“So,” she reined her rambling thoughts in, “when and where?”
Back on business, they made their arrangements quickly, and then, with a grin and a peck on the cheek, Redmond was gone.
• • •
Lisa couldn’t get the day off work for the auditions — Gary was still keeping her busy with mailshot mock-ups — so she had to rush home an hour early, as soon as she escaped from yet another lengthy phone call to discuss the images, which he still wasn’t happy with. She seemed to be getting more and more behind with the day job, and finally she’d broken one of her own rules and grabbed a pile of correspondence from her in-tray to take home with her. Maybe one night she’d actually get five minutes to do some catching up at home or the studio. She supposed she should have asked Redmond to pick her up from the office and bring her home, to save the bus ride, but she hadn’t been keen on having him hang around while she got ready. Just having him in the house set her nerves tingling, and she needed all her concentration for this. What had possessed her to join in with this crazy scheme?
Elaine and Mark, of course. Not that they’d pushed her. If they had, she wouldn’t have done it. But they were so desperate for something to save the studio, she couldn’t have lived with herself if she hadn’t tried. And she had to admit there was something in it for her too. With Jerry’s accident, she’d have been partnerless and adrift, marking time until his injury healed, instead of competing alongside someone who was, at least on the dance floor, the perfect partner.
It was only off the dance floor that he left her floundering, as he did this time by arriving miraculously early, while she was still deliberating which dress was most suitable for the occasion. She’d narrowed the list down to three: the classic flirty little black dress, a short moss-green jersey wrap dress which brought out the fresh green of her eyes, and a striking claret number with a pencil skirt which perfectly showed off the figure she’d honed through hours of dancing and the occasional run and swim. Mercifully, she’d just stepped into the green one when the doorbell rang, so she abandoned the others in a heap on the bed, promising herself she’d take care of them later.
Lisa rushed downstairs, almost turning her ankle as her high-heeled shoe caught on the edge of a stair.
“Is this OK?” she asked, giving him a twirl.
“Not bad,” he said, his eyes dancing. She guessed that meant good. “Will I do?” he asked in return.
He was wearing dark trousers and a soft shirt that matched his eyes and made them look even more intense than usual. It was a pity they wouldn’t be dancing — it was the kind of fabric that screamed for you to run your hands over it, savouring the softness of the fabric against the masculine hardness of his body.
Oh God, why did he have to pick this moment to unleash the full power of his smouldering looks, just when she needed total concentration to deal with the crazy situation in which she found herself?
“Fine. Can you hang on while I do my makeup?” she asked.
“You don’t need make-up,” he said dismissively, but she chose to ignore him. She might not need it normally, but this was TV, and in her PR work she’d seen enough perfectly normal people rendered pallid and drawn by unfortunate lighting and camera angles to know that if there was a chance of ending up in front of the camera, she did need it.
“Wait there,” she said, ignoring his impatience, and rushed upstairs.
By the time she’d finished smoothing on foundation and applying blusher in the right places, her emotions had calmed too. Now there was just the quietness that spread through her before a competition, when she knew that there was nothing more she could do; this moment was it.
“Ready?” she asked, descending the stairs more carefully this time.
Redmond jumped from the sofa with a guilty air, but she could see nothing displaced.
“Sorry, I hope you haven’t been too bored,” she said, hoping to elicit some hint of what he’d been doing, but nothing was forthcoming.
“No, I’m fine. We’d better go.” He led the way out of the door and walked round to open the car door for her while she locked up the house.
“Doesn’t it have central locking?” It looked like the kind of car that would. Big and black and sleek and powerful. Too much bonnet for the amount of body it had. A car that showed off, perhaps even more than Redmond himself did, even on the dance floor. It might be borrowed, but it suited him perfectly.
“Yes. That’s no substitute for manners, though.”
He waited patiently as she slid herself awkwardly into the low bucket seat, and wondered when he’d become so courteous. She supposed he was practising the devoted boyfriend act for later.
When she was settled, he closed the door gently and walked round to the driver’s side.
“Sorry if I’m a bit quiet while we’re driving,” he said as he started the ignition. “I’m not used to the London traffic yet.”
“I don’t think anyone ever gets used to the London traffic,” said Lisa, who was still smarting from her last attempt to cycle across London. She’d rapidly concluded that it was taking her life in her hands, and gone back to catching buses. It wasn’t as if she needed the exercise with all the dancing she did.
“Not a big fan of London, then?” he asked, sounding surprised. “I thought you must love it here, you’ve stayed for so long.”
Lisa thought about it.
“I don’t know. I love some things about it, and hate others. But I think that would be true of anywhere. I’ve never really wanted to leave. And anyway, where would I go?”
“Anywhere. The country. The seaside. Abroad.” He checked over his shoulder before manoeuvring out into the busy street. “France. Spain. America.”
“America?”
She couldn’t imagine herself there. What you saw of America on TV was a strange, alien place, with cities so large they seemed like entire worlds in themselves, and huge rolling plains. The scale was so different. She’d feel dwarfed, lost. Or so she imagined. Maybe that wasn’t what it was like at all.
