by Jill Mansell
Jiggle, jiggle went that Adam’s apple.
“You said go home. Nancy won’t let me into the house.”
“The apartment, then. Wherever you’ve been staying.”
Martin said despairingly, “You should see it. That place is a pigsty. There isn’t even hot water.”
With a sigh, Suzy threw him her keys. At least she knew Lucille was out.
“Spare towels in the linen closet. Iron and ironing board in the closet under the stairs. And there’s plenty of food in the fridge. Just help yourself to anything.” Hastily, she amended, “Except the Marks & Spencer lemon cheesecake.”
Well, she was only human.
For a moment Suzy thought Martin was about to burst into tears again. Luckily, the phone rang, distracting both of them. Clearing his throat and muttering, “OK, thanks,” Martin took the call then held out the receiver. “For you.”
“It’s me,” said Harry, sounding jubilant. “Quick, rush out to the convenience store and buy a dozen copies of Hi! We’re on the cover!”
“OK.” If she was covering Martin’s appointments as well as her own, Suzy privately wondered if she was going to have time to pee, let alone sit admiring photographs of herself in a glossy magazine.
“And guess what? I’m being discharged this afternoon! Isn’t that terrific?”
Oh. Oh, thought Suzy, taken aback. So soon? She’d gotten quite used to Harry being in the hospital, the whole visiting routine.
“Isn’t this a bit sudden?” She was careful to appear concerned rather than alarmed. “I mean, are those doctors sure you’re really well enough to go home? Because you mustn’t let them kick you out before you’re ready—”
“Sweetheart, it’s been ten days.” Harry sounded amused. “Of course I’m ready. There’s just one small problem.”
Problems? Ha, tell me about them.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I can’t go home. Too many stairs. The physical therapist said they were too dangerous for someone on crutches and I mustn’t risk it. So,” Harry said blithely, “OK if I stay at yours?”
Suzy almost dropped the phone.
“But…but I’ve got stairs. I’ve got loads of stairs. Crikey, I’ve practically got stairs coming out of my ears!”
Harry, who lived in a small Edwardian end-of-terrace in Westbury Park, said patiently, “Yes, but yours are wide and shallow. Mine are narrow and steep.”
Oh Lord, it was happening again, Suzy realized. What choice did she have? She could hardly say no and tell him to go live in a cardboard box instead.
He was Harry the Hero, for heaven’s sake.
As featured on the cover of the current edition of Hi! magazine.
And I’m his loving fiancée, thought Suzy. Her heart sank as she glanced at the vast diamond glittering on her finger.
“Of course you can stay.”
“Great,” said Harry. “I can leave as soon as the doctor signs my discharge papers. What time shall we say you’ll pick me up?”
When Suzy had finished talking to Harry, she realized that Martin was still sitting at his desk in a trance.
“Martin? You can go now.”
He looked up slowly, his expression desolate.
“Oh, Suzy, what am I going to do? I love Nancy. I love her so much…and now I’ve lost her.”
Hmmm, Suzy thought, I’ve got the opposite problem. I don’t love Harry, and I’m jolly well stuck with him.
* * *
Leo, passing through Clifton, decided on the spur of the moment to drop in on Lucille and find out if she was still serious about not wanting to sing at the Alpha Bar.
Unsure whether she was in, he pressed the bell and waited.
Leo wasn’t normally the type to be lost for words, but when the door was eventually opened by a good-looking man he had never seen before, dripping and naked apart from a turquoise bath towel slung around his hips, it was a couple of seconds before he could manage to speak.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear the bell at first.” Martin indicated his wet hair. “I was in the shower.”
“I was looking for Lucille,” said Leo.
“She’s not here.”
“Are you a friend of hers?”
“No.” Martin shook his head. “I’m a friend of Suzy’s.”
“In that case”—Leo’s hackles rose instantly—“maybe I could have a word with Suzy.”
What the bloody hell did she think she was up to now?
“Can’t, I’m afraid,” said Martin with a shrug. “She isn’t here either. Look, I think my bacon’s burning—”
“Why don’t I come up,” Leo said swiftly, “and leave a note?”
