by Jill Mansell
‘No. And yes, I would like to see you.’ Izzy, not in the mood for games, was brief and to the point. ‘What time will you be finishing?’
‘Four o’clock.’ He frowned, sensing that something was amiss. ‘Maybe three-thirty. Why, is anything wrong?’
‘Yes, there is,’ she replied flatly, turning to leave. ‘Very wrong indeed.’
The club was still busy when Sam handed over to Toby Madison and left them all to it. Although it was only three-fifteen, Izzy was waiting outside at the wheel of a double-parked Mercedes, drinking Coke from a can and fraying a small tear in the knee of her faded jeans.
Concerned by her obvious low spirits, Sam winked and gave her fingers a brief squeeze as he slid into the passenger seat. ‘OK.Your place or mine?’
This earned him the first smile of the evening - just a small one.
‘I thought maybe somewhere more neutral,’ said Izzy, switching on the ignition. ‘Like Bert’s.’
Bert had died fifteen years ago, but his son Quentin, who now owned and ran the Chiswick transport café, hadn’t let the side down. He still turned out the best and biggest fry-ups in London and nobody ever suggested that the café should be renamed.
If anything was capable of cheering her up, Izzy had decided, it was the steamy, friendly, no-hassle atmosphere of Bert’s - which was always busy, no matter what time of day or night - and a plate loaded with fried mushrooms, bacon and tomatoes.
Now that the food was in front of her, however, she couldn’t for the life of her imagine being able to eat it.
‘Look, you were right and I was wrong,’ she said eventually, watching Sam stir sugar into his tea. ‘That should cheer you up, surely.’
‘You mean Kat?’ He had guessed what this must be about. Izzy was hardly likely to come to him if she was having problems with Tash Janssen.
‘I feel so awful,’ she blurted out, her dark eyes almost feverishly bright. ‘I’ve never had to try to be a good mother before . . . I’ve never needed to try . . . and now that all this has happened I’ve been working so hard to do the right thing, but it just gets worse. I stayed away because I thought she needed the time to sort herself out, and it almost killed me to do it. But tonight I went to see her . . . I thought we could put everything behind us . . . and she just wasn’t interested. Oh Sam, I think she really does hate me. And now I don’t know what else to do.’
‘She doesn’t hate you,’ he said firmly. ‘Of course she doesn’t. She’ll come round sooner or later, she obviously just needs a little more time.’
Much as the Australian actor at The Chelsea Steps had admired Izzy’s figure earlier, so a couple of lorry drivers at an adjacent table were eyeing her now with evident appreciation. They looked frankly startled when she began to cry.
‘I went to see a h-house in Wimbledon this afternoon,’ she explained, between sobs. Wordlessly, Sam handed her a paper napkin as the tears began to plop on to her plate. ‘It was a beautiful house, a hundred times better than anything we’ve ever rented before - apart from Gina’s place, of course. I wanted it for the two of us, but Kat refused to even consider it. She won’t move. She says she’s failed her A levels, so medical school’s out of the window. I don’t know whether she’s trying to punish herself or me and I can’t bear to think what she’s doing to her life . . .’
‘Sssh,’ murmured Sam, as her voice wavered. ‘You’re blaming yourself and you shouldn’t.’
‘Of course I should,’ she wailed, pushing her plate to one side and wiping her cheeks with the napkin. ‘It’s all my fault.’
The other diners were by this time enthralled. Ignoring them, Sam got up and made his way around the table, sitting down next to Izzy and putting his arms around her. Accustomed to her noisy, exuberant ways and eternally optimistic attitude towards life, he hadn’t imagined her capable of such vulnerability and it touched him more deeply than he could have believed.
For Izzy, the comfort of being listened to by Sam - and of being held by him - was infinitely reassuring. Her desperate concern for Kat was hardly something she could share with Gina, and Tash simply wasn’t that interested.
