by Jill Mansell
You just help yourself to a nice Snickers or a Heath bar instead.
* * *
In the office the following morning Donna said, “You’ve got someone else interested in Sheldrake House.” She pointed to a slot in Suzy’s diary. “I penciled him in for midday. He said he’d meet you there.”
“What’s his name? Is he on our books?” Suzy peered across the desk.
“Dr. Price. And no, he isn’t. But a buyer’s a buyer,” said Donna, sensing her lack of enthusiasm. “And he sounds as if he knows what he wants.”
To turn it into a nursing home probably, Suzy thought, which isn’t what I want at all. The prospect of the beautiful house she had grown up in being converted into a rest home for incontinent geriatrics wasn’t exactly a cheery one. It deserved better than that.
Maybe this afternoon she should give Leo another call.
Suzy heaved a gusty sigh. It was still a bit of a bugger, Leo turning out to have a fiancée.
Then again, if he weren’t marrying this Gabriella—and what a show-offy name that was—the chances were that he wouldn’t be interested in buying Sheldrake House.
* * *
Suzy was the first to arrive at the house, just before midday. Unlocking the heavy front door and stepping into the hall, she breathed in the comfortingly familiar smell of the home in which she had grown up.
Would it still smell like this in a year’s time, when other people were living in it? Not if this Dr. Price turned the place into a rest home, that was for sure. It would just smell of air freshener and eau de wee.
The sound of tires crunching on gravel propelled Suzy over to the front door. A gleaming white Audi pulled up and a pretty girl in a white broderie anglaise sundress jumped out. Baby-blond hair, gleaming like satin in the sunlight, swung around her shoulders. She had a neat, tiny figure. White ballet-type pumps on her feet. No makeup whatsoever, and no jewelry either. She didn’t need makeup, Suzy realized. She was…how old? Twenty-one, twenty-two, maybe? And stunning. Totally stunning. Sparkly eyed and friendly looking. The kind of girl you couldn’t help but take to on sight.
Dr. Price’s girlfriend?
His—ahem—personal secretary?
Or his daughter?
Granddaughter, even?
“Hello, I’m Suzy Curtis.” Descending the steps, Suzy held out her hand in greeting. “Well, we’re on time! Trust the man to be late.”
The girl laughed. “Absolutely. Hi, nice to meet you. Gaby Price.”
Naturally, she had the perfect handshake. Cool, not too firm, not too limp.
“Well, how shall we do this?” said Suzy. “Make a start now? Or wait until Dr. Price gets here?”
“Oh dear, brace yourself.” The girl smiled broadly at her, revealing the kind of pearly teeth a four-year-old might possess. “I’m afraid I’m Dr. Price.”
Suzy gazed at her in disbelief. “You can’t be!”
Gaby Price said teasingly, “Women can be doctors too, you know.”
“Oh please, I didn’t mean that!” Embarrassing or what? “But…the receptionist who took your call this morning…she said you were a he.”
Heavens, was Donna on drugs or something?
“Ah. My secretary called your office and made the appointment,” said Gaby Price. “I have a male secretary.”
“But you look so young!” Suzy couldn’t help it; she couldn’t wait to find out which moisturizer this girl used. “I mean, how old do you have to be to be a doctor?”
“I’m fully qualified, I promise you,” said Gaby Price with a mischievous smile. “And since you ask, I’m twenty-nine.”
Up close, her complexion was flawless. This girl-woman doctor, thought Suzy, wouldn’t know a pore if it came up and grabbed her by the throat. In fact, she was a walking miracle. The incredible poreless woman.
Still dazed, she said, “You look about seventeen.”
“It’s not always an advantage.” Gaby’s tone was rueful. “Particularly when you’re trying to exert a bit of authority on belligerent patients who don’t want to hear what you have to tell them.”
Suzy was fascinated. She was bursting to ask a million questions. But Dr. Price was already glancing at her watch. Clearly, her time was both valuable and limited.
Switching into efficient businesswoman mode, Suzy stepped to one side and ushered the girl-woman—whatever—ahead of her into the house.
