What colour are his eyes? Blue, or grey? A little short-sighted, she stared up, trying to make out the precise shade, wondering where she might have seen him before. And he wasn’t moving either; he was simply standing there, looking down at her. Neither of them spoke, because neither of them could come up with a word to say.
They both jumped when a woman’s voice cut between them, saying, ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, madam. Let me take your coat now.’
It was a slim redhead in a black jacket over a black miniskirt, her hair pulled back smoothly from her pretty face. Deeley handed over her balled-up jacket without even taking her eyes from the man in front of her, as if they’d hypnotized each other; but then the redhead gave her a cloakroom ticket, and Deeley had to take that and slip it in her bag, and the connection was broken.
‘Thanks again,’ she managed to say to him. He looked dazed still, as if someone had hit him over the head. And that was what made her think, Oh, he’s a boxer! That’s where I’ve seen him, on some TV promo – or a poster for a fight in Vegas. She had a flash of memory: blood running down his face, a bandage round his scalp, his expression grim.
‘Are you joining a party?’ the redhead asked Deeley, who nodded mutely, stalling for time. Waiting for the man to ask her for her name, her phone number.
But instead he shook his head like a dog emerging from water. His jaw tightened, his lips drew together, and he turned away, pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket, heading for the door. Dumbly she watched him go, admiring his long, muscled legs, the high firm buttocks whose movement wasn’t completely hidden by the back flap of his jacket.
He’ll come back in, get the waiter to slip me a note, she told herself firmly as she got hold of herself and said to the pretty hostess that she was meeting Maxie Stangroom and Devon McKenna. He’ll come and find me. Used to naming celebrities she was dining with, Deeley watched the flicker in the woman’s eyes at her sisters’ names, and was impressed with the reaction. Clearly, her sisters were London A-list. Smiling in acknowledgement, the redhead led Deeley through the bar and into the restaurant, to where Maxie and Devon were seated at one of the prime tables, by the far windows.
Franco’s didn’t have piped music; the only noise in the restaurant was the happy babble of its diners. Maxie and Devon were chattering away and only noticed Deeley when she was standing right next to them. They rose a little on sight of her, their faces breaking into practised smiles. But that was all.
Oh, Deeley thought, her heart sinking a little. I only get the ‘come to a half-squat behind the table’ greeting, not the ‘wriggle out from my seat and actually hug you’ one. This isn’t good.
‘Hi!’ she said over-brightly, over-loudly, as if to compensate for her sisters’ lack of enthusiasm. ‘Wow, it’s so great to see you guys! I can’t believe how good you both look!’
Awkwardly, she leaned over the table to plant a kiss on Maxie’s cheek, and then shuffled in to tuck into the seat next to Devon, kissing her too. And, glancing past Devon at Maxie, the sister to whom Deeley had always looked for approval, Deeley realized with dawning fear that Maxie’s eyebrows had shot up almost to her hairline, and she was staring down her nose at her youngest sister. It was the expression Maxie had always used when Deeley did something wrong, didn’t snap into line when reminded, or in any way failed to follow the clear-as-crystal plan for the McKenna girls which Maxie had laid out ever since she was a steely-eyed, barely teenaged girl, planning and plotting to get them out of the hellhole in which they lived.
‘What?’ Deeley said nervously, feeling, as she so often did with Maxie, like a child being reprimanded by her mother. ‘What is it?’
‘You look very LA,’ Maxie said, her voice layered with that particular, upper-class tone that disapproves of anything it considers remotely vulgar.
Deeley might be out of touch with London mores, but she recognized the attitude; she’d heard it from New Yorkers visiting LA, who were usually wearing black, out-of-shape and pasty, but who looked down on the denizens of Los Angeles who took a lot better care of themselves, worked out, watched what they ate and wore clothes that showed themselves off.
She glanced down at herself quickly. She was in the simple, elegant black Alessandro Dell’Acqua dress that she had specially chosen as being perfect for tonight. It was a simple stretch jersey tube, falling to her knees – no miniskirt, nothing tarty – with a loose cowl neckline that showed off her tanned shoulders, and bracelet-length sleeves. Her only jewellery were her diamond stud earrings and a diamond tennis bracelet, both presents from Nicky. Her hair was pushed back from her face, falling down her back, and she had spent ages doing the discreet, freshly glowing make-up style that Hervé had taught her. Nothing obvious, all beiges and pinks and corals. By LA standards, she was really dressed down. It was the outfit and look of a woman going out to dinner with girlfriends whom she didn’t want to upstage.
