by Jill Mansell
There was a long, long silence, during which Roz could feel the steadily deepening thud of her own heartbeat. But when she finally looked up and met Natalie’s steady gaze, the question was still there; it hadn’t gone away.
“If you don’t say something soon,” said her daughter, almost kindly, “I’ll start assuming the worst. Perhaps there was something awful about him. Maybe for some reason you’re ashamed of the fact that you ever knew him…?”
Numbly, Roz shook her head. Then she stood up, still clutching her drink, and rested a hand briefly on Natalie’s sun-warmed shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
When she returned less than a minute later, she pulled her chair close before sitting down once more. “There was nothing awful about your father,” she said slowly. “And I was certainly not ashamed to have known him. It was just a teenage summer romance that…had unexpected consequences. His name was Sebastian and he was clever and kind, fun to be with, and incredibly ambitious—”
“Show me,” said Natalie, her outstretched fingers trembling as she reached for the snapshot lying facedown in Roz’s lap.
Her dark eyes filled with tears as she studied the creased photograph taken nineteen years earlier on the banks of Lake Geneva. Sebastian, blond and suntanned and shielding his eyes from the sun as he laughed into the camera, gazed back at her.
“Oh, Mum, he looks nice.”
“He was nice,” replied Roz softly, squeezing Natalie’s hand as a lump formed in her own throat. “And it wasn’t just a casual fling either. I loved him. It’s important that you should know that I really did love him.”
* * *
“Pernod or lager?” Martin had said as he slid Loulou out of the enormous trench coat and threw it over a white rattan chair.
“Better make it lager,” said Loulou dolefully. “Three Pernods and I’m anybody’s.”
He had turned and grinned, and she had been struck afresh by the contrast between his boyish looks and that deep, authoritative, extremely cultured voice.
“Well, since you’re mine now anyway, you may as well have Pernod. Poor darling, you look as if you need it.”
* * *
That had been a week ago. Martin Stacey-Thompson had seduced her with delicious expertise and had carried on doing so ever since. To her delight and relief, she had found herself falling in love again, and this time with a man who was worthy of it. Cheerful and good-tempered, he was so much nicer than either Mac or Simon. Martin looked after her, adored Lili, and made her feel precious again. No barbed insults, no jealousies, no apparent hang-ups. He cosseted her, seducing her mind as well as her body, and encouraged her to talk as much as she liked about Mac, telling her that she shouldn’t bottle it up. She needed, he explained gently, to talk it all through to exorcize her mind of hate.
The past week had been idyllic, decided Loulou as she stretched out in the sun-trap of Martin’s tiny patio garden with Lili sleeping contentedly on a yellow blanket beside her, and there was absolutely no reason why the idyll should end. Martin knew everything about her and loved her anyway, spending long hours discussing their future together, and hinting that his current financial position was about to undergo a drastic change for the better.
Not that money was all-important, of course, but the riches-to-rags novelty had certainly begun to wear a bit thin of late. Almost all her clothes now were old, and although she was happy living with Camilla she was aware that the situation couldn’t go on indefinitely. An inveterate and unselfish splurger, she longed to be able to buy extravagant gifts for her friends and family, but where once she would have blown a small fortune on first-night theater tickets, a rented villa in Antibes at the height of the season, irresistible jewelry, and flagons of exquisite perfume, she was now unhappily confined to the smallest of gifts. And no matter how much Camilla enthused over the delicate rose silk scarf or the new ultra-violet eye shadow from Dior, the knowledge that she could have bought a hundred of each for herself had she so wished spoiled the joy of giving for Loulou.
And while Lili was perfectly happy wearing the cheapest chain-store outfits and playing for hours with bunches of keys, Loulou longed to shower her with expensive toys and dress her in really good clothes.
