Fast Friends

by Jill Mansell

  There was no need for them, after all, now that Nicolette was dead.

  She wanted to cry, but no tears would come.

  It was so dark, so quiet that it was almost possible to think that she was the one who had died instead.

  Where, she wondered vaguely, was everyone? Then, remembering the journey home from the hospital in the doctor’s car, she recalled also the fantastic ease with which she had maneuvered her solitude. He had tried to persuade her to telephone a friend or relative from the tiny office behind the children’s ward. She had told him that the relevant phone numbers were all ex-directory and written in her address book, which was at home.

  He had brought her here, then, and she had excused herself, telling him that she would make the necessary calls from the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she had picked up and replaced the receiver three times so that he could hear the pings on the extension downstairs. When several minutes had passed, she had returned to the sitting room to assure him that her mother, her aunt, and her very best friend were all on their way, refusing his offer of a sedative and explaining that she was fine, that what she most needed was twenty minutes alone before her mother arrived.

  It had been a relief when the poor, well-meaning, exhausted man had gone. How, after all, could she have explained to him that her parents were both abroad and unable to be contacted, and that she only had one friend, who was herself on the verge of giving birth? Such a dearth of friends was positively embarrassing.

  When the doorbell rang, shattering the silence, she thought it must be the milkman calling to present his bill and took her purse with her to the door. She was already fumbling for a five-pound note and some coins before realizing with vague astonishment that it was the GP from the village.

  “Dr. Logan, what are you doing here?” It was like bumping into one’s dentist at a nightclub. “I’m…I’m afraid I have some very bad…very sad news for you.”

  “Let’s go inside, shall we, Roz?” said Dr. Logan, his deep, kind voice loud and reassuring as he placed his arm around her narrow shoulders and led her back toward her chair. “My dear, the hospital contacted me. They told me about your daughter. I’m here to make sure you’re all right. Do you want to talk about it, or shall I give you something to let you sleep?”

  Almost with a sense of relief, Roz felt the grief well up inside her. The taut, gritty pain in her chest seemed to move and her chin shuddered with the effort of control. The rough tweed of the doctor’s jacket grazed her arm as he helped her sit down, and she gasped for breath, her eyes blinded by the tears now streaming down her cheeks, reaching for him in an overwhelming spasm of loss and desperation and sheer, bleak desolation.

  “There now, Roz. My poor girl, I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened to you,” murmured Dr. Logan, holding her tightly in his arms and letting her sob. “Good girl, cry as much as you want. Don’t you worry; we’ll get you through this… There there… Go on… Good girl…”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Matt had always been the kind of person who knew exactly what he wanted. A firm disbeliever in fate—although since meeting Camilla he was willing to reconsider that one—he had planned his life down to the last detail at an astonishingly young age and never even thought for a moment that what he had decided would happen might not.

  Matt’s mother, coming across the sheet of paper containing his Life Plan one day while she was tidying his room, had been amused and touched by her elder son’s presumption. That her tousle-haired, overactive, sports-mad nine-year-old could have compiled such a thoroughly organized and forward-thinking list was simply the cutest thing…

  1. Finnish college.

  2. Work at a top class golf club.

  3. Become a proffesional golfer and win the U.S. Open.

  4. Travel the whole world and win lots of tornaments.

  5. Have fun.

  6. Find a really beutiful and nice girl.

  7. Go live in England.

  8. Get married to her (the girl) and have five children and three dogs and maybe some other pets too.

  9. Teach my children to play golf and other sports like tennis and baseball.

  10. Enjoy myself until I am very old.

  11. Die.

  “But why d’you want to go live in England?” his mother had asked him when he’d returned home from school that evening. He was, after all, the most all-American boy she’d ever known.

  Matt had shrugged, an untidy sandwich in one hand and a milkshake in the other. “I’ve seen it on TV. I’ve read books about it, and they have some great golf courses. England’s neat and I just want to live there. But don’t worry, Mom,” he’d immediately reassured her with characteristic generosity and panache. “You and Pop can come over and visit me as often as you want. I’ll pay for the plane tickets, OK?”

  By the time he was thirty-five, he’d reached number five on his list, the only disappointment so far having occurred when he’d been runner-up in the U.S. Open, narrowly beaten into second place by a blisteringly on-form Tom Watson.

  But that was almost more than made up for by the fact that he had fulfilled the sixth goal. He had met the woman who was indisputably the beautiful and nice girl of whom he had dreamed so very long ago.

  All he had to do now was buy a house in England, marry Camilla, and hope to God that she wasn’t allergic to dogs.

  * * *

  As the friendship between Loulou and Mac was tentatively renewed, both working desperately to hide the strength of their true feelings for each other for fear that they would destroy its cobweb fragility, the relationship between Matt and Camilla became more intense, and happily knew no such caution. Matt, larger than life in every way, knew that he had found the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. And happier than she would have ever believed possible, Camilla allowed him to sweep her totally off her feet. There were no obstacles in the way of their idyllic, laughter-filled, sex-satiated love; even Toby and Charlotte liked Matt, and for the first time she learned not to question her right to such happiness.

