by Jill Mansell
‘Tash! Has my forehead gone shiny? Could you sort me out with some powder?’
Moira again. Tasha went over to deal with the shine.
‘Any news from your boyfriend?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Oh well, I’m sure he’s OK!’ Eager to make up for her earlier faux pas, Moira patted her arm. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing.’
‘Why?’ The photographer was busy setting up a different backdrop. ‘Is he in hospital?’
‘We hope not!’ Moira shook her head vigorously at the photographer. ‘No, definitely not! He was riding his motorbike up to Edinburgh this morning and poor Tasha hasn’t heard from him since he set off. Not a word! She’s worried sick that he’s had a terrible accident!
Only because you practically told me he had. Tasha resisted the urge to bop Moira on the head with the powder brush.
‘Ah, don’t panic, love, he’ll be all right.’ The photographer picked up his camera and winked at Tasha. ‘If he’s too busy to call you, it’s probably because he’s in bed with another woman.’
‘Great, thanks, that makes me feel so much better.’ Tasha marvelled at his lack of subtlety; luckily, she wasn’t the jealous type.
He grinned. ‘Or another man.’
Which had been, to give him his due, quite funny.
By five o’clock, Tasha had long stopped laughing. This was ridiculous. In the last few hours, she’d used up a week’s worth of heartbeats. Convinced that Rory must be dead, she tracked down the number of Joe’s dental practice and insisted on being put through to him.
‘Look, have you heard from Rory? He said he’d call me, but he hasn’t. And I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t stop wondering if he’s had an accident.’
‘Let me try his phone.’ Evidently taking out his mobile, Joe pressed buttons. ‘No,’ he said a few seconds later, ‘it’s gone straight to answerphone. Maybe his battery’s flat.’
‘Do you think I’m being neurotic?’
‘Honestly? A bit,’ said Joe. But in a kind way.
‘I’m worried.’ Tasha took a deep breath; was it just her? ‘Really worried. What if he’s in hospital on life support?’
‘OK, just a thought,’ said Joe, ‘but don’t hospitals go through phones and contact the next of kin?’
‘But I’m not next of kin! They wouldn’t call me!’
‘Whoa, calm down. They’d call his next of kin and then they’d call me. But nobody has. So I think you should stop panicking and relax.’
‘Unless he’s unconscious in hospital and his phone flew out of his pocket and got run over on the motorway by a ten-ton truck.’
There was silence for a moment as Joe considered this possibility. At last he said, ‘Hey. I’m sure he’ll be in touch when he can.’
‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘Just a little bit.’
And really, who could blame him?
‘I’m not usually like this, I promise.’
‘If you say so.’ He definitely sounded as if he were smiling. ‘OK, can I go now? Only I’ve left a patient with a drill hanging out of his mouth.’
Whoops. ‘Sorry,’ said Tasha. ‘Bye.’
An hour later, her doorbell rang. As she went to answer it, Tasha pictured Joe on the doorstep, grave-faced and accompanied by two here-to-break-the-bad-news policemen, one of whom was holding the remains of Rory’s smashed-up phone . . .
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
‘Hey!’ Rory was wearing his leathers and holding his bike helmet under one arm. He was beaming from ear to ear. ‘What an amazing trip that was. Amazing. Give me a kiss.’ He moved forward to embrace her. ‘How was your day?’
Tasha had reached the stage where she’d actually hoped he had been in an accident – just a minor one – because then at least he’d have a valid excuse for having put her through all those hours of torment. Now that she knew he was alive, she could yell at him.
OK, not yell. But make him understand.
‘Where’s your phone?’
‘Can you believe it? Forgot to take it with me . . . just didn’t remember to pick it up. I haven’t been home yet . . . it’s still lying on the bed in my flat. Why, did you try to call me?’
He was telling the truth, Tasha knew. He actually didn’t have a clue what he’d put her through.
‘Yes, I called.’ Only about three hundred and fifty times. ‘You said you’d call me.’
‘I know I did, but I couldn’t, could I? Not without my phone.’ Rory shrugged. Genuinely no clue.
