by Tess Stimson
I pause to cross the road, and a piercing wolf whistle has me leaping out of my skin. For fuck’s sake! In my fragile condition, any shock could be terminal.
“Jenna! Hold up!”
Xan crosses over, and looks me up and down. “Good night, was it?”
“Since you ask.”
“I’ve seen better-looking corpses.”
“Fuck off.” I sigh. “How come you’re up this early, anyway?”
“Haven’t been to bed yet,” he says cheerily. “Came to pick up my car.”
“It’s been sitting here a week. You’re lucky it hasn’t been towed.”
He points to the blue disabled sticker on his rear windscreen. “I used the crip space.”
“Somebody in a wheelchair might have needed that,” I reprove.
“My need was greater. Will you have dinner with me?”
“Will I what?”
He folds his arms and leans against Clare’s gleaming black iron railings. “You know. Dinner. Main meal of the day, usually eaten in the evening. From the French word dîner, the chief repast of the day, ultimately from the Latin disiunare, which means—”
“Yes, thank you. I know what dinner is. I just want to know why you want to have it with me.”
“Because my conscience fought a battle with my loins, and lust won out.”
My eyes slip involuntarily towards the bulge in his jeans. Xan snorts with laughter. I scowl. I can’t help it, it’s just one of those words. When someone says loins, you can’t help but, well, look.
“Come on. A drink, then.”
“No drinks,” I say feelingly.
“OK. Evian all the way, I promise.”
I waver. His turquoise eyes goad me. Oh, shit. Xan is narcissistic, untrustworthy, and arrogant; which, as every woman knows, is an irresistible combination. There’s just something about a bastard. It’s the combination of a Machiavellian ability to deceive and the thrill-seeking, callous behavior of a psychopath. It’s so … I don’t know … so fucking sexy.
The front door opens. “Xan!” Clare exclaims. “What are you doing here?”
He jangles his car keys by way of answer.
“Jenna, if you wouldn’t mind, Poppy just spilt fruit juice all down herself.”
“Friday,” I hiss to Xan. “Oriel at eight.”
“Thank heavens you’re here early,” Clare says, slamming the door on her brother and hustling me into the kitchen. “We’ve got to go to the hospital. I just had a call from the pediatrician.” Her voice is filled with hope for the first time in weeks. “They think they might know what’s wrong with Poppy.”
We’re directed up to the NICU floor, and shown into a small, windowless waiting room with boxes of tissues on every table. I hate it straight away. This must be where they tell parents their baby is going to die.
After a few minutes, the door opens and a tall woman with spirals of red hair spilling down her shoulders like rusty bedsprings starts to back into the room. Her right foot is in plaster, and she’s struggling with a pair of crutches. I leap up and hold the door for her. If she wasn’t wearing a white coat with a stethoscope draped around her neck, I’d have thought she was a patient who’d got lost.
“Oh, thank you,” she pants. “I still haven’t quite got used to these.”
“I was expecting Dr. Bryant,” Clare says warily.
“Yes, I’m not supposed to be back at work yet,” the woman says, sinking clumsily onto a chair and parking the crutches on the seat beside her, “but when I heard about this case, I had to come in.”
Clare leans forward. “You think you know what’s wrong with Poppy?”
“There have been a couple of similar cases over the past few years. I don’t know if you remember the Christian Blewitt case? Six or seven years ago, Angela and Ian Gay were accused of killing their foster child by salt poisoning. They ended up in jail, but were eventually released and their convictions were quashed. When Cooper told me about what had happened to you—”
Clare looks nonplussed. “Cooper?”
She laughs. “I’m sorry, no wonder you’re confused. I should explain. I’m Ella Stuart, Pediatric Consultant here at the Princess Eugenie.”
“You’re Ella Stuart?”
“Quite recovered now, as you can see,” Ella says, “and desperate to get back to work. It seems that, like most of my profession, I make a much better doctor than I do a patient. Your flowers are beautiful, by the way,” she adds. “I’ve wanted to thank you for a long time.”