  It was hers. It wasn’t all a mistake or a dream that might disappear at any minute. She deserved it.

  Especially, she often thought with unbounded glee, the sex.

  Jack, she now realized—although it had taken her long enough to find out—was not one of the world’s great lovers. He had been selfish, at times little more than perfunctory, and totally lacking in consideration for her needs. Maybe he had made more of an effort with Roz, but Camilla, in her ignorance, had not known enough to expect or demand more from him, innocently accepting that what she got was all there was. Nico had opened doors for her but for some reason she had—equally naively—assumed that he was an exception. Incredible as he had been, she had somehow come to the conclusion that he was a one-off, an experience that could never be repeated.

  It was a source of incredulous joy to her to learn that Matt was equally talented. Tender, teasing, exciting, and exhilarating…he had awoken in her a sensuality she hadn’t known existed. The most difficult part, she found, was keeping the news of her wonderful discovery to herself. Loulou, who was still being perfectly saintly, but who managed to retain her old forthrightness, had winked knowingly and said, “Good in bed, is he?” but other than that, no one else knew. It was, Camilla decided, the only aspect of the affair that was frustrating, unless you counted the slightly irritating fact that she had wasted two whole weeks by holding out before being persuaded into Matt’s bed.

  Oh, but it had been worth waiting for, she remembered now as she soaked in a hot bath before getting ready to meet Loulou at Lorenzo’s for lunch.

  And it wasn’t as if she had set out on purpose to delay the big seduction scene; events had always seemed to conspire against Matt, and she had been privately relieved each time they had.

  Once a big girl, always a big girl, in your mind,
at least, she thought ruefully, sinking down in the Badedas-scented water so that the foam spilled over her breasts.

  It took some adjusting to; she had to make a conscious effort each time she thought of her body to remind herself that she was no longer overweight, and that instead of unsightly fat there were now generous but firm curves, all in perfect proportion with each other.

  But the image that she had long been used to was what tended to remain uppermost in her thoughts. And that, coupled with the knowledge that she was woefully inexperienced with men, particularly for a woman of thirty-two, had been the reason for her reluctance to consummate this thrilling new relationship. Smiling to herself, Camilla thought back to the long-delayed seduction. The first time they had shared a hotel room, Marty had been there, bouncing and giggling between them, blissfully unaware of Matt’s good-humored frustration. Later that night, following the charity gala, he had driven her home, and still unsettled by the unexpected meeting with Nico and Caroline, she had accepted an enormous brandy. Intuitively, Matt had understood that that aspect of the evening was something she preferred not to discuss and she had been profoundly grateful.

  So grateful that she had fallen asleep on the settee.

  And after that, it had become a kind of joke between them, at times an almost farcical one. When Matt kissed Camilla, the phone invariably rang, or Zoë arrived unexpectedly with a troupe of friends, or Fee and Gussie burst into the room to show them the jam jar of spiders they had so painstakingly collected from the overgrown garden.

  “We’d have had more privacy in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot,” complained Matt when what was supposed to be an intimate lunch at his hotel was gate-crashed by three of his fellow golfers, hell-bent on celebrating their morning’s win. “Those guys were supposed to be on my side, for God’s sake.”

  “I liked them,” Camilla protested, laughing at his indignant expression.

  “And they liked you. That’s something else that makes me nervous. What are you doing this weekend?”

  “Working.”

  “Swap with Zoë. I’m taking you away. We’re going to have some time alone together if it’s the last thing I damn well do.”

  But, even then, events did their level best to conspire against them.

  Alone together, Camilla mouthed at him as they boarded the packed shuttle from Heathrow. A delegation of Japanese businessmen had taken up all the available seats. She and Matt were three rows apart.

  “Alone together,” she reminded him as they lined up amid the babbling French and Japanese crowds to squeeze through customs at Orly.

  “Alone together,” she whispered as they tried to claim their room at the glamorous Paris Hotel on the Rue St. Jacques, only to be apologetically informed that due to an overenthusiastic new clerk, they had been double booked with an Australian sheep farmer and his young secretary who had arrived half an hour earlier and promptly hung their Do not disturb on the door. The manager explained that he was dreadfully sorry, but the rest of the hotel was full. There were no other rooms available at all.

  “Oh merde,” said Matt, very loudly. “And on our honeymoon too. This is très tragique, m’sieur. Très tragique indeed.”

  “Alone together,” said Matt, a hint of smugness and a great deal of relief in his voice when, an hour and a half later, they found themselves installed in the honeymoon suite of the even more glamorous Hotel Bristol. “At bloody last. Come here,” he entreated, reaching for Camilla, “and give your clever old golfer a big hug.”

  “Don’t be such an old lech,” she protested, neatly sidestepping his arms. “We’re in Paris, Matt. Let’s go explore it.”

  But eventually, of course, late that evening, following a stupendous dinner, they had returned to their suite, and to the vast, velvet-canopied bed that awaited them.

  All Camilla’s shyness, all her doubts and fears were swept away in the slow, exquisite hours that followed as time and time again they made love, learning the secrets of each other’s bodies and giving each other more pleasure than they had ever imagined possible.

