I glared at him in a manner that would have blown my cover in seconds had it been seen by Stefano. ‘You unscrupulous bastard,’ I hissed. ‘You dirty rotten cheat. You skunk. You louse.’ I ran out of epithets, repeatable ones anyway, and gave him my best, most shrivelling look. ‘You win, I’ll do it, but just this once.’ I slapped my hand down on the table so he knew that I meant what I was saying. ‘And if you try to pressure me into doing anything more for you, you ... you unspeakable... I’ll tell Imogen you tried to blackmail me into being your lover. And I’ll really enjoy seeing you extricate yourself from that one.’
‘Touché,' he said admiringly. ‘I’d no idea you had it in you, Laura.’ His mouth curled slightly at the corners. ‘It would almost be worth doing just that to see what her reaction would be,’ he said to my alarm. He tipped the last of the wine into our glasses. ‘Shall we drink to our agreement? It won’t be so bad, Laura. You might even enjoy it.’
Oh, well, a chance to see how the really rich lived wasn’t going to be that much of a hardship. I raised my glass obediently. Might as well get in a bit of practice in my role as his girlfriend. I smiled at him in sultry fashion over the rim.
Before I could work out what his startled reaction meant an indignant voice exclaimed from behind me, ‘Laura! There you are. I’ve been combing the place for you.’
I swivelled around in my seat and squinted up at Daniel, who was glaring at the pair of us. He looked even more heartrendingly handsome than normal in a worn leather jacket and denim shirt, his dark hair for once confined neatly in a pony tail instead of flopping all over his face. He’d even shaved. ‘Oh, have you?’ I said vaguely, my hormones going into overdrive at his very presence and as usual completely removing all power of rational thought.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see two women in expensive suits at a nearby table gazing at him, tongues almost hanging out. I felt a glow of pride. He often elicited that sort of reaction. One of them looked at me with a faintly surprised air, eyes flickering between me, Daniel and James. There was an almost visible thought bubble above her head. What had someone like me done to get two such attractive men? I preened and sent her back a look saying, ‘Wouldn’t you love to know?’
‘You said you were working late and couldn’t get here until eight.’ Daniel looked pointedly at the empty bottle. ‘So as I arrived early I went over and sat with your friends. I’ve been watching out for you for ages. They didn’t seem to know you were here already,’ he added accusingly.
‘Didn’t they?’ I’d have to have a stern word with Emma tomorrow. I felt a twinge of guilt at upsetting him. His ego was very fragile and needed a lot of reinforcement. It was mean of me to feel irritated that he’d arrived just when I was practising... I craned my face upwards. ‘I’m so glad you found me at last. Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?’
He did so and stood up quickly, wrinkling his nose and looking at me in a puzzled way. ‘Are you wearing a new scent? It’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’
‘Eau de Bushwhacker’s Creek,’ I muttered. As Daniel continued to radiate an aura of offended male, I said quickly, ‘Daniel Blackstone, meet James Lovatt.’
The two men stared at one another as if neither was particularly impressed by what they saw. ‘What a pleasure to meet you,’ James said in a drawl I’d never heard him use before and held out his hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Daniel.’
‘You have?’ I queried in surprise as Daniel took it, rather reluctantly it seemed to me. As I’d never mentioned James to him he was at a disadvantage.
‘From Laura’s sister.’ James’s smile indicated Katie had been thoroughly indiscreet. ‘Why don’t you grab that spare chair there? I’ll be going in a few minutes.’
As Daniel sat down James said apologetically, ‘I’d offer you a drink but unfortunately Laura and I finished it - what didn’t go down her front, that is.’
‘But she doesn’t drink much,’ Daniel protested.
‘Yes, she does,’ James said.
Unlike most people who claim both Irish ancestry and their legendary fluency with words Daniel hardly ever touches alcohol. It interferes with the creative spirit apparently. Since he is never not creating, even if he isn’t actually sitting with pencil over lined notebook, word processors are death to creativity, he’s contemplating his next few sentences so he can’t afford to allow his wits ever to become befuddled. He’s always said he doesn’t mind my drinking when he isn’t, but I don’t like to, especially since he dislikes the smell of alcohol.
