An Offer You Can't Refuse

by Jill Mansell

  ‘Wh-what do you mean? I d-don’t understand.’ It came out as a whisper. ‘I thought you liked me.’

  ‘I do like you.’ Nick shook his head. ‘Of course I do,’ he insisted. ‘You’re Lola’s friend.’

  This was a nightmare. Sally felt sick and suddenly, hideously sober. In a lifetime of faux pas, this one took the biscuit. Never before had she made quite such a prize idiot of herself as this.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Nick was clearly mortified. ‘I had no idea.’

  That only made it worse.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I thought you were flirting with me.’ At least she could be honest—there was no point in trying to pretend the kiss had been some kind of accident.

  Vehemently Nick shook his head. ‘I was just being friendly. I was glad we seemed to be getting on so well. I want my daughter’s friends to like me.’

  Humiliation was washing over Sally in waves; she’d liked him so much she was mentally already pregnant with their first child. How could she have got it so utterly, completely wrong? How was she ever going to erase the memory of that kiss from her brain? She’d never be able to forget the moment she launched herself at his mouth and felt him freeze in disbelief… oh, oh God…

  ‘Come on, sit down.’ Nick skillfully steered her away from the window and lowered her into a chair. ‘And don’t be upset. I’m incredibly flattered.’

  But not flattered enough to reciprocate her feelings, obviously.

  ‘You’re a beautiful girl. Any man would be proud to have you as his girlfriend.’

  Any man except you, obviously.

  ‘Look, I have to leave.’ Nick checked his watch, clearly lying but desperate to escape. ‘Why don’t I make you that coffee now, then I’ll be off.’

  Because I don’t want bloody coffee, I want a gallon of weedkiller.

  ‘And don’t worry, we’ll just pretend this never happened. Lola doesn’t need to know. I won’t tell her,’ Nick said gently. ‘I won’t breathe a word to anyone. That’s a promise.’

  ***

  It took Gabe half a minute to reach his car. He zapped open the door and sank into the driver’s seat, appalled by what he’d learned about himself in the last thirty seconds. Because he genuinely hadn’t had any idea, not even the remotest inkling, that the sight of Sally with another man could make him feel like this.

  Yet… it had. Despite the fact that she drove him insane on a daily basis, that she lived her life surrounded by clutter and chaos and that domestically they were about as compatible as Tom and Jerry, in the space of just a few seconds Gabe discovered that he was capable of white-hot jealousy where Sally was concerned. Because he didn’t want her to be seeing someone else.

  Oh God, now he knew he was going stark staring mad. Sally, of all people. Gabe groaned aloud and rubbed his hands over his face. This couldn’t be happening; he didn’t want to want her. She was the last person on the planet he needed to get involved with.

  Except… well, that wasn’t going to happen anyway, was it? It wasn’t as if it was even an option, because she was already involved with someone else.

  Bloody hell, Lola’s dad. How long had that been going on? And they’d been keeping it very quiet, although this was hardly surprising given the circumstances. Lola was currently doing her damnedest to get her mum and dad back together. If Nick and Sally were prepared to take the risk of her discovering that one of her best friends had pinched him instead… well, it had to be serious.

  Gabe felt sick. First Savannah, then a puncture on the M4 on the way back to London, and now this. What a ridiculous situation to be in.

  Seeing as he couldn’t go back to the flat for a while, Gabe switched on the ignition. The car radio came to life, belting out an REM classic. Michael Stipe, never the cheeriest of souls, sang mournfully, ‘Eeeeeeeeeverybody huuuuuurrrrrrts…’

  Hmm, with Sally’s track record the chances were that she was the one who’d end up getting hurt.

  ‘Eeeeeeeverybody huuuuuuurrrrts—’

  Oh, do shut up. Impatiently Gabe jabbed the off button, cutting Michael Stipe off in mid-warble. Who was he trying to kid? Right now, he was the one hurting. Jealousy was a new sensation and it was gnawing away in his chest like battery acid.

  He didn’t like this feeling one bit.

