The Unexpected Consequences of Love

by Jill Mansell

  “I know. I googled her name. She has her own photography business.” Theo’s smile was brief. “Good for Sophie. It’s what she always wanted.”

  Hmm, not quite true; what most twentysomething girls wanted was to live normal, happy lives and not be too terrified to allow themselves to fall in love.

  “And how are you now? Are you happy?”

  “Completely.” Theo shrugged. “Everything’s great. You don’t think your life can change like that, become so much better; you just can’t imagine it. But it can. It really can.”

  “You could have sent Sophie an email,” said Josh. “Just to let her know you were fine.” But he knew now, understood why that had never happened.

  “It never occurred to me for a single moment that she’d be interested. I swear I just thought she’d be glad to have me out of her life. I caused her so much pain.” Theo had been shredding a paper napkin as he spoke; now he tidied the torn remnants on his saucer. “And I felt so guilty about that.” He paused. “So guilty. Why would she ever want to hear from me again?”

  Josh looked at him. It was no one’s fault. God, what a mess, all these years of needless misery.

  Theo’s phone beeped, signaling the arrival of a text. He checked it and said, “Right, we need to get back.”

  But when they returned to the shop, Theo walked past it and headed for the adjoining house instead, gesturing for Josh to follow him.

  “Come along inside. There’s something I want you to see.”

  Chapter 50

  “Oh wow.” Tula’s mouth dropped open as she gazed around the hotel lobby, breathed in the smell of money in the air. “How the other half lives.”

  “Stop gawking,” said Marguerite. “You look like a tourist.”

  “I am a tourist.” The diamond-patterned black-and-white marble floor gleamed, chandeliers glittered above their heads, and the wallpaper and furniture were like something out of a palace. A porter was wheeling a trolley piled high with Louis Vuitton luggage toward the lifts, and the chances were that it wasn’t even fake. Every single person in this reception hall looked like a millionaire. Sliding her phone out of her pocket, Tula said, “Am I allowed to take photos?”

  “No, you are not. Put that thing away.” Marguerite rolled her eyes at the very idea. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

  Tula grinned, because she was learning that Marguerite’s bark was infinitely worse than her bite. “Spoilsport. But don’t you ever walk into a place like this and pinch yourself because you’re here and it’s just so incredible? Or are you so used to it by now that you don’t even notice? I mean, look at it…”

  “Oh, of course I notice.” Tula’s refusal to be intimidated by Marguerite had, happily, resulted in the older woman relaxing and lowering her own guard. “I may be rich on the outside, but I still feel poor on the inside. You never forget your roots.”

  “Well, anyway, thanks for letting me come along.” Tula, poor inside and out but used to it, added, “You have no idea; this is so exciting for me.”

  Marguerite was smiling at her now. “Is it? Good. Ah, here comes Riley with the keys.”

  Back from getting them checked in, Riley said, “Here we go. We’re on the third floor.”

  A porter, materializing as if by magic at Tula’s other side, said, “Madame, would you like me to take care of your bag?”

  God, how mortifying. Not only did he look like something out of Downton Abbey, but her overnight bag was from a thrift store. “Thanks, but it’s okay. No need,” she reassured him. “They’re the guests. I’m staying somewhere else.”

  As they made their way up in the unbelievably plush lift, Tula marveled at the sequence of events that had brought her here to London and the Savoy Hotel. Forty-eight hours ago, Marguerite had hosted a book club event at Moor Court and Tula had been called upon to help out for the first time. The evening had gone well. Everyone had enjoyed themselves and Marguerite had been on top lady-author form. Following the departure of the last few guests, however, she’d discovered that one of her diamond earrings had fallen out. Panic ensued. After twenty minutes of frantic searching, Tula had located the missing earring buried in the deep pile of the ivory carpet in the drawing room, where the event had taken place.

