by Jill Mansell
“Well, something like that.” Max, relieved and at the same time trying not to smile, slipped his jacket around her shoulders. The temperature had dropped, and Francine was shivering beside him. “Your audience don’t want to see you playing a weak female, taking everything that’s thrown at her. They know you too well. They know you’re a real woman who gets what she wants.”
“And you are an even cleverer man than I first thought,” replied Francine, bending down at the water’s edge and removing her flat, ivory leather shoes. Casually, almost without appearing to think about it, she tossed them into the sea.
“You’ll hurt your feet,” said Max. They were thirty yards of rocky beach away from the grassy slopes of the hotel’s exotic, floodlit gardens.
She pushed back her shining hair with one hand in order to smile up at him. “I’m a real woman who gets what she wants,” she reminded him softly. “And I want you to carry me—all the way back to my bed.”
• • •
The next week passed more quickly than any other Max could remember. He had seldom had such a good time on so little sleep. By day he worked, throwing himself into the task of transforming the film script from something flawed into something truly great. The weather was perfect with temperatures in the high sixties, a nice change from the recent icy conditions back home, but not too hot to divert him from his work.
By night, it was a different story. Francine, miraculous Francine, diverted him in the most enticing manner possible. Sometimes they ate dinner with the rest of the film crew; more often they melted into the back streets of Amalfi, finding small, family-run trattorias where they could be alone together, talking incessantly, and lingering for hours over delectable food and endless cups of cappuccino.
Francine had captivated him totally. During the course of their evenings she could make him laugh, impress him with her mixture of intelligence, wit, and perspicacity, and infuriate him with her own personal brand of peculiar female logic. Her husky voice, with that charismatic French accent that grew more pronounced with excitement or emotion, mesmerized him. The clothes she wore, silky outfits in ice-cream colors, were as bare of ornamentation as the rest of her. She wore barely any makeup, and it suited her—she exuded glamour anyway, simply because she was Francine Lalonde.
And every evening, when they finally left to return to their hotel at around midnight, the magic continued. Francine was a skillful seducer and an insatiable mistress. Their lovemaking was exhilarating. How Francine managed to crawl out of bed and into makeup at five thirty every morning, Max couldn’t imagine.
• • •
“All finished!” Francine sighed, taking a sip of celebratory champagne and sliding her bare leg between his. “And the script is a masterpiece. Max, you have been a true genius. This time we shall all win awards, I know.”
“I’m not sure they hand out awards for this kind of thing.” He dropped a kiss on her shoulder and glanced at his watch. “We really should be getting dressed. Jack’s booked Dino’s restaurant, and we’re expected at nine.”
“But, darling,” protested Francine, squirming with pleasure as his warm mouth traveled to the nape of her neck. “It’s such a waste of your last night. I thought we would stay here instead and make love.”
A faint smile touched the corners of Max’s mouth as he kissed the satiny hollow of her throat. “And I thought,” he murmured slowly, “that I may as well stay on. You have another two or three weeks of filming ahead of you yet. I’ve finished rewriting the script, but there’s no reason why I have to rush back to England now. I can just as easily work on my novel out here. And we can be together…”
“But that isn’t possible!” exclaimed Francine, drawing away slightly. “Max, you told me that you planned to leave when the film script was all sorted out.”
Mimicking her accent, he said lightly, “I changed my plans. Very un-English of me, I know, but I’ve decided to stay on. So you see, it wasn’t impossible after all.”
Francine, shifting onto her side, smiled. “Well, no,” she said slowly, “of course it isn’t impossible that you stay here, but you have to understand, darling, that I have made some other small plans.”
“What are you talking about?” His eyes darkened. “What kind of other plans?”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be naive.” Francine pouted. “Surely you understand how these things are. I thought you would be leaving tomorrow, so I telephoned Jacques in Paris. He’s coming down to stay with me. I can’t be on my own, chéri. I so hate it when I am left alone.”
Max felt as though a part of him had died. The happiness he had experienced over the last ten days was eradicated at a single sweep. He hadn’t been building a meaningful relationship at all; he’d merely been babysitting.
“Oh, Max, now you’re angry with me,” said Francine with a sorrowful shake of her head. “But I can’t apologize. It’s simply how I am. And it doesn’t mean that I haven’t had a wonderful time with you, either. It’s been great, but now you have to go back to your home and I will carry on working, first here…then in Normandy…then New York… You see, darling, that is what my life is like. Not too settled. And it is why I am like this, as well. I like you a lot, but I’m not the settling-down kind.” She shrugged, struggling to explain. “We shall see each other again, Max. And it will be so much more romantic than just being together all the time, getting bored and trying to pretend that everything is OK because that’s how proper couples are supposed to be. Max, please stop looking at me that way. Can’t you see that what I’m saying is right?”
He looked away, sickened by her cold logic, her bluntness and cynicism. Until recently he had shared those same harsh views, which only served to increase the irony of the situation. It had never occurred to him that they might one day be thrown back in his face.
“If that’s how you really feel,” he said evenly, “then you are right. And don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you by staying. I’ll leave tonight.”
