by Jill Mansell
‘Ach.’ The old Italian woman clicked her tongue and heaved a sigh of annoyance before abruptly hanging up.
Lola switched off the phone. Of course it hadn’t been Doug. What did she expect?
***
‘Do you trust me?’
‘I trust you.’
‘Go on then. Take it off,’ said Gabe.
Savannah flushed and double-checked that the bedroom curtains were drawn shut. Not even the most persistent paparazzo could sneak a peek into the cottage. She was safe from prying lenses, safe from discovery. Reaching up, she removed the wig and put it on the dressing table in front of her.
‘Maybe a bit of powder,’ Gabe suggested. ‘Just to take off the shine.’
She did as he said, then took a steadying breath and turned on the seat to face him.
‘Round to the left a bit. I don’t want you full on.’ Keen to avoid the wing-nut effect, he wanted to minimize her ears. A three-quarter shot would be most flattering. ‘And tilt your head slightly… relax your shoulders, I’m not about to rip your teeth out. Now give me a hint of a smile… perfect, that’s perfect…’
Afterwards Savannah hugged him. Together they watched as the series of images emerged from the printer on high-gloss photographic paper. Gabe was pleased with the results; as their session had progressed, the tension in Savannah’s muscles had dissolved. Towards the end of the sitting she had begun to relax and enjoy herself. Her smile had broadened and lost its I’m-posing-for-the-camera-without-my-wig-on anxiety. The final few had achieved what he’d been aiming for; a beautiful woman who happened to have no hair was gazing into the lens without fear. She was wearing natural make-up, silver hooped earrings, and a simple white camisole top over jeans.
‘Thank you.’ Savannah couldn’t stop gazing at them. She shook her head in wonder. ‘Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to me.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘You’re incredible.’ She turned and kissed him.
Gabe grinned. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’
‘Maybe if I keep looking at them, I’ll get more used to them.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ He watched her slide the glossy color photographs into the wall safe, where no one else could get at them.
‘You do the rest,’ said Savannah, and Gabe set about deleting first the images from the memory card, then the files from the laptop itself.
‘All done.’ There was data recovery software on the market capable of retrieving deleted images but he didn’t mention this to her.
‘Thank you.’ If she was aware of this she didn’t mention it either. The point was that she had trusted him to take the photographs, which was good enough for Gabe. Slowly, slowly, Savannah was gaining in confidence.
She was also besotted with him, which was a pretty flattering thing to happen, even if it meant that for the last week or so he’d been getting less sleep than a new mother of twins with colic.
‘You’re doing it again,’ Savannah chided.
‘Doing what?’
‘Looking at your watch. I hate it when you look at your watch like that.’
Gabe smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I know, I’m sorry, it’s called being a part of the real world. We can’t all be A-list movie stars taking a few months off between films. Some of us have to get back to London, earn a living.’
‘But I don’t want you to go. I’ll be all on my own.’ Pouting, Savannah slid her hands beneath his holey pink T-shirt.
Gabe gently removed them; thanks to her insecurity she was exhaustingly clingy. ‘Just a quick coffee, then I really do have to leave.’
He leaned against the stove and watched Savannah make the coffee. Her actions were delicate, precise, as neat and organized as the kitchen itself, always wiping away wet mug rings with a rag and cleaning up crumbs on the worktop. She was more than capable of keeping the cottage immaculate without Pauline the housekeeper—and owner of Bunty the yappy terrier.
‘Would you like to stay, if you could?’
Here came the rush of neediness again. To reassure her, Gabe said patiently, ‘Of course I would.’
‘OK. In that case, stay.’ Savannah tilted her head. ‘I’ll pay you what you would have earned. How about that?’
‘How about that?’ echoed Gabe. ‘How about no?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not a gigolo. Don’t take it personally.’ He held up his hands. ‘It’s just not something I could do. Look, I need to work tonight and tomorrow. But I can come down on Sunday.’
‘Or I could come up tomorrow.’ Savannah looked hopeful. ‘Book a suite at the Ritz.’
