by Jill Mansell
Now, at six o’clock, she realized two things. She had gone an entire day without alcohol, and she was starving.
Paddy, seeming to read her thoughts, consulted his watch. “Maybe we should be heading back.”
“Oh no,” begged Caroline, suppressing another shiver of excitement as his hand accidentally brushed against her bare thigh. “I’m having fun. Do we have to leave?”
Bingo, Paddy thought, then grinned.
“We could have dinner here,” she rattled on, adding stupidly, desperately, “I’ll pay.”
And now for the first time he made his contact a deliberate one. Taking her hand and raising it to his lips, he slowly kissed the palm, fixing her all the time with his relentless, irresistible gaze.
“You have been neglected,” he murmured. “Poor Caroline. Don’t you know that any woman who spends an entire day with me gets dinner on the house, just for putting up with me?”
“Putting up with you,” echoed Caroline wonderingly. “I was beginning to think that every man was like Nico. Today, Paddy, you’ve saved my life.”
* * *
It was hard—harder than he’d expected—but he managed it.
Dropping her in the jeep outside the elegant whitewashed bungalow she shared with Nico, he allowed several seconds to elapse before dropping a chaste kiss upon her sun-warmed cheek.
“Thank you, Caroline. I won’t forget today.”
In the tropical semidarkness, he saw the panic and longing in her eyes and realized that he very probably could, after all, spend the night with her. But it was too soon. He who waits wins, he told himself with the slow, uncurling pleasure of a true craftsman. Besides, if she were to turn him down now, the entire day would be spoiled.
“You could come in for a drink,” whispered Caroline breathlessly, wriggling down in the passenger seat so that her short white skirt edged further up her thighs. All of a sudden, she desperately needed Paddy to stay with her. He was kind, attentive, and so ludicrously attractive that she couldn’t understand why she had never noticed it before. “Nico won’t be home for hours yet.”
He gestured regret. “I’d love to, but I really can’t. We’re working in the studio all day tomorrow. And if I stayed for even one drink now, who knows what sort of state I’d be in then?”
The words lingered in the balmy night, and Caroline knew what lay behind them. Rejection mingled with gratitude; Paddy was turning her down because he had to and not because he wanted to. He was a real gentleman and she liked him for it, no matter how much she wished they could continue.
“All day?” she said, her tone registering disappointment.
“Until about seven, I guess.” He paused. “If you don’t have anything else laid on, you could come over to my bungalow after that, if you’d like to.” He preferred home matches, particularly when the women concerned had husbands. Less harrowing all around.
“I’d like to,” said Caroline helplessly, shifting once more in her seat so that she was properly facing him and still half wishing he would change his mind about tonight.
“Then it’s a date. Don’t forget now,” Paddy warned her as he restarted the jeep’s engine.
“I won’t forget. I’m looking forward to it already.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, smiling into the darkness at her unintentional double entendre. “I’ll see you at around seven.”
He drove off, leaving Caroline standing alone in the darkness in front of the bungalow. It was practically Jane Eyre, she thought, lost in admiration and unfulfilled desire. What an incredible man Paddy Laharne was. And he hadn’t even kissed her yet.
Chapter Fifty-Four
It was bewildering, thought Camilla, in fact, almost disorienting to have one’s thoughts so abruptly redirected.
Until now, although she had scarcely realized it, almost all her spare thoughts had been occupied by Matt. Whenever she wasn’t concentrating upon more immediate matters such as what the children should eat, what she should be wearing, and whom she should be meeting that day, her thoughts had automatically flown back to Matt. The accompanying sadness had become part of her life.
But now, although partly through force of habit he still entered her thoughts, the visits were brief. The rest of the time, Piers was there. Effortlessly. Cheerfully. Without causing pain. He had taken over her mind, and she felt so much better that she couldn’t even resent him for it.
“I think I’m in love,” she ventured to Loulou, who was mindlessly watching Sesame Street with Lili on her lap.