  ***

  Sally was in the kitchen when Gabe arrived home at midnight. Hobbling out in her dressing gown clutching a packet of Kettle chips, she watched him shrug off his jacket.

  ‘Where have you been? You look awful.’

  Gabe glanced at her. ‘Not looking so fantastic yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Sally already knew she looked like poo. Feeling sorry for yourself and having a good old two-hour blub in the bath was capable of doing that to you. She’d tried to scrub away the shame of having made an idiot of herself but it hadn’t worked. Basically, as far as men were concerned, she always had been and always would be a walking disaster.

  OK, a limping one.

  But at least Gabe didn’t know about this afternoon’s debacle with Nick. Attempting normality Sally said, ‘Been working all this time?’

  He shrugged. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any good shots?’

  ‘No.’ Gabe was standing stiffly by the window gazing out into the darkness, his streaky blond hair disheveled and his hands now stuffed into the pockets of his ancient jeans.

  Annoyed by the fact that he hadn’t even noticed, Sally said, ‘Spot the difference?’

  His jaw was taut. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, if this is how observant you are it’s no wonder you miss out on all the best photos! How does this room look to you?’

  This time his gaze swept over the floor, the sofa, the coffee table. ‘Have you tidied up a bit?’

  ‘A bit?’ Incredulous, Sally exclaimed, ‘I tidied up a lot. Even with my bad leg! I cleared stuff away, put a load of magazines out for recycling, polished the table with Mr Sheen… I took all my lipsticks and hair things off the window sill…’

  ‘What brought this on?’

  She flushed. A mixture of guilt, shame, and displacement therapy had spurred her into action. Keeping busy meant she didn’t have time to keep going over all the bad stuff buzzing around in her brain.

  Aloud Sally said, ‘I just thought I should try and start making a real effort. I know it annoys you when I’m untidy.’

  ‘And you suddenly decided to do it just for me?’ There was a discernible edge to Gabe’s voice. He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. ‘Or is it for the benefit of people in general?’

  ‘People in general.’ Sally bristled at his tone. ‘Why are you being like this?’

  For a split second he opened his mouth and looked as if he was about to retaliate. Then he shook his head instead and said, ‘OK, forget it, I’m just tired. It’s been a hell of a day.’

  You could say that again. And Sally knew her ordeal wasn’t over yet. Since it would look suspicious if she suddenly started avoiding Nick, she was going to have to put on a brave face and pretend everything was fine whenever they encountered each other… oh God, maybe it would be easier to emigrate…

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped.’ Gabe’s voice softened. ‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll open a bottle of wine?’

  More wine, after all the trouble it had got her into at lunchtime? Shuddering at the memory and only too aware that if Gabe were to turn sympathetic she could end up blabbing out everything—oh yes, and wouldn’t that help matters—Sally shook her head. ‘No thanks, I’m off to bed.’

  Chapter 43

  Lola had just finished serving a customer when she glanced up and saw a vision entering the shop.

  OK, not an actual vision. Doug.

  It really was him. In person. Incredible.

  What’s more, she hadn’t even
realized she’d said his name aloud, but she must have done because Cheryl, next to her, followed the line of her gaze and said, ‘That’s Doug?’ She sounded duly impressed. As well she might.

  Lola nodded.

  ‘Great suit.’ Cheryl, a sharp dresser herself, always noticed other people’s clothes. She said approvingly, ‘Made to measure.’

  Every last drop of saliva in Lola’s mouth disappeared. Because if he was coming into her store to buy a book, that was a good sign, surely? Choosing to shop at this particular branch of Kingsley’s had to mean he liked her. Gosh, he looked edible in that dark suit, all lean, mean and…

  ‘Hi!’ squeaked Lola as Doug approached the desk, clearly in a hurry. ‘Well, this is a nice surprise! What can I—?’

  ‘Sally’s been trying to get hold of you. Your mobile’s switched off and there’s something wrong with the phone line here.’

  Lola knew this; a brace of telephone engineers were in the back office working on it as they spoke. ‘It’s being fixed. What’s wrong with Sally?’

