by Jill Mansell
“Come on. I’m not making this up,” he protested as the audience rocked in their seats. He was on to the latest Californian fad: plastic surgery for dogs so they could resemble their owners’ favorite film stars. “There’s the Streisand, works especially well on Afghans.” Turning half away, he covered his mouth as if stifling a cough. This was a new idea of Donny’s, a tryout. When the blood capsule was lodged safely between his back teeth, Sean turned his attention back to the audience once more, his expression one of injured innocence. “So I thought of having my own dog done—she’s a bitch, forever in heat—but the surgeon’s already been sued by Madonna. No, please, I know you think I’m kidding, but trust me. May the dentist from hell rip out all my teeth if I’m lying to you…”
As he said it, he bit down on the capsule. The idea was that as he carried on speaking, apparently unaware of what was going on, blood would gush from his mouth.
But the capsule had other ideas. The odd-tasting fake blood spilled out, hitting the back of his throat. Without warning, Sean began to choke. As he attempted to fit the mike back onto the stand, he coughed. Fake blood shot out of his mouth. Table three, closest to the stage, was occupied by a group of girls. Sean could only watch, horrified, as a great spray of blood—in apparent slow motion—splattered itself over the front of one of them.
It was Murphy’s law, of course, that she had to be wearing a short white dress.
Hell, thought Sean as the rest of the audience, assuming this was all part of the act, erupted with laughter once more. If it had been a bloke on the receiving end, he might have played along, pretending he had meant to do it. But he couldn’t do it to a girl.
She wasn’t laughing either.
“OK, you lot, that’s enough.” He spoke rapidly into the mike before stepping forward and jumping down from the stage. One of the girl’s companions was trying to scrub at the front of the bloodstained dress with a handful of tissues.
The girl met Sean’s gaze.
“I’m so sorry.” Mortified by the expression in her luminous dark eyes, he took her hand and raised it to his mouth, pressing a kiss onto her knuckles. “It was a horrible accident, and you must let me make this up to you. Please, come to my dressing room after the show.”
* * *
“Won’t be doing that again in a hurry.” Donny, poking his head around the dressing-room door twenty minutes later, was evidently highly amused. Public humiliation was his stock-in-trade. “Did you see the expression on that bird’s face when you did it? What a state! Mind you, she wasn’t a bad looker. Don’t suppose you got her phone number?”
It was all right for Donny Mulligan, Sean thought irritably. He had inherited his Jamaican mother’s good looks and his Irish father’s charm. If it had happened to Donny, he wouldn’t have been racked with guilt. It probably wouldn’t even have occurred to him to apologize. With his shoulder-length dreadlocks and broad Dublin Bay accent, Donny could get away with just about anything he liked.
Sean changed into a fresh shirt—the girl in the white dress wasn’t the only one who’d been splattered—and ran a comb through his dark hair. It was fifteen minutes now since he’d come offstage, but there was still no sign of her. Puzzled and slightly put out, he tucked his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and followed Donny out into the corridor. He would have bought her a drink to show her he really was sorry. Maybe she had felt too embarrassed to stay on in a ruined dress. Maybe she had stormed off to phone the press. Sean could just imagine the story in tomorrow’s Evening Standard.
He was relieved to spot her standing over at the bar with her friends. So she hadn’t left. Instead, despite the warmth of the evening, she had chosen to cover the damage with a long, cinched-at-the-waist beige trench coat.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Hello, you.” She tilted her head to one side and gave him a brief smile of acknowledgment. Donny had been right; she was a looker, though in a quiet, unflashy way. Not Sean’s usual type at all.
“You didn’t come backstage.” The rebuke was gentle. He couldn’t afford to offend her more than he already had.
“And what would I have looked like, a groupie?”
Now it was Sean’s turn to be offended. “Of course you wouldn’t! Thanks a lot.”
“Well, I might have felt like one.” The girl shrugged, unconcerned. “Doesn’t matter anyway. You found me. What do you do now, smile a lot, buy me a large gin and tonic, and toss me a fiver to cover the dry cleaning?”