‘Sunday’s better. I’ll see you here.’ Gabe shook his head; in London there were paparazzi everywhere and being holed up in a hotel wasn’t his idea of fun. At least down here in the depths of the countryside they could go out for walks, although Savannah’s preferred form of exercise was more bedroom-related. Not that he was complaining about that, and it wasn’t as if it would last forever. Next month she was off to the States to make two films back to back and their brief fling would be over.
‘Two whole days. I’m going to miss you.’ She threw her arms around him.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ said Gabe. He must give Sally a call on the way back, see if there was anything she wanted him to pick up. Reaching for his cup, he spilled a couple of drops of coffee on the flagstoned kitchen floor. Before he could reach for the rag, Savannah had grabbed it and wiped up the drips, rinsed the cloth under the tap and squeezed it dry.
Gabe smiled to himself. Sally would never have done that. At best she would have casually scuffed at the drips with the sole of her shoe.
Chapter 40
Blythe loved to watch Lola at work in the shop, helping customers and making them smile. To the rest of the world Lola might be a capable twenty-seven-year-old, but as far as Blythe was concerned she’d always be her little girl.
Spotting her, Lola waved and called over, ‘Hey, Mum, what a coincidence. Dad was in here just now! You missed him by five minutes.’
Blythe smiled and nodded, noting that Lola had stopped calling him Nick. She was happy for Lola that the two of them were getting on so well; she just wished Lola would stop trying to—
‘Ooh, why don’t you come with us tonight? We’re going along to the opening of a new exhibition at the Simm Gallery, then on to dinner at Medici’s.’ Eagerly Lola said, ‘How about the three of us going together? We can pick you up and drop you home afterwards.’
Correction, Lola would always be her persistent, never-give-up, endlessly hopeful little girl. ‘Thanks, love, but I won’t. You and Nick have a nice time. Art galleries aren’t really my thing.’
That was putting it politely; art galleries bored her witless.
Lola looked disappointed. ‘Oh well, what if we give the gallery a miss? We could just go to Medici’s instead, is that a better idea?’
Never-ever-give-up…
‘Lola, it’s fine, I’m seeing Malcolm tonight. It’s quiz night at the Feathers and we’re going along to that. I don’t dislike your father, it’s just that we have our own lives to lead. Trust me, we’re both happier this way.’ Blythe hadn’t told Lola—had no intention of telling her—what had happened on the night of Lola’s dinner party when she and Nick had left at midnight and shared a taxi home. When it had arrived at her house in Streatham and Nick had invited himself in for a coffee, she’d gone along with the suggestion just to be polite. They’d chatted amicably enough for half an hour before Nick kissed her.
It should have been romantic but Blythe had felt nothing. At all. He’d done his level best but she hadn’t been able to summon so much as a goosebump of excitement. It was like being kissed by a packet of cornflakes.
Poor Nick, it hadn’t been his fault; he was undou
btedly a more than competent kisser, and with all the practice he’d undoubtedly had over the years possibly an Olympic-level one. But had he had any effect on her? No, he hadn’t. Once upon a time he’d meant everything in the world to her, but now she was completely immune to his charms.
Nul points.
It was a mystery how these things happened. But they did.
‘We could go upstairs,’ he’d murmured, all seduction guns blazing. ‘For old time’s sake.’
‘Oh Nick. Thanks for the offer.’ Blythe had smiled and given his arm a regretful pat. ‘But I don’t think so.’
He’d done the eyebrow thing then, that instantly familiar combination of surprise and disbelief. It was the look she’d seen on Lola’s face when at the age of seven she’d opened a drawer and found, hidden away in a matchbox, all the baby teeth that hadn’t been magically whisked away by the tooth fairy after all.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to.’
More eyebrow action. Something told Blythe he wasn’t often turned down.
‘Is it because of this other chap of yours? What’s his name…?’
‘Malcolm.’