“Why not?” He grinned. “You could come out to Florida. At least we don’t get rained on so often. You should at least come and visit.”
Was that an invitation? Did she want it to be? A few months of Redmond merging into her life here was one thing, but what would it be like to be cast adrift in a foreign country with no point of contact except him?
“I’ll think about it,” she said, while trying to think about anything else except that.
Then there was a quiet spell while Redmond concentrated on the road.
Lisa left him to it, and listened to the music coming from the car speakers. The tune sounded faintly familiar but she couldn’t think what it was. Something they’d danced to at some point, perhaps. There were few danceable songs they hadn’t, and this song had the lively rippling rhythm of a perfect quickstep.
“Is this the radio or a CD?” she asked, when the road seemed to have quietened down a bit. She nodded towards the stereo.
“CD,” Redmond answered. “I’m supposed to be choreographing something for one of my junior couples to this tune, and I haven’t had much time to work on it. They need to start learning the routine next time I’m over there, so I thought I’d bring the album over here and start planning it. Haven’t had much of a chance yet. Oh, and once that’s done, the next in the pile is for an advert I’m choreographing.”
“Busy, busy.”
“Always.” He nodded, smiled, and turned his attention back to the road. For all he’d claimed unfamiliarity with the London roads, he seemed perfectly in control, slipping smoothly from lane to lane, apparently confident of his direction. Lisa presumed he remembered the roads from his younger days, and this was confirmed when he tutted in annoyance at a no entry sign.
“That’s become one way since I was last here,” he grumbled,
turning right instead and beginning a complicated detour.
“Here we go,” he said at last, pulling up outside the big boxy building that housed the TV studio. “Why don’t you go and sign us in while I find somewhere to park.”
“I don’t mind coming with you.”
“And walking back here in those heels?”
“Hmm.” He had a point. “OK.”
Lisa got out and took the stairs as gracefully as she could in the impossible shoes, conscious of his eyes following her in the mirror until she was inside the building.
He gave a jaunty wave and drove off. Lisa frowned, suddenly conscious that he knew she was watching him. Mind you, that meant he was watching her too, so it was silly to feel embarrassed.
She turned to the reception desk, where two perfectly groomed twenty-somethings in navy designer suits made her feel suddenly gauche. How did they do that? Was it the perfect expressionlessness of their faces (definitely botoxed, she concluded) or their unbelievable thinness and the way their cheekbones slanted prominently over their perfectly white-toothed smiles? Or the uncanny way they looked like clones of each other apart from the different shades of perfectly-sprayed hair? She fought the urge to smooth down her already unrumpled dress.
“Redmond Carrington and Lisa Darby, for Couples,” she said curtly, drawing on her own extensive experience of being a crisply professional receptionist. Had she ever been as scary as this? Surely not!
Redmond joined her as she was waiting for the receptionist to announce their arrival. He walked calmly but determinedly up the steps without a hint of the fluttery nervousness that Lisa was feeling. How did he do it? He’d probably look exactly the same if he was walking up the steps of Buckingham Palace.
“Please, take a seat. Mr. Weatherill is expecting you, and he’ll be ready for you shortly.”
Lisa stalked over to the huge leather sofa and perched herself on the edge. It was the kind of seat made for sinking into, wearing comfortable clothes, in front of a log fire. In her silky dress, Lisa couldn’t get any grip on it, and if she sat back in her short skirt, she was sure she’d end up showing her legs right up to her underwear. Not that Lisa was shy — years of quick-changes behind the stands at amateur competitions had gradually eroded her modesty — but she couldn’t bear to look so undignified in front of the two immaculate receptionists.
Redmond settled beside her, sinking comfortably into the corner of the huge sofa. Not for the first time, she envied him — and all men — his easy, practical clothing.
“OK?” Redmond asked, as if he sensed her awkwardness.
She nodded mutely, not trusting her voice.
“Not a bad office. I could get used to working here,” Redmond said, looking round with wide, amused eyes. “Did you see the drinks machine?”
She hadn’t seen anything except the icy gaze of the perfect receptionists.
“Seven flavours of tea including Earl Grey. The drinks probably come out in bone china cups,” he joked.
Lisa’s splutter of laughter echoed embarrassingly in the quiet hallway. She bit her lip and pressed herself more tightly against the arm of the sofa. Below the hem of her short skirt, the leather was cool against her legs.
As she looked around, she felt a warm hand steal into hers and give her a gentle squeeze.
She looked up, and saw Red’s eyes dance with amusement. Of course, it was all part of the game. Look like the perfect couple. If anyone asks the receptionists, they’ll say those two couldn’t keep their hands off each other even in reception.
Pity. The reassurance would have been welcome, if it had been real. The feeling was still nice, though. She smiled back up at him for the benefit of the receptionists. Out of the corner of her eye she watched them exchanging whispers. Most unprofessional. She hoped it was because they were suitably jealous.
After a minute or two the blonder of the two receptionists stood.
“Mr. Carrington and Miss Darby,” she said in that perfectly accent-free English that receptionists everywhere have to a fine art. Lisa wondered if she could still produce it on demand. She had a suspicion that if you’d been a receptionist once, it never quite disappeared.
