Two's Company

by Jill Mansell

  “I have been doing something, as a matter of fact.” Sean’s dark eyes glittered. He was looking pleased with himself. “You’d better lay an extra place at the table. Pandora’s coming to lunch.”

  “About bloody time too,” Cleo declared.

  Sophie was gazing out the window. Terry had gray hair, a million wrinkles, and the look of a drinker about him. She just hoped he didn’t also have anything as bizarre as an engagement ring in his pocket.

  “So are you going to warn Mum first,” Cleo asked, sounding interested, “or let it be another surprise?”

  “Who,” demanded Sophie, “is Pandora?”

  * * *

  “You have no idea how scary this is.” Pandora clung to her seat as Sean took a sharp corner. Her teeth were chattering despite the fact that the heating in the car was turned right up.

  “My driving’s brilliant,” Sean protested.

  “I’m not talking about that. Meeting your mother is what’s scary.” Still loaded with misgivings, she said for the fifth time, “Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, on Christmas Day of all days…”

  They were nearly there. Sean flashed her a sideways grin. “I’d have thought it was entirely appropriate. Like Joseph and Mary turning up at the inn.”

  “And they were turned away,” Pandora ruefully reminded him. She pulled a face. “Besides, I’m only five months pregnant. I wasn’t actually planning to give birth during the Queen’s speech.”

  Inside the house, Cleo was filling Cass in. It was, she felt, horribly unfair of Sean to expect to spring this kind of surprise without warning. As far as Cass was concerned, all he was doing was bringing a new girlfriend around to lunch. “OK, Mum, this girl of Sean’s. I’ve met her and she’s lovely, but there’s something else you should know before she gets here.”

  Cass cast a worried glance in the direction of the glistening golden turkey surrounded by bacon-wrapped chipolatas. “She’s not vegetarian?”

  “No. Pregnant.”

  “Good heavens.”

  Cleo stifled a smile. “And black.”

  Chapter 24

  Pandora could have wept with relief when Cass, emerging from the house, ran across the graveled drive and flung her arms around her.

  “Spoilsport,” Sean said to Cleo.

  “This is the very best present I could have had,” Cass assured Pandora, hugging her tighter still. “You have no idea how much I was dreading this day, after everything that has…you know, happened. And it’s turning out so much better than I’d dared hope. First, a dear friend from the past turns up out of the blue, and now this. I’m going to be a grandmother! It’s just the most amazing news!”

  “Come on, Granny. Indoors.” Cleo winked at Pandora, who was looking quite overcome.

  “Hang on. Something I have to do before I forget.” Turning, Cass cuffed Sean around the ear.

  “Ouch.”

  “That’s for not telling me sooner. We should have met Pandora months ago,” she scolded.

  “I thought you had enough on your plate.” Sean was the picture of wounded innocence.

  “But this is wonderful news.” Laughing, Cass squeezed Pandora’s arm. “A lovely wedding. I can hardly wait! Have you set a date yet?”

  Pandora looked embarrassed.

  “Talking of dates,” said Cleo in conversational tones, “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

  * * *

  The only other hiccup in an otherwise perfect afternoon occurred after lunch when the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it.” Sophie leapt up in a hurry, knocking over Terry’s half-full tumbler of Scotch. “Sorry. Dad said he’d phone.”

  Cass took a deep breath, preparing to look as if it couldn’t matter less. But it wasn’t Jack.

  “For you.” Sophie held the receiver toward Sean, her gray eyes expressionless. “I don’t know who it is.”

  “Oh, hi,” said Sean as a girl he had met at the club a couple of weeks ago huskily sang “Happy Christmas to you, Happy Christmas to you” down the phone at him. “Yes, fine thanks. You too? How are Suzy and the kids?”

  “When am I going to see you again?” The girl, whose name was either Emily or Amy, he couldn’t for the life of him remember which, sounded petulant and slightly drunk. “I waited for you at the club last night, and you didn’t show.”

  “Busy, I’m afraid.” Sean kept the receiver jammed against his ear. Catching Sophie’s disapproving eye, he turned to look out the window instead. The room behind him had gone horribly quiet.

