by Jill Mansell
“Out on the beach.” Adam pulled a stool across, helped himself to a San Miguel, and sat down. “Look, I’m still worried about her. Do you really think she’s happy here?”
It was a conversation they’d had before, not helped by the fact that Tessa herself invariably insisted that she was. Holly, busy maintaining her own facade, found it hard to gauge the state of Tessa’s emotions. Sometimes she wondered whether they weren’t battling on like two characters in a particularly dreadful play, struggling to please the hardworking producer—Adam, of course—because it really wasn’t his fault that they were working with a truly god-awful script.
“She seems OK.” Holly shrugged. “We’ve always told each other everything. If she was really miserable, I’d know about it.” Then she paused, not wholly convinced by her own reasoning. “At least, I’m sure she’s as happy here as she would be at home. And she certainly doesn’t seem to want to go back…”
“Do you?”
He had seen the book, caught her out like a father discovering his young son with a copy of Playboy. Still polishing and stacking glasses with automatic agility, she returned his sober gaze.
“Yes. But only because I’m a pathetic wimp.”
“Will you go?”
She shrugged again and turned away. “No, because it wouldn’t do any good. There’s no happy ending either way, but at least by coming out here I’m doing something different.”
There could be a happy ending, thought Adam helplessly as he finished his beer. He could make the ending a happy one. If only Holly could get Max out of her system and realize how very, very much he cared for her himself.
• • •
By the time Max paused for a rest it had grown dark outside, and only the green glow from the screen of his laptop illuminated the room.
Sitting back in his chair and fishing his half-smoked cigarette from the overflowing ashtray, he surveyed the words on the screen before him with enormous pleasure. Everything else might be up the creek at the moment, but at least his writing was going well, this latest novel unfolding with miraculous ease practically of its own accord. The original meticulous synopsis having fallen by the wayside, Max was now learning to trust his instincts; he didn’t have a clue what would happen next, but he knew that whatever it was, it was going to be bloody good.
Which was just as well, he thought ruefully. This book was the only decent thing to have come out of the past few weeks. Although it was only the beginning of December, the Christmas celebrations had already begun and night after night, riotous office parties were being held at The Grange. Ross, not in the sunniest of moods, had taken to closeting himself in his office with piles of paperwork, to the intense disappointment of the female guests and the relief of his long-suffering staff. If Ross could have banned Christmas, he would have done so. As it was, he simply refused to join in. Tessa, thought Max with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation, had a lot to answer for. Wherever she and that bitch Holly might be.
The other irritations in his life at the moment were Francine and Grace. Francine was an irritation because he had been unable to get in touch with her for almost two months now. Grace, on the other hand, was ever-bloody-present. And while Ross had apparently gotten used to the idea that she was his daughter—their friendship, though still tentative, was gradually strengthening—Max was quite unable to come to terms with the fact that this quiet, watchful, self-possessed teenager was his niece.
Thank God for Caroline Mortimer, he thought, flicking a switch and watching as the printer began to churn out pristine sheets of completed manuscript. His agent was coming down from London to see him tomorrow, and he would be even more than usually pleased to see her. He couldn’t wait to show her what he’d written. And with neither Francine nor Holly currently around, he was also looking forward to taking her to bed.
• • •
When the phone rang at seven thirty the following morning, dragging him into semiconsciousness, he grunted with sleepy annoyance. When he heard Francine’s voice, however, he became fully alert in an instant.
“Max! You sound like someone who is half dead. Are you OK?”
He hauled himself up on one elbow. Suddenly all was right with the world. Francine might have lousy timing, but the fact that she’d contacted him was all that mattered.
“I’m fine. Where are you?” He wondered whether she could possibly be back in England, then realized that even if she wasn’t, he had to see her anyway. And now that the book was so far along he could easily afford to take off for a couple of weeks.
“Barbados, darling! Such a beautiful island, and so hot… I think I am in paradise! And you should see the view from this window…”
Barbados. It was an enticing thought, even without the added attraction of Francine’s voluptuous presence. God, he was halfway to an erection already, just thinking about it.
Glancing out of his own window at the decidedly unenticing gray sky and mist-shrouded hills, he smiled and said, “I can think of far nicer things to do on a tropical island than sitting and admiring the view. If I was there, you wouldn’t have time to—”
“Oh, Max,” breathed Francine with that famously sensual sigh. “You’re so wicked! And you’re right, it would have been so nice if you could have been, but…”
“I can be there,” he cut in, his tone triumphant. “Francine, give me the address. I’ll catch the first flight out.”
“Darling Max!” This time the sigh was a sorrowful one. “You don’t understand. You simply can’t come.”
His erection subsided, as if in silent agreement. For a moment he was unable to speak.
“You see, I had to speak with you, to explain that I won’t be doing your film,” continued Francine. Her husky accent intensified, as it always seemed to do when she was about to tell him something she knew he wouldn’t like.
His fingers, gripping the receiver, turned white. “Why not?”