‘I was worried.’ Tasha forced herself to stay calm. ‘I’ve been worried sick. Motorbikes are dangerous.’
They were in the hallway now, and he was still looking bemused. ‘Look, I’ve never once come off a motorbike. You don’t have to worry about me.’
‘Don’t I? Am I allowed to worry about all the other idiots on the road who could crash their cars into you? I’ve been picturing it all day,’ Tasha blurted out. ‘And I’m sorry if this sounds crazy, but I’ve only just found you.’ Her voice cracked as she struggled to explain. ‘I’m terrified something’s going to happen to take you away.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Rory wrapped his arms around her. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me, I promise.’
Did he think she was a complete madwoman? Had she managed to scare him off completely? ‘I’m sorry too. I can’t help being like this. I hate it.’ Tasha held him tightly, inhaling the mingled smells of leather, engine oil and warm skin. ‘I worry too much and I have too much imagination.’ She didn’t say it, but she’d even envisaged his funeral; if he knew that, he’d definitely dump her.
Oh, but when all the old feelings came rushing back, it was hard to ignore them. She was going to have to explain. Helplessly she said, ‘You know I told you my mum and dad split up when I was six? Well the thing is, my mum didn’t know how to tell me he’d gone, so she pretended he was working abroad. And I kept waiting for him to come back but it just didn’t happen . . . I had months of feeling all knotted up inside, wondering if I’d done something wrong or if he was even still alive . . .’ She trailed off, embarrassed by the admission. ‘Of course he was still alive. He was just far too busy being besotted with his new girlfriend to bother with his old family.’
‘What a bastard. Jesus. Now listen to me.’ Rory exhaled. ‘I’m selfish and I don’t stop to think things through. It honestly didn’t occur to me that you’d be worried.’ He gazed deep into her eyes. ‘I’ll never do that to you again, I promise. I’m going to learn your number off by heart, so I can always get hold of you. And I’ll keep in touch so you don’t have to get yourself into a state.’
‘Thank you.’ Tasha tilted her face back, reaching up to kiss him. ‘Has this put you off me? You can say it.’
‘Honestly? No.’ He was smiling again now. ‘Play your cards right and you’re still in with a chance.’
‘That’s good news. Are you staying tonight?’
‘I’d like to. Very much.’ Rory stroked the side of her face. ‘But I need to go home first, have a shower and change. I’ll be back in an hour, OK?’
He left. Twenty-five minutes later, Tasha’s phone rang.
‘It’s me. I’ve had my shower. I’m getting dressed now.’
‘Great.’
‘Just putting a clean shirt on.’
‘Excellent.’
‘I’ll be there by ten past nine.’ Pause. ‘Maybe twelve minutes past. Definitely no later than nine fifteen.’
‘Don’t make fun of me,’ said Tasha. ‘I know I’m a hopeless case.’
‘There was a message on my phone from Joe saying you were worried about me.’
‘I know, I phoned him. I was desperate.’
Rory sounded amused. ‘I also had another forty-six missed calls.’
That many? Alone in her flat, Tasha’s cheeks burned; this was definitely a neurosis she was going to have to overcome. ‘Just some nutter, I expect. Ignore them.’
‘I’m he
ading back now in the car. Want me to give you a call when I’m halfway?’
‘Just get yourself over here and stop taking the mickey,’ said Tasha. ‘Or you might find yourself waking up tomorrow with your eyebrows waxed off.’
Chapter 12
There was a homeless man sitting on the cold pavement, middle-aged and resigned, with a hat in front of him containing a few scattered coins. It was growing dark as Flo made her way past him on Saturday afternoon, but light from the street lamp and from the windows of the pub spilled over him, illuminating his messy greying hair and his shoulders hunched in defeat. She paused, searched in her coat pockets and found a stray pound coin.
‘Thanks very much.’ The man gave a nod of appreciation.
Flo hoped he wouldn’t spend it on lager or drugs.
At that moment, a huge roar went up in the pub, practically rattling the windows. Inside, the bar was heaving with rugby fans following the big game on the TV.
‘Is it frustrating, having to listen to the match and not being able to watch it?’
