The whole place needed a coat of paint and some new backdrops, and he wondered if he would find the time to do it. Unlikely. This whole thing with Ali’s illness had made him stop and think. He’d always been a never-do-today-what-you-can-quite-easily-put-off-until-tomorrow merchant. His plans, if you could even grace the loose meanderings of an alcohol-fueled brain with such a formal title, had all been five-year, ten-year, sometime-maybe-never plans. But this had suddenly made him realize that one day, when you weren’t expecting it, your dance card would be marked. And it would be marked, in indelible ink, with The Last Waltz.
It was a sobering thought. Along with his newly acquired Paul Smith suit, he was now going to be a live-every-day-as-if-it’s-your-last man. Because one day he would be right.
The doorbell chimed, making Neil turn round. Jemma stood in the doorway. She looked gorgeous. The sun was strong today. It was the sort of sun that holds a promise that we might, just might, for once be in for a long, hot summer. It was bleaching her hair to a honey-golden sheen, the color of the inside of a Crunchie. She swept it from her face. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“I was just passing.” She glanced at the traffic gridlocked outside the studio. “Thought I might be in time for pizza.”
If it was supposed to be a joke, it wasn’t funny. Neil put down his Fantastik. “Not today.”
“Oh.” Jemma came into the studio and looked round, trailing her hand over a group of dusty albums of particularly awful wedding photographs from years ago that he’d thought were state-of-the-art when he’d taken them—you know, couple trying to push Rolls Royce, bride with garter on full show, ushers throwing top hats in the air, terrible, terrible, cringe-making stuff. They were destined for the bin. All of them.
“How’s Ali?” he said.
“You know Ali,” she sighed, fiddling with her car keys like worry beads. “Toughing it out. She’s got her invincible shell on, but cracks are starting to appear. That woman will have me in an early grave. I could kill her.”
“Bad choice of words, Jemma.”
“I know.” Jemma pushed her hands into her pockets and kicked aimlessly at the scuffed vinyl floor. “I’m so worried about her, Neil. We really messed up with her and Ed, didn’t we?”
“We tried. We could do no more than that. You never know, it could have worked.”
“Yeah.” She sat down on the one bare corner of his desk. “Sometimes you never know what might happen unless you’re prepared to take a risk.”
“Yeah,” Neil said flatly. “I’m known as Neil ‘Too Risky’ Kingston.”
“I wanted to apologize again for the cup-of-tea thing,” Jemma said.
She was an attractive woman, Neil thought—even if she did have a fuse shorter than your average firework.
“Bad day.” She laughed cheerlessly. “Bad life.”
“Well…”
“It won’t happen again,” she said. “Promise. Perhaps we could go out for dinner one night next week….”
“I’m very busy,” Neil said.
“It wasn’t a personal thing,” Jemma said too hurriedly. “I wanted to do a portfolio of my clothes for an advertising feature. Glossy magazine. I thought you might like to take the photographs. That was all. Nothing in it.”
He savored the words “glossy magazine,” silently rolling them round his mouth like a fine wine, and let them go. “Like I said, Jemma, I really am very busy.”
The doorbell clanged again and Ed walked in. He looked older, grayer and more awful than Neil had ever seen him.
“Bro!” Neil went over and hugged him.
“Good afternoon, conniving brother,” Ed said, clapping him on his back. He turned to Jemma. “And you must be his lovely meddlesome assistant?”
Ed clearly hadn’t bought the bit about it all being Jemma’s fault.
“We were only trying to help,” Jemma said miserably.
Ed glared fiercely at them both. “I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you two yet.”
“Life’s too short, Ed,” Jemma said, getting up to kiss him. “It was all done with the best intentions.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ed said, hugging her. “How’s Ali?”
“You should go to see her.”
“She didn’t want me to, remember?”
“Alicia doesn’t know what she wants,” Jemma tutted. “She’s not great, Ed. She’s pretending she is, but I know her better than that.”
“The kids are missing her.”
“Go to see her,” Jemma instructed. “She’s going home tomorrow.”
Ed’s face darkened. “Where does she class as home now?”
“Christian’s place. She wouldn’t come to me. She wouldn’t go to Mum’s. Anyone can see she’s not thinking straight.”
Ed hunched his shoulders into his jacket.
“Go round there, Ed. Tell her you love her. Get her to come home. To your home. Her home. She needs you.”
“Do you never stop interfering in other people’s lives?” Ed said.
“Only when they stop making a complete mess of it themselves.”
“She’s right, Ed,” Neil offered.
“Who asked your opinion?” Ed said, kicking listlessly at one of the packing cases Neil had lined up against the wall. “What’s this? Doing a moonlight flit?”
Neil took a deep breath. “The studio’s up for sale.” Both Ed and Jemma turned to look at him. Neil spread his hands. “I’m moving on.”
“Pastures new?” Ed said.
“You could say that.” Neil swallowed hard.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Well, it’s all happened very quickly.” Neil had gone very hot. “I might as well tell you both while you’re here.”
