Fast Friends

by Jill Mansell

  I don’t have bartenders, thought Mac with unhappy resignation. Clearly, the hormones would have to wait. In the face of such tumultuous persuasion, how on earth could he refuse her this chance when she was so desperately in need of work?

  “OK,” he said with a reluctant grin that sent Loulou’s heart plummeting once more. “You win. When do you want to start?”

  Chapter Nine

  Mac broke his unbreakable rule within forty-eight hours. He had probably broken it within forty-eight seconds, since his involvement with Loulou was forged almost instantly, but he gamely managed to hold out for almost two whole days before being inveigled into her narrow bed in the tiny room above the pub.

  It had been hopeless, pretending to himself that it wouldn’t happen. Loulou was so adoringly besotted with him, and so determined that he should in turn be besotted with her, that he simply had no choice in the matter. When she had called downstairs as he was preparing to leave after the lunchtime opening, asking him to please come up and kill a monstrous spider that was taking up most of the bath, he had semi-suspected that her intentions weren’t entirely honorable.

  When she opened the door, wearing only high heels and an utterly bewitching smile, he knew for certain. Only later did he learn that Loulou had never possessed an honorable intention in her life.

  At first, however, the relationship worked perfectly. Mac’s heart wasn’t in his job; it was merely a means of saving money. He was a photographer, and one day he intended to be a known photographer, right up there with Rankin and Bailey. Every penny he earned went toward either a better camera, a newer lens, or more film. Being a bar manager was only work, whereas photography was life itself.

  Loulou, on the other hand, after a series of mistakes so awful they rapidly turned into mini legends, took to her newfound career like a hippo to mud. The dour, working-class Glaswegian men who frequented the pub to avoid going home to their families gave the new bartender a particularly hard time at first. She wasna even a Scot, for heaven’s sake. But they found themselves reluctantly enchanted by her merciless barrage of repartee, her ability to outswear even dirty Murdo McLean, and the way she habitually undercharged them for their drinks. Before long, the sons of these uncompromising, not easily impressed men got to hear about the bonnie wee lassie from down South who had tipped the contents of an ice bucket down Jimmy McKendrick’s trousers to cool off his “nasty wee willy, the very, very smallest one I’ve ever had the misfortune to see.”

  Full of admiration for the slip of a girl who had publicly humiliated Glasgow’s most persistent flasher and had finally persuaded him to keep his parts private, the sons took to popping in for a quick drink with their fathers, then staying on to feast their eyes and ears upon Loulou Marks. She was unique in their experience, and so obviously enjoyed herself that her passion for life became infectious. The Ramsay Arms, previously a grimy old men’s pub of few words and no laughter, was totally rejuvenated within the space of two months, with Loulou buying the teller of the best joke each night an enormous drink, leading the singing that became a new nightly ritual, and organizing a never-to-be-forgotten drag evening when even the most determinedly dour old Scotsman turned up in an ill-fitting dress and high heels.

  “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed that this was possible,” said Mac, finishing his third roll of film. Loulou was planning a rogues’ gallery of incriminating photographs above the bar. “I never even knew that old Joey Blair could laugh.”

  “I’ve just managed to bring the old devils out of themselves a little,” Loulou said modestly, trailing her fingers along the smooth curve of his hip in a deliberately provocative manner. She was so in love with this man, he really could have no idea. He was the only reason she had worked so hard to make the pub into a success. Happy punters were more likely to say “and have one for yourself,” and every time they said it, the jar beside the till gained another couple of pounds. In two months, the happy punters, unbeknownst to themselves, had bought Mac a superb Nikon.

  “You’re a miracle,” he said, reloading the camera and dropping a kiss on the very tip of Loulou’s perfect nose.

  “Then why don’t you marry me?”

  Only Mac’s lightning reflexes saved the camera as it slipped from his hands. Catching it, and realizing that he was shaking, he placed it with care on the bar.

  “Oh, Lou, you don’t mean it.”

  “I do,” she said fearfully, watching his expression and finding that he was giving nothing away. “I do, I do.”

