by Jill Mansell
It said much for Izzy’s powers of persuasion that within the space of two hours she had managed to dispatch Gina and Jericho, albeit with some reluctance, to the nearby park, with instructions to take a turn around the pond and enjoy the last of the sun.
Sam, however, was doubly impressed by Izzy’s subsequent dash to the phone and her heartfelt pleas with not one but three dog-owning male friends. If they would just do her the biggest favour in the world, take their animals for a quick zip around the pond on the east side of Kensington Gardens and say something friendly in passing to the nervous blonde with the Great Dane, she would be for ever in their debt . . .
The real miracle, of course, was that they agreed to do so. But if Izzy possessed anything in abundance, Sam reminded himself, it was charm. Besides, she also had some extremely weird friends.
‘Your washing’s done,’ she observed, as the machine finally subsided into exhausted silence forty minutes later.
‘And you’re trying to change the subject.’ Clean shirts were only half the reason for his visit. Stranger even than Izzy’s friends had been the urge . . . almost a physical need . . . to see her again. He might still be saddled with his own unwanted house guest, but Sam hadn’t forgotten that evening in his office, whereas as far as Izzy was concerned it might never have happened. They were back to square one, he thought, and her apparent amnesia for the event was becoming, as far as he was concerned, bloody irritating.
‘I’m worried about that red shirt,’ said Izzy, who hadn’t forgotten at all. Before, biding her time and enjoying the interplay between them had been fun. Now, however, the situation had changed. Knowing and liking Vivienne had put a real dampener on things, and she had decided to keep her distance until the situation resolved itself. It wouldn’t do any harm, she had told herself, and in the mean time she could concentrate her attention on her work.
Now, slightly flustered, she repeated, ‘Your red shirt. It might have run.’
Sam simply looked at her and said nothing.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Izzy, with feeling. For something to do, she yanked open the door of the washing-machine and began pulling out damp clothes. ‘Look, whether you wanted it to happen or not, the fact remains that Vivienne is living with you in your flat.’
‘Staying,’ he corrected her. ‘Not living.’
‘Whatever,’ she sighed. It was easier to talk when she didn’t have to look at him. Serious eye contact, under the circumstances, was decidedly unsettling. ‘For once in my life I’m trying to do the honourable thing, so it really isn’t fair of you to give me a hard time.’
‘It isn’t very fair on me, either,’ Sam pointed out. Drumming his fingers against his now empty lager can, he wondered just how much this had to do with the new man she’d told him about, the ‘very attractive’ man after whom she had lusted so vigorously. He frowned. ‘Are you still seeing that guy?’
Izzy, who had forgotten all about her own private joke, assumed he was referring to Benny Dunaway. Still with her back to Sam, she said, ‘Of course I am.’
‘Of course,’ he echoed with a trace of irony. Determined as she was not to come between Vivienne and himself, the question of her own monogamy never even occurred to her. In her eyes, it simply wasn’t an issue.
A volley of barks interrupted his train of thought at that moment, which under the circumstances, Sam decided, was just as well. As long as Vivienne remained in his flat and Izzy continued to see her partner-in-lust, there was precious little to either say or do.
The next moment, Jericho clawed open the kitchen door and, recognizing Izzy crouched before the washing-machine, hurled himself at her in a frenzy of delight. Sam’s red shirt went flying and landed in the bowl of water which had been set out for Jericho earlier.
‘Well?’ said Sam. Gina’s face was flushed and she was out of breath.
‘Well, what?’
‘Did he behave himself?’ said Izzy brightly, and Gina swung round, looking more startled than ever.
‘Who?’
Izzy rolled her eyes in despair. ‘Jericho! Are we keeping him or must he go back to face a life of miserable tyranny at the paws of a poodle named Pete?’
