by Jill Mansell
But Rory remained optimistic. One day, he cheerfully maintained, he would find his perfect love match and settle down. The club regulars only hoped it happened before he was too old to enjoy it.
“Well.” Cass delved into her bag and took out her purse. “I suppose I’d better pay for this gas before it evaporates.”
Rory was still waiting by her car when she got back. “I’ve had a terrific idea.”
“Oh.” Cass looked nervous. “Look, I don’t know if I’m really up to aerobics at the moment—”
“We’re a sports club,” he gently berated her, “not Stalag 9.”
Cass smiled. “Sorry.”
“And this is an invitation. It’s not compulsory.”
“Go on.”
“Amanda’s getting married the weekend after next. Country wedding down in the Cotswolds, should be fun. The thing is, I don’t actually have anyone to go with. I dare say Amanda’s glad I won’t be turning up with Shona.” Rory looked slightly shamefaced. “She always said it was embarrassing, her father’s girlfriends being younger than she was. But I know she’d be thrilled to have you there. If you think you’d like to come…?”
“I’d love to.” Cass was both touched by the offer and delighted to be asked. She had met Amanda, the product of Rory’s first marriage, several times over the years and liked her a lot. More selfishly, the thought of having something to look forward to was more than welcome. In two weeks’ time, Sophie would be away, grubbing around on some archaeological dig in the Mendips. Cass still found Saturdays and Sundays on her own hard to bear.
* * *
“That’s great!” Cleo, calling from Venice, had always adored Rory Cameron. He was also, she felt, just what Cass needed right now. “You’ll have a brilliant time. And who knows,” she added in teasing tones. “This could be the start of something too slushy for words. You and naughty-boy Rory…”
“I think you’re more his type than I am.” Drily, Cass said, “I’m about twenty years too old for him.”
“Maybe he’ll see the error of his ways and throw himself at your feet.”
“It was a friendly invitation.” Cleo, Cass decided, had been watching Four Weddings again. “Anyway, enough about my nonexistent love life. How are things going with you?”
Cleo snorted down the phone. “The shoot stinks, I hate everyone on it, and the weather’s lousy.”
“Oh dear.”
“Anton Visa keeps making slimy passes at me,” Cleo continued, “the makeup girl smells like she chews garlic for breakfast, and every pair of shoes I have to wear is two sizes too small.”
“Heavens…”
“The dopey stylist’s gone and gotten a crush on the photographer, who’s just broken up with his boyfriend. The hairdresser thinks she’s pregnant, and yesterday, I caught Murphy Mackay stuffing his jockstrap with socks.”
Cass sighed. “Poor you. It sounds awful.”
“I’m OK.” Cleo certainly seemed chirpy enough. “I’ve met up with this great chap, Declan. He’s showing me Venice. We’re having the most terrific time.”
“Oh.” Cass was taken aback. “But I thought…I mean, what about Joel?”
“Mum! It isn’t like that with Declan and me. We just get along brilliantly, that’s all.”
“Oh. Well, I’m glad.”
“Just good friends.” Cleo laughed. “Like you and Rory Cameron, OK?”
Chapter 39
Friday came around at last. The rain, miraculously, was managing to hold off just long enough for the shoot to be completed. A newly emerged sun cast its watery rays across the city. Cleo, in beige satin and yet another pair of too-small shoes, draped herself across the Rialto Bridge while Pierre, still sniffing, shot roll after roll of film from a gondola beneath.
After an irritable lunch, they all moved on to the Canale della Giudecca. Finally, they trooped up the 136 metal steps of Venice’s famous clock tower to capture the spectacular—if somewhat washed out—Venetian views.
“It’s morning sickness,” moaned Donna, clutching her stomach. She dropped her styling brush into Cleo’s lap.
“More likely three helpings of cieche.” Cleo, who was cold, was also fast running out of patience. “How you can eat blind baby eels, I don’t know.”
Donna, who had been under the impression she was eating some kind of translucent pasta, screamed and promptly threw up into Jina’s makeup box.
Jina let out a piercing shriek. “You stupid cow!”
Murphy Mackay, who had persuaded Donna to order cieche in the first place, turned on Cleo.
“It’s your fault. Why did you have to tell her it was eels?”
“Maybe for the same reason you shove socks down your pants,” Cleo flashed back. “To get a reaction.”
Jina honked with laughter. “He doesn’t, does he?”
“Girls, girls.” Martine bristled up, flapping her clipboard and glancing down with revulsion at the mess in the makeup box. “This is neither the time nor the place. Please, can we get along?”
Cleo had had enough. She tapped the Tag Heuer strapped like a grenade around Martine’s skinny wrist.
“It’s Friday, it’s five o’clock,” she told Martine, “and I’m out of here.”
“What?”
“I’ve had enough. It’s time to go home.” Cleo stood up, returned the hairbrush to an open-mouthed Donna, and in one brisk movement unzipped the bronze satin dress she had been about to wear for the final shot. It slithered down and fell in a silky pool at her feet.
