by Jill Mansell
‘And what if I’m not as right as rain?’ she countered with rising anger. This so-called bloody miracle-worker in his flashy designer suit and hand-made shoes was fobbing her off with ridiculous platitudes. She couldn’t just sit around and wait, for God’s sake. She needed to know. Now.
‘Why don’t we cross that hurdle when we come to it?’ This time he tried to give her hand a consoling pat, but Gina snatched it away.
‘Just tell me,’ she said evenly, ‘what you think is wrong with me.’
‘Ah, but the tests are inconclusive. It really isn’t possible to . . .’
He was shaking his head. Prevaricating. Fixing him with a steady gaze, Gina said, ‘But you can’t assure me that I don’t have a brain tumour, can you?’
Chapter 50
Katerina, despatched by Lucille to answer the front door, was delighted to see Vivienne standing on the doorstep.
‘I was beginning to think we’d never see you again,’ she cried, giving her a hug and almost having her eye taken out in the process by an enormous gold earring curved like a scimitar to match Vivienne’s flawless cheekbones. ‘And I thought that if we did ever see you, we wouldn’t recognise you. Now that you’re a country doctor’s lady, aren’t you supposed to trudge around in tweed skirts and wellies?’
‘Tried it once, didn’t like it,’ deadpanned Vivienne, glancing down at her cyclamen-pink silk jacket and short black skirt. Then she broke into a grin. ‘OK, that’s a lie. Thought about it once and couldn’t face it. Hell, at least this way the patients have something to gossip about. I figure it brightens their day.’
‘We’ve got a patient whose day could do with a bit of brightening.’ Katerina drew her inside, kicking the door shut behind them. ‘Come on, I’ll break open the gin, if Lucille hasn’t got there first. And I warn you, you’re going to need it.’
Vivienne was both appalled by the change in Gina, and enchanted by bossy, bustling Lucille who appeared to run the entire household and whose welcome entailed swiping the bottle of Gordon’s from Katerina’s grasp and all but emptying its contents into two enormous glasses.
‘That girl pours terrible small measures,’ she declared expansively, above the clatter of ice cubes. ‘Not that I’m much of a gin-person myself, ye understand, but I’m willing to join you for decency’s sake. And none of this poison for you,’ she added, swinging round to address Gina. ‘It does desperate things, y’know, to the human brain.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Vivienne cheerfully, taking her drink and sinking down on to the dark green sofa next to Gina. ‘I was so sorry to hear you were sick. Still, it must be great to be out of hospital.’
Gina managed a wan smile. She looked, Vivienne decided, like a stiffly jointed wooden doll.
‘Everyone’s been very kind. Izzy insisted I stay here until I’m well enough to . . . cope on my own.’ Her tone of voice indicated that this was an unlikely prospect. Behind her, Katerina raised her eyebrows in an I-told-you-so manner.
‘So, what exactly was wrong?’ persisted Vivienne, who had only heard the vaguest details from Izzy when she’d phoned and whose curiosity was now thoroughly aroused. It wasn’t like Katerina to be so unsympathetic where illness was concerned.
‘I have to go back for more tests before they decide whether or not it’s worth trying to operate.’ Gina’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, but she soldiered on. ‘Although if the tumour’s malignant, they probably won’t bother . . .’
Vivienne’s eyes widened. ‘You have a tumour?’
‘Not definitely,’ said Katerina, with a trace of impatience. ‘Gina, it isn’t definite.’
‘Of course not.’ Gina shrugged apologetically and gave Vivienne a brave smile. ‘Well, they’re ninety per cent sure, but that isn’t definite. Did Izzy tell you my mother died of a brain tumour?’
This was awful, unbelievable. Suddenly ashamed of herself for having asked, Vivienne shifted in her seat and said, ‘Where is she? Izzy, I mean. I told her I’d be here at seven-thirty . . .’
