by Alice Ross
*
In the kitchen, Francesca’s spoon fell with a clatter onto the specially-imported Italian slate flagstones, leaving a trail of soggy Special K in its wake or, to be precise, all over the table, the tiles and her ludicrously expensive, ridiculously short, ivory silk robe - a fact to which she seemed miraculously oblivious.
‘Have a kid?’ she echoed, a look of unadulterated horror spreading over her exquisite features.
The reaction was much as Matt had expected. Attempting to brush over it, he injected his voice with a large dose of enthusiasm. ‘Just one. And it only has to be a little one.’
Panic began palpably oozing from every one of Francesca’s meticulously cleansed pores. ‘But I can’t have a kid. What about my figure? My career?’
Matt had prepared for this one. ‘Plenty of models have babies,’ he pointed out evenly. ‘Look at Heidi Klum. And Giselle.’
‘Not at twenty-three, they didn’t. I haven’t done a fashion show yet. And nobody’s going to book me for one if I’m up the bloody duff, are they?’
‘Well, if we had one now, it would all be over and done with in nine months and there’d be plenty of time for fashion shows,’ he reasoned. ‘Come on Fran. There’s a million quid at stake here.’
Francesca’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know what … I’m not sure it’s worth a million quid.’
From the other side of the table Matt gawped in amazement. Where money was concerned, Francesca would normally flog every member of her family on e-bay without batting so much as an eyelash extension.
‘But you–you love money.’
‘Of course I do,’ she agreed, tossing back her mane of shiny hair. ‘But I’m planning on making a hell of a lot more than a million in my career and I’m not likely to do that with saggy tits and stretch marks.’
‘But we-we need this money,’ stuttered Matt, attempting to keep the desperation out of his voice. ‘And we need it now.’
‘You might,’ remarked Francesca, rising from the table and pulling her robe tightly around her slender waist. ‘But I bloody don’t.’ And with that she stomped barefoot out of the kitchen, pausing only to scoop up Mimi from her wicker basket.
Matt slumped defeatedly across the table, a Jermyn Street shirt cuff landing on a soggy flake. Oh, but you do bloody need it, he thought morosely, as he watched her go. If only you knew how bloody much.
*
Having its toenails clipped was definitely not on Mrs Battersthwaite’s Yorkshire Terrier’s list of favourite ways to spend a morning. And clipping Mrs Battersthwaite’s Yorkshire Terrier’s toenails was definitely not on James’ list of favourite ways to spend a morning. Having extinguished his repertoire of normally successful distractions – all of which he’d employed for many years - the dog was still having none of it and had, in protest, pee’d all over James’ lap; all over the operating table; had attempted to take a chunk out of one of James’ fingers; and had finally resorted to a session of blood-curdling yowling.
‘I think she’s finding it a bit traumatic,’ murmured Mrs Battersthwaite from under the brim of her green felt hat.
She’s not the only one, thought James, who, despite it being only eleven o’clock, had already resolved to go for a pint after work. As the dog sat on the operating table howling furiously, he ran a hand over his brow and wondered what the hell to do next.
‘Need some help?’ A pretty, freckled face, surrounded by a halo of red curls, appeared around the door.
‘Please, Mandy,’ said James, flashing her a grateful smile.
Just as James had fallen on his feet finding the practice and a business partner, his stream of luck continued when recruiting Mandy. Unlike Anya, Mandy was now a loyal and trustworthy friend whose efficiency knew no bounds and whose love of animals made her ideal for the practice. In truth, and he often told her so, James believed Mandy was wasting her talents. She would have made an excellent vet herself but Mandy, as she often told him, had no aspirations beyond marriage to her childhood sweetheart, Eric; a brood of children; and continuing to work at the practice in her dream job.
Eventually, with an extra set of hands, another twenty minutes, and some rather sneaky tactics, the deed was done and the pedicured, indignant pooch whisked away by an exhausted Mrs Battersthwaite. James and Mandy waved the pair off as they scuttled down the street.
‘God, what a morning,’ declared Mandy, as the door swung shut. ‘I don’t know what was worse - having a filling at the dentist or twenty minutes with that hideous dog. But listen to me whingeing on. You’ve had much more important things to deal with. How was the funeral?’