It was the stylist’s turn to let out a squeal of anguish. “Not on the ground—”
“Right.” Cleo, wearing only skimpy panties, reached for her jeans and black sweatshirt. “I’m off. I won’t say it’s been fun, because it hasn’t. Bye, all.”
She pronounced it bile.
* * *
Back at the hotel, she packed swiftly and went in search of Declan.
“He ees not on duty until eight.” Marco, who was running the bar, looked apologetic.
“Damn.” Cleo didn’t want to hang around and face the wrath of Anton Visa. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him?”
Marco shrugged. “Per’aps ees een ’is room.”
The staff quarters were on the top floor of the hotel. Eagerly, Cleo leaned across the bar.
“Oh please, Marco. I have to see him. Be an angel and point me in the right direction…”
* * *
“Sorry about this. I was asleep.”
Declan, rubbing his eyes, nevertheless summoned a smile. He was naked apart from a pair of crumpled white shorts, and surprisingly well muscled for someone so slim. Cleo, who hated being woken herself, was overcome with remorse.
“I’m the one who should be sorry. Look, you get back into bed. I only popped up to say goodbye.”
“Goodbye?” Declan halted, halfway beneath the green-and-white-striped duvet. “I thought you weren’t leaving until first thing tomorrow. I was going to take you to a party tonight at Marconi’s.”
Cleo sighed. “I can’t.”
“Why? What’s up?”
She told him.
“Oh dear, was that wise?” Declan, properly awake now, looked alarmed. “Will you still get paid?”
The bed in which he sat took up almost half the available space in the cramped attic room. Since there was nowhere else to sit, Cleo perched on the end and tucked one leg under the other.
“Just about. We’d pretty much finished. Sod it,” she went on with a shake of the head, “I don’t care anymore whether I do or not. It’s only thanks to you I’ve stuck it out this far.”
Declan looked crestfallen. “But you’re going to miss the party, and I was so looking forward to our last night together. Damn, now I’m depressed.”
“You look like a small boy,” Cleo teased, �
�who’s just had his best conker nicked.”
“It’s how I feel. There now, did anyone ever compare you with a conker before?”
Cleo looked amused. “So this is what they call Irish blarney.”
“Only brought out on very special occasions, let me assure you.” His blue eyes skimmed her face with open appreciation. “Ah, but you’re a fine girl. You deserve it. And I have enjoyed myself, you know. Hasn’t it been a great week?”
“Terrific. That’s why I had to come and say goodbye. And thanks for making it terrific.” He was like a brother, Cleo decided, only much, much nicer than Sean. Knowing how little he earned too, she had wanted to give Declan money as a gesture of appreciation for all he had done, but now she sensed it would be the wrong thing to do. You tipped porters and chambermaids, not friends.
Instead, she moved up the bed and planted a kiss on Declan’s thin cheek, steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder. As unexpected kisses have a habit of doing, this one didn’t go according to plan. Cleo’s nose bumped clumsily against his left cheekbone.
“Aaargh,” murmured Declan. “Don’t you just hate it when that happens?” The corners of his mouth curled with undisguised amusement as he shifted his own weight. “All the better to keep my balance, you see. Hang on a sec. That’s better. Right now, let’s try again.”
This time, somehow inevitably, his smiling mouth found Cleo’s. It wasn’t what she had planned, but she knew it would be churlish to pull away. Besides, where was the harm?
It was only a kiss after all. And a jolly nice one at that.
Chapter 40
“Oh, I’ve missed you!” As soon as Joel opened the front door, Cleo threw her arms around him. “Missed you, missed you, missed you. What a shitty week I’ve had. Give me a hug. No, better than that. I warn you, I’m going to need some serious cheering up…”
When she had finished kissing him senseless, Joel said, “Actually, I was just on my way out.”
It was nine thirty on Saturday morning. He was wearing a pale denim shirt and freshly pressed chinos. Aftershave too. Running a hand through his just-washed blond hair, Cleo drawled with mock suspicion, “I see. Anywhere nice? Anyone I know? Come on now. You can tell me.”
“The grocery store.”
“A likely story.”
“I know, bizarre, isn’t it?” Joel gazed down at her. “It’s where ordinary people go when they run out of food.”
Cleo, who had different ideas, grinned and waggled her car keys. “Come on. I’ll drive. We’ll go to the gourmet shop instead, stock up on loads of really scrumptious things and come back here for the ultimate breakfast in bed. Now how about that for an offer you can’t refuse?”
For some reason, Joel wasn’t smiling much today. All he did was breathe out slowly, much as her old math teacher had every time she got everything spectacularly wrong.
“I’d rather go to the grocery store.”
Mimicking him, Cleo heaved a Joel-type sigh. “Oh well, let’s go then. If we must.”
“There’s no need for you to come. I’m quite capable of carrying my own groceries.”
“Don’t be so boring,” Cleo protested. “We’ve never done this before. I want to see you shop.”
“Why?”
She beamed. “To find out if we’re compatible.”
“I doubt that,” said Joel. “Somehow, I doubt it very much.”
* * *
Cleo screeched to a halt forty minutes later in the middle of rice and pasta. The aisle, crammed with Saturday-morning shoppers, was gridlocked within seconds.
