Pink Champagne

by Anne Weale

  'But Bob's going to ring me back. I don't want to make long-distance calls at your expense,'

  she protested.

  'My dear girl, my house is yours. You can ring again in the morning when you do know what time you'll arrive. Come and do it in my workroom where you can talk in private.' Taking her by the hand, he led her away.

  'Very supportive, isn't he?' said Anna, when the jib-door had closed. 'Poor Carolyn. It is rotten luck for this to happen at a crucial point in the greatest coup of her career. Actually, from what she's told me, there's practically no editorial work to be done on the book. It really only needs line-editing. If she leaves her notes with Nick, they can probably sort out the few minor changes necessary by telephone.'

  She yawned and stretched. 'I think the best thing you and I can do is to go to bed. Nick's is by far the best shoulder for her to cry on.'

  'Sasha's in, but busy in the darkroom,' said Clare, when Rosie arrived home the next afternoon.

  'How was Spain?'

  Rosie gave her a potted report of the trip. It seemed far longer than three days since she had packed her case. She wished she had not gone, had refused to take on the promotion. Nick had occupied her mind all the way home, on the flight, on the train from Gatwick to Victoria, in the taxi to Fulham.

  Even tomorrow, when she was back at work, she knew she was going to have a problem excluding him from her thoughts. The unpalatable fact was that during the short time she had spent at Font Vella, and in spite of all the common-sense arguments against it, she had relapsed; she was now as much in love with him as she had been before. Inevitably Sasha, when she emerged from the darkroom, wanted to hear all about Nick and his place in Spain.

  'It sounds a perfect background for a feature for Hello!. I'll call him this evening and see how soon we can set it up. What's his number?'

  But when she dialled the monastery, it was a recording which answered and invited her to leave a message.

  He was probably spending the evening at the bedside of Marie-Laure, thought Rosie. He had insisted on driving them to the airport in case of any last hitches and when they had arrived at London a driver with Carolyn's surname written on a placard had been waiting to take her to Dorset. By now she should have been to see her father in the intensive care unit and be at her mother's number. Rosie felt it was only polite, having just spent the best part of three days in Carolyn's company, to telephone Dorset to enquire about her father.

  'His condition is stable. They're not committing themselves about whether he'll pull through,' Carolyn told her, a few minutes later. 'Wasn't it thoughtful of Nick to organise a car for me... and pay for it, too? I only had to give the man a tip. I'd only been here a short time when Nick rang up to check that I had arrived. He said it could have been dangerous for me to drive myself here with my mind in a fizz about Father. He's going to ring again tomorrow. Talk about the antithesis of my ex, who never gave a thought to anyone's well-being but his own...'

  Rosie knew it was stupid to be piqued because he had not telephoned to enquire if she had got home all right. He would take that for granted. Taught by her granny, who had lived at the farm during her widowhood and been a strong influence on Rosie until she was thirteen, that it was essential to write a letter of thanks after enjoying hospitality, after supper she went upstairs to the desk in her room to compose a short note of thanks.

  Dear Nick,

  Our visit to Spain was most enjoyable, particularly at this time of year when the sun rarely shines in England. You have made El Monasterio into a beautiful house and I applaud your plan to do everything you can to keep Font Vella as unspoilt as it is at present.

  I shall be writing to you shortly about the promotional plans for Crusade and should like to take this opportunity, in my private persona, of wishing you every success with it.

  Thank you again for making us extremely comfortable and giving us a very pleasant break from routine. I'm sure everyone who comes to your corner of Spain in connection with the launch of Crusade will enjoy it as much as we did. Best wishes.

  Sincerely, Rosie.

  She was in bed, reading, when a soft tap on the door made her put down her book and call,

  'Come in.'

  It was a few minutes past eleven; after midnight in Spain. Several times the words she was reading had stopped making sense and she had had to drag her mind back from Font Vella to Fulham.

  Sasha came in. 'Nick just called. We haven't fixed a date for me to go down there. He says there's no rush. It would be better to leave it till later in the year when the garden is at its best. I find it hard to see him as a keen gardener. Tom, yes. Not Nick.'

  Sasha and Tom had split up because the summit of Tom's ambition was to become the editor of the News. With that object he had changed from reporting to sub-editing, that being the traditional route to top jobs on provincial newspapers.

  Sasha had known she would never make chief photographer even if she'd wanted to. That post, on the News if not everywhere, was going to remain a male preserve for a long time to come.

  Tom had wanted her to marry him and work part-time. She had loved him but been determined to make the most of her professional skills before settling down. After a volcanic row they had broken off their relationship, he to stay put, she to move to another newspaper before setting up as a freelance. Tom had found someone else and married her. Sasha had had several boyfriends but had never been seriously in love again.

  'Funny: talking to Nick took me right back to the old News days,' she said. 'Seems a long time ago, doesn't it? We'll be thirty before we know it.'

  'I expect we'll survive it. Other people do,' said Rosie.

  She wondered if Sasha was thinking what she was thinking: that in spite of all they had achieved and their comfortable lifestyle, she could not truthfully claim to be completely happy, and she didn't think Sasha could either.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  'YOU'RE a great gal, Rosie, you know that? It's been a whole lot of fun. We must do it again real soon. So long for now. Take care.'