  “Sweetheart, you said that less than a year ago to Jerry, if you remember. You’re not even twenty-one yet and already you’re a divorcée. You can’t just dive in all over again.”

  “I can, I can,” insisted Loulou stubbornly. “It’s so different this time; you’ve got to believe me. More than anything in the world I want to be married to you.”

  Around them, men in Crimplene dresses, the hairs on their legs poking through their American-tan panty hose, sang “Knees Up Mother Brown” and hurled their handbags into the air. Frozen in time, Loulou and Mac gazed into each other’s eyes, oblivious to the noise and laughter.

  “I’m poor,” said Mac eventually. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. You deserve so much more than anything I can give you.”

  “I only want what you can give me. What only you can give me,” she said with mounting urgency. God, it was hard, proposing to a man with a conscience. “Besides, I like being poor.”

  Mac, struggling to do the right thing and slowly beginning to realize that yet again Loulou was willing him to do the opposite, was running out of excuses. He wanted to marry her, damn it—who wouldn’t want to marry this gorgeous, gutsy girl, after all?—but he had plans for his life, real plans, and marriage had long ago been ruthlessly edited out of them. Just as sleeping with a fellow member of staff had been. Oh shit, he thought, battling with his conscience. What the hell was he going to do? “The novelty would soon wear off.” He attempted to sound adult and reasonable. “Poverty’s only ever fun for six months at the very most. You’d absolutely hate it, darling.”

  Sensing that she was at last beginning to wear him down, Loulou shook her head so violently that the rippling silver-blond hair swung out in an arc, brushing Mac’s face—just the way he liked it.

  “I can work, we can make enough money not to be disgustingly poor, and you can concentrate on your photography. Stop giving me these bullshit reasons, Mac! Do you love me?”

  Weakened, and hoping to God that this highly incriminating conversation wasn’t being overheard—he would never live this down—he bent his dark head.

  “You know I do. But that isn’t…”

  “Oh yes, it is!” intercepted Loulou forcefully, closing in now for the kill. “That’s all that matters. It’s the very best reason in the world for getting married, and don’t you dare argue with me any more. Now, I fully intend to marry you. So, will you marry me? It would make matters a great deal easier if you could just say yes.”

  Those silver-gray eyes. That incredible hair. That delicious body. The incomprehensible logic of the woman. And how could he possibly resist her unique personality?

  “I do,” said Mac, smiling. “I do.”

  * * *

  Loulou, replaying the memory of that evening in her mind, was appalled to find that her eyes had filled with hot, frustrated tears. Tears were quite out of the question, particularly at this moment. Camilla, the new Camilla, was making her entrance, and it was a sure bet that she was feeling a lot worse than she was herself. Her marriage to Mac had lasted just ten months, and Camilla had been married to Jack for ten years. Was the grief magnified twelvefold, she wondered, quite unable to assimilate how that must feel.

  Swiftly, abandoning her own gloomy thoughts, Loulou slid down from her barstool and moved quickly toward her friend. Apart from today’s shopping excursion, this was Camilla’s first vent
ure into the outside world as a separated woman. And it was glaringly obvious.

  “You look amazing,” Loulou told her, not quite truthfully. The makeup, hair, and clothes were there, but Camilla still projected her ugly-duckling mentality, her expression absolutely rigid with fear at the thought that any minute now she might be accused of masquerading as a swan. It was clear that she was still desperately in need of self-confidence, and Loulou knew exactly who could give it to her. Help was at hand in the form of Miles Cooper-Clarke, and there he was, standing not twenty feet away at the opposite end of the bar. Now if Camilla would just stop looking like a terrified gerbil, the evening stood a chance of being a success—the first small step along her long road to recovery.

  Camilla, every bit as panic-stricken as Loulou suspected, avoided looking at anyone at all by concentrating on the decor of Vampires instead. The first time she had been here, she had been so overwhelmed at finding herself in the exhilarating company of both Roz and Loulou that the wine bar itself had quite escaped her notice. On this, her second sortie, she turned her attention entirely to the way Loulou had decorated her renowned bar.