  “Your friend Donny gave me your number,” purred the girl. “What about tonight then? You wouldn’t be disappointed, Sean. I never disappoint.”

  “Can’t do it. Out of the question.” Sean silently cursed Donny. Reflected in the window, he could see his mother and Pandora, both pretending not to listen. “Look, I’m going to have to go. Give my love to Suzy and the kids, OK?”

  “I’d much rather you gave your love to me.” Emily-Amy had a throaty giggle. “Tell you what. Why don’t you get rid of whoever’s there? I’ll call back in thirty minutes.”

  “Bye,” said Sean. Hanging up, he was careful to leave the phone just off the hook.

  “That was Max, one of the guys from the club.”

  As he spoke to the room at large, it was horribly obvious that not even Pandora believed him.

  By seven o’clock, Sophie was close to tears.

  “Dad said he’d definitely call,” she whispered when Cleo, wandering into the kitchen, found her crouched, shivering, on the back doorstep, feeding strips of smoked salmon to next door’s Siamese cat. Sophie, outwardly so tough and practical it was easy to forget she was still only fifteen, had found the day far more of an ordeal than she had let on. “He promised to phone,” she said miserably. “How could he forget?”

  “He wouldn’t forget.” Cleo put an arm around her and improvised rapidly. “He probably couldn’t get through. The phones in Paris are hopeless. Whenever I’m there, it takes me about six hours to dial out. And Christmas Day is especially bad…”

  “Nice try.” Sophie managed a weak smile. “If I were six, I might even have believed you. Oh come on. Let’s face it—Dad’s with Imogen now. He’s got himself a whole new life. We’re just too boring for him.”

  “That’s plain silly. Now you are sounding like a six-year-old.”

  Sophie said nothing. It had only just occurred to her that if her father was building a whole new life for himself, he might want a whole new family to go with it.

  * * *

  “So what do you really think?” said Terry when Sean and Pandora had left. Cleo and Sophie were clearing up in the kitchen, leaving them alone together in the sitting room in front of the fire.

  Cass sighed. “Oh dear, she’s a lovely girl. But it’s hardly the romance of the century, is it? Poor Pandora.”

  Noticing the phone was slightly off the hook, Terry replaced it on his way to the drinks tray behind the sofa. As he topped up Cass’s glass, he gazed lovingly down at her gleaming, tousled blond hair and at the way the collar of her white silk shirt fell open to reveal the infinitely desirable nape of her neck. Theirs could be the romance of the century, he thought, given half a chance. Cass was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. They had the rapport, and Cass had—surely, by now—had enough time to get over Jack. All he needed was to be able to persuade her that their kind of friendship could so easily turn to love.

  In the meantime, Cass was too hung up about her wayward son to concentrate on her own future happiness.

  “Who knows? Sean may settle down.” Personally, Terry doubted it, but he knew this was what she wanted to hear. As he sat back down beside Cass, he took her left hand in his own, glancing at the still-visible indentation where for so many years, her wedding ring had been. “You can never tell what will happen.”

  “Like us.�
�� Cass was thinking of Jack. Idly squeezing Terry’s hand, which he took as a huge sign of encouragement, she sighed. “You wouldn’t believe the letters I’ve had from people. One woman wrote to say he only left me because once, on air, I made fun of his feet. Another said it was my own fault for going out to work. Only last week, someone sent me the recipe for a medieval love potion. If I could persuade Jack to drink it, they said, he’d dump Imogen and be back like a shot.”

  “So are you going to try it?”

  “I don’t think they sell newts’ eyes in the grocery store.” Cass leaned her head back against the sofa. “No, Jack’s gone, and that’s that. I’ve decided to face up to it. Next week, I’m seeing a lawyer about getting on with the divorce.”

  Better and better, thought Terry, hardly daring to hope that his arrival could have had something to do with her decision. Breathing in, he could smell Cass’s perfume, the same one she had worn for over twenty years. And she was still holding his hand.