‘Oh . . . he was very well behaved,’ Gina replied, not altogether truthfully. With a quick glance in his direction - he was at this moment burying his nose up the sleeve of the hapless red shirt - she took a gulp of air and attempted to steady her breathing. ‘I don’t think it would be very fair, sending him back,’ she continued with a brief, tentative smile. ‘Not now that he’s got to know us.’
‘Of course it wouldn’t.’ Izzy smiled back, making a playful grab for the dog’s ears. ‘Ah, look at him . . . he’s tired. But how about you, did you enjoy the walk?’
Gina sat down suddenly on one of the kitchen chairs, her eyes brighter than ever. ‘As a matter of fact, I did. And I didn’t believe you when you said it,’ she added, torn between a mixture of embarrassment and pride, ‘but you were certainly right about meeting other people walking their dogs. It just seems to . . . well, happen.’
‘Heavens, how exciting!’ Izzy sent up a silent prayer of thanks. She’d been pretty sure of Tom and Luke, but Alastair had said he might not be able to spare the time. ‘So, how many men actually spoke to you?’
‘Well,’ said Gina, blushing prettily. ‘As a matter of fact, five.’
Chapter 22
It wasn’t easy, transmitting her definite ideas as to how ‘Never, Never’ should sound to someone who then had to battle with the logistics of such a scheme and make it workable. Frustration hadn’t been the word for it; at times Izzy found herself with her fingers ravelled up in her hair and her voice hoarse with the effort of attempting to imitate the precise tone of a tenor saxophone, while Benny frowned and enquired for the tenth time whether she was absolutely sure it should precede the vocals by half a beat. Didn’t she think it would be better to synchronise the notes and allow the piano to form the echo effect . . .
But slowly, with much concentration, a few tense moments and many hours of hard work, the miracle began to happen. The song was coming together in a recognisable form and if Izzy had broken a few of the very oldest rules in the book, Benny had demonstrated one of the talents possessed by every great teacher and allowed her to do so. Some of the mistakes had been horrendous. Astonishingly, others had worked, and it was the very unexpectedness of those departures from tradition which helped to create an indefinable sense of magic.
And Izzy, like a child finally mastering the art of riding a bike, didn’t want to stop. Having adapted ‘Never, Never’ from Katerina’s poem, she was now bursting with ideas of her own. Lyrics tumbled effortlessly on to the pages of her writing pad and as soon as she saw them she found herself able to hear the accompanying music. Benny had to struggle to keep up, roughing out her ideas before they slipped away. Biting his tongue whenever she made such remarks as, ‘This bit’s a duet for voice and clarinet,’ he allowed Izzy’s untutored imagination free rein. And there was indeed a lesson to be learned by musicians everywhere, he discovered later in the evenings when she had left to go to work and he went back over the annotated scores he had scribbled down according to her jumbled instructions. Some of her ideas were downright impossible, while others, though technically feasible, he knew would never work in practice. But some, he had to concede, were astonishingly good. Izzy hadn’t been joking when she’d told him she knew she could do it. And a shiver snaked its way down Benny’s spine as he realised for the first time that with expert help, the right backing and a lot of luck, she could maybe . . . just maybe . . . be great.
‘Boy, am I glad I phoned you,’ confided Vivienne, stirring her drink and offering Izzy a cigarette. ‘It gets sooo boring here, what with Sam doing the rounds and me not knowing a soul. I’m sure the only reason he encourages me to come to The Steps is because he’s hoping I’ll meet some other guy and leave him in peace.’
‘Do you think you will?’ Izzy tried not to look too optimistic.
Vivienne laughed. ‘Are you kidding? Izzy, we have what the columnists call “a tempestuous relationship” . . . it’ll take a lot more than this little fall-out to send me running home to Daddy. I haven’t given up on Sam yet, not by a long chalk.’
Oh sheeit, thought Izzy, because a Texan drawl is alarmingly infectious.
‘But that isn’t to say I can’t have a little fun in the mean time,’ Vivienne added, her eyes dancing. ‘And who knows, once Sam sees me having fun with other people, he might get his act together.’