It was exactly what Sean had planned on doing. Positively affronted by the accuracy of her guess, he said, “Charming. As a matter of fact, I was going to invite you out to dinner. Or would that make you look even more of a groupie?”
For a second, she said nothing. Terrific. She was probably one of those fanatical, fire-breathing feminists out on an undercover mission to expose chauvinist bastards who dared to ask them out. Out of the corner of his eye, Sean glimpsed the blond with the legs making her way toward the exit. Thanks, Donny. What a totally brilliant idea the blood capsule had been. He wouldn’t forget tonight in a hurry.
“OK.” The girl nodded. Quite suddenly, she broke into the most ravishing smile, revealing perfect teeth like pearls.
“OK?” Sean, hearing himself idiotically echoing her reply, could have kicked himself. Now he sounded like some gauche schoolkid. He’d been so certain she would say no.
“I’m hungry.” Sliding down from her stool, she drained her glass and placed it on the bar. “You did mean tonight, didn’t you?”
“Fine, fine.” Sean, who hadn’t even meant to ask her out in the first place, gave up. The blond had by this time disappeared; he may as well get it over and done with. “I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Pandora,” the girl replied gravely. “And if you make one joke about it, you’re dead.”
Chapter 6
Pandora had never been to the Blue Goose before, though it was clearly one of Sean Mandeville’s regular haunts. At least it was now he was becoming successful and making enough money to be able to afford it, she guessed as the waiter greeted them with enthusiasm and tried to part her from her trench coat.
“It’s OK. She’d like to keep it on,” Sean told him. When they had been seated and handed the menu, he took his wallet out of his jeans pocket, rifled through it beneath the table, then slid a couple of twenty-pound notes into her hand.
“Before I forget,” he murmured. “For the dry cleaning. I don’t really know…um, will that cover it, d’you think?”
“Cover it?” Pandora smiled at the look of concern on his face. Away from the club and the company of all those wisecracking friends of his, he was altogether less confident than he liked to make out. “It’s enough to buy me two new dresses.” She pushed the money back across the table. “Don’t worry. Fake blood’s bound to wash out.”
Sean was touched by her honesty. “You could always turn it into a fashion statement.” He broke into a grin. “The Psycho, just-stepped-out-of-the-shower look. Or did Vivienne Westwood use that idea last year?”
Her full name was Pandora Jacintha Grant, Sean discovered over dinner. She was twenty-four and shared a tiny, rented, end-of-terrace house in Kilburn with her elder brother, Joel. She worked long hours as a waitress at a bistro, also in Kilburn, called the Moon and Sixpence. The pay was lousy, but it was a friendly place with a great atmosphere, and when the last customer had been booted out, the staff sat down each night to a terrific meal. The bistro was closed on Mondays, which was why she and the other girls who worked there had come for an evening out to Comedy Inc. instead.
So far so very ordinary. It was hardly the most riveting life story he had ever heard, yet there was something about her that intrigued Sean.
He didn’t even know why, since Pandora Grant was just about the opposite of every kind of girl who normally interested him. He went for blonds, and long-haired blonds at tha
t. He liked tall, thin, long-haired blonds with blue eyes and plenty of makeup. His ideal women were Blake Lively, Sophie Turner, and the girl in the short skirt whom he’d planned on chatting up tonight until fate in the form of a blood capsule had buggered up his innocent plan.
His ideal woman certainly wasn’t coffee-colored, with shrewd brown eyes, no makeup at all, and black hair less than an inch long all over. She wasn’t wrapped from head to foot like Inspector Clouseau in a beige trench coat either.
So what the bloody hell was it about her, Sean thought with a touch of despair, that so intrigued him?
When Pandora excused herself between courses and disappeared to the bathroom, she didn’t take her shoulder bag with her. Sean, not even realizing she’d left it on her chair, stretched out his legs and managed to hook the trailing leather strap around the toe of his shoe. When he straightened up in his seat, the bag crashed to the ground. The clip sprang open, and the contents spilled out.