“Well, the other week I fell in love with this beautiful man—you must have heard of him, his name is Pietro Giannini—and tomorrow morning we are getting married. I am so happy, Max! He is everything I ever wanted—I would die for him—but he has read your film script, and he doesn’t think that such a role would be good for me.” There was a pause, then Francine continued gaily, “So, of course, I have to do as he says, like a good wife-to-be, and tell you that the deal is off.”
Max couldn’t believe this was happening. Pietro Giannini wasn’t beautiful; he was disgustingly rich—reputedly a billionaire—and sixty-five if he was a day. He was also—naturally—one of the most powerful film producers in the world.
“I see,” he said finally, wondering why he didn’t put down the phone. He’d heard all he needed to hear, after all.
“I knew you would understand,” purred Francine. “We always did understand each other, didn’t we, Max? And I know your film will be a success, even without me in it. You’ll find someone else to play my part.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“Oh, and, Max! I have the funniest thing to tell you.” Oblivious to his lack of enthusiasm, her voice chattered on. “My press agent sent me a newspaper clipping the other week stating that you and I were going to be married! Isn’t it hysterical, darling? Where do these crazy journalists get their ideas, I ask you! Can you imagine anyone seriously believing a story as silly as that…?”
• • •
Fed up with work, and with the sounds of drunken frivolity emanating from the ballroom where a local insurance company was holding its Christmas bash, Ross pushed the mound of files into his desk drawer and reached for his jacket.
“Tell Hugh to keep an eye on that lot,” he said to Grace, nodding in the direction of the party. “I’m going out for a couple of hours.”
“Right. Don’t forget that you have a meeting scheduled for two thirty with the man from that travel company.”
&
nbsp; Ross had forgotten.
“Jack Dreyfuss,” added Grace helpfully. “He wants to organize a sales conference for two hundred, in mid-January.”
“Right.” He smiled briefly. The silver lining to Holly’s precipitate departure had been Grace, without whom the hotel might well have ceased to function. She knew everything, often even before it knew itself, and he was inordinately grateful for her discreet efficiency. “Thanks.”
As he made his way toward the doors, she called after him, “Could you let Mum know that I won’t be home until eight o’clock this evening?”
Astounded, Ross turned to face her. “How on earth did you know that I’d be seeing your mother?”
Grace colored and shrugged. “Sorry. I just did. You looked as if you needed to.”
It was bizarre, he thought as he pulled up outside the house fifteen minutes later, that Mattie should be the person with whom he felt most at ease now. Having somehow gotten into the habit of visiting her once or twice a week purely to make sure that she was all right, her company had become gradually more and more necessary; these days it seemed to be his only lifeline.
Only with Mattie could he really relax, only she truly understood his own private torture. Their conversations—hers about Richard, his about Tessa—were intensely private and strangely, if temporarily, cathartic. Nobody understood better than she did how he was feeling, because she herself felt exactly the same way. It was masochistic, he supposed, but also comforting. Not to mention ironic…
Chapter 61
“Well?” demanded Max, not exactly in carnival mood. Even Caroline Mortimer’s presence—and her reputation as the most beddable literary agent in London—had failed to lighten his spirits this afternoon. He was in the mood to argue, and by the stern light of battle in her eyes, it appeared that she was as well.
“Max, it’s good,” replied Caroline evenly. Then she adjusted the shoulder pads of her chestnut-brown suede jacket, a sure sign of trouble. “But it’s no good, if you understand what I’m saying.”
They hadn’t been to bed yet, he reminded himself. She was probably just frustrated. A hurried lunch, followed by an hour of the speed reading for which she was equally renowned, wasn’t exactly conducive to good humor. Or maybe, he thought darkly, it was some kind of joke. Dammit, he knew that this latest novel was great.
“What are you talking about?” he asked crossly, gesturing toward the discarded manuscript piled neatly before her. “It’s brilliant. I’ve never written anything so easily before in my life. It practically wrote itself…”
Caroline sat back in her swivel chair and lit a cigarette, her shrewd gray eyes fixing upon Max with wry amusement.
“Look, the brutal truth is my job. It’s what pays me my paltry ten percent, for heaven’s sake! Max, as a novel it’s fine, but it simply isn’t your kind of novel. It won’t work. Your readers expect action, sex, thrills, violence, and more sex. What you’re giving them here is a goddamn love story.”
“What?” Max, unable for the second time that day to believe that this was actually happening to him, stood and glared at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He swiped the cigarette from her fingers. Caroline calmly pulled another from the open packet and lit it.
“Trust me,” she said, blowing a perfect smoke ring. “I’m good and you know it, so you can trust me. We could publish this novel, of course, but it isn’t what your readers expect from Max Monahan, so if you take my advice you’ll bring it out under another name. It is good, Max, it’s wonderful. If I weren’t an agent it would bring tears to my eyes. But it’s still a love story, and what interests me most at this point in time is who is this woman you’re so crazy about? Come on, Max, I’m intrigued. Tell me all about her. You know you can trust me.”
She didn’t understand at all. It was the final fucking betrayal. Max, unaccustomed to criticism from anyone, least of all Caroline, continued to glare.
