by Jill Mansell
Millie, her skin crawling from the contact with his hand, suppressed a shudder. Oh Hugh, where are you? Why can’t I be with you now, instead of stuck here with this weirdo?
Except, depressingly, she knew the answer to that one. Because Hugh doesn’t want to be with me, thought Millie. He probably thinks I’m a weirdo.
Aloud, she said, ‘Um… cockroaches?’
Noel Blackwall stared at her, unblinking.
‘How did you know that?’
Orla coughed and made pointed get-it-away-from-me gestures with her arm. Usually it had the desired effect; people apologized at once and moved their cigarettes away. This time she might as well have been invisible. The man carried on puffing and waving his own hands about as he spoke to his companion. Orla, standing less than two feet to his left, tsked and coughed again, more loudly, as the noxious fumes swirled around her head.
And still he seemed not to notice her.
‘Excuse me.’ Leaning over, bashing the clouds of smoke away like centuries-old cobwebs, she tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Would you mind?’
Breaking off his conversation, the man appeared to see her for the first time.
‘I’m sorry? Oh…’ Realizing that Orla was looking at his cigarette, he smiled and pulled a packet of Marlboros from his jacket pocket. ‘Of course not. Here you go, help yourself!’
Having geared herself up to get angry with him, Orla was now forced to be nicer than she’d planned.
‘No, I don’t want one. I was trying to tell you that your smoke is going in my eyes.’
‘Ah, that's the trouble with smoke,’ he confided comfortably. ‘You have no control over it. It's like trying to be in charge of a field full of sheep—you do your best, but before you know it, they’re bounding off all over the place.’
He had a seductive Irish accent and laughing eyes that crinkled up at the corners. Aware that she was sounding prissy and school-teacherish, Orla said evenly, ‘You could control it if you put it out.’
‘What?’ Feigning alarm, he held up the offending half-smoked cigarette. ‘You mean before I’ve had all the goodness out of it? That's a terrible idea, and one that only an extremely successful and wealthy novelist could suggest.’
He was in his mid-thirties, Orla guessed. Tall, with cropped curly hair, a thin, tanned face, and a quirky smile.
‘You really shouldn’t smoke, you know. It's so bad for you. Stains your teeth, gives you wrinkles, makes you smell disgusting.’
‘And causes cancer. Don’t forget that one.’
‘I don’t know if you even realize this,’ said Orla, getting into her stride now, ‘but every single time you light up a cigarette, all the non-smokers in the room wish you wouldn’t. They look at you and despise you for being so weak-willed and selfish. I mean, how would you like it if we spat in your food?’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘You’d do that?’
‘You see? As far as you’re concerned, that's a terrible thing to do. Yet you’re allowed to kill us with your secondhand smoke!’
‘You’re very… passionate about this,’ he observed. ‘May I ask how long it's been since you renounced the evil weed yourself?’
Orla sensed he was making fun of her.
‘Quite a while.’ As if that had anything to do with it, damn cheek! ‘In fact, a long time ago.’
‘Is that so? Truly?’ Taking another pleasurable puff of his cigarette, her tormentor drawled innocently, ‘Sure it's not just a couple of weeks?’
He had the most mischievous eyes Orla had ever seen, silvery-grey and narrowed with laughter. She knew she should be crosser with him than this.
‘Look, how long ago I gave it up is irrelevant. I’m now a non-smoker.’
‘I’m sorry. That's grand.’ Acknowledging her superiority, he nodded in deferential fashion. ‘Good for you. I’m deeply impressed. So how are you doing, on the vice-front? Any left, or was that the last?’ A dimple appeared in his cheek. ‘Are you now a vice-free zone?’
Heavens, what was going on here? Aware that goose pimples were breaking out all over her arms, Orla wondered if she could get away with blaming it on the air-conditioning.
It had been so long since anything like this had happened to her that for a moment she genuinely couldn’t figure out what it was. Then it hit her like a football in the chest; she was actually experiencing sexual attraction.
