by Susan Lewis
‘Oh, you mean like it was for dinner?’ Zelda suggested.
‘If I didn’t want to go for dinner, you know very well I wouldn’t,’ he responded.
‘So you do want to go?’
‘She’s come a long way, it would seem churlish not to.’
Zelda seemed to find that more amusing than ever. ‘Now let me tell you something,’ she said, leaning towards him and whispering, ‘if you think she’s going to prove one of your easy conquests, then I’m going to lay money right now that says you’re wrong.’
Michael’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘If I’m not,’ he told her, ‘it won’t be at all disappointing,’ and it was his turn to laugh at the way Zelda’s eyes crossed as she tried to work that one out.
Sandy sat huddled in the corner of the sofa, a voluminous towelling robe encompassing her as she gazed at the slumbering figure on the bed. The room was in darkness, but the moon cast a silvery glow over the tousled sheets and pale, balding head resting on a rucked-up pillow. She felt so unbearably sad about what she had just done that even the resentment that had driven her to do it had collapsed under the weight of her sorrow.
It would be easy to tell herself she had done it for Michael, to secure Slim Sutton’s commitment to McCann’s and to stop Sutton telling what he knew about her. But in her heart she knew she had done it to punish Michael for the way he had looked at Ellen Shelby tonight. Or maybe she had done it to punish herself. That was more how it felt, but she had no idea what she needed to punish herself for, except being so lacking next to someone like Ellen Shelby.
From the moment Ellen had walked up to their table and Michael had got to his feet, Sandy had felt sickened by herself and now she hated Sutton for making her feel so much worse. But it wasn’t his fault that she had been another man’s paid date for the night when they had met. And Sutton hadn’t actually threatened to tell anyone her secret, so it was she who had turned herself into a whore tonight, not him. It was true she had done it out of anger and resentment, but the fire of her passion had only turned him on all the more, and now her body and her heart ached with regret and self-loathing.
Her eyes were still fixed on the bed. She didn’t think he would ever tell, but she was going to have to ask him not to and he would probably want to have sex with her again as payment for his silence. It wasn’t that she really minded the sex, for she would simply pretend it was Michael she was with – in fact she had become so good at that now that she sometimes had to remind herself that they hadn’t shared even a moment of intimacy, unless looks and smiles and the occasional comment could be interpreted as such, which of course they couldn’t.
Getting up from the sofa she walked to the window and sliding her hands into the sleeves of the robe she gazed up at the stars. Her life had changed so completely in so short a time that she had almost forgotten now who she was. It was true, she could still feel the gauche young girl from Fairweather Street lurking somewhere beneath the façade of the slightly sophisticated, totally bewildered young woman, whose morals were as confused as her ambitions, but she wanted only to be rid of that ghost, not to be haunted and humiliated by her, as she was right now. She sighed deeply and felt a surge of self-pity as she wondered if all she really wanted was to be loved? She’d searched for it often enough, but even if she found it would she recognize it? She knew that men liked to have sex, so she had tried to win Michael by letting him know he could have sex with her any time, but maybe that wasn’t what he wanted, a woman who was easy. Maybe what he wanted was someone who was aloof and unobtainable; a woman with class and refinement; dignity and self-respect.
Her eyes dropped to the floor as her heart contracted. What he wanted, she was thinking, was a woman like Ellen Shelby. Tears were stinging her eyes and her throat was locking with misery, for just the image of Ellen Shelby, burnt so cruelly and beautifully into her mind’s eye, was enough to make her see how unattractive, maybe even sordid, she was to a man like Michael. To any man, maybe, except those prepared to pay.
She thought of Ellen again and saw those wonderful clear eyes, the elegance, the poise, the self-confidence and modesty that made her Michael’s kind of woman, while she, Sandy, was just any man’s woman. Ellen Shelby would never do the kinds of things she had done to make her way in the world; she would have no shameful secrets to hide or fears that her weaknesses would be uncovered or exploited.
