by Robyn Sisman
Suze tore her gaze away. He was engaged to someone else. “I hate to say this, but you really should be going.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I’ll get the check.”
He waved over one of the waitresses, then put a hand on her arm to draw her close so that he could whisper in her ear. A smile puckered her burgundied lips. Suze felt unaccountably jealous.
“Now that I’m such a big shot, I get to have things delivered,” Lloyd offered grandly, in answer to Suze’s questioning gaze. “Why don’t you look out the window for a while?”
“Why?” Suze was mystified, but obeyed.
“I like to admire your profile. You have such a superior nose.”
Suze rolled her eyes. “I hate my—” But at that precise instant a bare arm intruded into her vision. The arm belonged to the tired blonde—not looking tired at all but holding a small wicker basket, which she placed on the tablecloth in front of Suze. She exchanged a saucy look with Lloyd and departed.
Suze unhooked the lid of the basket and looked inside. “Ohhh . . .” she breathed.
The kitten was the size of a grapefruit, smoky gray with four white feet and a white throat. Its eyes were the color of a stormy sea, and quite unafraid.
“It’s a he,” Lloyd explained.
Suze lifted the kitten gently out of the basket. “He’s gorgeous,” she murmured, holding him close. “Much more handsome than Mr. Kipling, I have to say.”
“Younger, too,” Lloyd pointed out. “Just what you need to take care of you in your apartment.”
Suze bent her head and breathed in the smell of warm kitten. Other men might have given her more expensive presents; none had ever given her one that indicated so much thought, or presented it in such a stylish way.
“Oh, Lloyd, thank you! He’s absolutely—Ow!” Laughing, Suze put her hand to her mouth to lick the small scratch. “What a tiger!” She glanced at Lloyd through her eyelashes. A smile curved his mouth and his eyes were soft, as if he was looking at the most wonderful creature in the world. Suze’s lips parted to say something. Then one of the waitresses paused to stroke the kitten and the moment was lost.
Their table had now become the focus of attention. There was a rippling chorus of coos from the women; the men were looking perplexed, as if they’d missed a trick. Suze had a vision of a mass raid on the pet shops tomorrow. She put the kitten back into the basket, calming him with a stroke of her finger across his head. His newly sprouted whiskers gave him a supercilious expression that reminded Suze of her dinner partner in the Hamptons. “I think I’ll call him Chester,” she said. She closed the basket and as she did so caught sight of her watch. “God, Lloyd, your plane!”
Lloyd looked at his watch. “Jesus! How did that happen?” He got to his feet, picked up his small case and gave Suze a wild stare. “What about you? How will you get home?”
“Never mind about me. Go!”
He just stood there. “I don’t want to go.”
Suze gazed helplessly back. Then she rose from the table. “I’ll come to the stairs with you.” She didn’t want to say good-bye to him here, with half the restaurant staring.
Out on the landing she leaned against the cold stone wall. Lloyd swayed close to her. He looked dazed.
“Well, good-bye,” she said weakly.
Slatted shadows fell across his face from the iron balustrading above. She saw the shallow dip in the line of his upper lip. Her throat tightened.
Suddenly he grabbed her hand. “Come down with me. Please. You can wave me good-bye.”
He pulled her down the stairs, making no allowances for her high heels or tight skirt. He wouldn’t look at her. Outside, it was dark, with the faintest rustle of wind. Lloyd opened the cab door. Then he stopped. “I have to go.” His eyes were still averted, but his fingers laced and unlaced themselves through hers, launching rockets of sensation throughout her body. “I have to go,” he repeated.
The taxi engine coughed into life. At last Lloyd turned his head and looked at her. His eyes were narrowed into fierce bright slits. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he wrenched his hand free and climbed into the cab, slamming the door behind him. He folded down one of the jump seats and sat so he could face her through the open window.
The driver revved the engine. He was really going. Suze couldn’t bear it. “Lloyd?”
“Yes?” He leaned forward eagerly.
They stared at each other for five full seconds. A stray breeze ruffled his hair. He looked very serious. Suze licked her lips. “Don’t forget to tell the driver it’s Terminal Four.”
