Two's Company

by Jill Mansell

  “Don’t you mean DCOL?”

  She stared at him.

  “Now what are you on about?”

  “Come on,” said Joel. “I may not move in your kind of show-business circles, but even I’ve heard of that. Doesn’t count on location.”

  It was hardly relevant just now but still sickening to realize that Declan’s apparent friendship had been nothing more than a sham. He’d been acting under orders, prostituting himself, Cleo thought furiously, to try and catch her out.

  “Try DHOL.” She spat the words through clenched teeth. “Didn’t happen on location. Because it bloody didn’t, and if that lying little shit told you otherwise, he’d better watch out. I swear, I’ll go back to Venice and drown him—”

  “I didn’t say you’d slept with him.” Joel sounded weary. “You didn’t need to sleep with Damien Maxwell-Horne, did you, to know he was cheating on that friend of yours?”

  “No, but—”

  “But nothing. He bought you a few drinks, chatted you up a bit, and that was more than enough.” Joel shrugged. “As far as you were concerned, he was guilty.”

  This was like being cross-examined in court. Cleo couldn’t bear it.

  “Yes, but—”

  “And even you have to admit you did more than let Declan buy you a few drinks,” said Joel. “I mean, maybe rolling around in bed with a naked man isn’t your idea of unreasonable behavior. Call me old-fashioned,” he drawled, “but I’m afraid it sure as hell is mine.”

  The unfairness of it all was overwhelming. Feeling ganged up on, Cleo said sulkily, “I wasn’t in the bed. I was on it. And he wasn’t naked either. He was wearing shorts.”

  “I don’t care if he was wearing six fluorescent condoms and a suit of fucking armor.” Joel had had enough. “You can do what the hell you like with whoever you like from now on. It’s over between us. I told you from the start we weren’t compatible. This just proves I’m right.”

  He really meant it. Cleo, unused to losing any kind of argument, felt the first flickerings of fear. This relationship was too important to throw away. She was telling the truth; why couldn’t he believe her?

  “Please. It sounds much worse than it was. All I did was give a friend a goodbye kiss. Is that so abnormal?”

  He didn’t speak, just stared directly ahead.

  “Joel.” She tried again. “There’s no way in the world I would have slept with him. He was like a brother.”

  This time, Joel turned his head. He looked at Cleo as if she were a stranger, then sighed.

  “Don’t be stupid. Even Declan Mulcahy doesn’t screw around as much as your brother.”

  Chapter 41

  “I know I’ve told you this already, but I must just say it again.” Rory Cameron shook his head in admiration. “You do look terrific.”

  Cass was relieved. She had been taken shopping by Cleo, who had persuaded her to part with far more money than she normally would have on the grounds that now Cass was out on the prowl, she had to look the part. Cass had closed her eyes while handing over her credit card, but now she was glad she’d gone through with it. The Ben de Lisi dress and matching jacket, yellow and white and absurdly flattering, almost made up for the fact that she was forty.

  “Sophie calls it my spring-chicken outfit. She said I should wear a feather boa to match.”

  Rory pulled a face. “I hate feather boas. Always covering up the bits you most want to see.”

  “Shh. You’re the father of the bride.” Cass gave him a surreptitious nudge. “Best behavior.”

  The wedding ceremony was over. Everyone had crowded around the entrance to the church for the official photographs. The photographer was struggling to position the smaller page boys. Rory, tanned and handsome, stood proudly between Amanda and Cass.

  “I think I’m behaving impeccably.”

  Cass glanced at him. “Yes, well. For Amanda’s sake, make sure you keep it up.”

  “If it’s for my sake,” said Amanda out of the corner of her mouth, “I’d rather, for once in his life, he kept it down.”

  Shortly after divorcing Rory Cameron, Amanda’s mother, Alma, had married again, moved into her industrialist husband’s splendid Jacobean manor house on the outskirts of Cheltenham, and set about turning it into one of the most desirable residences in the country. Rory, hugely successful by most people’s standards but unable even to begin to compete with Alma and her dull but obscenely wealthy second husband, had always found their patronizing attitude toward him hard to take.