‘Malcolm.’ For a split second Nick’s mouth twitched as if he might be on the verge of saying something disparaging about his rival. Evidently thinking better of it, he reined himself in and said instead, ‘Sweetheart, it’s us. You and me. Malcolm doesn’t have to know.’
Blythe gave him a long look. ‘Oh Nick. I wouldn’t do that to Malcolm. And you shouldn’t ask me to.’
He had the grace to look ashamed. This time his expression uncannily echoed Lola’s on the morning of her first-ever hangover when, at fifteen, she had gone along to a friend’s party and ended up falling asleep in her friend’s parents’ bed.
Nick shook his head. ‘Blythe, I didn’t mean to—’
‘I know, I know, it doesn’t matter. And I’m not saying no because of Malcolm,’ Blythe told him. ‘I’m saying it because of me.’
He half smiled, accepting her decision. ‘Fair enough. That’s absolutely your prerogative.’ He paused, then added with a complicit glint in his eye, ‘It might have been fun though.’
Amused, Blythe showed him to the front door. ‘I daresay. I’m just not curious enough to need to find out.’
‘Mum? Hello?’ Lola’s voice snapped Blythe back to the present. ‘What are you daydreaming about now?’
OK, probably best not to say sex with your father. ‘Sorry, love, just wondering whether Malcolm would like a nice book about World War II for his birthday next week. He likes that sort of thing.’
‘I thought you’d decided to buy him a sweater.’
‘Oh, I already have. A lovely stripy red and yellow one with an eagle on the front.’
‘In that case, better come with me.’ Lola steered her in the direction of the history section. ‘Sounds like poor old Malcolm’s going to need a book about World War II to cheer him up.’
***
The weather had taken a distinct turn for the better in the last week; temperatures rose and the sun shone, drying out the ground and encouraging the first primroses to peek through the tangled undergrowth. Avoiding the public footpaths where they might bump into other walkers, Gabe and Savannah strolled arm in arm through the woods on the hill below Minchinhampton Common. Savannah was talking about her experiences of working with other actors and the fights that ensued when they discovered their co-stars had negotiated bigger Winnebagos than they had. Even when you were an A-lister, evidently, size mattered.
‘… he said if he couldn’t have one as big as George’s, he was walking off the set. And the director said from what she’d heard—whoops.’
‘Careful.’ Gabe caught Savannah as she tripped over a tree root.
‘All strong and masterful. I love being rescued by you.’
‘Don’t need any more invalids in my life just now. One woman crashing around on crutches is plenty, thanks.’
Savannah gazed up at him then reached up and pulled his head down to meet hers. There was new urgency in her kiss. Finally she let go and leaned back again, her chest heaving and her eyes almost feverishly bright. ‘Gabe, come with me.’
‘Come where?’ Gabe hesitated, he couldn’t help himself; did she mean back to the cottage for yet more unbridled sex? He was as heterosexual as the next man but his heart sank slightly at the prospect. He wasn’t sure he had the energy for another bout.
‘To LA. Why not? We want to be together, don’t we?’ Savannah gripped the sleeves of his faded blue sweatshirt. ‘Well, what’s to stop us?’
‘Hang on, you mean Los Angeles? In California?’ It was necessary to ask. Gabe had learned this lesson the hard way years ago when he’d asked a girl if she wanted to go to Grease with him and she’d joyfully assumed he was inviting her on holiday. For all he knew, LA could be the name of some uber-trendy new London restaurant.
Savannah beamed. ‘No, Los Angeles in Iceland. Of course Los Angeles in California!’
This time Gabe’s heart didn’t so much sink slightly as go crashing down like a lift with its cables cut. She was making it sound like a spur of the moment idea but he knew it wasn’t; this was something she’d been waiting to spring on him.
‘Um…’
‘Don’t say um, say yes! And there’s no need to look so worried.’ Savannah shook her head. ‘When you think about it, it’s the obvious answer. My agent’s rented a house for me in Bel Air so that’s all taken care of. And I know you’d feel funny about coming out just to keep me company, but that’s the beauty of your job—you can work as easily over there as you can here!’