‘Will you talk to her?’ she begged, clinging to him and breathing in the familiar, delicious scent of his aftershave. ‘She doesn’t hate you. She might listen . . . take some notice of what you say . . .’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Sam assured her, in turn recalling the last time he had been this close to Izzy. That night at The Chelsea Steps when Vivienne had turned up without warning. Who knew how things might have turned out if Vivienne’s journey had been delayed for even a few hours? ‘No guarantees, but I’ll try. And if you really aren’t going to eat any of this food, I think we’d better leave. Who knows what Nigel Dempster would make of this if he were to walk in now.’
Sam drove. Even the shared car journey through the empty streets reminded him of their trips home from The Chelsea Steps, with Izzy balancing boxes of Chinese food on her knees, telling him the terrible jokes she’d heard that night and mimicking with wicked accuracy the more bizarre customers she’d served in the bar.
This time, however, she wasn’t laughing.
‘It’s all such a waste,’ she said hopelessly when - to take her mind off Kat - he asked her how the music thing was going. ‘ “Never, Never” is being released in eight days’ time. I heard it being previewed on the radio yesterday and the DJ tipped it to go to Number One. This morning we recorded an interview for Capital. This afternoon we finished shooting the video and tomorrow we have three more interviews lined up with the music press and the Mail on Sunday. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of,’ she concluded with a dismissive gesture which took in the soft leather upholstery of the Mercedes, ‘and this is my car, which is a dream come true in itself, but it doesn’t even mean anything any more, because Kat isn’t here to enjoy it with me. I wanted her to be so proud of me . . . and she isn’t, so it’s all wasted . . .’
They had reached Kingsley Grove. Dawn was breaking, streaking the sky violet, and a milk float clattered along the street as Sam drew to a halt and switched off the ignition.
‘I know it isn’t easy, but maybe a bit more time is all she needs.’ Once again he had to prise Izzy’s fingers from the ripped knee of her jeans. The amount of fraying had increased spectacularly. ‘I’ll go and see her. Talk to her. But she isn’t necessarily going to take any notice of what I say.’
Izzy’s lower lip trembled and he fought the urge to kiss her.
‘She likes you,’ she said wistfully. ‘And I know she respects your opinions.’
Squeezing her hand, he smiled. ‘In that case, I shall make them known to her. And in the mean time, you just have to be patient. Look, when are you moving into your new home? Do you need a hand with any of that?’
Sam was so kind, so thoughtful. Izzy, closing her eyes for an instant as exhaustion swept over her, reflected not for the first time how lucky Vivienne was to have him.
‘Thanks, but it’s OK.’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t sign the lease. That house was supposed to be for Kat and me. Now that I know she isn’t interested, there’s no point in my taking it.’
‘Hmm. Well, at least Gina will be pleased.’
Izzy was watching the milk float as it rattled back past them at a sedate ten miles an hour. She wondered whether the milkman, who was whistling and looking cheerful, had a normal happy family and a normal happy life.
‘I don’t know whether she’ll be pleased or not,’ she replied slowly. ‘But I’m still moving out of Kingsley Grove. Tash has been asking me to go and live with him.’
Sam’s heart sank. He’d had no idea the relationship between them had progressed that far. And the man’s reputation for bedding and discarding women wasn’t exactly encouraging.
‘Would that be a wise move?’ he said, the tone of his voice indicating his own views on the matter.
Izzy, however, simply shrugged and flicked back her hair with a gesture of defiance. Unconsciously echoing Katerina’s ex
planation for staying with Andrew, she fixed her dark eyes on Sam and replied, ‘Does it really matter? It may not last for ever, but who cares? My daughter doesn’t want to live with me, so I might as well settle for someone who does.’
Chapter 36
There were mistakes and mistakes, Izzy thought idly a week later. And considering the almost universal disapproval which had greeted her decision to move into Stanford Manor with Tash, the signs so far were that, all in all, it had been a pretty good mistake to make.
