Kiss

by Jill Mansell

Besides, she had more important matters to discuss with her daughter. ‘Kat,’ she began. ‘I’ve got something to—’

  ‘The big shit!’ Katerina exploded, her brown eyes flashing with indignation. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Izzy, more sharply than she had intended. ‘Kat, working in a night-club - even The Steps - isn’t my ultimate fantasy. Now stop interrupting, because I’m trying to tell you something.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Katerina, immediately contrite. Folding her arms and leaning back against her plumped pillows, she assumed a listening expression.

  ‘And this is important,’ Izzy told her seriously, ‘because you know I would never deliberately pry into your personal . . . things.’

  If Katerina had been a thermometer, her mercury level would at that moment have plummeted. Quite simply, she froze.

  ‘This morning,’ her mother continued, apparently oblivious to the effect her words were having, ‘I needed some writing paper and I knew you’d have some, up here.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Katerina in guarded tones. So this was it. Unable - for obvious reasons - to send her letters through the post, Andrew had taken to handing them to her as they parted, so that when she returned to the house she could read them, over and over again, in the privacy of her own room, and know that his feelings for her were genuine.

  And whereas every other mother in the world would react with shock and revulsion to the discovery of such letters, she realised with rising panic her own mother was about to behave with typically Izzyish nonconformity. She was going to be understanding, and indulge in one of those embarrassing woman-to-woman discussions of hers which no daughter should ever be asked to endure. Besides, she thought as resentment mingled with panic, those letters were addressed to her, and she had taken the utmost care to hide them among the pages of her physics homework, where no sane mother would ever think to look. They were private.

  ‘I found this,’ Izzy continued, reaching into her bag and pulling out a folded sheet of paper.

  ‘Mum, it’s none of your business,’ said Katerina, prepared to fight.

  ‘I know, of course I know that,’ her mother replied, her tone unrepentant. ‘But now that I’ve read it, it is.’

  She was unfolding the letter now. Realizing that she was planning to read it aloud, Katerina experienced a rush of fear. First the humiliation, then the interrogation, she thought wildly. And there was absolutely no way of telling what else Izzy might do. She wouldn’t put anything past her.

  ‘This isn’t fair,’ she pleaded, unable to even contemplate the horrific possibilities. If Izzy were to tell Gina . . . ‘It’s private, and I don’t want to discuss it, so why don’t you just give me that’ - jack-knifing forwards, she attempted to snatch the letter back, but Izzy whisked it out of reach - ‘and forget you ever saw it.’

  ‘Young love!’ exclaimed Izzy, her dark eyes alight with amusement. ‘Really, darling, I’m not so ancient that I can’t remember how it feels . . . but this is nothing to be ashamed of.’ Tapping the page with her forefinger, she continued triumphantly, ‘It’s brilliant! Better still, it works.’

  ‘Works,’ Katerina echoed, falling back against her pillows. That was it; she gave up. Closing her eyes for a second, then slowly reopening them, she said wearily, ‘Mother, what on earth are you talking about?’

  Izzy said, reading aloud:

  ‘Never, never

  Understood how

  The rest of the world

  Felt, until now.

  Was I ever, ever

  Alive before now?

  You showed me how

  It could be.

  Lucky me, lucky world,

  I’m a woman, not a girl.

  You taught me how

  To love. And now,

  As long as I have you,

  You’ll always, always

  Have me.’

  Izzy stopped reading. Katerina, so geared up for the confrontation that she almost shouted, ‘But that isn’t what we were talking about,’ had to exert actual physical control in order not to.

  Her secret was safe, after all. She had been reprieved and as the realization sank in, she knew that it had indeed been a lucky escape because never in a million years would Izzy have taken the news of her involvement with Andrew as lightly as she had - for those few bizarre moments - imagined. Not even Izzy, thought Katerina wryly, was that liberal.