‘Savannah, listen—’
‘So basically it’s perfect in every way! The answer to all our prayers,’ she rattled on. ‘We can be together, we can even go public as a couple because I completely trust you now!’
‘Hang on a—’
‘And it’ll get you away from that messy flatmate of yours… I mean, I’m sure she’s a nice enough person and all that but, yech, I have to say she sounds a complete nightmare to live with. Plus, she’ll be relieved to see the back of you.’
‘Sav, listen—’
‘So, talk about tough decisions, is it going to be picking used tea bags out of the sink in a disgusting bombsite of a flat in Notting Hill, or being waited on hand and foot by the live-in staff at an eight-bedroomed mock-Grecian mansion in Bel Air, complete with home cinema and infinity pool?’
Gabe looked at her and said nothing. He didn’t need to; Savannah read it in his eyes.
Finally, hesitantly, she said, ‘So… is that a no?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
Hope flared. ‘Does that mean yes it’s a no, or yes it’s not a no, it’s a yes?’
Gabe hastily shook his head. ‘Sorry. It means I can’t come to LA with you.’
‘Can’t? Or won’t?’
Oh hell, he hated it when girls got pedantic.
‘Can’t, I suppose.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be fair on you. You’re an amazing girl and I think the world of you, but there’s just… something missing.’
‘Like, my hair?’
Shit. ‘No. God, no.’ Vehemently Gabe shook his head. ‘Don’t even think that.’ Fuck, was she really thinking that?
‘It’s all right, I believe you.’ Savannah managed a ghost of a smile.
‘Well, good, because your hair has nothing to do with it. If anything I’m thinking there must be something seriously wrong with me. I mean, you’re Savannah Hudson,’ said Gabe. ‘And I’m nobody at all. The lowest of the low. Lower than that, even. I’m a street pap.’
She picked at a loose strip of bark on the tree trunk beside her. ‘And now you’re turning me down. Does that mean you’ll sell your story to the papers?’
‘I won’t do that. I’d never do that. You can still trust me.’ Gabe’s voice softened. He felt sorry for her. It couldn’t be easy being Savannah Hudson.
‘You know who I feel like?’ She made a brave stab at levity. ‘Like the Baroness in The Sound of Music when she gets dumped by Captain Von Trapp.’
Was this an embarrassing film to admit to being familiar with? Oh well, never mind.
‘Except I’m not about to run off with an irritating ex-nun and seven caterwauling children.’ When a shocked Lola had discovered last year that Gabe had never seen her all-time favorite film she had sat him down and forced him to watch it. Personally he’d have gone for the Baroness every time; what had Julie Andrews been on when she’d let them cut her hair like that?
Back at the cottage for what they both knew was the last time, Gabe collected together his few belongings. Upstairs, having picked up his toothbrush and aftershave, he looked around the clinical white bathroom and Savannah’s equally immaculate bedroom. He wouldn’t miss this place; for all its traditional exterior, the inside of the cottage was modern and sparsely furnished, minimalist bordering on sterile…
Hang on a minute. That couldn’t be right, surely? Taken aback, Gabe looked around again. He liked sterile, didn’t he? Cool, clean lines and no clutter was his thing, had always been his thing. And this was what he was seeing here; design-wise, he and Savannah couldn’t be more perfectly matched. Yet somehow all these clean lines suddenly seemed a little bit… well, empty.
OK, this was too weird, like an alien invading his brain and taking over. An alien with shocking taste at that, and a predilection for gaudy knick-knacks.
Unable to face searching through pristine drawers for the dark grey sweater he knew was in here somewhere, Gabe left it and hurried down the staircase.
Savannah, pale but composed, was waiting in the kitchen with her back to the stove.
‘So you’re off then.’
‘I should be getting back.’ Thank God she wasn’t crying.
‘Sure you don’t have a chirpy ex-nun and seven caterwauling kids waiting for you at home?’
