‘Kirk,’ she said, looking at her watch, ‘it’s midnight and I’ve got an early start at work. Would you think me a terrible bore if I went home?’
Kirk’s shoulders sank. ‘I really did blow it.’
Lucy put a hand on his shoulder, aware she was being watched like a hawk by Takira Freshwater, the pretty party girl and socialite who had dated a famous singer among others.
She was oddly reassured that Kirk would at least get laid. If Carli was anything to go by, that’s just what he needed.
‘No. Not at all. But some of us have a day job.’ She smiled.
‘OK,’ Kirk said, brightening slightly. ‘But let me call you a car.’
Lucy squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to Carlos. ‘Carlos, I’m going to head off. Do you want to come?’
Carlos looked from Lucy to Kirk.
‘Please,’ Kirk told him, ‘stay and party with me – you’re more than welcome.’
Carlos mock-sighed. ‘Well, if you insist, I suppose I could manage another hour or two.’
‘Excellent,’ Kirk replied, swiping an orange-tinged drink with tangerine feathers from a passing waiter. Any friend of Lucy’s was a friend of his. After all, the way to a girl’s heart was through her gay best friend. Admittedly, that ship may well and truly have sailed after Lucy’s little discovery earlier that evening.
Even so, this particular gay friend was one of the best-dressed men Kirk had ever seen – maybe he could pick up a few tips.
Kirk excused himself to walk Lucy downstairs. He would ask his driver to take her home then return and wait for him to stumble out and on to another club or back to his hotel suite.
‘Lucy, I really am very sorry. Not to mention embarrassed,’ he told her as the driver held open the car door.
‘Please don’t be,’ she told him, kissing his cheek. A kiss on the lips would be a step too far – God knew where they’d been. ‘You’re Kirk Kelner and you can get away with more than most.’
Kirk couldn’t help but laugh.
Slipping into the back seat of the Jaguar, she said: ‘Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. I’ll call you later in the week, OK?’
Kirk beamed back. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
Excellent, he thought as she pulled away. Not only do I still have an albeit remote shot with the lovely Lucy Summers, there is a hot one-night stand this very evening to look forward to. What’s her name? Takira? Clearly up for it. In fact, there are so many girls gagging for me at the party that a threesome or foursome may not be out of the question.
FLYING WITHOUT WINGS
Max smiled as her plane took off from JFK airport.
She knew she would never tire of replaying her night with Luke and that the six-hour journey would fly by.
They had had just one night and the following day together then Luke had to get back for his mum’s sixtieth birthday party. She still couldn’t believe he had come all that way to spend twenty-four hours with her.
Max shivered as she remembered. It hadn’t been like sex with whiffy Phil or anyone else she could think of. Yes, there was passion and longing, but she had felt an odd sense of vulnerability too. He had pushed her back on the bed and kissed her so softly. His fingertips had rested on her collarbone as he seemed to take in her scent. His other hand brushed the hair from her face as he stopped kissing her to look in her eyes. They were kissing again, with abandon now, his warm tongue seeking hers.
Max felt his muscular stomach under his T-shirt – his skin surprisingly silky and warm. He groaned slightly as he felt the firmness of her breasts, pulling her to him and sliding her nightgown over her head.
There was a blur of unfastening his belt, pulling off his jeans and feeling him pressing against her. He moved his leg across and pushed her legs slightly apart. Max felt her body tense in anticipation. He was kissing her again, longer and deeper.
As he entered her Max had gasped. Opening her eyes she saw he was looking right at her. Max felt as though her body had melted into his, pulsing against him.
They made love slowly. Luke watched as Max’s face softened, her eyelids drooping, her round breasts flushed, her nipples pink and puffy. Carefully, he drew her towards him and cradled her, holding her close. He kissed her and felt her smile as he did so.