  “Alone together,” she whispered at last into the soft, wonderfully scented hair of his chest. “I’m so glad you brought me to Paris, Matt.”

  “Not half as glad as I am,” he murmured, dropping a kiss onto the back of her neck. “But you didn’t honestly think I was going to give up, did you? I’m just about the most persistent old bastard on this earth. And now that I’ve finally succeeded in persuading you into my bed, I have only one other thing to say to you.”

  “Oh yes?” Camilla lifted her head and grinned at him. “What’s that?”

  “I hope,” said Matt, slowly, “I really and truly hope…that you haven’t gotten me pregnant.”

  * * *

  Lorenzo’s at lunchtime was crowded and noisy, but everyone still noticed Loulou when she made her entrance. Her trademark silvery-blond hair cascading in ringlets down her back, her scarlet taffeta dress bearing the unmistakable Emanuel hallmark, she glided between the tables like a small but very stately galleon, smiling at people she recognized and waving at Camilla when she finally spotted her. Clasped incongruously in one hand was a very businesslike black leather briefcase that she placed with great care beside her chair before sitting down.

  Camilla waited until the maître d’ had finished making a fuss of her before saying, “You’re looking fantastic. It must be love.”

  Loulou smiled. “I’ve given it up for Lent.”

  “Still seeing Mac?”

  “He dropped by this morning, brought me two dozen white roses and a copy of Your Baby and Child by someone named Penelope Leach.”

  “It must be love. Why the briefcase?”

  “Business. This afternoon, I have to spend two hours being grilled by my accountant.” Loulou waved the inconvenience away with a dismissive gesture. “But listen, I heard some terrible news this morning. Roz phoned me.”

  “Oh yes?” Automatically, Camilla stiffened, her tone becoming guarded. She would never, she thought, be able to associate any news relating to Roz as good.

  Loulou’s smile had dropped away, and the expression in her eyes was bleak as she leaned forward across the table.

  “It’s awful, Cami. Her baby died last night. A crib death, apparently.”

  “Oh no.” Camilla felt sick and deeply ashamed. Poor Roz. What an appalling thing to happen. “She phoned you. Is she OK?”

  Loulou shook her head. “I don’t know. I think she’s still in shock. When I offered to go down to see her, she refused, said that her mother would be arriving later today. I felt guilty because I was so relieved. I just don’t think I could cope with something like that right now.”

  “Of course you couldn’t. Poor, poor Roz. That little baby…” Camilla’s voice trailed off as she recalled how, shortly after Charlotte’s birth, she had watched a TV program about crib deaths. For weeks afterward, she had woken six or seven times each night to check that her daughter was still breathing. Jack had irritably accused her of overreacting and, exhausted from lack of sleep, she had burst into tears and screamed back at him. The icy, ensuing silence had lasted several days.

  But Charlotte had thrived, and gradually the worrying had receded.

  Roz hadn’t been so lucky.

  “She told me something else,” said Loulou, twisting a napkin between her fingers and indicating to the hovering headwaiter that they would not be ordering just yet. “Apparently, Nicolette hadn’t been all that well for weeks and the hospital ran a series of tests. Last week, they told Roz that Nicolette sustained some kind of brain damage when she was born.” Loulou paused, frowning as she struggled to understand the tragic unfairness of it all. “Apparently, Nicolette would never have been…well, normal. Roz didn’t contact me when she found out because she thought it would be too distressing for me. She said she was so upset she didn’t want to see anyone. And now, just as she was be
ginning to come to terms with the idea, this happens. Her baby, poor little Nicolette, is dead. And Roz is absolutely distraught.”

  “Of course she is,” said Camilla, taking Loulou’s hand and choosing her words with care in deference to her friend’s vulnerable condition. “But maybe it was Nature’s way, Lou. If Nicolette was badly brain damaged, perhaps it was the best thing that could have happened. Some parents cope brilliantly in that situation, but others just can’t. And if we’re honest, we’ll both admit that Roz would have found it more difficult than most. It’s been awful for her, and she’ll need time to get over it, of course, but in the long run it’s probably going to be less painful for her than if Nicolette had lived. But you mustn’t worry about it happening to you,” she urged, meeting Loulou’s troubled gaze. “Only a tiny, tiny percentage of babies don’t grow up to be perfectly normal. And you’ve taken such good care of yourself, the odds are even more in your favor. Your baby will be fine, Lou. Just fine.”

  “I know it will.” Loulou smiled and shook back her long hair, clearing the tension from the air around them. The restaurant noises that had seemed to fade away earlier now resumed their former level. She signaled to the waiter to bring their menus and ordered the drinks, peach juice for herself and a gin and tonic for Camilla.

  “I know my baby will be OK,” she added when they were alone once more, “but a crib death is such a tragedy; we really ought to try to do something to help. I don’t have anything definite planned just yet, but I’m thinking of holding a charity night at Vampires to raise money for research into it. Will you and Matt come along when I do?”

  “Of course we will,” said Camilla with enthusiasm. “Just say the word. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  Loulou grinned and raised her glass in salute. “Good,” she said, a teasing note in her voice. “Just so long as a wild American doesn’t drag you away before the big event.”