  Shortly after that, while she’d been washing up the perilously long-stemmed wineglasses, she’d listened while Marguerite and Riley, at the scrubbed-oak kitchen table, went through the appointments diary for the coming week. Thursday was publication day in the UK for Tell Me Now, Marguerite’s latest novel, and there was a ton of promotional work to be done. Interviews with journalists for newspapers and the most popular websites had been lined up. Videos needed to be made and posted online. There were book signings and an endless round of radio interviews…

  “And on Thursday you’ve got the EveryDay show.” Riley moved on down the list.

  “Right. Who am I on with?”

  Tula’s ears pricked up as Riley mentioned the names of the British-born Hollywood actor and the nation’s favorite songstress.

  “Well, I’ve heard of the actor,” said Marguerite, “but the other one…no idea. You’d better dig up some info for me so I have some clue who she is.”

  “I will.” Riley nodded and scribbled a note on the page. “Although the audience loved it last year when you asked Dustin Hoffman what films he’d been in.”

  Dustin Hoffman. Tula almost snapped one of the long-stemmed wineglasses. Imagine. “He was very nice about it,” Marguerite admitted. “Okay, carry on. What happens on Friday?”

  “Can I just say something? You should be more excited than this.” Having finished rinsing the last of the glasses, Tula picked up a tea towel. “Seriously, you’re going to be on TV with really famous people and millions of viewers.” The EveryDay show was massively popular, an early evening magazine-style program hosted by Jon and Jackie Jerome, a much-loved former comedian and his perky wife. “I’d give anything to be on a show like that. Even being in a TV studio would be thrilling for most people. And you’re not even excited.”

  “It’s just work. Selling books, that’s all.” Sounding surprised, Marguerite said, “Have you really never visited a TV studio?”

  Hello? Real world? “No! Believe it or not, most people haven’t.”

  “Well, are you free on Thursday? If you want,” Marguerite offered, “you can come up with us.” She turned to Riley and said innocently, “That’d be okay, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t mind?”

  Tula hid a smile; Marguerite the meddling matchmaker was up to her tricks again. Honestly, it was so obvious. But visiting the TV studio was an irresistible draw. Let’s face it; offers like this didn’t come along every day.

  “After tomorrow I’ve got two days off, so that’d be perfect. If you’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Marguerite indicated the list. “We’re booked into the Savoy, right?”

  The Savoy? Yikes.

  “We are.” Riley nodded. “Two rooms.”

  “Well, that’s no problem. She can share yours.”

  Riley was visibly mortified, shaking his head. “No, don’t say that. It’s just embarrassing.”

  While Tula fleetingly imagined what it would be like to share a room—and a bed—with Riley. In the Savoy.

  “Well, she certainly isn’t sharing with me,” Marguerite retorted.

  “Honestly, don’t worry,” Tula blurted out, distracted by the unexpected mental image of Riley without any clothes on—God, where had that sprung from? “I’ll sort out my own bed for the night.”

  ***

  Which she had. But the urge to see their beds had been irresistible. And the two adjacent rooms were, as she’d known they would be, classy and immaculate in every way.

  “Not bad, eh?” Marguerite joined her at the window as Tula gazed out at the view of the city skyline. The London Eye turned lazily on the South
Bank, boats slid through the green-gray water of the Thames, and sunlight bounced off the windshields of the cars and trucks making their way across Westminster Bridge.

  “It’s amazing.” Tula pointed. “Look, there’s the Houses of Parliament! This is like being in a film!”

  “I know. It’s why I always stay here when I’m in London. The heart of the capital city,” Marguerite announced dramatically. “The best view in the world.”

  “Not quite,” said Tula. “Not as good as the view of St. Carys beach from the Mariscombe House Hotel.”

  Marguerite smiled. “You like it there?”

  “Love it. More than anything.”

  “So you’re planning to stick around.”

  “Why would anyone want to leave?”

  “I know. I feel the same way. There’s no place like home.” After a moment, Marguerite added drily, “Even if things sometimes don’t turn out according to plan.”

