Two's Company

by Jill Mansell

  “You were the one who wanted children,” Jack pointed out. “I didn’t.”

  “No, because you already had your family.” Imogen spat out the words. “Your precious fucking family! And now you’re going back to them like the good old family man everyone always used to think you were. Won’t the tabloids just love that!”

  “I said I wanted to go back,” Jack replied wearily. “It may not happen. Cass hasn’t said she’ll have me yet.”

  * * *

  “Good grief.” Sophie opened the front door and took a step backward. “Whatever’s happened to you?” Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re looking for Dad, he isn’t here.”

  Imogen shook her head. She knew that. It was seven in the evening. She had deliberately waited until now, when Jack was at the TV studios, to come around to the house.

  “It’s your mother I’m here to see.” She glanced at Cass’s car standing in the drive. “She is in, I take it?”

  “Hang on. I’ll go and get her.”

  Cass, evidently just out of the bath, appeared in the doorway a minute or so later. Her wet, blond hair had been combed back from her face. She was wearing the same pink-and-yellow satin robe she’d had on almost two and a half years ago when Imogen had turned up to interview her for the magazine.

  A gust of icy wind plastered Imogen’s black skirt against the backs of her legs. She had made the effort to dress up and look halfway decent, but the look on Cass’s face—not to mention Sophie’s startled expression earlier—told her it hadn’t worked. No amount of makeup, she thought bitterly, could conceal this much grief.

  “Hello. Can I come in?”

  “I think you’d better.”

  Cass stepped to one side, guessing at once what had happened. She hadn’t spoken to Jack today. Jack, however, had clearly spoken to Imogen.

  Cass wondered if this was the happiest, most gratifying moment of her life. The next second, that habitual sense of guilt kicked in. She knew how Imogen felt. It would be so easy to start feeling sorry for her.

  I mustn’t let it happen, Cass told herself, hardening her resolve. Why shouldn’t Imogen suffer? Why shouldn’t she discover how she made me feel?

  Imogen, she reminded herself, deserved everything she got.

  “I was just about to make myself a sandwich.” Cass led the way into the kitchen. Picking a baguette out of the bread basket as casually as if Imogen were a next-door neighbor popping in for coffee and a chat, she said, “Would you like one?”

  Imogen imagined them dueling with French sticks across the kitchen table. She shook her head. Behind Cass, the kettle was coming to the boil. She didn’t want a bloody cup of tea either.

  “I’d prefer a vodka and tonic.”

  “You look in a bad way.” Cass handed her one but stuck to tea herself. The last time Imogen had arrived unannounced at the house, she had been the one effortlessly in charge. And I was the stupid one, Cass reminded herself, reduced to sorting out my kitchen cupboards because if I didn’t do something to keep busy, I knew I’d go mad.

  “Of course I’m in a bad way.” Helplessly, Imogen began to spurt tears. It was no good; she couldn’t even begin to hold back. “And you know why. Look, I had to come and see you. You know how much I love Jack…he’s my whole life. And I know he thinks he wants to come back to you, but—”

  “But you don’t think he does really?” Cass’s tone was cool. It was so much easier, being the one in control. She wished she’d tried it years ago. “Excuse me, but isn’t Jack old enough to know who or what he wants?”

  “It’s this Sophie thing.” Imogen slumped in her chair. “It scared him—of course it scared him—and now it’s made him think he needs to be with his family.” Rubbing her eyes in despair, she added, “That wasn’t what I was going to say anyway. You have to be honest with yourself too. For your own sake.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Cass. You must be loving this. I’m getting my comeuppance, aren’t I? It’s what you must have prayed for.”

  The corners of Cass’s mouth twitched. “Well…”

  “But do you really want him back,” Imogen blurted out passionately, “or do you just think you do? Because cutting your nose off to spite your face isn’t going to make you feel better in the long run. And you’re happy with Rory Cameron, aren’t you? I’m just saying don’t risk your own chance of happiness.” Imogen swallowed; her throat ached with the effort of holding back yet more tears. “Please. Don’t take Jack back simply because you can.”