“OK,” he said, with an effort.
Suze stepped back on the pavement, out of reach, and clasped her arms tightly behind her back. The cab began to move. “Good-bye.”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
The cab sped away, square and black as a hearse. As it braked at the corner, Suze saw one of Lloyd’s long arms unwind from the window to give a last wave. The cab turned the corner. He was gone.
Suze took a deep breath of taxi fumes, and blew them out again in one big, decisive gust. Well, that was that. She scrabbled for a cigarette in her bag, and managed to light it after three goes. What was the matter with her? She felt energetic enough to walk ten miles, yet so languid she could have lain down right then and there on the pavement. Hugging her elbows, she walked to the end of the block in short, jerky steps. At the corner she turned back, puffing furiously. In no time she had reached the next side street. She paced back again. A faint moan escaped her. It was no good denying it: he was gorgeous—funny, nice, clever, generous, divine-looking, with wonderful hair and eyes and the sexiest hands she had ever seen. She could almost feel those long fingers smoothing back her hair, or unbuttoning her—Suze spun on the sole of her shoe, turning away from such siren images.
He had gone. That was all there was to it. She might as well go home. She tossed her unfinished cigarette into the street. It was time she gave up smoking. No one liked it. She was ready for a change.
Somehow she managed the palaver of ordering a taxi and getting her bags and the cat basket stowed inside. She slid into the far corner of the leathery old seat and leaned on the armrest, blinking as the street lamps passed.
Lloyd had liked her too: she was sure of it. She remembered the expression on his face when he had said, “I don’t want to go.” But he was getting married to Betsy. He had gone. His final words were, I’ll call you. Yeah, sure.
The cabdriver was dodging through the back streets of North Kensington, as if he had a record to beat. Suddenly he braked hard, nearly catapulting Suze onto the floor. “Bloody typical!” he snarled. Suze looked up to see a pair of lights coming straight toward them down the narrow passageway between the parked cars. Muttering to himself, the driver pulled over to allow the other vehicle through. The road looked familiar, Suze thought: this was where Bridget and Toby lived. She slid across her seat to look out of the window, and there, sure enough, was the tall gray house with its brass dolphin door knocker and lavish curtaining. The shutters on the ground floor were still open, the window raised high to admit a cooling breeze. A lamp shone inside. Suze could see Bridget and Toby, sitting opposite each other at their bleached beechwood table. Bridget was resting her chin in her hand, smiling at what Toby had to say. They looked companionable, affectionate, content. There wasn’t a baby in sight.
Then the taxi moved off and the snapshot picture disappeared. But its mood lingered in her mind. Maybe coupledom wasn’t so bad. It didn’t necessarily mean you had to spend your entire time thinking about soft furnishings. It might be nice to have someone to watch out for you, and to care how you behaved. Suze wondered if she hadn’t sometimes been a little dismissive of other people’s lives.
After the experiences of the last few weeks, her old London life seemed unappealing. She wasn’t sure how easy it would be to sink back into the old routine of work, TV, episodic fitness programs and casual dinners with friends, punc
tuated by the odd late-night supermarket raid.
Within minutes, it seemed, they were in Islington, and the cabdriver was asking directions. Suze peered out of the window as he turned into her street, with its familiar landmarks—the Greek corner shop, the house that always had a pile of old mattresses outside it, the tree she liked, with orange berries in autumn. And here, by the third lamppost, was her house, looking friendly and faded, and smaller than she remembered.
Suze paid off the cab, unlocked the front door and staggered with her belongings into the narrow communal hallway. “This is your new home,” she told Chester. “You’ll like it.” There was an answering rustle from the basket.
Leaving the heavier bags for later, she opened her own inner door and climbed the stairs, carrying the basket. As she approached the first landing she became aware of three things. She could hear breathing. The light was on in her bedroom. And a mad-looking woman whom she had never seen before was standing on the step above her, one arm poised to strike. In the split second before Suze screamed, she noticed that in the woman’s raised hand was an object that—but for its state of sparkling cleanliness—might have been her very own frying pan.
