Good at Games

by Jill Mansell

  “Lucille’s arrived,” Jaz had told him, somehow managing to remain upright.

  Catching them completely by surprise, the train back to Bristol had left right on time.

  “Hell.” Jaz sighed. “Don’t these drivers realize we rely on them being late?”

  “We could get a burger or something.” Lucille pointed out the stand over to their right. Far too excited to eat at San Lorenzo earlier, she was now ravenous.

  “A burger.” Jaz looked at her, an odd sensation slowly stirring in his stomach. Not for the first time, if he was honest. And it wasn’t hunger for a burger either.

  “There’s the croissant stall if you’d prefer. If you want to be posh about it.” Lucille flashed him a grin.

  He liked the way she mocked him. Just like Suzy.

  “This is mad.” Jaz looked at his watch. “By the time we get home it’ll be nine o’clock. We need to be back up here first thing tomorrow morning. Why don’t we just book into a hotel?”

  “Um…”

  “You’re not eating a cheeseburger and fries. Not today.” Jaz shook his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t let that happen. We’ll stay at the Savoy, have a decent dinner, get a proper night’s sleep…then tomorrow we can be at the studio by ten, all ready to go.”

  “Um…”

  “It makes more sense. And I don’t have to be back in Bristol tonight,” said Jaz. “Do you?”

  “No,” Lucille managed to say finally. She felt as if she’d been asked a question that was actually much more complicated than it sounded. But that was stupid. She was being stupid. Staying in London was a purely practical suggestion. Jaz was right, it made absolute sense.

  “So how about it then?”

  “OK,” Lucille added, “but not the Savoy.”

  Jaz teased, “Oh God, do you absolutely hate it there?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Don’t worry about the bill. My treat.”

  “I didn’t mean that either.” Lucille tugged at the frayed hem of her ancient gray sweatshirt. “I’m just not sure they’d let me in.”

  * * *

  Somewhere in the distance, a clock was chiming midnight. In the ladies’ bathroom of the Savoy Grill, Lucille gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

  Her hair was fastened up pineapple style. The gold slip dress shimmered like water as she leaned closer to reapply her lipstick. Blinking, she checked that the gold eye shadow hadn’t rubbed off or gone blotchy.

  It hadn’t. Hooray.

  Then again, it was the most expensive eye shadow she’d ever bought. At twenty-two pounds fifty—yikes!—it jolly well should stay put.

  As for the dress…well, that was entirely Jaz’s fault. He was the one who had bundled her out of the taxi on Brompton Road—hooray for Thursdays and late opening—and dragged her through the doors of the exclusive little dress shop with the alarming habit of leaving the price tags off its clothes.

  “Honestly, Topshop’s fine for me.” Her protests had made the sales assistants shudder visibly. Just as well she’d had Jaz with her; otherwise, she’d have been out on her nondesigner ear.

  Then again, if she hadn’t had Jaz with her, she would never have gone in there in the first place. She’d have gone to Topshop.

  “Stop fussing,” Jaz had told her when she’d tried to stop him from buying her a pair of shoes. “You can’t wear your sneakers with a dress like that.”

  What’s happening to me? thought Lucille, gazing at her reflection now in front of the mirror. Why do I feel as if I’m about to parachute blindfolded out of a plane?

  More to the point, it’s midnight, we’ve finished dinner, and we’re heading up to our rooms for that all-important good night’s sleep. So why am I standing here in the ladies’ bathroom putting more lipstick on?

  And more perfume?

  Not to mention mascara?

  Oh God. Lucille shook her head at her shameless reflection.

  As if she didn’t know.

  * * *

  Jaz was waiting for her by the elevators. In Harvey Nichols earlier he had bought—in five minutes flat—a black Versace suit, an orange shirt, and a purple tie. Somehow, they went. Jaz, being Jaz, was able to pull it off. Chiefly because he wasn’t the least bit bothered whether he did or not.