They followed the smell of bacon up the stairs.
“Where’s Suzy?” asked Leo.
Martin rescued the bacon, which he’d stuck under the grill before jumping into the shower. Cracking a couple of eggs into the frying pan, he then poured himself some coffee from the pot on the kitchen table.
“Suzy? Oh, she’s at work.”
From where Leo was standing he had a clear view across the hall into Suzy’s bedroom. He knew it was Suzy’s because the closet door was wide open, enabling him to see her lilac jacket hanging up, together with the kind of brightly colored shirts and skirts Lucille wouldn’t be seen dead in.
Not to mention the rainbow parade of shoes filling the bottom of the closet.
But it wasn’t the clothes in the closet that bothered Leo.
It was the man’s dark gray suit, white shirt, and orange-and-gray-patterned tie spread out over the unmade double bed.
Still wearing nothing but his turquoise towel, Martin slid the fried eggs out of the pan and onto two slices of thickly buttered toast. He added the bacon rashers, a shower of tomato ketchup, and enough pepper to make Russia sneeze. Realizing that he was being watched with something suspiciously like disapproval, he said, “Have you got a pen?”
“What?” Leo’s dark eyes narrowed.
“If not, there’s one in the fruit bowl behind you.” Keen to get rid of the visitor so he could eat his breakfast and think about Nancy without interruption, Martin said bluntly, “You said you wanted to leave a note for Lucille.”
Chapter 31
Rory couldn’t believe he was doing it again.
Being underhanded.
But he simply couldn’t help it. This was all totally out of character for him. His brain kept coming up with these outrageous ideas and his conscience simply wasn’t squashing them.
Anyway, it was another case of seizing the moment. He couldn’t afford to hang around; it had to be now, before either Suzy or Martin arrived back at the office.
“Ouch,” Rory grumbled under his breath.
A bit too far under his breath, evidently, because Fee carried on typing away, unaware that he had said anything at all.
Rory sat back in his chair, stretched both arms above his head, then clutched the back of his neck and exhaled loudly. “Ooh, ow.”
Fee stopped rattling her fingers over the keyboard and looked up.
“Are you OK?”
“Sorry, what?” Feigning surprise, Rory said, “Oh, it’s nothing. Just my neck.” Stoically, he shook his head and winced. “I think I’ve pulled a muscle.”
Silence.
Go on, go on, Rory silently urged. Offer to give me a neck massage.
“Oh dear,” Fee said uncertainly. “Poor you.”
She glanced across at Rory, then looked away quickly as their eyes met. Feeling herself begin to flush, Fee gazed hard at her computer screen and willed her heart to stop thumping quite so loudly.
“It must be stress,” Rory hinted, with a touch of desperation. “Pressure of work, that kind of thing.”
If it had been anyone else, Fee realized, she wouldn’t have hesitated. But because
it was Rory she couldn’t summon up the nerve to offer. Instead, uncomfortably aware that her ears were still bright red, she said, “Ummm, IcyHot is supposed to be good.”
Hopeless, hopeless. IcyHot was the last thing he wanted. I’ve gotten it all wrong again, Rory thought with resignation. Dammit, why am I such a failure?
The next moment Suzy burst in through the door.
“What’s up with you?” Pulling off her sunglasses, she looked at Rory, who was still rubbing his neck.
“Nothing. Just pulled a muscle.”
“Fee can sort that out for you. She’s a genius.”
Risking another glance across at Fee, who was looking embarrassed, Rory said hurriedly, “No, really, it’s fine. I’m OK.”
The last thing he wanted was an audience, particularly when the audience was his wise-cracking, smart-aleck sister.
“I know! Let me have a go!” Flinging down her bag, Suzy flexed her fingers with gleeful relish. “I’ve seen Fee do it loads of times. I promise you, it won’t hurt a bit.”
“Not a chance in the world,” said Rory. “You’ve watched heart transplants being carried out on ER, but that doesn’t mean I’d let you near me with a scalpel.”