Chapter Thirty-four
Gorgeous: that was the only word for her. No, not the only word—also exciting, funny, adorable, sparkling and sexy. As the taxi careered around a roundabout, Lloyd’s brain spun dizzily, remembering how she had looked at him with those wonderful hazel eyes.
Hazel? He frowned. Was that the best he could do? Her eyes were like glowing drops of amber. No: like twin topazes, or the burnt gold of angels’ halos in stained-glass windows, or maybe . . . He sighed. Her eyes were full of fun and had looked at him tenderly. It was enough.
How did she manage simultaneously to appear incredibly stylish and as if she had just fallen out of bed? Lloyd’s imagination summoned up her smooth, white skin, which flushed apricot when she was embarrassed, and her tobacco-leaf hair, spangled with copper. He thought of the seductive curve of her arms and how her mouth curled up at the corners, even when she was serious. He liked the hearty way she ate her food: she was a real woman with real appetites. He wondered . . .
Lloyd coughed and adjusted his position on the taxi seat. He hoped Suze hadn’t noticed how he kept having to look out of the window, or pretending to concentrate on his food, to stop himself overheating.
The miracle was that she had seemed to like him too—or was she just being friendly? It was a long time since Lloyd had considered himself single. He wasn’t sure how men and women behaved on dates these days. Of course, it hadn’t exactly been a date.
She was clever too. And she was brave and bold.
So why was he leaving her behind? Why hadn’t he told her how he felt? Why hadn’t he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, as he had wanted to? Why hadn’t he told her he was free?
Because he was cautious and cowardly, that’s why. There had been a moment when he might have told her about Betsy—how they had agreed, with varying measures of pain and relief, to part—but he hadn’t been able to think of a way of saying this without it sounding like a crass come-on.
Or was he just afraid of rejection? Years of living with someone had made him soft; he had suppressed the aggressive instinct of a male on the prowl. He was a wimp.
Lloyd stared broodingly at the floor of the taxi. Damn, damn, damn. He lost himself in a wash of self-pity. Damn Betsy. Damn the universe. Damn even Suze. Why did she have to be so damn pretty?
Lloyd blinked his eyes and focused on the chunky office blocks and fine 1930s factories flashing past. It looked as though he had already reached the outer fringes of London.
I’ll call you. Of all the stupid things he might have chosen to say, this was the worst, the classic exit-line of a casual Romeo. How could he?
Of course, she must already have a man in her life. Coward that he was, he had not found a way of asking outright, but she was sure to be taken. Girls as attractive as Suze were never available for more than a nanosecond between the breakup of one relationship and the start of another. For all he knew, she was already back together with Mr. Hollandaise Sauce. If not, doubtless there was someone in London waiting to pounce—a handsome viscount with a Ferrari, who would whisk her to Paris for weekends, or an arty type who would write her poems. Lloyd wanted to bite the upholstery.
He closed his eyes despairingly. Perhaps he even moaned aloud, for the cabdriver slid open the window behind his head and shouted, “Can’t hear you, mate, can I?”
Lloyd tensed. This was his moment. It was perfectly simple. People did it all the time in movies: Hey, buddy, turn the cab around. Fast. I’m heading back to town. Lloyd opened his mouth and spoke. “Did I tell you it was Terminal Four?”
The taxi thundered on into the night, leaving her further behind with every moment. Lloyd raked his fingers through his hair. He had to leave: what else could he do? It was only yesterday that he and Betsy had split up. To pick up with another woman the very next day seemed, well, ungentlemanly. Suze would think him volatile. She’d already had a couple of bad experiences with men—what blind, brainless bastards they must have been! Lloyd unclenched his fists, forcing himself to think logically. It wasn’t fair to make advances to a woman and then jump on a plane to New York. He and Suze lived thousands of miles apart. He had met her just once. The whole thing was impossible. He would put her right out of his head.
They were approaching the airport. Lloyd stared out gloomily as an obese airplane hauled itself into the sky. The cab pulled up outside the terminal building. Lloyd paid the driver and jumped out before he could change his mind.
