Rumor Has It

by Jill Mansell

  'Call her.'

  Fergus nodded and switched off the message. Next second, the phone burst into life in his hand.

  'Hi… yes, no, I was just about to… OK, calm down, no I didn't do it on purpose. I turned it off because I was busy. With work, Stella.' As he said this, Fergus turned away slightly, too guilty to meet Erin's gaze. 'Look, have you checked the fuse box?'

  The high-pitched shriek at the other end of the phone reached new heights. Erin flinched.

  'All right, all right.' Fergus heaved a sigh. 'I'll come over.'

  Oh fantastic.

  'Sorry, I couldn't say no. She's in a terrible state.' Off the phone now, Fergus was dressing hurriedly. 'Bing's thrown up twice now and it's all over the place. Probably only fur balls but she can't be sure. And it's too dark to clear up the mess.'

  He'd dressed at record speed. Lifting her face for a last kiss, Erin did her best not to feel resentful towards Stella's vomiting cat.

  Fergus stroked her cheek. 'This wasn't how I'd planned on ending this evening.'

  'I know. Me neither.' Bloody animal, buggering fuse box. Bravely Erin said, 'Never mind.'

  'I do mind. I wish I didn't have to go.' Fergus checked his watch. 'It's only eleven thirty. If it doesn't take long I could come back.'

  Erin was touched, but he'd already told her he had to meet a client in Gloucester at eight o'clock in the morning.

  'It's all right. I wish you didn't have to go too. But if you're that keen to see me again,' she smiled up at Fergus, secure enough to say it, 'I'm free tomorrow night.'

  'OK, just in case you were thinking I have a cushy job, here's the kind of crap I have to put up with.' Max's voice crackled down the phone from Oxford, where he was meeting a new client. 'Robbie and Clive are supposed to be making a start on the Marlow Road flat but they aren't going to be able to let themselves in because, get this, Robbie left the key in the pocket of his denim jacket. And guess what?' He paused for dramatic effect.

  Dutifully Tilly said, 'What?'

  'Brain of Britain Robbie went out on the lash last night, ended up at some girl's house, woke up late this morning, and managed to leave his denim jacket behind, like bloody Cinderella. By the time he realized what he'd done and went back to pick it up, the girl had left for work.'

  'So you sacked him,' Tilly guessed.

  'I'd love to sack him, silly sod. Except he's a bloody good painter and decorator, so I'd only be shooting myself in the foot. So could you be an angel, get yourself over to Jack's place and pick up the spare key, then take it over to Cheltenham? No rush, they won't get to Marlow Road before midday.'

  'OK.' Eek, Jack's place. 'I don't know where Jack lives though. Hang on, let me grab a pen and write down the address.'

  'No need. It's the house at the top of Miller's Hill, the one with the black iron gates and the best view over the valley.'

  Of course. What else?

  Tilly wondered if the iron gates were to keep out the hordes of women who chased after him, or to lock them in. Then she won dered, if she quickly changed out of her old combats and into her far more flattering black jeans, would Jack somehow be able to tell?

  The gates were open and the view was as spectacular as Max had said. There was Jack's beloved Jag on the driveway. In addition, parked next to it, was a sporty lime-green Golf. So who did that belong to, then? It was definitely a girlie car.

  Really wishing now that she'd changed into the black jeans— because in all honesty how would he have known she hadn't put them on when she'd got up this morning?—Tilly approached the L-shaped, ivy-strewn Cotswold stone house. The front door swung open as she reached it.

  'Saw you coming.' Jack was grinning at her, his hair wet from the shower and his white T-shirt clinging damply to his torso. His feet were tanned and bare and he was wearing grey jersey jogging bottoms. 'Come on in.'

  He could have just met her on the doorstep and handed over the key to the flat. Glad he hadn't, Tilly followed him through the parquet-floored hall and into a long sunny kitchen. It was all very tidy, very clean.

