Fast Friends

by Jill Mansell

  But she was his Loulou, he realized. She was his ex-wife, and she had as many good points as faults; it just wasn’t always easy coping with either of them.

  “Isn’t that your ex-wife?” asked Cecilia in a low voice as Loulou, pink with humiliation, crammed her hat back onto her head and turned deliberately away from them.

  Mac nodded, his jaw tense as he watched her march off toward the opposite end of the gallery, a youngish man with indescribably filthy sneakers and a navy-blue T-shirt at her heels. She was looking bloody good, anyway, he thought. It was eighteen months now since he had last seen her—at Matt and Camilla’s wedding reception—and all he knew about her was what he had managed to glean from Nico without appearing too interested.

  Glancing down at Cecilia’s exquisitely manicured, vaguely predatory fingernails upon the sleeve of his leather jacket, and at the figure-skimming yellow skirt she was wearing, he felt a moment’s dissatisfaction.

  One of the things he had always admired about Loulou was her style. She had a careless, slapdash elegance and never took longer than two minutes to put together any outfit. She always looked good, effortlessly good, and never wasted any time in doing so, which Mac appreciated.

  Even now, he thought, in that ridiculous oversized white trench coat reaching practically to her ankles, a white tank top, and leather trousers, she looked…perfect.

  Of course, Cecilia looked perfect too, but only now was he able to truly appreciate Loulou’s economy with time, if not money. Cecilia, to his knowledge, had never spent less than two hours preparing to greet the outside world, agonizing over which clothes she should wear and which of a million accessories would most enhance them.

  He was fond of Cecilia, and despite her hugely successful career, she badly needed looking after, which he liked, but he didn’t love her. When the initial dizzying lust had worn off, he had gradually realized how very little they actually had in common. Unwillingly, he had found himself comparing her with Loulou. Cecilia was probably more classically beautiful, but she wasn’t an adventurous person. Everything she said or did was planned. She hardly ever made him laugh.

  The trouble with Loulou, on the other hand, was her over-adventurous spirit. She had scarcely ever allowed him to look after her. He never knew what she would do or say next, and while sometimes that had amused him, her wild unpredictability also drove him to distraction.

  Life with Loulou had been like flying in a monoplane with a circus pilot, up and down, looping crazily in all directions. Being with Cecilia, by contrast, was sailing on an ocean liner, as straight and calm as a spirit level.

  She was the most unspontaneous person he had ever known, and he spent a great deal of time persuading himself that she was the antidote to Loulou he so badly needed. No surprises. No risks. No threat to his masculinity. And absolutely no fun. But then Cecilia, he reminded himself for the thousandth time as she smiled professionally for a photographer, would never arrive home with another man’s baby…and expect him to fucking well adore it.

  Another flashbulb exploded, and Mac realized that a woman wearing hideous mock-sapphire earrings and carrying a notepad was trying to attract his attention. Pretending not to notice, he watched Loulou covertly. He could almost feel the waves of shame and frustration emanating from her as she studiously avoided the attentions of the man next to her and rammed her rolled-up copy of the exhibition catalog into one of the deep pockets of her trench coat.

  Mac knew exactly how furious she was with herself right now. He knew, too, that she wouldn’t leave straightaway because that would seem to her like running out. But she was insecure. Her cover had been blown, and she had lost her psychological advantage as a result.

  Her acute vulnerability touched a nerve within him and despite himself, Mac smiled, sympathizing with her predicament. But maybe now at least she would understand how he had felt when she had hurt him in the past.

  * * *

  “Martin Stacey-Thompson,” said the young man in the filthy sneakers and the Robbie Williams T-shirt. He stuck out his hand for Loulou to shake and inspected her shamed features with beady, pale-blue eyes that missed nothing. When she tried to pretend she hadn’t heard him, he shook his head and tut-tutted. “I thought you had more guts. Wouldn’t it help for him to see you engaged in animated conversation with another man rather than shivering all alone like a frozen whippet? Being caught out like this can’t honestly be the most awful thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  Realizing that he was right on all counts, Loulou willed herself to relax. Turning to look at him—his voice was surprisingly deep and mature and didn’t match his appearance one bit—she gave him a slightly forced but nonetheless dazzling smile. Before he realized what was happening she had kissed him on both cheeks.