“But, Max,” shrieked Francine, “you mustn’t do that! You can’t possibly leave tonight. We were going to stay here and make love…” She clung to him, her brown eyes alight with promise, sensual fingers trailing across his flat, tautly muscled stomach.
Max managed a faint smile. To refuse such an offer would be downright masochistic. Rolling onto his back and breathing in the faint, honeyed scent of her voluptuous nakedness, he prepared to give himself up to sheer, unadulterated pleasure. “Oh well,” he murmured in bored tones, “if you really insist…”
Chapter 12
When Lady Roberta McPherson, the organizer of the Clifton Midsummer Ball, realized that the ticket holders comprised an embarrassing surfeit of males, she had flown into a panic. In a desperate attempt to at least partially redeem the situation—and save both the ball and herself from eternal shame—she had immediately instructed her daughter to invite forty of her most respectable female friends to the ball, free of charge. No hippies, no fatties, and no ugly girls were to be asked, she had urgently stressed—only attractive girls with pleasant personalities, lovely smiles, and a decent sense of decorum.
Happily, Mattie Jameson was curvaceous but not fat. At twenty-two years of age she had a sweet, slightly rounded face, shoulder-length hair that was very nearly blond, a shy but charming smile, and a perfectly adequate personality.
She had almost fainted with pleasure when the glamorous but absentminded Corinne McPherson, who worked at the same advertising agency as Mattie as a personal assistant to the director, and for whom Mattie—a lowly typist—was endlessly covering up, had invited her to the Midsummer Ball. It was the most thrilling thing ever to have happened to her, and she had promptly blown an entire week’s wages on a long, romantically flounced, sunflower-yellow Laura Ashley dress, sprigged with tiny blue forget-me-nots, which she felt were a wonderful omen.
Whatever happened, Mattie knew she would never forget this, her very f
irst ball.
Halfway through the evening, however, her spirits began to droop. Idiotically she had assumed that since Corinne had invited her, they would spend at least some time together. It hadn’t occurred to her that Corinne and her equally smart friends would be whooping it up at one of the top tables while Mattie would be stuck on table thirty-seven in the farthest corner of the vast marquee with a party of middle-aged bankers and their done-up wives. She had tried her very hardest to smile and join in with their conversation, but even prying their names out of them had been an uphill struggle. And although her experience of homosexuals was limited, the spare man to whom she had been allocated was so obviously gay that there seemed little point in attempting to bowl him over with her charm.
Gazing longingly at Corinne and the rest of her party who had now spilled onto the dance floor and who were so obviously—and noisily—enjoying themselves, Mattie realized that in order to reach the ladies’ restroom she would have to walk right past them. It wasn’t much, but it was better than staying put and missing out completely on all the action. And there was always the faint chance that someone might see her, be captivated by her smile, and ask her to dance. Mattie had devoured enough Mills & Boons in her time to know that such things could happen…
The trouble was, of course, that nothing happened. Absolutely nothing at all, despite the fact that she meandered past the dance floor so slowly that one of the waitresses asked her if she was feeling unwell.
Feeling badly let down by Mills & Boon, Mattie returned five minutes later to her lonely seat—the bankers were now dancing—and consoled herself with a glass of red wine. When the field mouse ran over her foot a few seconds later, she let out a scream loud enough to attract plenty of attention from guests sitting at nearby tables. But Mattie didn’t even notice them. Her knee, having jackknifed in a reflex of shock and revulsion, crashed against the underside of the table and toppled her wineglass into her lap. She gazed aghast at the hideous crimson stain as it spread like fungus over her precious new dress.
When she finally looked up and saw the expressions of curiosity on the faces of all those watching her, she realized that she was on her own. Her plight was a source of mild amusement, nothing more. No one here was going to help her.
She headed for the ladies’ restroom at the speed of light this time. Head down, cheeks burning with mortification, and with her full skirts bunched together at the front in an attempt to hide the terrible stain, Mattie elbowed her way through the crowds dancing to the band’s own rousing version of an old Rolling Stones hit. And by supreme irony someone did on this occasion attempt to draw her onto the dance floor.
“C’mon, sweetheart, wanna boogie?” urged an extremely drunk and overweight man in his fifties, his face even redder than her own as a result of his frantic exertions, an aura of sweat emanating unpleasantly from his overheated body.
“No, thank you,” said Mattie, unshed tears misting her vision, and his leer changed abruptly to a sneer.
“You girls, you’re all a waste of time.” He released his damp hold on her arm. “I only wanted a bit of fun. You’re not so pretty anyway…”
• • •
When Ross pushed open the door to the ladies’ restroom and saw Mattie fully occupied at one of the basins, he stood and admired the view for a few seconds before making his presence known. He didn’t recognize her from the back, but with her yellow dress pulled up to her thighs to reveal a pair of shapely legs in flesh-colored stockings and narrow white garters, she presented an alluring sight. If he didn’t know her already, maybe it would be worth making the effort to do so.
When he coughed gently she spun round in shock, the front of her skirt—which had been soaking in the basin—clinging to her legs and dripping water onto the floor at her feet.
