest like an avalanche.
* * *
Roz slid out of her jacket, tossed it over a gray velvet armchair, and turned toward Nico, her dark eyes glittering in the dim apricot light.
He could smell the sweet, heavy scent of her perfume—not his favorite, but always reminding him of Roz—and sense her need as strongly as his own.
Why am I doing this? he wondered. And with Roz of all people?
Oh, but it was hard staying faithful to a wife one didn’t love, and somehow being unfaithful to her with Roz, with whom he had once imagined he was in love, made it less terrible. It would be worse if it were someone new, surely?
And there was the guilt over Nicolette. Maybe this was a way of saying sorry.
But most of all, he realized, she had arrived back in his life at the right time, just when he was feeling so lonely and incomplete that he would have fallen into bed with a stranger anyway.
Without saying a word, he reached out and touched the thin silk strap of her tank top, watching it slide down her narrow shoulder like a raindrop. He could see how much she wanted him. And since he wanted someone as well, why not Roz?
The other strap fell. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Realizing that he still had on his battered leather flying jacket, he shrugged it off, unbuttoned his shirt, and watched Roz’s scarlet fingernails snake lightly down his bare chest.
And she was finally in his arms, kissing his mouth and teasing him with her tongue.
Breaking away for a second, Nico said, “I thought you were supposed to be conducting an interview.”
“I am,” Roz assured him, her voice husky with longing as she undid his trousers. “And I know all the right things to say too.”
* * *
At four thirty in the morning, after two hours of the purest misery as he lay awake and—more alone than ever—realized with increasing clarity what he had done, Nico slid out of bed, found his clothes in the dark, and silently let himself out of the room.
Last night, high on champagne and the powerful blast of post-concert adrenaline, it had seemed like a good idea.
Now he simply couldn’t face Roz, the worst person in the world he could have slept with. The final straw had been when, just before slipping into an exhausted sleep, she had curled her arm around him and whispered, “Don’t tell me that wasn’t as good as it was with Camilla Stewart.”
Rigid with self-loathing and disgust, Nico had stayed awake, smoking endless cigarettes and castigating himself for his stupidity. The scent of Roz’s perfume revolted him now. The sordidness of his presence in her bed sickened him still further. After the first bout of lovemaking she had said, “You married Caroline because of me, didn’t you?” and he had nodded in the darkness. “It’s been a disaster, hasn’t it?” she had continued, and there had seemed to be little point in denying it. He had nodded again, and felt Roz’s smile against his shoulder.
“I did warn you, darling. We know each other too well. You should have listened to me at the time. Still, it’s not too late.”
Managing to make his way out of the hotel without encountering anyone other than an ancient night porter who clearly didn’t recognize him, Nico stepped into the road and flagged down a cab. Happily, in this area of London, there were still some about at such an ungodly hour.
Oh, but it was too late, he thought as he collapsed onto the back seat and realized that he was going to have to pay the fare by American Express. Far, far too late. He had been a bloody fool, but he wasn’t going to allow himself to be made an even bigger one.
Going to bed with Roz had been like eating snails for the first time: something to try once and never repeat. Well, he hadn’t been doing it for the first time, but at least he knew now that he would never do it again. She was exorcized, out of his system for good, and he need never wonder in future what might have been, because now he knew.
There was no love there.
Nor was there any in his marriage of course, but while Caroline was making such superhuman efforts to keep it intact he hadn’t the heart to dump her.
Nico rested his head against the window and watched the empty streets flash past as that familiar black cloak of loneliness surrounded him once more. He would tell Caroline that he had gone out with Monty and Shaun to a club, and then on to a Chinese restaurant—not Indian or Italian; he didn’t smell garlicky enough—and even if she didn’t believe him she wouldn’t show it. Hurt silences and hysterical outbursts were things of the past now, replaced by determined smiles and endless understanding.
God, if only I loved her, we could have had the happiest marriage in London, he thought wearily.
His thoughts strayed then to Camilla, who appeared to hold that particular title at the moment, and he resolutely veered away from it. It came as some small consolation—even though at the same time he hated himself for realizing it—that just now Loulou was as miserable as he was. Funny how it had never even occurred to either of them to jump into bed together, considering how close they had been over the past few years.
Not for the first time, Nico considered the situation—and the possibility—but for the life of him, he simply couldn’t imagine it. The affection they felt for each other was that of good friends, nothing more.
And thank God for that, he thought with a ghost of a smile. At least it was one less relationship that could go disastrously wrong.
“’Ere you are then, guv,” said the cab driver, pulling up outside the front gates of Nico’s house. “That’ll be twenty quid to you. Any chance of a couple of autographs for me daughters while you’re ’ere?”
“No problem at all,” said Nico politely. “Er…I don’t seem to have any cash on me. American Express OK?”
