by Jill Mansell
“Ah, I see you wiz a handsome tall man,” explained Rosa five minutes later, scrutinizing the contents of Holly’s teacup and pursing her lips as she concentrated. “You are wearing a red dress, very grand, very beautiful.”
Right, thought Holly determinedly. She’d rush into Bath as soon as she got off duty and buy one.
“And you are laughing and having such fun wiz your handsome man, it is a night to remember for the rest of your life.”
“Is he in love with me?” breathed Holly, her eyes shining as she searched Rosa’s face for clues. If she knew that Max really did love her, it would make everything so much easier… They could dispense with all those silly, time-wasting formalities…
But Rosa shook her dark head slowly from side to side, like a ponderous pendulum. “Ah, no, not loff. But there is great attraction, which may lead to loff. Zis is just the beginning, after all. And such great attraction is a very promising sign, my dear. Not to be sneezed at or tossed aside in moments of despair.”
“Rosa, you’re incredible!” sighed Holly, her very toes curling in ecstasy at the prospect of Friday night. “And don’t worry, there aren’t going to be any moments of despair. Now that I know what’s what, I’ll be able to have the situation completely under control. Oh, how am I ever going to get through the rest of the week…?”
• • •
One really did need to spend an awful lot of time preparing for the best night of one’s life, mused Holly happily four days later as, to the sensual strains of Dido, she wallowed in her foaming, freesia-scented bath and lazily soaped her breasts.
She had even constructed a timetable; bath at four o’clock, all-over moisturizer at four thirty, hair at five, nail polish at six, makeup at six thirty, get dressed at seven fifteen, and finally primp for an hour or so until Max arrived at eight thirty. And she would have to force herself to eat a sandwich or two, she reminded herself with a brief, rueful smile. She wasn’t going to drink on an empty stomach and run the risk of passing out on Max a second time. Tonight was going to be absolutely perfect.
Chapter 42
The hotel was busy; the hugely popular Mad Hatter’s Ball, held annually at Shilton Court just a few miles away, began at nine, and many of those attending were making an early start in the bar at The Grange, having several glasses of Bollinger before heading off for the all-night festivities and a great many more bottles of champagne.
“Could you tell me, my dear, where I can find Max Monahan?”
Sylvie Nash looked up and smiled at the woman in the olive-green turban and dark glasses who was leaning conspiratorially over the reception desk. Her husky, accented voice was vaguely familiar, but the glasses effectively masked her face.
“He’s upstairs,” she replied, eyeing the expensive outfit and recognizing a Donna Karan when she saw one. Sylvie’s bible was Vogue. “If you could give me your name, I’ll ring through and tell him you’re here.”
The woman smiled, revealing wonderfully white teeth, and shook her head with a playful gesture. “Ah, but that would spoil the surprise, I think. Just say that an old friend has arrived to see him. And when he comes down those stairs we shall watch the expression on his face, OK?”
Max’s expression, when he finally appeared several minutes later, was indeed worth watching. Disbelief mingled with joy, and Sylvie avidly drank in every detail as he pulled Francine Lalonde—for now that she had removed those dark glasses her identity had become obvious—into his arms.
“I can’t believe it,” he murmured, breathing in the faint, exotic scent of her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? How long can you stay? God, it’s so wonderful to see you!”
“I missed you,” said Francine, smiling up at him and kissing him again. “And I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a big surprise. But the surprise might be too big, I think,” she went on, drawing back and pouting with mock concern as she eyed his dinner jacket and dangling bow tie. “It seems that you have other arrangements for this evening. Maybe you are going to abandon me for another woman, Max?”
“Are you joking?” he exclaimed, hugging her more tightly still. “I wouldn’t abandon you… I’m not going to let go of you for a single second… No, no, it was just a very casual arrangement. Give me two minutes on the phone and I’ll sort everything out. Holly’s a decent girl; she’ll understand.”