The man shook his head. ‘Not a rugby fan. But if they’re happy with the way it’s going, that’s hopefully good news for me.’
Flo nodded; it was worth putting up with the racket if it meant that cheerful punters with a few drinks inside them came out of the pub and chucked a bit of extra cash into the hat. She said, ‘Bye then,’ and made her way down the street as more shouts and yells of approval emanated from inside. From the sound of it, everyone was supporting the winning team.
In the supermarket, she picked up the little bottles of Tabasco for Margot, then added soup and a bag of toffees, and some of the tins of tuna Jeremy liked best. Followed by a baguette, a ripe Camembert, red grapes and a tub of honeycomb ice cream. For her, not Jeremy. Tonight was going to be a staying-in-and-being-blissfully-lazy night, just the two of them and a pile of DVDs.
Having paid at the checkout, Flo headed back up the street. She could see that a group of men had spilled out of the pub on to the pavement, presumably to get their nicotine fix.
As she neared them, she observed their posh-boy clothes, heard their posh-boy voices and identified the type. Clifton was the Bristol equivalent of London’s Chelsea; there were plenty of privileged characters from wealthy families who liked to speak that much more LOUDLY and CONFIDENTLY than normal people. Some, in particular, liked to watch rugby matches with their collars turned up and shirt tails dangling beneath their expensive designer sweaters, whilst knocking back vast quantities of alcohol, preferably bottled lager alternating with champagne. Having lived in the area for several years, Flo knew the breed well.
They also brayed like donkeys whenever something was amusing them. Like now.
Hopefully the homeless man, currently hidden from view, was reaping the benefit of their cheery high spirits.
As she neared the pub, Flo heard several of the braying voices set up a chant of ‘Do it . . . do it . . . do it’, followed by another voice exclaiming, ‘Jesus Christ, give me a second, someone’s just knocked my bloody drink over. Who wants to lick it up?’
‘Come orn, Giles, get your wallet out and let’s do this thing, shall we? Bit fucking chilly out here!’
‘Yah, fucking freezing! Get a move orn, Giles!’
Flo hid a smile, because they were so posh they were all pronouncing it Jaaahls. Still, at least he was opening his wallet. Wow, and look at what he was taking out; it wasn’t even a twenty-pound note. In the light from the street lamp, and now that she was only a few metres away, she could see that it was unmistakably a fifty. Say what you like about braying posh boys, but they could be wildly generous when the alcohol-fuelled fancy took them.
‘Come on then, Henry, do the honours, old chap!’
One of his companions began rummaging in the pockets of his jeans – Armani, no less. Giles was now holding the fifty-pound note aloft, waving it in front of the man sitting on the ground. Flo shifted her carrier bag to her other hand and watched as Armani Henry handed Giles something small. She experienced a warm glow of affection; men like this sometimes came across as complete tosspots, but their hearts were actually in the right place.
Except . . . it wasn’t money that Henry had contributed. There was a click, and a small flame sprang to life. The other men were laughing and urging Giles on. And now Giles was waggling the fifty-pound note, bringing it closer to the cigarette lighter.
What? What?
‘Do it! Do it! Do it!’
Flo moved forward to get a closer look. Was she hallucinating? It was like watching someone rush over to rescue a person who was about to fall off a cliff . . . then seeing them push that person over the edge.
And now the flame brightened and expanded as it caught the bottom edge of the note. Within seconds it was merrily ablaze, and Giles was dangling it in front of the homeless man, roaring with laughter and saying, ‘Bet you wish you had money to burn, don’t you, old chap? HahahahaHA.’
‘Why? Why’s he doing that?’ Flo demanded as one of the other men noticed her for the first time.
‘Just a bit of fun, yah?’ He shrugged and sniggered. ‘Drinking club rules. If someone dares you to do something, you do it.’
Flo was shaking with fury. Worst of all was the closed-down look of resignation on the homeless man’s face. There was one of him and six of them; what could he possibly do? Just as she knew that any argument she might put forward would have no effect whatsoever. If she shouted at Giles, he would simply laugh at her too.
