Good at Games

by Jill Mansell

  Making his way over to the nearest beachfront bar, Jaz ordered another mineral water and sat gazing out to sea, watching Lucille in the distance, diving from the wooden platform and splashing around in the sparkling azure water like a playful dolphin.

  Shit, thought Jaz, I still don’t even know what I’m going to say.

  I need words. The right words.

  Can’t think of any.

  At the other side of the bar, two girls in matching parrot-pink bikinis giggled and nudged each other. It was, it was Jaz Dreyfuss. His blond hair was shorter, but it was definitely him. And his lips were moving; he was actually talking to himself—that was what years of excessive drinking did for you, ended up shriveling your brain.

  Jaz, not even aware that the two girls were watching him, tried to imagine saying casually, “Lucille, hi, fancy bumping into you here.”

  Ugh.

  Or maybe, jokingly, “D’you come here often?”

  Jesus. Awful. He shook his head in disgust. Why did this have to happen to him now? He was never usually at a loss for words.

  Ha! If only Suzy could see me now. She’d never let me live this down.

  “Drugs,” one of the girls whispered to the other. “See how twitchy he is? He’s only drinking water because he’s high as a kite on drugs.”

  “Ah, it’s a shame; he’d be really good-looking if only he didn’t twitch so much.”

  “Yeah. Still, wonder if he’d like to buy us a drink?”

  Dry-mouthed and oblivious to the attention he was receiving, Jaz watched Lucille swim effortlessly back to the shore and emerge sleek and glistening from the water. Reaching for her turquoise sarong, she shook it out, spread it on the dry sand, then sat down on it and lay back in order to enjoy the sun.

  Now what?

  Go over to her.

  I can’t, I just can’t.

  Don’t be such an idiot. Get over there. You’ve come all this way… What’s the worst that could happen?

  You mean apart from her telling me to piss off?

  “He’s out of it. Completely out of it,” hissed the first girl, slurping the last of her drink up through the straw and making a noise like a gurgling drain.

  “Hang on, he’s moving… He’s standing up… Aaargh, I think he’s coming over… Don’t look, don’t look…”

  “Excuse me,” said Jaz, and the two girls swung their blond heads around in unison and apparent surprise, grinning and chorusing, “Yes?”

  But Jaz, humiliatingly, wasn’t addressing them. Instead, leaning across the bar and pointing, he said to the bartender, “Could I borrow that?”

  The bartender, who was Mauritian and didn’t recognize Jaz, shot him a deeply suspicious look. “My guitar? You want to borrow my guitar?”

  In the evenings he did Elvis impersonations for the tourists. It bumped up his tips—and his appeal—no end.

  “Could I?” Jaz asked politely. “Would you mind?”

  “I don’t know.” The bartender hesitated, sounding doubtful.

  Swiftly, Jaz reached into his wallet. Having only arrived last night, he couldn’t remember for the life of him how many rupees there were to the pound. Waving a handful of five-hundred-rupee notes, he said, “Just for a few minutes? Please?”

  The bartender pocketed the notes before the gullible tourist came to his senses and managed to figure out just how much money he’d handed over—basically, enough to buy a dozen new guitars and a boat—and said, “Don’t damage it, OK?”

  “I won’t,” promised Jaz.

  That is, unless Lucille used it to batter him senseless.

  “Oh Jesus, the guy’s a complete fruitcake,” hissed the second blond. “He’s actually going to try to play us a song.”

  Chapter 52

  Lucille, her eyes closed, listened to the ultrasoft slap-slap of the waves breaking on the shore. Flexing her bare feet, she felt the silver-white sand, as fine as powdered sugar, sift between her toes. In the distance she could hear children playing, and farther along the beach a family was enthusiastically engaged in a game of volleyball. As the sunlight played on her eyelids, Lucille listened to the insect-like buzz of a monoplane flying overhead. Out to sea, a couple of Jet Skis began to rev up. And somebody behind her had switched on a radio…

  Every tiny hair on the back of Lucille’s neck prickled to attention as she recognized the song being played…or, more accurately, the bare bones of a song she knew almost as well as she knew her own name.