  Across the room, Mac felt his blood pressure soar. The bitch, he thought furiously. The bloody, bloody cow. She was only doing it to irritate the hell out of him.

  “Your move, smartass,” she said, without allowing the words to disturb her smile, and Martin Stacey-Thompson slid his arm around her waist, beneath the voluminous white trench coat, and drew her tightly against him.

  Mac gritted his teeth and found to his disgust that he was quite incapable of turning away. His warring, ambiguous emotions felt as if they’d been thrown into a blender on high speed, and in less than five seconds, he had lost his advantage.

  That terrific sense of superiority had gone right down the drain. Loulou, the little tart, was kicking him in the groin, exerting maximum pain as only she knew how.

  “Is that her boyfriend?” said Cecilia, struggling to make conversation with her tense, silent lover. She knew how important it was to appear friendly—people always leaped at the opportunity to call extremely beautiful women bitches—and she genuinely admired Loulou, who had given away a considerable fortune to a very deserving charity. “Shall we go over and say hello?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” said Mac brutally. “I have nothing to say to her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

  Cecilia wilted like a flower in the desert, and with a stab of guilt, he realized he was playing a cruel game with her. If he had said that to Loulou, she would have marched over to the offending party and introduced herself just to show him that he couldn’t bully her. And while her impetuosity in the past had sometimes made him wince, he admired her for being so gutsy.

  He was playing the two women off against each other in his mind, he knew that. And unfairly, neither of them could win.

  When the eager woman with the notebook dragged Cecilia away for a “girls’ talk,” he felt relieved. He didn’t want Loulou to make mincemeat out of her; now he could tackle her alone. Or almost alone, since that leech with the T-shirt still had his arm around her waist as if it was glued there.

  “Loulou.” He announced his presence curtly, gratified to see the startled expression in her gray eyes when she turned around.

  “Mac,” she replied evenly, and waved an arm at the exhibits hung behind her. “Quite a nice show. You’ve done well. How are you?”

  “Fine.” He glared at her companion, presumably the latest in her endless line of lovers. “Surprised to see you here.”

  “Oh, we thought we’d pop by,” she said airily. “Martin wanted to come. Darling, why don’t you zoom around the rest of the gallery? I’ll have a little chat with Mac and then we can shoot off.”

  Martin, watching the exchange of bravado with interest, shrugged and kissed her cheek. “Five minutes then,” he said, sounding almost amused. “But our table’s booked for three fifteen, and you know Peter hates it if we’re late.”

  “Don’t remind me,” exclaimed Loulou, giving him her society smile and pinching his wrist hard. “Now run along.”

  When they were alone, the atmosphere between them changed so abruptly that Loulou shivered. The air was electrically charged. She felt exhilarated, and afraid, and slightly out of con
trol. Fate was an incredible thing, she thought wildly. Anything could happen now, anything at all. So long as she played it cool.

  “Run along?” mimicked Mac, his dark eyes flashing with derision. “So that’s your latest lapdog?”

  “A wolfhound in poodle’s clothing,” she replied demurely, her heart hammering against her tank top. She could smell Mac’s aftershave, and it was doing incredible things to her senses. “And you,” she added, nodding in Cecilia’s direction, “appear to have a tiger by the tail. Is she as dangerous as she looks?”

  Mac put one hand out, resting it against the cool white wall so that Loulou was hemmed in on one side. She tried not to notice how close he was, or how he towered over her.

  “At least she didn’t come here in some ridiculous disguise,” he drawled in a low voice. “What are you playing at, Lou?”

