by Jill Mansell
And afterward, when the meeting was over, she had rushed from the room like a teenager bolting from school.
Returning to his car minutes later, Jaz had found her sobbing on the pavement as if her heart would break.
“I can’t do it,” wailed Celeste, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t, I c-can’t!”
“Yes, you can.” He pulled her upright and gazed down at her white, tearstained face. “I’ll take you for a coffee. You can tell me all about yourself.”
“You don’t want to hear,” Celeste mumbled. “I’m a hopeless case.” Her chin trembling, she looked fearfully up at him. “I pour vodka on my cornflakes.”
“Wrong,” said Jaz. “You used to pour vodka on your cornflakes. You don’t anymore.”
She shook her head. “Why should you care anyway?”
“Because we’re all in this together.” With one finger, he carefully wiped away her tears. “And if I can stop drinking, you can too. Come on, sweetheart, get in the car.”
And that had been that. A lifetime of being irresponsible and pleasing no one but himself had meant that Jaz had never actually cared for anyone else before. Delighted to discover that he was now in a position to help another human being, he had thrown himself into the task of helping Celeste.
In the bath, Celeste smiled to herself and lazily soaped her arms. She heard the front door slam downstairs. Oh yes, she had spotted her opportunity and grabbed it with both hands, and she’d never for a moment regretted it. Hankering occasionally for a nice glass of red wine and not being able to have one was a small price to pay for living with Jaz. Never having been much of a drinker anyway, she was more than happy to make that sacrifice.
The bathroom door opened, and she smiled at Jaz.
“You’re back. How did it go?”
He came and sat down on the side of the bath.
“Jeff’s wife is pregnant. They’re thrilled.” He paused. “Dave thinks his girlfriend’s going to leave him.”
“Poor old Dave.” Serves him right for being so boring, Celeste privately thought. Her gaze roamed over Jaz’s body, so fit and lean and gorgeous in his black sweatshirt and cream jeans. He was everything she’d ever wanted, her dream come true.
“And Jeff said didn’t I think it was about time I got back into the business,” Jaz went on, his voice level.
Celeste looked at him. This was a subject that had arisen before. In Jaz’s mind, alcohol and the music business were inextricably linked. They went together. Since drying out, he had given up work completely, refusing to record an album, or tour, or even attempt to write any more songs. She knew he was worried that a return to his old life might mean he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to start drinking again.
“You don’t have to go back to work. Not if you don’t want to.” Gently, Celeste squeezed his arm. She didn’t want him to resume his career anyway. They were happy together and they had more than enough money…the thought of Jaz plunging back into the wild rock-and-roll lifestyle made her nervous. Not just because of the drink, but because of the groupies…
“Don’t worry; I won’t let them pressure me into it.”
Jaz smiled faintly. Three and a half years, he knew, was a considerable break by anyone’s standards. And he was torn, because he did want to get back to work. It didn’t matter that the royalty checks were still rolling in—he couldn’t spend the rest of his life doing nothing.
“You’re healthy,” said Celeste. “That’s all that matters. Jeff just likes to stir things up. He’s jealous because you’ve got more than he’ll ever have.”
A vacation was what they needed, she thought. A couple of weeks away from it all, relaxing on a private beach in the Seychelles, that would do the trick.
“Forget Jeff.” Jaz changed the subject. “What did you do this evening?”
“Actually, I’ve been quite busy,” Celeste gaily announced. “Helping your new next-door neighbors move in.”
* * *
“Come on then,” Suzy said two hours later. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”
“It might make you feel a bit funny,” Lucille warned.
“It won’t, I promise. I’m interested. Oh, this is so great!” Suzy waved her arm happily around Lucille’s new bedroom. “Tons more fun than bowling. I’ve never had a roommate before.”
Giving in, Lucille reached over the side of the double bed and hauled up the bag Celeste had tried to investigate earlier.
“Wait, I’ll go get mine.” Suzy leaped off the bed. “We’ll take turns, start from the beginning, see how we compare.”