  I need to let you know

  I can’t let you go

  You leave me with no alternative…

  Oh my God, my God, thought Lucille, beginning to tremble uncontrollably. It was just a voice and a guitar. Jaz’s voice. So he’d gone ahead and recorded the song after all. Without her.

  You see it’s our affair

  And I can’t bear to share

  Your love—yours to take and mine to give

  Because I’d die, I’d die, I’d die for you

  If you asked me to

  You’re my angel, my miracle, my reason to live…

  Slowly, slowly, Lucille sat up. Who was she trying to kid?

  There was no radio playing behind her.

  She turned and gazed over her shoulder, following the direction of the music, until she traced it to the tiny circular beachfront bar with its palm-leaf roof underlit by fairy lights and two of its bar stools occupied by an apparently matching pair of blonds in bright pink bikinis.

  And there, sitting at the far end of the bar, was Jaz. He was wearing a crumpled white shirt and his favorite pair of battered old Levi’s, and Lucille’s heart flipped over like a pancake at the sight of him. No matter how hard she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to stop herself thinking about Jaz. And now, like some stupendous miracle, he was actually here.

  The next moment her stomach contracted with fear as it occurred to her that one of the bar stool blonds could be Celeste.

  It took ten seconds of concentrated squinting before Lucille was able to relax, having convinced herself that it was OK, neither of them were Celeste. Not unless Celeste had spent the last week and a half getting hair extensions, tattoos engraved around her belly button, and a mega boob job.

  * * *

  Barely able to breathe, let alone sing, Jaz watched Lucille head toward him. The guitar wasn’t great, but it was adequate, and anyway his fingers knew the chords by heart.

  As Lucille moved closer she joined in, her voice husky and hesitant at first, then gaining in confidence as Jaz reprised the chorus. Then, at the other end of the bar, he heard a girl’s voice complain loudly. “So how come she knows the words? I’ve never heard that song before in my life.”

  Breaking off abruptly, Jaz slid off his bar stool, passed the guitar back to the bartender and—when she reached him—took Lucille’s hand.

  When they were out of earshot, Lucille said, somewhat shakily, “Bit of a way to come, isn’t it, just to play one gig?”

  “I’m particular about my audience.” Jaz couldn’t help it; he reached out and touched her cheek. She really did have the most flawless complexion in the—

  “Don’t.” Lucille flinched away. “You mustn’t. Just because we’re here. It’s still not fair.”

  “Celeste’s gone.” Jaz felt the corners of his mouth begin to twitch uncontrollably. It was no good; every time he thought about it, he wanted to laugh. “She ran off with Harry.”

  Lucille’s eyes widened in amazement.

  “You mean…Suzy’s Harry?”

  “It’s a luurve thing, apparently. They couldn’t help themselves. Suzy’s furious because it’s left her looking like a jilted fiancée. Oh, and Celeste never was an alcoholic—it was just her way of getting to know me. And a lady named Merle Denison came looking for you. She spoke to Suzy and cleared up all manner of problems. I’ve got a
letter here for you, by the way. From Suzy.” Digging in his back pocket as he spoke, Jaz rattled on nervously, “So anyway, she’s much happier now, and she’ll be happier still when you forgive her for being such a belligerent, jealous cow.”

  “Crikey,” said Lucille when he finally paused for breath. “Did I just climb out of a Badedas bath?”

  Jaz smiled. “I know. A lot’s happened. Here’s the letter from Suzy.”

  He handed over the crumpled emerald-green envelope. Lucille gazed at it, then at him. “You came all this way to deliver a letter?”

  “I’ve felt pretty mean, to tell you the truth. Suzy’s been blaming herself for your disappearing act. She thinks it’s all her fault.” Tilting his head to one side, Jaz realized he had to stop wondering what on earth he was going to say, and just go for it. “You shouldn’t have run away, you know. What happened between us was never meant to be a one-night stand. I loved you…I love you,” he persisted, his voice beginning to break. “And OK, I didn’t know how I was going to end it with Celeste, but that’s all over now, I don’t have to worry about her anymore. There’s nothing to stop us being together. You and me. I mean it, Lucille…don’t look at me like that, I’m serious.”