Sexual attraction to a stranger, Orla amended. Not the married kind, where you somehow slipped into a comfortable routine of sleeping together. This was completely—completely—different. Heightened awareness fuelled by adrenalin. A kind of fizzy whoosh of anticipation, like Alka-Seltzer bubbling up in a glass. Tingling all over. A delicious eagerness to hear what he would say next.
How ironic to think that she spent her life writing about these sensations, yet it had actually been twenty-odd years since she’d last experienced them herself.
So long, frankly, that she’d had trouble recognizing them.
This is flirting, Orla realized in a haze of happiness. I’m standing here flirting with a complete stranger. And it feels… fantastic.
Hew liked her, she could tell. The spark was definitely mutual. Furthermore, it had been acknowledged by the man he’d been talking to earlier; he had moved discreetly away, leaving them alone together to get on with it.
It, thought Orla with a pleasurable shiver. Crikey, I can barely remember how it goes. Let's hope he's less out of practice than I am.
Belatedly she realized that he was still waiting for her to reply to the question he had put to her several hours ago. Well, thirty seconds.
What had the question been? Oh yes…
‘Me? No vices left at all. I’m now one hundred percent flawless.’ Orla smiled as she spoke, basically because it was impossible not to smile. ‘A temple of perfection. And a very lovely person to boot.’
‘I can tell. In fact, I already knew that. It must be great,’ he added. ‘There aren’t all that many completely perfect people around.’
Orla had so many questions; she longed to know everything about him. She wanted to find out his name for a start, and how old he was, what he did, where he lived, and whether or not he was married.
But at the same time she was terrified of breaking the spell. What if he was happily married with five children? What if he turned out to be twenty-three and just over on a flying visit from Australia? What if he told her his name was Ernest?
To their right, a flashbulb went off. One of the photographers who had been circulating all evening called out, ‘Orla, could you turn this way?’
Orla turned and smiled automatically for the next picture, then realized that it was no good, she simply had to ask.
Out of the corner of her mouth she murmured, ‘Are you married?’
He didn’t flinch or hesitate.
‘No.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-seven.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Just bought a place in Wimbledon.’
‘Lovely! ’ exclaimed the photographer. ‘Just move a bit closer together now, could you?’
My pleasure, thought Orla, doing as she was instructed and squirming with delight as, for the first time, their bodies brushed together. The sparks might not be visible but she could certainly feel them.
Anyway, next question.
‘Do you work in publishing?’
‘Me? I write a bit.’ His shrug was modest, his mouth twitching playfully at the corners. ‘Of course, I’m not in your league.’
‘Great.’ The photographer gave them an encouraging thumbs-up. ‘Just one more. I want you looking really happy now!’
Orla had no trouble looking happy. In fact, she was finding it ludicrously easy.
‘Would I have read any of your work?’
‘Oh, I think you have.’
‘Really?’ Delighted, she clutched his arm. ‘What's your name?’
Pause.
‘Actually, it's Cars
on.’
Carson. Carson. Orla racked her brains; there was a thriller writer called Carson Phillips, but he was a born and bred New Yorker.
Slowly, slowly, she made the connection.
The Irish connection.
No wonder he hadn’t introduced himself earlier.
‘Oh, I get it now. You’re related to Christie Carson.’ She drew back slightly, studying his face. ‘You don’t look like him, but you must be. Who are you, his son?’
At that moment a big arm was flung around Orla's shoulder.
‘Hello there, Christie,’ JD boomed in her ear. ‘Fancy bumping into you like this.’ Giving Orla a bone-crunching squeeze he went on in his loud voice, ‘And as for you, my darling, what do you think you’re doing, consorting with the enemy?’
Chapter 55
‘… IT'S NO PICNIC, you know, being a millionaire. When you meet up with your old friends they expect you to buy every round.’ Noel was still droning on, relating a seemingly endless list of grievances. ‘They seem to think they’re doing you a favor, just by coming out with you for a drink or a meal. And the moment you’ve picked up the tab, they’re off. Jealousy, that's all it is. They resent the fact that I’m successful and they’re just a bunch of losers. Are you listening to me?’
‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Millie had been peering round in search of Orla who was—typically—nowhere in sight. ‘Why don’t you ditch your friends if you don’t like them? Make some new ones?’
Well, try.
Noel looked at her as if she was thick.
‘I am. That's why I’m talking to you.’
Oh God. Definitely time to escape.
‘We could meet up tomorrow,’ he went on. ‘Go out for lunch somewhere.’
Millie hesitated, wondering how best to convey the news that she would rather tip a bucket of live cockroaches over her head.
‘Thanks, but—’
‘I’d pay. Seeing as it’d be our first meal together.’
She broke into a light sweat. Where the bloody hell had Orla got to?
‘Look, it's really nice of you to offer, but I can’t.’
‘Okay.’ Noel shrugged. ‘We’ll go Dutch.’
Millie wished she was fifteen again; life had been so simple then. When you were pestered by a boy you didn’t fancy, you just screeched with laughter and howled, ‘Do I look desperate? Get lost, frogface, I’d rather die than go out with you! Just the thought of you makes me want to vomit!’
But she wasn’t fifteen, she was a grown-up. It wasn’t so easy now.
‘I mean I can’t meet you.’ Inside her shoes, her toes were curling up with embarrassment; the fact that Noel Blackwall was so awful only made her feel more guilty. ‘I have other plans.’
Noel said stolidly, ‘Dinner, then.’
‘I’ll still be busy.’
For crying out loud! Take a hint, can’t you?
‘Are you sure?’ Noel frowned, his eyebrows drawing together like curtains. ‘Because—’
‘She's sure,’ a male voice announced behind Millie. ‘She's absolutely sure. In fact, she's spending tomorrow and the rest of the weekend with me.’
‘Con!’ Millie let out a shriek of delight as he picked her up and whirled her around. Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, she whispered into his ear, ‘Keep whirling.’
Finally, when they were twenty feet away from droning Noel, Con Deveraux put her down.
Millie kissed him, noisily, on both cheeks.
‘You have no idea how glad I am to see you. I thought I was going to be trapped with that boring man all night.’
‘I know. I was listening.’ Mischievously Con added, ‘I didn’t like to interrupt at first, in case you were crazy about him.’
‘As if. Orla made me talk to him. But what are you doing here? Oh my God!’ Millie exclaimed, as realization dawned. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re my surprise!’
Con broke into a grin.
‘Got it in one. Good old Orla, up to her matchmaking tricks again. She rang and persuaded me that all we needed was another chance. As it happened, I wasn’t doing anything else, so I thought I may as well come along. Just as long as you aren’t expecting rampant sex,’ he added with a straight face.
‘Poor Orla, you can’t say she doesn’t try. Still, never mind.’ Thinking how handsome he looked in black tie, Millie gave him another ecstatic hug. ‘It's lovely to see you again. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer surprise.’
Well, maybe just one…
‘Unlike Orla.’ As he spoke, Con deftly spun her round and pointed across the room.
‘Where is she? I can’t even see her.’
‘Left a bit, left a bit, behind the woman in purple with the huge backside.’ Guiding Millie like a periscope, he whispered gleefully, ‘There she is. Getting the biggest shock of her life.’
Millie saw. Orla was indeed looking dumbstruck. Her eyes were like saucers, her mouth a perfect O as she gazed at a good-looking man with something approaching horror.
‘Why? What's he saying to her?’ Millie couldn’t work it out at all. JD was there, roaring with laughter, with his arm around Orla. A photographer was busy capturing her comical reaction for posterity.
‘I think he's just told her who he is.’ Admiringly, Con added, ‘Brave chap.’
‘Well, I’ve never seen him before. He's certainly not famous. How do you know him?’
‘I don’t. Dad was introduced to him as we arrived. This should be good.’ Con looked amused. ‘He could be about to experience a close encounter with Orla's glass of wine.’