  Tula instinctively knew what she was talking about; she gave the older woman’s arm an impulsive squeeze. Lawrence and Dot were back together, a couple once more, and on the surface Marguerite had taken Lawrence’s defection admirably well. But Tula sensed her feelings had been hurt rather more deeply than she’d let on.

  “Anyway, I’m going to head off now.” Tula picked up the pink overnight bag that was looking so out of place in its plush surroundings.

  “This is crazy. You don’t have to go.” Marguerite gave it one last try. “You can stay in Riley’s room.”

  Sharing a bed with Riley…their bodies accidentally touching in the night…ripples of desire she might not have the strength of will to control…

  “It’s fine, honestly. And my room’s all booked. Forty-three pounds.” Tula said it with pride, having haggled the price down from fifty-five. “Bargain!”

  Marguerite suppressed a shudder of distaste. “How ghastly. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

  ***

  “This is soooo exciting.” Tula whispered the words into Riley’s ear so no one else in the studio audience could hear. She didn’t want to sound like a complete dork.

  Oh, but there was such a buzz of anticipation in the air. The cameramen were maneuvering their cameras around the studio floor like Daleks; the presenters, Jon and Jackie, were making last-minute adjustments to their scripts and a makeup girl was busy dusting mattifying powder on Jon’s forehead. In three minutes the show was set to start and they’d be live on air. The atmosphere was electric.

  “Calm down,” Riley murmured back. “You aren’t actually going to be on TV yourself.”

  “I know.” He’d found it amusing earlier that she’d changed into a nice dress and put on makeup. “But I could be, that’s the thing. Look at us, right here in the front row. If the show started and I suddenly jumped up and ran up there, they couldn’t stop me. I could rip off my clothes and streak across the stage… By the time they realized what was going on—pah, it’d be too late.”

  “All the same, probably better if you don’t do it.” Riley seized her hand, his warm fingers closing around hers. “In fact, I’m going to keep hold of you, just to be on the safe side. Apart from anything else, Marguerite wouldn’t be too thrilled if you stole her thunder.”

  “True.” Tula settled back in her seat; it wasn’t as if she was actually planning on doing a streak across the studio on live TV. But having her hand held by Riley was nice, and easier to cope with than those vivid mental images of being naked in bed with him… Uh oh, whoops, and now it’s happening again…

  “Sorry, can I squeeze in?” Suze, who worked in the publicity department at Marguerite’s publisher and had been waiting backstage with her, made her way past them and settled into the empty seat on Riley’s other side. She glanced at their entwined hands and switched off her phone before dropping it into her bag.

  “How is she?” Riley asked. “Okay?”

  “Quite nervous, actually. More than usual.” Suze shrugged, not particularly concerned. “Probably because she’s on with Tony Weston. I think she finds him rather attractive.” Her eyes danced. “Sadly, Tony has his lovely wife with him… Ooh, here we go now. Show’s about to start.”

  Chapter 51

  Marguerite waited in the green room, pretending to read texts on her phone to avoid having to make polite conversation with anyone else. Her mouth was dry and her palms were damp. She’d never been one for spur-of-the-moment decisions before, but it was happening now. Less than an hour ago, she’d realized what it was she had to do.

  Okay, not had to. But it needed to be done.

  Oh yes. Definitely.

  “Hi,” said Tony Weston, appearing before her and making her jump. “In case I don’t get a chance to tell you later, my wife’s a huge fan of your books. She wanted you to know how much she loves them.”

  “Really? Thank you so much. That’s lovely to hear.” Having done her homework and studied the information Riley had printed out for her, Marguerite knew that Tony Weston had met his wife Martha just four years ago. A strikingly attractive woman of Afro-Caribbean descent, she was a successful artist in her own right. Their first meeting had taken place on Primrose Hill in north London, and as far as Tony was concerned, it had been a case of love at first sight. By all accounts they were idyllically happily married.

  Which was lovely in one way, of course, but disappointing in another.

  Some people just had it so easy, didn’t they?

  And then there’s me, thought Marguerite, at the other end of the scale. Why can’t I have a fraction of their luck?