  Emboldened by his own happiness, he said, “I think you’re right. Get the divorce, put it all behind you, and start again. You never have to worry about being alone, Cass. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “With my three?” Misunderstanding him completely, Cass broke into a grin. “I’m never likely to have a minute’s peace.”

  Terry’s heart began to race. “No, I meant—”

  “Mum, quick!” The sitting-room door was flung open, and Cleo raced in. “Switch on the TV. We’re missing your favorite show!”

  Within seconds, she was draped across the other sofa, turning up the volume, tearing open a family-sized bag of chips, and yelling for Sophie to hurry up, it had started.

  “See what I mean?” said Cass contentedly.

  “Mm.”

  Silently cursing Cleo, Terry poured himself another drink.

  Chapter 25

  Paris had been perfect. That most romantic of cities, gloriously wreathed in mist, frost, and pale milky sunlight, had never looked better.

  Imogen had never felt better either. This break was just what she and Jack had most needed, a chance to escape the pressures of Jack being recognized wherever he went and to revel in each other’s company. Their suite at the Crillon was the last word in silk-upholstered luxury, the meals over which they lingered for hours were positive works of art, the après-dinner sex sublime.

  Never had Imogen felt more relaxed and desirable. The tetchy exchange that could so easily have spiraled out of control at the flat was forgotten. They were together, reaffirming their love, and apart from an irritable couple of hours on Christmas Day itself when Jack had repeatedly tried and failed to get through on the phone to Sophie, concluding finally that the phone had been left off the hook on purpose, he hadn’t so much as mentioned his family once.

  Good, thought Imogen, pleased to see he was getting that particular guilt trip under control. She didn’t feel she was being unreasonable. She wasn’t an ogre. If his children were still small, then fair enough, that would be different, but they weren’t. So why on earth the fuss?

  * * *

  London, gray and slushy by the time they returned, was looking very down-at-heel in comparison, not romantic at all. Imogen didn’t care; she had more important things on her mind. And London had its advantages, she thought with a secret smile the next morning as Jack set off for Fleet Street and a post-Christmas meeting with his editor. At least here, instructions were printed in English.

  * * *

  “Guess what, guess what?”

  “You learned how to do joined-up writing.”

  Sophie was trying to finish her muesli and gulp down a glass of chocolate milk before rushing off to the library. The new book she’d ordered, Living with the Masai, had just come in, and the last thing she needed was Jennifer Smith-Elliott twittering down the phone, telling her in awful detail how she’d been French-kissed over Christmas by some gross boy. Jennifer, who was in her class at school, was famous for spending her whole life on the telephone, instilling terminal boredom in her victims. Like Samaritans in reverse, thought Sophie, tilting her head back to get the last chocolatey dregs from the bottom of the glass.

  “Jen, the library shuts at lunchtime. I really mustn’t miss it—”

  “Hold your horses,” Jennifer giggled. “This is good. I was out shopping with my mother this morning. We had to pick up a prescription for Granny Elliott. Her legs have been terrible over Christmas. She can hardly walk.”

  Wish you could hardly talk, thought Sophie. Tucking the phone between ear and shoulder, she carried on spooning muesli into her mouth.

  “Anyway, so there we were, queueing up in this little drugstore in Islington, and guess who I recognized ahead of me?”

  “No.” Sophie began to lose patience; it was twenty to one. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “Spoilsport,” chanted Jennifer. “OK then, but you’re no fun. It was that woman your dad’s living with. Imogen what’s-her-name,” she said proudly. “Mum and I both recognized her, even with a coat on and her hair hidden under a hat.”

  Big deal, thought Sophie, hopping from one foot to the other. “So?” she demanded, suppressing a sigh. “What was she doing, buying condoms?”

  “Not quite.” Jennifer sniggered down the phone. “One pink Max Factor lipstick, one tube of Colgate toothpaste. And,” she added smugly, “a pregnancy test.”

  * * *

  “Just in time!”

  At the sound of Jack’s key turning in the lock, Imogen flew downstairs to greet him. It was no good; some secrets were just impossible to keep. If she didn’t tell him now, she would burst.