* * *
Lucille had been right; it did feel a bit funny looking at photographs of your own mother suddenly being somebody else’s mother. In a strange house, smiling into the eyes of a strange man, proudly showing off a strange baby…
Except it wasn’t a strange baby, Suzy had to keep reminding herself. It was Lucille.
“You had hair,” she said accusingly, nudging Lucille with her forearm. “And look at you, you were gorgeous. Well, I’m sorry, but this isn’t very fair.”
“You were lovely too,” Lucille protested, pointing to a snapshot of Suzy at six months, lying in her baby carriage.
It was a valiant lie.
“I looked like a Sumo wrestler and I was as bald as an egg until I was two. According to my mother, I was the ugliest baby in Bristol.” Suzy sighed and turned to the next page of the album. “Happily, I blossomed. By the time I was three, I was totally gorgeous.”
“Not to mention modest,” said Lucille, her head bending over the photos. “Is this your dad? He looks nice.”
“That was taken at Julia’s birthday party. She was ten, I think. Going on fifty,” Suzy added with a smile. In the photo, a group of girls clowned for the camera while Julia, her pristine blue party dress teamed with white knee-length socks, stood stiffly at attention, clutching her father’s hand.
“Where’s Mum?” Lucille noticed that Blanche wasn’t featured in any of the photos taken on Julia’s birthday.
“Don’t know. Probably with you,” said Suzy. She pointed to one of the photos in Lucille’s album, of Lucille splashing in a paddling pool while Blanche looked on. “And there’s your dad.” She peered more closely at the smiling, dark-skinned man sitting next to Blanche. “Wow, he was handsome.”
They carried on leafing through the albums, following each other’s progress through childhood, comparing clothes, hairstyles, and vacations. On the beach at Bournemouth with Lucille, and in a pool on the Algarve with Suzy, their mother wore the same yellow daisy-patterned bikini.
“That was the villa we stayed in,” Suzy pointed out.
“And that was our caravan,” said Lucille. “In Mudeford.”
Suzy experienced a pang of guilt.
“Didn’t you ever wish you could go abroad?”
Lucille looked astonished.
“We had brilliant vacations. As long as Mum was there, I was happy. Nothing else mattered.”
Suzy was still trying to imagine Blanche roughing it in a tatty caravan park.
In Mudeford, Dorset.
Actually enjoying herself.
It was hardly the Zambezi, was it?
Suzy shook her head. “She must have really loved you and your dad.”
Proudly, Lucille said, “Oh, she did. And we loved her.”
Weirder and weirder. From the sound of things, Blanche had been a better mother to Lucille than she’d ever been to her legitimate family. Actually, it explained a lot—not least the toy parrot from Paraguay—allegedly—which she had later spotted on the shelves of the souvenir shop at the Bristol Zoo.
“All those years,” Suzy murmured, “she was sharing herself with—my God, there’s Harry!” Glad for the diversion, she pounced on the next photo in the album, of two teenagers on bikes pr
etending to push each other off. Lucille, her hair cropped short and her brown eyes bright with laughter, was wearing a Frankie Say Relax T-shirt and pink shorts. Next to her, Harry wore tight black jeans and a billowing crimson, pointy-collared shirt. He was grinning broadly, and his hair, which was long and curly, looked suspiciously blow-dried.
“That was his Duran Duran period,” Lucille confided. “He’s going to kill me for this.”
Suzy had to ask.
“Did you two ever…?”
“No. We were best friends, that’s all.”
“Are there any more like that?” Suzy began to eagerly riffle through the cellophane-encased pages. “Yes! Oh, this one’s brilliant! What was going on here?”
“New Year’s Eve party at Harry’s house. We must have been sixteen.” Lucille bent her head over the page, pointing out each of the people in the photo. “That’s Pearl Harris; she had a major crush on Harry. That one’s Shauna. She threw up in the goldfish bowl about five minutes after this picture was taken. I’m dancing with Ben Grigson—he kept trying to undo my shirt…and Harry’s chatting up Ben’s sister. I can’t remember her name, but she never did find her shoes. We fished them out of the pond in the back garden six months later.”