  “Ms. Marshall?” A studio runner wearing the obligatory headset and clutching a clipboard said cheerfully, “Time to take you downstairs. Shall we go?”

  “Absolutely.” Now that she’d made up her mind, the fear fell away. It was like waking up and finding yourself miraculously twenty years younger. Rising to her feet, Marguerite smoothed down her skirt and said, “Let’s do this thing.”

  Tony Weston’s smile was unintentionally encouraging as she turned to leave the green room. “Have a good one.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Marguerite. “I will.”

  The show had begun. The hosts had had their three minutes of playful husband-and-wife banter and were now announcing who would be on the show. The audience, whose job it was to generate maximum enthusiasm, went wild. Listening to them from backstage, Marguerite wondered if this was how it felt to have an out-of-body experience. Her agent would be at home now, watching the show. As would her editor.

  As would her fans, those faithful readers all over the country who for years had bought and adored her books.

  “Ms. Marshall?” said the runner. “Are you feeling all right? You’re looking a bit pale.”

  Was she? Marguerite considered the options. What was the worst that could happen? She could faint onstage, on live TV. Sometimes people lost control of their bladder when they fainted; that would generate a few headlines.

  Although maybe not the kind you’d want to read.

  Oh, what the hell. She wasn’t the fainting kind.

  And as for the headlines… Well, they weren’t exactly going to be flattering anyway.

  “Don’t worry.” Marguerite checked her mike pack was secure. “I’m fine.”

  “And now please welcome into the studio one of this country’s most successful novelists, with twenty-five million books sold worldwide…the marvelous, magnificent Marguerite Marshall!”

  The audience cheered and applauded, and Marguerite made her way onto the set. She exchanged air kisses with Jon and Jackie and took her place on the purple suede sofa. A pocket of extra-enthusiastic cheering in the right-hand section of the audience alerted her to the fact that her fan club was in; thirty or so women who lived and breathed her books and hired minibuses to attend as many of her public appearances as humanly possible. Six of them, she knew, had traveled down from S
cotland for this evening’s show.

  Who else would be watching from the comfort of their own homes? Lawrence and Dot? Loyal readers who had lined up in the cold and the rain to have her sign books for them? Old friends from years gone by with whom she hadn’t bothered to stay in contact after her career as a bestselling author had taken off?

  Okay, this was like drowning and having your whole life flash before you. Time appeared to have slowed to a crawl. Marguerite glanced at the front row and saw Suze, still clapping madly. Because she worked in public relations and it was her job to applaud.

  And there, next to her, sat Riley and Tula, the sides of their legs almost but not quite touching. As she looked at them, Riley leaned over and murmured something and Tula tilted her head close to his to hear what he was saying. Then she broke into a smile and gave his knee a playful nudge with hers.

  Marguerite, who had spent the day paying very close attention to the way they interacted, knew she was about to do the right thing. The chemistry between them was unmistakable. Tula might be doing her level best to deny it, but to a novelist—a professional observer of body language—the signals were definitely there.

  Okay, ex-novelist.

  “Wow, Marguerite, that was quite some welcome,” Jon enthused when the applause finally died down. “Not that you’re anywhere near old enough, but that kind of reaction means you’re practically a national treasure!”

  “It’s very kind of them.” The blood in her veins was racing around her body at Formula 1 speed. Smiling apologetically at the audience, Marguerite said, “Thank you. I really don’t deserve it.”

  Which prompted cries of “Yes you do!” from her adoring fan club.

  “Well, I love your books,” Jackie chimed in, as bubbly and effusive as ever. “Once I start reading them, I just can’t stop! I once missed a flight to New York, that’s how engrossed I was!”

  “And that was our honeymoon!” Jon quipped. “Now, the new book is published today.” He held up a copy of the hardback for the benefit of camera three. “Unbelievably, it’s your thirty-ninth novel, and this one’s called Tell Me Now.” He paused, twinkly-eyed. “So, Marguerite, tell me now, what’s the secret? How do you keep on doing it?”