She starting moving herself along him again, this time incredibly slowly, those little white teeth digging into her lip again, her eyes rolling around with ecstasy. Nick shut his eyes. He wanted to win, not just to prove that he had control over his body but to prolong this amazing experience for as long as he possibly could. He thought about absolutely everything in his life that was boring. Recited all his pin numbers and security codes to himself. But it was no good. Hot little bitch. Hot fucking little bitch. Never mind the mess. He could put extra chemicals in tomorrow…
He opened his eyes with a groan, to find Victoria staring straight at him.
‘I didn’t actually touch it,’ said Yas afterwards. ‘I just had to pretend to be rubbing myself off. It never came out of his trunks. Jesus, I deserve an Oscar. It was all I could do not to barf in his face. Where’s my moola?’
Mimi counted out her birthday money.
‘I can’t believe your mum has been so calm about it.’
Victoria had just ordered Yasmin out of the jacuzzi, told her to get dressed and called her a taxi. Nick had made some pathetic excuse, about Yasmin being upset and him trying to comfort her, and Victoria had laughed a rather nasty, ominous laugh.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mimi confidently. ‘It’ll all kick off when you’ve gone. I’ll keep you posted. And thanks.’
She hugged her friend, as the entryphone buzzed. The taxi was at the gates. Mimi pushed the button to open them.
‘I better go,’ said Yas. ‘Listen, call me if it all gets out of hand. But you know what, you’ve done the right thing. Major creep.’ She stuffed another piece of gum in her mouth. ‘But big dick. Maybe that’s why your mother’s hung around so long…’
Later that night, Mimi felt slightly sick with guilt, not to mention panic. Her mother was totally distraught. Mimi was shocked that she was so surprised. To her, even at seventeen, it was blindingly obvious that Nick was a womanizer: Yasmin was by no means the first he had fallen prey to. A stupendous two-hour screaming match had ended up with Victoria shrieking her final ultimatum.
‘I want you out of this house!’
Nick’s eyes were flinty. He smiled mirthlessly.
‘But this is my house,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘If you’ve got a problem with my behaviour, you’re the one who has to go.’
‘Where are we supposed to go?’
‘I’ll phone a hotel. I’ll book you in for a week. That should give you enough time to find someone else to live off. You’re a fast worker.’
And so it was that Victoria and Mimi found themselves in a nasty hotel room with twin beds, orange eiderdowns and brown curtains. Victoria immediately popped two Temazepam and was out like a light.
Mimi sat in the semi-darkness, chewing the already ragged flesh at the edge of her nails. At eleven o’clock she finally summoned up the nerve to pick up the phone and dial the number that she had never forgotten.
‘Sorry, but the number you have dialled is no longer available.’ The woman from BT sounded firm and authoritative. Mimi dialled again, thinking she must have made a mistake in her haste. But the message was the same. Her heart racing, Mimi put the phone down. She looked over at Victoria, the slight rise and fall of the bedcover the only indication that she was still alive.
Her mum had put all her eggs in Nick’s basket. Mimi wasn’t totally familiar with her business affairs, but she knew her PR company had been taken over by Nick’s conglomerate, and that Victoria worked exclusively for him now. He wasn’t exactly going to expect her in the office first thing in the morning.
No job. No money. Nowhere to live. And the lifeline Mimi had been depending on, from the moment she hatched the plan, had been cut off. What the hell was she going to do now?
Maybe the number had just been changed. She tried directory enquiries.
‘I’m sorry – it’s ex-directory,’ the operator informed her.
‘Please. It’s terribly important. It’s a matter of life and death.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Mimi slammed down the receiver and put her head in her hands. She should have thought this plan through. She should have guessed there would be a hiccup. Everything had gone so smoothly until now. Nick had taken the bait; her mother had reacted just as predicted. But the plan was nothing without the final piece of the jigsaw.
She stood up and reached decisively for her coat. She couldn’t give up now. She scribbled a note for Victoria on some hotel paper, though she was pretty certain her mother wasn’t going to wake up until the morning. Then she went out to reception to order a taxi. Luckily Nick hadn’t got round to cancelling their cab account, though she didn’t think it would take him long to cut them off without a penny – mobiles, cashpoints, slates in their favourite bars, the petrol. They had a stream of tabs around town. At least Victoria’s car was still in her name, even though she was rarely sober enough to drive it.
The cab glided into Bath and Mimi watched as the pubs emptied, envying the revellers their carefree, drunken journeys home. It was going to be all right, she assured herself. Now she’d proved to her mother just how awful Nick was. That had been the hardest part.
‘Could you wait for me?’ she asked the cab driver as they pulled up outside an elegant three-storey house in the middle of a terrace. There were lights on. Thank goodness someone was in. The seconds felt like hours until the door opened. A woman stood there, short dark hair, slim, attractive. She was frowning, suspicious. As one would be if a distraught-looking teenage girl appeared on your doorstep. Wary of some elaborate scam, she instinctively stood in the crack of the door, in case she was stampeded by a herd of thugs.
‘Yes?’
‘Is George in?’
‘I’m sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong address.’
The woman made to close the door. Mimi stepped forward.