“Bleedin’ ’ell,” sighed the cabbie. Then he turned, winked at Nico, and threw across a pen. “Nah, no problem, mate. No bleedin’ problem at all.”
Chapter Forty
Matt pulled Camilla into his arms and kissed her so thoroughly that she thought she might faint right there on the sun-drenched terrace overlooking the back garden. The realization only served to convince her even more that her suspicions were correct, and in a blaze of love and joy, she almost told him there and then.
It took all her strength not to. Tonight was the night, and after hugging the secret knowledge to herself for over three days now, she was determined to hang on to it for just a few hours more.
June 24. It had been Matt’s idea to celebrate their half anniversary in style, and he had produced the ti
ckets for Phantom of the Opera on Saturday morning with justifiable pride. They were like gold dust at the moment.
“Buy yourself a spectacular dress,” he had announced, leering wickedly. “The less there is of it, the better. We’re going to see Phantom, then have dinner at Le Gavroche, maybe take in a few clubs, then come back here and take all our clothes off and indulge in a few hours of post-marital screwing. And I’ll warn you in advance that I paid a visit to Cartier yesterday, and we’re now broke. That’s so you’ll know that I’ll be expecting a little surprise present in return,” he added, his expression grave. “I thought I’d better tell you so you won’t find yourself in one of those embarrassing situations…”
“I would have run upstairs, pulled a couple of pairs of socks out of the airing cupboard, wrapped them up, and given them back to you,” said Camilla sweetly, wriggling out of reach as Matt began biting her earlobe.
“No one can say that my wife isn’t economical,” he murmured, his strong white teeth increasing their pressure.
“She needs to be,” Camilla protested, “the way her husband flings his money around… Ouch!”
* * *
Well, she had her surprise present all right, she thought as they made their way, arm in arm, through to the front of the house. And it hadn’t been easy keeping it a surprise either. It had always amazed her when she watched those old black-and-white films on TV and the young wife announced coyly to her husband that she had something to tell him… Why on earth, she had wondered, hadn’t he guessed? Was the man stupid or something?
But, by some miracle and a small amount of trickery, she had managed to deceive Matt. Thanks to the memories—still clear in her mind—of how she had felt when she was pregnant with first Charlotte and then Toby, she had known almost straightaway this time. The faint nausea, the suddenly acute sense of smell…much of it had been indefinable, but Camilla recognized it and clung to the realization with all the joyful fervor of a drowning man being thrown a fully equipped yacht.
And when Matt had informed her of his planned semi-anniversary celebrations, she had decided that then would be the perfect time to tell him. Placing a box of Tampax in pole position in the bathroom, she had taken to clutching her stomach occasionally and complaining vaguely of period pains. By tonight, though, she had intimated, all would be well again. They could make love to their hearts’ content.
“Don’t get stuck at the bar this afternoon,” she warned him now as they exchanged a final kiss on the front steps of the house. Matt was playing in a pro-celebrity match at Sunningdale that was being televised, and he and Jacko were partnering two comedians notorious for their drinking prowess. The last time he had played with one of the celebrities, he had rolled home in a taxi at two o’clock in the morning and his hangover the next day had been one of the all-time greats.
“Orange juice,” declared Matt with a sweeping gesture, “is all that shall pass my lips. And I shall be home by five thirty, to escort my gorgeous wife to the theater. How often, after all, does one get the chance to celebrate one’s six-month anniversary?”
“Dahlink,” breathed Camilla, doing a passable imitation of Zsa Zsa Gabor, “as often as possible, of course.”
She stood and waved as Matt reversed the new dark-green Mercedes—his pride and joy—across the drive and then edged his way out into the early morning traffic. When he was out of sight, she gazed with satisfaction at the banks of roses that scented the whole garden—beating even the intrusive gasoline fumes—and the riotously tumbling honeysuckle that enveloped the high stone wall separating their garden from next door. When she had cleared the breakfast dishes from the terrace, she would return and cut an armful of roses for the sitting room.
After that, she had an appointment with her hairdresser, then a lunch date with Zoë at a new Italian restaurant in Wimbledon. She only hoped Zoë wouldn’t be too intrigued when she discovered that she was avoiding alcohol. Matt had to be the first to know. If Zoë found out, it would be all over the city by sundown.
Smiling, she glanced down at her stomach, then turned and made her way back into the cool, flower-scented hall.
Tonight, during their celebration dinner amid the glorious elegance of Le Gavroche, she would break the news to Matt that they were going to have a baby.
* * *
Really, thought Camilla at four thirty that afternoon, this family was expanding by the minute.