Hearing Sutton stir in the bed behind her, she turned and watched him until finally his eyes opened and he saw her standing at the window. She smiled as he held out a hand towards her and felt a strange kind of affection for him, or maybe it was simple gratitude that someone wanted her. She would have to ask him now if he would keep her secret.
She walked to the bed and letting the robe pool at her feet, she lay down beside him. He began to caress her breasts gently, almost lovingly. The Ellen Shelbys of this world would never have to do what she was doing now, for they would never have got themselves into the kind of fix where they would have to. The Ellen Shelbys just came along to enchant men like Michael, who then loved them and took care of them and never had to worry about where they had been before or what they might have done.
Sandy’s eyes were sightless as Slim rolled on a condom, then lay on top of her and entered her. She hadn’t asked him to keep her secret, she was just letting him make love to her anyway. She didn’t want to be paid for it, whether it be with money, jewels, weekends in New York or silence. She wanted to have sex because she liked it and because whoever the man was liked it too. OK, in an ideal world she might not have chosen Slim, but it wasn’t an ideal world and they were here together now, so why not at least pretend that it was where she wanted to be?
But starting tomorrow she was going to change. She was going to give up her other life and stop fooling herself about Michael, for it was time she accepted that no matter what she did, how far she got, or how hard she tried, she was never going to be good enough for him. What she was going to be, though, was a normal, decent, young woman seeking her way in the world by means of hard work and merit. There would be no more paid dates, no more blinding herself to the realities of her life; and maybe one day she would see a man just like Michael look at her the way Michael had looked at Ellen tonight.
A single tear rolled from the corner of her eye as she wondered how long it would be before Michael sold out to Forgon and left for LA. She was terrified he would and what hurt most about it was the fact that in the end it wouldn’t be Forgon’s offer that would change his mind about Hollywood, it would be Ellen Shelby. She’d like to kill Ellen Shelby, tear that lovely face to ribbons and get her out of the way, so that she never bothered their lives again. Except lying here now, in one of London’s most exclusive hotels with a strange man working his way to climax on top of her, she felt so depleted and defeated that all she could really think about was why life was so mean to her when it seemed to have lavished so many blessings on others.
Chapter 12
IT WAS JUST a few minutes after eight when Ellen arrived at the Canteen restaurant in Chelsea Harbour. Though she was nervous about this meeting there was nothing in her appearance to show it as she stepped out of the taxi and handed the driver a ten-pound note. It was a cold, clear night and there was almost no one around. At the end of the road she could see a pool of moonlight rippling across the harbour waters where yacht masts clanked in the wind and the tide lapped against polished hulls and moss-covered walls. All around her, apartment and office blocks soared silently into the night sky with occasional lights signalling a world behind the façade. She gazed up at them and wondered which were the McCann Walsh offices.
Hooking her bag on her shoulder, she walked into the brightly lit foyer of Harbour Yard and headed towards the Canteen. The maître d’ saw her coming, and was waiting with the door open to greet her with a warmth that startled her, until he showed her to ‘Mr McCann’s table’ and conveyed ‘Mr McCann’s apologies’ that he was running late. Apparently she had become Mr McCann’s g
uest, rather than the other way around, but though this irked her, she said nothing to the waiter as she was seated and served a complimentary glass of house champagne with a small plate of mouthwatering amuses-bouches to get her ‘tastebuds in the mood’.
When the waiter had gone she took out a book and opened it. It was simply a prop, for she was too anxious to concentrate on anything more than the task ahead. Three days had passed since coincidence had outclassed contrivance and brought her and McCann together here, at this restaurant, and most of that time had been spent going over the fine detail of Forgon’s offer and her own strategy on how she was going to present it. The fact that McCann was now no longer an imaginary target drawn from the pages of Forgon’s research, but a real flesh-and-blood man with all the disturbing elements that entailed, was a distraction she had already striven to confront and eliminate. Yes, he was exceptionally attractive, but that was no surprise, for she’d seen enough photographs of him to know that already. What the photographs hadn’t prepared her for, though, was how annoyingly composed he seemed and apparently indifferent to her pursuit of him. In fact, he was so god-damned condescending that it had been a real struggle to stop herself getting mad just thinking about him. But she had that under control now and the desire she had to slap his face was one she would save for a time she was in a position to do so.