The possibilities flashed through Flo’s mind in a millisecond. She took the can out of the carrier and ripped off the lid with the ring pull. Calling out, ‘Hey, Giles!’ she moved towards him as he turned in surprise to see who had shouted his name.
SWOOOOSH went the contents of the can of Heinz tomato soup, arcing in a great orange wave through the air and landing in pleasingly splattery fashion over Giles, covering him from head to foot.
‘Whoa!’ Sensing danger, his friends backed away. Flo, who had never done anything remotely like this before, braced herself for the fallout.
Which could be spectacular.
‘What the fuck . . .?’ Giles was staring at her like a cartoon character, soup dripping gloopily from his face and shirt front. ‘What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing?’
‘Sorry.’ She pointed to the still-smouldering banknote in his left hand. ‘Thought you were on fire. I was just trying to put out the flames.’
‘Bullshit.’ He spat the word out. ‘Don’t give me that.’
‘Fine then, I won’t.’ Still quivering with outrage, Flo shook back her hair and said, ‘I did it because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. You’re actually a disgusting human being. How can you do something so vile?’
‘Look.’ He took a step towards her, his jaw taut and jutting. ‘It’s my own money. I earned it and I can do whatever I like with it. Are you able to comprehend that?’
‘Legally, you’re right. Morally, that just makes you a pig.’
‘Oh Jesus, listen to yourself. What are you, some kind of God-botherer in your spare time?’ He was towering over her now, reeking of alcohol and practically spitting with anger. ‘Or are you one of those types who pesters people in the streets to buy copies of the Socialist Worker? People like you make me sick.’
‘Well that’s a coincidence,’ Flo retorted, squaring up to him and simultaneously wondering if she were completely mad to be doing so.
‘Fuck, look what you’ve done to my shirt.’ Giles gestured down at himself. ‘It’s Dolce and Gabbana, for fucking crying out loud. It cost me four hundred pounds.’
It was a plain white shirt. Flo snorted with slightly hysterical laughter. Enraged, he reached out and wiped the palm of his hand across her front, from collarbone to collarbone. Now she had tomato soup smeared over her own pale blue sweatshirt.
‘My top’s from Primark. It cost five pounds fifty.’ Unable to resist it, Flo added, ‘I win.’
‘Fucking communist,’ sneered Gi
les. ‘And nobody wins against me. I’m calling the police.’
OK, less funny now. Outwardly Flo was standing her ground, but inwardly she was wondering if he could actually have her arrested. It wouldn’t do wonders for her CV.
‘Leave it, Jaaahls.’ One of his friends, thank God, was shaking his head. ‘Probably not a good idea, old chap. We don’t need the hassle.’
Wiping the splattered soup from his face, Giles snarled, ‘Fuck it, I’m orf,’ and stormed off up the street towards the taxi rank.
Phew.
‘And if any of you lot have even an ounce of decency, you’ll make up for what your charming friend just did.’ Back to feeling brave again, Flo pulled out her purse, took out a tenner and gave it to the homeless man on the pavement.
Shamefaced, a couple of them did the same before sloping off down the road to the next pub.
‘Bastards,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Thanks. Sorry I didn’t join in.’ The homeless man shook his head by way of apology. ‘They’d have just . . . well . . .’
‘It’s OK, I know.’ He couldn’t afford to get involved; she understood that. ‘I’m sorry they were so awful.’
‘Here. You don’t have to give me this.’ He held the tenner out to her insistently. ‘You shamed the others into it, that’s enough.’
Realising that he meant it, and secretly relieved, Flo took the money back. ‘OK, but—’
‘My God, it’s you.’
Startled, she swung round to see who’d just crossed the road behind her, and came face to face with the vampire brother.
OK, don’t call him that. His name was Zander Travis. ‘Oh. Hi.’
‘What was that all about?’ He gestured in the direction of the taxi rank, where Giles was currently doing his best to persuade the waiting drivers to let him – in his tomatoey state – into one of their cabs.
Could she be bothered to explain? No. She shook her head and said, ‘Nothing important.’
‘Sure about that?’ Zander was frowning at her. ‘Didn’t look like nothing to me. Is he your boyfriend?’
