She knew she looked great, but if anything he looked better. If this situation hadn’t been so bizarre, so contrived, and unforgivably planned out, then she could think of nothing more appealing than dinner overlooking Manhattan with this very good-looking man in his open-necked sea-blue shirt and clean, pressed chinos, sitting at the bar. He had a cocktail waiting for her, and she found herself almost downing it in one. Steady on, old girl. You’ve only had a muffin since this morning, which was five hours longer ago than it should have been.
Another cocktail later, they were taken to a discreet little booth in the restaurant and, in her increasingly hazy mind, she wondered whether he had asked for this in case anyone he knew spotted him with someone other than his wife. Or perhaps they had an “arrangement.” Or perhaps she was too ugly and he never took her out anyway. He ordered wine, and she piled into the bread as elegantly as she could to try and absorb some of the alcohol now coursing through her. I hope to God I don’t need a pee, because I’m not sure I can stand up, she thought.
“So what will you do once the company is sold?” he asked her through the candlelight once they had given their order.
Curl up and die? Maddy thought. “I don’t know, really. The last year has all happened so fast that I haven’t had a chance to think about anything at all. I expect Izzie might go back to her books, but I’m not sure I’m fit for anything.”
She watched his hands as he fiddled with the fork in front of him. “Oh, I disagree,” he said laconically. “I expect you could do any number of things you set your mind to.”
“I’d like to spend more time in France.” She hadn’t thought of it before, but now he had asked her, she really thought she would. Perhaps she might buy a house with the proceeds of the sale, somewhere in Provence or near Jean Luc. Jean Luc. God, what would he think? She could imagine him strolling over to their table now. “What are you doing, Maddy, darling? Are things really so desperate?”
The food, exquisitely laid out on large plates in front of them, looked too good to eat, and Maddy wasn’t sure she could anyway. She felt confused. She knew what might be in store, but what concerned her was how much she wanted it to be. That part of her that had lain dormant since Simon died had suddenly and unexpectedly burst back into life. Whether it was the dress, the candlelight, the booze, or just those bloody arrogant, amused eyes looking back at her, she wasn’t sure. All she did know was that she felt as horny as hell.
She toyed with a rocket leaf and the scallops. What should she do now? She was well out of practice at this game, but it didn’t take a master’s degree to know that he wasn’t here to pass the time. If she wanted him, she was fairly sure he was there for the taking. But did she need to? Was it really a critical part of the plan? If she handed over the contracts now, he would go off home now and go to bed—alone? with his wife?—then he’d wake up tomorrow, go off to work, find out about the photograph and . . . well, that would be it, no doubt. What she needed was for him to sign the contracts, tonight, and then she could be off out of New York tomorrow like a ferret up a trouser leg. She kept the conversation going, while the remaining part of her brain tried to sort everything through.
He seemed willing to join in her little game, and answered her questions about movies and books with the same dry, slow humor. Yes, he liked movies, but nothing violent. No, he thought British movies were crap on the whole, and that Hugh Grant should be shot. Yes, he read books, but none she would ever have encountered. She bristled at this. Did he think she only touched chick lit or something? No, he replied, but he doubted Norman Mailer or Gore Vidal was quite her thing. Yes, he loved music, and reeled off a list of obscure British bands.
“Big CD collection?”
He smiled wryly. “Too big.” He paused. “And there’s something else British I admire too, Maddy.”
“Such as?” She took another sip of her wine, then rested her chin in her hand, head to one side, a seductive look she knew worked a treat, and awaited his reply.
He leaned closer toward her and fixed his eyes on hers. “Your incredible double-decker buses!”
She laughed so loud the Japanese couple at the next table turned in reproach. “Well, I’m glad something about us floats your boat. They must be worth coming all that way to see.”
He knocked back the rest of the wine. “Oh, yes—the style, the eccentricity, the color!” He put down his glass. “A true masterpiece of design. But of course there are other things too.”
She was more cautious this time. “And what might they be?”