Jemma was smiling inquisitively. Ed’s frown was about to get a few millimeters worse.
Neil tried a laugh, but it came out as an uncomfortable snort. “I’m going to California,” he said. “To Los Angeles.”
He was right about Ed’s frown. And now Jemma had one to match. Neil looked at Ed and their eyes locked.
“With Orla?” Ed asked.
Neil nodded. “With Orla.”
Jemma put her hands on her hips. “Who the hell’s Orla?” she said.
CHAPTER 80
Christian is helping me out of the taxi. After a fashion. He has already dropped my handbag and its contents into the gutter, and I think I might just be about to follow it. “Get my purse and pay the driver,” I say. I’m really trying to hang on to my temper, which is being stoked by pain and pity.
It’s all very well sitting there like Lady Muck in hospital surrounded by grapes and tissues and bottles of Robinson’s Barley Water, but it’s a bit of a shock when you’ve suddenly got to start maneuvering up and down stairs and in and out of taxis in the manner of a sprightly young thing. They wanted me to stay in hospital for an extra couple of days, but I think I was about to turn into a chip, so made my excuses and my escape.
Christian seems less certain about me being home. He is doing a lot of huffing and puffing, which is never a good sign, is it? He huffs and puffs a bit more as he pays the taxi driver and then huffs and puffs me into the house. Everything is as black as pitch. Including my mood.
“Do you want to go straight to bed?” Christian says, propping me up under one arm.
“Yes.” I am totally exhausted and almost wished I’d chosen the rigors of another plate of hospital chips instead.
We start off up the stairs. “Put the light on,” I say, realizing for the first time that the sun rarely shines in this house. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
Christian stops, halting the minuscule progress we’ve made. “I can’t,” he says.
“Can’t what?”
“I can’t put the light on.”
I lean against the banister. “Why?”
“We haven’t got any electricity.”
“Has there been a power cut?”
“Only in this house,” Christian says.
“We’ve been cut off, Ali.”
I face him, and he looks like he wishes he wasn’t here. I know exactly how he feels. “Haven’t you paid the bill?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We haven’t got any money.”
“How can I recuperate in a house that hasn’t got any power?” I can feel this horrible hysteria rising inside me.
“You’ll be fine,” Christian says quietly.
“I won’t be fine,” I shout. “How can I wash properly if we’ve no hot water? How can I even have a cup of tea?”
“We’re boiling pans of water on the cooker,” he says. “We’ve still got gas.”
“For how long?” I slump down onto the nearest stair.
Christian looks at the floor.
“I’ll pay the bill,” I say, forgetting for one blissful moment that I have no job and am not going to be able to work for the foreseeable future. “How much is it for?”
“I don’t know,” he mutters.
“How long does it take to get these things put back on? I’ve never been cut off before.” I look accusingly at him.
“It isn’t that simple,” Christian says.
“Why not?”
“It isn’t exactly our house.” He scratches his head.
“Then phone the landlord.”
“We haven’t exactly got a landlord either.”
“What?” With hindsight I blame the anesthetic for all this.
“We’re not exactly supposed to be living here.”
I stop myself from saying “what” again.
“We’re squatters, Ali,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m living in a squat?” I can barely hear myself. “But I thought squats were derelict council houses with rats and urine-soaked mattresses on the floor?” Surely they can’t be rather grand Victorian terraces in swishy little backstreets lined with Porsches?
Christian blows a snort of air out of his nose. “Get in the real world, Ali.”
I am in the real world. I know because everything hurts far, far too much for me to be imagining it. My voice is still wobbly. “Isn’t that illegal?”
Christian rakes his fringe nervously. “Some people view it like that.”
“Mainly those involved with the law,” I remark icily.
“Well…”
Let me tell you, I am the person who thinks all asylum seekers are no-good scroungers. I am the person who has never been flashed, not even once, by a speed camera. I am the person who has never had a parking ticket, and I can tell you in London that is an extremely rare beast. I am the person who wouldn’t even dream of dropping an empty crisp packet on the pavement. I, Mrs. Law-Abiding Citizen of the Century, am a squatter.
Christian tries a disbelieving laugh. “How did you think we managed to live in such a smart place?”
I stare up at Christian, and he looks exactly like someone I’ve never, ever seen before. My voice has almost deserted me. “I thought you had rich parents.”
“I do,” he says. “But they loathe me.”
And, at this moment, I can’t say that I blame them.
CHAPTER 81
Ed was sitting watching Ice Cool Chew-Chew Mints dive into a vast blue plastic swimming pool filled with iced water—to illustrate, of course, how refreshing they were. They had already done seven takes, and the Ice Cool Chew-Chew Mints were all very pissed off.
It was, however, making Ed smile. Which was nice, because not a lot had made him smile lately. The last take had been pretty much perfect, but as Ed watched the Ice Cool Chew-Chew Mints being fished out of the swimming pool, he thought he might make them do it all over again just for a bit of fun.
“Once more from the top,” Ed shouted, nodding to Trevor with a barely concealed smirk.