  He was, he really was. A lump the size of a table tennis ball sprang into Lucille’s throat, because Jaz was always laughing, joking, and teasing those around him. The one thing he could never be accused of was being serious.

  God, what a mess. It meant so much to hear him say it, but she still couldn’t let it happen. Oh well, may as well be honest. He’d come a long way. The least she could do was tell him the truth. “Suzy would never forgive me.”

  Jaz looked astonished. “Forgive you? What for?”

  “You…and me,” faltered Lucille.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t get this at all. Why not?”

  God, talk about embarrassing. Unhappily, Lucille shrugged and mumbled, “She just wouldn’t, OK? She’d absolutely hate it.”

  “This,” Jaz declared, “is complete nonsense. Either that”—his dark eyes narrowed—“or a last-ditch excuse.”

  How could he think that? “It’s true!” Lucille blurted out. “She told me.”

  “Right.” Jaz yanked his phone out of his shirt pocket and dialed a number. “We’ll just see about that, shall we?”

  “Oh God,” wailed Lucille, “you can’t call her! This is sooo embarrassing.”

  “Not nearly as embarrassing as flying halfway around the world to ask someone to marry you,” said Jaz, “and being turned down flat.”

  Lucille gasped. “You haven’t asked me to marry you!”

  “Only because you haven’t given me the chance… Hello? Suzy? Hi, it’s me. Listen, I’ve got something I need to ask you.”

  In Bristol, Suzy shouted, “Jaz, where the bloody hell are you? Have you any idea how worried we’ve been? Are you drunk? Did you go out on a bender? Have you been arrested? Jesus, I’ve been going out of my mind… Are you calling from a police cell?”

  “Hang on, calm down. Stop yelling at me,” protested Jaz. “Of course I haven’t been drinking. What on earth made you think that?”

  “You said you were off to an AA meeting,” Suzy bellowed at him, “and you offered to drop my letter to Lucille into the mailbox on your way there. Except that was two days ago and there hasn’t been a word from you since. So what I’d like to know is what the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”

  “Relax, I’m fine. Now listen,” said Jaz, winking at Lucille and realizing that he no longer had to worry. “If I told you I was in love with another girl, would you be jealous?”

  “What?” spluttered Suzy. “Jealous? Jesus, why would I want to be jealous?” Suspiciously, she added, “Are you sure you’re not drunk?”

  “Absolutely sober, I promise. Now, how would you feel if I told you the girl I was in love with was your sister?”

  Suzy’s screech nearly perforated his eardrum. “JULIA? NO! NO, NO, NO. This has to be a JOKE. You can’t POSSIBLY BE IN LOVE WITH JULIA!”

  Calmly, Jaz said, “Other sister.”

  “Lucille? You…and Lucille…?” Suzy sounded dazed.

  “Would you be furious?”

  “I don’t get it. Furious about what? Jaz, is this some kind of joke? Are you really in love with Lucille?”

  “If you hate the idea,” Jaz said gravely, “I’ll forget all about it.” Ha! As if. “Won’t even mention it to her. I’d hate to be the cause of trouble between you and Lucille.”

  “Jaz, are you mad? I’d love it if you two got together! God, that’d be so fantastic.”

  She’d love it, Jaz mouthed at Lucille. Fantastic.

  “So you wouldn’t mind,” he double-checked with Suzy, “if I asked her to marry me?”

  “OF COURSE I WOULDN’T MIND, YOU BIG IDIOT,” Suzy roared in exasperation.

  “And you’ll tell Lucille that?”

  “I promise.” With exaggerated patience, Suzy said, “As soon as she gets back from Mauritius, if we ever get her back from Mauritius. I’ll tell her the very instant she steps off the plane.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t wait that long. Here.” Smiling at Lucille, Jaz slid his free arm around her bare waist, pulling her toward him. “Tell her now.”

  Chapter 53

  “Hi,” said Fee with a bright smile. “I’m back.”

  Rory, who was scrabbling on the floor beneath his desk for the pen he had just dropped, jerked upright and hit his head—clunk—against the underside of the left-hand drawer.

