Good at Games

by Jill Mansell

“Wait here.” Suzy reached for her bag. “Don’t go away, don’t move a muscle.” By way of explanation she waggled her fingers in the direction of the ladies’ room, which was out in the hall by the reception desk.

  “I don’t even know your name,” Harry protested. “At least tell me that much.” He looked worried as Suzy moved toward the double doors. “You’re not going to run out on me, are you? Do that Cinderella thing and disappear?”

  What, leave behind one of her beloved black patent Manolos? Was he joking? They’d cost a fortune!

  “I’ll be back in two minutes.” Suzy blew him a kiss. “Promise.”

  * * *

  She’d been right about the shine factor. Relieved that at least her eye makeup was still intact, Suzy pulled out her makeup case and began to repair the damage. Matte powder first, to restore much-needed order to her hectic complexion. Lipstick next—no lip brush, she couldn’t be bothered with all that—then a slick of lip gloss for that extra-pouty finish. Lip gloss was a nightmare, of course, if you were planning on kissing someone, because (a) all men cringe at the very thought of it, and (b) if they do manage to overcome their fear, you both invariably end up with glossy chins.

  Suzy rolled it on anyway because (a) it looked sexy, and (b) she had no intention of kissing Harry this evening.

  I might be a bit drunk, she thought with pride, but I can still play hard to get.

  Oh no, let him wait.

  Until tomorrow night, at least.

  * * *

  The door to the ladies’ room crashed open less than a minute later. Suzy, bent double in front of the ornate gilded mirror, vigorously spraying the roots of her just-brushed hair with hair spray to give it oomph—and experiencing a bit of a head rush—let out a shriek, as for the second time that evening she was grabbed unexpectedly from behind.

  So to speak.

  Heavens, it was like déjà vu, only really happening. Except this time the hands doing the grabbing were bigger, hairier, and…um, there appeared to be quite a few of them.

  “One, two, three, heave,” bawled one of the crew from Slade and Matthews. Rather ungallantly, Suzy felt. The walls of the bathroom began to spin as she was thrown over a burly shoulder.

  “Right, I’ve got her. Mike, you bring her bag. Si, get the door open. Hold on, my lovely, you’re coming with us.”

  “Don’t want to,” Suzy gasped, her out-of-control hair flopping over her face as she clung on for dear life.

  “No choice, darling. Truth or Dare, that’s the game, and this is what we were dared to do.”

  Si held the door open. Denzil, Suzy’s kidnapper, propelled her through the doorway. Mike brought up the rear, clutching her handbag in one hand and the can of hair spray in the other.

  Suzy, jiggling up and down on Denzil’s sturdy shoulder as they raced through the lobby, panted, “You don’t understand, I have to go b-back. I’m in the middle of arranging a d-d-dinner date.”

  They were outside the hotel now, heading up Princess Victoria Street and attracting curious glances from passersby. Suzy prayed her panties weren’t on display.

  Denzil gave her bottom a reassuring pat.

  “With a policeman. We know, Rory told us. That’s why we had to kidnap you, darling. To save you from yourself.”

  “But he’s g-gorgeous!”

  “He’s not; he’s a traffic cop.” Denzil was scornful. “Imagine if you married him. He’d arrest you every time you squeezed the toothpaste tube in the middle, or left a tea bag on the side of the sink.”

  “You don’t understand,” wailed Suzy. “He’s not like all the others. And he has these incredible blue eyes.”

  They had reached the Clifton Wine Bar, where a tremendous Friday night party was in progress. Still carrying Suzy in a fireman’s lift, Denzil pushed his way into the noisy, heaving throng.

  “You stay here with us, darling. Trust me, it’s for the best. Never tangle with policemen; they’ve all got a thing about handcuffs.” By way of consolation, presumably, he patted her bottom once more before lowering her—somewhat bumpily—to ground level. “Besides, think what it’d do to your street cred.”

  They were joined minutes later by Rory, Martin, and Donna.

  “Was he still there when you left?” With her free hand, Suzy clutched her brother’s arm. The other remained firmly locked in Denzil’s grasp.

  “Who, the boy in blue?” No great drinker, Rory was as befuddled after two pints of lager as the rest of them after ten. “I think he might have been.” He frowned at Suzy. “Why, was he bothering you?”