  Imogen knew she was begging. But she could no longer afford the luxury of pride. When desperate measures were called for, she would beg.

  And she had never been more desperate in her life.

  Maybe, thought Cass, this is the best moment of my life after all.

  She thought for a moment before replying.

  “I hated Jack for what he did to me,” she said finally, amazed by the steadiness of her own voice. “But I never stopped loving him. Not for one minute. And don’t imagine you’re going through what I went through two years ago either.” Cass’s china-blue eyes bored into Imogen’s bloodshot ones. “Because what I went through was worse.”

  Imogen knew she was losing. Having pinned all her hopes on Cass living up to her reputation for being kind, understanding, and damn near all-around perfect, the sense of disappointment was crushing.

  “If you two get back together,” Imogen hissed, “how do you know he won’t do the same thing again?”

  “Maybe he’s learned his lesson,” Cass replied stonily, “with you.”

  Chapter 58

  “Jesus!”

  Sean rammed on his brakes as Imogen, like a bolting horse, loomed abruptly out of the darkness. He winced as she ricocheted off the hood of his car.

  Luckily—and for once in his life—he hadn’t been driving like a maniac. Luckier still, Imogen didn’t appear to be hurt.

  Sean, who was in a good mood, climbed out of the car to make sure. With a grin, he picked up her handbag and returned it.

  “Last time this happened, you were walking up the drive. We must stop meeting like this.”

  Then he realized Imogen was crying. Holding her in front of the headlights, he saw the swollen, blubbering mess that was her face.

  Sean frowned. “Did I hurt you, or is this something else?”

  “You d-didn’t hurt me.” Imogen twisted away so he couldn’t see how hideous she looked. But the grip he had on her arms was viselike.

  “So what is it?”

  Imogen had arrived at the house by taxi. The prospect of flagging down another one and having to endure the fascinated attention of some nosy cab driver was unbearable.

  “Look, I know you don’t l-like me,” she gasped out between sobs, “but w-will you drive me h-h-home?”

  “Why?” Sean was getting fed up with this. It was like playing twenty bloody questions.

  “Just get me away from here.” Taking matters into her own hands, Imogen wrenched herself free and stumbled around to the passenger door. “Please.”

  * * *

  By the time Sean pulled up outside the Wimbledon house Imogen shared with his father, she had stopped crying.

  She had also changed her mind about going home.

  “God, look at it.” In desperation, Imogen gestured up at the unlit, unwelcoming windows. Jack wouldn’t be back from the TV studios before midnight. The prospect of spending the entire evening alone was too depressing for words. She turned to Sean. “You said you were going to the club. Take me with you.”

  Sean sighed. If the object of the exercise was to scupper his own plans, she was making a good start. The visit to his mother’s house hadn’t been vital—he had only driven over to see if he had left a leather jacket there the other week—but Imogen had effectively put a stop to that. And he could definitely do without her weeping and m
oping her way around Comedy Inc. like the ghost at the feast.

  “Wouldn’t you be better off here?” Sean tried to sound as if he knew best. “I’m only going to be at the club for an hour or so myself. I’m meeting Pandora as soon as I’ve finished my set.”

  Like a dog threatened with a bath, Imogen dug herself deeper into the passenger seat.

  “It’s OK. You can pretend you don’t know me.” She shot him a petulant sidelong glance. “But I’m still going, whether you like it or not.”

  “Look—”

  “It’s a comedy club, isn’t it?” snapped Imogen. “Maybe it’ll cheer me up.”

  * * *

  Sean had to park around the corner from Comedy Inc. As he and Imogen turned into Jelahay Street, he saw Donny ahead of them. They caught up with him at the crowded entrance to the club.

  “Imogen’s come out for some fun,” Sean explained, because he could hardly announce in front of everyone that she’d just been dumped by his old man. Wondering if Donny might be interested in taking Imogen off his hands, he winked and added, “She needs looking after.”