Loulou, despite her own depression and despair, tried to encourage her. “I’m so glad, Cami. You deserve it,” she said with only a touch of wistfulness. “God knows, I envy you. Here you are with Piers hammering on your door. Look at me, an unwanted old spinster. You and Roz are both so lucky…”
And I am lucky, thought Camilla, drifting back into the daydream that had so happily become a reality. Yesterday evening Piers had driven up from Bath and taken her out to the theater. Tonight he had booked a table at Le Gavroche…
She glanced up as Charlotte meandered into the sitting room, eating a banana sandwich and looking unusually subdued.
“All right, sweetheart? Finished your homework?”
Charlotte nodded, slumping into a chair.
“You’re sure you’re going to be OK this evening? Loulou’s staying with you and I won’t be late home.”
She was unprepared for Charlotte’s attack.
“I don’t like Piers,” she announced with brutal suddenness, her long brown hair swinging as she shook her head. “And why don’t you put the picture back on the wall? It’s horrible, hiding it away.”
The family portrait, Matt’s great pride and joy. Camilla stared at Charlotte, shocked by the determination in her young eyes.
“You don’t mean that about Piers,” she countered as reasonably as she could. “He bought you that new game only yesterday—you were thrilled with it.”
“That was yesterday,” said Charlotte, squirming in her chair and biting her lower lip. Loulou caught Camilla’s eye and shrugged. “And you could put the picture back,” she persisted defiantly. “We liked Matt. Just because he isn’t…here anymore doesn’t mean we can’t have the picture on the wall, does it?”
Camilla began to understand. Having weathered her parents’ divorce without apparent concern, and having become so fond of Matt, she was resentful now of Piers and of what she saw as his intrusion into their lives. There was the possibility, too, that she felt the need to protect Matt, to preserve his memory.
Glancing at her watch and realizing that she had less than an hour in which to get ready before Piers was due to arrive, Camilla went over to her daughter and gave her a reassuring hug.
“Sweetheart, I’m not going to forget Matt. None of us ever will. And I promise I’ll think about putting the picture back on the wall.” But the idea now seemed inappropriate, almost bizarre, since she had so abruptly been swept off her feet by Piers. Then she had a flash of inspiration. “Or would you like it in your room? We could hang it over your bookcase next to the window so you can see it when you’re in bed. How about that, darling? Isn’t that a much better idea?”
Charlotte gazed at her for several seconds. Camilla held her breath.
“No,” declared her daughter with great finality. “It should be here in this room.” And with a hard, calculating look that tore at Camilla’s heart, she added, “Where everyone can see it.”
* * *
“I’ll have a chat with her,” said Loulou, reassuring Camilla as she left the house with Piers. “And don’t worry, she’ll be fine.”
“Problems with Charlotte?” asked Piers, concerned. “Where is she?”
“Upstairs,” said Camilla, still feeling guilty. “She’s a bit upset about something.”
Loulou leaped into the breach. “You know what us girls are lik
e.” She shrugged and winked in an effort to defuse the tension. “Probably boyfriend trouble. Plus ça change.”
“Well, give her a kiss from me,” said Piers, taking Camilla’s hand. “Come on now, darling. We mustn’t miss our table at Burger King…”
* * *
Loulou, allowing Charlotte an hour in which to work through her misery uninterrupted, curled up in an armchair and tried to concentrate on Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. It took only a short while before she realized that she was working through her own misery instead.
When Charlotte poked her head around the door, dressed in pink pajamas and still looking woeful, Loulou welcomed the diversion.
“Come sit by me, Charley, and we’ll cheer each other up. Tell me about the people you hate most at school, make a list of your least favorite foods, tell me your worst joke ever, and then we can work our way up to the good stuff.”
Her vague plan to relax Charlotte and edge gradually around to the problem of Piers was forestalled by the unhappy child who squeezed into the armchair beside her and held out her clenched fist. In a resigned, extraordinarily unchildlike manner, Charlotte said, “I didn’t want to show this to Mummy. The other day, when Marty was playing in Piers’s car, he picked up some rubbish. You know how he keeps things and hides them?” She glanced anxiously at Loulou for reassurance.
