by Jill Mansell
“Belgravia,” Camilla told the cab driver, then quite helplessly heard herself say, “No, sorry, Cino’s restaurant in Kensington. Do you, by any chance, have a cell phone I could borrow?”
“Sorry, love, my son left it switched on; the batteries are dead.”
Fate, Camilla thought, just wasn’t on her side.
Nico drew her like a magnet. Even though he would almost certainly have left there by now, she clung to the thought that he might have decided to stay and eat. He might just still be there, and she needed to at least speak to him before he left the country. They had to talk—Nico knew that too. And while she couldn’t possibly become just another in his long line of affairs, she wanted him to understand how much he meant to her.
He was, after all, the only man on this earth to whom she was seriously attracted. It was plain bad luck, thought Camilla with infinite sadness, that he should be married to someone else.
As the cab wove through the midafternoon traffic, she pulled out her makeup bag and rapidly applied powder, lipstick, and a fine mist of perfume. Then, thinking superstitiously that if she was wearing makeup Nico wouldn’t be there, she wiped off the lipstick with a tissue.
* * *
Nico, flinging his jacket and tie onto the passenger seat of the black Lotus, jammed the key into the ignition and revved like mad, just to irritate a couple of middle-aged women about to cross the road. Pulling away from the curb at top speed, he saw a black taxi brake to avoid him, the cabbie indicating with an index finger to his forehead what he thought of his bad-tempered driving.
Sod you, thought Nico, raising a finger in return and hating everyone. What a bloody, bloody awful day.
* * *
Camilla stepped out of the taxi, glancing down the road at the disappearing Lotus and wondering wildly if it could have been Nico. No, of course it wasn’t. He wouldn’t drive that recklessly—and besides, when he had taken her to Wimbledon, he had still been driving the metallic-gray Lamborghini.
Inside the restaurant, Cino stared at her, his professional smile glazing slightly as he took in her blood-spattered skirt and wrecked stockings.
“Mr. Coletto was expecting me,” said Camilla, embarrassed. “I’m very late. I shouldn’t think for a minute that he’s still here.”
“Madame.” Cino’s voice expressed genuine Italian distress. “He leave only one moment ago. One moment! In a black sport car…you miss him by so much.” With his thumb and forefinger, he indicated a couple of millimeters, his dark eyes wide with dismay. The young woman was a mess but beautiful, and who was he to prejudge her? Her nonarrival earlier had certainly put poor Nico into the blackest of moods, he reminded himself, so she must be important to him in one way or another.
“Damn,” said Camilla, her tone registering just as much distress. Hastily, she scrabbled in her purse for her wallet. “Could I possibly come in and use your phone?”
* * *
Caroline, returning home from the Sanctuary feeling pampered and sensual, was annoyed to find Nico out. Here she was, manicured, glowing brown from her session on the ultra-tan sunbed, moisturized all over, and about to be parted from her husband for an entire month…and he had disappeared.
Dropping her denim jacket over the chaise longue, she went into the sitting room and poured herself a vodka martini, switching on the answering machine before stretching out along the arm of the nearest chair with her drink in one hand and a joint in the other. Nico didn’t like her smoking weed, but since he wasn’t here, there wasn’t a lot he could do about it, she thought resentfully. At least she would be free to do whatever she liked when he flew off to Jamaica on Wednesday, and heaven knows, she reasoned, the way things had been going lately, smoking a bit of pot was practically the only enjoyment left to her.
The messages on the machine were predictably mundane. Monty Barton had called four times urging Nico to contact him, the BBC wanted to speak to him, some PR chap from the record company had phoned twice, Nico’s sister Bianca once, and People magazine once.
How nice, thought Caroline with irritation. Nine phone messages for Nico and none for me. Am I alive? Do I really live here? Do I even exist? And if Nico isn’t with Monty, where the hell is he anyway?
The phone burst into life again at that moment. Knowing that if she picked it up she would only have to pass on another bloody message, Caroline glared at it and switched the machine on again. That was what it was there for, wasn’t it?