They had slept there in each other’s arms until the morning. When Max woke she thought she would burst with happiness. Lying next to him, she felt like she had everything to look forward to. So her job didn’t fulfil her? Then she could change it. Max could be and do what she wanted. Funny how things seemed simpler when happiness was thrown into the equation. But as she lay with her cheek against his chest, she was gripped by a sudden panic. Could Luke put up with her? Sure he’d found her Ambi Pur moment funny and her shaving-legs catastrophe hilarious, but would he tire of her disasters day in, day out? Would he disapprove of her partying? Was she really girlfriend material? There was only one way to find out – and that realization was exciting and terrifying at once. She had gone through her twenties without giving much thought to the guys she dated. And now she was faced with someone she couldn’t get enough of, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Maybe she would turn into some Bridezilla nut job she’d always mocked, planning their wedding on the second date. Nah, not her style. But still, there was nothing wrong with a little daydreaming of what lay ahead – romantic holidays, great sex, nights in front of the fire.
Max laughed out loud as she remembered the shock she had while waiting in the departure lounge of JFK airport. Sheri had texted a picture to her mobile phone of a giant billboard in Piccadilly Circus, starring the one and only Shagger Sheri herself. Sheri had told her she’d been asked to front some STD campaign, but Max had thought little of it.
Seeing Sheri’s image made her well up with a sense of pride. She looked amazing. Maybe that was due to airbrushing, but still, wow.
Max had zoomed in on the image to see Sheri was totally naked on the billboard, save for a giant crab covering down there, her arms crossed over her chest, her hands neatly covering her nipples.
A gorgeous male model dressed in a football strip was standing beside her, laughing as he held up a condom. The words above their heads read: ‘Make sure his laugh is the only thing that’s infectious. Be safe: use a condom.’
Max dialled Sheri’s number.
‘Awright, doll?’
‘All the better for seeing you in Technicolor all over Piccadilly Circus.’
‘The billboards only come out this morning. They’re all over the place – Hyde Park, Canary Wharf, Newcastle, Glasgow – you name it. Do I look OK?’ Sheri asked breathlessly, her voice full of excitement.
‘You look absolutely amazing.’
‘Fanks, Max.’
‘So, how are you?’
‘Great. Been in rehab the past few weeks. Bloody hard going and, don’t get me wrong, there are times when I could murder a line. But as they say: one day at a time.’
Max unexpectedly felt a lump in her throat. Maybe she’d gone and done it: found her own way out of the hellhole of celebrity kiss-and-tells.
‘Sheri, that’s brilliant. I… I’m proud of you.’ Max felt the words catch in the back of her throat. ‘Listen,’ she said, swallowing hard, ‘I’m spending Christmas in Scotland. I’ll give you a ring when I get back.’
‘OK, Max.’
‘I guess this means no more kiss-and-tells from you, young lady?’
‘That’s the plan,’ Sheri said cheerfully. ‘Max?’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘Thanks for everyfing.’
‘What do you mean? I’ve not done anything.’
Sheri’s voice was quieter. ‘Nah, you were a good mate. I know you were just doing your job and all. I could tell you wanted me to get clean. And now,’ Sheri sounded brighter, ‘that’s just what I’m tryin’ to do.’
That had made Max happy, full of hope that Sheri really could turn things round.
With just two days to C
hristmas, Max was flying directly to Glasgow, where she would catch a cab to Queen’s Street station and a train to Dundee. Claire had allowed her to take Christmas off to be with her family, so long as she worked New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. Just one reporter manned the desk during the Christmas period, and the showbiz pages were mostly pre-planned and not news-reliant, so Max would cobble together a New Year showbiz quiz from the celeb news that year. Her shift would finish in time to join Lucy at the Hogmanay Ball. Lucy’s friend Clarissa had asked if she would like to take a friend or two after a couple of people had dropped out.
Max had called Lucy the morning after Luke arrived, when he had popped out to buy some coffee and croissants for breakfast in bed.
Lucy had squealed in delight as she heard how happy and excited Max sounded.
‘I’m so pleased,’ she told Max. ‘I had no idea how much you liked him. I thought he was just…’
‘Another one who’d bite the dust?’