She turned a page and ran her eyes over the lines. Just no way was she going to allow him to rattle her by showing up late. She had all the time in the world and if he thought that she couldn’t see through this tired old tactic of putting her at a disadvantage by keeping her waiting then he was in for a surprise. Too many men had underrated her in the past and it seemed McCann was about to make the same mistake. Well, he’d learn soon enough and she was going to have a good time showing him that she was no more fazed by his tardiness than she was moved by his charm.
‘Hi, am I interrupting?’ Michael said, pulling out a chair to sit down.
Starting, Ellen looked up from her book. ‘Not at all,’ she replied, covering the jolt to her heart with a smile. ‘Is this what the English call fashionably late?’
Michael’s eyes narrowed with humour. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s what we call unavoidably delayed. Please excuse me. Were you given a drink?’
She nodded and raised her still full champagne glass. His blue eyes were even more compelling than she remembered and as they focused somewhat curiously on hers, to her dismay she felt the indifference she had carefully nurtured these past few days starting to desert her.
‘Good book?’ he asked, raising a hand to summon a waiter while seeming to give her some kind of appraisal.
‘Very,’ she replied, hoping he didn’t think she had made a special effort for him tonight, when she most certainly hadn’t. In fact, she had resolutely not even thought about what she was going to wear until it had been time to dress after her shower.
‘Your hair suits you like that,’ he told her, referring to the way she had clasped it with artful carelessness on to the top of her head and left a few curls dangling around her neck.
Ellen’s eyes showed her disapproval. If he thought he was going to win her over with compliments as bland as that he could think again. She’d already taken a breath to tell him so when she suddenly remembered that it was she who was supposed to be winning him over. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
His amusement at such a simple statement coming from such a large breath was reflected in his eyes as he turned to the waiter and ordered another glass of champagne. ‘So how are you enjoying London?’ he asked, when the waiter had gone.
‘Very much,’ she answered. ‘It’s a fascinating city.’
‘Is it your first time?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I hope you’re being taken good care of.’
‘I think so,’ she said, sounding more defensive than she intended. ‘Are you from London?’
He laughed. ‘Forgon’s got a file on me as thick as his new hair, so don’t tell me you don’t know the answer to that.’
Ellen’s eyes moved to one side as she struggled to hide her smile at the remark about Forgon. ‘OK, you’re from Ireland,’ she told him.
‘And Liverpool,’ he added. ‘And you?’
She looked baffled.
‘I’ve yet to meet an American who doesn’t know their roots,’ he explained. ‘So from whence does your family hail?’
Ellen’s eyes narrowed, showing her uncertain understanding of the question. ‘Ireland?’ she said hesitantly.
He laughed again. ‘Well done, you’ve obviously picked up some old English while you’ve been here. Where in Ireland?’
‘I think Galway,’ she answered. ‘We’re going back several generations so I’d have to ask my father to be sure. Are you Catholic? Why are you laughing?’
‘Sure I’m Catholic,’ he answered. ‘And I’m laughing because I’m enjoying myself.’
Ellen’s smile fled. ‘Please don’t flirt with me, Mr McCann,’ she told him sharply. ‘That’s not why I’m here and you know it.’
Michael’s champagne arrived at that moment, so his only response to the rebuke was to look highly amused. Ellen’s annoyance coloured her cheeks and she turned swiftly away.
‘So, do you want to get down to why you are here?’ he invited, saluting her with his drink as the waiter left.
‘Maybe we should order something to eat first?’ she suggested, still smarting at how ludicrous she had obviously sounded a moment ago.
He nodded and turned compliantly to his menu.