I said quickly before the prevailing air of froideur could become too pronounced, ‘I do drink sometimes, but not that much.’ James raised his eyebrows meaningfully. He didn’t say anything though which might have had something to do with the force with which my foot hit his shin as he opened his mouth.
Instead he said affably, ‘I hope I haven’t intruded on your evening. It’s good to see Laura looking so well after the other night, isn’t it?’
Daniel looked at me with a blank expression that made it quite clear he didn’t have a clue what James meant. As briefly as I could, I ran through what had happened. He looked at me reproachfully. ‘Oh, Laura, all I was doing was talking to a potential new agent. You know I’m not happy with Tony, he doesn’t understand me. If only you’d waited for me. You know I was expecting to take you home. I was worried.’
Of course you were, I thought blissfully, and felt a sharp pang of annoyance with James who said nothing but simply sat there with a deeply sceptical expression on his face that spoke volumes. How dare he raise doubts like this within me? He didn’t understand creatives and how forgetful they can be.
‘I won’t intrude on your reunion any longer,’ said James with a distinct edge to his voice and pushed his chair back loudly. He leaned forward and, putting a hand on my shoulder, kissed me slowly and deliberately on the mouth. ‘I’ll give you a ring about going away. Don’t bother about a nightdress, you won’t need it.’
CHAPTER 5
James’s mischief making had unexpected results. I discovered to my pleasure that Daniel was by no means as reformed a New Man as I’d presumed. All the old hoary male instincts of ‘no one messes with my woman’ rose straight to the top of his particular primeval swamp. I had to do quite a bit of explaining. I’m not sure that he totally believed me. It was the best night we’d had for ages. He didn’t stop what he was doing and reach over to write in his notebook once.
I decided to forgive James - for the time being.
The next ten days sped away like the Bullet Train. There was a major panic attack when I discovered that even to hire a suitable dress for a grand hunt ball, and one which would meet James’s exacting standards, would cost about as much as the National Debt. My bank account hadn’t recovered from Christmas so I did what I usually do in times of clothing crisis: apply to Liv. She has an enviably extensive wardrobe, particularly in the formal wear department. Her mother was one of the last debutantes to be presented to the Queen at court and though she has long given up her dreams of Liv following in her footsteps as a glittering social success, culminating in a misty and pearly engagement photograph in Country Life, she still expects Liv to turn up occasionally at the sort of parties she goes to. She’s decent enough to pay for the necessary dresses too.
I dragged her out of bed on Saturday morning, at least two hours before she’s used to stumbling around getting ready to turn up for the matinee, and begged a trying on session. Liv likes the fitted effect in the evenings which was unfortunate, since despite the larger feet she’s both a little shorter and slimmer than I am. Eventually we managed to shoehorn me into her second best ball gown, deciding that the seams would probably last long enough for me to avoid being arrested on a charge of gross indecency. Liv stepped back, surveying the frankly startling effect of so much of me on display, and raised her eyebrows. ‘I shouldn’t worry. Even if you do an involuntary striptease all that’ll happen is that the hunting types will yell, “Tally ho!” and give ch
ase. You’d be surprised what an effect riding horses has on the libido.’ She grinned. ‘And if you’re lucky it’ll only be men in the pack.’
‘Thanks for that information,’ I muttered, wriggling out of the dress and taking what seemed to be my first full breath for hours.
‘There’s a pair of shoes that goes with it somewhere,’ she muttered, rooting around in the bottom of her wardrobe, and pulled out the most scrumptious pair of black and green satin shoes. My heart flipped with desire. ‘These must be a bit tight on you,’ I said craftily, turning my foot to one side so I could admire the effect of the spindly heels. It was a good thing James was so tall.