Now that Martin had come into her life, she thought with mounting excitement, she sensed that everything was about to change for the better. And if this lucrative deal—about which he was being so deliciously secretive—came off, maybe she would be able to stop worrying about her own appalling financial situation. Not that she wanted to sponge off him, she told herself hastily as she adjusted her dark glasses, wriggled into a more comfortable position on the inflated pool raft, and glanced across at Lili, who was smiling in her sleep. But the way Martin spoke of their future together gave her such a feeling of security…and it would bloody well serve Mac right if she were to marry again. She was almost thirty-four, after all…
* * *
Camilla, in sharp contrast, was having a hideous day, one of the very worst. Having drastically overslept, she awoke to the sounds of a full-scale screaming match downstairs as Toby and Charlotte battled to the death for the last Shredded Wheat. By the time she had staggered into the kitchen, Toby was wearing the contents of the marmalade jar and brandishing a pair of scissors at his sister. Charlotte was in floods of tears, and her uncombed brown hair was six inches shorter on one side than the other. Rocky, wriggling in ecstasy—such excitement at eight thirty in the morning was a lamentably rare occurrence as far as he was concerned—hurled himself at Camilla and smeared marmalade paw prints over her robe.
By the time she had thrown Toby under the shower, trimmed Charlotte’s drastically uneven hair, fed Rocky, driven the children to school, and returned to find practically an entire swarm of wasps feasting on marmalade, she was exhausted. The phone rang three times for Loulou, who was still at Martin’s flat. The doorbell pealed, and only when the young man on the front step had been talking for five minutes did Camilla realize that he was recruiting new members for some obscure religious cult. By the time she got rid of him and returned to the kitchen, the wasps had paged all their relatives and invited them to join the party. Feeling hot, sticky, and in need of both strong coffee and a cool shower, Camilla pulled off her baggy scarlet T-shirt and switched on the kettle. She had to bake cakes for Toby’s school fete, which was being held tomorrow, do at least three loads of washing, and buy a birthday present for Zoë.
And all I want to do, she thought irritably, is collapse in front of the TV and watch the men’s semifinals at Wimbledon.
At that moment, Rocky sidled into the kitchen.
“No,” said Camilla sternly as he edged toward a cluster of wasps gathered around his water bowl. The next moment, he yelped and stamped all over them, and the whining insects rose in fury to defend themselves. Stung on the nose, he went berserk. Camilla grabbed him and hauled him unceremoniously through the kitchen door. Like a nightmare, the phone rang again; water was spreading across the floor from Rocky’s upturned bowl; and a sharp, stabbing pain on the sole of her foot told her that she had trodden on another wasp.
Running into the sitting room, wearing only a bra and a short white skirt, and nursing her stings, which were surprisingly fierce, she stood in the middle of the room and glared at her favorite photograph of Matt, which stood in a plain silver frame on the mantelpiece.
“Where are you now when I need you?” she yelled and felt tears of panic and frustration welling up behind her eyes.
And at that moment, by cruel coincidence, the radio began playing a Bryan Ferry song that reminded her so much of Matt that she crumpled into a chair. It was like an unexpected blow in the stomach, just when she had been doing so well, rebuilding her life and beginning to accept that all was not lost…
* * *
The french windows that led onto the patio were wide open. Nico, standing outside, watched Camilla’s shoulders sa
g, and his heart went out to her. Without hesitating, he stepped into the room.
Dazed and unquestioning, Camilla rose and slid into his arms, holding him so tightly that he could feel her nipples pressing against the wall of his chest. For several moments, the only sounds in the room were the haunting, melancholy strains of Bryan Ferry and her uneven breathing as she quelled the threatening tears.
Finally, she drew away, and Nico saw her smile.
“At least I have more clothes on today than when we first met,” she said, glancing down at her white silk bra and short skirt and marveling at the fact that she felt no embarrassment.
“Only just. I’m not interrupting anything, am I? You don’t have a lover lurking in the bedroom?” He spoke the words jokingly, then wondered with a stab of jealousy whether they might be true.
“Hardly.” Camilla laughed at the thought, still clutching his arms. “But there are enemies in the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see anyone before. You must be my knight in shining armor.”