‘I guess… Sorry.’
‘Jeez, would you stop apologizing? If it wasn’t for you this wouldn’t have happened. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Max could tell from her sister’s tone that she really was delighted. There never had been any pretence or games between them.
‘Would you like to take him to the Hogmanay Ball? Clarissa still has a spare seat.’
‘That would be great, Luce, thanks.’
Seeing in the New Year with Luke – Max could think of nothing better. She had started to ask Lucy what the latest was with Kirk, but Lucy had to go – work called.
Two nights later, on her last evening in New York, Max received an unexpected update on the state of her sister’s relationship with Mr Kelner.
She had been with Sean, Connor and Cath in Soho House, treating them to champagne cocktails then fine red wine to wash down their steaks: the works. And all on her newspaper expense account. Claire had texted Max to tell her sales had gone up by 60,000 on top of their normal 2 million on the day her picture of Charlie Jackson appeared on the front page, under the headline ‘Charlie’s Back On The Charlie’. He had been forced to issue a statement through his publicist in Los Angeles, who admitted the actor had had a temporary relapse and was back in rehab. Well, he didn’t have much choice, having been caught in the act.
As they sat at their table, Max’s phone bleeped. She felt the thrill of excitement at the thought it could be Luke again. He’d texted a few hours earlier saying he couldn’t wait to see her again. God, she was turning into character in a Jane Austen novel. It was Lucy’s number on the screen. Clicking to see her message, Max’s face dropped.
‘Are you OK?’ Connor asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Max looked at him, dazed, then back at the text.
‘FIRST DATE WITH KIRK KELNER… WALKED IN ON HIM GETTING BJ FROM HOOKER!!!!! Luce xxxx’
‘Oh. My. God,’ Max said, showing them the text. She laughed as she watched their expressions.
Max tried to call but went straight to the answer phone.
Another text message.
‘Can’t spk. C u in Dundee Xmas eve and will tell all. Safe home. x’
‘God,’ Sean said, draining his glass, ‘it’s never dull in the Summers sisters’ household. If one’s not catching Charlie Jackson with a nose full of coke, the other’s catching Kirk Kelner with his pants down.’
Max shook her head in disbelief. ‘I know, I know, you couldn’t make it up if you tried – story of my life.’
Judging by Lucy’s text, whatever had happened with Kirk, she saw the funny side. What a story. If Lucy had been Jade’s sister, this would be front-page news.
Still, Max hoped Lucy was OK. Here she was, walking on air, and Lucy was trying desperately to get over Hartley. Then again, she was hardly struggling in the looks department – Kirk Kelner was testament to that.
Max had caught a few hours’ sleep after dinner with Connor, Cath and Sean before catching her flight. She looked out of the plane window, then closed her eyes again and thought of Luke. Even the way he smelled turned her on. She’d read somewhere that humans had an inbuilt sense of smell to determine who would be a good partner. So, say Max’s genes determined she could have heart problems, she’d subconsciously sniff out a guy with strong heart genes to cancel this out and give their babies the best chance of survival. Max wondered what whiffy Phil’s odour said about him. Hey, maybe it meant he had acute hearing and some lucky girl with a history of deafness in the family would find him irresistible.
As the plane touched down in Glasgow, Max knew she should feel exhausted – she’d had hardly any sleep while in New York. But she had so much to look forward to – not least catching up with pals in Dundee – that she was buzzing. Her old hang-out, Fat Sam’s nightclub, was calling. Stuff the Met Bar and the Ivy – you couldn’t beat five floors of fun with Bacardi Breezer on special offer. Now that’s what she called a night out.
TESTING TIMES
Bloody whining carol singers, Bridget thought as she fought her way past last-minute shoppers to get into the pharmacy. It was Christmas Eve and she was livid she had been denied the best present of all. She had taken three pregnancy tests to see if her plan had worked. All were negative. Bridget cursed the fact that the opportunity to sleep with Hartley again hadn’t arisen before he decided to cast her aside. How dare he! She was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
But all was not lost. Her friends weren’t to know when she last slept with Hartley. Creating the rumour that she could be pregnant was a stroke of genius. Hartley wasn’t to know she wasn’t expecting, either – lots of women didn’t find out until they were a few months gone.