“Right, let’s get on with it, shall we? And before we start, I’d better explain that this house is pretty special to me. You see, it was my mother’s—”
“Oh, I know all about that.” In the cool, oak-paneled hall, Gaby Price laid a reassuring hand briefly on her arm. “Leo told me the whole story.” She smiled, gazing around with unconcealed pleasure. “This is where you grew up.”
Chapter 17
“I felt like such an idiot.” Suzy groaned, streamers of Scotch tape dangling from her teeth and fingers as she fought a losing battle with Harry’s birthday present. That was the trouble with metallic wrapping paper; instead of obediently staying where you put it, it much preferred to do its own slithery thing. “God, she must have thought I was a complete—ouch!”
“Here, let me.”
Lucille, fresh from the shower and wrapped in an orange satin robe, deftly removed the Scotch tape strips from Suzy’s fingers, leaving her free to finish peeling away the strip that had stuck itself painfully to her bottom lip. Collapsing onto the floor next to Suzy, she gripped the delinquent parcel between her knees. Within seconds it was taped into submission.
“You know what you should be?” Relieved that the hideous task was at last completed—and even gladder that her lip wasn’t bleeding—Suzy gave her a hug. “One of Santa’s Little Helpers, that’s what.”
“But does it matter if Gabriella thinks you’re a complete idiot?” said Lucille. Completely idiotically, in Suzy’s view. “I mean, so long as she likes the house. And you’re pretty sure she did like it, aren’t you?”
“Well, I can usually tell.”
Getting on with the business at hand, Suzy flipped open the card she had chosen for Harry. Nothing slushy, heaven forbid. In the end, she had gone for something the polar opposite of slushy. Permafrosty, perhaps.
“That’s good news then, isn’t it?” Lucille sounded encouraging.
“Of course it is. I just keep cringing at the thought of her going back to Leo, saying, ‘Blimey, that Curtis girl’s a few wasps short of a picnic, isn’t she? Are you sure you want to do business with a company like that?’”
This was a big fib, of course, but Suzy couldn’t bring herself to tell Lucille the true reason—that seeing as she had a bit of a crush on Leo Fitzallan, she really didn’t want him to think of her as a stupid, idiotic type of person.
“You’re underestimating Gabriella. She’s lovely,” said Lucille.
Lovely, Suzy thought. Hate that word.
Unclicking her pen—but sadly not her brain—she scrawled Yours sincerely, S Curtis across the bottom of Harry’s card.
“Oops,” said Lucille with a grin.
“Oh, bum. Now I’ll have to go out and buy another one.” Suzy glanced up at the clock in dismay. “Half past seven…and I haven’t even started getting ready yet!” Punctuality was her big thing; she hated being late.
“You jump in the shower. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a card,” said Lucille.
Phew, that was a relief. The shops were all closed by now. Lucille was evidently the organized type who kept a stash of all-purpose cards for emergencies.
“You’ve got spares?” said Suzy.
Lucille levered herself upright.
“No, but the all-night gas station will.”
* * *
It was one of those squirm-makingly awkward moments. By the time Lucille arrived back at the apartment it was three minutes to eight. All
dressed up and ready to go, Suzy gazed at the card Lucille had chosen on her behalf.
“Happy Birthday to the One I Love,” proclaimed the curly gold lettering on the front, intertwined with forget-me-nots and butterflies.
It was even worse inside.
There was a poem.
“They didn’t have a huge selection,” said Lucille. She added brightly, “It’s all right, though, isn’t it?”
My Heart Is Yours Forever
You Mean Everything to Me
Together We’ll Be Happy
for All Eternity.
Feeling a bit sick, Suzy swallowed hard. Her own lousy taste in music was nothing compared with Lucille’s taste in birthday cards.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eight.
“Go on then, sign it,” Lucille urged.
“Ummm, isn’t it a bit over the top?”
“Don’t be so fussy. I told you, they didn’t have a lot to choose from.”
Oh God. Lucille looked as if she was about to start taking offense. Suzy hurriedly reached for the pen.
“What shall I put?”