‘You hardly know each other,’ Gina had said, a trifle waspishly, when Izzy had announced her intentions. But Gina, she knew, was more concerned with the fact that she would be left on her own at Kingsley Grove, with only Jericho for company.
‘It’s bloody stupid,’ Sam had remarked dismissively, but that was only because he didn’t like Tash and was probably jealous of the fact that Izzy would be living in a house worth almost four million.
Even Doug Steadman had been doubtful. ‘If you ask me, pet, you’re making a mistake,’ he had told her, his forehead creasing with concern. ‘Not that your personal life is any of my business, but isn’t he going to think you’re . . . well, easy?’
At least Vivienne didn’t tell her she was making a fool of herself. Vivienne thought it was an absolute scream, a wildly exciting adventure, and Izzy had turned to her with gratitude, ignoring the boring scaremongers and concentrating instead on the fun aspect of the situation. She was going to be wealthy in her own right, successful, famous . . . and the live-in mistress of one of the most glamorous and desirable men in the world. Who cared if other people thought she was easy? Tash had already had her body; now he would have the pleasure of her cooking, too.
And so far, it had been exciting. The prophets of doom might be muttering away to each other behind their hands, but she was enjoying herself, and the novelty of it all had at least partially distracted her from the problem of her estranged daughter.
Yes, there were definite advantages to being a rich man’s mistress, Izzy decided, pushing the thought of Kat firmly from her mind and gazing out over the swimming-pool which glittered turquoise in the August sunlight. Having demolished a plateful of smoked-salmon sandwiches - peeling the salmon out of the centres and leaving the bread - she was in the mood for a swim. She was in the mood for Tash, but he was buried in his recording studio, working on ideas for the next album and showing no sign at all of needing a break.
Neither, evidently, did he welcome company during the serious business of song-writing. Izzy, reflecting that it was just as well she hadn’t expected an initial honeymoon period to their living together, was finding herself with plenty of time on her hands to explore her new home and make the most of its splendid facilities. But although she was having fun, she was finding it less easy to relax than she’d expected. Topless sunbathing was out of the question because of the silent, unnerving presence of the security guards who roamed the grounds, and who treated her in the kind of distant, off-hand manner which indicated they thought of her as simply one more in a long line of female guests whose name was hardly worth remembering. And despite her best efforts to be friendly, the formidable Mrs Bishop was even less communicative than she had been on the night of her first visit. Attempts at conversation fell on the very stoniest of ground. Any compliments regarding the food were met with an impassive stare. Izzy had even idly contemplated her reaction if she were to lodge a complaint about the cooking, except that there was never anything to complain about. Everything at Stanford Manor was run with pristine efficiency, because that was what Tash wanted and demanded from his staff. And she hadn’t managed to catch any of them at it yet, but someone was actually screwing the top back on the toothpaste tube in her bathroom . . .
Tash finally emerged outside four hours later, by which time Izzy had swum and dozed off, and - having forgotten to renew the Ambre Solaire - acquired a distinctly pink tinge to her tan.
Adjusting his sunglasses, he surveyed her in sleep, her dark hair spilling around her in glossy abandon, splendid breasts swelling out of her peacock-blue bikini, one hand trailing in the plate of desecrated sandwiches.
Izzy, adorable Izzy, both intrigued and amused him, and an added bonus was the fact that she was about as unlike his usual girlfriends as it was possible to be. Shrewd, sharp-witted and determined to succeed in her chosen career, she was nevertheless touchingly naïve at times. He was particularly entertained by her innocent ideas regarding the music business, and her plans to enjoy the money success would bring into her life.
Fishing an ice cube from the drink in his hand he dropped it into the hollow of her navel and grinned as, with a yelp, she ricocheted into a sitting position.
‘Wake up. Mrs Bishop wants to know why you saw fit to massacre her sandwiches. She says unless you eat up every last crumb, she’s leaving.’