  'Got time for a coffee?' Jack was already filling the cafetière.

  'Why not?' She perched on a high stool and rested her elbows on the marble-topped central island. 'This is nice.'

  He half smiled. 'I know it's nice. If it weren't nice I wouldn't be living here.'

  Tilly fell silent. This was the house he and Rose had bought together at auction five and a half years ago; Tilly knew this because Max had told her. They had spent eighteen months restoring it from a shell into their dream home, only properly moving in together a few weeks before the wedding had been due to take place.

  OK, don't think about the rest of that now. Sad stories had a way of bringing tears to her eyes.

  'Jack?' A female voice, huskily seductive, called down from the top of the stairs. 'Are you finished in the bathroom now? OK if I go in the shower?'

  Tilly examined her fingernails and did her best to look as if it made absolutely no difference to her who he had stashed away upstairs.

  Not bothering to disguise his amusement—oh dear, was he still able to read her mind?—Jack raised his voice and drawled, 'Feel free, darling. Want me to scrub your back for you?'

  His guest had a velvety laugh. 'Thanks, but I think I can manage.'

  'I'm sure she can.' Jack winked at Tilly. 'One of the advantages of being double-jointed.'

  OK, he was crossing the line now. Being flirtatious was one thing, but this was teetering on the edge of sleaziness. Maybe he wasn't so nice after all.

  'Oh dear.' Catching her look of disapproval, Jack said, 'Sorry. Milk and sugar?'

  He made the coffee and they talked about Max's plans for the flat in Marlow Road. From upstairs they heard the sound of the shower running and Tilly wondered if his compulsion to sleep with more women than Robbie Williams actually brought him happiness. After ten minutes, as the shower was turned off upstairs, she drained her cup.

  'Another one?'

  'No thanks.' She didn't particularly want to meet his latest conquest. 'I'm going to pick up some food then head over to Cheltenham.'

  'I'll get you the key. Sorry to have put you out. I could have driven over there with it myself but my business manager's due in twenty minutes and we're going to be tied up all morning.' He was taking a third cup down from the cupboard, filling it with coffee as he spoke. 'Give me two minutes and I'll be right back.'

  Jack disappeared upstairs, leaving the coffee on the side. He'd probably nipped up there to have super-speedy sex with his super bendy girlfriend. Left alone in the kitchen, Tilly instantly slid off the stool and sidled out to the hall. One of the other doors, slightly ajar, looked as if it led into the sitting room which might be more interesting.

  Oh all right then, it was photos she was looking for. But that was only natural, wasn't it? Curiosity prodded her along like a stick. Double checking that the coast was clear, Tilly pushed open the oak door.

  It was a light sun-filled room with huge squashy sofas, period

  furniture and, surprisingly, several examples of modern art on the walls. But Tilly's attention was instantly drawn to the photographs in silver frames on the small circular table next to the fireplace. Stealthily she approached the table, focusing on each of the photos in turn: an old black and white one, most likely Jack's parents; one of a small boy—Jack?—racing across a field with a mad-looking black and white dog; a group shot of university-age friends in evening dress cavorting on the steps of a grand country house…

  Whoops, footsteps on the stairs, approaching at a rate of knots. Caught off guard, Tilly abruptly shot into reverse and half turned, desperate not to be caught snooping in—

  'Ow.' The heel of her boot caught in the fringed border of the rug behind her, catapulting her to the ground like a felled tree. Pain shot through the hand that had semi-broken her fall. Mortified, she heard a voice behind her exclaim, 'Oh my word. Are you all right?'

  A husky, sexy female voice, needless to say.
/>   The fall had knocked the air from Tilly's lungs; she gasped for breath and cautiously eased herself into a sitting position.

  'Hang on, mind how you go, let me help you up.' A power ful pair of arms hauled her to her feet. Deeply ashamed of herself, Tilly saw that her rescuer was a well-built woman in her mid-fifties with dark hair in a bun, a generous helping of turquoise eye shadow, and an emerald-green nylon housecoat. Behind her, plonked on the coffee table, was a wicker basket bristling with cleaning products.