  The last two and a half weeks had been an incredible experience for Lucille. Being closeted in the studio with Jaz, the two of them working so closely together—and with such intensity—had been a crash course in getting to know him. Music was his passion and his enthusiasm was enthralling. Now that he knew he could produce songs without the aid of his cowriters, Mr. Bushmills and Mr. J. Walker, he was unstoppable. He was like a six-year-old boy discovering he could ride his bike without training wheels. Watching him in action sent shivers of exhilaration down Lucille’s spine.

  And I helped, I really did. He told me he wouldn’t have been able to do it without me.

  * * *

  It had been a fabulous day and an even more fabulous evening. Throughout dinner they had talked and argued and laughed nonstop. Now, as they made their way up in the elevator, the conversation abruptly dried up.

  On the third floor, the walk along the thickly carpeted corridor seemed to go on forever.

  Jaz had booked adjoining rooms.

  Don’t invite me in for coffee, Lucille silently pleaded. Just don’t. And don’t start telling me it’s been a brilliant evening, because I already know that.

  Jaz didn’t say either of these things. He didn’t say anything at all, just stood there and looked at Lucille. With such silent intensity she thought she might faint.

  Finally, reaching out, Jaz touched her right hand, then lifted it to his lips and briefly—as light as a butterfly—kissed the backs of her fingers.

  He did this once, then twice, before releasing her hand, nodding good night and turning to the door of his room.

  He unlocked it, went in without looking back, closing the door behind him.

  And opened it again, less than a second later.

  “It’s no good,” said Jaz with a sigh. “I can’t not do this.”

  Lucille held her breath, her heart rattling against her ribs like a monkey desperate to get out. As Jaz moved toward her, it all seemed to be happening in slow motion. When he was directly in front of her, their bodies not touching but separated by less than an inch from head to foot, he tilted his own head and kissed her, slowly and with infinite tenderness, on the mouth.

  Fireworks were going off under Lucille’s skin. Keeping his distance physically—even if the distance was minuscule—meant all the sensations her body was clamoring for were concentrated into that one kiss.

  It was the most incredible experience of her life.

  Not to mention an utterly brilliant seduction technique.

  From that moment, Lucille knew there could be no going back.

  It was what she’d longed to happen—and simultaneously dreaded happening—for weeks.

  “Sorry,” Jaz murmured again against her ultrasensitive mouth. “I couldn’t not do it. There’s only so much temptation a man can be expected to resist.”

  Lucille nodded, understanding.

  “Right.” She stepped back. “Good night then.”

  Jaz stared at her.

  “Just joking,” said Lucille with a smile.

  Chapter 44

  A truck beeped its horn on the street outside, and Lucille woke with a start. For a split second she couldn’t think where she was. Then it all came back in a rush.

  The Savoy.

  More to the point, Jaz’s room at the Savoy.

  And even more to the point, in Jaz’s king-size bed.

  Oh, crikey, we’ve gone and done it, thought Lucille. Um…twice.

  Tilting her head to one side, she gazed over at the scarily expensive slip dress, l
ying like a small gold puddle on the floor a few feet away from her own (embarrassingly inexpensive) panties and Jaz’s rumpled orange shirt.

  Fancy not even hanging up a dress that had cost more than some people’s cars. Now that was definitely a rock-chicky thing to do.

  Oh God, we actually did it. And it was out of this world.

  The next moment, two things happened simultaneously to make Lucille feel as if the prison gates were clanging shut on her heart.

  First, she remembered—claaang—where she’d heard that verdict before. A girly gossip with Suzy, weeks ago, late one night over bowls of eye-wateringly hot chili and a bottle of Bardolino. They’d been talking about men and sex—as you do—and Suzy had confided—again, as you do—that basically, in bed, Jaz had always been pretty spectacular. Her actual words, in fact, had been, “He wasn’t just a genius songwriter. When it came to sex, he really was out of this world.”

  Clang-claaang.

  The second thing that happened at that moment—as Lucille was realizing just how pyrotechnically Suzy would react if she ever heard about the events of last night—was that Jaz, still fast asleep, grabbed her by the shoulder and shouted out in a voice hoarse with anguish, “No, Celeste…please don’t.”