“I’m not crazy about anyone,” he snapped, but Caroline merely shrugged and smiled with the irritating demeanor of one who knows best.
“You’re wrong!” reiterated Max, stubbing out his half-smoked cigarette and forcing from his mind the faint, niggling notion that she might be right. It was a bloody good story, that was all, and the fact that it contained a little more love interest than usual meant absolutely nothing whatsoever.
“I’m never wrong,” replied Caroline, smoothing her sleeked-back hair with her left hand and glancing at her watch. “Max, think about it. Maybe it’s time you settled down. It isn’t such a terrible idea, so stop fighting it. Look, I have a train to catch in just over an hour. Are we going to spend that hour in bed or not?”
“Absolutely not,” snarled Max, irritated beyond belief by her attitude. She wasn’t the only one who could be uncooperative when she set out to be.
“My God, and he’s faithful too,” said Caroline with a faintly mocking smile. Rising to her feet, she straightened her immaculate skirt and tapped the manuscript with an expertly manicured, glossy beige fingernail. “Believe it or not, I’m pleased to hear it, Max. Men like you aren’t built for bachelorhood.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Read it again, sweetie.” Picking up her bag, she slung it cheerfully over her shoulder. “When you’ve calmed down. If you possess half the brain cells I think you do, you should be able to figure it out for yourself.”
Max swore beneath his breath. This was all too much. He couldn’t handle it.
“And stop thinking that it’s something to be ashamed of,” concluded Caroline, pausing with her hand on the door. “It’s quite natural. And if it’s any consolation, I rather envy her. Whoever she is, she’s a very lucky girl.”
• • •
With the phone off the hook and the bottle of good wine—which Caroline Mortimer hadn’t stayed to share—to keep him company, it took Max four and a half hours to reread the five hundred pages of completed manuscript. By the time he had finished, the bottle was empty, he had run out of cigarettes, and his back ached.
Even worse, however, he was forced to admit to himself that Caroline had been right.
Bloody hell, he thought, glaring at the untidily strewn pages spilling over the bed. He didn’t understand how something like this could happen… He genuinely hadn’t realized what he was doing… He couldn’t comprehend how such a character could have wormed her way into his novel and taken it over so completely. Particularly when that character, in every quirk and detail, was so undeniably Holly King.
Granted, he no longer actively disliked her. The reality of Holly was a vast improvement over the impression she had first made upon him; her gregarious nature and over-the-top style of dress no longer actively offended him, and she was undoubtedly good company, both in bed and out. In the beginning, when she had tried so hard to impress him, he had instinctively drawn back, appalled by such blatant puppy-dog devotion. But once she’d calmed down and treated him normally, she had improved—in his eyes—beyond all recognition. She had been fun to be with. During their times together they had gotten along famously. And best of all, they had understood each other. Max could certainly understand how a man—if he was the marrying kind—might fall in love and want to marry Holly.
But now he had to come to terms with the idea that he had unwittingly become more involved with her than he’d either anticipated or consciously realized.
Whoever would have thought it, he mused, running his index finger idly around the rim of his empty wineglass. Life was indeed strange, although if Caroline thought he was going to let his heart rule his head, she didn’t know him as well as she imagined she did. He supposed he should be grateful, at least, for the fact that he absolutely was not the marrying kind…
• • •
It was probably just as well, thought Ross, that Grace wasn’t on duty. Even Sylvie, diplomatic to the last, had sounded decide
dly frosty when she’d buzzed through to his office in order to announce that he had a visitor.
Moments later the door had opened and Antonia appeared before him, her expression wary, her features taut with pride.
He hadn’t seen her for over six weeks. The overdose of sleeping pills had been real enough, but she had lied about the acetaminophen tablets; the gastric washout had done the trick, and within a week she had been discharged from the hospital. According to the psychiatrist who had attended her, she was suffering from a reactive depression. She had to give herself time in which to come to terms with her grief and learn to put the past behind her. Impulsive, anti-social behavior wasn’t the answer…
“You have to put the past behind you,” Ross had reminded her when she had relayed the conversation back to him. Residual guilt mingled with anger and relief. Antonia hadn’t destroyed her own life, but she had certainly succeeded in wrecking his. “As far as I’m concerned, I never want to see you again.”
And now here she was, enveloped in an olive-green trench coat, cream leather boots, and a cashmere scarf, looking scared but determined. If she even tried to give him any trouble, he swore he’d pick her up and toss her through the nearest window. If anybody was justified in displaying impulsive, anti-social behavior, he was.
“I know you didn’t want to see me again,” said Antonia, “but I thought you might like to know that I’m off to the States this afternoon.”
“Really.”
“Florida. Miami. My aunt’s invited me to stay with her…indefinitely.”
Thanks to Antonia, Ross hadn’t seen Tessa or Olivia for seven weeks. He didn’t know when, or if, he would ever see them again. He was glad Antonia was leaving, but if she thought he was going to fling his arms around her and kiss her good-bye, she could bloody well think again.