• • •
“…so you do understand, don’t you,” Max continued, blithely unaware of the havoc he was wreaking, of the complete and utter devastation he had caused.
“Of course,” said Holly, amazed that she was still capable of speech. Her entire body, including her brain, had gone quite numb; she couldn’t understand what she had done to deserve this. And what the bloody hell did Max think he was doing? Rosa had foreseen them together at the ball, happy and laughing and greatly attracted toward each other…
“Look, I am sorry,” said Max, sounding anything but. “And I know it’s short notice, but I’m sure you can dig up a friend somewhere. I’ll send a cab over to you with the tickets, and you can have a fabulous night without me.”
When the doorbell rang ten minutes later, Holly, her eyes now as red as her dress and her breath coming in great gulps as she struggled to quell unstoppable tears, spent some time ignoring it.
But the taxi driver clearly wasn’t going to go away until he had delivered his tickets, and the bell continued to jangle gratingly on her already shredded nerves. Finally, slowly, Holly made her way downstairs, almost tripping over the long hem of her ruby-red taffeta dress as she went.
“Oh, my poor girl, come here,” said Adam Perry, enveloping her in his massive rugby player’s arms and letting her cry all over the front of his dinner jacket. “I was passing through reception when I heard Max speaking to you on the phone. Sweetheart, it’s about time you got him out of your system for good. He’s not worth all this; really, he isn’t.”
Once she’d gotten over the shock of finding Adam on her doorstep, Holly began to panic. He always seemed to see her at her very worst, and she couldn’t bear the fact that he knew how much Max had hurt her.
“He’s an absolute shit,” he went on, when they reached her sitting room. “I know you don’t have a great opinion of me, but I’m not as bad as he is.”
“Yes, you are,” she countered between hiccups, her expression accusing. “You stood me up the other week. I saw you down at the Calypso with Clarissa Fox. So there wasn’t any need for you to come over here tonight and gloat,” she added bitterly, “because I’m quite used to being chucked over for other women, really I am. Nobody else in the world has had more practice at it than me.”
“Here, dry your eyes and do your face,” said Adam calmly, handing her a box of tissues and propelling her toward the bathroom. “I waited for you to phone, and when you didn’t I popped down to the Calypso for a quick drink on my own. I just happened to bump into Clarissa while I was there, and you must know what she’s like—once those man-seeking missiles she wears down the front of her dress home in on you, you’re sunk.”
Holly dug her heels in at the bathroom door. “I don’t want to do my face. What’s the point, anyway? I’m hardly planning on going to the ball on my own.”
“Don’t be such a wimp,” he declared brusquely. “I’m here, aren’t I? And we don’t need Max’s charity, if that’s what you’re worried about—I do have a double ticket of my own. You’re going to the ball with me, Holly, and you’re going to enjoy it even if it damn well kills you.”
• • •
“There now,” he said many hours later as they came together for one last dance in the oak-paneled, petal-strewn ballroom. “Tonight hasn’t really been so bad, has it?”
Holly smiled. It was four thirty in the morning, and all around them sleeping couples were draped over furniture, leaving only about three hundred guests to carry on dancing, singing, and carousing until
dawn broke, but she hadn’t given in. She had continued to smile and socialize as if she hadn’t a care in the world and no one, not even Adam, could have guessed how hard it had really been to maintain the charade.
Yet at the same time she was forced to acknowledge that it could have been worse. In a detached way she had also managed to enjoy herself. Adam had been a wonderful partner, his noisy friends—currently refueling themselves with breakfast in the dining hall—were funny, spectacularly complimentary, and entertaining, and several of Holly’s own girlfriends had been equally appreciative of Adam.
“He’s madly attractive,” Sophie Kendall had enthused while Adam was—thankfully—out of earshot. “You lucky thing, darling! Is he just as gorgeous without his clothes on?”
