‘No, no.’ Martina removed some purple lipstick from her front teeth with the tip of her tongue. ‘I wasn’t offering extra hours. This is a one-off opportunity. My very, very dear friend Emily Frobisher has asked me if I knew anyone who’d be willing to work waiting on tables at a banquet.’ Martina leaned forward cosily and dropped her voice to merely glass-breaking. ‘She’s apparently had outside caterers in the past who’ve supplied waiting staff and they have been beyond the pale. Serving from the right! That sort of thing . . .’
God, April thought, how really, really dreadful for poor Emily Frobisher. Fancy getting your roulade and jus dished up from the wrong side! It could ruin your life! She did a few mental calculations. ‘And this Emily Frobisher – is she Brittany’s mum?’
Martina simpered. ‘Actually, yes. They’re having a black-tie dinner and ball on New Year’s Eve to announce the venue of the Platinum Trophy.’ She almost wriggled in excitement. ‘Which of course, between you and me, because of Sebby and darling Brittany’s little affair, will be here – but we have to go through the motions so that there are no cries of foul – and she’s frantic to find proper people to wait table. After all,’ she played her trump card with a flourish, ‘it’s not as if you’ll have anything else to do on New Year’s Eve, is it?’
Cow, April thought. But it was sadly true. The end of the year would mean staying in with Bee and Daff and watching some dire comedian on the telly hosting something from Edinburgh that had been filmed in a July heatwave. And she could do with the money. And most alluring of all was knowing what Jix had overheard when he was chauffeuring. If he’d heard right, then Oliver and Martina may be in for one hell of a New Year shock.
‘It would depend on the money, and transport there and back because I haven’t got a car.’
‘Ten pounds an hour and transport.’
‘Done.’
‘Good girl.’ Martina waved her bony bejewelled fingers under April’s nose. ‘I knew you realised which side your bread was buttered. Oh – and I’ve got some more really exciting news.’
April sucked her teeth. How many fun-filled hours of sweating over a hot banqueting table could she take? ‘I really can’t fit any more hours in.’
‘This isn’t to do with work. You’ll probably read all about it on the society pages. Well, I mean, that is if you read the proper papers.’ Martina smoothed down tonight’s clinging twinkly dress. ‘We’re talking broadsheet superstar status here, not tacky tabloid.’
April sighed. Martina was in full show-off overdrive. As they were used to celebrities frequenting the stadium, April could only assume they were about to be visited by someone of mega-importance. Martina always managed to have her photograph taken with them and appeared frequently on the gossip pages, leering spikily up at famous people like an evil emaciated pixie.
‘Really? And which superstar would this be? Tom Cruise? Little Leonardo? Cher? Madonna?’
‘Not celluloid celeb,’ Martina looked shocked. ‘This is really highbrow stuff. Noah Matlock.’
The Copacabana became a swirl of noise and colour. April, who had never fainted in her life, clung on to the polished counter and took gulping deep breaths.
Martina’s voice sounded quavery and distant. ‘Of course the name’ll mean nothing unless you’re a patron of the arts.’
April took more breaths.
‘He’s an artist. Famous. Does abstracts,’ Martina said by way of explanation. ‘Very acceptable with the dinner party crowd now. Hugely famous, in fact.’
April nodded. It made her giddy. ‘Yes ... I know . . . Er – um – what about him?’
‘I’d read about him in the Sunday supps,’ Martina was tidying the cherries and orange and lemon slices. ‘I’ve asked Oliver for one of his paintings for my birthday.’
Christ, April thought dizzily, pop along to my flat and take your pick. Was that all? For one awful moment she’d thought Noah was going to stride into the Copacabana, or present the prizes for the last race or something. ‘Oh, lovely . . . Ah, yes – excuse me a sec . . .’
April staggered unsteadily along the bar to serve a clutch of customers. She mixed and poured pina coladas on autopilot. Why the hell couldn’t Martina have wanted a David Shepherd elephant painting? Why couldn’t she have just said she was getting a little bauble from Cartier for her birthday? Why the hell had she decided to go arty-trendy and mention the forbidden Noah word?