So it should have been exactly right. But, as Deeley looked at both of her sisters, she realized that it wasn’t.
English women were very different from LA ones. They did both less and more, simultaneously. Both Devon and Maxie were dramatically made-up, Devon with her huge, stunning dark eyes strongly outlined, her eyelashes thick and lush, her lips red and shiny. Maxie’s features were carefully contoured, shading, liner, blusher, layers of pink gloss to make her lips look wider, highlighter along her cheekbones to make them more noticeable. Shiny pieced blonde streaks at her hairline framed her face; one brief glance at Maxie told you that this was a woman who took great care with every aspect of her appearance. Devon wore a Vivienne Westwood red-and-grey tartan dress which dipped deep to show off her magnificent cleavage, while Maxie’s sleek silk printed top was accessorized with a big, heavy gold necklace and matching earrings.
In a way, Deeley’s carefully studied, understated look was a slap in the face to her sisters. Because no one wants to look as if they’re trying too hard.
‘You look like an LA trophy wife,’ Maxie added.
‘Well, that’s what I was,’ Deeley said simply.
‘You’re so thin,’ Devon said unguardedly, staring at her younger sister. ‘You’ve lost so much weight!’
‘A bit,’ Deeley said. ‘But not that much, really. I mean, I do a lot of Pilates, and that helps. But honestly, by LA standards, I’m practically a fattie. The stylists used to complain all the time about having to fit my boobs.’
Devon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Wow, how completely horrible for you,’ she said, reaching for her glass of Prosecco.
‘I didn’t mean it like that!’ Deeley said quickly. ‘I just meant, I’m not a sample size over there, that’s all.’
‘Well, you look fine to me,’ Devon said sourly. ‘I’d kill to be as much of a fattie as you.’ She put the word ‘fattie’ between inverted commas that were almost audible. ‘Did they put you on a diet?’
‘At first,’ Deeley said cautiously. ‘But after I lost a few pounds, they decided it was better if I stayed the way I was. It looked good for Nicky to have a girlfriend who wasn’t a stick insect.’
Maxie nodded, understanding the thinking behind the decision, but Devon lifted one white smooth shoulder.
‘If you’re a fattie, God knows what that makes me,’ she muttered, tipping her glass to her mouth.
‘Dev, I didn’t mean . . .’ Deeley said hastily. ‘You look stunning, really gorgeous.’
‘Prosecco, signora?’ the waiter murmured beside her, and she nodded automatically as he tilted the bottle into her glass. Gratefully, she took the cool, condensation-beaded flute and took a long sip. Devon wasn’t looking at her, and Deeley knew she was offended. To Deeley, Devon looked as lovely as ever. Devon had always been Deeley’s idea of beauty; her features were perfect, her skin flawlessly pale, her hair thicker and more lush than either of her sisters’. OK, she’s put on a few pounds, but she still looks amazing, Deeley thought. Everyone’s staring at her! And she’s so successful – she has a new TV series coming out �
� so I’m a bit thinner than her at the moment, who cares?
The trouble was, she had a feeling that Devon cared. Quite a lot.
‘So what are your plans, Deeley?’ Maxie asked, taking a carefully judged sip of Prosecco from her nearly full glass and replacing it in the precise place on the linen tablecloth from where she had taken it. ‘Do you have to stay in the UK? Isn’t that one of the conditions of getting your settlement?’
‘Technically, I just had to get out of the States,’ Deeley said, leaning forward, her caramel-coloured hair falling over one smooth shoulder. ‘I mean, I suppose I could go anywhere, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where else to go. London’s home to me.’
Maxie’s lips tightened. Devon, meanwhile, was smiling at the waiter, who was refilling her Prosecco glass. Despite the sophistication of Franco’s and its staff, the waiter couldn’t help being dazzled by Devon, whose charisma was as glittering as a fully illuminated glass chandelier.
