by Jill Mansell
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head like a child, deeply ashamed of such inexplicable weakness. ‘I’ve got everything I’ve ever wanted . . . I have no right to be miserable . . . but something still seems to be missing and I don’t even know what it is.’
‘Or who he is.’ Sam, hazarding an unpalatable guess, said slowly, ‘It’s not Tash Janssen, is it?’
It was some comfort to see her attempting a watery smile.
‘Definitely not him. Oh hell, I’m just being stupid. Don’t take any notice of me.’
It was about the silliest statement she could have made. Even if he’d been carved out of granite he could scarcely have failed to take notice of her.
In an attempt to cheer her up, he gave her a crooked grin. ‘You’re certainly a lousy tour guide. Come on, let’s go back downstairs.’
‘I haven’t shown you my bedroom.’ Izzy was particularly proud of her glamorous, newly redecorated master bedroom with its emerald-green ceiling, crimson wallpaper and lavishly swathed crimson-and-green four-poster bed. Turning left and leading the way along the corridor, she opened the door. ‘And now that you’re here, you can carry my cases down for me.’
Now that he was here, Sam could think of far more interesting things to do than haul a set of matching luggage around. It wasn’t something he’d planned, but Izzy’s unhappiness had touched a chord in him, affecting him more deeply than any amount of outright flirtation could ever have done. There had been so many missed opportunities in the past, yet the mutual attraction underlying their chequered, sometimes volatile relationship had always been there . . .
‘I haven’t been able to get this one closed,’ Izzy explained, anxious to divert his attention from her embarrassing outburst. The last thing Sam needed now was yet another hopeless, whingeing female crying all over him.
Having crammed far too many clothes and at least a dozen pairs of shoes into the largest pale grey suitcase, she had struggled unsuccessfully for some time to fasten the zip. Now, plonking herself down on top of the case and mentally making herself as heavy as possible, she said, ‘Come on, Sam - you’re the one with the muscles. If you can just do the zip . . .’
He had to crouch down in order to secure the suitcase. Izzy, perched cross-legged on the lid like a fairy on top of a toadstool, gave him an encouraging smile.
Sam leaned back on his heels and took a deep, measured breath.
‘Izzy, I think it’s about time.’
‘Time for what?’ She gazed at him, her expression blank, her lips slightly parted.
‘Time you stopped being miserable,’ said Sam slowly. Her hands were resting on her knees and when he covered them with his own, she didn’t move away. ‘And I think it’s also about time we stopped kidding ourselves. It’s still there, isn’t it?’
It was a statement rather than a question and Izzy knew at once what he meant. To Sam’s great relief she didn’t pretend not to.
‘Of course it’s still there,’ she replied in a low voice, her pulse beginning to race. Admitting it to herself, and realizing that Sam still felt the same way as well, was like allowing a great weight to fall from her shoulders. By tacit unspoken agreement, Vivienne’s arrival in London and Izzy’s own subsequent ill-fated relationship with Tash had put paid to any thought of continuing what had so nearly been started.
Now, however, the obstacles had been smoothed away; there was no reason on earth why it shouldn’t happen. Unless . . .
Sensing her hesitation, he said, ‘What?’
Izzy pushed her hair away from her face. ‘It’s been there all this time,’ she said hesitantly. ‘So, why now? Why tonight in particular?’
At this, Sam had to smile. Then he glanced briefly at the sumptuous four-poster behind her. ‘Well, call me an opportunist, but this is the first time you’ve ever actually invited me into your bedroom. That is, if you don’t count the time at Gina’s house when you found a spider in your bed and screamed the place down . . .’
It was a good answer, but Izzy had to be sure. ‘Look,’ she tried again, her expression serious. ‘I don’t want this to be happening just because I burst into tears and said I was miserable. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, Sam.’
‘I have never, in my life, felt sorry for you,’ he answered truthfully, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
‘OK,’ said Izzy, this time with a glimmer of amusement. ‘I believe you.’
He raised his eyebrows in mock despair. ‘I should bloody well hope so.’
‘And now I want you to do something else for me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, Sam.’ Awash with anticipation and longing, wondering if he could hear the frantic thudding of her heart against her ribs, she slid down from the suitcase and into his arms. ‘Stop wasting time and seduce me . . .’
Afterwards it seemed to Izzy as if everything had happened in slow motion, each stage of the exquisite mutual seduction becoming so miraculously elongated that time no longer held any recognizable meaning.
And when at last he had explored and caressed her naked body until she’d ached to feel him inside her, her wish was fulfilled. As a lover, Sam was more perfect than she had ever dared imagine. No words were necessary because he knew intuitively - almost before she knew it herself - what to do in order to heighten and prolong each magical moment to such a degree that she couldn’t have formulated the simplest of words anyway . . . Closing her eyes and giving herself up to the sheer mindless ecstasy of it all, Izzy moved with him, her fingernails raking his shoulders, her parted lips brushing his neck. The moment was approaching and she knew Sam was holding back, waiting for her. It wasn’t fair . . . she wanted it to go on for ever . . . but the sensations were spiralling out of control and nothing - not even Sam - could stop them now . . .