April dawdled as long as she could over die drinks, but sadly, Martina was still waiting when she’d finished.
‘And,’ Martina continued, ‘it turns out that he actually lived here – in one of the flats we owned, can you believe some years back. Of course that was Oliver’s side of the business and then Sebby took it over and we’ve never bothered about the tenants’ names unless they cause trouble or don’t pay their rent – but, my God, I wish I’d known then that we had a celeb amongst the riffraff.’
‘Well – um – Noah wasn’t famous then – er – that is, I mean, I suppose he wasn’t that famous then . . .’ April coughed. Even if she told Martina that she knew Noah Matlock intimately, every beautiful perfectly formed inch of him, Martina wouldn’t believe her. And honestly, what was the point? She tried to change the subject. ‘Do we need more Cointreau?’
‘Nah –’ Martina cast a cursory glance at the liqueurs. ‘There’s enough there for tonight. Anyway, it gets better. I’m going to get it autographed. My birthday present.’
Why the hell couldn’t she shut up? Why on earth did she want to turn into Mrs Nice-and-Chatty tonight? ‘Yes, well, don’t all artists sign their work?’ April sometimes wondered about Martina’s intelligence levels. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be worth much without the signature, would it?’
Martina clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘I don’t mean just the painting. Of course I know that’ll be signed mean Oliver is going to ask Noah Matlock to sign my birthday card to go with it.’
April was beginning to lose track. She’d had birthday cards from Noah. They’d always been hand delivered at least a day late and had usually been rather cheap flimsy affairs with sparkle dust on them. She’d kept them, along with his photos, to show Bee when she was old enough to understand.
‘Goodness, April!’ Martina was suddenly stung into agitation. ‘You’re being very slow tonight! Why don’t you ask me how?’
‘How what?’
‘How I’m going to get my birthday card signed to go with my painting?’
April sighed and asked.
‘Because,’ Martina said triumphantly, ‘Oliver has a – er – business colleague who has a friend who is a mate of Noah’s agent and they contacted him in France . . .’
Whoopee-do, April thought. Through his thug network, she was pretty sure that Oliver could manage to put the squeeze on the entire House of Windsor if Martina had set her heart on a small castle for her birthday.
Martina’s eyes were like saucers now. ‘And – the very best bit of all – it turns out that Noah is in this country at the moment. In London, in fact. And – oh, well, I know this won’t be of much interest to you, of course, but I’ve got to tell someone – Noah Matlock is downstairs with Oliver at this very minute and we’ve invited him to supper – Oh, bloody hell! Do be more careful, April! You’ve spilled the chartreuse!’
The evening dragged on. April was pretty sure she’d mixed Screwdrivers instead of Deathwishes, and Salty Dogs instead of Depth Charges. However, as no one complained she supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Noah was here – back in Bixford – and as he didn’t know that she worked in the Copacabana, unless she invited herself to supper with the Gillespies, he’d go back to France and never know about Beatrice-Eugenie. April groaned. Assuming that Oliver’s connections had wangled the invite, there was no way, this being social, that Noah would be alone. Anoushka, he’d said, only stayed in France when he was on one of his exhibition tours. Of course Anoushka must be with him this time. Bloody Anoushka, who had miraculously metamorphosed from
city slicker into paysanne peasant at the drop of Noah’s 501s.
Race after race took place on the other side of the plate glass, and the rowdy, noisy crowd seemed to have no idea that their drinks were being poured by a zombie. April watched the clock’s hands climb round to ten thirty. The last race would soon be over, the serious drinkers would storm into the bar and hang around until midnight. By half-past she’d meet Jix in the stadium, and at quarter to one she’d be home . . .
‘Fucking hell!’ The explosion of words sounded very familiar.
April turned, and dropped two umbrellas into the ice-making machine. They were immediately chomped up into matchsticks. April really didn’t have time to worry. Noah was standing at the bar. Less than a foot away.
Her teeth had riveted themselves together. Despite the fact that she was shaking from head to toe, she managed to force them apart. ‘We – um – meet again, sort of . . .’