‘I could do with meeting some new people myself,’ Izzy mused, recalling the depressing conversation she’d had earlier that day with Benny. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know any rich record producers, I suppose?’
Vivienne stubbed out her barely smoked cigarette and pulled a face. ‘I’m such a selfish bitch - I haven’t even asked how you’re getting on with this song-writing kick. How’s it going?’
‘Brilliantly,’ said Izzy, then she shook her head. ‘But writing the songs is the easy part. The next move is taking them into a recording studio and getting a demo tape made up.’
‘Hey, that’s great . . . so, when does it happen? Could I come and watch?’
Izzy smiled. ‘It happens when we can afford to rent out a recording studio. Remember what Sam told you about me: crazy hair, great voice, no cash? Well, hiring a halfway decent studio for even a single day costs twelve hundred pounds, which is more than either Benny or I can raise . . .’
‘Oh.’ Vivienne looked bewildered; this was something outside her own experience. Then her face brightened. ‘Borrow it,’ she said promptly. ‘From Sam! He’d lend you the money in a flash, and then as soon as you get rich you can pay him back.’
It was a solution which had occurred to Izzy. For a second she reconsidered the idea, then shook her head once more. ‘I really can’t.’
Vivienne looked perplexed. ‘Why not?’
Wriggling uncomfortably in her seat, Izzy said, ‘It’s hard to explain, but I just know I’ve got to try and do this on my own. As far as Sam’s concerned, I’m a walking disaster, financially. A spendthrift. And, of course, he’s absolutely right,’ she admitted with a brief smile, ‘but I can’t help it, it’s just the way I am. If I asked him to lend me the money, I’d feel . . . uncomfortable.’ It wasn’t the word she’d been looking for, but it would do. Being in Sam’s debt, she felt, would only confirm his opinion of her. And a girl had her pride, after all.
‘You mean he’d lecture you?’ asked Vivienne, still trying to understand. ‘He’d keep asking you when he was going to get his money back? Jeeze, what a bastard! I never thought he was like that.’
‘Oh, no,’ Izzy said hastily. ‘He isn’t. He wouldn’t say a word about it.’ With a gesture of despair, she concluded, ‘That’s exactly what would make it so unbearable.’
‘No, please don’t,’ said Vivienne a moment later, as Izzy reached for her purse and made a move to stand up. ‘My treat. I dragged you down here, after all.’
Izzy burst out laughing. ‘Don’t tell me, I’ve spun my poor-little-match-girl-story and now you’re having a guilt attack. Listen, the nice thing about spendthrifts is they can always afford to buy a round of drinks, so instead of looking at me like that, why don’t you tell me what you’d like? Another tequila sunrise?’
But Vivienne, clasping her arm and pulling her back down into her seat, shook her head. ‘Hey, Sam brought me here tonight, so the least he can do is keep us fed and watered. And the only reason I suggested him just now was because I thought you two were such great friends. What I’d really like,’ she went on, catching the attention of the bar manager and mouthing her request, ‘would be to lend you the money you need, myself.’
Izzy’s mouth dropped open. Having just declared herself a bad risk it hadn’t occurred to her for a moment that Vivienne would make such an offer. ‘My God,’ she said eventually. ‘Do you really mean it?’
‘Why wouldn’t I mean it?’ countered Vivienne cheerfully, as the bar manager materialised with a bottle of Moët and two glasses. ‘It’s not such a big deal. You can pay me back whenever you like.’ She smiled and thanked the bar manager, then winked at Izzy. ‘And Sam need never know.’
‘This is fantastic,’ said Izzy, overwhelmed with gratitude. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Hell, what are friends for?’ Vivienne laughed and began to pour the champagne into their glasses. Izzy hastily covered hers with her hand.
‘I wouldn’t want Sam to accuse me of freeloading. I’ll stick to orange juice. Really.’
‘We’re celebrating,’ insisted Vivienne, removing her hand and sloshing Moët into the glass. ‘Don’t let Sam intimidate you, honey. It isn’t your style.’