‘Oh . . . !’ cried Izzy, clutching him and almost sobbing with joy.
The next moment, Sam’s mouth brushed her ear. ‘I’ve waited so long for this,’ he murmured, his body tensing as he pulled her closer still. ‘Izzy . . . I love you . . .’
She awoke at six-thirty to find herself wrapped in Sam’s arms. Their legs, too, were comfortably entwined. He wasn’t asleep.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said, smiling up at him and revelling in the blissful security of his embrace.
His fingers trailed suggestively across the lower part of her stomach. ‘Hmm, me too.’
‘For food,’ protested Izzy, gasping as he rolled her gently on to her back and began to explore the swell of her breasts with a lazy tongue. Seconds later, she gave in and whispered weakly, ‘But maybe I can wait . . .’
This time the lovemaking was slow and languorous, almost dreamlike. Afterwards, Sam said, ‘Do you remember what I told you last night?’
‘You mean that stuff about how I shouldn’t be throwing my money away?’ Izzy pulled a face. ‘Sam, don’t tell me you’re going to try and sell me a time-share.’
He gave her bare bottom a reproving pinch. ‘Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m being serious.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And I’m talking about three words in particular.’
It didn’t take much effort to guess which three he was referring to. Izzy, who had heard those words uttered at such crucial moments before, tended to take them with a wagonload of salt. Ducking the issue, she gazed innocently at Sam and said, ‘Three words in particular? Like “Oh God - cellulite”?’
He pinched her again, hard.
‘I told you I loved you.’
‘It’s OK,’ she assured him. ‘I’m sure it isn’t legally binding.’
‘If you carry on like this for much longer,’ he warned, ‘I shall—’
‘Tie me to the bedposts with silk stockings and teach me a lesson I’ll never forget?’
Sam closed his eyes in mock despair. ‘I think I prefer you miserable . . . Can you be serious for one moment?’
‘OK.’ She nodded, trying to look penitent. ‘But only if you promise to make breakfast afterwards. I’m st
ill hungry.’
But Sam wasn’t to be put off. ‘Those three words,’ he said simply, gazing down at her. ‘I meant them. And it isn’t something I make a habit of saying, in case that’s what you thought. If you must know, this is a first.’
Izzy’s string of one-liners abruptly died in her throat. Her stomach did an ungainly flip-flop and her mouth went dry. Oh God, she thought, he really was serious. And while it was possibly the most wonderful thing he could have said, it was also the most terrifying.
Hopelessly unprepared for such a declaration - and so early in the morning too - she said weakly, ‘Oh Sam, don’t do this. Please.’
Leaning across, he tilted her chin with his hand so that she was forced to look at him. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it scares me.’ It hurt even to say the words. Sam meant so much to her - far more than he could possibly know - but it only made the situation that much more frightening. Tash Janssen had said, ‘I love you,’ and it hadn’t meant a thing. Ralph had said it dozens of times; so had Katerina’s father. And what good had it done, what had it ever achieved? As far as Izzy was concerned, the fact that Sam could so easily say the same thing when it clearly wasn’t true only proved beyond a shadow of a doubt how little such words meant, and how ridiculously gullible she had been in the past to believe them. God, men were such treacherous shits, she thought with renewed sadness. Why couldn’t they just treat women honestly? Why did they deliberately have to confuse them?
‘What are you talking about?’ Sam demanded now, pushing his fingers through his dark blond hair with an impatient gesture. ‘Nothing scares you.’
Being fed a line and being stupid enough to fall for it was what scared Izzy. This time she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said easily. ‘No big deal, Sam. I just don’t want you to say those things, that’s all.’
‘I wish I hadn’t bloody well said them,’ he replied with feeling. This wasn’t turning out at all as he had expected.
‘Yes, well.’ Izzy shrugged. ‘It only mucks everything up, doesn’t it? I mean, let’s be honest; after fancying each other for months we’ve finally . . . done something about it. And I have to say that on my part at least, it lived up to all expectations. It was great - maybe it can even carry on being great - but there’s absolutely no need to spoil it by pretending it means more than it really does.’
Sam hadn’t been pretending, but he was damned if he was going to say so now, in the light of Izzy’s illuminating comments. He had, it seemed, been a good lay and satisfied Izzy’s curiosity to boot. But as for anything more . . . well, that would only spoil it.
‘I’m being sensible,’ she continued, bunching the duvet up around her and hugging her knees. ‘Realistic. Don’t get funny, Sam.’
‘Getting funny wasn’t exactly uppermost in my mind,’ he replied, his expression sardonic.
It was Sam’s turn now to avoid Izzy’s gaze. Sliding closer, losing half the duvet in the process, she grinned and landed a kiss on his rigid jaw. ‘But you’re in danger of doing it anyway,’ she said between kisses, ‘and there’s really no need.We aren’t having an argument, after all.’
‘Hmm.’
