by Jill Mansell
Gina nodded, still smiling to herself. ‘You’re right. Know what you want and just go for it. That’s Izzy’s motto and it’s worked wonders for her. From now on, I’m going to make sure it works for me.’
It was more than good advice, he thought as she lifted her own glass and clinked it rakishly against his. It was fate. He was here and Andrew wasn’t. They were friends, celebrating together, and Gina - in a crimson cashmere sweater and cream linen trousers - had never looked more desirable. He’d even, thankfully, decided against wearing the new burnt-orange shirt which would have clashed so horribly with her red top. It was fate, it had to be.
Quickly, seizing the fateful moment and deliberately not giving himself time to back down, he leaned across and aimed for her cheek. Miscalculating slightly, his mouth landed on her chin, just down and to the left of her lower lip. That wasn’t right; that was plain silly. Still clutching his beer he shifted position and felt his arm accidentally brush against the cashmere swell of her breast . . . oh God, her actual breast . . . before managing more by luck than judgement to locate her mouth . . .
Gina, astonished for the second time that evening and breathing in the somewhat overpowering scent of the aftershave she had given her boss for his birthday, tried hard not to flinch. Doug was simply pleased for her and proud of the way in which she had dealt with Andrew, she told herself, quelling the urge to dodge out of the way. Besides, it didn’t do to flinch at a kiss from a friend, no matter how clumsy and damp it might be.
Having patiently waited for it to end, however, and finding herself still waiting several seconds later, she placed a firm but gentle restraining hand against his shoulder and disentangled herself from his grasp. It was impossible to be annoyed with Doug; he was too inoffensive . . . too kind . . . but enough was enough.
‘Your drink,’ she said kindly, as yet more dampness - icy dampness, this time - invaded her lap. ‘Doug, I think you’re spilling it.’
So much for fate, thought Doug, passion deflating as he saw how unmoved she was. Was it ever even remotely like this for Anthony Hopkins?
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, his face burning with shame. The moment of madness had passed; he supposed he should be grateful that at least he had escaped with his private parts intact. ‘I’m sorry, it was just—’
‘It’s nothing at all,’ Gina intercepted briskly, realizing that he was about to start apologizing all over again. With a bright smile, she jumped to her feet. ‘Really. These trousers are brilliant. Just chuck them in the washing-machine and they come out as good as new, every time.’
Chapter 46
Izzy, practically dead on her feet following eleven gruelling hours in a south London recording studio, took a while to get the gist of what her housekeeper was actually telling her when she returned home at seven in the evening. Lucille, sensing her confusion, poured her an enormous gin and tonic and splashed a couple of inches of Bushmills into a glass in order to keep Izzy company while she drank it.
‘He telephoned an hour ago,’ she repeated patiently, ‘and I told him you were out, but that you’d be back for sure by eight. Well y’see, he sounded such a charming gentleman and I could tell he was disappointed not to be speakin’ to you so I happened to mention that you hadn’t any plans for the rest of the evening, what with havin’ to catch that early flight of yours to Rome tomorrow mornin’, and then it occurred to me that maybe the good fellow might want to pop round and see you before you leave.’ Pausing momentarily for breath and an invigorating gulp of the Irish whiskey to which only a heathen would add ice, Lucille licked her lips in appreciation. ‘Well, he said that would suit him just fine so I told him to turn up at any time after eight-thirty so as to give you a little while to get yourself ready beforehand. Izzy, I’m tellin’ you, that man has a beautiful smilin’ voice . . . he all but broke my heart, just talkin’ to him . . . oh, and I told him not to eat first because he might as well share something here with you.’
The last of the Bushmills disappeared down her throat with a flourish. Izzy watched it go. Then she watched, helplessly, as Lucille rose to her feet and shrugged herself into a vast, banana-yellow cardigan which reached past her knees.
‘This charming gentleman,’ Izzy ventured weakly, because it seemed that here at last was her chance to speak. ‘Er . . . who is he?’
The weather had turned colder. Lucille, pausing in the act of winding a turquoise-and-yellow striped scarf several times around her plump neck, looked surprised. ‘To be sure, the fellow didn’t give me his name but he said he was a friend of yours so I thought it best to tell him to come on round here anyway. I knew you wouldn’t mind, and he did sound awful nice.’
It was hard, trying to imagine what kind of male voice would most appeal to Lucille. Izzy didn’t know Terry Wogan, so it couldn’t be him. But on the other hand there was always Doug . . .
‘So, he’s coming round for dinner,’ she said, realizing that she was hungry. ‘OK, fair enough. What are we having to eat?’
‘And who exactly is it that you think I am?’ This time Lucille’s orange eyebrows arched in astonishment. ‘Super-woman, maybe? Haven’t I spent the entire afternoon workin’ me poor fingers to the bone, cleanin’ every window in the house and ploughin’ me way through that damn great heap of ironing you wanted done so that you could look halfway decent in Rome . . . ?’
Izzy forestalled her. ‘There’s nothing to eat, then.’