  “Oh, poor you!” Fee cried as, dazed, he made it into a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” murmured Rory, feeling sick and faint but somehow ecstatic at the same time. You’re back! At last! I’ve missed you so much!

  Of course, he didn’t actually say that. Instead, he held his breath and quietly quivered with pleasure while Fee examined his head.

  “Bit of a dent,” she pronounced at last, straightening up. “But no blood.”

  “Shame.” If there had been blood, she could have mopped it up. “I mean, good,” Rory hastily amended. “How are you, anyway? Mother better now?”

  “Tons better.”

  “You’re looking well.”

  “Thanks.” Fee blushed. “I just popped in to say hello, see how you all are.”

  Attempting joviality, Rory said, “All the better for seeing you!” and instantly wanted to die. Only a complete and utter nerd would say that.

  Seized with a sudden overwhelming urge to say, “God, sorry, I’m not really a nerd,” then realizing that this would only make matters worse, Rory rushed on, “Actually, we’ve been pretty busy. Managed to sell Harley House at last—ha-ha. And we’ve handled three apartments in Royal York Crescent in the last fortnight alone!”

  Oh, dazzling stuff. Absolutely riveting. Rubbing his head, Rory wondered unhappily if he could plead concussion.

  “Still working too hard,” Fee remarked, smiling and giving him a tut-tut look. “Suzy told me you missed the relaxation weekend.”

  “I know. I should have gone. Maybe another time, now that you’re back.” Rory didn’t allow himself to get his hopes up. By now he had surely blown it. The chances of Fee being interested in spending a relaxation weekend away with an uptight workaholic who was also now officially a world-class nerd had to be in the range of zero-to-nil.

  “Actually, I don’t know if you’d be able to get away”—Fee was pulling her woolly gloves off with her teeth and delving into her bag—“but I’ve got a leaflet here; there’s a great-sounding course in Snowdonia this weekend.” Pulling out the skinny brochure, she grimaced and said apologetically, “I suppose that’s too short notice.”

  In a daze, Rory said, “This weekend?”

  “I know. And it’s Thursday already. Oh well, it was just a thought.”

  “I’
m free,” announced Rory. “I can make it.” He nodded his head vigorously. He would make it if it killed him.

  “Are you sure?” Fee looked delighted.

  Rory, the great decision maker, nodded again. “Yes.”

  “So shall I give them a call?”

  “Absolutely. Just what we both need, a bit of a break. And this time,” Rory told Fee with absolute confidence, “nothing’s going to get in the way.”

  * * *

  “Can you believe it?” gasped Suzy as she was hurled by a gust of wind through the door of the office the following afternoon. “The middle of November and it’s starting to snow! They’re giving out weather warnings on the radio: gales, blizzards, the works. My nose feels as if it’s dropped off and my fingers have frostbite—I’m telling you, it’s like Siberia out there.”

  “Poor old Jaz and Lucille,” Donna remarked sympathetically, “stuck on some rotten beach in Mauritius.”

  “Sun, sea, and oodles of sex.” Suzy sighed. “God, I feel so sorry for them. I mean, why would anyone want to be there when they could be here, experiencing all this?” She waved an expansive arm, indicating the gray, windswept street outside, the huge sticky snowflakes swirling past almost horizontally, the bundled-up passersby struggling to stay upright. “And if this is what we’ve got in Bristol, imagine what it’s like in the wilds of Wales. You’re going to have to cancel your trip.” She looked over at Rory who was determinedly ignoring her. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

  Rory carried on furiously rattling keys on the computer. “We’ll be fine. Lot of fuss about nothing.”

  “Rory, you’ll never reach Snowdonia. The roads will be impassable. According to the weather forecast we’re in for a whole week of this stuff.”

  “I’m not canceling.” Rory’s jaw was set in a stubborn line. “I promised Fee we’d go, and that’s it. We’re going.”

  Suzy and Donna exchanged glances.

  “But Fee might not want to go,” Suzy patiently explained. “Not now the weather’s gone bananas. Anyway”—she was struck by a thought—“what with it being this windy, they might close the Severn Bridge. Then you wouldn’t be able to get across to Wales.”