  Blimey, but she was strong though. Had she been using that Mr Muscle or drinking it?

  'So, looks like the two of you have met.' From the doorway, Jack said dryly, 'Monica, this is Tilly. Tilly, this is my fantastic cleaner Monica.'

  'Hi. Thanks.' Tilly clutched her painful left hand. 'Sorry.'

  'Poor you, can you move your fingers?' It was actually quite bizarre to hear that sex-kitten voice emerging from such a no nonsense, less-than-young body.

  'Here, let me have a look.' Jack took over. 'I can't imagine how you managed to fall over. Were you leapfrogging the TV?'

  Could she lie? Would he believe her? 'My heel got caught in the rug. I was looking for the loo.'

  He carried on expertly testing each of her fingers in turn. 'We decided against installing a lavatory in the sitting room. It didn't go with the furniture.'

  OK, so he didn't believe her.

  'I looked in here to see if it was a bathroom,' Tilly amended. 'Then, when I saw it wasn't, I spotted the photos. And I was… in terested.' God, why did he have to look at her like that? Lamely, she said, 'I like looking at other people's photographs.'

  'Funny. Most people do when they come here. Does this hurt?' He began gently rotating her wrist.

  'No. It's OK, I'm fine. Nothing broken.' She retrieved her hand, decided to come clean. 'When Max was telling me about Rose he said she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. I was curious.'

  'I don't keep a photo of Rose on that table.' Jack paused. 'But at least you're honest.'

  'Sorry.'

  'Right,' Monica announced. 'I'm due a break. Did you pour me a coffee, Jack?'

  'I did.' As Monica collected her cleaning basket and bustled out of the room, he said, 'She only likes to drink it lukewarm. Here's the key, by the way.'

  'Thanks.' Tilly took it, stuffed it into the front pocket of her combats.

  'Is Max still calling me the tragic widower?'

  She pulled a face. 'Um… yes.'

  'Thought so. Well, that's OK. I'll just keep on calling him the Liverpudlian poof.' Jack looked amused. 'Did he also warn you off me?'

  'Oh yes.'

  'I suppose he would. So how does that make you feel?'

  Tilly hesitated. Truthfully, it made her feel like a fifteen-year old whose mother has told her that hitching up her school skirt by folding over the waistband half a dozen times isn't a flattering look. Just because you hear it, doesn't mean you're going to take a blind bit of notice.

  But did he seriously expect her to tell him that?

  'I'm sure it's good advice. OK, I'm off. One thing,' said Tilly. 'Was that deliberate? Letting me think you had a woman upstairs?'

  Jack grinned as he showed her out. 'I did have a woman upstairs.'

  Tilly gave him a look. Ha, she knew she'd been right.

  Chapter 12

  ERIN WATCHED THE WOMAN squeeze into the size eighteen Jaeger wool coat with the big faux fur collar.

  'I love the shape.' The woman was admiring her reflection in the mirror, turning this way and that. 'What do you think?'

  Oh dear, sometimes she really wished she had less of a con science. Hesitating, Erin had a quick wrestle with her inner cold hearted businesswoman; the coat had been here for over a fortnight now and this was the first time anyone had shown any interest in it. Furthermore, she knew that Barbara, who had brought the coat into the shop, was desperate to raise cash for a much-needed week away in Majorca.

  Then the door swung open and her heart leapt into her throat as—oh God—Stella came into the shop.

  'Don't mind me. Just looking.' Stella, glamorous in a white trouser suit, airily waved a hand and began flicking through the knitwear rail.

  'Well?' said the woman in the Jaeger coat.

  It was no good, she couldn't do it. 'The shape's really flattering,' said Erin, 'and the color's good. But I'm wondering if it might be a bit tight across the shoulders.'