“You’re welcome,” Clare says absently. I’ve never seen her look so thrown. “But what does this have to do with your fiancé?”
“Cooper’s not my fiancé! He’s my brother-in-law.” Her smile fades. “My husband died in February. Cooper came to England to collect some of his things.”
“I’m so sorry,” Clare says softly.
Ella collects herself with an effort. “Jackson—my husband—wasn’t the kind of man to stand by if he thought someone was being treated unfairly, and Cooper’s the same. He asked me to look at the case again. He didn’t want this haunting you for the next eighteen years.”
“That’s … that’s so kind of him,” Clare whispers. She looks close to tears.
“In the case of little Christian Blewitt, it seems he had a rare medical condition which allows sodium to build up in the body,” Ella says. “I think Poppy could have something similar.”
“Will she be OK?” Clare asks anxiously.
Her first instinct is to worry about Poppy, rather than be relieved she’s off the hook herself. How can she think she’s a bad mother? She’s more committed to her children than any of the mothers I know.
“If she has what I think she does, then yes, it’s perfectly treatable. I don’t know if you’ve heard of diabetes insipidus?” Wincing, she straightens out her broken foot, and rubs her calf. “It’s sometimes known as water diabetes, but it has nothing to do with sugar diabetes, which I’m sure you’re familiar with. DI is caused by the kidney’s inability to concentrate urine properly, due to the deficiency of a hormone called vasopressin. It’s quite rare, which is probably why it wasn’t picked up when she was first brought in.”
“But you can treat it?” Clare says. “She’ll get better?”
“It can’t be cured,” Ella says gently, “but the symptoms can be almost eliminated. Poppy will need to take a modified form of vasopressin, and you’ll have to stay very aware of her hydration levels. But if she does have DI, she should be fine.”
Clare gulps out a half laugh, half sob. “I kept telling them I didn’t give her salt, but they wouldn’t believe me.”
“You’d have had to force-feed her four spoons of salt to get the sodium levels in her body they recorded,” Ella says crisply. “Trust me, even diluted in a pint of water, an adult would vomit that amount of salt, never mind a child. They should have had the good sense to check for an underlying medical cause, instead of jumping to sinister conclusions.”
Clare’s eyes shine. “Thank you,” she says.
As we leave, Ella murmurs something to Clare that I can’t quite catch, but I notice it has the interesting effect of making her blush scarlet. I crane after the doctor curiously, wondering what I’m missing.
I load the baby carriers into the rear of the Range Rover. “I’ll drop you all at Baby Swim,” Clare says, starting the car. “I have to go and sort out some problems at the Fulham shop. I’ll pick you up afterwards.”
“Don’t worry, we can walk back. It’s a gorgeous day.”
Clare twists around in her seat, and smiles at the twins. “I wish I could come with you. You’re right, it’s a beautiful day. It’ll be lovely in that open-air pool.”
“Why don’t you come, too?”
She hesitates, clearly tempted. “I can’t. Craig and Molly are both sick. Someone has to be there when the delivery arrives.”
“I could wait for the delivery, and you could take the twins to Baby Swim,” I suggest.
“No, it’s fine. I’l
l take them another time.”
“Take them now,” I press. “Go on. You can borrow my swimsuit. They’d really love it if you took them. And they’ll be in the full-care class from next month, so you won’t be able to stay.”
“I should get going. You’ll be late—”
“Clare,” I say softly. “You trust me with your children. Are you telling me you can’t trust me for an hour or two with your flowers?”
She jerks, and for a moment I think I’ve gone too far.
“You really think you could manage?” she says finally.
“After dealing with these two horrors twenty-four/seven? Walk in the park.”
“You’ll need to check the stock against the delivery inventory. Make sure you go through every tray; don’t just assume that because the one on top is fine, the others will be. Anything even slightly damaged, you send back. Don’t sign for it. And don’t take any substitutes. That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book.” She looks doubtful. “Are you sure you can do this, Jenna? You don’t know anything about flowers. Maybe I should just—”
“I know enough to figure out when someone’s trying to pull a fast one,” I retort. “I used to manage the stock at the Sports Club. I’ll be fine.”