  From the black ceiling hung a single Victorian chandelier flinging facets of light like diamonds around the central area of the room. Gilt-framed oil paintings were hung above the tables bordering the room, their haunting Gothic scenes cunningly lit from below to heighten their mystery. The only other source of light was from the many candles, grouped together on black plates so that the dripping crimson wax formed interlacing patterns, amid the stalagmite candles of all shapes and sizes.

  The walls, too, were crimson, what Loulou called Vampire red, and the black marble floor was flecked here and there with droplets of the same crimson paint, so bloodlike—as Loulou had told Camilla with relish—that a murder could quite easily go unnoticed so long as the body was disposed of without a fuss.

  All the tables and chairs were black, apart from two red velvet chesterfields that lined the entirely mirrored far wall, and these favored seating positions were so zealously fought over that Loulou was frequently called upon to arbitrate and make the critical decision as to who should be allowed to occupy them.

  Camilla’s attention was diverted now by Loulou’s hand upon her arm as with the other she hailed a customer lounging at the other end of the gleaming black bar.

  “Hey, Miles! I wanted to introduce my friend here to a good-looking man, but it looks as if I’ll have to make do with you instead. Come over here and meet Camilla.”

  Gulping down her entire glass of much-needed white wine, Camilla wished at that moment that—much as she liked her friend—she could gag her. Only her trust in Loulou, who seemed convinced that this was the perfect way to get over Jack, prevented her from running out of the wine bar and back upstairs to the sanctuary of her bed. Maybe, just maybe, she thought helplessly, Loulou was right.

  Miles Cooper-Clarke flashed his famous white-capped smile, smoothed his Clark Gable mustache with a practiced gesture, and was only slightly put out by the realization that the attractive, well-rounded blond whom Loulou wished him to meet was looking not at him, but determinedly down at her feet. A shy one, was she? No problem there, he decided, relishing the challenge! The quiet women were always the wildest once he succeeded in persuading them to drop their guard.

  Oh God no, thought Camilla as Miles and his liberally applied cologne arrived before her. Eau Sauvage was what she had bought Jack for years, although he wasn’t much of a cologne man and had only worn it under protest. Still, she must have unscrewed the bottle on his dresser a hundred times to inhale the clean-smelling scent, and since he had never worn any other kind, she couldn’t help but associate it with him.

  “Enchantée, mademoiselle,” said Miles, who had been born and brought up in Kent. He bowed and extended an alarmingly well-manicured hand toward Camilla, who felt sick.

  “Oh, cut the crap, Miles,” Loulou intervened, glimpsing the panicked expression in her friend’s eyes. “No need to push the boat out; she isn’t that rich. Just be nice, for God’s sake. Normal nice.”

  “Who’s normal and nice in Knightsbridge?” riposted Miles, but he toned down the megawatt smile for Camilla’s benefit and shook her hand in a purely businesslike fashion. Miles Cooper-Clarke wasn’t a gigolo; he just happened to find wealthy women more interesting and somehow more attractive than poor ones. And if it gave these dear wealthy women pleasure to buy him gifts, or to pay for their more extravagant outings together, how could it be wrong to refuse them? Loulou’s friend was well dressed, but she didn’t possess the vibes that told him she was wealthy, and judging by the look of thinly disguised terror in her rather pretty eyes, he guessed that she was either newly separated from her husband or just out of a long-term affair. He’d seen that look of vulnerability too often before not to recognize it.

  “Camilla. Why don’t we just ignore Loulou and get to know each other? What would you like to drink?”

  This isn’t working, Camilla told herself, trying hard not to panic. I can’t sit here and pretend I’m enjoying myself. Oh, how could Loulou do this to me?

  “On the house,” said Loulou firmly, plonking a carafe of white wine on the bar between them. “And I’m going to have to leave you now because apparently some joker has just emptied his dinner plate over his boyfriend’s head in the restaurant. See you later.”