“He’s a lost cause,” Suzy told Fee with a shrug. “Hopeless. Totally stressed out.”
“You should try a relaxation weekend.” Bravely, Fee looked at Rory. “They have these fabulous ones in Snowdonia. I’ve been on a few, and they’re great. Really, um, relaxing.”
Suzy spluttered with laughter.
“Is this my brother we’re talking about? You think he could cope with a whole weekend of relaxing? I’m telling you, Rory’d be pushed to manage a whole hour.”
“What do they do there?” Pointedly, Rory ignored her.
“Take things easy. Meditate. Eat. Sleep. Go for long walks.”
“Rory’s idea of hell,” Suzy declared flatly. “You’d have to tie him up and bundle him into the trunk of the car before you’d get him near a place like that.”
“It might not be so bad,” said Rory. He hesitated. “But I wouldn’t know anyone.”
“He’s joking,” Suzy told Fee. “Now if there was a hyperstress weekend, that would be right up my brother’s street—”
“Maybe I need to learn to relax,” protested Rory, feeling reckless.
“I’m going up there in a couple of weeks myself. You could always come along with me, give it a try.”
Fee gulped, unable to believe she’d just said that. The words had come blurting out, practically of their own accord.
Rory, equally startled, really wished he wasn’t on the receiving end of one of Suzy’s incredulous stares.
“Well…I don’t know.” He gulped, chickening out. “Maybe. Um, let me think about it.”
“Weird,” Suzy announced. “It’s like me suddenly deciding to spend a weekend scrubbing out sewers. Or coal mining. Or diving head first into crocodile-infested rivers.”
“Look, no pressure. Just let me know if you’re interested,” Fee told Rory. Then, to change the subject, she grabbed a pile of letters from her out tray. “And you’ll need to sign these if you want them to catch the mail.”
Maeve, pushing her way into the office, said cheerfully, “Ah, that’s great. I hoped I’d catch you here. I was in the convenience store getting myself a quarter of lemon bonbons, and the van driver was just bringing them in, piles and piles of magazines, all with your picture on the front… I’m telling you, I almost burst with pride right there in the shop! See?” Maeve held up the just-published copy of Hi!, as triumphant as any new mother. “Doesn’t she look like an angel? Aren’t they just the perfect couple?”
“I look like a Stepford Wife.” Suzy winced. When the man from Hi! was taking the photographs, she hadn’t a chance of looking even remotely like herself. He’d forced her to do that fixed, beauty-queen smile. He’d personally tilted her head to one side and made her keep it at that ridiculous angle. He’d told her to make sure the diamond engagement ring was on show at all times.
“Beautiful,” said Fee, glad for the diversion. “Nice of Harry too.”
“That boy couldn’t have a bad picture taken if he tried,” boasted Maeve, who was showing alarming signs of becoming a devoted mother-in-law-type person.
Boy, Suzy thought despairingly. The trouble was, she didn’t want a boy; she wanted a man.
Martin arrived as they were studying the rest of the sixteen-page spread. He seemed more cheerful this afternoon, Suzy noted with relief. And he was definitely looking cleaner, which was a plus.
“The Fletchers have offered four hundred and twenty for the house in Vyvyan Terrace.” Sounding pleased with himself, he glanced at the photos over Fee’s shoulder. “Blimey, look at you! Why’d you let them do that to your hair?”
“I didn’t have any choice in the matter.” Suzy gritted her teeth. Honestly, talk about ungrateful. You save a bloke from getting the sack and lend him your apartment and this is the thanks you get. The moment he feels better he starts mocking your hairdo.
“And that dress. Makes you look about fifty,” said Martin with a grin.
“Thank you so much.”
“It makes her look demure.” Maeve’s tone was soothing. “Like a proper lady.”
“Oh God,” Suzy wailed, “I’m supposed to be picking Harry up! He’s being discharged this afternoon, and I completely forgot… He’s staying at the apartment,” she explained to Maeve and Fee, “until he’s back on his feet.”
“And you’ll be doing your Florence Nightingale bit? Poor bloke, does he know what he’s letting himself in for?” Martin roared with laughter.