“I knocked at the front door, but there was no reply. Your car was parked on the drive so I came around the side of the house,” said Nico, needing to explain his unorthodox arrival. “Who have you got in the kitchen—tax inspectors?”
“I have a catastrophe in the kitchen,” she informed him solemnly. “Please don’t think I’m being feeble. I really don’t spend my entire life bursting into tears, but today so far has been the absolute pits.”
* * *
Nico really was amazing, she thought five minutes later when he joined her on the terrace with Rocky bounding joyfully around his legs.
“Crisis over,” he said, resisting the urge to kiss Camilla and falling instead into the chair facing hers.
“The wasps…?”
Nico shrugged modestly. “I lacquered them to death with a can of hairspray. There was a red cloth on the table. I cleaned up the mess on the floor with that.”
My Fiorucci T-shirt, thought Camilla with an inward smile. Who cares?
“So it’s safe to go back into the kitchen,” she said with obvious relief. “Thank God—I have to bake a dozen cakes for Toby’s school fete.”
Nico shook his head and reached into the pocket of his blue-and-green-striped shirt. Juggling keys, dark glasses, and a folded white envelope, he handed her the envelope.
“You can buy a dozen cakes. I came to see you because I happen to have a couple of tickets for the center court at Wimbledon, and if you say you can’t go I’ll…”
“You’ve got what!” shrieked Camilla, grabbing the envelope with both hands and tearing it open. Amazement mingled with delight as she studied the tickets and leaped out of her chair. “You absolute angel! I’d kill for a seat on the center court…I can’t believe this…”
“No need to go to those lengths,” he said mildly, enjoying her reaction. Caroline, totally disinterested, had flatly refused to go. “But I think you’d better get dressed before we leave. I wouldn’t mind, but they’re a bit old-fashioned at Wimbledon—they prefer their spectators with clothes on.”
* * *
Armed with paper cups, two bottles of chilled white wine, and a bag of croissants stuffed with cream cheese, mushrooms, and prawns, Nico and Camilla slid into their seats just as the first semifinalists made their way on court. A roar of approval rose from the crowd, everyone clapping wildly as the dashing, mercurial Croatian and the cool, precise American headed for the umpire’s chair. Camilla, cheering at the top of her voice, applauded with such enthusiasm that her sunglasses slipped down her nose and Nico, watching her while he ostensibly fitted a corkscrew into the cork of the first bottle of Chardonnay, realized with a jolt of panic and desire how desperately in love with her he was.
Here, now, wearing a simple white broderie-anglaise cotton dress, her gleaming honey-colored hair fastened up and her tanned face glowing with happiness, she had never looked more desirable. Her scent was light and flowery, her makeup subtle, and her slender curves irresistible. Even the wasp sting on her shoulder, pink and white like a tiny archery target and slightly swollen, couldn’t mar her perfect beauty, he thought as he handed her the paper cup.
“I won’t have any yet,” said Camilla, scarcely able to tear her eyes from the court. “I’m too excited to drink.”
Nico grinned. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, teasing her, and with delicate precision, she pinched the inside of his elbow where it would hurt most.
“Oh, I suppose it’s OK. A pretty average sort of day,” she murmured sweetly. “Although I really was looking forward to a peaceful afternoon at home baking cakes…”
“You must hate me for dragging you away,” said Nico, tweaking the back of her hand in retaliation. “Forcing you here against your will to watch some dreary little game of tennis…”
“Shh,” Camilla hushed him, her long-lashed eyes narrowing in concentration as she watched the handsome Croatian’s blistering service action.
“Cami,” protested Nico, realizing that he had lost her, that she really was engrossed. “For heaven’s sake, they’re only warming up.”
* * *
The match was so enthralling and was played with such death-defying brilliance that Nico actually felt guilty. Every single spectator around the sun-drenched court was living and breathing the game, and all he could do was think about the woman at his side.