Noah, it was pleasing to note, seemed even more pole-axed than she did. He ran his hands through his hair, blinking at her as though she was some sort of mirage. Eventually he cleared his throat. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I work here. The shop I worked in closed just after you left – like most of them in the High Street. I’ve been here ever since. Didn’t Martina tell you?’
‘No she bloody didn’t. I needed a drink. I’ve just escaped from her clawing at me and telling me how much she likes my paintings and how she can’t wait to tell all her Inner Wheel Lunch Circle that she’s having me for dinner.’
April managed to stretch her mouth into a smile. ‘She probably didn’t mean it literally.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
Of course, there was no reason why Martina would have mentioned to him that one of her staff was called April Padgett, was there? Martina knew nothing about the affair. Now that he’d recovered from his first shock, Noah was staring at her with a rather weird expression in his eyes. Belatedly she remembered the French maid’s outfit and tugged ineffectually at the hem of her dress.
‘It suits you . . .’ His voice was husky. ‘There seem to have been a lot of changes . . .’
More than you’d ever guess, April thought, wishing that the sound of his voice wouldn’t play such havoc with her hormones. ‘Er, oh yes, loads . . . Would you like a drink?’
Oh, please, don’t let him spoil it by asking for a Long Slow Comfortable Screw . . .
‘That was my original intention. Do you do beer?’
‘Christ, no. You have to go downstairs to Ye Olde Bull and Bush Coaching Inn – it’s alongside the Tote – for anything like that. I can do you a Pernod and black, though.’
‘I don’t drink that any more.’ Noah looked a bit shifty. ‘Not good for the image. Haven’t you got any decent burgundy?’
‘If it can’t be shaken, stirred, covered in fruit and sparklers, we don’t serve it. How about champagne?’ April knew she was gabbling and tried to stop. It simply made matters worse. ‘I mean, I suppose you’re used to champagne now – being a superstar and everything. Oh, and with living in France. It must be just like drinking Vimto. So is that a glass of Moet – or maybe two? I presume you’re not alone?’
‘I’m quite alone – and I’m sorry I didn’t ring you after the exhibition.’
What?’ April’s hand rattled on the champagne bottle. Noah always managed to wrong-foot her. ‘Oh, I never expected you to. I mean, if you hadn’t been in Bixford tonight for Martina’s birthday thing I’d never have seen you again, would I?’
‘I’m not here for the Gillespies – although it tied in nicely. I’m here for you. I came back to Bixford to find you. I was intending to call in at the flat in the morning.’ Noah leaned across the bar and stroked her cheek. ‘And no, I won’t have the champagne now. I’m having supper with Oliver and Martina as arranged, because they’ve paid handsomely for one of my paintings and they have some let’s say – extremely influential friends. I’ll make my excuses and leave as soon as possible. Just don’t bolt the door tonight, honey – I’m coming home.’
‘You’re bloody insane!’ Jix scowled at her through the silky fall of his hair. ‘Mad!’
‘No, I’m not,’ April insisted as they hurried through the sodium-lit darkness of Bixford’s back streets. It was a cold night and she huddled inside her coat. ‘It’s all part of the dream, Jix. He’s Bee’s dad, and he’s got rights. So has she.’
Jix muttered something from the depths of his leather jacket. Then he shook his head. ‘He didn’t bother to contact you after Swaffield, did he? And now he just turns up, out of the blue, and says he’s come to find you? Bollocks. He was over here to feather his nest via Oliver and Martina, walked into the bar, saw you, and took the opportunist route. For God’s sake, April, he’s lied to you before – and he’s doing it again now.’
‘No he isn’t! What would you know? You weren’t there!’
‘I wish I had been. Sometimes, for someone who’s so tough, you’re bloody gullible. He could have phoned you at any time, turned up at the flat at any time – it was his place too, remember – he didn’t exactly have to search too hard to track you down, did he? He didn’t come to the flat tonight, though, did he? Even though he was in Bixford? He met you by accident, not design. The man’s a complete bastard.’
‘You never said any of this when I was going to see him at the gallery, did you? You were all in favour then.’