“I know.”
“Well, this afternoon, I found the stuff under my bed. An empty matchbox, a pencil, and some screwed-up candy wrappers. It’s what he found in the car.”
“And?” said Loulou gently, a knot of apprehension drawing together in her stomach.
“And there was this.” Charlotte opened her fist and dropped a ring into Loulou’s lap. “At first, I was just worried because he’d stolen it, and I thought Piers would be cross with Marty. But I keep thinking, it’s a wedding ring, isn’t it? And does that mean that Piers is going to marry Mummy? Or is it his?” She frowned, struggling to make sense of what she had discovered. “Because if it is, I don’t understand. I thought only married people wore that sort of ring.”
* * *
Directory inquiries had only one P. O’Donoghue listed in the Bristol and Bath directory, and Loulou, after checking that the bedroom door was firmly shut, punched out the number with rapid precision. After three rings, it was picked up.
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice, and Loulou plunged in.
“Hello, could I speak to Mr. O’Donoghue?”
“I’m afraid he isn’t in at the moment.” The woman sounded pleasant, well educated.
“Ah. Maybe I could phone again tomorrow, then. It’s about my carpets, you see.”
“Carpets?” The voice was puzzled.
“They need cleaning,” Loulou persisted, then hesitated. “I do have the right number, don’t I, for Mr. Patrick O’Donoghue?”
The woman laughed. “I’m afraid not. My husband’s name is Piers, and I don’t think he’s ever cleaned a carpet in his life.”
“Oh well,” said Loulou with resignation. “I’m sorry to have troubled you. Goodbye.”
When she had replaced the receiver, she stared at the wall and thought how wrong she had been to envy Camilla her current good fortune.
And that telling her that Piers was married wasn’t going to be easy either.
Shit. Why were all men such cheating, selfish bastards?
* * *
Caroline, in a frenzy of anticipation, could scarcely endure the torture of waiting until seven o’clock before seeing Paddy again. Avoiding Susie, whom she knew would be stretched out in her usual spot, she smoked a small joint in an effort to calm down and spent half the afternoon preparing herself like an Egyptian goddess for the evening ahead. After a long, cool shower, she sat naked on the edge of the bed and rubbed apricot-scented oil over every inch of her body. She painstakingly repainted her nails with shocking-pink polish. Then she twisted her heavy tortoiseshell hair into a knot on top of her head—so that Paddy could take it down later—and did her makeup. Light-pink lipstick, smoky, dark-blue eyeshadow; nothing too heavy that might melt in the heat…
Sliding into the figure-hugging pink silk dress that finished well above her knees, she twisted and turned before the mirror to see whether it was possible for the casual onlooker to tell that she was wearing no underwear at all. Not that she was planning to be seen by anyone other than Paddy, she thought with an unrepentant smile, but if by some terrible trick of fate Nico should return early, then full makeup and no knickers would be an absolute dead giveaway.
Glancing once more at her full-length reflection, she saw that her erect nipples were clearly visible beneath the pink silk. There was an almost manic glitter in her eyes. To be with a desirable man whom she knew desired her in return was a thrill she had almost forgotten existed. Nico was enigmatic, unreachable. Paddy was genuine, caring, and she knew only too well what he was thinking when he gazed at her with those dark-lashed, slanting eyes of his.
In her present mood, she could almost forgive Nico, she decided. Why on earth had it taken her this long to discover that adultery was fun?
* * *
“You look…sensational,” said Paddy when he answered the door and found Caroline on his doorstep. Christ, he thought, this was going to be so easy. Where was the challenge? The woman was practically dripping with lust already.
He had to admit, though, that she did look good.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” babbled Caroline, suddenly nervous. “I just passed Shaun going over to the hotel and had to pretend I was on my way back to the bungalow. I’ve been zigzagging around the grounds like a sniper.”