‘Even if they are, you aren’t having them,’ retorted Liv. I took that to mean that though they would continue to reside in her wardrobe the shoes might have a few more outings on my feet. Much like my sheepskin jacket, which according to Liv positively enjoys going down to the country at weekends when she sees her farmer.
Having provided the dress she felt she had a duty to make sure the rest of me matched up. I was bombarded with instructions about haircuts, skin foods, skin firmers, the latest shades in eyeshadow and how to make my obstinately straight eyebrows curve into a delicate arch. I had to bow to her expertise; she may harbour dreams of being a farmer’s wife but she has every intention of being the kind of farmer’s wife who only ever smells of Alliage, never of pig muck.
Realistically speaking I knew that no matter how much I dolled myself up no one was going to bother to look at me much when there was Cressida around but all the same I still obeyed Liv’s instructions and used my lunch hours to bolt off round cosmetics counters to look for the latest in magic potions to make me look fresher, dewier, more appealing, then hared off to the hairdresser’s for a new cut to do much the same, and round the lingerie departments to look for magical garments to squeeze some of me in and other bits out. To be honest I didn’t look much different when I’d finished, if maybe a bit more polished.
I was being kept so busy that I didn’t even have time for extended chat and biscuit sessions over the photocopier either. Several weeks before I had been attending a meeting in Darian’s shadow with a manufacturer of downmarket baby toys and accessories called Freddie French. Since Darian loathes children even more than W C Field’s did it was a mystery why this particular client had landed in her lap, unless David, the agency’s owner, was exercising a mischievous sense of humour. The sales director, who liked to believe he had a really wicked imagination, was casting around for a really different and interesting location for the sales conference that would also cleverly reflect the company’s image. In my opinion Grantham fitted the ticket perfectly. As I was idly listening to suggestions about cinema complexes in Brighton, grain warehouses in Tilbury and a converted sixteenth-century dairy near Devizes being turned down, I stopped writing Daniel’s name all over my pad and said, ‘What about France? Freddie French - France. Geddit?’ For my sins, the sales director was ecstatic about the idea. I had been thinking vaguely along the lines of Le Touquet in the late spring: easy to get to from the tunnel and even if the seaside weather was disappointing the food would be better than Brighton. But the sales director was a rugby fanatic and unluckily for all of us his club was playing in the European Cup at Bordeaux and he’d been allocated tickets in the draw. He promptly moved the whole sales shebang to a little conference centre he’d found (charming position on the banks of a river and English spoken) for the week following the match. Darian, who had been keen on the idea of five days sampling the seafood of northern France, looked up the average temperatures and rainfall for south-western France in February and announced she felt it was time I started looking after clients all on my own.
Actually even downmarket baby products became interesting when they were my responsibility and to the dismay of Emma, who said that I was turning into a Darian clone, I took to staying late - well, a bit late, half an hour or so - to work on the presentation for the salesmen to convince them that selling Freddie French baby products was a really wicked thing to do. The sales director was presenting it. The logistics were proving a nightmare; the sales director had decided he’d done enough in finding the location and had turned all the rest over to his PR agency. I was landed with making the arrangements for twenty-three salesmen and women, partners and assorted hangers on to travel via train and car to France - naturally nobody was prepared to simplify matters by travelling in a group, and issuing directions so they could actually find their accommodation which was in the middle of nowhere, three miles down a road unmarked on all but the largest maps. I was gloomily sure that at least half of them would have lost the photocopies I had sent them by the great day. The person responsible for the ‘English spoken’ claim was definitely over-optimistic about her prowess, certainly so far as the speaking bit was concerned, and since my own French is rudimentary to say the least communication could be fraught at times. But somehow it was all coming together and Darian was being positively benign - for her. She even said that one day I might make quite a useful little account executive - though the implication was that this would be sometime in the far distant future.
I was beginning to think that perhaps for once everything was going right; the job was working, Daniel was being attentive - he’d telephoned three times in the last week despite being on a roll with his writing, I was going to a party in a dress that was wildly flattering and I liked my new haircut. It shows that it doesn’t do to get overconfident, doesn’t it?