  “He was asking me out!”

  Brothers, honestly. Sometimes couldn’t you just kick them?

  Rory grimaced sympathetically and gave her shoulder a clumsy consoling pat.

  “Bad luck. Still, never mind, we didn’t tell anyone where we were going. He’ll never find us.”

  Denzil’s hand remained clamped around Suzy’s wrist for the next hour.

  Until nature called.

  “If you think you’re dragging me into the men’s bathroom with you,” Suzy told him, “well, you’re just not, OK?”

  Denzil pulled a twenty-pound note out of his wallet.

  “Be an angel and get the next round, then.” He broke into a slow, leery smile. “Hey, you’re gorgeous, you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing working for that brother of yours, when you could be working for us?”

  “Denzil, I like it there.”

  “Fancy being headhunted?”

  “No,” Suzy said patiently.

  “Come on, you know you’re crazy about me. We’d be fantastic together.”

  “I’m fantastic where I am, thanks.”

  Nature was by this time hammering on the windows and bellowing through a megaphone, demanding to be taken notice of.

  “I’m breaking my neck here,” Denzil told her—romantic or what? “Go order some drinks, there’s a good girl. I’ll be back in no time at all.”

  It was a good thing he was a real estate agent and not a prison officer, thought Suzy as she slipped out of the wine bar and hurried back down Princess Victoria Street, her high heels clacking on the cobbles like castanets.

  Please be there. Please, please still be there…

  But, of course, when she reached the bar at the Avon Gorge Hotel, he wasn’t.

  Chapter 2

  The funeral of Blanche Curtis, mother of Rory, Julia, and Suzy, was arranged to take place at Canford Crematorium in Westbury-on-Trym at midday on the last Tuesday in August.

  Two days before the funeral, Jaz Dreyfuss—Suzy’s ex-husband—said, “Would you like me to come?”

  “Can if you want.” Suzy shrugged. “But she didn’t like you.”

  “Of course she didn’t like me. You’d never have married me if she had.” Jaz broke into a grin. “You always told me it was your ambition in life to run off with a man your mother would really hate.”

  Suzy was standing on a chair in the middle of her sitting room, surveying her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and waiting for Fee to finish pinning up the hem of her dress.

  “Poor old Blanche, what a way to go,” said Jaz. “Wherever she is now, I bet she’s furious.”

  This was true. The same thought had occurred to Suzy. After a lifetime hooked on adventure, Blanche would surely have had her heart set on a death with more pizazz to it. More oomph. Waterskiing down the Amazon, maybe, then being ambushed and gobbled up by crocodiles. Or crashing out of the sky in a hot-air balloon and plunging into an Alpine crevasse.

  As a way of dying, either of these would have been far more Blanche’s style.

  Anything would have done, basically, so long as it was colorful and dramatic and had panache.

  Except it hadn’t happened that way at all. Instead, Blanche Curtis had succ
umbed peacefully, at home, to a massive coronary in her sleep. Not a crocodile or an icy abyss in sight.

  “There, all done.” Fee spoke through a mouthful of pins. “Take it off carefully, and I’ll hem it for you.”

  “You’re an angel.” Suzy was deeply grateful. Show her a house and she could sell it, but sewing was one of life’s mysteries. And while Blanche would definitely approve of the red velvet dress she had bought especially for the funeral, she was liable to start pounding on the lid of the coffin in outrage if Suzy turned up at the cemetery in a skirt that was an unflattering length.

  As Suzy peeled off the dress and passed it to Fee, the front door banged.

  Leaping down from her chair, Suzy looked joyfully at Jaz and yelled, “Maeve’s back!”

  Moments later, the sitting room door was flung open, and Maeve McCourt, her wet-look purple raincoat glistening with rain, appeared in the doorway. She held out her arms and declared, “My poor baby, come here!”

  Suzy was across the room in a flash, hugging Jaz’s housekeeper and being hugged in return until they were both out of breath.

  “Look at you, practically naked in your bra and panties,” Maeve chided. She reached into her vast purple shoulder bag and whisked out a family-size box of Kleenex. “Crying your eyes out and getting rain all over yourself from my raincoat—that’s a sure way to come down with pneumonia. There, there, my darling, you cry as much as you want to. Just make sure you’ve got something warm on first.”