She had confided in Dorcas that she had decided to take a pregnancy test, asking her tearfully over the phone if she would mind coming with her to the chemist. Her doctor was only doing emergencies over Christmas and this didn’t qualify, his secretary had told her, suggesting she buy a home pregnancy test.
How very Jerry Springer, Bridget had told the gormless woman.
She’d need moral support as she queued with all those methadone addicts she’d read about. She had told Dorcas how she’d had a little drunken accident with Hartley. They had got carried away, were careless and now she feared the worst.
She could trust Dorcas to tell everyone who mattered within a ten-mile radius of Fulham about that little gem of gossip. She might not be carrying his child but at least news would be out that her relationship with Hartley had well and truly left the shores of friendship. It was not the game plan Bridget had hoped for but she had no choice. Hartley had all but banished her from his life and had ignored her many calls. This was the only way she could think of to get him back. If he believed she was pregnant, he would have no choice but to let her back into his life. In fact, he would have no choice but to marry her. It was the only decent thing to do and she could count on him to do the right thing. All she needed was the chance to sleep with him again, then it really could happen.
Annoyingly, Dorcas looked like she’d lost weight, her frame undeniably svelte under her Vera Wang cashmere wrap in duck-egg blue. Bridget consoled herself with a swift look down at her friend’s Mulberry loafers. Dorcas had always had fat ankles: fankles, she liked to call them when talking about Dorcas to others in their set.
Must remember to chew every mouthful of Christmas dinner thirty-two times, Bridget reminded herself, to start the digestion process in the mouth rather than the stomach.
Bridget bought two tests, just to be sure, she told Dorcas. She wasn’t quite ready to give her friend the result just yet so made an excuse about wanting to get Christmas out of the way before taking the test.
Dorcas had nodded sympathetically and Bridget air-kissed her goodbye, her eyes full of sincerity as she thanked her for being such a good friend.
BACK TO BLIGHTY
Christmas at home had been fun. As always, Marj had cooked the most magnificent turkey dinner and clucked like a mot
her hen as her girls told her they looked forward to the feast all year.
Fergal had been in charge of the wine selection, something he excelled at after taking up a tasting course at Dundee College. The guys at work had ribbed him something awful when they found out, but hell, now he knew his Merlot from his Montepulciano he was laughing all the way to his modest cellar – well, outhouse in the garden.
When she arrived home, Max had asked her parents if she could listen to the recording the doctor had given Marj of his prognosis after the op. They understood her need to hear the facts word for word, and the hope he had given them. Marj laughed and told Max she’d leave her to it; she knew the speech off by heart she’d listened to it so often. But Fergal sat beside Max on the sitting-room sofa while the CD played. He watched his daughter tenderly. He knew only too well how much she needed to be reassured her mother would be OK. They both loved her so much.
Max smiled as she listened to the doctor. He handled the situation perfectly, his voice kind but firm. He said there were no guarantees but, with the radiotherapy, she had given herself the best possible chance of the cancer never returning.
Max felt Fergal’s hand on top of hers. She looked up at her dad and saw what she needed to see. Yes, he was worried, but more for his daughter. He was telling her Marj would be OK. Fergal wasn’t the kind of man who told her he loved her every day, but he showed it every time he looked at her, every time she told him she’d broken a big story. He was less vocal than Marj, strong and quiet, but, just like their mother, he had always willed her and Lucy to make a mark on the world.
When Lucy arrived home, Marj couldn’t remember ever feeling so contented. Her little family unit under one roof.
Marj was relieved to see Max back to her normal carefree self. And Lucy seemed in good spirits, happy for Max and full of life as she told her sister and mum the latest episode in the Kirk saga: walking in on him in his hotel suite.
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