Sean winced as a couple of tampons rolled merrily across the wooden floor, coming to rest against the highly polished shoe of the bank-managerish type at the next table. A pot of Body Shop kiwi fruit lip balm had skittered off in the opposite direction. Keys, a diary, a pack of gum, and an Afro comb—with hair that short?—were easier to retrieve.
It was as he was stuffing everything back into the bag that Sean spotted something that hadn’t fallen out. The discovery both jolted and enthralled him; the unexpectedness of it acted like an adrenaline rush. Now he knew why he had been so subconsciously attracted to her. There was more to Pandora Grant than met the eye.
All of a sudden, Sean found himself consumed with desire, as surely as if she had emptied some mystical aphrodisiac into his drink. He realized he had never wanted anyone so badly in his life.
* * *
“Thanks.” Those big, innocent eyes turned to him. For a fraction of a second, her fingers hovered above his arm, then moved away again. “That was really kind of you. I’ve had a lovely time.”
“You could always invite me in for a coffee,” Sean suggested lightly. The body language was promising. The thought of what was in her shoulder bag was even more of a turn-on now that they were back at her place. Best of all, she had already told him her brother was out of town.
But Pandora shook her head.
“Sorry, I can’t. I have to be up horribly early tomorrow, but thanks again for dinner and the lift home.”
Sean could hardly believe his ears. He’d spent the last two and a half hours being charming and generally irresistible to the kind of girl he wouldn’t normally look twice at, and now she had the nerve to turn him down! What was the matter with her? What, he wondered wildly, was the matter with him?
He hadn’t been turned down by anyone since he was twelve.
* * *
Pride had prevented him asking for her phone number or whether he could see her again, but over the course of the next week, Sean found himself unable to put Pandora Grant out of his mind.
It was hopeless, not to mention mystifying. Was he only this interested in her because she had shown herself to be a girl who could say no? Whatever the reason, Sean found himself—for heaven’s sake—dreaming about her. Every night onstage, he scanned the audience, hoping against hope she might turn up.
By Sunday, Sean had had enough. Pandora—or rather, the non-appearance of Pandora—was seriously getting to him. The audience had just applauded Donny’s act more loudly than his own. At the bar after the show, Donny had protested, “What’s up, man? You’re losing your edge. Come on, look. There’s that blond you had your eye on last week.”
He couldn’t even be bothered to chat up the blond when she sauntered over, gave Sean a broad, knowing smile, and leaned so close to him that the soft pink leather of her skirt brushed against his thigh.
She reeked of Obsession. Close-up, too, he could see the way her honey-colored foundation clogged the skin around her nose. Her face was melting in the heat.
“Don.” Sickened by the sight, he tapped his friend’s arm. “I’m off.”
As he left, he heard the blond murmur frustratedly, “Ohh…”
* * *
The Moon and Sixpence was situated in a narrow side street just off the Kilburn High Road. By the time Sean reached it, the last few customers appeared to be leaving. Not having the nerve to simply march in, grab Pandora, and whisk her into his arms like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman—she was, he sensed, only too likely to stand her ground and say no again—he parked the BMW ten yards away from the entrance to the bistro and settled down to wait. If she was going to humiliate him, at least she wouldn’t be doing it in front of all her smirking friends. It was eleven fifteen. Surely he wouldn’t have to wait too long.
But in his hurry to see her again, Sean had forgotten the meal shared by the staff at the end of each evening. The lights in the bistro continued to blaze. Through the open car window, he could hear the buzz of animated conversation interspersed with shrieks of laughter. Bored and hungry, he rummaged through the glove compartment and found half a packet of gumdrops. Even they were a letdown: two greens and three yellows.
Sean finished the last boring gumdrop and heaved a sigh. Midnight. This was ridiculous. What was he, completely out of his mind?