  With a final wave of the hand, the American science fiction writer disappeared into his hotel and Rosie got back into the taxi which had brought them from Heathrow and asked the driver to take her on to Fulham.

  Being called a great gal recalled another American applying that description to someone else. It was not a welcome reminder. Three weeks had gone by since the visit to Spain. By now she had hoped to put it out of her mind. But, although she had been busy with other projects, she still felt unsettled.

  Today had been long and tiring, which was why she had declined the writer's invitation to go up to his suite for a drink with his third wife, a compulsive shopper. All week his wife had been scouring London's department stores and boutiques while Rosie took the writer on tour to promote his latest book. It had already been on the New York Times bestseller list for twenty-three weeks and seemed likely to do equally well in Britain. Today, through no fault of Rosie's, things had not gone smoothly. The writer had started the day with a hangover from a party last night. He had risen late, causing them almost to miss their shuttle flight to Manchester.

  From there, after several radio and press interviews, they had been driven to Liverpool by a man with a heavy cold which he had done his best to share with them, sneezing and coughing all the way from the first city to the second. After the interviews in Liverpool, they had arrived at the airport to find the bar had just closed in the internal flights lounge and, worse, their take-off was delayed.

  Fortunately experience had taught Rosie never to travel without a hip flask, not for her own use—although she had been known to add a reviving slug of gin to a glass of fruit juice after many hours in the company of a difficult client—but for the celebrities in her charge. By the end of a day which might have included a dozen or more interviews, they were usually in urgent need of a pick-me-up.

  Aspirins, sticking plaster, throat lozenges, tablets to soothe nervous indigestion, chocolate for people whose energy f
lagged if they missed meals, hairspray, safety pins, a spare pair of one-size tights; these were only some of the things she had learnt to carry in her capacious tote-bag.

  In general she didn't mind touring. Some PR consultants, once they were head of an agency or in a senior position, stopped going on the road, delegating all tours to their assistants except those involving the top-rank celebrities.

  But Rosie had always liked touring and had refined and perfected the techniques involved so that maximum publicity was achieved with a minimum of nervous stress. It was one of the reasons why her agency had the edge on most of the others.

  One of the most famous people she had ever escorted on a tour had said to her afterwards,

  'Rosie, in a world where last-minute panics and carelessness are the norm, you are that rare thing, a perfectionist. You have anticipated every contingency. I have never been looked after better.'

  But although, today, she had done what she could to reduce the annoyance of being stuck in a dry lounge for an hour and a half after the flight should have taken off, and the writer been pleased to be plied with gin, he had not wanted to relax with the copy of Time she had offered him. Despite having done nothing else all week, he had wanted to talk about himself and had done so throughout their wait, in flight and between the airport and his hotel. There was nothing about his antecedents, his youth, his wives, his children, his health, his emotional problems that he had left untold. Had she taken it all down in shorthand, Rosie could have written his biography.

  'What was the number, miss?' the driver asked, as the taxi turned into her street.

  'Twenty-three... on the right. Where the bollards are holding the parking space.'

  The presence of the plastic bollards meant that Sasha was not yet back from her trip to Brighton to photograph a well-known actor and his wife at home. Looking forward to a long soak in the jacuzzi followed by a light supper and quiet evening alone in her room, Rosie paid the fare and climbed the steps to the front door, latchkey in hand. She had closed the door behind her and was starting to mount the stairs when a sound from the direction of the kitchen brought a puzzled frown to her face. What she had heard had been laughter—a man's laughter.

  What was a man doing here? The only time men entered the house was when they gave one of their parties or when, occasionally, it was-necessary to have some repair done. The sound of laughter came again. This time Clare was laughing as well. Intrigued, Rosie put down her tote-bag and went to investigate.

  In the kitchen she found her housekeeper sitting at the table peeling sprouts with a glass of sherry beside the bowl in which she was dropping the discarded leaves. Nearby, leaning against the dresser, forearms crossed, amusement at whatever had made them laugh still lingering on his tanned face, was Nick Winchester. At the sight of Rosie he straightened and unfolded his arms.

  'Rosie... hello. How are you?'

  He came round the end of the table, placed both hands on her shoulders and bent his tall head to brush a light kiss on her left cheek and then her right cheek. It was, as she had observed in the village restaurant and again at his drinks party, the custom in Spain for people to kiss on meeting.

  But, already taken aback by Nick's unexpected presence in her house, she was even more startled by this affectionate greeting.

  'What are you doing here?' she exclaimed.

  'I'm in London for a few days and I thought I would look you up and say hello to Sasha.'

  'You've had a long day, Rosie. Sit down and have a glass of this super sherry Mr Winchester has brought,' said Clare, rising to fetch a glass from the dresser. Although he no longer had his hands on her shoulders, Nick was still standing disturbingly close. Rosie was glad to move away and sink on to the comfortable old sofa, recovered with red and white ticking, which helped to give the kitchen its homely air.

  'What time did you arrive?' she asked. For, although Clare had called him Mr Winchester, they had both looked very much at ease when she joined them.