She’s still reeling off instructions when she pulls up in front of the Fulham shop. I nod attentively, not listening to a word. Frankly, much as I love the twins, I can’t wait for a couple of hours off from wiping snotty noses and changing nappies. How hard can it be to count tulips?
The metal shutters are still down; inside, the shop is cool and dim. I don’t bother to switch on the lights, enjoying the green gloom. It smells amazing: like burying your head in the biggest bouquet of flowers you’ve ever seen. It must be fantastic to work in a place like this. Imagine going home smelling of roses and jasmine instead of puke and baby shit.
I plump down on the high stool behind the counter, spinning slightly to and fro. No wonder Clare loves her shop so much. It is kind of calm and peaceful here. It’s not just the quiet of having no customers; it’s the feeling that you’re somehow grounded and connected with the real world. The living, growing world.
“You lucky bitch.” Kirsty sighs, when I call and tell her what I’m doing. “It’s Hector’s birthday party this afternoon. Fran’s invited eight little boys over, and guess who’s got to entertain them.”
“Get your tits out,” I suggest. “That should keep them quiet.”
“I might just do that,” she says thoughtfully. “They’ve discovered their willies at ten, right?”
“Are you kidding? Rowan plays with his whenever I take his nappy off, and he’s only six months.”
The bell rings as the door opens, and I quickly click my phone shut. A tall, grim-faced man in an ankle-length duster strides into the shop like he owns the place.
I come out from behind the counter and stop him in his tracks. “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“Where’s Clare?”
“She’s not here today—”
“Who’re you?” he says rudely.
Bad-tempered American arse. “I work for Clare. Can I take a message?”
“Unlikely.”
He doesn’t leave. I glare pointedly at him, but he just glares back. He’s got that mean, unshaven Clint Eastwood thing going on, but his eyes are gorgeous: a really piercing blue. He could be quite cute if he wasn’t so fucking grumpy. And was twenty years younger, of course.
“Can I help you?” I ask, making my tone as unhelpful as possible.
“Help?”
“Yes. Was there something you wanted?”
“Camellias,” he says suddenly. “Give me some camellias.”
“I told you, we’re closed—”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
I wouldn’t know a camellia if it jumped up and bit me. “I really can’t—”
“There,” he says, pointing to a bucket of red blooms surrounded by evergreen leaves. “Just give them to me.”
“But—”
“You don’t have to arrange the damn things. Just send them to … send them to Clare.”
“Who shall I say they’re from?” I ask, with what I consider commendable patience, given my insatiable curiosity.
“She’ll know.”
I rummage through the paperwork on my side of the counter, wondering what to charge him; or even how to, for that matter.
“When you’ve figured it out,” he drawls, “put it on my account. Cooper Garrett.”
Before I have a chance to process this crucial information, the shop phone rings. At the same time, a scrawny youth slouches through the door with a sheaf of paperwork in his hands. “Delivery,” he grunts, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
When I look up, the American has gone.
———
I should never have let Clare talk me into this. It’s like a zillion times more than I can afford, even when I’m not sixteen thousand pounds in debt.
But this dress is so beautiful. And so sexy. And it makes me look so thin.
I twirl before the bedroom mirror. The pleated, gunmetal gray Azzedine Alaïa flares gently from just below my bust, skimming my wobbles and rolls and flatteringly ending at mid-thigh. It looks classy, chic, and expensive. Particularly expensive. I’m going to be in hock to Clare for the next twenty years.
What was I supposed to do, when she invited me to come to a private designer sale with her to thank me for holding the fort at the shop? Especially when she offered to loan me money to buy “something special” to cheer me up. If I’d known breaking up with Jamie would earn me admission to Designer Heaven, I’d have dumped him years ago.
I slip on my new Manolos (I never thought I’d own a pair of Manolos; but like Clare said, in for a penny, in for three hundred and forty pounds) and skip downstairs, feeling like Carrie in Sex and the City. Only without the horse face and freaky hair.
