by Jill Mansell
Katerina wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and digested these words in silence. She’d never heard Gina swear before.
‘OK,’ she muttered, because it didn’t really matter any more; she no longer cared what happened to her. ‘Come in.’
The electricity supply had by this time been restored although Gina almost wished it hadn’t. The grim little bedsitting room was an absolute tip and Katerina - normally so fastidious - looked dreadful. Now, gazing defensively around at the mess and twisting her fingers, she said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, isn’t this good enough for you? If you’d only let me know you were coming I’d have polished the silver and put on a party frock.’
She looked as if she’d been crying non-stop for a week. Her long hair, normally as clean and shiny as a conker, hung in rats’ tails and the dark blue sweater and jeans she wore seemed three sizes too big. The unmade bed in the corner of the room was littered with dozens of sheets of foolscap paper.
‘Go on,’ taunted Katerina, observing the look of distaste on Gina’s face. ‘Tell me I’ve let myself go and it’s no more than I deserve.’
There was no heating in the room. With a shiver, Gina replied evenly, ‘Well, you’ve certainly let yourself go.’
‘Oh, get out of here!’ With a howl of grief, Katerina’s face crumpled and she turned away. This was too much to bear. ‘Just leave me alone . . . I didn’t ask you to come here . . . I want my mum . . .’
That final heartfelt cry was too much for Gina to bear. It was what had brought her here in the first place, a poignant echo of the grief she had felt when her own mother had died so many years ago. Without even thinking, she crossed the room and took Katerina’s thin, shaking body in her arms.
‘Kat, stop it.You can’t carry on like this. I’m here because I’m worried about you . . . we care about you . . . and you’re going to make yourself ill if you don’t let us help.’
Katerina went rigid. For a fraction of a second Gina thought she was going to hit her. Then, falteringly, and with tears still streaming down her face and neck, she turned and clung to her, burying her head against Gina’s shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she sobbed hopelessly. ‘I thought I was having a nervous breakdown, but people aren’t supposed to know when it’s happening to them. I’ve felt horrible for weeks but the last few days have been like a nightmare . . . everything’s got worse and worse and I can’t do anything any more except cry . . .’
‘Sshh,’ murmured Gina in soothing tones. Despite her lack of experience with young children, she was finding it easy to treat Katerina as a distraught seven year old. ‘Come on, sit down and tell me all about it. Tell me everything, then we can sort it out.’
Katerina, sniffing, still clung to her. ‘Do you really not hate me?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I? Of course I don’t.’
‘But I’ve been such a bitch. I hate me.’
Gina, tempted to suggest that a bath might improve matters, gave her a hug instead. ‘And now you’re punishing yourself. Hasn’t it even occurred to you that it was just as much Andrew’s fault as yours? More even. He was the one who should have known better, after all.’
Something had evidently gone wrong between them. Surprising herself, Gina experienced relief on Katerina’s behalf rather than her own. Andrew was weak, whereas Kat had simply been gullible, and she deserved better.
‘I hate him,’ said Katerina bleakly. ‘And now I’m going to tell you something that really will make you hate me.’
‘What?’
‘I think I’m pregnant.’
The seven year old in her arms had vanished. Izzy’s daughter was, after all, a near-adult with adult problems. Gina, her heart sinking, said, ‘Have you told him?’
Katerina nodded.
‘And?’
‘He said, “Oh fucking hell, not again.” ’
The hurricane had blown itself out by early morning. With the boot of the Golf loaded up with carrier bags of Katerina’s belongings, Gina drove her back through the debris-strewn streets to Kingsley Grove, then ran her a very hot bath, threw the dark blue sweater and disreputable jeans straight into the washing-machine and started cooking breakfast.
‘I can’t believe I’m here.’ Katerina, reappearing downstairs forty minutes later in one of Izzy’s dazzling silk dressing gowns, gulped down a cup of strong coffee and attacked her bacon and eggs with enthusiasm. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually enjoying this food . . .’
She may have been lacking personal experience in such matters, but Gina had heard enough tales of woe from pregnant friends in her time to seriously doubt whether Katerina could be similarly afflicted. Coffee and fried food at eight o’clock in the morning was an absolute no-no under such circumstances.
‘The phone lines are back in action,’ she said, inwardly wincing as Katerina smothered her eggs in tomato ketchup and black pepper. ‘I’ve just checked with the operator. You can phone Izzy as soon as you’ve finished eating.’
Katerina hesitated, then gave her a tentative smile. ‘Mum’s busy. I don’t want to send her into a panic. Besides, I’m feeling better now.’
‘Good.’
‘You really think I’m not pregnant?’
Katerina had wound herself up into such a state over the past few weeks that Gina thought it hardly surprising her period hadn’t arrived. Having initially said this in order to calm her down, however, she now erred on the side of caution.
‘As soon as the chemist opens, I’ll go down and pick up one of those tester packs, then we’ll know for sure,’ she said carefully. It was strange, but nice, to be discussing such a personal matter with Katerina. ‘Although you did say you’d taken precautions.’