‘Sure an’ there’s plenty to eat,’ scolded Lucille, already halfway through the door. ‘There’s food in the freezer. All it needs is a bit of attention, you lazy article. Heavens above, anyone’d think you didn’t know how to cook a simple meal without makin’ a pig’s ear of the event! What are you, Izzy Van Asch? Completely helpless?’
‘You’ve made a conquest,’ said Izzy, rubbing her wet hair with a towel as she led the way into the sitting room. ‘My housekeeper is besotted with your voice. Even more strangely, she’s under the impression that you’re a gentleman.’
Sam, who had been both startled and amused by the impromptu invitation issued to him over the phone by an unknown Irish woman, replied equably, ‘It’s not that strange. Some people really quite like me.’
‘Hmm.’ Izzy, who still hadn’t properly forgiven him for bawling her out at The Chelsea Steps the other week, cast him a doubtful look. Stung by Lucille’s scathing remarks earlier, she had wrestled irritably with a packet of chicken breasts and concocted a casserole of sorts which Doug would have enjoyed. She had a feeling, however, that Sam might laugh at it.
But Sam, who was in a good mood, made himself comfortable on Izzy’s new, dark green velvet sofa and grinned up at her.
‘OK, misery. Maybe I was too tough on you, so if I really have to apologise, I will. But only if you promise to cheer up.’
‘You were tough,’ Izzy reminded him, assuming an injured expression, but at the same time inwardly encouraged by such an admission. As far as she could remember, Sam was never in the wrong. She hadn’t known he was capable of even pronouncing the word ‘apology’.
He shrugged. ‘In that case, I’m sorry.’
‘Good.’
‘So, are we friends again?’
‘Could be,’ conceded Izzy, beginning to relent.
‘In that case, can I ask a personal question?’
Damn. He was going to make fun of her hair, she just knew it. Slowly, she said, ‘Mmm?’
‘That smell!’ exclaimed Sam, gesturing towards the kitchen. ‘That terrible smell! What on earth is it?’
This time there was no question about it; Sam was right. The indescribably awful casserole tasted every bit as bad as it had smelled. Izzy simply couldn’t imagine how some ingredients could be so burnt, while at the same time the vegetables had managed to stay rock-solid raw. Worst of all, having out of sheer desperation blamed the absent Lucille for the disaster, she realised that Sam hadn’t been fooled for a moment.
‘No, this is one of yours,’ he admonished her. As if to prove it, t
he piece of carrot he’d been attempting to spear ricocheted off his plate and landed in Izzy’s lap.
‘Definitely one of yours.’
‘I have other talents,’ she replied crossly, frustrated by such dismal failure. ‘Oh, stop trying to eat it, Sam, for God’s sake. Why don’t we just stick to what we know and send out for a pizza?’
He smiled. ‘Why don’t we open another bottle of wine instead? I’m supposed to be drowning my sorrows, after all.’
‘What sorrows?’ demanded Izzy, when they had by mutual consent abandoned the dreadful meal and settled down in front of the fire in the sitting room. Sam was hardly looking distraught; in fact it was ages since she’d seen him in such good spirits.
He threw her a swift sideways glance. ‘The Argentinians you assaulted. They’re suing the club.’
‘What?’
Sam burst out laughing. Izzy, realizing that she’d been had, cursed her own gullibility.
‘Not fair,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m flying to Rome tomorrow. Blame it on pre-jet lag.’
‘As an excuse, that’s even worse than the casserole.’
Sipping her wine, she repeated slowly, ‘What sorrows?’
‘Well, Vivienne moved out two days ago.’
He still didn’t look upset. Bizarrely, she found herself feeling guilty on Vivienne’s behalf. She had been the one who had urged her friend to take action, after all.
‘Are you upset?’
Sam’s eyes glittered with amusement. ‘Oh, distraught. My flat’s so tidy it looks like a show home. There’s room in the wardrobes to hang up my own clothes, the TV isn’t constantly tuned to the soaps and I don’t have to sleep in the spare bed any more.’
Even Izzy, herself a veteran of so many such crimes, couldn’t help smiling. ‘If she asks me, I’ll have to tell her you were at least a little bit upset.’
He nodded. ‘Of course you will. Poor Vivienne. The decision to leave had to be one she made for herself, for the sake of her pride. I’m just glad she finally realised it couldn’t go on any longer.’
‘You’re cruel,’ she protested, feeling sorry now for Vivienne.
‘No.’ Sam, unrepentant, simply grinned. ‘I’m free.’
With two-thirds of a bottle of Sancerre inside her, Izzy began to relax. It was comforting, having Sam back as a friend, and nicer still being able to discuss the failure of their respective love affairs in appallingly indiscreet detail.
‘I can just see myself at seventy,’ she mused, twirling her hair around her fingers and surveying its colour with a lack of enthusiasm. ‘I’ll be one of those eccentric spinster ladies surrounded by mountains of newspapers and half-empty tins of sliced pineapple. I shall keep a parrot, train it to sing all my old songs, and bore all my visitors rigid by reminiscing about the time I was famous. Kat will be deeply ashamed of me and try to put me into one of those homes for doolally ex-entertainers . . .’
Sam leaned forward to refill her glass. ‘And what about me?’