  The prison gates were still reverberating. Frozen with shame and self-loathing, Lucille lay there rigid until his hand slid off her shoulder and his breathing slowed and grew steady once more. Even in his sleep, his subconscious was worrying away, terrified that this one careless lapse might threaten his relationship with Celeste.

  He doesn’t want to lose her, thought Lucille. And he’s scared I’ll blab.

  Last night had seemed so right. She’d actually thought he’d meant it. But he hadn’t; of course he hadn’t. All she’d been was a bit of fun, a handy diversion, a meaningless one-off.

  And I slept with my sister’s ex-husband, Lucille reminded herself, without even considering how she might feel about it.

  Except she did know how Suzy would feel about it. She knew only too well.

  Oh God, what a mess, mess, mess.

  * * *

  When Jaz woke up an hour later, he knew at once exactly where he was.

  But the bed was empty. Lucille had gone. So had her panties, but not the gold dress that was now draped neatly over the back of one of the chairs.

  Oh dear, had he been snoring? Not the best of starts.

  Unable to remember Lucille’s room number, Jaz buzzed reception and asked them to call it for him.

  “No reply, sir.”

  “Try again,” said Jaz. “Maybe she’s still asleep.”

  But a cold feeling began to uncurl in the pit of his stomach. Suzy had told him Lucille was a light sleeper. If the phone was ringing, she’d wake up at once.

  “Still trying for you, sir. Although…are we talking about the young lady with the beads in her hair? Gray sweatshirt, black trousers?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “She left the hotel a while ago, sir. I saw her going past the desk at, ooh, around six fifteen.”

  Jaz looked at his watch. It was now seven o’clock.

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Somehow he knew Lucille hadn’t gone out for an early morning jog.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, thought Jaz.

  * * *

  The phone rang twenty minutes later. Snatching it up, Jaz said, “Lucille, is that you? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He knew it had to be Lucille. Nobody else would have called him so early; they’d all be asleep themselves.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened.” Lucille’s voice was strained. She sounded thoroughly disgusted with herself. “The main thing is, you must never, ever tell Suzy or Celeste.”

  Jaz closed his eyes in despair. “What’s it got to do with Suzy?”

  There was a brief pause.

  “Come on.” Lucille sighed. “It’s got everything to do with Suzy. We made a big, big mistake, and I can’t believe it happened, but it did, and you mustn’t let it ruin what you have with Celeste, so just promise me you won’t tell Suzy—”

  “Hey, no, you come on,” Jaz said, desperate to find out what was going on before she hung up on him. For the last half hour his brain had been working overtime, and one of the especially hideous possibilities was sounding more and more likely by the second. “What are you saying here—that Suzy actually put you up to this?”

  Silence.

  “Jesus!” howled Jaz. “I don’t believe it! Suzy can’t stand Celeste; she’d love it if we broke up…so she persuaded you to sleep with me…?”

  More silence. At the other end of the phone, Lucille marveled at his train of thought. If he seriously thought she would have sex with a man purely because her sister had asked her to…well, then that meant he seriously thought she was nothing but a prostitute.

  “As far as they’re concerned, nothing happened,” Lucille repeated evenly. “Tell Suzy I’ll be in touch.”

  “What? You have to come back here.” Jaz felt sick. “We’re meeting Jerry at KMC at ten o’clock.”

  “Sorry, you’ll have to do it without me. My money’s running out. Bye.”

  “No—”

  But it was too late; the line had already gone dead.

  “Oh, fucking hell,” shouted Jaz, only just managing to stop himself from yanking the phone cord out of the wall.

  * * *

  Jerry Kessler had had his legal team working overtime to draw up the contract. Now it was on his desk, all ready to sign.

  “Bit of a problem.” Jaz knew he may as well come straight to the point. “Lucille and I had a…misunderstanding this morning. She’s disappeared.”