Suzy, following her finger, exclaimed suddenly, “And that’s…”
“Leo.”
Fascinated, Suzy peered at the tall figure on the far right of the picture. Leo must have been twenty or twenty-one then. He was leaning against the wall, clasping a drink and watching the proceedings with a faint supercilious smile on his lips. Some things never changed, Suzy realized. Then, as now, Harry had been the pretty one and Leo the more chiseled and mature of the two. He wore a striped rugby shirt and chinos and an air of older-brother boredom.
“He didn’t want to be there,” Lucille said wryly. “But he had to stay and make sure we didn’t accidentally burn the house down.”
Unable to resist it, Suzy said, “Did you ever…?”
“Oh, please.” Lucille started to laugh. “Leo was Harry’s big brother. I was Harry’s scruffy little friend. As far as Leo was concerned, we were just a couple of silly kids. I was scared stiff of him.”
At the mention of Leo’s name, Baxter had lifted his head. Suzy reached over the side of the bed and gave his ears a consoling rub.
“What about now?”
“Oh well, old habits die hard. He’s still Harry’s terrifying big brother.” Lucille shrugged. “I’ve never even thought of him in that way.”
Smiling, she tucked a row of beaded plaits behind one ear.
“But if you did?” Suzy persisted.
“I just wouldn’t. Come on. He’s way out of my league.”
What?
“I never think that.” Suzy looked amazed. “It never occurs to me that someone could be out of my league.”
“That,” Lucille replied, “is because you’re a confident, successful businesswoman. You live in a great apartment, you drive a Rolls, you wear wonderful clothes…”
“And I have an irresistible personality,” Suzy prompted.
“Oh well.” Lucille spread her hands. “Goes without saying.”
“Plus a totally fabulous body.”
“Exactly,” said Lucille with a slowly spreading smile.
“But don’t you see? So do you!”
“I walk dogs for a living,” Lucille said patiently. “I sing in pubs and clubs and get ignored totally. If I’m not ignored, I’m heckled by drunks. It doesn’t do wonders for your confidence, you know.”
Suzy rolled onto her side, trying to imagine it. If a drunk was daft enough to heckle her, she would launch herself at him, drag him by his ears into the nearest bathroom, and stuff his head down the toilet.
Then again, she wasn’t Lucille.
She couldn’t sing either.
Well, only like a scalded cat.
Glancing back at the photo of the New Year’s Eve party, she changed the subject.
“I showed Leo Mum’s house last night.”
“So I heard. He mentioned it this morning when he dropped Baxter off on his way to the airport.” A dimple appeared in one of Lucille’s cheeks. “Bit of an eventful evening, by all accounts.”
“He seemed interested.” Realizing the ambiguity of this statement, Suzy added hastily, “In the house, I thought.”
“Well, he sounded keen to me.”
“I wondered if it might be too big for him, what with all those bedrooms. But it didn’t put him off.”
“Oh, Leo wouldn’t worry about that,” said Lucille. “He’s going to need somewhere big, isn’t he? Him and Gabriella are bound to want loads of kids.”
Gabriella.
Kids.
Loads…
Suzy felt her stomach tighten abruptly and do a kind of swoop of disappointment.
God, I really hate it when this happens.
Bugger, bugger, bum.
Aloud, she said casually, “Who’s Gabriella?”
“Didn’t Leo mention her?” Lucille looked surprised. “Oh, she’s stunning. She and Leo have been together for, ooh, must be a year now. They’re getting married in December.”
Chapter 15
“Harry, no, stop it! When I said come in for coffee,” Suzy explained, “I did actually mean coffee.”
“Come on, we’ve had such a fantastic evening,” murmured Harry, his mouth nuzzling her neck. “You can’t do this to me. You know you want to as much as I do.”
“Yes, yes, of course I do. But listen, Harry, I make it a strict rule never to sleep with a man until I’ve known him for at least six weeks.”