  ‘Nothing. She says you have to get to a TV. Now.’ Doug was slightly out of breath. ‘She rang me at work twenty minutes ago. Do you have a TV in this place?’

  ‘A TV? This is a bookshop! What did Sally say it was about?’

  ‘She didn’t, just said to make sure you saw it. From the sound of things, it’s important. It had better be,’ Doug went on, ‘because I had to leave a meeting to come here and tell you about it.’

  Her heart racing and her mouth drier than ever, Lola whispered, ‘Is it something bad?’

  Cheryl took charge. ‘He’s already told you he doesn’t know. Off you go,’ she said briskly, pushing Lola out from behind the desk. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  Televisions, televisions…

  Out on the pavement Lola pointed across Regent Street. ‘Dover and May, fourth floor.’

  Doug said, ‘I thought we’d look for a bar with a TV in it.’

  ‘This is closer.’ Dover and May was one of Lola’s favorite department stores and they had dozens of TVs, rows and rows of them, hundreds in fact. ‘Quick, after this bus—oof…’

  Yanked back by Doug in the nick of time, Lola bounced off his chest. The taxi driver shook his head in disgust.

  ‘After the bus and the taxi,’ Doug said evenly. ‘OK, now we can cross the road.’

  Through the doors of Dover and May, they raced past the perfume counters and islands of make-up, dodging sales girls waiting to pounce and spray scent at anyone who couldn’t dodge out of the way fast enough. Together they ran up the escalator. On the first floor they zigzagged past dawdling shoppers in the homeware department. Up the next flight of escalators and through ladies’ clothes and shoes—Lola spotted a stunning pair with black glittery heels—then more escalators, followed by racing through menswear and almost knocking over a display of mannequins in stripy sweaters… God, this was like getting in training for the marathon…

  ‘We’d have been better taking the lift,’ panted Lola.

  ‘Never mind, we’re here now.’

  Belatedly she realized something. ‘You’re still here. Don’t you need to get back to your meeting?’

  They’d reached the fourth floor. Leaping off the escalator, Doug expertly steered her through the electrical department, past hi-fis and kettles and every kind of laptop. ‘Are you serious? After all this, I want to know what it’s about.’

  The super-expensive high definition TVs were all showing a recorded wildlife program. Over at the bank of more affordable models, Channel 4 racing was on, horses galloping towards the finish line on every screen.

  Evidently attracted by the sight of a pair of customers looking as if they were keen to buy, a salesman materialized out of nowhere.

  ‘Good morning, sir, madam. Can I help you in any way?’

  ‘Oh, thank you! You most certainly can!’ Lola clutched his arm with relief. ‘We need the channel changing.’

  The flashing pound signs faded in the salesman’s eyes but he put a brave face on it. ‘The channel changer. Certainly, madam, the remote control units are over here, if you’d like to follow me—’

  ‘No, no, I want you to change this channel.’ Jabbing a finger at the screens filled with horses, Lola said agitatedly, ‘Please!’

  The salesman frowned. ‘Um… which of the TVs are you interested in?’

  ‘None,’ Doug intervened. ‘Not today, but my friend desperately needs to see something on one of the other channels and we’d be incredibly grateful if you could just—’

  ‘Please please please.’ Lola’s voice rose as she hopped from one foot to the other. ‘I’m begging you! I’ll just die if I miss it!’

  ‘OK, keep your hair on.’ No longer quite so polite now he knew there was no sale in the offing, the salesman disappeared behind the counter where a bank of switches was situated. Glancing over at Lola before addressing Doug under his breath, he said, ‘I saw a film with this kind of thing in it once. Rain Man.’

  The channels began to change. Lola held her breath. Then she saw him, on every screen, multiplied a hundred times over. ‘Stop,’ she croaked before the salesman could flick past. ‘This is the one.’

  Much as the family of strangers in Rain Man had regarded Dustin Hoffman when he’d pitched up on their doorstep, the salesman regarded Lola warily and said, ‘I’ll leave you to it then. Just don’t… touch anything, OK?’