  Well, that was the polite way of saying it was two sizes too small.

  'Really?' The woman's face fell. Tentatively she flexed her back, stretched her arms, sucked in her stomach, and generally tried to shrink herself into the coat.

  'I think so. After a while you might start to feel a bit constricted. Sorry,' said Erin. 'It's just my opinion.'

  The woman shrugged and stretched again, then turned hope fully to Stella. 'Do you think it's too tight?'

  'Honestly? Put it this way. If you lost three stone it'd fit you a treat.'

  That was the thing about Stella: she wasn't the type to stab you in the back. She stabbed you right there in the front so you could watch all the blood gushing out.

  'Tuh.' Stella sniffed as the door swung shut behind the woman. 'If she didn't want my opinion, she shouldn't have asked for it.'

  'Mm.' Erin started busily rearranging the handbags on the plastic shelves behind her.

  'Then again, you were the one who said the coat was a bit tight. She'd probably have bought it if you hadn't told her that. So that was quite a nice thing to do, wasn't it?' She tilted her head inquir ingly. 'You must be a pretty honest person.'

  Oh God, where was this leading? Was Stella testing her? And why was she moving closer? Did she have a gun hidden under that white jacket? With a casual shrug, Erin said, 'I just like people to buy clothes that suit them.'

  'And that coat definitely didn't suit her.' Stella's tone was dis missive. 'She looked like an overstuffed sausage. Can you pass me that cream leather bag?'

  Erin held her breath and handed it over. Stella began examining the various zips and pockets. 'This is quite nice. Good quality leather. You know, I might treat myself.' Pause. 'I deserve a treat after last night.'

  'Oh?' Just sound natural. 'What happened last night?'

  'Oh God, a fuse blew in the house and all the lights went out. Then to cap it all, my cat was sick and I didn't know where he'd been sick, so I was worried about him and I hate the dark. I'm telling you, it was a nightmare.'

  'Sounds awful.' Keep on sounding natural, just as if someone's telling you about their trip to the dentist. 'Is… is your cat all right now?'

  'He's fine.' Stella's eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as she expertly investigated the bag from every angle.

  'And… and the lights? You managed to get them back on?'

  'In the end. Fergus came over.' Exhaling noisily, Stella said, 'You know, I really think he might be secretly seeing someone behind my back.'

  'Do you?' Oh help, just breathe… and breathe again…

  Stella gave the handbag a final cursory once-over, then handed it back. 'He'd better not be, that's all I can say. Thanks, I won't bother with this. The buckle on the front looks a bit cheap.'

  It was hilarious, watching everyone come streaming out of school. At ten minutes past four, the silence was shattered by the bell ringing, and by eleven minutes past four, pupils were spilling on to the steps of Harleston Hall, weighed down with school bags and musical in struments and sports holdalls bulging with gym clothes.

  Tilly, leaning against the car waiting for Lou to emerge, watched as gaggles of girls freed their hair of scrunchies and shook it loose. Groups of boys with deliberately untucked shirts and tousled hair sauntered along. Some pupils were already plugged into their iPods. There was plenty of texting going on. Girls eyed up boys and boys chucked things at girls. A can of Red Bull went flying through the air and hit one of the sycamore trees lining the drive, exploding in a foun tain of froth. There were pupils of all shapes and sizes, slouchy boys with bad skin, know
ing girls with hiked-up skirts and kohl-lined eyes, confident athletic types, serious studious ones, cheerful jokey ones.

  And there, bless her heart, was Lou coming down the stone steps, struggling to simultaneously loop her school scarf round her neck and stuff a pair of trainers into her backpack. Tilly wondered if this was how it felt to be a proud parent; already Lou seemed more vivid, more interesting than everyone else. With her wild red-gold curls and skinny legs in matte black tights and clumpy shoes, she stood out from the rest, maybe not the prettiest girl in the school but surely the one with the sparkiest personality.