‘Maybe you should travel for a while?’ Devon suggested, playing with a thick shiny ringlet of her black hair, her nails as fire red as her lips. ‘See the world. You’ve got the money, and you can’t have holidayed that much with Nicky – he was always working, right?’
Deeley nodded. ‘We did Cannes a couple of times, and promotional trips,’ she agreed. ‘But that was all crazy. I mean, you just see a lot of suites in five-star hotels and a lot of red carpets. Mostly I had to sit watching him do press conferences. I’m not complaining,’ she hastened to add, as Maxie had glanced sideways at Devon in sardonic amusement when Deeley spoke disparagingly about red carpets. ‘It’s just not really seeing the world. Like Devon said.’ She smiled at her middle sister. ‘You’re right, I haven’t done much of that. Not properly.’
‘So you should go!’ Devon said brightly, flashing a stunning smile at Deeley. ‘Buy a first-class round-trip ticket and set off! Have adventures, meet people . . .’
‘I’m not very good at being alone,’ Deeley confessed in a small voice. Her glass was somehow empty now; she must be even more nervous than she realized. ‘I always lived with someone. First with you, then the girls in my house-share in London, then Nicky. I mean, I was in the pool house, but he was always there. It feels really weird to be in the hotel by myself.’
‘You have to be OK with yourself before you can be with someone else,’ Maxie said in the pious tones of an agony aunt.
‘Why don’t you want me around?’ Deeley said plaintively, as the attentive waiter topped up her glass. ‘I don’t understand!’
Maxie shot her a dagger-like glare; not so much at what she’d said, as that it had been in earshot of the waiter.
‘I don’t care!’ Deeley said resentfully, hunching her shoulders as the waiter slipped away. ‘If you’re being mean to me, I’ll say it and I don’t care who hears it.’
‘God, you’re such a child, Deeley,’ Devon said. ‘It’s like you haven’t grown up at all.’
‘You may not have a reputation to maintain, but we do,’ Maxie snapped. ‘Pull yourself together!’
And here we are again, Deeley realized miserably. Back in our old roles. Maxie tells me what to do, Devon goes along with whatever Maxie says and patronizes me into the bargain – and I act like I’m five years old. It took barely ten minutes for us to fall back into the way we were when we were young. Nothing’s changed.
‘I say – look at the McKenna sisters – what a bevy of beauties! Like three lovely angels!’
It was the plummy voice of a posh boy, oozing status and privilege. All three heads tilted up to see the butter yellow hair and pink-and-white face of Olly Stangroom MP, smiling complacently down at his wife and sisters-in-law.
‘He looks like a Battenberg cake,’ Devon muttered naughtily to Deeley, who smothered a giggle – not only at Devon’s comment, but at her pleasure that they’d slipped back into another of their old roles; being mischievous behind the back of their older sister and maternal figure.
‘Every man in the restaurant’s wishing he was in my place right now,’ he added smugly, hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. ‘Do shove up, darling! I’m dying for a drink!’
Maxie worked her chair a few inches sideways to make room for her husband to pull out his own. He squeezed his plump bottom in beside her and beamed lasciviously at Deeley.
‘Excellent! This must be the best view in town, eh? Devon, my dear, you look as luscious as ever. A bevy of beauties!’ he repeated, as proudly as if he’d just invented the phrase himself.
Olly grabbed a glass of Prosecco from the waiter, and downed it in one long swallow, promptly holding it out for a refill.
‘Good stuff!’ he said. ‘Franco’s always does us proud!’ He looked complacently at his wife. ‘She found this place years ago. Clever girl. Maxie knows what I like,’ he said to Deeley. ‘Secret of a happy marriage: a wife who knows what you like. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate top totty, though. And you, my dear, are definitely top totty!’
Deeley had been dealing with men like her brother-in-law for what felt like her whole life, but was really only about ten years. In her experience there were two types of men who leered at girls and she had categorized him on first sight as the second harmless kind. The first was a real menace, the kind you never wanted to be alone in a room with, all grabbing hands and hot stinky breath on your face, the kind of man who assumed that because he fancied you, you were therefore fair game for his advances. From the men at trade shows where she’d been a hostess, right through to top Hollywood producers, she’d had plenty of practice with fending them off; you got really good at turning sideways, slipping away before they could corner you, plastering a friendly polite smile to your face as your body simultaneously twisted from their groping hands.