“This is the ladies’ restroom,” squeaked Mattie, unnerved by the unexpected presence of such a gorgeous-looking boy.
Ross grinned. Although he was more than a little drunk, he disguised it well. “I know, I’m sorry. I was actually looking for Susie Rossiter. You haven’t seen her anywhere, have you?”
Mattie shook her head. Ross, amused by her predicament and by her dumbfounded expression, made his way over to her.
“Red wine?” He nodded at the front of her dress.
Standing there dripping, she gazed back idiotically. She had never in her life seen such eyes, dark and thickly lashed and glittering with sensuality. He was quite simply the most beautiful boy she’d ever encountered.
Finally, she nodded, glancing down at the puddle at her feet. It looked for all the world as if she’d wet herself. “A mouse ran over my foot.”
“Of course,” agreed Ross, nodding slowly.
“Oh! I meant that I jumped a mile and knocked over my drink,” explained Mattie hurriedly, sensing his doubt. Then her face fell. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I can’t very well go back in there with a sopping wet frock.”
Ross smiled. Susie Rossiter had vanished, presumably back to her ape-like but hugely wealthy boyfriend. He had completely lost interest in his own partner for the evening, a ravishing brunette called Cassandra with an irritating giggle and the bizarre belief that sex was something one only did with one’s husband.
And although he sensed that socially this girl was way out of her depth here, she seemed pleasant enough to make it worth his while becoming further acquainted. He had nothing else to do for the next hour or so, after all.
“We’ll go for a walk,” he said, taking her hand. “Outside. Your dress will be dry in no time. I’m Ross Monahan, by the way.”
“My name’s Mattie.”
It didn’t occur to either of them for even a single second that she would refuse his offer. At eighteen, Ross had never been turned down by a female in his life.
And much later, when he laid her down on a secluded grassy bank beneath a midnight-blue sky glistening with stars, it didn’t occur to Mattie for one second to object when Ross, the expert seducer, gently relieved her of her virginity. It was her gift to him, her only means of thanking him for making this Midsummer Ball the happiest, most blissful and most gloriously memorable night of her entire life.
• • •
Mattie didn’t know how she managed to live through the following week. As minute after minute crawled by in excruciating slow motion, she existed in a state of exquisite torture, reliving every moment of her time with Ross in fabulous Technicolor. She could recall the scent of new-mown grass and the sweet taste of his mouth against her own, she could feel the silky texture of his dark hair and warm, tanned skin, and remember the husky tone of his voice as he had whispered in her ear that she was beautiful.
Most clearly of all she recollected how he had kissed her good-bye before helping her into the taxi, asking her for her phone number so that he could call her in the week. Trembling with sheer happiness, she had penciled both her home and work numbers on the back of his cigarette packet.
And all she’d lived for since then was the sound of the telephone ringing, which wasn’t so easy in the office because the phones shrilled every couple of minutes, and each time she felt that her heart might actually stop beating for good. At home, where she and her parents lived quietly, the phone seldom rang at all but Mattie, who didn’t dare go out even for a few minutes, still spent every evening imagining that at any moment it might.
And the secret was hers alone. No one else knew what she was going through. Corinne McPherson, breezing into work at twenty to ten on Monday morning, had flashed a smile in Mattie’s direction, asked her if she’d enjoyed herself at “the bash,” and disappeared without even waiting for a reply. Mattie, the muscles at the tops of her thighs still aching from their unaccustomed exertions, her eyes smarting from the makeup she wasn’t used to wearing but which she felt she needed just in case Ross appeared miraculously in the doorway of the office and whisked her away to somewhere glamorou
s for lunch, didn’t even mind. It hadn’t been a dream; it had really happened. And any day now—any minute now—Ross would phone her, as he had promised he would. Her life was about to change beyond all recognition, and she could scarcely contain herself, waiting for it to begin.
• • •
Her life, of course, did change beyond all recognition. The phone continued to ring, but the caller was never Ross. Somehow seven days became fourteen. Inexplicably, fourteen days became twenty-eight. Finally, in a frenzy of confusion and wounded pride, Mattie managed to corner Corinne one lunchtime and ask her very casually if she happened to know someone by the name of Ross Monahan.
“Ross!” exclaimed Corinne, shaking her head and laughing. “He’s a demon, darling. Absolutely lethal with the ladies. Ross is wonderful, just so long as you refuse to believe a single word he says. If I told you who he’s rumored to be having an affair with at this very moment in time, you simply would not believe me…”
With a chill of recognition Mattie realized that once again no one else was going to help her. Having clung stubbornly to the belief that he had in a careless moment thrown away the cigarette packet with her phone number on it, she now forced herself to face up to the unpalatable truth. During the course of that evening, as they had walked arm in arm across the sweeping emerald lawns, she had definitely told him the name of the company she worked for. She had let him know that she was a friend of Corinne McPherson. She had also told him her surname, and he had taken enough notice at the time to remark that one of his favorite restaurants was Jameson’s, in Clifton.
When it came right down to the bottom line, if he’d lost her phone number but had really wanted to contact her, he could easily have done so.
But he hadn’t. And by the time Mattie faced up to that fact, she had also realized that she was pregnant.