While Camilla yelled and applauded every point, apparently rooting for both men with equal fervor, Nico had only the haziest idea of the score. He clapped automatically whenever she did and prayed for the match to end because only then would he be able to regain her attention. Never having been to Wimbledon before, he had somehow imagined that they would spend the afternoon sitting in the sun, drinking wine, and sharing an intimate, loving conversation, oblivious of the crowds around them and the players on court.
He was beginning to wish he’d suggested a picnic on Hampstead Heath instead.
But when the match finally ended after five brilliant sets and the volatile, dark-eyed Croatian vaulted the net in victorious celebration, Camilla made the wait worthwhile. Unable to control herself, she threw her arms around Nico, gave him a joyful hug, and then kissed him quickly on the cheek.
“Thank you for bringing me,” she whispered beneath the roar of the crowd around them, and as he inhaled the mingled scents of her warm body and the flowery perfume she wore, he felt the beginnings of an erection beneath the taut, faded denim of his Levis. Camilla, resuming her wild applause as the players left the court, said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t kiss you in public. There are TV cameras all over the place and you’re a married man.”
How can she not know how I feel about her, wondered Nico helplessly, taking care to adjust his jeans as he sat back down.
“If it bothers you that much, we could always leave,” he murmured as Camilla collapsed, exhausted, into the seat beside him. “Then you could kiss me in private.”
Realizing that despite his teasing manner he actually meant what he said, Camilla felt her stomach grow hollow with desire. It was unfair of him, she thought, to say such things, knowing as he did her views on adultery. She wasn’t a nun; she had reached the stage now where the absence of a loving—and sexual—relationship in her life was really beginning to prey on her mind, and she was extremely attracted to Nico. If he wasn’t married, there would be no question of fending him off. It simply wasn’t fair of him…
“And you’d still be married,” she replied flatly. Then, seeing that he was about to say something else, she raised her eyebrows in horror and added, “Besides, what on earth do you mean: ‘We could always leave?’ With another match about to start on court? You must be out of your mind—wild horses couldn’t drag me away now!”
Giving in, Nico replaced his dark glasses and refilled his paper cup with wine. Turning to her, his eyes hidden by their twin black shields, he grinned. “Not even a wild Ital
ian?”
“Wild Italians—no chance,” declared Camilla, then tilted her head and considered for a moment. “Although maybe that gorgeous Croatian tennis player might be in with a chance if he really asked nicely…”
Chapter Forty-Seven
During the next two days, Nico found himself doing more serious thinking than he had in years.
And he had to think fast, because the following Wednesday he was due to leave for Jamaica, that idyllic tropical island in the Caribbean, where he was due to record his next album. The wildly expensive studio had been booked for a month; his band was already out there, grabbing a few days of sun, rum, and relaxation before the hard work began; and Monty Barton was on the phone every thirty minutes checking and rechecking flight times, work schedules, and musician-hire arrangements like a demented secretary.
But all Nico could concentrate on was the fact that he wanted Camilla. He had to have her—she was the only person in his life who mattered, and he wasn’t going to mess about pretending to be her friend, her good old platonic friend Nico, any longer.
He was going to persuade Camilla to see sense, then he would divorce Caroline. It was the only thing to do—and he didn’t want to have an affair with Camilla any more than she did, anyway. It wasn’t enough.
He wanted to marry her, and that was quite simply all that mattered now.
* * *
“I’m going out,” Caroline announced, coming into the kitchen, where Nico was sitting brooding over a strong black coffee that reeked of brandy and pretending to concentrate on the racing results in the paper.
Watching his light- and dark-blond hair fall forward as he bent his head, and irritated by his lack of response, she added recklessly, “With my lover,” then cringed as Nico looked up at her. There was no disguising the expression of hope, almost eagerness in those jade-green eyes, like a caged tiger suddenly realizing that the door has been left ajar.
No chance, sweetheart, thought Caroline, kissing the top of his head as she reached for her denim jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Nico certainly wore the look of a man in the throes of a tortuous affair—he’d scarcely spoken to her at all this week—but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of retaliating. She was behaving so bloody perfectly that no way would he be able to shunt any blame on to her.