  Jerry wasn’t easily fazed. He was used to extravagant shows of temperament. Last year, he’d signed a band so outrageously badly behaved they’d made Oasis look like Trappist monks.

  “This is her big chance. She’ll change her mind,” he told Jaz. “Turn up half an hour late, of course, and need a big fuss made over her, but I’m sure we can manage that.” He gave Jaz a jovial clap on the back. “We’ve had enough practice, eh?”

  “That’s not Lucille.” Jaz knew she wouldn’t turn up. It wasn’t Lucille’s style to change her mind. But there was no alternative other than to wait and hope that—for once—she might.

  Ten thirty came and went.

  “OK, forget her,” announced Dixon Wright, the director of A&R. “Who’s the big name around here, anyway? You wrote the song,” he told Jaz. “You sing it. We’ll sell a million copies.”

  “Not a chance.” Jaz shook his head.

  “We will! I guarantee it!”

  “I mean I’m not recording the song. I wrote it for Lucille. Either she sings it,” said Jaz, “or nobody does.”

  “Christ.” Dixon pressed the intercom and shouted to his secretary outside. “Linda? Bring in that bottle of Bushmills, will you?” Taking out a vast emerald-green hanky, he mopped his sweating forehead. “I need a drink.”

  * * *

  An hour later, back in Bristol, Lucille let herself into Suzy’s apartment. Suzy was at work, just as she’d expected—and had been banking on—and Harry appeared to be out too. When she called his name and tapped on his bedroom door, there was no response. Relieved that Celeste wasn’t there with him—God, how could she ever look Celeste in the eye again?—Lucille moved fast. It took her less than ten minutes to pack a couple of bags. After last Sunday’s big fight with Suzy, they were getting used to being hauled down from the top of the closet and stuffed willy-nilly with clothes.

  OK done. What next?

  In the kitchen, Lucille pulled her dog-walking timetable down from the corkboard, called the owners one after the other, apologized, and explained briefly that she had to go away.

  Next, she phoned Leo at the restaurant and apologi
zed even more profusely for letting him down.

  “What’s this all about?” Leo, bless him, sounded concerned. Then his voice grew taut. “Is it to do with Suzy?”

  Feeling mean, Lucille said, “Kind of. She’s still upset about Blanche. I think a bit of space would do us both good.”

  Finally, bracing herself, she called Suzy’s cell phone.

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Suzy sounded astonished. “Why? Oh, for God’s sake,” she suddenly exclaimed, “don’t tell me Jaz made a pass at you!”

  Lucille shuddered and closed her eyes. Suzy had the alarming ability to get down to the nitty-gritty in no time at all.

  “Don’t be daft; of course he didn’t make a pass at me. This has nothing to do with Jaz.”

  “Well, good,” Suzy declared. “So why, then?”

  Phew. She’d lied and gotten away with it. Incredible.

  “Look, I think we both need a break, that’s all.” Even as the words were spilling out, Lucille couldn’t believe she was still foisting the blame onto Suzy.

  I’m such a horrible person.

  “We?” Suzy sounded horrified. “As in us? You and me?”

  “It’s just…the whole s-situation,” stammered Lucille. “Our mother died. A lot’s happened… It’s changed our whole lives…”

  “For the better,” wailed Suzy, sounding desolate. “Oh, Luce, please… Is this because of all the stuff I said to you on Sunday? Look, where are you? At the apartment? Just wait there, OK? I’m at Kingsweston Court, but I can be home in five minutes—”

  “Don’t,” Lucille said firmly, “because I’m leaving now.”

  Out of sheer desperation, Suzy shouted, “But what am I going to do about Harry?”

  Poor Harry, Lucille didn’t even envy him one bit. Falling for Suzy hadn’t been the wisest move he’d ever made. God knows, he didn’t deserve to be hurt like this.

  “Harry’s brilliant,” she told Suzy. “I hope you realize how lucky you are.”

  And before Suzy could splutter a reply, Lucille put down the phone.

  * * *

  The front door slammed, and the apartment subsided into silence once more.