  “What?” Jack good-humoredly allowed himself to be dragged up the stairs. Through the open kitchen door, he glimpsed an icy-looking bottle of Taittinger and two glasses lined up on top of the fridge. “What?” he said again, marveling at her energy as she propelled him instead into the sitting room. Looking ridiculously young in a peach cashmere sweater and faded jeans and with her red-gold hair flying, Imogen was practically aglow with whatever form of surprise she was about to spring. Her enthusiasm, as she made a great show of checking the time by Jack’s watch, was infectious.

  “Don’t tell me, you’ve cooked another casserole because you know it’s my favorite.” He was teasing her; there was no smell of cooking in the apartment. “Better than that.” Imogen’s eyes were shining. For the second time, she consulted first his watch, then her own. “Oh, Jack, I can hardly bear it. One more minute. Brace yourself, darling…”

  In a flash, Jack knew what it was. That look of hers was one he’d seen before, one he now clearly recognized. The trouble was, it was a look he was used to seeing in Cass’s blue eyes, not Imogen’s brown ones.

  “You’re pregnant. My God, you’re pregnant.”

  Letting out a squeal of delight, Imogen flung her arms around him.

  “You can tell? You mean it shows? You really can tell?” She showered his face with ecstatic kisses. “Oh, Jack, I still can’t believe this is happening! I’ve always been so regular, I knew at once something was up. I’ve just done the test. It’s in the bathroom. I nearly dropped the stick down the loo, my hands were shaking so much!”

  She was babbling with excitement, scarcely recognizable as the cool, in-control Imogen he knew. Beyond words, Jack let himself be hauled off to the pristine black-and-white bathroom, where the test tube stood in solitary splendor on the black marble shelf.

  “I knew it anyway, as soon as I was a day late.” Imogen beamed. “But this proves it. Oh, Jack, I can’t believe how different I feel already!”

  “How does it tell you?” He was peering at the white stick semi-submerged in the test tube. “What happens?”

  “The end bit goes pink. Hang on. You have to take it out and run it under a tap.”

  “It isn’t pink.”

  “It must be.” Imogen frowned, holding the s
tick under the cold tap. “I saw it start to change color as soon as I put it in the test tube. Jack, get the instructions out of the bin. They’ve made some kind of mistake. It must be pink…”

  But the stick stayed obstinately white. The result of the test was negative. And Imogen, who until three days before had never even thought she wanted a baby, was inconsolable. When at nine o’clock that evening, her period started, Jack seriously considered phoning for the doctor. Her grief was all-consuming. When the flow of tears finally dried up, grim determination took its place.

  “OK, so it’ll happen next month.” Emerging from the shower, pale and red-eyed, Imogen spent several minutes poring over her diary. “This is no good. The best time to conceive is here.” Having already checked out fertile periods in the baby book she’d bought at lunchtime, she ticked off five consecutive days in red felt pen. “I’m in Budapest from Tuesday to Thursday, and you’re off to the Euro Summit on the Friday. I’ll cancel Budapest.” She looked up at him. “Can you get out of the Brussels trip?”

  “Come on. Calm down.” Jack had done his best to comfort her, but his patience was beginning to wear thin. He knew women were capable of such desperate yearnings, but this was so sudden, it was positively bizarre. He took Imogen’s hands in his, forcing her to listen.

  “Sweetheart, I know you’re upset. But we have talked about this before. I’ve had three kids. I’ve been through all that. And you said you’d never wanted children. You were so certain you didn’t want any,” he reminded her, “you were even willing to be sterilized.”

  Fresh tears—where did they keep coming from?—slid down Imogen’s white face. She knew she was being illogical, but it was all way beyond her control. That had been then; this was now. He was right; she never had yearned for children. But believing, truly believing, for three whole days that she was carrying Jack’s child had, as far as she was concerned, changed everything. The baby would inherit Jack’s dark eyes and devastating looks; it would be intelligent, athletic, loving, and full of fun. Boy or girl, that didn’t matter. In Imogen’s daydreams, either sex would be perfect.