  She disappeared through the door to the restaurant and Camilla felt as if her oxygen line had been cut. Her knuckles turned white as she watched Miles refill her glass. Just pretend he’s a business colleague of Jack’s and you’ve got to make polite conversation with him, she instructed herself fiercely. You’ve done it often enough before, after all. Ask him about his family, his home, his career, and look interested. It’ll be all over soon, like the dentist…

  “Do you want to talk about it?” asked Miles, interrupting her disorganized thoughts, and Camilla turned white.

  “Talk about what?”

  “Whatever it is that’s making you look as if you’re sitting in the electric chair waiting for the switch to be pulled.” He had spotted the wedding ring by now, and past experience had taught him that women liked to talk about their problems. He listened, let them realize that he was on their side, and gradually they began to treat him like a friend. Then, once they had learned to trust him, it was easy to get them into bed. And this one, even if she didn’t have money, looked as if she might be worth it anyway.

  “Your husband,” prompted Miles. “My guess is that he ran off with another woman. Am I right?”

  Chapter Ten

  “This is becoming a bit of a habit,” said Loulou severely, eyeing Camilla like a schoolmistress, although the effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that she was naked. “Now I’m not saying that it’s necessarily a bad habit, but when I buy a carafe of wine I’d rather it was drunk than poured over a customer. Next time try to hang on until they’ve bought one.”

  “I’m sorry, Lou.”

  “Don’t be sorry, darling. It was all quite in keeping with the atmosphere of Vampires, after all. But what on earth did poor old Miles do to deserve it?”

  Camilla, who had been crying for four hours, wiped her bloodshot eyes with the edge of the duvet and shook her head.

  “Nothing, really. I’m just not ready for men like him yet. He asked me if my husband had run off with another woman and made it sound so…commonplace…that I couldn’t stand it. It was just as if he was guessing what I’d eaten for breakfast!”

  “Oh, baby,” said Loulou sympathetically, patting Camilla’s heaving shoulder. “I suppose to Miles, it is commonplace. Like he said, who’s nice and normal in Knightsbridge? Probably only you.”

  “Will he complain about his suit being ruined?” sniffed Camilla, her conscience beginning to prick her, and Loulou laughed.

  “It was clever of you to have thrown white wine over him, not red. If it makes you feel better, you ca
n pay for it to be dry cleaned, but I wouldn’t. It’ll teach him to be less insensitive next time.”

  Camilla shivered beneath the bedclothes. “There won’t be a next time if I can help it.”

  “Not you, dopey. I meant the next woman he meets. Every forty-five seconds,” she lied, improvising rapidly, “another marriage in London bites the dust. That means an awful lot of grieving women falling prey to the so-called charms of men like Miles. You have to realize that you aren’t the only one, Cami. It helps, truly it does.”

  “Why is it always the women who have to suffer?” said Camilla resentfully. “Don’t the men ever go through it too?”

  Loulou thought for a moment about her own ex-husbands. “I think so,” she mused. “A lot don’t. But a few of them…I think they suffer as much as women. In a different way, somehow. But I promise you, Cami. Some men do go through it too.”

  * * *

  The Christmas spirit was beginning to get through to her at last, Camilla realized with relief, although at the same time she still felt vaguely guilty, as if she didn’t deserve to feel this cheerful. Yesterday, she had seen her children for the first time since leaving home two weeks ago, and tomorrow, she would see them again to give them their Christmas presents before Jack drove them to Yorkshire to spend the holiday with his parents and their noisy, cheerful family. Toby and Charlotte adored their grandparents and innumerable relations and were so excited by the prospect of seeing them that they had scarcely seemed to register the fact that Camilla would not be going with them.

  The realization had both hurt and reassured her. Her own children, whom she was now missing terribly, didn’t seem to mind at all that their mother had “gone away for a vacation,” greeting her as casually as if she had just returned from a visit to the supermarket, yet, at the same time, Camilla knew that it was far better for all of them that it should be like that. If Toby and Charlotte had clung to her, weeping and pleading with her not to leave, she would have been distraught, not knowing what to do.