He was weakening; she could sense it. Feeling her stomach beginning to rumble, Izzy stretched a little further, manoeuvring the kisses closer to his mouth. ‘So, no getting funny,’ she murmured in wheedling tones. ‘If, on the other hand, you were thinking of getting breakfast . . .’
Despite himself, Sam smiled. ‘You’re a hard bitch.’
She was almost on top of him now. ‘Oh no,’ she said, stifling irrepressible laughter. ‘I’m a hungry bitch. Forgive me for mentioning something so personal, Sam, but you’re the one who’s hard.’
Sam was downstairs in the kitchen when Izzy, emerging from the shower, remembered the phone. Having unplugged it last night in order to avoid any untimely interruptions, it occurred to her now that Joel McGill probably would have been trying to get through for the last hour. As soon as she reconnected the bedside phone, it started to ring.
‘No need to panic,’ said Izzy, balancing the receiver between chin and collarbone as she wriggled into primrose-yellow silk knickers and kicked last night’s dark blue jersey top in the general direction of the washing basket. ‘I’m awake, packed and ready to go.’
But it wasn’t Joel, phoning to bully her out of bed. It was Gina, sounding distinctly odd.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all night,’ she said, her tone jerky. In the background, Izzy could hear the clatter of pans and an unearthly wailing noise.
‘All night? Gina, where are you? It sounds like Whipsnade Zoo.’
There was a pause, then Gina’s voice cracked. ‘It’s worse than a zoo. Oh, Izzy, I need you here. I’m in St Luke’s Hospital and nobody will tell me what’s going on . . .’
‘But why are you there?’ Izzy sat down abruptly on the edge of the rumpled bed. ‘Gina, don’t cry. Has there been some kind of accident?’
‘No . . . no accident.’ Gina was crying in earnest now. ‘Oh God, Izzy . . . I’ve been trying to phone you all night! I tried to phone Sam, but he wasn’t answering, either. Will you come down and find out what’s happening . . . ?’
‘Of course I will,’ said Izzy automatically, her mind racing. ‘But, why are you there?’
‘My eyes.’ Gina’s reply was barely audible now. ‘It’s my eyes. I think I’m going . . . blind . . .’
Chapter 48
Up until now Izzy Van Asch had been a model protégée, writing songs practically to order, singing when she was asked to sing, good-naturedly smiling and posing for hours on end during gruelling photographic sessions and interviewing like a dream. Her endless enthusiasm and down-to-earth sense of humour had won Joel McGill over completely, and although no one could call her the most punctual person in the world, she had never let either him - or herself - down.
Until now. Oh, until now. And how he wished he hadn’t answered the damn phone.
‘Look,’ he said, struggling to remain calm and wondering if Izzy had any idea how much damage she could be doing to her career. ‘Everything’s been arranged. For God’s sake, Izzy - you can’t do this to me! You can’t not go to Rome.’
But Izzy, it seemed, wasn’t open to persuasion. She was utterly determined.
‘I’m sorry, I know I’m mucking everything up,’ she replied, her tone even. ‘But I have no choice. Gina needs me and I can’t let her down.’
Joel, close to despair, said, ‘The Italians aren’t going to be amused.’
‘I know that.’The fourteen-day schedule of TV appearances, concerts and interviews was a hectic one. Izzy was only too well aware of the phenomenal amount of work that had gone into organizing it. She sighed, a deep and sorrowful sigh. ‘And I wish I didn’t have to do this. But you see, Joel, now that it’s happened . . . there’s no way in the world I can go to Rome.’
St Luke’s Hospital, with its intimidating red-brick exterior and endless corridors of pea-soup-green walls and beige linoleum flooring, was about the most depressing building Izzy had ever seen. The antiseptic smell of the place was all-pervading, the lifts positively antique; even the expressions on the faces of the medical staff they passed along the way seemed uncompromisingly grim.
But if she had found her initial impression disturbing, it was nothing compared with the shock of actually entering the ward to which Gina had been allocated. Now the stench became all too recognizably human. Izzy held her breath and gazed around in dismay at the pitiful sight of thirty or so women, none of whom were a day under eighty, either slumped in chairs or lying corpselike in regimented beds. Some were silent, while others mumbled unintelligibly to themselves. One, frenziedly clawing the air above her head, emitted a series of ear-splitting squawks as they passed by. The terrible smell intensified. Another ancient female with wild hair hurled a plastic beaker on to the floor and cackled with laughter as cold tea splattered Izzy’s highly polished, sage-gree
n boots. Two young nurses, frantically busy at the far end of the ward with yet another recalcitrant patient, hadn’t even noticed their arrival. The place was pitifully understaffed and there wasn’t a doctor in sight.
‘It’s OK,’ said Sam, although it clearly wasn’t. Tightening his grip on Izzy’s arm, concerned for a moment that she might actually pass out, he continued in reassuring tones, ‘Look, there’s Gina. Second from the end, on the left.’
It was a measure of Gina’s deep distress, Izzy felt, that she was no longer even able to cry.