The latest addition, having just peed for the third time on Zoë’s kitchen floor—in a small gap between the sheets of newspaper that had hastily been thrown down—now launched itself at Camilla’s ankle, its back paws scrabbling frantically for leverage against her shoe. Bending down, she picked up the six-week-old puppy—billed as a collie-Labrador cross but clearly endowed with other dubious connections—and buried her face in the soft, sherry-gold fur of his neck. Rocky snuffled and squirmed in ecstasy, his legs still paddling crazily in midair, and Zoë yelled, “Put him down, Cami. He’s going to pee again, I know it.”
They stood and watched the puppy attack a corner of newspaper, an expression of such ferocious determination in his tiny yellow eyes that he clearly felt his whole existence depended on the outcome of this battle. Zoë had named him the moment she had set eyes on him at Battersea Dogs’ Home, cannoning against the wire mesh of his kennel. And Camilla had fallen instantly in love with the tough, wonderfully affectionate puppy.
Before Rocky had even noticed them, his future had been decided. He would live with Matt and Camilla and the children and vacation at Zoë’s house whenever they had to travel abroad. It was the perfect solution.
“Do you think Matt will really like him?” said Camilla, and Zoë scooped him up into her arms, watching fondly as he immediately picked a fight with her cascading, wayward red hair.
“He’ll really adore him. No question. I’ll bring him over to you at about ten o’clock tomorrow, so he can pee all over your carpets and make himself at home.” She glanced at her watch. “You’d better make a move if you’re going to tart yourself up for tonight. Now aren’t you glad I made you come with me to Battersea? Wasn’t it my best idea ever?”
“Very glad,” said Camilla solemnly, watching as Rocky hurled himself down to the ground and hurriedly relieved himself against the nearest leg of the kitchen table. “Absolutely your best idea ever. Whatever would we do without you?”
By five thirty, she was finally ready, having showered and changed into the Nicole Farhi amethyst silk dress that was belted at the hips by a wide band of shimmering violet and rose quartz beads. And Matt wouldn’t discover until much later the exquisite, quite outrageously seductive rose silk lingerie that caressed her skin beneath the outer trappings.
Since he would be back any moment, she took a bottle of pink champagne from the fridge and carried it out onto the terrace, where she had already placed two glasses. The white wrought-iron garden table and chairs were warmed by the sun, and the garden itself had never looked more lovely.
Waving away a lazy bee, Camilla clasped the neck of the champagne bottle in both hands and inexpertly pushed out the cork. Foam spilled over her fingers as she watched the cork sail through the air and land at the edge of the terrace. Licking the back of her wet hand and taking care not to spill any on her dress, she poured the fizzing, pale-pink liquid into one of the slender, tulip-shaped glasses. Having only drunk apple juice at lunchtime, she felt she could justify half a glass of champagne now and raised it into the air with a flourish. Smiling, suffused with happiness, she toasted herself.
And why not, she decided, taut with excitement. She was pregnant and in love. She deserved it.
* * *
By six o’clock, when Matt still hadn’t returned, she wondered if she should phone the clubhouse at Sunningdale, then decided that it would be a waste of time since Matt would obviously have left there by now. The traffic must be heavier this evening than he had anticipated.
/> By six thirty, Camilla was feeling distinctly uneasy. Matt was now an hour late, and she felt sure he would have called her if he had been held up. Phoning the clubhouse, she got the busy signal. She tried calling his cell phone, but it was switched off so she left a message.
Agitated, she paced the house, pausing at every window overlooking the drive. If Matt had stayed late at the bar for a drink with his golfing companions, she thought helplessly, she would be really cross with him. If he wasn’t back within five minutes, they were definitely going to miss the first act of Phantom.
At exactly seven o’clock, the telephone finally rang, making her jump.
And at seven o’clock, the nightmare, the terrible, terrible nightmare began.
* * *
The journey to St. Thomas’s Hospital, Westminster, was a nightmare in itself. The early evening traffic was appalling, and twice she had to stop herself leaping out of the taxi as it crawled along the Thames Embankment, hemmed in by other traffic. Across Westminster Bridge, she could see the hospital. Surely it would be quicker to reach on foot.
“Cars overheating, stopping, and holding everyone else up,” volunteered the cab driver, having glanced in his mirror and seen the agonized expression on her white face. He pulled out to pass and moved into third gear. “Here we go, love. We’ll be there in a jiffy. Which entrance shall I head for?”
“I don’t know,” said Camilla, realizing that her whole body was shaking. It was impossible to keep her voice steady. “Casualty? I’m sorry, I just don’t know. It…it was a car accident…”
“Then that’s where he’ll be,” replied the cabbie reassuringly, putting his foot down. “Don’t you worry, love. I’m sure he’ll be OK.”
When he brought the taxi to a halt outside the entrance, Camilla had to hand him her wallet. After a moment’s hesitation, he pushed it back into her bag and patted her arm. “Never mind about that, just go find him. Best of luck, love.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, overwhelmed for a second by his kindness. “Thank you so much…”