He leaned close again. “Your gorgeous lips.” He was looking at them. “I’ve wanted to kiss them since I first met you.” Maddy didn’t know what to say. She could feel the color rising up her face. This was supposed to be her show. She was supposed to be making the moves, and he had taken the wind right out of her sails.
“Er,” she faltered, desperately trying to cope with it. “Well, right.” Don’t lose sight, woman, of what this is all about. The contract. Perhaps she could persuade him to sign it now. She leaned down to her bag. Damn, she’d left the papers upstairs when she changed bags. Oh fickle fortune or Freudian slip.
“The contract. We really ought to sign it while I’m here. But I’ve, er . . . I’ve left the contract up in my room. Do you . . . ?”
It was the wrong way to phrase the question. Very quietly he said, “Yes, Maddy, I do.” He stood up and waited for her to join him, which she did blindly, then he led her to the lifts. As the doors shut behind them, she felt trapped by the intimacy of it and turned toward him. He turned at the same time and, stepping toward her, put his hands either side of her against the wall, and gently, oh so gently and slowly, not touching any other part of her, lowered his head and kissed her on the side of the lips, on her cheek, down to her neck, before returning again to her mouth. He tasted so good, she opened her mouth to him, and let him slip his tongue inside.
The lift stopped smoothly, and as the doors opened she pulled away panicked, delving into her bag for the key card. She put her hand on the light switch, but he stopped her, the room already lit by the lights of the Manhattan skyline, and turned her round to face him.
She dreamed there was a fire alarm at the barn, and everyone—all the girls, Izzie, Lillian, and the children—were stuck inside. She couldn’t open the door, so she smashed her hand against the fire bell again and again to stop it, but still everyone inside banged against the door, screaming to be let out.
She sat bolt upright. The early morning light was coming through the still-open curtains. Where the hell was she? She took in the room, the sheet pulled over her, her clothes strewn all over the floor, a sea-blue shirt and chinos, and then looked at the figure lying asleep beside her. He was lying on his front, his face turned toward her, both arms hugging the pillow under his head. She could hear his slow, steady breathing, and lay back down again carefully so as not to disturb him.
She turned on her side, making herself look at his face, yet ashamed by the intimacy of watching him sleeping. He looked so relaxed, that face that only hours earlier had been twisted in the ecstasy of passion. She had been wrong about him. He was a passionate man. She ached from his lovemaking. She could still feel him inside her, his kisses all over her and the way he had called out “Jesus, Maddy” as he came. Yes, it was passionate, but it was far from right. And what made it even worse was how much she had enjoyed it, reveled in it.
The digital clock said six thirty. Her flight was at midday. Would he wake in time to get to work? And what about the contract? She slipped out of bed for a pee, trying to avoid her flushed and ravished face in the mirror and, on the way back to bed, slipped the contract out of her bag. She squinted at it in the half-light. What a price to pay for one signature. She threw it down onto the chair and slid back into bed next to him. He stirred and moved his body closer to hers.
She must have slipped back into that deep, deep early morning sleep again because, when she woke, he was gone. And so was the contract. It was hal
f nine, so she showered as briskly as she could, put on the pink shirt and skirt she’d worn on her arrival, made as good a fist of repairing her face as she could, and thrust everything else into her bag. She checked her handbag for her tickets and there at the top was a note on hotel notepaper. She read it, screwed it up, and went down to reception to settle the bill.
“No breakfast, madam?” said the receptionist.
“No time I’m afraid. Could I just have the bill? And could you call a cab for me, please?”
He punched some keys onto the computer screen. “Your account has already been settled for you by Mr. Drake, madam. I’ll call you a cab right away.”
Stunned, she picked up her bag and went down in the lift to street level. Without her even registering, a cab pulled up, the door was opened, and she climbed inside.
“Where to, Miss?” the cabbie asked in a strong Bronx accent.
“Kennedy, please.”
He pulled away from the curb, and she fixed her gaze out of the window as Monday morning New York City shot by beside her. People were bustling to work, road sweepers were moving like snails beside the sidewalk, shops were opening up their iron grills for business. As she watched, registering none of this and feeling like a whore, the tears rolled down her face. Oh God, Simon, I’m so sorry.