That put a stop to the nuzzling. Harry drew back, astonished.
“In heaven’s name, why?”
Hooray, she could breathe again.
“It stops me from being a tart.” Suzy smoothed down her skirt, shook back her ruffled-with-passion hair, and flicked the switch on the kettle. “And it’s nice! You have time to look forward to it…all that gorgeous anticipation… Now, proper coffee or instant?”
She was reaching for the coffeepot. Harry, who couldn’t be bothered with anticipation—gorgeous or otherwise—said, “Instant.” He shook his own head in bewilderment. “But six weeks.”
“And being stopped for speeding on the highway doesn’t count.” Suzy guessed he was busily counting backward.
“Damn.” Harry sighed. He leaned back against the kitchen wall, his face a picture of disbelief. “So you’re telling me you actually persuade other blokes to go along with this?”
“They don’t have to. I can’t force them,” Suzy told him cheerfully, “can I? Some stick around and some don’t. Which is fine by me too. If they like me enough, they’ll wait. If all they’re after is a quickie and another notch on their bachelor bedposts, well then…” She shrugged, unperturbed. “They’re no loss.”
She meant it. She really meant it, Harry could tell.
Aloud, he said, “But I’m still allowed to kiss you?”
“Oh, yes.” Suzy’s smile was dazzling. “You’re definitely allowed to kiss me. Two sugars or three?”
Harry watched her pile three sugars into her own cup, then hover a heaped spoonful inquiringly over his.
“Just one.”
“See?” exclaimed Suzy. “How could I sleep with you when I don’t even know if you take sugar in your coffee?” With an air of triumph she waved the spoon at him. “I mean, wouldn’t that just be the pits? Talk about sleazy…ugh!”
Harry, not used to being turned down, smiled and slid his arms around her waist. It was the most ridiculous rule he’d ever heard of. And rules were made to be broken, weren’t they?
Slowly, he kissed Suzy’s neck and whispered, “One sugar. There, now you know.”
Behind them the kitchen door burst open, and Baxter, his claws clicking like castanets
on the red-and-white-tiled floor, bounded across the kitchen to greet them. Springing apart from each other, Suzy and Harry braced themselves for violent impact.
Lucille gasped, slithering to a halt in the doorway. “God, sorry. I didn’t realize you two were…ummm…”
“Having a coffee,” said Suzy, clinging on to the red marble countertop and submitting to Baxter’s enthusiastic welcome. She grabbed the jar of Taster’s Choice and waved it at Lucille. “Can I make one for you too?”
* * *
Suzy heaved a sigh of relief the moment Harry had gone. “Saved by the dog.”
“Oh Lord, this isn’t going to work out, is it? Me living here.” Lucille looked worried. “I feel terrible, like a giant contraceptive. I’m really cramping your style.”
“Please. I want my style to be cramped.”
Kicking off her high heels and throwing herself onto the sofa, Suzy explained her six-week rule to Lucille.
When she had finished, Lucille looked almost as horrified as Harry had done earlier.
“What, never?”
“Well, never say never.” Suzy wiggled her toes. “We’re all allowed the occasional lapse. Sometimes these things take you by surprise.” The corners of her mouth began to twitch. “You get carried away and…it just happens.”
“But not with Harry.”
“Well, not yet,” Suzy agreed.
Lucille was looking troubled. “Then again you haven’t exactly had the chance, have you? Thanks to me.”
“Don’t worry about it—oh, tell me what happened on EastEnders tonight! Did Peggy find out yet about the affair?”
Effortlessly, Suzy changed the subject—but Lucille had certainly had a point when she’d made her last remark about Harry. Oh dear, it wasn’t looking promising, was it? After all her talk about the thrill of the wait, where was that sense of mounting excitement, the shuddery, bungee jumping adrenaline rush of anticipation? Gone on vacation, by the feel of things. Walked off with its hands in its pockets like a bored teenager.
It simply wasn’t happening, Suzy realized with a pang. By now she should have reached the stage where she couldn’t wait to rip Harry’s clothes off.