Suzy was tempted to roll up the copy of Hi! and use it to batter him unconscious.
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart.” Maeve’s eyes lit up at the prospect of being allowed to fuss over Harry and cater to his every whim. “I’ll help you look after him—between us we’ll treat him like a prince! Oh, and talk about a coincidence, will you take a look at the book I picked up for you not half an hour ago?” Diving into her vast bag, Maeve emerged triumphant with a battered old paperback sporting a fifty pence, Save the Children sticker.
“How to Be the Perfect Wife!” Maeve pronounced, reading the title aloud for the benefit of any dyslexics in the office. “Can you believe it? That’s not coincidence; that’s fate.”
Suzy realized she was mentally bracing herself for Martin’s witty riposte. If he said something horrid, she would definitely have to beat him up.
The next moment, hearing a strangled sob, she spun around in her chair.
Tears were pouring unstoppably down Martin’s thin cheeks.
“That’s what I had.” He gulped, his face the picture of misery. “The perfect wife.”
* * *
When Suzy arrived at the ward, Harry had arranged—surprise, surprise—for more photographers to be there to record his departure from the hospital. It took a good forty minutes of posing on the front steps, kissing every female member of staff good-bye, and presenting Dr. Hubble with a massive bunch of palest pink roses—oh, nice touch, Harry—before Suzy finally managed to bundle him and his crutches into the Rolls.
There was no getting away from it; Harry was clearly addicted to publicity. Actually, it was a wonder he hadn’t hired a fly-on-the-wall documentary crew to make a movie of his life.
Suzy kept this thought to herself. No point putting ideas into Harry’s handsome but already alarmingly swollen head.
On the way home, she said abruptly, “We aren’t sharing a bed, by the way. You’ll have to sleep on the sofa.”
Harry looked hurt.
“A sofa?”
Feeling mean, Suzy said, “It’s a very comfortable sofa. Long enough, wide enough, nice and springy…”
“Sweetheart, look at me.” With his knuckles, Harry knocked the cast on his thigh. “Bro
ken leg, broken arm, cracked ribs…I mean, be fair.”
“But—”
“No, no, no,” Harry protested, “don’t say the ‘but’ word. Look, you’ve got a double bed. Couldn’t we at least share it? I promise not to try anything. All we’d do is sleep!”
“And if I had a Heath bar for every time I’ve heard that old line,” said Suzy, “I’d be the size of the Millennium Dome.”
“I’m serious. I won’t lay a finger on you.”
“That one too.”
“OK, fine.” Harry heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
They both knew that wouldn’t happen. Suzy’s conscience wouldn’t allow it. Harry had to have the bed, of course he did, and if she refused to share it with him… Well, it was her own fault for being so prissy.
No prizes for guessing who was going to end up sleeping where, Suzy thought wearily.
Good-bye, bed.
Hello, sofa.
Chapter 32
Maeve was in her element that evening, fussing over Harry. She exclaimed delightedly over his glossy dark curls and sparkling blue eyes. She brought over all the food she had spent the afternoon lovingly preparing. She told Harry what a lucky fellow he was to be marrying Suzy, even if she did possess all the domestic skills of a beetroot.
Harry, in turn, flattered Maeve outrageously, made her laugh, and told her she was the best thing to come out of Ireland since Guinness.
You’re wonderful, thought Suzy, watching the pair of them together. No, you’re wonderful. Oh no no no, I’m not nearly as wonderful as you…
“This is mad,” Lucille protested later, finding Suzy wrestling to get a clean cover on the spare duvet. “It’s your apartment—you can’t sleep on the sofa.”
“Really, I’ll be fine. Give us a hand with this.” Suzy’s voice grew muffled as the duvet cover fell over her head.
“But you should have my bed. Let me sleep on the sofa. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind.”
“Maybe not, but I would.” Touched that Lucille had made the offer, Suzy emerged tousle-haired from the depths of the cover. “Anyway, it’s not going to be forever, is it? Only three or four weeks.”