The terminal was busy. A gridlock of baggage carts blocked the check-in desks. Lloyd glanced at the clock: it was already eleven thirty. It occurred to him that living with someone like Suze could be a nerve-racking business. At that moment, over the general babble of squealing children and holiday-happy whoops and the rumble of the luggage conveyor belt, he heard his name being called on the loudspeaker: someone was paging him. He felt alarmed, then elated. Could it be Suze?
When he fought his way to the right desk and announced his name, the uniformed man looked reproving. “Check-in was an hour and a half ago, Mr. Rockwell. Your flight is already boarding. May I see your ticket?”
It was strange not to have Betsy standing over him while he searched through all the zipped pockets of his bag. When he located the relevant documents he was told sternly to make straight for the gate. He took his place in the snaking line for Passport Control, shambling forward listlessly, dazed by the noise and glare.
Get a grip Rockwell. OK: it had been wonderful meeting her. What she had done for him at Schneider Fox had been wonderful. She was wonderful. They’d had a wonderful evening. Now it was time to go home.
Suddenly, it was his turn at the passport counter. The official looked at his photograph—the usual wild-eyed portrait of a mass murderer—then peered forward to scrutinize Lloyd’s face. His expression was impassive. I don’t have to go, Lloyd told himself. He looked around for a telephone. He could call Suze’s flat. He smiled as he imagined how she would answer, in her eager, impatient way, and how he would say . . . What would he say? A loud thud interrupted his thoughts, as the official brought down his stamp hard. “Thank you, Mr. Rockwell.” He handed Lloyd his passport.
Lloyd took it automatically. The line at his back surged forward, forcing him into the no-man’s-land of the duty-free shopping mall. Officially, he had left England. He felt dead inside. Lloyd began following signs to the gate. It was too late to turn back now.
Chapter Thirty-five
“Don’t!” yelled Suze, cowering on the shadowy stairway.
The strange woman tightened her grip on the frying pan. “Get out of my apartment or I’ll call the police!” she shrieked.
“What do you mean, your apartment?” Suze straightened boldly. “It’s my apartment.” Her eyes strayed to the frying pan. It seemed a curious object to steal.
The truth dawned o
n them both at once.
“You’re Betsy Rennslayer.”
“You’re Susannah Wilding.”
“I thought you’d moved out.”
“I thought you were coming back tomorrow.”
“Who said so?”
“Who told you that?”
“Lloyd,” they chorused. The two of them exchanged a long, speculative look.
Suze waited for her pulse to slow to normal, then picked up her bags. “Is it all right if I come up, then?”
“Well, of course!” Betsy moved aside. “What a terrible welcome this must be for you. I apologize.”
“Not at all.” Suze led the way into her sitting room. How nice it looked! She had missed her little flat. She put down her belongings and turned to Betsy. “There’s obviously been a muddle. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
Betsy was giving her an intent, not wholly friendly stare. Suze tucked her hair behind her ears, suddenly self-conscious. Her mind was full of Lloyd. Her feelings must be plastered across her face.
“Lloyd didn’t tell me you were coming tonight,” Betsy repeated obstinately.
Suze drew an impatient breath. Then she thought she understood. Betsy had been expecting to sleep here tonight. Probably she had been on the verge of putting on her nightie and getting into bed—Suze’s bed. Suze recoiled from the image. The idea of spending the night with the woman whom Lloyd was going to marry was unbearable.
She steeled herself to be polite. “Do you mean you haven’t anywhere to sleep tonight? You can stay here, if you like. I’ll go on the sofa.”
“That’s nice of you.” Betsy looked surprised. “But it’s OK. I’m staying at the hotel with Mother. I came over to pick up my clothes and make sure Lloyd had cleaned up, the way he said he would.” It was clear from the set of Betsy’s jaw that Lloyd had not fulfilled this function to her satisfaction. She put her hands indignantly on her tiny hips. “I sometimes think men just don’t see dirt the way we do. At least, some of us do,” she added.