‘Oh well, in that case,’ said Izzy happily, ‘cheers.’
Ten days later, she stood gazing out at the view from the window of Doug Steadman’s office and listened to the sound of her own voice echoing through the room. Behind her, Gina and Doug, Benny and Vivienne were sitting in silence, hearing the finished results of a single nineteen-hour day in the recording studio recommended to them by a friend of Benny’s. The demo tape held four tracks and now they were nearing the end. Izzy’s voice soared, echoing the haunting, plaintive notes of the tenor saxophone, then dropped to barely a whisper as the final bars of ‘Never, Never’ approached. A heartbeat of silence, then the rising crescendo heralded by a gently gathering drum roll . . . She had striven for the effect of Juliet’s last impassioned words to the absent Romeo . . . the final, powerful line which this time rose high above the sax . . . and it was over.
Awaiting her audience’s reaction was worse than any stand-up audition. Unable to turn around, she reached out instead and encountered Jericho’s smooth head. His whiskers tickled her wrist. Her fingers were tingling and she felt dizzy . . .
The moment’s silence, however, was broken by an ear-splitting whistle of approval rendered as only a true Texan knows how. Vivienne cried jubilantly, ‘Izzy, you’re a star!’ and when Izzy finally turned to face them, it was Gina who led the round of applause. Jericho, realizing that his enforced silence was over, released a volley of joyful howls and sent a coffee cup flying from the desk with his tail. Benny was grinning broadly. Gina, still applauding, said, ‘That was fantastic,’ over and over again.
But Izzy was waiting for Doug, who had so far said nothing. She had taken the financial gamble and done her very best, but as her agent and as a professional she needed, above all, his approval. Regarding him with mounting nervousness she tried to say, ‘Well?’ but the word stuck in her throat and all that came out was a laryngitic croak.
But Doug, hauling himself out of his chair and mopping his face with a blue-and-white spotted handkerchief, had no intention of saying anything. Instead, crossing the small office, he came to a halt in front of Izzy and waited a full second before breaking into a smile. Then, reaching up and taking her head in his hands, he gave her a resounding kiss first on one cheek then the other.
Izzy’s eyes promptly filled with tears.
‘Do you really like them?’ she whispered, as he stepped back and held her at arm’s length.
‘Do I like them?’ Doug shook his head, experiencing a rush of almost paternal affection for the confident, wayward girl whom he had known for so many years. Her optimism and energy were boundless; she had never been afraid of anyone or anything in her life. Now, seeing her uncertainty and desperate need for approval, he only loved her all the more.
‘You know me’ he told her, with a reproving look. ‘I like Roger Whittaker and Val Doonican. Your songs might not be my personal cup of tea, but even I can tell that they’re good.Very good.’ He paused, then admitted gruffly, ‘I didn’t expect them to be, but they are.’
Izzy’s cheeks were wet and her mascara was dissolving fast. She sniffed and smiled. ‘Don’t you like them even a little bit?’
‘Stop crying,’ Doug ordered. ‘Of course I do. When have I ever disliked anything that’s going to make m
e rich?’
Chapter 23
With her light brown hair swept up in a glossy topknot, her neat little black dress and unaccustomed high heels, Andrew realised that Katerina had worked to make herself look older, and was touched by her efforts. She could easily pass for twenty-one now, which - under the circumstances - was less eyebrow-raising than seventeen. Not that the discrepancy in their ages bothered either of them any longer, but sly glances and unsubtle smirks weren’t exactly calming.
Katerina, however, was less inhibited. Arching her own eyebrows in amazement when she heard Andrew give the pretty hotel receptionist their names, she promptly burst out laughing. Even the receptionist had to smile.
‘What’s the matter?’ He looked round, puzzled.
‘Mr and Mrs Lawrence,’ giggled Katerina. ‘You can’t put that! We don’t have to pretend to be married, do we?’