  Once inside, Imogen promptly disappeared to the bathroom to repair her face. Donny got the first round at the bar and watched Sean sign autographs for a group of girls up from Epping Forest for the night. His act was beginning to come together again. People’s memories of the disastrous TV series had begun to fade. He had even regained enough confidence to start ad-libbing on stage once more.

  Not to mention hitting on his old man’s mistress, thought Donny sourly an hour later. He sat next to Imogen up at the bar while Sean performed his set. Imogen, who had been knocking back vodka like a demented Russian ever since they arrived, had applauded wildly when he walked out onto the stage. Now, unable to take her eyes off Sean, she kept nudging Donny in the ribs and saying stupid things like, “Isn’t he gorgeous?” and, “You know, I’ve fancied him rotten since the first night we met.”

  The pair of them made Donny sick. Watching Sean Mandeville screw his way through life had been entertaining enough when he had been doing much the same himself and when the girls they’d bedded had been nothing more than casual hookups. But that was when they had both been young, free, and single, thought Donny. Standing by while Sean treated Pandora like dirt had been an altogether different matter. It had bothered Donny more and more. Then, some months ago, Sean had seemed to come to his senses, and the womanizing had abruptly stopped.

  Until now, it seemed. He was back to his old ways with a vengeance.

  “You were brilliant!” Imogen threw her arms around Sean when he came off the stage.

  Sean grinned at Donny. “Don’t you just love it when women say that?”

  “Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant,” Imogen chanted, sliding off her barstool to plant an enthusiastic kiss on his cheek. At the last moment, she lunged forward and caught him full on the mouth instead.

  “Such command of the English language.” Looking amused, Sean wiped the lipstick from his face. “You can tell she’s a journalist.”

  Realizing she didn’t have a hope in hell of getting back onto her barstool, Imogen giggled and clung to Sean instead.

  “I’m a terrific journalist,” she proclaimed with pride. “I’m nearly as terrific a journalist as I am in bed.”

  Donny looked away in disgust.

  Sean, who hadn’t yet had a chance to tell Donny what was going on, turned to Imogen.

  “Why don’t you run along to the bathroom and powder your nose while I get the next round?”

  Imogen had by this time had a great deal to drink. She was also intent on paying Jack back. She smiled lasciviously up at Sean.

  “Why don’t I stay here instead and mentally undress you while you’re getting the next round? Wouldn’t that be more fun?”

  It was time for Donny to head backstage. Having heard more than enough anyway, he was glad to get away. If Sean wanted to mess up his own life, fine. But this time, he didn’t want anything to do with it.

  The more Imogen had to drink, the more her imagination got carried away.

  “I know,” she murmured, breathing vodka fumes into Sean’s ear. “Why don’t we get out of here and find a hotel?”

  “For you?” Sean’s patience was by this time wearing extremely thin. He was trying to listen to Donny up on the stage, and Imogen kept interrupting. All this stupid suggestive stuff was starting to get on his nerves too. The trouble was, he felt responsible for her. She was out of her tree, and he didn’t feel he could just up and leave. At this rate, Sean thought, he was going to be late for Pandora.

  “For us, silly.” Imogen gave him a knowing look. “Come on. You know you want to.”

  “Sleep with you, you mean?” Sean raised an eyebrow. “I don’t.”

  “Oh yes, you do. You’ve always wanted to.”

  He looked at Imogen, with her red hair tumbling around her face and her pink tongue darting wetly between her teeth. New makeup on top of old gave her a disheveled, morning-after look, but she was still undeniably attractive. If he was honest, the idea of sleeping with her had crossed his mind more than once before now.

  “I may have wanted to,” he said, “in the beginning. Before you got yourself involved with my father. But not now.”

  Imogen pouted. “You wouldn’t regret it.”

  “I would.” Sean glanced at his watch. If he didn’t leave this minute, he was definitely going to be late. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a reformed character. Family man and all that. I’ve got Rose. And Pandora.”

  “Oh yes, and everyone knows how faithful you’ve been to Pandora.”