“Love from Suzy.” Lucille rolled her eyes, amazed at her stupidity.
Love. From Suzy. Oh well, it was only a word on a card, wasn’t it? People didn’t read it and automatically assume that you did love them, did they?
Mentally crossing her fingers, she quickly signed as instructed.
“There, all done. Thanks for getting it for me.” Suzy couldn’t help picturing Harry’s face when he opened the card. Maybe she could turn it into a huge joke. Crikey, she hoped he wouldn’t sue the pants off her for breach of contract when she broke up with him in, ooh, roughly forty-eight hours’ time…
“I can’t believe it’s going so well between you broke up,” Lucille said happily. “My oldest friend and my newfound sister. I mean, how amazing is that?”
With a jolt, Suzy realized why she hadn’t been totally honest, Harry-wise, with Lucille. It was precisely because Lucille was so thrilled by the idea of the two of them as an item that she hadn’t had the heart to come clean. Inwardly, Suzy winced. Breaking up with Harry was probably going to disappoint Lucille more than it would him.
Ten minutes passed.
“He’s going to love his present,” said Lucille, giving the silver-wrapped parcel an enthusiastic pat.
I should hope so too, thought Suzy, who had paid a ludicrous amount of money for the Ralph Lauren lilac cashmere crewneck sweater. It was one of those guilt buys, of course. No newly dumped ex-boyfriend of hers was going to be given the chance to call her a cheapskate.
And now it was twelve minutes past eight. For heaven’s sake, Suzy thought indignantly, was there anything more annoying than people who couldn’t be bothered to turn up on time on their birthday?
Aloud, she said, “If he’s not here by quarter past, he won’t be getting his present. I mean, where is he? He’s late.”
By eight thirty, there was still no sign of Harry. Planning to break up with someone was one thing, Suzy rapidly discovered, but being stood up by them was quite another.
Tired of stalking up and down the sitting room, Suzy paused in front of the huge oval gilded mirror above the marble fireplace. She looked terrific, didn’t she? In her new strappy tangerine silk dress and with her hair fastened up with silver combs? She was wearing seven-denier stockings, two hundred pounds’ worth of Manolo Blahnik stilettos…even a brand-new bra and matching panties in topaz yellow lace. Which was a pretty generous gesture on her part, Suzy felt, considering she hadn’t even been intending to let Harry see them.
And her makeup was perfect.
Swinging around, Suzy said, “Tell me, am I the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen? Do I look totally hideous?”
“Yes, awful.” Lucille was stretched out across the sofa, idly flicking through the TV channels. Grinning, she said, “All right. You look fantastic.”
Suzy spread her arms in amazement.
“I know. I know I do! So what I also want to know is why hasn’t the fucker turned up?”
* * *
By nine o’clock Suzy had had enough.
“Right, that’s it.” Picking up Harry’s painstakingly wrapped birthday present, she flung it across the room. “Harry Fitzallan is now officially a bastard.”
Lucille patted the cushions on the sofa next to her.
“Titanic’s about to start.”
“I can’t stay in!” wailed Suzy. “I won’t stay in! I spent hours getting ready to go out—”
“Well, twenty-five minutes,” said Lucille, to be fair.
“—and I’m jolly well going to. Otherwise, all this”—Suzy gestured to her hair, her makeup, her seven-denier stockings—“will be wasted.”
“OK,” said Lucille.
“If only I had someone to go out with.” Suzy heaved a sigh and looked soulful. “Someone who could cheer me up, someone really kind and lovely… Did I ever tell you, by the way, that you are absolutely my favorite sister?”
Lucille thought for a moment. “No.”
“Well, that is so weird, because you are, you really are! In fact, you’re my most favorite sister in all the world…”
“Would you like me to come out with you tonight?”
Suzy leaned across the sofa and enveloped her in a bear hug. “I thought you’d never ask!”
Disentangling herself, Lucille stood up and indicated her baggy tank top and khaki combat pants. “Give me ten minutes to get changed.” Over her shoulder, she added, “And give Harry another call.”