When James had said that Stefano and Cressida had bought a Queen Anne house I had envisaged something quite large obviously, for people with that amount of lolly don’t buy bijou little residences, but along the lines of the sort of thing you see advertised in Country Life: square red brick affairs, two or three storeys high, with pretty little dormer windows in the pitched roof and an indefinable air of cosiness. What I saw when we reached the end of about two miles of driveway that meandered through striking but bleak parkland, with an admirable view of the Peak District in the distance (also striking but bleak), was a large grey stone house plonked squarely in the middle of sweeping lawns dotted with a few cedar trees. The flat roof was bounded with a waist-high parapet and there wasn’t a dormer window in sight, though light reflected dully off the huge panes in the triple rows of windows, which graduated from full-length at the bottom to half height at the top, on each facade. Impressive it might be, cosy or pretty it definitely wasn’t. I couldn’t think why the marquee erected to one side of the house was necessary, the house looked big enough to accommodate a ball for several thousand.
James whistled softly, no doubt happily wondering if Stefano and Cressida were going to need furniture for their house as well as the new hotel, while I experienced a pang of pure panic. How on earth was I going to carry this off? The more that I learned about Stefano Buonotti from odd snippets that came my way, the more I felt like Daniella going into the lions’ den. He was reputed to be clever, ruthless and very acute; it was also said that there were areas of his business dealings the authorities would love to inspect more closely but so far they had not come up with a legally enforceable cause. James and I had been supposed to meet to get various story lines straight, like how long we’d actually been going out, but what with one thing and another there simply hadn’t been time. On the journey down he’d seemed preoccupied, frowning and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, though at least he concentrated while overtaking other cars in situations I wouldn’t have attempted on an arcade game. I’d tried to ask him once or twice if there was anything I should know and he had replied absently, ‘I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Laura.’ A touching faith in my abilities which he had never shown before.
We parked under an enormous portico big enough to shelter three carriages side by side. Tall double doors were thrown open even before James had switched off the engine. A slight figure came hurtling out and flung herself at him. ‘You’re here at last! I thought you were never coming. I’ve been waiting for ages
!’ We’d said we would arrive around four-thirty; it was actually twenty to five. Cressida stood up on tiptoe, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him warmly. This was a really clever way to allay the suspicions of a jealous husband, I thought, watching James look warily over her shoulder, then move his head to one side so that her pursed lips hit his cheek rather than his mouth.
He gently disengaged himself and, holding her hands at arm’s length, stepped back. ‘You look wonderful, Cressy,’ he said with a smile. ‘Marriage certainly agrees with you. And with you too, Stefano, you look very well,’ he added to the man standing glowering a couple of feet behind her. Our host barely glanced at me, eyes fixed on the dancing figure of his wife as she clung close to James’s side. James motioned me around to his other side with a slight jerk of his head. ‘This is Laura Moreton,’ he said, putting an arm possessively around my shoulders. It tightened automatically as I tensed in surprise, and the fingers resting apparently lovingly on the top of my arm dug into me warningly. Luckily my coat was thick or there would have been a couple of embarrassing bruises to explain later that evening when I appeared in my sleeveless dress.
I relaxed obediently, it was more than my life was worth to do anything else, and Cressida flashed me an enormous smile that lit up the whole of her face, not that anyone as pretty as she needed extra radiance. The cold grey light of the winter afternoon clearly showed that the stunning photograph of her that had appeared in the papers when she made her so-called fairytale marriage had not been touched up one bit. In fact she looked even better, for newsprint couldn’t do justice to the loveliness of such colouring or to the constant play of expressions that passed like quicksilver over her mobile face. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Laura,’ she said warmly, and I had the unnerving sensation that she really meant it. It really wasn’t usual for women to greet their ex’s (supposed) new girlfriend with such enthusiasm. As well as being too pretty to be true it also appeared she was nice as well.
Something Stupid Page 8