‘No, I haven’t. This is his house. George Chandler?’
‘Oh. George. Of course.’ The woman smiled in realization. ‘I’m sorry. We’ve bought this house off him. Didn’t you know he’d moved?’
Mimi stood rigid with shock.
‘Moved?’ she croaked. ‘Where to?’
‘Sorry. I don’t think I can reveal that information.’
‘You must have an address for him? Or a number?’
‘I’m afraid not. He didn’t leave it. He’s had all his post forwarded.’
The door closed. Mimi walked back over to the cab slowly, as if to the guillotine.
‘I’m going to need some money if you want me to take you back.’ The cabbie was eyeing her suspiciously.
‘It’s on account.’
‘Sorry, love. I’ve just had a call through from the boss. The account’s closed.’
‘But I haven’t got any money on me.’
The driver put his car into first, as if he was about to drive away.
‘Then it’s tough.’
Mimi, who was a pretty cool customer, felt an unfamiliar panic. The evening was going from bad to worse.
‘Take me back to the hotel,’ she begged. ‘My mum’s got money.’
‘I’ve heard that one before.’
‘You can’t just leave me here. I’m under age.’
The cabbie looked her up and down.
‘Yeah, right.’
Mimi stamped her foot, foiled by her own attempt to look more grown up than she really was.
‘If I’m found dead in the gutter with my throat cut, it’ll be your fault. Could you live with that?’
The cabbie rolled his eyes. The kid did have a point. On reflection, judging by the way girls dressed these days, she probably was only about fourteen. And he wouldn’t have thanked anyone for leaving his teenage daughter stranded miles from home at nearly midnight.
‘Get in.’
Mimi slid on to the velour seat cover and pulled her coat around her. She was shivering. Cold dread was seeping through her. As the car pulled out of Northampton Street and headed back through the city, she wondered what on earth she was
supposed to do now.
6
Lisa wasn’t entirely sure what all the fuss was about, when people said that selling a house was near the top of the stress list. She’d found it remarkably easy, but then as the estate agent pointed out she had bought sensibly, maintained her properties well and priced to sell.
‘I wish we had more clients like you,’ he said. ‘Most of them expect to achieve sky-high prices when they can’t even be bothered to vacuum the carpet before the viewers come round.’
Lisa made sure every surface was gleaming before anyone set foot over the threshold, which meant she got her asking price from cash buyers for both the flat and her house within a week of them going on the market. George was equally lucky as the agent he chose had a waiting list for property in his street, and found him a buyer straightaway. It had just been a question of agreeing a price.
‘I could probably get more,’ he told Lisa. ‘But I want a quick, watertight sale. And I got a hefty discount from the agent as they didn’t have to do any particulars, so I’m not going to complain.’
Luck, it seemed, was on their side.
There was only one moment when Lisa got cold feet about what she was doing. She went to say goodbye to the tenant in her flat, an earnest American girl called Dawn who was studying for an English degree at nearby Warwick University. They went to a local bar to share a farewell bottle of wine. Clutching a bottle of Pinot Grigio and two glasses, Lisa pushed her way through the jostling tourists who had recently spilled out of the RSC and were now discussing the finer points of the play in loud voices, hoping that whoever overheard them would be impressed. With the consummate skill of one used to crowded places, she appropriated a table that was just being vacated and beckoned Dawn to come and sit down.
After two glasses Dawn, slightly flushed, leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile.
‘So – does this all mean wedding bells?’
Lisa looked rather startled.
‘Not at all.’
Dawn drew back, mortified that she’d got the wrong end of the stick.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal. It’s just… well, it’s kind of a big commitment, don’t you think? Buying a hotel with someone? Even bigger than buying a house?’
Lisa thought for a moment.
‘Yes, I suppose it is. But it’s a business arrangement. I mean, there’s someone else in on the deal.’ She smiled tightly, feeling a trifle defensive. ‘And I’m not going to marry him either.’
Dawn looked excruciatingly embarrassed.
‘Shit.’ She put down her glass. ‘I shouldn’t drink. It makes me say stuff I shouldn’t.’
‘Hey, it’s no big deal.’ Lisa was anxious that Dawn shouldn’t feel bad. In fact, it was the first time she’d seen the girl relax. She hadn’t meant to be snappy. But Dawn had hit a nerve. It hadn’t really occurred to Lisa that this move somehow meant her relationship with George had moved on a step. They’d been so wrapped up in the machinations of buying The Rocks, and what they were going to do with it, that they hadn’t really touched on their personal life.
Yes, when you looked at it closely, they were moving in together, technically. But only because it made economic sense, not because they’d made a conscious decision to do so. After all, there was only a small apartment in the hotel, with one bedroom. If they lived apart, it would mean one of them renting, or sacrificing a hotel room, which would eat into their profit margin.
She wondered if she should talk to George about exactly where they stood with each other. But then she decided to leave it. They had enough to worry about. And, anyway, if she started analysing where they were, he might think she was dropping hints, and that was the last thing she wanted. Dawn was being typically American, reading into it things that weren’t there. From her reaction, she obviously thought Lisa was taking a big risk.