But whereas other men had ears, Adam possessed sonar. From his position at the roulette table he had turned, grinning broadly, and declared, “Even more gorgeous, I promise you. And if you don’t believe me, meet me upstairs in five minutes.” With a wink in Holly’s direction he had added, “My muscle tone has to be seen to be believed, doesn’t it, my darling?”
His cheerful badinage had certainly helped the evening along. Holly, secure in the circle of his arms, rested her cheek against his rocklike chest as the music slowed and told herself for the tenth time that it really could have been worse. It still astonished her that Sophie, Melissa, and the others had actually found Adam so attractive, but each to her own, after all. And she was glad that he had persuaded her to come here tonight instead of leaving her alone in her apartment to mope.
But Rosa Polonowski, thought Holly sorrowfully, had a great deal to answer for. Because she would have been so much more glad, so very much more glad, if only Adam could have been Max.
Chapter 43
Word of Francine Lalonde’s arrival at The Grange having spread like wildfire through the hotel, the other guests and a flock of reporters—who had descended from nowhere—were all dying to see her. Consequently, Francine and Max spent the first three days of her week-long stay almost entirely closeted in his suite, which suited both of them perfectly.
Francine, recovering from the rigors of filming, ate and made love and spent a great deal of time asleep. Max, as besotted as ever with her beauty and capricious character, ate and made love and sat, ostensibly working on his latest novel but in reality watching her sleep. And since Francine took such great pleasure in all three forms of activity, he couldn’t imagine a nicer way of spending their time together.
But on Tuesday morning, as Max drew back the curtains and bright sunlight flooded the bedroom, Francine announced that her “lazy-boning” was over and that today she wanted to explore Bath. “And I must see this hotel,” she added, sliding out of bed and heading for the bathroom. “To stay in bed for so long is too decadent. Now that I am restored I need to meet new people and have fun.”
“I thought we were having fun,” said Max. Her directness, at times, was alarming.
“Of course we were,” Francine consoled him, her sherry-brown eyes alight with amusement. “But that kind of fun can get boring after a while. And we don’t want to get bored, darling, do we?”
• • •
“Oh my!” declared Francine admiringly as they made their way out onto the sun-drenched terrace. Ross, sitting alone at one of the tables with a pot of coffee and a pile of paperwork, rose to his feet as they approached. “Max, your little brother is quite something. I tell you, it’s a good thing I met you first, or maybe I could have been tempted—”
“Hi,” said Ross, shaking her hand and realizing at once that Francine had expected him to kiss it. “It’s nice to meet you at last—we were beginning to think Max was holding you hostage upstairs.”
“He was,” Francine confided, employing her huskiest tones, “but now I have escaped. And I am thinking that maybe he hid me away so I wouldn’t find out that his brother is more handsome than any film star. Ross, I know I shouldn’t say such things, but Max has told me what happened and I have to say that this girl of yours—Tessa, is it?—must be stark-raving mad not to marry you. Absolutely loopy!”
“Sit down, darling,” said Max hurriedly, shooting her a warning look. Francine, arranging her skirt to maximum advantage as she settled herself into the chair, shrugged and laughed. “Now he is cross with me because I don’t keep my thoughts to myself like a good Englishwoman,” she told Ross. “But since we both know that I am saying the truth, why on earth should I keep quiet?”
“Absolutely,” said Ross, with a wry smile. “And I happen to agree with every word you say.”
“But are you still desperately in love with her, despite that cruel thing she did?” persisted Francine, her eyes round with concern. Max, unable to cope with such brutal frankness, left them to it. Maybe by the time he had ordered breakfast and made a couple of overdue phone calls they would have settled upon a more neutral topic of conversation.
“Yes,” said Ross simply, when Max had left.
“But it is so tragic! Look at you—you can have any woman in the world, and here you are being somber and desolated all because of one girl who is too crazy to know when she is on to a good thing.”