‘Oh yes.’ For the first time, and because it was such a relief to have finally confided in someone, Katerina nodded and broke into a grin. ‘And it’s a known fact,’ she added, crossing her fingers and praying that Gina was right, ‘that good Mates don’t let you down . . .’
Chapter 43
When Izzy arrived back at Kingsley Grove three days later she thought at first she must be hallucinating. As astonishment gave way to delight, however, she carefully didn’t ask too many questions and accepted her daughter’s return as a much-longed-for miracle.
To her great joy as well, it was as if the past traumatic months hadn’t existed. Katerina, bright-eyed and good-tempered, was her old cheerful self. She had also retained her old forthright way with words.
‘Who did that to your hair?’ she asked in reproving tones and Izzy - who had been marched along to a Mayfair salon by one of MBT’s chief stylists - hung her magenta head in shame.
‘I know, they said it had to be this colour to show up under the TV lights.’
Katerina was in the process of making a cheese soufflé. Having finished whisking the egg whites, she paused and wiped her hands on a damp cloth. ‘The colour’s fine. I like beetroot. I meant you let them cut it.’
‘It’s not cut,’ said Izzy defensively, ‘it’s layered.’
But Katerina was eyeing the end result with disapproval. Izzy and her wild mass of ringlets were part of each other while MBT, it seemed, was attempting to transform her into something altogether more sophisticated. ‘I’ve always cut your hair,’ she said. ‘I know it better than anyone else. Tell your trendy record company that in future we’ll be taking care of that side of things. I’ll cut and you dye, just like we’ve always done before.’
Best of all, though, was discovering that Katerina had made the decision to retake her A levels. When she wasn’t cooking - as if that in some way made amends for her past misbehaviour - she spent hours poring over her text books and painstakingly rewriting the notes which Gina had destroyed.
‘I still don’t know how you did it,’ said Izzy gratefully, when she and Gina were alone the following evening. ‘I’m almost afraid to ask.’
Jericho, almost certain that Izzy had dropped a Smartie down the bac
k of the sofa, was burrowing frantically among the cushions. Gina hauled him off. ‘She just came to her senses in her own time,’ she replied, her voice calm. Since there was no sense in rocking the boat she had felt it unnecessary to even mention Katerina’s false alarm. Two pregnancy tests had been negative, which was all that mattered, and a trip to her doctor had assured them that as soon as she relaxed and started eating properly once more, her periods would return.
Izzy regarded her with the merest trace of suspicion. ‘There must have been more to it than that,’ she persisted, but Gina simply shrugged and fondled Jericho’s ears.
‘We had a man in common. A stupid, weak man, maybe . . . but at least we both knew what the other had been going through. Once she realised that, the rest was easy.’
‘Well, hooray for stupid men,’ said Izzy, emptying the last of the Smarties into her hand and pretending to ignore the piteous expression in Jericho’s eyes. ‘But I still don’t think you’ve told me everything.’
Gina grinned. ‘Kat and I are members of an exclusive club. Now maybe if you were to have an affair with Andrew . . .’
With a yelp of gratitude, Jericho wolfed down an orange Smartie, his favourite colour. Izzy pulled a face. ‘Pass.’
‘. . . and just so long as you wouldn’t be expectin’ me to treat you like some great la-di-da duchess, waitin’ on you hand and foot and finger at all hours of the day and night . . . I mean, you seem like a nice enough young thing at this moment in time, but let me tell you, some people have a funny old side to their characters when it comes down to it and I wouldn’t be puttin’ up with any of that kind of nonsense for even so much as one minute . . .’
Izzy, absolutely fascinated, held her breath and said nothing for fear of breaking the spell. Lucille Devlin from Dublin was quite simply the most amazing woman she’d ever met in her life. And she spoke in the longest sentences.
‘. . . but if you’re agreeable to my terms and you think we might suit each other,’ continued Lucille, who didn’t appear to need to draw any breath of her own, ‘then I’d be happy to keep your house up together for you, seein’ as it would give me a break from that no-good miserable old pig of a husband of mine . . . I sing a bit myself, you know, they used to say I had the finest voice in all Ireland, but of course it turned out to be a curse as much as a blessin’, for wasn’t it how I went and met the old bugger in the first place, me at nineteen years of age singin’ in Daley’s bar and him proppin’ the bloody thing up . . .’ Izzy, lying in the bath, couldn’t understand why she wasn’t the happiest woman in the world.
She had Katerina back, as good as new and working like a Trojan to ensure that this time her A level results would be dazzling.
She had the house of her dreams, a splendid four-storey Georgian property in Bloomsbury which she had rented from one of the MBT executives while he and his family spent a year in Los Angeles.
She had her debut solo album in mid-production with the first track from it, entitled ‘Kiss’, coming out as a single next week.
She had public appearances lined up beyond Christmas, a carrier bag overflowing with fan mail in the corner of her bedroom, the offer of a European tour sponsored by a soft drinks manufacturer . . .