  “This isn’t a bra and panties,” said Suzy, wiping her eyes and sniffing loudly. It was actually a white Donna Karan cropped tank top and matching micro shorts. “And I’m only crying because I’m glad to see you.”

  It was true. These were the first tears she’d shed since learning of Blanche’s death. Slightly guiltily, Suzy realized that she was closer to Maeve than she’d ever been to her own mother. If anything should happen to Maeve, she would be distraught.

  “Let’s get you out of this.” Amid much creaking of plastic, Jaz helped with the removal of the coat. “Why don’t you two sit down and have a chat about things? Was it a good vacation then, Maeve?”

  Maeve, who had been visiting her enormous extended family in Dublin, gazed fondly at Jaz and said, “Great, love. The very best. I’ll tell you all about it later. Are you two off now?”

  Fee and Jaz were both heading tactfully for the door. Fee held up the red velvet dress.

  “Have to finish this.”

  “And I’ve got a meeting,” said Jaz. “I’ll be back by eight.”

  There was no need to elaborate; they knew the kind of meeting Jaz meant.

  “Good lad.” Maeve nodded approvingly, knowing full well that it drove him mad.

  “Don’t do that.” Jaz sighed. “If you call me a good lad again, I shall have to hit you.”

  “Hah,” said Maeve, winking at Suzy and Fee. “I’d like to see you try.”

  * * *

  “You should have let me know about Blanche earlier,” Maeve scolded when the other two had left. “You know I’d have come straight back.”

  “And ruined your break.” Suzy gave her a look. “That’s exactly why we didn’t tell you. I’ve been fine, really.” She smiled. “Still, I’m glad you’re here now.”

  Maeve gave her another perfect hug, the kind Suzy had spent so much of her childhood missing out on. This one lasted for several minutes, which was heavenly and just what she needed.

  At last, Maeve broke away and said cheerily, “Now then, my darling, I picked you out a little present this morning! Just a little something to cheer you up.”

  You could love someone to bits, Suzy had long ago discovered, yet still inwardly cringe when they opened their mouths and certain words came trilling out. Mentally, she braced herself, while Maeve bent over her bag and got down to some serious rummaging. Maeve’s passion for thrift shops wasn’t so much the problem as her tragic taste in “little presents,” which she bought at the drop of an orange knit cap.

  “Maeve, you shouldn’t have,” said Suzy, although this was advice that Maeve—sadly—continued to ignore.

  “Nonsense! The moment I spotted it, I knew it was right up your alley.” Maeve gave her a kiss and watched with pride as the tissue paper fell away.

  It was a brooch. A huge Perspex brooch with a photograph of a young Donny Osmond inside. Donny was baring his teeth in one of those unforgettable Osmond smiles and holding out a bunch of red roses that looked suspiciously fake.

  Fresh tears pricked the back of Suzy’s eyes. She was touched by the gesture but still mystified.

  Why? Why is this brooch right up my street?

  “Doesn’t he have the most gorgeous eyes?” Maeve said happily. “It was like fate, I’m telling you, finding it there in that shop.”

  “Fate…?”

  “Sure, and weren’t you only telling me last week about that policeman fellow you thought was the bee’s knees? What was it you said at the time?” Maeve raised her eyebrows, willing her to remember. When Suzy shrugged and shook her head, she went on. “You said he had a pair of eyes to die for, gorgeous blue eyes, so you see, I thought at once it was the perfect omen.” She held up one finger. “And then the rest of it began to fall into place.”

  “Go on,” said Suzy, fairly sure that Donny and his five hundred brothers had had big brown eyes. Not that she was old enough to remember.

  “OK, so now, Donny Osmond was a pop star, and you’re crazy about pop stars!” As she held up a second finger, Maeve was triumphant. “Wouldn’t you call that another omen?”

  “I’m crazy about pop stars?”

  “Hey, you married Jaz, didn’t you?”

  So that was what that bit was about. Suzy hid a smile. Something else that drove Jaz mad was being called a pop star.

  But she could see that Maeve was bursting to tell her the third omen.