Closing the front door behind her and inhaling a lungful of her scent, Paddy realized that the only way he could really have fun would be by working a bit of the old role-reversal.
“I’m glad you’re here too,” he said easily. “But you don’t have to pretend, angel.”
Caroline licked her lips. “Pretend what?” she asked breathlessly, relieved that he wasn’t going to waste any time with boring preliminaries.
Paddy poured her a drink and glanced at his watch. “Pretend to Shaun, of course. What’s wrong, after all, with two friends having dinner together? In fact, when I mentioned it to him earlier he said he might join us, so if you want to give Nico a ring and see if he’d like to come along later, I’m sure the restaurant will be able to give us a table for four.”
“A…restaurant?” echoed Caroline, staring at him as if he’d just ripped the wings off a particularly beautiful butterfly. “With Shaun? But—”
“The Rum Baba,” continued Paddy cheerfully, enjoying the look of horror on her face. Talk about wrong-footing someone; Caroline looked as if she’d just had both legs sliced off at the knees. “They do great lobster, apparently. Tell Nico that; I know he’s crazy about lobster.”
“But…” She tried again, taking a hesitant step toward him, her mouth trembling. In those few moments, with her self-confidence in shreds and her disappointment so damn obvious, Paddy almost felt sorry for her. But if he was truly going to enjoy the evening ahead, he could only do so by transferring the challenge to her. There was none for him, after all.
“I know,” he admitted gently. “I know what you thought. I felt the same way myself, yesterday. But, angel, think about it. You’re Nico’s wife, and I’m his friend. I’m not a complete bastard, you know. I do have some scruples.”
The confusion and sense of disappointment were almost too much for Caroline to bear, coupled as they were with the searing all-too-familiar pain of rejection. Tears glistened in her eyes and she turned away toward the half-shuttered window, clenching her fists at her sides and willing herself not to cry.
Oh shit, not tears, thought Paddy. He drained his glass, poured himself another large scotch, and wondered what he’d do if Caroline simply took him at his word and left. Failing now would almost be funny, i
f only he didn’t want so badly to get laid.
“Don’t cry,” he said, moving over to stand behind her and placing his hands on her quivering bare shoulders. “I’m very flattered, angel, but I hate to see you crying.”
Caroline suddenly spun around to face him, her jaw tense. He saw the tendons sticking out on her neck. “Nico has affairs,” she said, and it was almost a plea.
“I’m sure he doesn’t.” Paddy was really beginning to enjoy himself now. She was one of those rare women whose looks weren’t marred by tears. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“But he does!” persisted Caroline. “He’s been seeing this woman named Camilla for God knows how long—”
“Shh,” he soothed, pulling her into his arms to comfort her. Desperate now, Caroline pressed herself against him, reaching up and finding his mouth with her own. Her hot tongue slid between his lips, and Paddy groaned as if weakening, trailing his fingers down her back until they came to rest upon the firm swell of her buttocks. When he realized she wasn’t wearing anything beneath her dress, he sighed with pleasure. Thank God he didn’t really have to turn her down.
“Angel, we mustn’t,” he protested weakly when he at last pulled away. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
Caroline smiled, her confidence renewed, her determination now unassailable. “Oh, but we must,” she said huskily, lightly touching the front of his trousers where his arousal was so clearly evident. “And I do, I do, I do.”
* * *
Piers O’Donoghue was genuinely besotted with Camilla; she was everything his Irish upbringing had taught him a wife should be and, at the same time, everything his own wife was not. He had married Juliet three years ago, believing that he was doing the right thing. There were fast, flirty young girls with whom one enjoyed brief affairs, his father had explained at regular intervals throughout his life, and then there was the other kind, whom one married. Juliet Russell came from an excellent family, she would take her responsibilities seriously, and she had good childbearing hips. Her personality was pleasant; her temper, even; her looks, average.