  ‘It’s a poem,’ she said, sagging still further into her cocoon of pillows, but disguising her relief with truculence. ‘And it’s totally crappy. You shouldn’t have read it.’

  ‘It isn’t totally crappy,’ Izzy contradicted her. ‘Admittedly, I don’t think Wordsworth need lose too much sleep over it . . .’ She paused, then squeezed her daughter’s cold hand. ‘But that’s what I was trying to tell you, darling. When I read it, it wasn’t a poem . . . it was a song! I heard the music . . . I knew exactly how it would sound . . . powerful and haunting, happy and sad at the same time . . . it’s the kind of song people remember for the rest of their lives.’

  Despite herself, Katerina smiled. ‘Mother,’ she said tolerantly, ‘you’re mad.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Izzy insisted. ‘I’m right!’

  ‘Quite mad.’

  Izzy waved the sheet of paper. ‘But will you let me give it a go? Can I at least try?’

  In a few days, thought Katerina, her mother would have forgotten all about it. Her enthusiasms, wildly embraced, seldom lasted. This one would be lucky if it survived the week.

  ‘Of course you can use it,’ she conceded, ‘if you really want to.’

  ‘You’re an angel,’ declared Izzy, enveloping her in a hug. ‘And just think,’ she added with an air of triumph, ‘this could really be the start of something big . . . fame, fortune and toyboys coming out of our ears . . .’

  ‘I’m too old for toyboys,’ protested Katerina.

  ‘They’re for me, silly.’ Izzy gave her a pitying look, then broke into a grin. ‘You don’t need them - you’ve already found the love of your life. And speaking of love,’ she continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘what did he say when he read the poem? What did Simon think of it?’

  Reminding herself that at least she wasn’t telling a lie, Katerina returned her mother’s gaze with equanimity. ‘Nothing,’ she replied, her voice calm. ‘I didn’t give it to him.’

  Chapter 21

  The doctor had been quite definite, although Marcy still didn’t understand how it possibly could be true. Now, back at the flat, she gazed at her naked reflection in the mirror, running a trembling, experimental hand over the rounded swell of her stomach. However could she not be pregnant, looking like this?

  But . . . a phantom pregnancy, he had told her. A non-existent baby. God, nature was weird, thought Marcy, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry at the bizarre trick that her own body had played on her. And not only a bizarre trick; a particularly cruel one as well. Having longed for a baby so desperately that at times it seemed as if she were incapable of even thinking about anything else, the realization that she was finally pregnant had been one of the most wonderful discoveries of her life. She had felt complete . . . replete . . . and so happy it was positively sinful.

  She had guessed, of course, that Andrew’s own initial reaction had been less enthusiastic. The professed delight had been tempered with unease, maybe even a trace of alarm, but that was only to be expected under the circumstances. Consequently, she had put no immediate pressure upon him, merely revelling in her own private joy, allowing him to come to terms with the idea in his own time and only mentioning in passing that maybe this was the excuse he had been waiting for - the perfect opportunity - to leave his unhappy marriage.

  And gradually, as she had known would happen, he had come to terms with the idea. The pull of impending fatherhood was strong; Andrew had realised that this, after all, was what was important, what was needed in order to complete their lives, and her own happiness had in t
urn become absolute. It was all so perfect . . .

  And it had all been a lie, because there was no baby. Even the cravings for salt-and-vinegar crisps and spaghetti alle vongole had been nothing more than an inexplicable illusion.

  Pulling on her dressing gown, covering her traitorous body, Marcy turned away from the mirror and experienced the first pangs of fear. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t done it on purpose. But would Andrew believe that?

  Telling him that she was on the Pill had been only the first lie. The second, that the home pregnancy testing kit had proved positive, wasn’t going to be so easy to explain away.

  Yet she truly hadn’t meant to deceive him. It had just seemed so unnecessary under the circumstances, and upon discovering that such silly little kits cost almost ten pounds she had reeled away from the chemist’s counter in shock and spent the money instead on the latest Jackie Collins novel and a tub of Häagen Dazs chocolate ice-cream.