  He watched as her chin came up in a gesture of defiance. At that precise moment, when their eyes locked and all the old memories flooded back, he wavered. It was all up to Loulou now. She was almost everything he had ever wanted, and the little part of her that wasn’t was supplied to him by Cecilia.

  If only, he thought, she could drop the pretense, confess that she had been unable to stay away because she had to see him—because she’d never stopped loving him—then the rest of their lives would be changed. If she could only admit that, he would be hers.

  Loulou, also flashing backward through time, remembered the lessons she had learned the very hardest way of all. Mac only wanted her when she could take him or leave him. He detested limpets. He liked tigers. She had to play it cool or he would be truly lost forever.

  “My disguise?” she said with a casual flip of the hand and a glance in Martin’s direction calculated to drive Mac into a frenzy of jealousy. “Well, if you must know, Martin’s quite a fan of your work, so he dragged me along here with him. Since I thought it might be awkward if you and I bumped into each other, I stuck on a hat and dark glasses. Less embarrassing for all concerned—”

  “Bullshit,” said Mac flatly, his face darkening with anger. She was blowing it. He’d given her the chance, damn it, that all-important chance, and she was throwing it back in his face. “You wanted to see me. You couldn’t stay away.”

  He watched her spine stiffen as she drew herself up, leaning away from him like a very small and outraged tower of Pisa. At that moment, he knew that all was lost.

  “I couldn’t stay away?” she echoed in a fierce whisper. “Don’t give me that crap. I haven’t been near you for almost two years—that’s how hard it is to stay away from you, you smug bastard. Do you really think you’re that irresistible?”

  Out of sheer desperation, Mac tried again. Softening, he said, “No, but I’m right, aren’t I? You did want to see me.”

  I mustn’t back down, thought Loulou wildly. Sticking out her chin, she averted her eyes from that dangerous, knowing, mesmerizing gaze. For a moment, her mind went blank. She couldn’t retaliate because no words would come. The room was too hot and she was dimly aware that almost everyone in the gallery was watching her lose the battle.

  Encouraged, Mac reached out and touched her forearm. “Why can’t you at least admit it, Loulou?” he went on in the same low tones. “I know it must have cost you a lot to come here. Stop being so bloody proud, for Christ’s sake, and tell me the truth.”

  Something inside her snapped. She hated the fact that he was being condescending in front of all these people. This was Mac’s exhibition. They were here because of him, because of his incredible talent. He was a success now, and living with the most sought-after model in England to prove it. She felt like an extremely poor relation to whom he was forcing himself to be kind because he was that kind of guy.

  And bloody hell, she thought furiously. It’s because of him that I am poor. But that doesn’t give him the right to reduce me to an emotional mess in full view of his adoring bloody public. “OK,” she said loudly, “I’ll tell you the truth. I did come here to see you, but only to remind myself how lucky I am. I’m happy now, happier than I ever was with you, so there’s no need to play your condescending little games with me anymore. In fact,” she continued, her voice rising, “I feel sorry for that woman over there. How the hell does she manage to put up with your bloody awful moods and your obsession with work?”

  “Shut up! You’re making a scene,” hissed Mac, grabbing her by both arms. Furiously, she shook him off.

  “I like making scenes. If I’m not happy about something, I’ll argue—that’s the difference between us. And yes,” she yelled, realizing that by now the entire gallery was agog, “it did cost me a lot to come here today, but that’s nothing compared with the two million you cost me two years ago. You always resented the fact that Vampires was mine, so I got rid of it. For you, Mac!” Gasping for breath, hot tears rolling helplessly down her cheeks, she thought she would burst with rage. “But that wasn’t enough for you either. So don’t talk to me about what it cost me to come here because we both know just how much it was. I learned a very expensive lesson from you, Mackenzie, and I’ll never, ever forget that!”

  Turning away, sobbing wildly and almost blinded now by tears, Loulou pushed through the hypnotized crowd and ran out of the gallery. On the steps outside, like Cinderella’s slipper, her gray fedora fell to the ground once more and cartwheeled slowly until it came to rest against one of the stone pillars flanking the entrance.