‘Oh God . . . oh, you!’ Realizing belatedly that he was joking, Izzy sank back against the sunlounger and aimed the ice cube at his crotch. ‘That would be too much to hope for,’ she grumbled, glancing over her shoulder in case the old dragon was hovering, lurch-like, behind her. Then she examined her ominously rosy chest with dismay. ‘And this isn’t funny either. Hell, what am I going to look like tomorrow? We’ve got that photo session and I’m going to have a burnt nose . . . ouch, that hurts!’
She squirmed as he ran his fingernails along her collarbone, then smiled because at least he was in good spirits. While Tash would never describe himself as temperamental, she had already discovered his tendency towards moodiness whenever work refused to go well. Life wasn’t all roses. Capable of the utmost charm when he chose, several wasted hours in his precious recording studio could change his mood to one of picky, tricky irritation and short temper. Izzy, who couldn’t see the point of such irritability - since it didn’t solve anything - steadfastly refused to be intimidated and either laughed or ignored him when it happened. But it was undoubtedly nicer, she reflected drily, when it didn’t.
‘Someone might be watching,’ she protested, trying to wriggle away as Tash began to slide the straps of her bikini away from her sunburnt shoulders.
‘So?’ He hauled her back before she landed on the plate of sandwiches. ‘Would that really be so terrible? Sweetheart, it’s half the fun.’
No doubt his past girlfriends had gone along with such suggestions, but Izzy wasn’t about to set herself up as a floorshow for the security staff. Rising to her feet, she hooked a finger through one of the belt loops on his jeans and led him uncomplainingly inside. When they reached the bedroom, she slowly unbuttoned his white shirt and murmured, ‘This is more fun.’
Afterwards, as he lit a joint and slowly exhaled, Tash said, ‘I forgot to tell you. Someone phoned earlier, wanting to speak to you.’
Izzy didn’t approve of drugs of any kind, but since he only laughed and called her a prude whenever she tried to tell him of the damage they could do, she no longer bothered. At least it was only marijuana, she consoled herself. It could have been much worse.
‘And?’ she said, stretching lazily and revelling in the luxury of not having to get up and go to work in either a crowded pub or a smoky, un-air-conditioned club. ‘Who was it? Do I have to call them back?’
Tash shook his head. ‘Nope. He said he was flying out to the States this afternoon, so I took a message. It was your friend Sam Sheridan.’ Aware of the fact that Sam disapproved of his relationship with Izzy, he spoke in faintly mocking tones. ‘He just wanted you to know that he’d had a word with Katerina, but that it wasn’t a great success.’
‘What!’ In a flurry of bedclothes, Izzy jerked into a sitting position. ‘Why couldn’t you tell me earlier? Why on earth didn’t you come and find me when he phoned?’
Tash’s eyes darkened. He fixed his gaze on the glowing tip of the joint between his fingers. ‘I was busy. I didn’t know where you were. Look, what’s the big deal? The man’s a jerk and what he had to say was hardly of earth-shattering importance, anyway.’
Shooting
him a look of disdain, Izzy grabbed the phone by the bed and punched out Sam’s number. Seconds later, abruptly disconnecting the call, she said, ‘Bloody answering machine. Thanks a lot, Tash. My daughter might mean nothing to you, but she is important to me.’
And don’t we all know it, he thought with resignation, taking a final, long drag before stubbing out the cigarette. Izzy’s obsession with Katerina was beyond his comprehension. Rebellion was part of growing up. When he was seventeen years old he’d left home and gone to live in a squat in Bayswater, sharing the icy, unfurnished basement flat with an acid-head and a fifteen-stone transvestite. It hadn’t done him any harm, for Christ’s sake.
But the marijuana was taking effect and he really couldn’t be bothered to get into a fight.
‘Angel, calm down,’ he said placatingly. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry if I upset you. But I was pretty busy when the phone rang . . . and I would have come and found you if Sam had had something more positive to report, of course I would.’