Chapter 19
Only two trains of thought occupied Izzie’s mind from the moment Pete the Greek walked away: what had become of Maddy, and what would be the fallout of the exposé. That the deal was off was no longer in question. And the chances of PE surviving such a publicity disaster were slim, to say the least. It was over. The whole mad roller-coaster ride was finished, and it was time for them all to return to earth with a bump. They’d come so close to solving all their money problems, but they were back where they had started.
Now that there was nothing left to fight for, Izzie sat back limply in the pub and let the other three speculate on why Pete had turned down such an enticing offer. Marcus reckoned he was on a retainer from the paper and didn’t dare to cross them. Shaun’s more cynical view was that Izzie had shown her hand too quickly and that he was expecting her to track him down again and offer more. Maz had come up with a theory that brought in the Mafia and MI6, but, there again, she had been downing Pimms with serious intent.
Izzie was past caring. Once the other three had finished their lunch—she no longer had any appetite—Marcus scooped her up, they picked up the car from Maz and Shaun’s place, and he drove her back home. Before going to pick up the kids from Janet’s, he poured Izzie a hot bath, slopped in as much product as he could lay his hands on, and left her to it. By the time he returned, Izzie was in bed and fast asleep. Not even Jess and Charlie’s resounding kisses on her cheeks could wake her, and eventually they gave up trying.
The next day was a different matter. The disadvantage of going to bed at six o’clock, Izzie told herself crossly, is that no matter how tired you are, you’ll be lying wide awake and bored out of your skull by four in the morning. And so she was. By half past four, she’d given up even trying to doze and went downstairs to make herself some tea. Nothing on her e-mail, nothing on her voice mail. This was getting beyond a joke. Was it time to report Maddy as a missing person? No one else seemed as worried about her whereabouts, when Izzie had done a frenzied ring-round the previous day. Not Colette. “She took a little bag with her and some beautiful shoes. Wherever she is, she is fine—you will see, Izzie.” Not Janet. “Perhaps it all just got a bit too much for her. The two of you have been working so hard and, you know, it’s not been all that long that poor Simon was taken . . .” Not even Peter, whom Izzie had rung after much soul-searching and had made promise he wouldn’t tell Giselle anything. “She’s a good girl, Izzie, my dear. This had been a hard blow to her. Give her time to come to terms with it and just be there for her when she returns.”
This had all sounded quite reasonable the day before. But now, sitting at the kitchen table in the dark with a mug of Assam going cold in front of her, all Izzie could imagine was that her friend must be dead in a ditch somewhere by now.
Izzie had never been much for ironing, but by six o’clock, she’d done a great big pile of it. As displacement activity, it left something to be desired—she now had Maddy abducted by crazed terrorists with terribly chapped skin and was feeling more anxious than ever, but ooh the lovely neat tea towels. She took Marcus a cup of tea and dressed deliberately in her florals—you couldn’t be too careful. “Right, Marcus, I’ve got to go and get it. Can’t put it off any longer.”
“Would you rather I went?” came a sleepy voice from underneath the quilt, obviously hoping she’d say no—that was more like the old Marcus.
“No, thanks. I’ve got to face the music sooner or later. Might as well be now. Can you get the kids ready for school, and I’ll take ’em in today.”
The atmosphere in the newsagent’s was electric. All the staff were standing round in a knot, talking and nodding. When Izzie walked in, they jumped apart and none of them looked at her. She pretended to browse at the magazines for a bit, then plucked up her courage to go to the counter. “Morning, George. Courier please.”
George, a tweedy figure with a startlingly red mustache, pantomimed searching behind the counter. “Sorry, Mrs. Stock. We haven’t had any in today. Delivery problems, probably.”
She smiled and nodded. “Thanks, George. I do appreciate it, but there’s no need to hide it on my account. I really do have to see it.”
Reluctantly, he brought out a copy and laid it facedown on the counter, refusing to take her money. “No, really. I can’t expect you to pay for that . . . that rubbish. Just take it, m’dear. And, remember, we’re all behind you and Mrs. Hoare.”