‘Oh, easy. You’ll be the sergeant-major type, lining up all the bottles in your drinks cabinet, writing pithy letters to The Times and terrifying your poor, down-trodden wife. You’ll iron all your own shirts because she never manages to get the creases exactly right, and keep terribly well-trained labradors.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t I get any children?’
Izzy had been poking gentle fun at him. Now, thinking about it, her expression grew serious. ‘I don’t know. Do you want them?’
He would make a brilliant father, yet for some reason the idea hadn’t even occurred to her. It was hard enough trying to imagine the kind of woman he would choose to marry.
‘Is that what you want, Sam? A wife and family?’
He grinned, sensing her disbelief. ‘Of course I do. Eventually. Why, d’you think I’m on the shelf? A lost cause? Too . . . old?’
Izzy hastily shifted position as he made a grab for her bare toes. ‘Don’t you dare tickle me! And of course you aren’t too old. Men never are. It’s unfair.’
Sam looked at first amazed, then intrigued. ‘What’s this, feeling broody?’
‘Not me, stupid. I meant Gina. All she’s ever wanted was a family and her time’s practically up. Whereas you could give yourself another thirty years if you wanted. Then all you’d have to do would be to find yourself some nubile young thing in her twenties and start . . . firing away.’
‘I wasn’t planning on leaving it quite that long,’ he protested mildly.
‘Yes, but at least you have the option . . . that’s what’s so unfair.’ She paused, then said, ‘What an amazingly grown-up conversation we’re having! My God, Sam - we’ll be discussing pension plans next.’
Sam didn’t care what they discussed; he was just glad to be here. Now that she had forgiven him, Izzy was on great form and her new-found success clearly agreed with her. In her dark blue jersey top and leggings she looked more like a ‘nubile young thing in her twenties’ herself than a thirty-seven-year-old woman with an almost-adult daughter. She might not be able to cook, he thought wryly, but she certainly possessed more than her share of alternative assets.
Gazing across at her now, remembering those few brief moments during the past months when things had so nearly come right between them, he was struck afresh by the irony of the situation. With Vivienne clinging stubbornly on like a burr, he hadn’t allowed himself to think about it too deeply, but if he were honest with himself, the attraction he felt towards Izzy was greater than anything he had experienced for any other woman for longer than he could remember. And yet their relationship had been so ludicrously chaste . . .
‘What?’ she demanded now, long-lashed dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. ‘You’ve gone quiet. I hate it when you go quiet. Oh God, is it food poisoning?’
‘More likely the thought of trying to discuss pension plans with someone who thinks an investment is a two-hundred-pound silk shirt.’ Rising to his feet, he removed the glass of wine from her hand. ‘Come on, show me your new home. I haven’t seen it yet and I want the full guided tour.’
Chapter 47
As Izzy led him from one room to the next, her sense of shame increased. Being subjected to Katerina’s despairing cries of, ‘Oh, Mum!’ every time she arrived home from a shopping trip with yet more unnecessary purchases was bad enough, but Sam’s silent incredulity was even more galling.
It wasn’t until she opened the door leading into the old nursery, however, that he finally spoke.
‘An exercise cycle. A sunbed. A Nautilus machine. Izzy, this is bloody ridiculous.’
‘We’ve used the sunbed,’ she replied defensively. ‘It’s great.’
‘Well, hooray for that. And the rest?’
‘I need to be fit. MBT are setting up a European tour for the new year . . .’
‘And you’ve never exercised in your life.’ He gave her a pained look. ‘Izzy, you’re throwing your money away. You’re never going to use this stuff.’
‘I will!’ The words sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.
Sam’s expression switched to one of impatience. ‘Take it from me,’ he said flatly, ‘you won’t. And you have to understand that you can’t carry on like this, spending as fast as you earn. What happens when the supply dries up? What’ll you do then?’
‘It isn’t going to dry up.’ He meant well, so she kept her temper. ‘ “Never, Never” was a top-ten hit in seventeen different countries. The cheques just keep coming . . .’
‘And you haven’t received a tax demand yet.’
‘Sam, don’t be so boring! “Kiss” is doing brilliantly . . . I don’t have to worry about tax bills . . .’
‘You’re still wasting your money on rubbish.’ He spoke more gently this time, and Izzy’s shoulders sagged in defeat. He wasn’t, after all, telling her anything she hadn’t already figured out for herself.
‘I know,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s stupid, of course it’s stupid. I’m beginning to think I’m not cut out for
this being-rich business. I’m just not very good at it.’
Touched by the admission, Sam turned to face her. ‘Of course you aren’t used to it,’ he reminded her. ‘But you don’t have to rush out and spend, spend, spend. It isn’t compulsory, you know.’
All at once Izzy’s dark eyes filled with tears. ‘Of course it is,’ she wailed. ‘I’m miserable! It helps.’
He steered her swiftly out of the depressing room. ‘If it helps so much, why are you crying?’
Izzy wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She herself hardly knew the answer to that. Somehow, though, Sam’s being here tonight had made her realise just how empty she’d been feeling for the past few weeks. Before, she’d blamed it on her problems with Katerina, but Kat had come back and the gnawing, inner emptiness had persisted.