‘Ah,’ said Lucille, who evidently wouldn’t recognise an emotionally charged atmosphere if it were to leap up and poke her in the eye, ‘but she’s a crafty article, that one. She told me you were never anywhere you were supposed to be without losing an hour in the process, so she was goin’ to take a nice hot bath while she was waitin’ for you to turn up late.’ She gave Vivienne a great beaming smile. ‘It’s thinkin’ like that, I said to her, that brings down governments and loses wars. And I’m right, aren’t I, because she’s still wallowing upstairs in the tub and here you are, not so late after all, havin’ fun and drinkin’ all the gin.’
By nine o’clock Izzy and Vivienne had the sitting room to themselves, Gina having retired to bed in order to rest and Katerina having disappeared to do some revision. Lucille had gone home to her much-beleaguered husband.
‘Well, I love your housekeeper, but isn’t Gina acting kinda weird?’ said Vivienne with characteristic bluntness.
Izzy sighed. ‘I suppose so. But then I suppose she’s entitled to act weird, under the circumstances. It just doesn’t make things easier.’
‘This place is like LittleWomen,’Vivienne mused, curling her long legs beneath her. ‘Ever read that book? You’ve got Gina doing her impression of saintly Beth, Kat can be Amy . . . hell, your problem is that none of you has a man!’
‘Not so long ago we had problems,’ Izzy countered drily. ‘And they were all caused by men. It’s a no-win situation.’
Vivienne looked smug. ‘I’ve won.’
‘And we aren’t totally starved of male company,’ said Izzy, glancing at her watch. ‘Doug’s round here all the time. He won’t admit it, but I’m sure he’s carrying a secret torch for Gina.’
‘Well, hooray for Doug.’
‘And there’s Sam, too.’ Izzy paused, awaiting her reaction. ‘He calls round every night to see Gina, usually at around nine-thirty on his way to The Steps. I expect he’ll be here soon.’
But all Vivienne did was laugh. ‘What are you doing, testing me? To see if I’m well and truly cured? Honey, I can read you like a book!’
No, you can’t, thought Izzy with some relief. Vivienne and Sam might not be a couple any more, but she still felt guilty about what had happened between Sam and herself.
‘And if I am testing you?’ she said cautiously.
‘Everything’s different now. Like I said, I’ve won. Hit the good old jackpot. Oh Izzy, it’s like a dream come true! Terry’s the one for me and now that I’ve finally managed to convince him I’m not just messing him around, it’s got better and better. I’m living with a man who really wants me . . .’
‘You haven’t explained how that came about either,’ said Izzy, curious to know how she’d managed it. ‘Sam told me you’d moved into an hotel. The next thing I know, you’re out of it and into the love-nest.’
‘I moved into the hotel,’ Vivienne corrected her triumphantly. ‘The Ritz, to be precise. When poor old Terry heard what the nightly rates are for that place he all but fainted on the spot. At first he tried to persuade me to move into someplace cheaper, but I told him it was either his place or I stayed put. And since he couldn’t cope with the idea of being responsible for such vast sums of money disappearing by the hour, he had to give in.’ She grinned and said, ‘The bill for four days at the Ritz came to just over a grand, what with laundry and room service. But in the end, you see, it was a brilliant investment.’
This was the kind of logic with which Izzy happily concurred. It was also the kind that drove Sam to despair. For a moment she almost wished he could be there to hear it; the expression on his face would be miraculous.
‘And you’re changing the subject, sweetie,’ Vivienne continued, fixing her with a shrewd look. ‘You don’t have a man in your life and it isn’t right. Aren’t you meeting hordes of handsome hunks these days, now that you’re mixing in the most glittering showbiz circles?’
‘Mainly balding, overweight hunks,’ said Izzy, wondering if
she should tell her now. It was about as good an opportunity as she was likely to get, after all. But the words wouldn’t come. She felt her nerve - quite uncharacteristically - slipping away. ‘Not that they’re all bald,’ she amended lightly. ‘Some of them have hair. Well, toupees.’