Such outrageous flattery was undoubtedly pleasant to hear, but Ross wasn’t about to let it go to his head. All women, in his experience, were actresses, and professional actresses were the worst of the lot. How could anyone ever believe a single word they said?
But Francine, it seemed, could read minds as well. “I know, I know,” she declared impatiently, “but I am telling the truth. Look, I have been in bed for too long and now I don’t feel like sitting down. Why don’t you show me that beautiful conservatory over there… Do you have orchids in it?… Oh, please, Ross, come on! I have a great passion for orchids, and by the time we get back, our breakfast will be arrived. OK?”
• • •
The temperature and humidity inside the conservatory was tropical, but Francine didn’t appear to be bothered by the heat. Exclaiming delightedly over the glorious effect of the stained glass windows, she turned and took Ross’s hand, drawing him away from his position at the door.
“My God, it’s incredible—like standing inside a rainbow! And such flowers.” She sighed with an expansive gesture toward the lush foliage arching above their heads. “This must be your favorite place to be.”
The conservatory reminded Ross too acutely of his first fateful meeting with Tessa to be able to afford him much pleasure nowadays and he tended to avoid it, but he wasn’t about to tell Francine that.
“It’s a popular feature of the hotel,” he said instead, his tone neutral. Francine, undoing a couple of extra buttons on her white camisole top, gave him an extremely knowing look.
“But not as popular as its manager, I think. Ross, I know I am a forward woman. When I think something I say it, and it can alarm some people, but I want you to know that I find you very attractive indeed. Do you find me attractive also?”
Christ, she was coming on, thought Ross. This was all he needed. “I should imagine,” he replied slowly, “that every heterosexual male in Europe finds you attractive. You don’t really need to ask questions like that, do you?”
“But it is so wonderful to hear,” pouted Francine, trailing the feathery fronds of a particularly fragile fern beneath her fingers. “It’s so nice for the ego, don’t you think? And so encouraging to know that one’s interest in a man is being returned.”
If the situation hadn’t been so delicate, it would have been funny. Trust Max, thought Ross wryly, to lose his head over a woman who was quite possibly an out-and-out nymphomaniac. But meanwhile, Francine was still smiling that legendary smile of hers and moving slowly but deliberately toward him. The time had come, he judged, for some straight talking.
“Look,” he said bluntly, “it wouldn’t matter how attractive I thought you were. Max is my brother, and I do have some scruples…”
“So?” c
ountered Francine with an elegant shrug. “I am not married to Max, am I? We have a working partnership, if you like—he has written a film script for me, and when the film is made, I shall star in it. We are of mutual advantage to each other, that is all. The fact that we also like to go to bed together is…how do you say?…by the by. It’s fun, Ross, but it isn’t a big love thing. Max knows that.”
“Maybe,” said Ross, who knew differently. “But all the same, I really don’t feel—”
“OK, OK,” Francine intercepted him, still smiling and quite unperturbed. “But take it from me, I have an instinct for such things. We shall be lovers before the end of the week, Ross, I promise you.”
• • •
The hotel guests weren’t the only ones eager to catch a glimpse of Francine Lalonde. Accustomed though they were to visiting celebrities, the staff were nevertheless equally curious to meet the famous actress with whom Max was so totally and uncharacteristically besotted.
Grace, having drawn the longest straw in the kitchen, took extra care not to spill so much as a single drop of coffee as she made her way carefully out onto the terrace, but to her disappointment Ross’s table was unoccupied.
Assorted papers, however, still littered the table at which he had been sitting, so she laid the tray carefully down next to them and, blinking in the bright sunlight, scanned the emerald lawns sloping down beyond the terrace. Still no sign of either Ross or their illustrious guest.
But moments later, as she turned back toward the hotel, she glimpsed a flash of white amid the tropical jungle colors of the conservatory. Ross and Francine must be inside, she realized. And since their breakfast should not be allowed to go cold, she must let them know that it was waiting for them out here.