As if in answer to his prayers, the door of the bistro opened. Two girls spilled out, neither of them Pandora, but at least it must mean he wouldn’t have long to wait. Sean sat up, switched off Aerosmith, and realized he had butterflies in his stomach. This was definitely ridiculous.
The door swung open again. This time, he saw with a leap of excitement that it was Pandora. For a second, all he could do was sit there and gaze at her, the object of his helpless fantasies for the past week—a week that had seemed to stretch on without end. Now, as she stood silhouetted in the narrow doorway, he saw the miraculous shape of her head, the graceful neck, the slender but still curvy figure. She was wearing neat gold earrings, a black T-shirt, and combat boots. The large black leather shoulder bag hung from one shoulder to rest against her hip. She looked even more desirable than Sean remembered. He took a deep breath before opening the driver’s door. All he had to do was act cool…
Just as his fingers reached the car door handle, the silence of the darkened street was broken by a piercing whistle. Sean’s head swiveled to identify it. A couple of hundred yards up the road, in the shadows between streetlamps, he saw a tall figure break into a run.
For a moment, he wondered if Pandora was about to be mugged; then he saw her raise her arm in greeting. Without even so much as a glance in the direction of the parked cars, she ran out into the empty road, waving with both arms now. Sean, feeling sick, slid down in the seat so she wouldn’t spot him. Not that she appeared to have eyes for anyone other than the tall, blond, athletic-looking bloke pounding his way down the road toward her.
It was pure bloody Hollywood. When he finally reached Pandora, the athlete picked her up as if she weighed nothing at all and swung her around three times. Pandora, her arms curled around his neck, let out a squeal of delight and buried her head against his chest as he lowered her gently back to the ground.
Lacerated with jealousy, Sean waited until they had reached the end of the road, disappearing arm in arm around the left-hand turn that would lead them in less than five minutes to Pandora’s end-of-terrace house. He forced himself to wait three more minutes before firing the ignition and setting off along the same route. Having timed it to perfection, he drove past just as Pandora and her big, blond boyfriend closed the freshly painted blue front door behind them.
Chapter 7
As a successful model, Cleo Mandeville always longed to punch anyone who suggested she had only gotten to where she was because of her famous parents. She was amazed how often it happened too. Not from those in the business—who chose to work with her because they knew how good she was—but from pig-ignorant members of the p
ublic who invariably thought they knew best.
Like the amazingly stupid, mouthy, interfering prat of a taxi driver whose cab she had innocently hailed at Piccadilly sodding Circus.
“Now there’s a coincidence,” he crowed with sweaty delight. “Here I am, tuned in to your dear old mum’s show. Never miss it, y’know. She just about makes my day, ’specially with them phone-ins of hers.”
“Mmm.” In the back of the cab, Cleo peered into a hand mirror and redid her lipstick.
“Must be nice, havin’ a mother like that,” the driver went on. “I mean, it’s all about contacts, innit? Take my Louise, my eldest… I’m tellin’ you, she coulda been a model. Better lookin’ than any of these skinny, poncy supermodel types, she is, but she went around all them agencies an’ got turned down flat by every last one.” He paused for breath and to honk at a Renault with the temerity to try and pull out in front. “An’ d’you know why they didn’t want to know? Because she didn’t know the right people! I’m tellin’ you, if I’d been famous with me own radio show, they’d ’ave said, ‘Oh, so you’re Tom ’arris’s daughter? The Tom ’arris? Course you can be a model, darlin’. Just sign ’ere…”
Yawn, yawn. His Louise was probably cross-eyed, bucktoothed, and walrus-shaped to boot. Furthermore, if she smelled anything like her father, it was hardly surprising she’d been turned down. Cleo pulled a fearsome face at the taxi driver’s damp, mountainous back and chucked the lipstick back into her bag. She was meeting Linda for lunch, and Linda was in dire need of cheering up. Mind you, Cleo mused, if she’d been six weeks away from marrying Linda’s pain-in-the-bum fiancé, she’d have needed cheering up too.