True to her word, Vivienne didn’t even flinch when the doorbell rang. Izzy, answering the door, ducked away before Sam could kiss her and pressed herself like a fugitive against the wall.
‘It’s OK.’ He looked amused. ‘I don’t have a gun.’
‘Sshh. Vivienne’s here.’
‘So?’ Totally unfazed, he gave Izzy a kiss anyway. She only managed to squirm frantically out of reach a fraction of a second before Vivienne appeared in the sitting-room doorway.
‘Hi, Sam. Come to visit the invalid? Since our hopeless hostess hasn’t offered, I was just about to make some coffee. Would you like some?’
It was all so civilised, thought Izzy wonderingly, ten minutes later. She could hardly have believed that there had ever been anything between Vivienne and Sam. Now, with no apparent awkwardness at all, they were chatting away like old friends, the conversation moving effortlessly from the latest gossip at The Chelsea Steps to Sam’s about-to-be-divorced neighbours, and then on again to Vivienne’s new-found happiness.
‘It’s so great,’ she enthused, green eyes alight with adoration. ‘I keep having to pinch myself to make sure it isn’t all a dream. And do you know, Terry doesn’t even care if I leave my shoes in the kitchen, or burn dinner?’
Sam looked startled. ‘You actually cook meals for him?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Vivienne burst out laughing. ‘We have a sweet woman in from the village. She does all the cooking; I heat it up.’
‘He’ll come to his senses.When the novelty wears off.’
‘No, he won’t,’ she replied simply, not even taking offence. ‘Because he accepts me, just the way I am. And it isn’t a novelty, it’s love.’
Gina was sitting up in bed, waiting for him. Holding out her arms for her customary hug, she said, ‘You’ve been downstairs for ages. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.’
Sam looked and smelled wonderful. He was wearing a new, dark grey suit, a pink-and-grey striped shirt and her favourite aftershave. She wondered if he had any idea how much his visits meant to her, how very much he had come to mean to her during these last, nightmarish few days. For while Izzy had been brilliant, footing the ludicrously expensive medical bills and insisting she stay in order to be properly looked after, Gina sensed that only Sam truly understood what she was going through. And he really cared . . .
‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten you,’ he said, idly turning over the paperback she’d been reading. ‘But Vivienne’s still down there. I had to sit through the whole happy-ever-after story before I could escape. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gina!’ His expression changed as he read the title of the book. ‘What are you doing with this?’
‘I’m being sensible,’ she replied, an aching lump coming to her throat as she realised the extent of his concern. ‘We have to face facts, Sam. It’s no good pretending everything’s fine.’
‘Arranging Your Own Funeral?’ he demanded, staring aghast at the discreet, dark blue lettering of the title and then at Gina’s pinched white face. Hurling the book across the room, he said, ‘This is ridiculous . . . you shouldn’t even be thinking about it!’
Gina, who had never seen him so angry before, promptly burst into tears. ‘It needs to be done. There are so many things I have to think about! Making a will . . . organizing the service . . . please, Sam, don’t look at me like that. I don’t want you to be c-cross with me . . .’
Sam, who was seldom at a loss for words, took her into his arms and let her sob. Eventually he said, ‘I’m not cross with you. It just doesn’t seem right, that’s all. I don’t think you should be dwelling on what might not even happen.’
His embrace was so warm, so comforting, Gina didn’t want it to stop. But she was scared, and exhausted with the effort of putting on a brave face. The fear of what lay ahead was too much for anyone to bear; she couldn’t go through it alone.
Gradually, however, she began to feel better. Having heard muted scrabbling sounds at the door moments earlier, she tilted her tear-stained face and saw Jericho crouched at the foot of the bed, wrestling with the paperback.
‘You see?’ murmured Sam, stroking her hair. ‘Even the damn dog agrees with me.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Gina gave him a weak smile.