‘No I wasn’t.’ Jix hunched his shoulders. ‘I thought then that he might hurt you, but it’s always been your dream-the happy-families thing – and I wasn’t going to pour cold water on it. But he didn’t want you then, so why should he want you now?’
‘Shut up!’ They’d turned into the High Street now, and a sharp wind rattled the debris in the gutters and stung April’s face. ‘This is my life. And Bee’s. Just butt out.’
‘With pleasure.’ Jix jabbed his key into the lock of number 51. ‘Only this time when he’s shredded you to pieces don’t come looking for sympathy. I won’t be there with shoulders to cry on, OK?’
‘Suits me.’
April stormed into her flat. Daff glanced up smiling, then, seeing the angry faces, looked concerned and gathered her word-puzzle books together without speaking. Cair Paravel, stretched out on the rug in front of the television, raised his head and growled cheerfully at Daff’s ankles, then thumped his tail towards Jix and April.
Jix bent down and stroked him. ‘Rip the bastard’s throat out, there’s a good boy.’
April continued glaring until Jix and Daff had left, then checked on Beatrice-Eugenie, fed Cair Paravel, and turned into a small whirlwind. Cushions were plumped, newspapers shoved out of sight, dust removed, all but the dimmest lamps extinguished. Satisfied that Noah wouldn’t think she’d allowed the flat to fall into a complete schlep tip in his absence, April ripped off her French maid’s outfit and headed for the shower.
Wondering whether being naked beneath her dressing gown would look a little too obvious, and deciding it would, she dressed again in a pair of jeans and a fraying rainbow sweater that had once belonged to Jix. Clean and casual, she thought, just as she’d been when Noah had first fallen in love with her. No make-up then, and her hair all fluffed out and tumbled . . . She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes glittered and the glow of her cheeks owed nothing to Max Factor. He’d be here soon – back in the flat where they’d laughed and loved. Back where he belonged. And surely, once he’d found out about Bee, and April had told him about the Ampney Crucis paradise she had planned for them, he’d never leave her again, would he?
Lighting her last cigarette, she poured a large glass of wine, curled on the sofa, and waited.
April couldn’t imagine how she’d managed to fall asleep, but somehow she supposed she must have done. The room was cold and silent and for a split second she couldn’t work out quite why she was there. Then she remembered. Her mouth tasted foul and her neck was stiff where it had become lodged against a cushion. She stretched and shivered,
then squinted at the clock. Half-past three. With a sudden pang she realised that Noah wasn’t coming.
Levering herself to her feet, close to tears of anger and disappointment, she knew she’d have to shoot the bolts on the door, slide the chain in place and shut Noah out of her life for ever. Cair Paravel rolled on to his back in his sleep, his belly grey and pink and mottled, and she stepped over him. At that moment she heard the key in the outside door of number 51. Cair Paravel, still prone, pricked his ears. April held her breath. It could be Joel and Rusty returning home after a night out. It probably was. She mustn’t, mustn’t, build up her hopes . . .
Cair Paravel rolled over and sat expectantly on his haunches as the key now slid into the flat door. Mesmerised, April watched as it swung open, and Noah stood on the threshold just as he always had. As he had for so many months in her frenzied fantasies.
‘I knew there was a good reason for hanging on to my keys. Come here, honey, and give me a kiss.’
With a little cry she flew across the room and launched herself into his arms.
‘Hey, that’s some welcome.’ He smoothed her hair away from her face. ‘Sorry I’m so late, but Martina’s worse at interrogation than old Paxo. Oh, this is wonderful . . . It’s still the same . . . And you’ve kept the paintings!’ He gazed round the flat. ‘Christ, you’ll never know how much I’ve missed all this. Nothing’s changed – oh, except that . . .’
Cair Paravel had shrunk back on to his stomach, his muzzle laid between his paws, his ears folded flat. A low warning growl rumbled from his throat.
Noah frowned. ‘I thought we weren’t allowed to keep animals in here.’
‘We’re not. It’s a long story. Oh God, you didn’t tell Martina about me – about you and me – did you?’
He shook his head. ‘Not a word. It’s something best kept secret. I mean, if I’m going to be staying here, the fewer people who know the better.’
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