While the second type was all talk and no action. This was the category that commented very loudly on your assets, as if you were a cow at a cattle market, but, mercifully, didn’t do anything about it.
Whatever his tastes were, Deeley didn’t fit. There was no heat behind his eyes as he stared at her, no lust there at all. Deeley glanced over at Devon, and she could tell that her sister was just as aware of this as she was. Devon was smiling tolerantly at Olly as he leered at her glorious bosoms as if he were a pet Jack Russell terrier; a bit jumpy and licky, but no harm in him at all.
Really, I’m not Olly’s type at all. And he’s certainly not mine.
And that thought jolted back the image of the man who’d bumped into her in the foyer. Deeley felt a rush of warmth inside her that was nothing to do with the fact that she was well into her second glass of Prosecco. Surely he would come to find her, or get the waiter to slip her his number? If not, she’d make a trip to the ladies’ soon, to give him a chance to see her and get up his nerve. The connection between them had been so strong, so powerful, there was no way he’d be able to ignore it. Deeley was utterly sure of that.
‘Deeley! Honestly, are you drunk already? She can’t be jetlagged, she’s been here a week,’ Maxie said sharply, waking Deeley from her reverie.
‘Sorry, no,’ she said quickly. ‘What were you saying?’
‘Olly was saying, actually,’ Maxie corrected, making that ‘actually’ sound as sharp as a slap around the face, ‘that it was a shame you couldn’t come to Devon and Matt’s wedding.’
Deeley turned to look at Devon, her face crinkling up in embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I really am. It’s just – LA’s like a total bubble, you know? Once you’re inside it, it’s hard to even connect with the outside world. And my time really wasn’t my own.’ She lowered her voice a little, conscious of the ironclad confidentiality clause in her contract. ‘I was totally at their beck and call. Nicky’s team, I mean. When they said “Jump”, I wouldn’t even need to ask “How high?” ’cause they’d already have told me.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ Devon said kindly, leaning over the empty chair between them to pat Deeley’s hand. ‘It was completely rammed. I
’d have loved you to be one of my bridesmaids, but we did understand. And honestly, I was so distracted with everything that was going on – Hello! was photographing it, and they shoved us from pillar to post all day. I don’t remember half of it.’
She smiled at Deeley.
‘You’d have loved Matt’s groomsmen, though,’ she added. ‘Total hunks of muscle. The Hello! journalist was drooling all over them.’
Tears pricked at Deeley’s eyes at Devon being so nice to her. ‘I totally wish I could have come,’ she said in a heartfelt voice.
‘You’ve got to get rid of that American accent you’ve picked up, Deeley!’ Maxie drawled disapprovingly. ‘It’s vile!’
‘Oh, I quite like it!’ Olly said, beaming at Deeley. ‘It’s rather exotic, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve still got my copy of the Hello! you sent,’ Deeley said to Devon, squeezing her hand back. ‘You looked stunning.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Devon said almost sadly. As if she were on autopilot, she reached for her bread plate and started to eat a thick piece of ciabatta.
Deeley was taken aback by the sudden darkness in her sister’s eyes. ‘Dev?’ she started tentatively, but she was interrupted by her brother-in-law bellowing.
‘Jason! Yes, I am bloody ready to order, dammit! I’m starving! Truffle risotto and rib-eye for me. What about you, Maxie?’
Jason, Franco’s affable and charming maître d’, had come over to take their order; Maxie looked up at him, pulling a face of apology.
‘I’m so sorry, Jason,’ she said. ‘We’re not quite ready. Matt’s wandered off somewhere.’
‘Yes, Jason – have you seen Matt?’ Devon asked. ‘He went off to ring his coach – he got some garbled message about training tomorrow – but he’s been ages.’
‘I saw him in the bar just now,’ Jason said, grinning. ‘Shall I go and hurry him along?’
‘Yes! Good chap!’ Olly said loudly.
But just then a man loomed up at their table.
‘Honestly, Matt,’ Devon said crossly, ‘where have you been? We’re all starving! Jason, darling, I don’t even need to see the menu – you know what I want.’
Bad Sisters Page 9