‘Crikey. Should we go over?’
‘Absolutely not. I’d hate to get wet.’
‘But who is he?’
‘Christie Carson. The one who gave Orla that stinking review, remember?’
Millie remembered only too well; it was the review that had changed her life.
She also remembered the photograph of the author adorning the proof copy of his own book.
Shaking her head pityingly at Con, Millie said, ‘No it isn’t.’
Across the room, Orla declared, ‘You can’t be Christie Carson. You don’t look anything like him.’
His eyes were twinkling but he was clearly on edge, ready to leap out of the way should any wine come hurtling in his direction.
‘Actually, I do. We’re astonishingly alike.’
Orla frowned.
‘I saw your photo. Was that not you?’
‘Oh yes, it was me.’
‘You looked like the wild man of Borneo.’
‘Ah well, that was taken while I was going through my wild man of Borneo phase,’ he replied gravely. ‘Long hair, beard, fierce expression, the works.’
‘We thought you were about fifty.’
‘I know. All that facial hair. Terribly aging.’ Lightly, he added, ‘Promise me you’ll never grow a beard.’
‘But why would you want people to think you look like that?’
‘Okay. Your publicity photos.’ Christie Carson fixed her with a steady gaze. ‘You have a hairdresser in attendance, am I right? A make-up artist, maybe even a stylist. And a photographer angling his lights to capture you at your absolute best.’
This was true. Defensively, Orla said, ‘So?’
‘So, that's fine. Practically de rigueur for the kind of books you write. It's what your readers expect.’ He shrugged. ‘It's different for me. My style of writing is more—’
‘Intellectual?’ bristled Orla.
‘Masculine. Anyway, if it's any comfort to you, my mother had an absolute fit when she saw that photo. She told me I looked a sight and ordered me to spruce myself up. So here I am.’ He ran a hand briefly over his cropped curly hair and clean-shaven chin. ‘Well and truly spruced.’
Orla was lost for words.
But not for long.
‘You’re supposed to be a recluse.’ Her tone was accusing, her fingers tightly laced around her wine glass. ‘You’ve never given an interview. So what are you doing here tonight?’<
br />
Orla had long ago convinced herself that Christie Carson lived the life of a hermit in an unheated, crumbling stone cottage in the wilds of Ireland. Any journalists daring to approach his hovel of a home would be met with a barrage of abuse and the business-end of a double-barrelled shotgun.
She couldn’t help it. She was a novelist.
‘I don’t like giving interviews,’ Christie Carson agreed, the laughter lines deepening around his eyes. ‘But that doesn’t make me a recluse. So anyhow, now we have the misunderstandings cleared up and the introductions out of the way. Maybe we could get down to the serious business of the evening.’ Nodding at Orla's almost-full glass, he drawled, ‘Are you going to throw that over me or not?’
Orla hesitated. The shock of discovering who he was had begun to wear off. The butterflies in her stomach were starting up again.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
Oh, that smile! She was at a serious disadvantage here. Flinging wine into the horrid bearded face of the wild man of Borneo would have been easy—a positive delight, in fact—but this was a different matter altogether.
Somehow she knew her heart would no longer be in it.
Besides, the dinner jacket he was wearing was well cut and clearly expensive.
Watching her weigh up the options, he raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes? No?’
‘I’ll keep you in suspense.’
The hovering photographer looked disappointed.
‘They’re going through to dinner,’ JD announced, having heroically kept quiet throughout this exchange. ‘Come along, darling, you’re on my table.’
Orla felt like a two-year-old having her birthday present abruptly snatched away. Practically before she’d had a chance to unwrap it.
Everyone was moving away from the Lounge Bar, drifting towards the double doors at the far end of the corridor. Ahead, in the Nine Kings’ Suite lay two hours—minimum—of eating and making polite conversation with your fellow diners, listening to a daunting number of speeches (some funny, some not), and watching the dozen or so awards being presented. Which, if you hadn’t been nominated yourself, was frankly boring.