But, like most people, she couldn’t resist listening as the machine picked up the call.
And when she realized who was speaking, her interest grew. Camilla’s carefully nonchalant tone didn’t fool Caroline for a minute as she heard her apologize for not meeting Nico for lunch. There were unmistakable undertones in her words, and she knew intuitively that it had been no innocent lunch date. Nico hadn’t mentioned it to her earlier, and she didn’t doubt that he wouldn’t when he eventually arrived home, which only made it more significant still.
As she poured herself another hefty drink, she erased Camilla’s message of apology and her tentative request for Nico to return her call. Just because Camilla had been tragically widowed, she told herself grimly, didn’t mean she couldn’t fight dirty. She was only too aware of Nico’s feelings for Camilla, and since chasing after a married man clearly didn’t fall outside her moral code, Caroline had no compunction about retaliating in kind. Nico was hers, after all. And nobody else was going to bloody well take him away from her.
At that moment, Mrs. Pargeter appeared in the doorway, Pledge in one hand and a duster clutched in the other. She coughed politely and Caroline quelled the impulse to snap at her. Good cleaning women, after all, were as hard to find these days as faithful husbands.
“Come in, Mrs. Pargeter,” she said with a smile and as much grace as she could muster. “Is there a problem? Anything I can do to help?”
“Bless you, duck,” said Madge Pargeter fondly. “It’s kind of you to ask, but I’m fine. No, it’s a bit of a delicate matter I’m afraid. It’s just that there’s something I felt you really ought to know…”
* * *
“Mum and I are getting on like a house on fire,” said Natalie when Camilla returned downstairs after a shower and stretched out on the settee in her favorite white silk robe.
Camilla, silently observing the “Mum,” exchanged glances with Roz while Natalie wolfed down another chocolate-chip cookie.
“A singularly inapt expression, I always think,” mused Roz. “It always reminds me of alarm bells and disaster.”
Natalie grinned. “OK, we’re getting on very well, then. Have a cookie,” she urged Camilla. “They’re very good for shock. Are your legs OK now?”
“Only minor cuts,” said Camilla, glancing at them. “They’re nothing. And I phoned the hospital just now. They’re keeping the chap in for a couple of days just to be on the safe side, but his head wound wasn’t serious apparently, and they’ve stitched him up. He’s lost a tooth and a bit of blood, but otherwise he’s OK. He’s a lucky man.”
As she spoke, she glanced over at the photograph of her and Matt that stood on the mantelpiece, and her eyes glazed over for a second.
Natalie, who couldn’t bear awkward silences, leaped headlong into the breach. “Hey, I almost forgot—the most gorgeous-sounding guy phoned up for you this afternoon. He wouldn’t give his name, but he had the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. He wanted to know where he could find you so I told him you were over at Zoë’s house. Who is he?”
So Nico had phoned Zoë’s and drawn a second blank, thought Camilla, wondering if he had been home and listened to the message she had left for him.
Avoiding Natalie’s curious gaze, she said blankly, “No idea. Probably my ex-husband. Anyway, tell me what the two of you have been up to in the last week. What do you think of the Cotswolds?”
Natalie pulled a face. “Dull, dull, dul
l. I like London better. But Mum and I have had loads of time to talk, so it’s been OK. She showed me a photograph of my real father yesterday. He was young when it was taken, but he was dead good-looking. I can’t wait to meet him—he’s almost as dishy as Nico.” Proudly, Natalie glanced across at Roz, who was deeply engrossed in lighting a cigarette. “I’ll say this for Mum: she nabbed some gorgeous men in her time.”
* * *
When Nico emerged from the shower with a scarlet towel around his hips, his magnificent brown body gleaming with droplets of water, Caroline said nothing. She had already asked, extremely casually, where he had been that afternoon, and Nico, apparently riveted by a TV program about earthworms, had replied “Working,” which only confirmed what she already knew.