James sank down onto one of the plastic chairs normally reserved for waiting clients. ‘Oh, you know. The usual,’ he replied, with a broad smile. ‘A load of octogenarians out of their skulls on Pina Coladas, bopping the night away to Hits of the Sixties.’
‘Hmm. Typically Great Aunt Milly then,’ giggled Mandy, who’d met James’ relative several times and found her delightful.
‘You could say that,’ agreed James, smiling fondly at the woman’s memory. ‘And then, of course, there was the will reading yesterday.’
Mandy clasped a hand to her chest. ‘Oh God, don’t tell me she’s left you that gorgeous cottage. I’ll die of jealousy if she has.’
James gave a snort of laughter. ‘Not the cottage,’ he replied shaking his head. ‘In fact, nothing at all.’
Mandy screwed up her face. ‘Nothing? But she adored you. I can’t believe she left you nothing.’
‘Well, actually she did,’ informed James. ‘She left her share portfolio worth one million pounds to either me or Matt – whichever of us makes it down the aisle and produces a kid first. And, given that Matt’s marrying Francesca in a few weeks, looks like I’ll be doing toe-nail clippings for a few more years yet.’
*
In the loo in the corner of the veterinary practice, Anya von Hutterhausen’s hand froze over the flush button. Had she just heard correctly? That her business partner, James, would inherit one million pounds if he married and had a kid? She couldn’t believe it. Not after the days she’d spent frantically searching for a solution to her problem. Could the answer be right here in front of her? Literally staring her in the face? She slumped down onto the toilet seat, the seeds of a plan taking furious root inside her head …
*
Matt’s day was not going well. With the post had come three more bills for The Wedding. Things he hadn’t even known were on The List and about which he could recall there being absolutely no discussion. The first had been for a “bridesmaid’s dress” and an “evening dress” from an establishment in Knightsbridge called Posh Pooches. Having a strong - but what he hoped was an incorrect - suspicion as to what it might be for, Matt had called the number on the embossed letterhead, only to have his suspicions confirmed. His fiancée had ordered two ridiculously expensive outfits for her bloody dog which she was, so the ever-so-eager-to-be-of-help shop assistant, informed him, intending carrying down the aisle with her and which was also, apparently, having its own basket on the top table. The second bill was for a load of fireworks – again, astronomically expensive and again, something he had known nothing about; and the third, a deposit for the hire of an Aston Martin – what the hell was that for? All the cars had been sorted ages ago.
Matt was now depressingly aware that the budget he and Francesca had originally agreed upon for The Big Day had flown out of the window, orbited earth and landed on some remote South Pacific island sometime during week three of the compilation of The List. They had now, according to his calculations, spent more than four times the amount originally planned - and that was only the stuff he knew about. What other nasty little surprises might rear their expensive heads before the event or, indeed, for several months afterwards?
But it wasn’t only the cost of the wedding stressing out Matt. He and Francesca were living way beyond their means and were now, officially, up to their eyes in debt. Their spending – particularly Frances
ca’s – had spiralled out of control. When they’d first got together three years ago, their only money problems had been what to spend it on. They were the epitome of a good-looking, successful, young couple: Francesca earning a fortune as one of the country’s favourite pin-up girls, and him the golden boy of his office, huge five – and occasionally six-figure bonuses landing on his desk as regularly as cups of his favourite frothy cappuccino.
They’d met in one of London’s most exclusive clubs, patronised by everyone who was anyone – including the young royals. Matt had been celebrating the arrival of yet another delicious bonus; Francesca, the securing of a lucrative calendar deal. High on a giddy mixture of success, cocktails and a snort or two of an illegal substance, they hailed a taxi to Piccadilly, booked into a suite at the Ritz and spent the entire weekend consuming bucket-loads of champagne and shagging each other’s brains out. Dinners in Paris followed, travelling by private jet; weekends in the best hotels in Rome, Milan, and Vienna, and holidays to exclusive Caribbean islands. But, as the saying depressingly goes, all good things must come to an end.