  Giving his beloved daughter away and attending the reception, held in a vast tent on the immaculate grounds of their home, was one thing, but accepting the pompously worded invitation to spend the night in one of their countless spare bedrooms was too much. No, Rory had decided when the invitation had first been issued, he definitely couldn’t stomach that.

  Instead, he had booked himself a room at the nearby Old Priory Hotel. When Cass had agreed to come with him to the wedding, he had phoned the hotel again and managed to book a second room, the last available at such short notice but every bit as charming, the receptionist had warmly assured him, as his own.

  In the end, having made the most of his ex-wife’s lavish hospitality at the reception, it was ten thirty before Rory and Cass even reached the Old Priory. Realizing he was over the limit to drive, Rory had retrieved their overnight cases from the car and organized a taxi.

  “Do we look like honeymooners?” Cass giggled as her heel caught in a fringed Persian rug covering the stone floor at the entrance to the hotel. “Oops, you’ve got confetti in your hair—”

  “Funny honeymooners, booking separate rooms.” As she almost stumbled again, Rory put his arm around her waist. It was odd; as Cass herself had pointed out, she absolutely wasn’t his type, but over the course of the day, he had found himself becoming more and more drawn to her. Now, for the first time, he experienced a stab of regret that he had done the gentlemanly thing and booked two rooms. Cass might not wear leather trousers and a ring through her navel, but she was still jolly attractive. For her age.

  The receptionist welcomed them with a professional smile.

  “We’re a bit late, I’m afraid.” Rory watched as a fragment of confetti, dislodged from the arm of his gray morning suit, fluttered down onto the desk. “The name’s Cameron.”

  “Ah yes.” The glossy-haired receptionist was pretending not to have recognized Cass. Her pen ran down the list in the ledger before her. “Room six, on the second floor.” She handed him the key. “If you’d like to go on up, the porter will follow with your bags in just a moment.”

  “And Mrs. Mandeville?” prompted Rory.

  The receptionist smiled. “Yes, he’ll bring her bag too.”

  Cass gave Rory a great nudge. “You said you’d booked two rooms. You promised—”

  “I did. I did.”

  The receptionist’s professional smile began to falter. “Those were the original instructions.” Nodding cautiously, she turned back to Rory. “But we received a call two days ago from your secretary, altering the booking to one double room only. She faxed the confirmation through yesterday afternoon.”

  Cass looked at Rory.

  The receptionist looked at Rory.

  “But my secretary’s been away for the past fortnight,” said Rory. “On safari in Kenya.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued.

  Finally, as all the subtle digs of the past few days clicked into place, Cass said, “It’s Cleo.”

  Rory had been about to look around for a lamp and a genie. No sooner had he made his wish than it appeared to have been granted.

  Bemused, he said, “What’s Cleo?”

  “The phone call, the fax.” Cass shook her head and raised her eyebrows in a you-know-what-daughters-are-like kind of way. “I’m sorry. It’s Cleo, trying her hand at a spot of mat
chmaking. I hope this isn’t mucking you about too much,” she apologized to the receptionist, “but we really do need two rooms.”

  “Oh dear,” said the receptionist. “I’m afraid we don’t have them. We’re full up.”

  * * *

  Rory’s room was, as promised, an extremely nice one. Crimson walls and dark-blue bed hangings conspired to create an almost Gothic atmosphere. The eighteenth-century four-poster was piled with red velvet cushions, and the lamps burning on either side of the bed were heavily shaded. It was an outrageously romantic room, designed to enthrall visiting tourists. As far as Cass was concerned, it was dangerously romantic, the kind of room where things that weren’t meant to happen happened.

  Maybe it’s just as well, she thought, I’m here with Rory Cameron. Being a decrepit forty, at least she knew she would be safe.

  “Right, well, no need for anyone to be embarrassed.”

  Rory, rubbing his hands together in hearty fashion, looked so exactly like an embarrassed man hell-bent on not looking embarrassed that Cass had to hide a smile.