She nodded her thanks, touched at his consideration, and folded the paper in two, not daring to look at it until she reached the safety of her car. It was far worse than she’d feared. The photo was grainy in quality and had obviously been blown up, but they’d caught Maddy smoking hands free and taking a particularly deep drag that sucked her cheeks in and wrinkled up her brow, while holding a very large glass of red wine. She looked like trailer trash. Haggard and deep in concentration, she seemed to be standing in an odd dancing posture. Will was head down, looking anxious and bewildered; Florence was sticking her little bottom out and pouting furiously. It couldn’t have been worse. And the headline! “What a Hoare!!”
The editorial, as usual for the Courier, was snide and insidious but without actually committing to any facts that you could contest. There was that usual sickening cocktail of prurience and prudery—endless innuendo combined with supposed moral outrage, and although there were no photos of Izzie, she hadn’t been spared. They’d found out she and Marcus were having problems. Damn them, they’d even found out about his sacking, and they’d implied that he’d been a shadowy figure in the background, masterminding the whole image of the brand and manipulating her and Maddy like puppets. God! Could they have sunk any lower?
She returned home, sick to her stomach and dreading having to show Marcus. His reaction, over the bran flakes, was a surprise. After a quick glance, he tossed it aside. “Tomorrow’s chip paper, love. I was expecting something of the kind. They’ve made me sound very clever, though. Maddy’s PR mate will be annoyed that they’ve given me the credit for all her hard work.”
“Pru! I hadn’t thought about her. I’ll have to call her from work. Come on, kids, time to go.”
Marcus looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’d better pick them up today. Once this story breaks, you won’t be off the phone all day. Good luck—I think you’re going to need it. Just remember, this may change what some people think about us, but they’re not the people that really matter. And it can’t change who we are inside.” He gave her a slightly awkward hug—the first for ages. “Stay strong. I’m here if you need me.”
At the barn, the girls were there early, clustered round the door like hens waiting to roost. When she turned up, they broke into a ragged cheer. “Don�
��t let the bastards grind yer down!” “I’m never buying that paper again!” “What would I want with a bonus anyway? Only burn an ’ole in me pocket!”
Even before she unlocked the doors, they could hear the phones ringing inside. “Let the voice mail pick it up. Maddy would call on my mobile anyway, and I can’t be bothered speaking to anyone else just now.” They shut the door firmly behind them, and sat down to discuss the outstanding orders, uncertain whether to make more product or not. Lillian flicked through the printouts and gave her opinion. “Well, we’ve got plenty of everything, so it seems a bit daft not to carry on. Perhaps PE will become a collector’s item. We’ve certainly got enough for two weeks’ production of balm and one week of the toners and cleansers.”
Izzie shrugged. It was hard to summon up the enthusiasm she’d felt only a week earlier, before they’d even met the Tessutini team, and had a carrot in the form of a big juicy payoff dangled in front of them. “I don’t suppose it really matters what we do now, so let’s stick to the schedule as planned. So it’s . . . balm today. Let’s go for it! But first, coffee all round. I know I could use one.”
When Izzie dared to switch on her computer, she downloaded a barrage of e-mails—some supportive, some not, some requesting interviews. But nothing from Maddy and nothing from Tessutini—yet. Voice mails were roughly the same. Lots of reporters requesting interviews and comments on the story. Izzie ignored it all and focused on getting through the day as normally as she could. Until about eleven, when Pru swept through the door, arms outstretched. “Those fuckers,” she spat. “The timing couldn’t be worse. Obviously, the deal will be off. I should imagine someone’s waking Tom Drake with the unwelcome news at this very moment. I wonder what he’ll make of it. There’s one slight possibility that I’m a bit concerned about . . . But, no, no.”
Izzie was on the alert at once. “What slight possibility? Is this another problem?”
“Weeeell, it could be.” She dumped her bag on the desk. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it really. Not until I speak to your lawyers. It’s just that if you can be shown to have misrepresented the facts, Tessutini could claim some damages—you know, legal fees and all that.”
Goodbye, Jimmy Choo Page 36