  “Come on,” said Martin breathlessly, when he caught up with her halfway down the street. “Stop crying. I’ll take you home.”

  “I haven’t got a home,” whispered Loulou, sniffing disconsolately and wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “Don’t worry.” Putting his arms around her and pulling her to a halt, he kissed away the salty tears. “I have.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  It didn’t take Roz long to realize that she was seriously out of her depth. On the phone to Camilla after three days in Littleton Gray with Natalie, she said, “I feel as if I’ve ordered the Crown Jewels from a catalog as a joke and now they’ve told me I can’t send them back. I can’t cope.”

  But Camilla only laughed and said, “Are the Crown Jewels really so bad? Pay for them in installments. Take your time with Natalie and don’t expect too much too soon.”

  Roz was trying not to, but Natalie was inexhaustible. She asked endless questions and digested Roz’s halting answers so intently that it scared her in case she wasn’t doing it right. What if she accidently said the wrong thing? She was a private person used to interviewing others on the screen. Now she had her own interviewer, and it was a more nerve-racking experience than she had ever suspected.

  And to her shame, other aspects of Natalie’s sudden eruption into her life also irritated her. The terrible adult suit she had worn on the occasion of their first meeting had been kicked into a dark corner of the bedroom, and Roz, to her dismay, found herself faced with an eighteen-year-old who dressed like an eighteen-year-old. Slashed jeans, massive biker boots, strategically ripped tank tops, and microminis were worn with glittering chains looped around neck, waist, and hips. The shiny, shoulder-length hair expanded into a gelled, hedgehog mass that didn’t even quiver when it hit solid wood. Luckily the vampire-red lipstick Natalie favored never lasted long, but only because she talked so incessantly. It was a toss-up that Roz least preferred: the horrific lipstick or the endless, probing questions.

  And Natalie was as untidy as an eighteen-year-old too. On the third day, Roz went into the spare bedroom, which Natalie had made her own, and found twelve mugs and glasses lined up on the windowsill. An opened tin of raspberries was gathering mold on the chest of drawers, and an ashtray lay upended on the floor, ash and butts scattered all over the thick, pistachio-green carpet.

  When Natalie returned from a foray to the village shop armed with a bottle of sweet Cinzano, forty Marlboros, and three more tins of raspberries, Roz blew her
top.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” complained Natalie five minutes later, hurling herself onto the unmade bed and wearing an expression of such extreme truculence that she looked exactly like Roz. “Don’t nag me. We’re supposed to be having fun. You’re beginning to sound just like my mother.”

  * * *

  That evening, the fight patched over, Natalie asked the question Roz had been dreading for days.

  They were sitting together in the garden basking in the warmth of the sun’s last rays and lazily brushing away midges. Roz was drinking vodka and tonic—ice cubes clinking as she played with her glass—and gazing with lazy pleasure at the garden. The sweet scent of tobacco plants hung in the air, and overweight bumble bees gorged themselves on the nectar, the manner in which they edged constantly from one flower to the next reminding her of Loulou in her endless search for a man who could make her forget Mac.

  Natalie, halfway down her bottle of sweet Cinzano, was looking lovely tonight, Roz thought with something close to pride. Having spent two hours tidying her room, washing the mountain of hoarded mugs and glasses, then ostentatiously dusting the sitting room with a handful of tissues, she had clearly realized earlier that she had gone too far. Now, by unspoken concession, she was wearing a plain white T-shirt dress that almost reached her knees; her hair was clean, gel-free, and shiny once more; and she wore no makeup at all. The truculent expression had disappeared, and she had been making Roz laugh, regaling her with dreadfully exaggerated tales of the horrors of her old school.

  With a jolt of surprise, Roz realized that she was actually enjoying herself, and enjoying Natalie’s company.

  And, at that precise moment, Natalie asked the question she had been dreading. Glancing sideways from beneath dark lashes, she said in a voice that was casual yet utterly determined, “Roz, I want to know. Who is my father?”