  Now she fervently wished she hadn’t, but the chilling question remained: what was Andrew going to say when he found out?

  She didn’t have long to wait. Unusually - and because, unknown to Marcy, Katerina had been unable to meet him straight from the office as she usually did - he was home by five-thirty. And this time she was painfully aware of his look of irritation when he glanced around and saw that, yet again, she hadn’t tidied the small flat.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, going up to him and giving him a kiss. It would have landed on his mouth if he hadn’t turned his head at the last moment, leaving her only his pale, aftershaved cheek. ‘You’re early.’

  ‘Would it have made any difference?’ he countered, gesturing towards the coffee table littered with magazines and teacups. He was early, hungry and tired, and still Marcy was incapable of making any effort. That, combined with the fact of not being able to be soothed by Katerina, fuelled his annoyance. In her panicky state, it also made Marcy only more hyper-aware of the precarious state of her own situation.

  ‘I’ll make us something to eat,’ she said, at the same time wondering what on earth she might possibly conjure up. All she knew for sure was that there was enough maple-and-walnut-flavoured Angel Delight to feed an entire school, an awful lot of crisps and maybe some malt loaf that was only slightly mouldy. ‘Sweetheart, you look worn out. Why don’t you sit down and relax?’

  ‘I have to go out again, later.’ Andrew’s gaze was fixed on the television screen as he spoke. Katerina had said she might be able to meet him at nine. ‘A party of Dutch clients are staying overnight; they’ve invited me to join them at some restaurant in Belgravia.’

  ‘In that case, you’d better not eat now,’ said Marcy, overcome with relief. It also meant she would be able to watch her favourite soap in peace.

  Andrew nodded, his mind elsewhere. Then, as if remembering his duty, he said, ‘So, what have you been doing today?’

  The icy grip of fear churned in Marcy’s stomach. Instinctively, she rested her hand upon the fraudulent bump. ‘I went to see my doctor.’

  Now she had Andrew’s attention. He sat forward, his grey eyes searching her face. ‘What did he say? Is anything wrong?’

  She loved him. He had left his wife for her. And it wasn’t her fault that nature should have chosen to play such a vile trick on her.

  Crossing her fingers beneath the folds of her dressing gown, Marcy smiled and shook her head. Like Scarlett, she would think about it tomorrow. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she said, her tone gently reassuring. ‘I’m fine, darling. We’re both fine.’

  Recognizing the back view of the person ahead of him, Sam braked and slowed his car to a crawl, admiring as he did so the allure of such very good legs and such a perfect bottom. What this particular person was doing being carted along the pavement by a sandy-blond Great Dane he couldn’t imagine, but they certainly made a striking pair . . .

  ‘Hi,’ he said, when he had pulled alongside her. The dog, tail wagging, immediately bounded up to the open window and sniffed with interest.

  With a pointed glance at the heavy chain around its neck, Sam shook the proffered paw and said solemnly, ‘You must be Izzy’s latest boyfriend.’

  ‘Very witty,’ said Izzy with a half-smile. ‘Where were you when we needed you, anyway? Jericho didn’t want to take the tube, which means we’ve had to walk all the way from Hampstead.’

  Jericho, whose dark brown eyes were even larger than Izzy’s, barked in happy agreement and attempted to lick Sam’s face.

  ‘And now you’re almost home,’ he remarked, pushing the dog away while he still had some aftershave left. ‘Of course, I would offer you a lift, but . . .’

  ‘You forgot to bring the juggernaut,’ supplied Izzy, holding up her free hand. ‘It’s OK, we’re getting used to it. The cab drivers we tried to flag down felt the same way.’

  He laughed at the expression on her face. ‘So, what’s this all about? You’ve given up song-writing in favour of professional dog-walking? I don’t know how to break this to you, sweetheart, but you’re going to have to walk twice around the world before this new venture makes you rich.’