“He doesn’t deserve one. Anyway, I’d much rather go out with you.”
“Just try,” said Lucille. “It’s his birthday, after all. Imagine if he turned up five minutes after we’d left.”
“Serve him right!” Suzy exclaimed indignantly. It was what she was hoping would happen. Then he’d know how it felt to be left high and dry.
Partly to placate Lucille—and to pass the time while she was getting changed—Suzy gave Harry-the-Bastard’s cell phone one last try. It rang, then switched to voice mail. She dialed his apartment. No reply. Finally, she rang the police station where Harry was based, just to check—again—that he hadn’t been called in on some emergency.
He hadn’t, surprise surprise. Even more irritatingly, the desk sergeant who had picked up the phone on both occasions sounded as if he was smirking all over his fat, ugly, red face.
Suzy had never met him, but he sounded as if he had a fat, ugly, red face.
“Still no luck, eh? Sorry, love, can’t help you. Looks like he’s forgotten he was meant to be meeting up with you. Want to leave a message, love? Would you like me to tell old Harry boy what you think of him for standing you up?”
Suzy could hear snorts of laughter in the background, plus a few ribald comments. She was clearly providing in station entertainment for the whole shift. Without bothering to reply, she hung up just as Lucille reappeared in a black top and a short white skirt that showed off her long legs.
“No luck?” Lucille nodded at the phone, sounding worried. “Maybe something’s happened.”
Ha, thought Suzy, chance would be a fine thing.
“People always think that, and it’s never true. All that’s happened is Harry’s decided not to turn up tonight.”
It was probably his childish idea of revenge, Suzy thought, his way of paying her back for refusing to sleep with him.
“He could be ill,” Lucille pleaded. Catching the look in Suzy’s eye, she added, “I’m not just trying to make up an excuse.”
She was, of course, but Suzy didn’t blame her. Harry was her best friend. It was Lucille’s job to defend him and come up with endless completely feeble excuses.
There was just one drawback…
“He’s got one of these, I’ve got one of these”—Suzy tapped her pho
ne dismissively—“and he hasn’t even bothered to call me. Let’s face it: there is no excuse.”
* * *
At Henry Africa’s Bar, on Whiteladies Road, they bumped into Adam Pettifer and his team from the Pettifer Agency on Blackboy Hill.
“Are all real estate agents like this?” gasped Lucille two hours later as Adam, whisking her between the tables, gave her an impromptu salsa lesson.
“No,” said Suzy. “Some of them can actually dance.”
“Oh, come on, cheer up.” Lucille had to shout to make herself heard above the chatter and music in the packed bar. “There’s a phone over there. Give him another call, if you want to.”
One of the Pettifer’s team was being served at the bar. Turning, he yelled, “Suzy! Another one for you?”
Suzy smiled and nodded, determined to get into the swing of things. Of course she didn’t want to phone Harry. The whole point of leaving her cell phone at home was so she wouldn’t spend the evening waiting for it to ring.
Or be tempted to keep trying Harry’s number.
Peeved wasn’t the word for how she was feeling. Honestly, the sheer nerve of the man. How dare Harry stand her up?
* * *
At midnight they piled out of Henry Africa’s and set about trying to flag down a cab. When—for some curious reason—no taxi driver seemed keen to transport eight noisy, well-oiled real estate agents and a dog-walker-cum-singer across Clifton, Suzy threw up her arms and declared, “This is hopeless. We’ll just have to walk.”
“Screw walking.” Adam Pettifer seized her by the waist. “We’re going to do this in style. We’ll…salsa!”
They danced their way along Alma Road and Buckingham Vale.
“Ow, my feet,” wailed Suzy, hopping and clutching Lucille’s arm for support as she pulled off first one shoe, then the other.
Lucille was still worried about Harry.
“What if he turned up at your house just after we went out?”
“Let’s not spoil the evening thinking about Harry.” Suzy attempted without success to stuff her stilettos into her handbag. Hopeless, much too small. Grabbing Adam’s arm, she jammed them instead into the pockets of his Armani jacket—one on each side, like panniers on a donkey.