Redmond stood, releasing his grip on her. Suddenly she found she didn’t know what to do with her hand. It felt cool and conspicuous. She picked up her bag and fiddled with her shoulder strap, then realised it made her look nervous and dropped her hand to her side.
“Please follow me,” the receptionist said crisply.
Lisa went ahead of Redmond, her heels clacking on the marble floor. She found herself falling into step with the receptionist, like a soldier marching behind his commanding officer, and forced herself to break the rhythm. It was surprisingly difficult, like dancing an off-time waltz once you’d learned to do it right. She was grateful when Redmond caught up with her and took her hand again, keeping her close to him so that her step now fell in time with his. That felt right, like dancing with him. Something familiar to fall back on in these intimidating surroundings.
They walked silently down a long corridor lined with still photos — some famous faces and others Lisa didn’t recognise. There were small, neat captions under the pictures, but there wasn’t time to read them. Maybe they’d get to look on the way back.
Finally the receptionist paused outside a big black door indistinguishable from all the others, and tapped on the door.
“Come,” barked a voice from inside, and Lisa stifled a giggle. He sounded so much the stereotypical movie director she expected him to be sitting in a canvas chair with his title printed on the back, and smoking an oversized cigar.
The door wasn’t open far enough to see in, but Lisa could see the receptionist’s demeanour change from cool arrogance to an attitude of pure subservience. She had to admire the girl’s versatility.
Her newly deferent voice was so quiet Lisa didn’t hear what she said, but she certainly heard the answer.
“Show them in.”
“Mr. Weatherill will see you now,” the girl said unnecessarily.
Lisa wondered how having someone to speak for you had become a sign of rank. What was the point? It just doubled the amount of time everything took, and people were always saying time was money. But maybe that was the point. She made a mental note to mention the question to Redmond later.
Though, having seen Mr. Weatherill, she realised that she was going to have trouble remembering anything by the end of their interview. Far from the fusty old gentleman the surroundings had led her to expect, he was not much older than Redmond, with a black suit that cost more than the average competition prize fund, and looks that wouldn’t have been out of place on a film star. She hoped that the way her eyes were fixed on him looked like polite interest rather than the wary fascination she actually felt. She hadn’t thought men like this existed, at least not without copious assistance from makeup, wardrobe, and good camera angles.
She supposed he was the male equivalent of the scary secretaries. It must be something about a place like this. Maybe, she caught herself thinking for a moment, if she spent enough time here the effect would rub off on her. But who did she think she was kidding? It would just make her feel duller and more dowdy than she already did. All the same, it was nice to have someone so stunning fixing an attentive gaze on her and welcoming her to the studios.
“Thank you,” she said, a little breathlessly. Nerves, she told herself, not wanting to think about the alternative. Not since the day Redmond first swept her across a dance floor had she responded so physically to a man. And this was not the moment for that kind of complication.
Mercifully, Mr. Weatherill, who apparently preferred to be called by his Christian name, Tim, but couldn’t persuade the secretaries to do so, turned his attention to Redmond. It appeared they had something in common — a keen interest in their local football team. Lisa hadn’t eve
n known Redmond still watched football, never mind that it was possible to follow their progress overseas through the delights of America’s absurdly comprehensive sports channels.
Lisa found the game desperately dull and totally bewildering (she was sure the offside rule had been invented purely to ensure that she had no chance of ever comprehending what was happening during a match) but at least their small talk gave her time to calm down.
“So are you a fan too?” Tim asked, turning to Lisa with a smile that suggested he knew what the answer would be. She suspected that women in his world didn’t do football, and for a moment she had an urge to disrupt his expectations by claiming a lifetime’s devotion to the sport, but her position was already confusing enough without a further selection of unnecessary lies to sustain.
Instead, she opted for borrowing an easy story from Marion at work.
“Not likely. The footie gives me a chance to catch up with the girls — do some shopping or watch a DVD.”
Lisa shopped only when she had to and couldn’t remember the last time she’d got away from work and dancing long enough to watch a film from beginning to end (although she did occasionally catch bits of one on TV while doing the ironing). She hoped Tim wouldn’t ask her about her taste in films, but fortunately he accepted the stereotypical response without surprise or apparent interest.
“That’s nice.” He nodded blandly. Thirty seconds’ acquaintance was enough to prove that he wasn’t as interesting as his appearance and setting had led Lisa to believe. Along with the relief that her life wasn’t going to become still further complicated by an inconvenient attraction to the show’s producer, Lisa also felt a flicker of disappointment. Where were all the fanciable men nowadays? The list of attractive men in her world seemed to have reduced itself to one candidate, and he wasn’t interested. Maybe when the show was over she’d join an internet dating agency. Then she remembered some of Terri’s tales, before she’d met Dave and suddenly transformed into a perfectly sedate housewife and mother. Maybe not.
“So,” Tim went on, his face suddenly flicking into serious mode, reminding Lisa of a moody black-and-white magazine image, “tell me why you two want to be on the programme.”
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