  ‘He’s ours,’ Izzy replied proudly. ‘Our new male lodger.’ Then she broke into an irrepressible grin. ‘But this time we’ve got ourselves one who’s housetrained.’

  Sam, whose new washing-machine had broken down, and who had driven round to Kingsley Grove in order to use theirs, had been quietly surprised by the news that Gina had acquired a dog. It wasn’t until he saw the expression on her face when Jericho loped into the kitchen that he realised that Izzy had done it again.

  ‘Aaagh!’ said Gina, backing away into the corner next to the fridge.

  ‘Woof,’ replied Jericho, regarding her with polite interest.

  Despite himself, Sam wished he had a camera.

  ‘Whose dog is that?’ Gina squeaked, pointing at the intruder with a shaking finger. Whereupon Jericho, ever hopeful of a biscuit, stepped forward and attempted to investigate the outstretched hand before it was snatched away. Disappointed, he snuffled around Gina’s slim ankles instead.

  ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ sighed Izzy, blithely unaware of the havoc she was causing. Then, thrusting the end of the chain in Gina’s cowering direction, she announced, ‘He’s yours.’

  ‘No, he isn’t!’

  ‘Of course he is; he’s a present. A thank-you present,’ she added happily, ‘because if it hadn’t been for you, I never would have realised that I had to be a song-writer if I was ever going to get anywhere. You’ve changed my life, Gina,’ she concluded, her eyes alight with gratitude. ‘And I’d been wondering for days what to get you . . .’

  A husband, thought Gina numbly. And a peaceful, dog-free, Van Asch-less home.

  ‘. . . then I saw this advert in the paper this afternoon and it all fell into place, so I rushed over to Hampstead and snapped him up!’

  ‘He looks as if he wants to snap me up,’ Gina said, her voice faint, but Izzy was already down on her knees, fondling the enormous dog’s ears with affection and freeing him from his chain.

  ‘He’s just hungry, bless him. We both are. Oh look, he’s shaking paws again . . . isn’t he adorable? And just think,’ she added triumphantly, ‘of all the advantages of having a dog!’

  ‘Burglars,’ said Sam. Izzy was an utter disgrace, but her heart was unarguably in the right place. A dog lover himself, he was incapable of remaining as impartial as he should have been. As long as he had known Gina he had known how much she mistrusted dogs.

  ‘Men!’ exclaimed Izzy, so thrilled with her own reasoning that she was unable to keep the discovery to herself. ‘You see, that’s what’s so brilliant! I was reading an article in the same paper about husband-hunting . . . about ways of meeting new men,’ she amended rapidly. ‘And taking your dog for a walk in the park was top of the list. It’s sociable without being obvious, you start off by saying, “Hallo, how are you this morning?” and before you know where you are, the dentist with the golden retriever is inviting you out to dinner. It’
s a cinch!’

  Sam had to admire her style. Helping himself to a can of lager from the fridge, he sat down to enjoy the ensuing argument.

  ‘It’s great exercise, as well,’ Izzy added as an afterthought, since Gina didn’t appear to be as thrilled with her present as she should have been. ‘And of course Sam’s absolutely right; he’ll see off any burglars, not to mention carol singers, in a flash . . .’

  ‘I’m scared of dogs.’ Gina spoke through gritted teeth; at this very moment in time Jericho was eyeing her keenly, salivating and presumably anticipating the prospect of her ankles. If Izzy had to give her a dog, why couldn’t it at least have been something small and manageable?

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Izzy declared passionately, still on one knee and with her arms open wide. ‘Nobody on earth could possibly be afraid of Jericho! The only reason his previous owners had to let him go was because he was scared of their poodle. He needs love and understanding,’ she went on, sensing weakness, ‘to build up his confidence. And lots and lots of wonderful walks in the park . . .’