  “There’s a couch,” she said helpfully, pointing to a small chaise longue beneath the curtained window.

  “I couldn’t sleep on that.” Rory gazed in horror at the narrow, steeply curved, and ruthlessly upholstered seat. “Not with my back.”

  “And I thought you were a gentleman.” Cass looked resigned. “I suppose I’ll have to be the one to suffer.”

  “Oh come on,” Rory protested. “There’s no need for that. We’re old friends, aren’t we?”

  Cass allowed herself a cautious nod. “Mm…”

  “So what’s the big deal?” Rory’s eyebrows went up. He spread his arms like Pavarotti. “If we were strangers on a long-haul flight to Bali, we’d fall asleep next to each other, wouldn’t we?”

  “Mm…”

  “And it wouldn’t be awkward.”

  Doubtfully, Cass said, “I suppose not.”

  “Well then, what’s the difference? We’ll sleep next to each other tonight. You can keep your clothes on if it makes you feel safer.” The corners of Rory’s blue eyes crinkled as he broke into a smile. “You can even keep your hat on if you like.”

  Any more hesitation on her part, Cass realized, and he would only remind her what a prehistoric old fossil she was and how utterly uninterested he was in her wrinkled, worn-out body anyway.

  She breathed out. “OK, fine.”

  “Good.” Rory’s smile broadened. To prove how innocent his intentions really were, he seized her hand and kissed it. “Darling Cass. Thank you for today. Have you enjoyed it?”

  “Of course I’ve enjoyed it.”

  He stepped back, unloosening his tie.

  “I’m glad. You can use the bathroom first.”

  * * *

  It felt weird, thought Cass, lying in bed next to Rory. For a start, she normally slept in the nude. She hadn’t been able to keep her dress on, of course, any more than she could have hung on to her hat, but she was wearing her pink-and-yellow satin robe. And her panties. Goodness knew what Rory was wearing; she hadn’t been able to bring herself to look.

  Cass wondered if Rory snored.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Cass smiled into the darkness. So he hadn’t been able to sleep either.

  “Just wondering if you snore.”

  “Never on a first date.” He barked with laughter. “OK? What else?”

  “I’m trying to pretend I’m on a long-haul flight to Bali.”

  This time, his laughter was silent. Beside her, she felt the bed shake.

  “Poor old thing. Is this really such an ordeal?”

  Old. “Well,” she admitted, “kind of.”

  “You could always close your eyes and go to sleep.”

  “I know. I’m not tired.”

  “Just scared witless.”

  Cass turned her head and saw that he was still laughing. “Not scared. It feels strange, that’s all.” Pushing bits of her bangs out of her eyes, Cass said, “It’s all right for you. You’ve shared a bed with zillions of girls.”

  “Not always the same bed.”

  “You know what I mean.” Her tone was reproachful. “I’ve only ever slept with Jack.”

  “You’re kidding!” Rory sat up, genuinely shocked. Such an admission was outside his experience. “You mean you’ve…never…?”

  He switched on the rose-tinted bedside lamp. To her relief, Cass saw that he, too, was wearing a robe, dark-green silk with white piping. She hadn’t expected pajamas; Rory Cameron simply wasn’t a pajama person.

  “Well, no, of course not. We met when we were very young.” She shrugged. “When would I have had the chance?”

  Still flummoxed, Rory said, “But…nothing since then? Not even a fling?”

  Cass blinked and shook her head.

  He half smiled. “I suppose flings aren’t your thing.”

  “It’s not that.” The words came tumbling out before she even had a chance to vet them. Cass listened in astonishment to her own voice. “They could be. I keep thinking a fling might be nice. The thing is, I just haven’t met anyone I like enough who likes me back.”

  Another silence. Cass felt her heart begin to pound against her rib cage. Had she really said that? Was it true? Was this what she had subconsciously been thinking without daring to admit it, even to herself?

  “I like you.”

  Oh heavens…

  “Are you listening?” said Rory when she didn’t reply.