‘You don’t have to know. I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘As if you don’t have enough to worry about. Was it awful, seeing Vivienne again and having to listen to her going on about how happy she is with her new boyfriend?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Relieved to see that Gina was looking more cheerful, he carefully wiped her eyes with the back of his hand and grinned at her. ‘It’s the best news I’ve had all year.’
Chapter 51
‘Well, you’ve certainly got a bit of colour in your cheeks today,’ declared Lucille approvingly at eleven-thirty the following morning, as she wielded the vacuum cleaner with some vigour around the bedroom. Prodding Jericho with the nozzle until he let out an indignant yelp, she added cheerfully, ‘Looked like a wee ghost, so you did yesterday . . . will you shift yer carcass, you dumb crazy animal . . . I’ll tell you now, I said an extra prayer or two before I went to bed last night.’
‘Maybe it worked,’ suggested Gina, trying not to flinch as Jericho’s tail came perilously close to being sucked into the Hoover.
Lucille, however, wasn’t about to let the Almighty take all the credit for this particular small miracle. Switching off the machine - to the profound relief of both Gina and Jericho - she tilted her head to one side and said slyly, ‘Somethin’ surely worked, but since I’m not entirely convinced the good Lord was able to hear my prayers above all the noise of me old man’s drunken snores, I’m thinkin’ that maybe it has more to do with a certain visitor . . .’
Doug Steadman, Lucille had decided, was a lovely fellow. Deeply appreciative of her ham-and-mustard sandwiches, which comprised more ham than bread, and always willing to regale her with gossip about her favourite old Irish singers, she enjoyed his daily visits immensely. And he was kind, too; this morning he had brought her a dog-eared programme of a Val Doonican concert from the Seventies, signed by the great man himself.
If Doug wasn’t so clearly besotted with Gina, Lucille could almost have had a go at him herself.
At the mention of the word ‘visitor’, however, Gina’s thoughts had flown immediately to Sam. Since stating so emphatically last night that Vivienne meant nothing to him at all, her tentative hopes had soared and she had slept well for the first time in a week.
Now, since Izzy’s perceptive housekeeper had virtually raised the subject anyway, she decided to take the plunge and say aloud the question that had been buzzing around in her mind ever since she’d woken up.
‘OK,’ she said, bracing herself. ‘Lucille, if you really liked a man and knew he liked you in return, but because you were old friends nothing was actually happening . . . well, would you carry on as you were and just hope it might happen naturally? Or do you think it would be better to come out and say something?’
She could feel perspiration prickling the back of her neck. God, it was hard enough even saying this to Lucille . . .
But the housekeeper’s broad smile told her all she needed to know.
‘Bless you,’ declared Lucille triumphantly, feeling almost as if she had engineered the entire fairy-tale herself. ‘And there I was, wondering how long it was going to take you to come to your senses! Of course you must tell him. He’ll be relieved and delighted to know how you feel, and that’s a promise!’
‘Are you sure?’ said Gina, sagging with relief. ‘Really? I wouldn’t want him to think I was being . . . well, pushy.’
‘Sure, I’m sure,’ Lucille replied, her sweeping gestur
e towards the window encompassing the entire male population of north London. ‘Don’t three-quarters of them need a bit of a push and a shove to get them started at the best of times? You mark my words, a fine man is a rare enough creature to track down these days. If you’re fortunate enough to find one, you have to thank your lucky stars and then hang on to him by your very fingernails.’
‘Bugger, bugger and damn!’ shrieked Izzy, slamming down the phone just as Gina wandered into the kitchen.
Katerina, who was standing at the stove stirring a great panful of molten chocolate fudge, raised her eyebrows.
‘My mother, the celebrated song-writer. Can’t you just picture Michael Parkinson introducing her on next week’s show? And now ladies and gentlemen, here to give us a rendition of her latest single, “Bugger, bugger and damn”, will you please welcome—’