Now, she stepped out of her white silk knickers and stood watching him.
“What?” said Nico irritably.
“A journalist called around this afternoon,” said Caroline softly. “He was kind enough to inform me that you were having an affair with another woman.”
“Journalists! You know what they’re like.”
“He also told me that in his opinion your career wouldn’t easily stand another scandal. And I’m talking about a really messy divorce scandal.”
“I’m not having an affair,” Nico countered, his green eyes darkening.
Reaching for him, pulling him toward the bed, Caroline said soothingly, “I know you aren’t—of course you aren’t—but once these press people get an idea into their heads… They think our marriage is on the rocks, and it’s up to us to prove them wrong; that’s all.”
As she drew him down on top of her, sliding away the scarlet towel and winding one curvaceous leg around his hip, Nico realized that there was no longer any point fighting it. Camilla had given him her answer this afternoon, her non-appearance proving once again that she didn’t really give a damn. At least Caroline gave a damn, he thought, weakening as she began expertly to arouse him…
“We don’t have to prove them wrong; it’s none of their goddamn business anyway,” he said later after a clinical but satisfactory bout of lovemaking.
Caroline, stroking his muscled thigh with a pink-glossed fingernail, smiled. “But why give them the pleasure of trying to break us up? And the journalist was right—it can only mess up your image. Your fans don’t want us to split, do they?”
Nico shook his head. Staring at the ceiling, he willed himself to stop thinking about Camilla.
“So,” concluded Caroline, dropping a kiss on his flat, tanned stomach, “we’ll put a stop to those boring old rumors. I packed a couple of suitcases this evening. The day after tomorrow, we’re both leaving for Jamaica.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
“Camilla, I’ve got myself into a terrible mess,” confessed Roz, when Natalie had finally been persuaded to go to bed and they were alone.
Camilla, sipping coffee, curled her feet under the hem of her robe and met Roz’s troubled gaze.
“You sound like Loulou,” she said with a faint smile. “Come on, tell me about it. Is it Natalie?”
“Who else?” said Roz, blowing a perfect smoke ring but looking agitated. “Although I suppose it’s really my own fault. You haven’t asked me about Natalie’s father. Aren’t you curious to know who he is?”
“You were sixteen,” said Camilla thoughtfully. “Presumably you gave birth to Natalie just before you went to Elm House. You always had lots of boyfriends… I can’t even remember their names now.”
“Remember this one?” Roz passed across a slightly creased photograph and poured herself another glass of wine as Camilla studied it. The memories flooded back instantly.
“Sebastian,” she said, holding the photograph up to the amber light and admiring the blond good looks of the boy sitting with his arm around a younger, softer-looking Roz on the shores of Lake Geneva. “Of course. But why is it such a problem? You’ve shown Natalie this photo. You lost touch with each other years ago, presumably. Just tell her that there’s nothing else you can do. She’ll understand…”
“But she won’t,” interrupted Roz, taking the photograph back. “She’s determined to track him down, wherever he is. My daughter thinks she’s Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake,” she concluded gloomily, and lit another cigarette from the butt of the last.
“Would that really be so terrible?” ventured Camilla, and watched Roz shake back her spiky dark hair, briefly closing her glittering black eyes.
“Now comes the hard part,” she said at last. “I know exactly where Sebastian is. We never did lose touch. Once or twice a year he comes over to England to see me, and occasionally I go to Zurich to visit him. He’s an international banker, as successful as they come, and he’s never married. Natalie rattles on about contacting Interpol, and all the time his phone number’s right here in my head…but how the hell can I possibly explain to her that although Sebastian and I have been lovers for almost twenty years, he’s never known that he has a daughter?”
Camilla’s mind reeled as she struggled to assimilate this startling statement. “You mean that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant?”