  “I married Jaz. Of course I did. What else, Maeve?”

  “Look what he’s holding! Red roses! And here’s you all ready to bury your mother!”

  “I didn’t order red roses for her wreath,” said Suzy.

  “Ah, but you’ll be wearing that red velvet dress, though, won’t you?” Maeve clapped her hands together, delighted with her own foresight. “And don’t the roses in the brooch exactly match the color of the dress? I’m telling you, they’ll go together like a dream.”

  That was it. Suzy knew she’d have to wear the brooch. It was like a mother being given a badge to wear by her five-year-old, bearing the message: World’s Greatest Mommy!!! All you could do was pin it on, cross your fingers, and pray—hard—that everyone would understand.

  “I love it.” She gave Maeve another hug. “And I love you.”

  “I’ll make us a cup of tea, and you can tell me everything,” said Maeve. Sternly, she added, “As soon as you’ve put some clothes on.”

  “But I’m not cold,” protested Suzy.

  “It’s not proper, dancing about in your drawers in front of Jaz.”

  “I wasn’t dancing. And they’re not drawers. Anyway, I swim in Jaz’s pool in a bikini, and you don’t kick up a fuss about that.”

  “Completely different,” Maeve declared.

  “Completely daft, if you ask me.”

  “Look, you don’t see Fee running around half naked in front of Jaz, do you? Because it isn’t right, that’s why. It’s called observing the proprieties,” said Maeve. “And not acting like a wanton trollop.”

  “Maeve, you know how fond I am of Fee. She’s been great to me, and I love her to bits. But we have exactly one thing in common, and that’s that many moons ago we were both silly enough to marry Jaz. Admit it,” said Suzy. “Apart from that, we’re not what you’d call alike.”

  Maeve glanced pointedly at her tanned breasts, spilling over the low-cut Donna Karan sports top. “You mean you’re a wanton trollop and sh
e’s not.”

  * * *

  At the age of eighteen, Jaz Dreyfuss had rented a garage from Fee’s father. He and his band needed somewhere to practice without being yelled at every ten minutes to turn it down. The garage was over a hundred yards from the house, and Fee’s father was as deaf as a post, so the amount of noise they made didn’t bother him in the least.

  It had driven Fee to distraction, their pounding beats totally drowning out her beloved Enya tapes, but since Jaz and his fellow band members were paying for the use of the garage, she could hardly complain. And although she’d only seen him from a distance, she couldn’t help thinking that the lead singer—Jaz, of course—didn’t look too bad at all. In a scruffy, long-haired, multi-earringed kind of way.

  Unable to concentrate on her own gentler music, and easily distracted from the banking exams for which she was supposed to be studying, it wasn’t long before Fee found herself wandering across to the garage while the guys practiced. Once you got used to their brand of heavy rock, some of the songs weren’t bad. Sometimes she took mugs of coffee over for them, wrapping the handles around her fingers like brass knuckles and spilling half the contents before she even reached the garage, but refusing to use a tray because the one time she’d tried it, Ken, the drummer, had put on his I’m-the-Queen voice and trilled, “Ay say, a tray, how frightfully naice.”

  Jaz had been the only one who hadn’t fallen over laughing. While Fee had blushed furiously, he’d flicked back his long blond hair and said sympathetically, “Ignore them. They’re pitiful. Just a bunch of ignorant cretins.”

  She had fallen helplessly in love with him on the spot.

  During the months that followed, Fee made herself indispensable to the band. She became a one-woman café, providing bacon sandwiches and endless mugs of tea. She lugged amplifiers into and out of the van, cleared away the empty lager cans, and painstakingly sewed the band’s new name—Fireball—on to the backs of their denim jackets in flame-like shades of red, orange, and ocher. She also spent hours sticking up the posters she had designed herself, promoting forthcoming gigs in and around Bristol.

  “It’s embarrassing,” Ken complained one night, after a sell-out performance at the Pig and Whistle. “We’re a hard rock band, and we’ve got a roadie who looks like a Girl Guide.” He gestured at Fee in her crisply ironed blouse and sensible skirt, her glasses glinting as she haggled with the pub manager over their fee. “I mean, she’s a bank clerk, for Chrissake. How rock and roll is that?”