  “You don’t like me.” Cass’s throat was dry. “I’m too old for you.”

  He looked amused. “Well, older than I’m used to. That much I’ll admit.”

  “Compared with what you’re used to, I’m pensionable.”

  “But do you like me?”

  She bit her lip as his fingers brushed her arm. Quite suddenly, she wanted Rory Cameron so much it hurt.

  What am I, Cass wondered, some kind of wanton, sex-crazed madwoman?

  But when he leaned across and kissed her, she stopped caring. It was what she needed, what she deserved.

  “You are beautiful.” Rory’s warm mouth brushed against hers. “Do you know that? Beautiful.”

  Cass’s arms, so empty for so long, closed around him. “Are you sure about this?” She whispered the words. “You’re not just doing it because you pity me?”

  In reply, his body pressed against hers. Through their respective dressing gowns, Cass could feel how aroused he was.

  “Does this seem like pity to you?” Rory smiled as he spoke. “Darling girl, I’ve been in this debilitating condition for the past half hour. Why on earth do you suppose I wasn’t able to get to sleep in the first place?”

  * * *

  The glossy-haired receptionist was still on duty when they went down to breakfast the next morning.

  “Everything…all right?”

  The smile this time was less professional, more openly curious. Cass felt her cheeks begin to heat up and mentally kicked herself. Now they really did look like honeymooners. The trouble was, the more insouciant she tried to look, the more it felt as if the words Yes, we did it! were flashing, Vegas-style, above her head.

  Rory, less easily embarrassed, broke into a broad grin. “Extremely all right, thanks.”

  “Good.” The receptionist looked relieved. “Breakfast is being served out on the terrace.”

  “Come on, darling.” Still grinning, Rory put his arm around Cass. “No need to go quite so pink. If anyone’s over the age of consent, we are.”

  * * *

  Always a poor liar, Cass had even less success pretending to Cleo that nothing had happened. The stupid neon sign simply wouldn’t switch off.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Cleo crowed, having listened in disbelief to her mother’s hopeless protestations of innocen
ce. “And I’m the queen of the tooth fairies. Mum, it’s OK. We’re on your side! This is what we wanted to happen, remember?”

  “Yes, well.” Still flushed, Cass felt she had to make at least a token protest. “That was very naughty of you.”

  “And me,” Sophie piped up. “It was naughty of me too.”

  “It was embarrassing.”

  Cleo beamed. “Nice though.”

  “You took a big risk.” Cass tried to sound severe. “It could have been a disaster.”

  “Ah,” said Cleo, “but it wasn’t, was it?”

  Sophie gave her mother a hug. “We knew it would work out. And we both like Rory. You have our permission to marry him.”

  For a moment, Cass was gripped with panic. She was a fortnight away from the divorce being final.

  “I’m not even properly divorced yet.”

  Chapter 42

  There was no answer when Donny rang the front doorbell, but able to hear signs of life coming from the garden, he let himself through the side gate and made his way around to the back of the house.

  “Oh my goodness!” Pandora, sitting in the sun, clapped her hand to her chest. “You gave me a fright. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  Not sorry in the least, Donny flashed his famous white-and-gold grin. Pandora wasn’t the only one to be taken by surprise. He certainly hadn’t been expecting to see her looking so different from the last time they’d met. Having that baby had done her the world of good.

  “Well, come and sit down,” Pandora offered shyly. She patted the blue-and-white checked rug spread out on the lawn beneath a gnarled apple tree whose arthritically twisted branches provided a welcome patch of shade.

  Lying on the rug kicking its legs and grasping at shadows was the baby Donny had heard incredibly little about. According to Sean, its sole mission in life was apparently to yell its head off, fill its diaper, and throw up.

  A less-than-besotted father, Sean had taken to spending more and more time away from the house.

  “I’m no good at all that stuff,” he had told Donny, pulling a face at the mere thought of the diapers he had come across in the trash. God forbid that he should ever have to change one himself. “It’s more Pandora’s scene than mine. I mean, women are programmed to like that kind of thing.”