“OK, enough’s enough. I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
Joel’s mouth narrowed as he took control of the cart and moved it to one side.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes you bloody do.” Cleo glared up at him. “I’ve been trying and trying to ignore your rotten mood, and it hasn’t done a bit of good. So why don’t we just get this thing out in the open? Come on. Say it. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
People were beginning to stare. Joel picked up an economy bag of macaroni.
“Not here.”
“Yes here.” Her dark eyes glittered. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a moody man. If there’s another thing I can’t stand, it’s a moody man who won’t say what the damn matter is. I just don’t see why I should have to put up with it. It gets on my nerves.”
Even more people were beginning to stare. Cleo was facing him across the half-full cart as if squaring up for a fight. The sleeves of her cropped, dark-brown leather jacket were pushed up to her elbows. Beneath it, she wore a plain white shirt and jeans pulled in at the waist with a battered leather belt. The deep brown of the jacket exactly matched Cleo’s eyes. The shirt very nearly matched her short, white-blond hair. She was so strikingly beautiful, thought Joel. Of course people stared. It was only natural that they should.
But it wasn’t his fault if Cleo chose to pick a fight in public. This was her decision alone.
“Go on,” Cleo goaded, challenging him now. “You’re mad with me, aren’t you? I’ve obviously done something wrong. So tell me what it damn well is.”
She even had the nerve, as she spoke, to pick the bag of macaroni out of the cart, dump it back on the wrong shelf, and choose a packet of tricolored conchiglie instead. For Joel, who didn’t like poncy pasta shells, even plain white ones, it was the last straw.
“OK,” he said quietly, “you’re right. Except maybe I’m more disappointed than mad. It’s over, Cleo. I don’t want to see you again. I tell you what. Why don’t you leave now? I’ll get a cab home.”
Now people were really beginning to take notice, nudging each other and jerking their heads in Cleo’s direction.
She stared at him in silence for several seconds, then lowered her gaze, scanning the contents of the cart.
“Is all this because I wanted milk chocolate digestives and you wanted plain?”
“I’m not joking.”
Cleo bent down and picked out three multipacks of Starburst. “Don’t tell me, you’d set your heart on gumdrops.”
“Now you’re being silly.”
“Silly? I’m being silly?” Leaning across the front of the cart, Cleo hissed the words at him through pale lips. “The fact that you won’t tell me what I’m supposed to have done wrong is what’s silly. You don’t even have the guts to say it—”
“No, dear.” A middle-aged woman held back her adolescent daughter. “I don’t think this is quite the moment to ask for an autograph.”
They really shouldn’t have come here. Joel wished now he’d dealt with the matter briskly and in private, back at the house. “OK.” He kept his voice low. “Let’s just say you’ve been Checkamated.”
“What?”
“I used to have a lad working for me in the showroom at Henley-Grant Motors. Terrific salesman he was too. Name of Declan Mulcahy, if that rings any bells…”
Aware of the interest gathering around them, Cleo gritted her teeth and made it out to the parking lot.
“You bastard,” she hissed when they were finally alone. “I can’t believe you did that. You complete and utter—”
“Bastard. I know.” Joel nodded, his mouth twisting in a grim, unamused smile. “If it’s any consolation, it started off as a joke. This wasn’t something I planned, believe me. I was just stunned by the coincidence when you told me you were booked into the San Carlo. Declan’s always kept in touch, you see, sending us silly postcards from wherever he’s working. And you’d been banging on about this wonderful Checkamate system of yours. For some reason, I thought it would be a laugh to use the opportunity and try it out on you.” He paused, no longer even pretending to smile. “Stupidly, as it turned out. Or not, I suppose. Because this is the whole point of the exercise, isn’t it? Discovering th
e truth about people. Realizing that what they say and what they do don’t necessarily match up.”
Cleo was so mad she could barely contain herself. She was doubly mad because not only had Joel been sneaky enough to set the whole Declan thing up, but now he was claiming victory, and she hadn’t even done anything wrong. Not really wrong…
She was too mad to drive as well, which meant they were stuck in this damn parking lot, unable to even put the roof down because all around them, people were unloading their groceries with extraordinary slowness, pretending not to watch the furious exchange taking place in the rapidly steaming-up car.
The car wasn’t the only one getting steamed up. Cleo tried to wrestle her way out of her leather jacket. Her left arm got stuck. She glared at an elderly couple, watching with undisguised amusement from less than four feet away. She felt like Houdini in a bloody fish tank, and all they could do was smirk.
Free of the jacket at last but still seething at the injustice of Joel’s accusations, Cleo forced herself to take deep breaths. All she had to do was calm down and explain.
“Look, I told you what the shoot was like. It was a complete nightmare. Declan cheered me up, that’s all. He was good company, fun to be with, a friend…but it’s not as if I slept with him, for God’s sake! Nothing happened between us—”
“Save your breath,” Joel said icily. “He phoned me last night.”
“But nothing did happen,” Cleo yelled, punching the steering wheel in exasperation.