When a tabloid newspaper ran an article comparing Francesca’s charms to that of an eighteen year old Slovenian model – who scored nine out of ten compared to Francesca’s seven, she had locked herself in the bathroom and cried solidly for three days. Eventually resurfacing, she announced she was giving up glamour work in order to go down the fashion route. That had been almost ten months ago now and although she’d done one or two catalogue shoots, it was becoming increasingly obvious that Francesca’s curves were not the sort coveted by most designers. Her work and, consequently, her previously substantial income, were drying up and, in the cut-throat, fickle world of fashion, her age wasn’t helping matters either.
Unfortunately though, Francesca’s career wasn’t the only one suffering. Matt’s long-standing reputation as the office whizz-kid had also begun to wane. He, too, was in the process of being usurped by a handful of younger, apparently more dynamic colleagues, hungry – nay, ravenous – for a bite of the bonus-bearing cherry. And last week he’d been issued an ultimatum: one month to pull in a major account. If he didn’t, he was out. Finished. Finito. Kaputt. He’d receive a pay-off of course, but, at the rate he and Fran were spending, plus their astronomical monthly outgoings, that would last all of two cheque-signing minutes. Matt was also depressingly aware that it wouldn’t be easy finding another job. His age, too, was against him and a “past it” reputation in advertising’s obscenely incestuous circles would most definitely precede him. In short, Matt didn’t have a clue what to do. He knew only that the stress of it all had put him in the foulest of moods.
*
James had just finished his egg-and-cress sandwich in the office, when Mandy popped her head around the door.
‘Just to let you know Alex Corr is here. I said you were having your lunch and would be out in a couple of minutes.’
His mouth full, James nodded gratefully. He glanced at the clock on the wall above the desk. Twelve fifty-seven. Alex Corr, with a one o’clock appointment, was evidently a punctual soul.
He brushed the stray breadcrumbs from the desk onto the sandwich packet then screwed it up and tossed it into the waste-paper bin. Leaving the office he reached the reception area in a few short steps. Expecting a male client, he was somewhat disconcerted to discover an extremely pretty girl of around thirty, with curly, strawberry-blonde hair perched on one of the chairs. She wore a long white cotton skirt and a pink strappy vest top. On the chair next to her, doing its best to escape the confines of its shoe-box, was a tiny tortoise.
‘James – this is Miss Corr,’ announced a beaming Mandy from behind her desk.
‘Oh, call me Alex please,’ smiled the girl, leaping up from her chair. She held out her hand to him. ‘You must be James. Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
As James politely shook the proffered hand, something unfamiliar pulsed through him. Trying desperately not to notice that the waistband of her skirt, slung low about her narrow hips, revealed a toned, brown midriff, he became aware of two spots of pink rising in his cheeks. Quickly, he withdrew his hand and, in the absence of any better ideas, folded his arms across his chest.
‘Alex has moved to the village from York,’ expounded Mandy, whose airy tone didn’t fool James for an instant. ‘She’s a freelance photographer.’
‘Well, I’ve only just gone freelance,’ added Alex. ‘I used to work for a food magazine but there are only so many angles you can shoot a parsnip from.’
Whilst Mandy giggled companionably, James forced his lips into a polite smile, hoping desperately that he didn’t have any cress stuck between his teeth.
What on earth was happening to him? He felt weird: as if he were fifteen years old again with no idea how to behave in front of an attractive woman.
He sucked in a deep breath praying it would calm his nerves. It didn’t. Aware that Alex and Mandy were now staring at him expectantly, a wave of nausea washed over him. He couldn’t continue standing there like an idiot. He’d have to say something. He cleared his throat.
‘Well, er, Alex. What seems to be the problem with the, um, tortoise?’
Alex’s large oval eyes – a startling shade of sapphire-blue, he noticed with a lurch of his stomach – twinkled as she beamed at him. ‘Well, I’m sure it’s nothing really, but she hasn’t eaten a thing for ten days.’
James nodded in what he hoped was a professional veterinary manner. ‘Ah-ha,’ he muttered pensively. ‘Come on in then and we’ll take a look at her.’
‘Alex Corr seems very nice,’ remarked Mandy when the reception area was clear later that afternoon. ‘And very pretty.’