  Lola didn’t hear him. She was gazing transfixed at the screen where the makeover segment of a popular daytime show was in progress. The female presenter, gesturing cheerfully to a life-sized photograph, said, ‘… so this is how he looked when he arrived at the studio first thing this morning…’

  Lola realized she was trembling. Next to her Doug said doubtfully, ‘Is that your father?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No? So who is it?’

  ‘Shh.’

  ‘… and this is how Blythe looked…’

  Lola let out a bat squeak as a photograph flashed up on screen of her mother, looking typically frazzled and flyaway and wearing… yikes… her favorite pink sparkly waistcoat over a turquoise paisley blouse and well-worn tartan trousers.

  ‘My God, that’s your mum.’ Doug shook his head in wonder.

  ‘Well, that was the two of them a couple of hours ago,’ the jolly, voluptuous presenter exclaimed. ‘So let’s see how they’re looking now!’

  ‘I remember those tartan trousers.’ Incredulously Doug pointed at the screen.

  The shimmering curtains parted and Blythe and Malcolm made their entrance.

  Chapter 44

  ‘Oh my GOD!’ shouted Lola, startling several browsing shoppers.

  ‘Shh.’ Doug gave her a nudge. ‘Stay calm or we’ll get chucked out.’

  Stay calm?

  Lola whispered, ‘Oh my God,’ and clapped her hands over her mouth. On the TV screen her mother, self-consciously attempting to pose for the camera, looked like a Stepfordized version of herself and the effect was positively eerie. Her delinquent hair had been cut, blow-dried and ruthlessly straightened, her lipstick was deep red and glossy and her complexion had an airbrushed, plastic quality to it. She was also wearing eyeliner for the first time in her life. To complete the transformation, the batty-mother clothes had been replaced by a chic, leaf-green shift dress with matching fitted jacket and darker green high-heeled shoes.

  ‘Oh my word,’ gushed the presenter, ‘don’t you look fabulous!’

  And in one way she did; Lola could see that other people might look at the made-over version of Blythe and feel that it was a huge improvement. It was just that the made-over version no longer looked anything like her mother. In a daze she watched the makeover experts step forward and explain how they had achieved the miracle of Stepfordization. Blythe continued to loo
k embarrassed. Then it was Malcolm’s turn.

  With a jolt Lola noticed him properly for the first time. OK, now this really was a transformation. Gone was the hideous bushy beard for a start. Malcolm was now clean-shaven, his hair had been cut and slicked back from his face and, in place of the awful bobbly sweater and baggy corduroys, he was wearing—good grief!—a really well-cut dark suit.

  In fact, wow. Malcolm was looking years younger, like a completely different person. Now that you could actually see his face it was revealed as not so bad after all. Why on earth had he ever grown such a horrible beard in the first place?

  Next to her Doug said, ‘I can’t believe your mum’s doing this. Whose idea was it?’

  Lola frowned, because in the shock of the moment it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder the same thing. And now that she was wondering, it did seem a bit odd. Blythe wasn’t the type to write in to programs like this and she’d never had a hankering to appear on TV.

  ‘… so Malcolm, coming here today was all your idea,’ the presenter said cozily, ‘because you felt you needed to smarten up your image.’

  A crackle of alarm snaked its way up the back of Lola’s neck; was the presenter reading her mind?

  ‘Well, yes.’ Malcolm looked bashful. ‘I suppose I wanted to make a better impression on people… or rather I was keen for them to have a better opinion of me…’

  ‘He’s too polite to say so,’ Blythe chimed in, ‘but he’s actually referring to my daughter.’

  ‘Oh!’ gasped Lola.

  ‘Who, I gather, has strong opinions when it comes to clothes.’ The presenter gave Blythe a sympathetic look.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. The two women from What Not to Wear rolled together, that’s what she is,’ said Blythe. ‘With a touch of Simon Cowell. Always telling me I look like a dog’s dinner.’

  ‘I am not,’ cried Lola. ‘Not always!’

  ‘I mean, it’s water off a duck’s back as far as I’m concerned. Sometimes I’ll take her advice,’ Blythe went on, ‘and sometimes I won’t. But that’s because I’m her mother. I’m used to her.’