If there was any risk in what they were about to do, it was that neither of them had the first clue about running a hotel…
It was only later, in bed, her head swimming slightly from having drunk the lion’s share of the bottle of wine, that she felt a slight panic. Lisa valued her independence. She had always clung to it fiercely. Had she sacrificed it unwittingly? Did George see this as some sort of commitment? She didn’t think so. They’d always respected each other’s space. That was why she was still with him, almost a year after they’d first met.
In the past, most men tried to crowd her after just a few weeks. They needed constant reassurance, bombarding her with presents in order to secure her undying love. They just didn’t get it when she threw them back. Two weeks later it would be all over, Lisa backing off like a frightened horse being led into a box. George didn’t shower her with meaningless gifts. He was more secure than that. And she trusted him. He was solid. She felt sure that whatever happened they could keep things on a businesslike level.
Reassuring herself she had done the right thing, she spent the next few days throwing herself into the task of packing up what she wanted to take with her, which didn’t amount to a great deal. She’d sold most of her furniture with the house and the flat. And Lisa was always very careful not to accumulate clutter. At the end of every season she threw out any of her clothes that were worn or no longer fitted well or no longer pleased her, sent shoes to the cobbler for repair, suits to the dry-cleaners, then wrapped everything up in tissue paper and packed it away. She wasn’t given to impulse purchases, never made mistakes. She knew exactly what suited her. Her wardrobe had to work, after all. She would be called upon at short notice for a particular job, and she needed to put her hands straight on the appropriate outfit and be safe in the knowledge that it was clean, pressed, fitted perfectly and had no loose threads or buttons missing.
The rest of her life was as streamlined and organized as her wardrobe. Her essential paperwork was always dealt with immediately and neatly filed away in colour-coordinated box files. She didn’t keep personal letters. She threw them away. Or old photos – she put the few she liked (usually of places, rarely of people) in an album and chucked the rest. She dropped magazines off at the dentist or the recycling centre. It was as if she lived almost entirely in the present. She needed no relic from her past, either distant or immediate. Lisa had absolutely no sentiment. George was amazed that she kept no record of her modelling career – she didn’t have a single photograph.
‘What do I need them for? I’m not going to do any more work, so I don’t need a portfolio. Anyway, I’d only look at them and get depressed.’
‘No. You should be proud.’
She shrugged.
‘It’s hardly an achievement.’
That chapter in her life was definitely closed, and she didn’t want to go poking about in it. As far as she was concerned, her erstwhile career had bought her a house and a flat, which in turn had enabled her to buy The Rocks. That was a sufficient memento.
George was absolutely staggered when she announced that she had finished.
‘You’d better come and help me, then,’ he said gloomily. He was rather overwhelmed by the undertaking, not least because he kept being distracted by faxes and missives from the architect, by a flurry of email applications for the various posts they had advertised, by articles and ideas in design magazines he fell across. This to him was far more interesting than sorting through his belongings. So Lisa came and stood over him.
By contrast to her, George was a spendthrift and a hoarder. His house was stuffed with clothes, gadgets, gizmos, works of art, CDs, DVDs, kitchen equipment, wine. And shoes – he was the king of shoes. Boots, brogues, loafers, trainers, from Patrick Cox down to three pairs of Timberlands in varying states ranging from pristine to distressed.
Lisa forced him to whittle his collection down to five pairs.
‘You’re moving to the seaside. What possible use can you have for black patent dinner shoes?’
Grumbling, George made his final selection, knowing that there would come a day when he would curse his culling. But time a
nd again she reminded him that the owner’s accommodation was only tiny. This really was the start of a new life, George realized eventually. He was downsizing, relocating, changing career. He looked at the boxes neatly stacked in the living room. Lisa had packed it all for him, labelled it neatly. There was nothing superfluous. They were ready to go. For the past month, George had kept on top of all the various estate agents and solicitors, snapping at their heels and smoothing out any possible snags almost before they had reared their heads. He knew how fragile property chains were, and as the purchase of The Rocks involved coordinating the sale of three properties, the likelihood of something going irretrievably wrong was pretty high. But eventually, just as a foul and blustery April transformed itself into a warm and balmy May, the day of completion arrived with no threat of the deal collapsing.
George stood on the pavement for a moment, then closed his front door for the very last time and posted the key back through the letterbox for the new incumbent. As he heard it thud on the doormat, he realized that this was the moment of no return. He loved Bath. It suited him. He understood how things worked; knew where to get things done, who to turn to. He had people who owed him favours; people he could do favours. He didn’t have a clue how things worked in Mariscombe. And George was no fool. He knew that every town, however small, had its own peculiarities, its own hierarchy. There were unwritten rules about what you could and couldn’t do. Mariscombe, for all its superficial charm, wasn’t going to be any different.
He looked at his watch. Five to twelve. The contracts were due to complete at midday; the monies would be transferred electronically. Theoretically, he could put in a phone call to his solicitor and stop the sales. For a wild moment, it was a possibility. He imagined the chaos, the uproar, the panic, all the other people in the chain standing on their pavements, waiting for the nod, then realizing it had all fallen through, that the removal lorries would have to be unpacked…
Love on the Rocks Page 11