‘Was she?’ muttered James, aware of colour flooding his cheeks again.
‘Single apparently,’ continued Mandy, feigning great interest in her filing. ‘Split-up with her long-term boyfriend a couple of months ago.’
James came to a standstill directly in front of a poster extolling the virtues of a particular brand of flea spray.
‘Hmm?’ he muttered, pretending to read the advertisement which had hung on the wall for two years and which he’d scarcely even glanced at before.
‘Must be difficult for her moving here and not knowing anyone,’ carried on Mandy blithely.
‘S’pose so,’ he mumbled, sidling back into his room before Mandy could notice his flaming cheeks.
After carrying out a quick examination of Alex’s tortoise, James concluded there was nothing wrong with it other than it being a little traumatized by the move. He had therefore, thankfully, managed to hold it together for the few minutes he’d spent alone with her. But his nerves, even now, continued to jangle. He should get a grip. Reinforce the impenetrable walls he’d taken years to build around his heart. Walls which no woman, even one as pretty as Alex Corr, and bearing weapons as effective as that taut, tanned midriff and those incredible sapphire-blue eyes, could possibly hope to penetrate.
Chapter 4
Raffaellas was a new Spanish restaurant, recently opened in Kensington by one of the burgeoning number of celebrity chefs. As a predictable result of predictable rave reviews by all the predictable restaurant critics, it was, predictably, nigh on impossible to get in unless, as Matt had just discovered, you were mug enough to hand over three-hundred quid to reserve a table for two on a Thursday night. Francesca had been harping on and on about the place, pointing out, rather melodramatically, he’d thought, given it had only been open four weeks, that they must be “the only people on the entire planet who hadn’t been there yet”.
“This is the start,” she’d droned, “of us becoming a couple of boring old farts who never go anywhere, who nobody recognises, and who stay in every Saturday night, eating take-away pizza and watching the bloody X-Factor.”
To Matt, any activity which involved spending less than thirty quid looked increasingly appealing - including staying in on a Saturday night, eating take-away pizza and watching the bloody X-Factor.
But he said nothing. Following her outburst the last time the issue of money came up, during the heated discussion about Great Aunt Milly’s will, he’d adroitly avoided the subject. In truth, this had required minimal skill, given Francesca had barely spoken to him since. She’d been in One of Her Moods, stomping around the apartment with a thunderous expression on her face. Worst of all, though, she hadn’t let him anywhere near her for four days. Four whole days! Matt wasn’t use to it. It made him jittery. And he hadn’t been able to concentrate on a thing at work – with the exception of Sasha, the sexy young graduate who’d spent the best part of the week fiddling with the photocopier opposite his desk, shooting come-hither looks and flicking long blonde hair. Yet, despite the temptation, Matt knew he’d never be unfaithful to Francesca. Not once, in the three years they’d been together, had he cheated on her. And it certainly wasn’t through lack of offers. He’d had plenty, particularly when away on pitches. He wasn’t a saint, of course. He enjoyed a good flirt as much as the next man – or woman. Flirting was healthy. It gave you a buzz. But a definite line divided it from cheating. A line he’d never overstepped; had had neither inclination, need, nor energy to overstep. Francesca had always ensured he was happy - and frequently exhausted - in the bedroom department. Had being the word. Still, it was early days yet. She needed time to absorb the full impact of Great Aunt Milly’s will. Weigh up sacrifice versus reward. Perhaps she’d feel differently if she knew how precarious his job was at the moment. He’d put off telling her, scared she’d think him a loser. Nor had he enlightened her on the pathetic state of their finances: exactly how much the outrageously expensive apartment was costing each month. Not to mention the money-eating monster disguised as The Wedding, rampaging through bank accounts, devouring every bit of cash it could stick its insidious claws into. Tonight, though, he’d decided they would have A Serious Chat. When she knew the full extent of their money problems, she’d have to reconsider having a baby in order to get their hands on Great Aunt Milly’s share portfolio. Or, at the very least he concluded, handing over a wad of twenty pound notes to the smarmy Spanish waiter taking his reservation, a trip to Raffaellas should put a smile on her miserable face.