“Oh! You look amazing!” Clare cries, as I spin princessily into the sitting room. “Marc, doesn’t she look lovely?”
Marc doesn’t bother to look up from his paper. “Mmm.”
“Are you going out with Kirsty again?”
I flush. “Actually, I’ve got a date.”
“A date? But how nice!” I can tell she’s bursting to know who it is, but is far too polite to ask. “I hope he’s taking you somewhere wonderful.”
“I’m meeting him in town,” I mumble. Trying to distract her from any more tricky questions, I make a big deal of fiddling with my hair in the mirror over the fireplace. “Do you think I should put my hair up? It’s grown out a bit, and I’m not sure if it really suits me down.”
“Oh, up, definitely. I’ll do it, if you like.”
“It’s OK, I’ve got a couple of clips somewhere—”
“Go on, I’m really good at it,” Clare pleads. “Davina taught me. One of the few times,” she adds sadly, “she ever took any interest in me.”
I don’t have the heart to say no. I follow her upstairs, feeling like a total bitch as she brushes and pins. It’s bad enough that I’m seeing Xan behind her back. All this shopping and sisterliness makes it a thousand times worse.
Clare pulls my hair into a soft, sexy chignon, leaving a few stray tendrils to frame my face in that hot, just-fallen-out-of-bed way. She picks up a makeup brush to touch up my inexpert application, and by the time she’s finished, I barely recognize myself. I look like a cover girl, with flawless foundation and huge, smoky eyes. It’s a shame it’ll all end up smeared on Xan’s pillow.
She gives my shoulders a squeeze, and bends to meet my eyes in the mirror. “I hope you have a wonderful time,” she says, smiling. “You really deserve it.”
Seriously. Could she make me feel any worse?
Marc is champing at the bit by the time we get downstairs, anxious to get going on the drive to Davina’s, where they’re spending the weekend. He hustles Clare and the babies out of the door before she can offer me a lift. I breathe a sigh of relief. If this turns out to be anythin
g more than a brief fling, I’m going to have to come clean with Clare. I can’t stand all this sneaking around.
I’m just about to leave the house when Xan calls. “Change of plan,” he says. “Is the coast clear? Good. I’ll be there in five.”
Three minutes later, the doorbell rings. I glance in the hall mirror, blow myself a kiss for good luck, and open the door.
A police car is waiting outside.
Xan sticks his head out of the rear window. “Come on.” He’s grinning. “Hop in.”
“What’s going on? Have you been arrested again?”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” He climbs out of the car and holds the door for me. “A friend owes me a favor. Meet Brendan and Lee. Ever been in a police chase?”
I fold my arms. “Very funny.”
“Seriously. I’m on the side of the angels. Most of the time, anyway.” He runs his finger slowly down my bare arm, and I tingle. “I lead a dissolute life, as Clare will tell you. Occasionally, I mix with characters even I deem too unsavory for my tastes. I hear things. Sometimes I pass them on. Last month, when I was arrested? Bit of a mistake by the boys in blue. I got caught up in the wrong stakeout. Right hand didn’t know what the left was doing. This is by way of an apology.”
I get in the car, wondering if Xan is a secret agent, a grass, an ex-con, or all three. This is the weirdest first date I’ve ever had.
“Your bird’s a bit overdressed.” Brendan leers, glancing in his rearview mirror. “She won’t be tackling many villains in that getup.”
“I’m undercover,” I retort.
Xan’s hand slides up my bare leg. “Now there’s an idea.”
The police radio crackles, and we pull out into the road. I wait for the screaming tires and sirens, but for the next two hours, we schlep from one boring false alarm to another. Burst water mains, a “domestic,” two teens pelting rocks onto the road from a building under construction.
Finally, a call comes in alerting us to a shop robbery in progress.
“Fancy the blues and twos?” Brendan asks.
“Are you kidding?”
He switches on the lights and sirens. We tear down the King’s Road, jumping red lights and ignoring zebra crossings. I cling to the seat for dear life as the car corners on what seems like two wheels. Xan’s fingers slip beneath the edge of my knickers, and I nearly come with excitement.