  'About an hour ago, I guess. Clare said she was expecting both of you back about now so I stuck around. You don't mind, I hope?'

  'Not at all,' she said politely.

  Nick filled the glass with sherry and brought it to her. 'I hear you've been on tour with the sci-fi writer whose book I saw advertised all the way up an Underground escalator today. What's he like?'

  'In print he's great—if you like reading sci-fi. In private... rather a pain,' said Rosie, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs up beside her.

  Nick seated himself at the other end of the sofa, which fortunately was a long one so there was a space between them.

  'I hope I don't merit that judgement after our tour. The main reason I came over was for a final run-through the book with Carolyn. Now I'm at a loose end until my flight back tomorrow.'

  'If Carolyn knew you were coming, I'm surprised she hasn't made arrangements to entertain you.' 'We've already had lunch together two days running. I'm sure she has had more than enough of my company for the time being,' he said smoothly.

  I'll bet she hasn't, thought Rosie. What you mean is that you didn't want to see more of her.

  'Did you see Anna while you were at the office?' she asked.

  He shook his head. 'I didn't go to the office. We worked at Carolyn's flat. She said if we worked at B & P there would be constant interruptions.'

  'How is her father?'

  'Better. . .making good progress. I was hoping you and Sasha would take pity on an out-of-towner and have dinner with me.'

  'I can't speak for Sasha, but to be honest I'm bushed. I've been running around all week. Tonight I'd like to relax.'

  'Sasha's had a busy week too. If Mr Winchester doesn't mind simple home cooking, there's more than enough for the three of you,' Clare said quietly.

  The remark made it difficult for Rosie not to invite him to supper. It surprised and annoyed her that Clare should put her in that position. Usually Clare was careful to make it clear to their visitors that Rosie and Sasha owned the house and she was an employee. Rosie said, 'I should think, as you lead a quiet life in Spain, you're looking forward to a night on the town. Sasha may be delighted to live it up with you. She's probably had an easier day than I have.'

  'Perhaps, but I expect she'd still rather relax at home. So would I, if you'll let me?'

  There was nothing to do but give in gracefully. 'Of course.' She drained her glass. 'But you'll have to excuse me for half an hour. I'm going to take a bath.'

  A short time later, up to her chin in the scented foam of the French bubble gel she reserved as a special treat when life was more than usually taxing, she heard Clare enter the bedroom to take away her shoes and clothes.

  'Clare, would you come in a minute?' she called.

  The older woman appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a red dress which Rosie had seen before without being struck, as she was now, by how well the colour set off Clare's colouring. She was dark, with a streak of white hair springing from the left side of her broad forehead.

  'Clare, I could have done without a guest this evening. What made you invite Nick to wait for us to come home? It would have been better to suggest that he rang up later.'

  'I suppose it would, but he seemed at a loose end and, to be honest, I wanted to meet him,'

  said Clare. 'I've often seen him and liked him on television. I was glad of the chance to talk to him. I get a bit lonely sometimes, on my own here all day. But that's no excuse. I'm sorry, Rosie.'

  The humility of her apology made Rosie feel mean to have remonstrated with her.

  'I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have taken my tiredness out on you. I'm feeling antisocial tonight.'

  'But he's not like the man you've been looking after this week. He's nice... he's fun...he'll make you laugh,' said Clare. 'I thought you were old friends from way back. That's the impression he gave me.'

  'Did he? Well, he exaggerated. We were never close friends, just colleagues in the same office. And I shouldn't think for a moment
that he's really at a loose end. He must know scores of people in London. I can't imagine why he should pick on me and Sasha to descend on.'

  'As you stayed at his place in Spain not long ago, isn't it possible he wanted to see you again...that he's attracted to you?' Clare suggested.

  It was a possibility which had crossed Rosie's mind, to be immediately dismissed as a piece of dangerous self-delusion.

  Wishful thinking about men was, she knew, a weakness of her sex. In her own circle of acquaintance, there were women who had wasted years of their lives on the patently false hope that some guy would come up to scratch, either by falling in love with them, or leaving his wife for them, or keeping his promise not to cheat on them, or whatever it might be that would make them happy.

  'If Nick were in the market for a wife, I think he'd have found one by now, Clare,' she answered drily.

  'Not necessarily. The right person can be hard to find...for both sexes,' Clare answered, equally drily. 'I'm thirty-eight and I haven't met the right man yet... and probably never will now,' she added.

  She turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving Rosie to wonder, yet again, what had gone wrong between her and Angie's father. Clare would have made him such a wonderful wife, but perhaps he had been too young to want one.

  She had changed into flannel trousers and a paler grey cashmere sweater with moderate shoulder-pads, with a belt of ochre punched suede slotted through the loops of the trousers and large yellow amber earrings, when she heard Sasha coming in.

  Evidently Nick was in the living-room because Sasha's shout of surprise at finding him there could be heard in the room above.

  Presently she heard her friend running upstairs and then tapping on the bathroom door. Although it adjoined Rosie's bedroom, it also had a door to the landing, as did the showerroom linked to Sasha's bedroom. She heard Sasha call, 'Are you still wallowing, Rosie?'