And she had buxom Lucille Devlin, with her tomato-soup-coloured hair, Technicolour clothes and endless capacity for conversation, who was a full-scale entertainment in herself. How could anyone in the company of Lucille possibly fail to be amused? wondered Izzy, drumming her toes moodily against the tap end of the bath. Lucille could cheer up Russia.
But for some reason it wasn’t working for her. The success she had craved for so long, and which should have been making her so happy, wasn’t doing the trick. Public recognition - even in the form of Lucille hoovering like a maniac and singing, ‘I want you to kiss me, To know that you’ve missed me,’ over and over again in her rich Irish contralto - simply wasn’t enough to eradicate the leaden sensation in her stomach and the feeling that somehow there should be more.
Three hours later, too restless to stay at home and vaguely searching for that elusive ‘more’, Izzy entered the comforting familiarity of The Chelsea Steps. She was almost certain that Sam, who had recently been over in the States again, was now back. It was silly, she knew, but the longing to see him again had been almost overwhelming. And now that she was here, even her heart was beating a little faster in anticipation . . .
Sam, however, noticed the commotion before realizing that Izzy was the cause of it. Cursing beneath his breath and moving swiftly across the packed dance floor to the smaller bar at the far side of the club, he knew instinctively that the problem involved the two arrogant and mega-rich Argentinians whom he’d had his doubts about from the moment they’d arrived. The Chelsea Steps, famous above all else for the fact that there was never any trouble within its doors, needed this kind of guests like a hole in the head. Sam’s blood ran cold as another yell of male outrage reached his ears and he imagined what a hole in a mega-rich Argentinian’s head would do for business. All he could do was pray that neither of them was carrying a gun.
When he reached the source of the trouble, arriving just in time to see Izzy land a stinging slap on the younger Argentinian’s tanned cheek and deliver a torrent of abuse to the pair of them, Sam cheerfully could have killed her himself. Cutting through the crowd which had gathered around to watch Izzy in action, he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her unceremoniously to one side.
‘Calm down,’ he said sharply, because Izzy forever seemed to be getting herself embroiled in some fracas or other and it couldn’t always be the other person’s fault.
‘That oily bastard!’ Izzy had no intention of calming down. Her dark eyes flashed as she glared at the thin, equally furious Argentinian, now gabbling frantically in his own language. ‘He shoved his revolting hand down the front of my dress.’
‘What dress?’ countered Sam, glancing down at the skimpy apricot-pink creation which clung to every curve and ended at mid-thigh. It seemed to him that the more money Izzy spent on clothes, the less of them there became.
‘Oh, so that gives him the right to grope me?’ she demanded furiously, colour mounting in her cheeks as she realised that he was landing the blame on her. ‘Come on, Sam! Whose side are you on?’
Sam was so tired he could hardly think straight. The reason he’d had to fly over to New York was because his supposedly dependable manager there had been busted for possession of cocaine. Now, back in London and suffering more badly than usual from jet lag, he had this to contend with. Izzy might not realise it at the moment but she was in danger of jeopardizing the good reputation of The Chelsea Steps.
‘I’m on the side of keeping your voice down and letting the other guests enjoy their evening,’ he replied evenly, steering her towards a small table and pressing her rigid body into one of the chairs.
‘But he assaulted me . . .’
‘And you are in my club, not a wrestling arena. For heaven’s sake, Izzy, if you wanted to make a complaint all you had to do was come and tell me about it, then I could have dealt with the matter quietly.’
Sam could be such a disappointment sometimes. Izzy, who had been so looking forward to seeing him, felt her eyes fill with angry tears. ‘You mean I should have quietly let them gang rape me—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped back. ‘I’m just saying that it always seems to happen to you, doesn’t it? And what do you honestly expect, coming out on your own dressed like some kind of high-class hooker? Anyone’s going to think you’re looking for attention . . . God knows, all you’ve ever wanted is attention . . . and now that you’re becoming well known you’re going to have to learn to handle it in the proper manner.’
‘Stop it!’ shrieked Izzy, unable to bear the unfairness of it all a moment longer. Now, her heart really racing, she wrenched her hand from Sam’s patronizing grasp and rose jerkily to her feet. ‘I’d rather be groped by greasy perverts than lectured to by a bastard who cares more about his pre
cious club than his friends. And some friend you turned out to be,’ she added through gritted teeth. ‘When I think of all the nice things I told Vivienne about you . . .’
Vivienne. Another problem Sam didn’t need right now. Vivienne had been behaving decidedly oddly during the past few weeks. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ he said in abrupt tones as Izzy turned to leave.
‘You’re telling me,’ she hissed with as much sarcasm as she could muster. ‘But don’t worry, it was all lies. And she didn’t believe me anyway.’
Chapter 44
‘I’m miserable,’ announced Vivienne when Izzy answered the phone the following morning. ‘Come shopping with me.’
‘What’s Sam been telling you?’ Izzy demanded suspiciously, and a noise like a snort greeted her ears.