  “I’m going to be, from now on.”

  “Bor-ing,” Imogen mocked.

  “And I’m supposed to be meeting her for dinner.” He picked his car keys off the bar. “Look, do you want to stay here, or shall I drop you home? I’m sorry, but I do have to go.”

  “What, stay here and be glared at by your friend Donny?” Imogen shuddered at the prospect. “No thanks. I’ll come with you.”

  Donny, up on the stage nearing the end of his set, saw them leave. Imogen was still clinging to Sean’s arm. Her black skirt was tucked up at the back to reveal black stocking tops and garters. She was a tart, he thought coldly.

  And Sean was cheating on Pandora.

  Chapter 59

  “For Christ’s sake,” Sean howled twenty minutes later. “Will you make up your mind? Who d’you think I am, Mother sodding Teresa?”

  Having been driven back to Wimbledon, Imogen was now flatly refusing to get out of the car. This was the last straw. She was really pissing him off.

  “I don’t want to be on my own.” She said it in a wobbly, little-girl voice. “You don’t know how miserable I feel. I want a drink. Look, there’s a pub around the corner. Please come and have a drink with me, Sean. Just one, I promise.”

  Short of turfing her headfirst out onto the sidewalk, there wasn’t any other way of getting Imogen out of the car. Sean heaved a sigh and drove around the corner to the Queen’s Head. Pandora would be wondering where he’d gotten to. If only he’d known the number of the Blue Goose, he could have phoned the restaurant and explained that he was going to be late.

  Never mind. Pandora was used to his haphazard timekeeping. At least he knew she would wait for him to turn up.

  One quick drink here, thought Sean, and I’m off. If Imogen tried to kick up another fuss, he would have no qualms, this time, about leaving her here less than two hundred yards from her own home.

  * * *

  The Blue Goose was bursting at the seams. Pandora, sitting alone at a table for two, was feeling more and more conspicuous. Sean was three-quarters of an hour late now. So much, she thought with a sickening sense of déjà vu, for a romantic evening together at the restaurant he had brought her to on the night they’d first met. So much, thought Pandora bitterly, for turning o
ver a new leaf. And stupid me, for actually believing he could change.

  She felt doubly humiliated because the temperature in the restaurant was tropical, and she had just been approached for the fourth time by a waiter inquiring if she might not feel more comfortable without her coat. She looked ridiculous. And she was being stared at. Maybe if she were Cleo, she might have the guts to stand up and announce, “OK everyone, stop smirking. The reason I can’t take it off is because I’m starkers underneath.”

  It was just the kind of thing Cleo would say, probably earning herself a round of applause in the bargain. Pandora only wished she could be brave enough to do the same.

  “Madam, eet ees so warm in ’ere.” Shit, this time it was the maître d’ himself, exuding professional Gallic concern but clearly worried that other diners might think her dangerously eccentric. “Your coat…do you not sink you might be more ’appy wizzout eet?”

  It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, Pandora thought with weary resignation. Bloody Sean.

  “No thanks.” She rose to her feet, trying to look as if the fact that she had been stood up couldn’t matter less. “Sorry. I’m afraid I have to leave.”

  * * *

  The Queen’s Head had contained the answer to Sean’s prayers. No sooner had he ordered their drinks—vodka for Imogen, tonic for himself—than a smoothly dressed thirtysomething with heavily highlighted hair and a spray-on tan detached himself from the group he was with and joined them at the bar.

  “Sean Mandeville.” He clicked his fingers in delighted recognition. “Well, well, fancy meeting you here! I’m a great fan of yours, a great fan.”

  “You aren’t the only one,” Imogen chimed in, almost knocking her drink over as she beamed up at Sean.

  “Actually, we have someone in common.” The stranger carried on addressing Sean in chummy fashion. “Your sister Cleo. We…knocked around together for a while, a couple of years back. What a girl, eh?” He shook his head, remembering the terrific times they had shared with obvious affection. His hair, heavily sprayed, didn’t budge. “What a girl.”