As Ellen scanned hers she was frantically searching her mind for a way to regain control of the situation. The trouble was, she couldn’t quite work out how she’d lost it, or in fact if she’d ever had it, and the careful strategy she had so painstakingly pieced together seemed to be falling apart by the second. She was sure he was using his looks to disarm her, which she had guessed he probably would, so it would no doubt surprise him to learn that in fact, she wasn’t the slightest bit impressed by them. But she could hardly tell him that when it was neither relevant nor polite. Besides, she seemed to keep forgetting he had no reason to come here and impress her; she was the one supposed to be impressing him and if it weren’t for recent experiences she would probably be handling that side of things very well. As it stood, she appeared totally hung up on the male-female element of their meeting, which appalled her, for it was something she had never allowed to get in the way before and the very thought that he might be considering her some kind of bonus in Ted Forgon’s package was too horrible for words.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked, closing his menu.
Ellen quickly selected the macaroni of lobster and closed hers too. She had to get past this personal business, for it had no place here and the last thing she wanted was for her hang-ups to start affecting her professional ability.
‘So where are you from in the States?’ he asked, after a waiter had taken their order.
‘Nebraska,’ she answered. ‘Tell me, is it your usual practice to ignore phone calls and faxes, or was it just mine you were having a problem with?’ The instant the words were out she regretted them, not only because they had sounded so petty, but because of the amusement that had returned to his eyes.
‘Believe me, Ellen,’ he said, taking the wine list that was being handed to him, ‘were I not sick and tired of Forgon’s efforts to ransack my life I’d have been more than happy to take your calls. And just in case you misinterpret that as more flirting,’ he added, ‘I’m afraid it’s a mere truth.’
Despite being disconcerted by the use of her first name, Ellen laughed. ‘You’re a hard man to stay mad at, Mr McCann,’ she told him.
‘Michael,’ he said, ‘and why would you want to stay mad at me?’
Ignoring the question she said, ‘I take it you read the faxes detailing ATI’s offer?’
He nodded and opened the wine list. ‘Do you have any preference?’ he asked. ‘There’s not much of a California selection, I’
m afraid.’
Ellen narrowed her eyes. ‘Do I look so parochial?’ she challenged. ‘French will be fine. Do they have a Puligny-Montrachet?’
Michael didn’t need to check. ‘Yes, they do,’ he said, closing the list and handing it back to the wine waiter who had already registered the order. ‘So, when do you return to the States?’ he asked.
‘I’m scheduled for a flight next Monday,’ she answered. ‘If I don’t have an answer from you by then, I can always stay until you’re ready to sign.’
Michael grinned. ‘Do you feel so sure I will?’ he enquired.
‘I think you would be wise to,’ she responded. ‘The offer is exceptional and I don’t imagine you’ll ever get another like it, do you?’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered, ‘I don’t imagine I will.’
He was looking at her so intently that she was suddenly finding it uncomfortable meeting his eyes. She was sure he wasn’t intending to be intrusive, but that was how it felt and she wished he would stop. Reaching for her champagne as an excuse to look elsewhere she said, ‘Is it just Ted Forgon you have a problem with, or is it Hollywood too?’
His eyebrows went up. ‘Both, for different reasons,’ he replied and she noticed the luxuriance of his lashes and darkening shadow around his jaw as he lowered his eyes to his drink.
To her amazement she felt a sudden impulse to touch the hand that was idling on the stem of his glass. She stared at it, dumbfounded by the feelings it was stirring inside her.
‘If you like,’ he said, nodding as the waiter showed him the wine label, ‘I can give you an answer for Forgon right now,’
Ellen’s mouth went dry. He was obviously going to turn down the offer and though it was no surprise she realized with a jolt just how disappointed she was going to be by his rejection. ‘I’m not sure I want to spoil a good meal,’ she said softly.
He smiled. ‘So you’re not so sure I’ll accept?’ he replied. She shook her head. ‘Frankly, no.’