“I told him I thought I was,” said Roz evenly. “He went berserk. Sebastian had very strong views even then and he was violently anti-abortion—and equally violently anti-fatherhood. He blamed me, because I’d told him I was on the pill when, in fact, I wasn’t. I worshipped him, but he simply refused to tolerate the idea that I might be pregnant. He was only seventeen himself, but he called me an idiotic child, and I knew that even if I had the baby and put it up for adoption, he’d refuse to have anything more to do with me. He didn’t exactly have a forgiving nature.”
“So what happened?”
Roz shrugged helplessly. “I was totally besotted with Sebastian. He was my entire world; there was only one thing I could do if I ever wanted to see him again. When I returned to England, I wrote and told him that it had all been a false alarm. The next six months were spent at a school for naughty girls, and five weeks after Natalie had been born and spirited away, Sebastian turned up in England none the wiser. Somehow,” she concluded with a bitter smile, “the appropriate moment in which to tell him never arose. He’s still not at all keen on children, and he’d be as shocked as you are to learn that I’ve kept that kind of secret from him for this length of time… So what on earth can I possibly tell Natalie?”
As Camilla was attempting to formulate some kind of reply, the door swung open.
“Simple,” announced Natalie calmly, although her voice was husky and her cheeks wet with tears. “You tell her the bloody truth, to her face, and let her decide what to do. My father might be the biggest, most selfish bastard of all time, but he’s not going to spend the rest of his life in ignorance. Someone’s got to tell him he has a daughter, and I think it might be best if it was me.”
* * *
“It’s a double-page fucking feature,” exploded Loulou, still quivering with rage as she sat on the end of Camilla’s bed dressed in a white tank top and creased white track-suit trousers. Waving the newspaper at Camilla, she said, “Read it!”
“I can’t,” complained Camilla, blinking as the early morning sunlight burned her eyes. “I haven’t got my contact lenses in.”
“I’ll read it,” said Loulou through clenched teeth. “Can you at least see the bloody headline? It’s big enough.”
“‘The Price of Love—£2 million,’” read out Roz, peering over her shoulder. “‘Loulou Marks won the hearts of our nation when she donated two million pounds to research into the tragic syndrome of crib deaths. But all lovely Loulou was trying to do was win back the heart of sexy Scottish photographer “Mac” Mackenzie, the second of her three husbands.
“‘Last week, heavily disguised, she crept into the Kendall Fordyce gallery in Kensington, where Mac’s latest exhibition is currently receiving critical acclaim. All she wanted was to catch a g
limpse of the man she loved, the man who rejected her when she gave birth to her daughter, Lili. But when Mac arrived at the gallery arm in arm with his new love, the stunning model Cecilia Drew, Loulou went to pieces…’ Good heavens, Lou, you didn’t, did you?” said Roz, gazing at her in astonishment.
Loulou, snatching the paper from her, ripped it into confetti and glared back. “Of course I bloody didn’t!” she snapped, her silver-gray eyes blazing. “And if I did, it wasn’t how it sounds. Shit, that double-crossing, smarmy, moneygrubbing little… I told him everything!” she wailed. “It was private, and he went and sold it to that bloody scumbag paper. I didn’t even know he was a journalist…”
“Who?” demanded Roz and Camilla in unison.
Loulou covered her eyes in despair, waiting for them to say I told you so. “Martin Stacey-sodding-Thompson, of course,” she groaned. “He sold me down the river and got his big break. Do you know how much he was paid for writing this trash?”
“Not as much as he’s going to pay out in libel damages,” said Roz, trying not to smile.
“Don’t make fun of me,” shrieked Loulou, throwing herself down on the bed. “How can it be libel when it’s bloody well true?”
“I’ll make us some coffee,” said Camilla, who really wasn’t up to coping with such drama before breakfast, but Roz motioned her to stay where she was.
“I’ll get it. You stay where you are and make sure Lou doesn’t throw herself out of the window.”
“Don’t panic,” murmured Loulou, lying across the bed with her eyes closed. “I may not be able to sue the bastard, but I can still kill him. I need to stay alive for that. Oh God,” she moaned, rolling over and sitting upright. “Whatever is Mac going to say when he finds out about this?”