Orla slid into the seat next to him. “There was nothing wrong with that, Ed Kingston. You’re doing this for spite.”
“Half of them were late this morning,” he said. “They’re paying for it now.”
“In spades,” Orla said as she watched the Mints form a shivering queue to jump in all over again needlessly. Ed settled back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.
“Are things okay between us?” she asked.
“Yes,” Ed said, eyes still on the Mints.
“You don’t mind that I’m in love with your little brother?”
Ed shook his head. “No. Not at all.”
“Or that I’m taking him halfway across the world?”
“No.”
“Is that because you were never really in love with me?”
Ed looked at her. “Would you mind if that were true?”
“Yes,” she said sadly. “A little.”
Trevor was loading more ice into the water and making sure that the bobbing polystyrene penguins were all the right way up. The Mints were jumping up and down in a vain effort to get warm.
Orla studied his profile. “Neil’s a lot like you.”
“He’s not,” Ed said. “Neil’s nice. You’re better off with Neil.”
“He’ll do well in Hollywood.” Orla stretched out, lifting her hair. “I’ll make sure he has lots of work.”
“Good,” Ed said. “Good.”
“There’s a job still open for you,” she said. “If you want it.”
Ed shook his head again, more emphatically. “No. I need to be here.” Harrison Ford will have to wait. Possibly forever.
Orla touched his arm. “How is Alicia?”
“I don’t know,” Ed said, realizing that he was fed up with hearing secondhand reports. “But I’m going to find out.”
“She’s a very lucky woman, Ed. In a lot of ways.”
“Yeah,” he said. She must be slapping her thighs and thanking the Lord for chemotherapy. But he knew what Orla meant. She was lucky that she was going to survive. Lucky that she’d been blessed with three beautiful children. And he was a lucky man. Lucky to have loved Alicia. Lucky to still have the chance to tell her. It had just taken him a long time to work out quite how lucky he was. Perhaps too long.
Reluctantly, the Mints were inching their way along the diving board, jostling fractiously as they went. Despite himself, Ed started to grin again.
The Mints were launching themselves into the ice-cold water, splashing and scattering the polystyrene penguins and polar bears strewn on the surface.
“I did love you, Ed,” Orla said softly.
But he was laughing too hard to hear her. Or if he did, he chose to ignore it.
CHAPTER 82
My insides feel as if they’ve been scrubbed out with one of the white nylon bottle brushes that you can only buy from Kleenezee catalogs. Going to the toilet every ten minutes aided and abetted only by candlelight does not make for a peaceful night’s sleep, I can tell you from bitter experience.
Christian is sitting at the side of me on the bed, proffering a cup of pan-boiled tea and a bowl of Sugar Puffs. He strokes the hair gently from my face and whispers, “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I say crisply.
“You didn’t sleep very well?”
“No.” I resist the urge to point out that he, au contraire, slept like the proverbial baby. Why is it that men never, ever have disturbed sleep no matter what the crisis? And, God knows, I tried to disturb his sleep. I kicked him, pinched him, punched him, ground my big toe into his ankle. Fruitless. All of it.
I take the Sugar Puffs, not with a good grace, and I don’t even like Sugar Puffs—they’re so sweet they make your face suck in and your fillings itch—but I am starving, which I take as a good sign. How can I possibly still have cancer and a good appetite?
“Try to get some more sleep,” he says, and kisses my forehead. “I’ll see you later.”
“Later?”
“I’m going to work.”
“Work!” I abandon the Sugar Puffs and any attempt at frailty. “Work? You’re supposed to be looking aft
er me, Christian. I’ve just come out of hospital. I’ve just had a major operation. I could do with a forty-foot crane to help me get out of bed.”
“I have to go to work, Ali. I’m going to lose my pitch otherwise. Even starving artists have to play by the rules of hard commercialism these days.”
Now I’m starting to panic. He is so totally unaware of my needs. I want to scream at him: I haven’t just broken a fingernail, you know! I’ve got more stitches than a bloody patchwork quilt! “How will I manage?” I sound so pathetic.
“Becs is here all day. She’s doing some work from home. She’ll look after you.”
“That’s like leaving me to the tender loving care of Dr. Crippen!”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Stop saying that! I won’t be fine. I need you, Christian. If you love me, you won’t walk away from me now.”
“I do love you, Ali.” I can feel a huge “but” coming on and it chills my blood.
“But?”
“But…” Christian twists the camouflage duvet in his fingers. “I’m finding this very difficult to cope with.”
“You are?”
“I know. I know. You must think I’m very selfish.”
“You can’t have relationships that don’t have ups and downs, Christian. It’s times like these that test how strong your commitment to each other is.”
“I’ve never done commitment very well,” he says, and his eyes wander round the room. The room in the house that belongs to someone else. Someone else who doesn’t even realize that there are strangers in his home having this conversation. “And I never realized how many commitments you had when we got involved.”
“You did.”
“I knew about them for sure, but I had no idea what it would be like living with them on a day-to-day basis. I like things to go along smoothly, Ali. Without hassle.”
A Minor Indiscretion Page 36