by Jill Mansell
“OK. May I be permitted to share a corner of your towel?” He lowered himself down beside her anyway and offered her the Coke. “You’re looking rather gorgeous, I must say. I hardly recognized you at first, without your clothes on.”
Behind them, the Liverpudlian couple tittered. Janey tried hard not to flinch as Bruno ran a hand lightly across her stomach. It was a disturbingly pleasant sensation; she just wished her diet had been a bit more of a success.
But he wasn’t stopping. “Don’t,” she protested, pushing his hand away. “I’m too fat.”
“Rubbish!” replied Bruno firmly. The female predilection for dieting was a source of constant irritation to him, particularly when they tried to do it in his restaurant. “Everyone else is too thin.”
Out of sheer desperation, she said, “Where’s Nina?”
“Gone to visit her parents.” He gave her a soulful look. “She comes back on Tuesday morning. I’m all alone for two whole days.”
“You poor thing.” Janey smiled at the expression on his face. “Whatever will you do with yourself?”
He knew what he’d like to do, but he also realized that he would have to tread very carefully indeed. Janey Sinclair was one of those rare females who seemed genuinely unaware of her own attractions. Since getting to know her, he had been struck by the aura of sadness surrounding her and impressed by her refusal to seek sympathy from those who knew what she had gone through.
She was certainly no vacation bimbo. If she had been, he would have seduced and discarded her long ago. As it was, however, the sense of intrigue and interest had been maintained. She was, in a way, forbidden fruit. Time and again Bruno had told himself that, in view of his own track record, he should simply leave it at that and not get involved, but the attraction was definitely there, and he was expert enough to know that it was mutual. Behind the awkward, diffident exterior, he sensed Janey’s own interest. It was heady stuff, all this self-denial and surface badinage. It had been years since he had experienced the pain and pleasure of such a slow-burning, tentative friendship. But at the same time, Sunday and Monday stretched emptily ahead, and he was certainly no saint…
“I’m too hot,” he said, finishing off the Coke and eyeing her glistening, oiled body. “And if you stay here, you’re going to burn. Come on, let’s go and get some lunch.”
It was a tempting offer. Hungrier than she’d realized and delighted at the prospect of company, Janey raised herself up on her elbows and said, “Where?”
“My place.”
“Oh.” Nina wasn’t there. She wasn’t sure she should. “But—”
“Oh dear,” he mocked, sensing her doubt. “Now I’ve got you worried and you’re desperately trying to think of a diplomatic way to say no.”
Janey, floundering, felt her cheeks redden. “Well…”
“For heaven’s sake,” said Bruno, sounding faintly exasperated. “Live a little. All I’m talking about is a spot of lunch. I’m not inviting you to have wild sex with me.”
Embarrassed, she replied, “I didn’t think you were.”
“Oh yes, you did.” He grinned and helped her to her feet. “But there’s no need to panic; you’ll be quite safe. Come on, let’s go.”
• • •
Like Janey, Bruno and Nina lived above the shop, but whereas Janey’s own flat was tiny, their apartment was both spacious and stylish.
Janey, who had never visited it before, was impressed. Immaculate white rugs on the tiled floors offset the lavender-and-green decor. Modern, semi-abstract paintings were ranged around the walls, and well-tended plants spilled out of white porcelain pots. The main ceiling was palest lavender, exactly matching the two three-seater leather sofas, and the cat occupying the one closer to the windows was white with luminous green eyes.
“You’re surprised,” said Bruno, handing her an ice-stacked Pimm’s.
“A bit,” she admitted. The almost clinical perfection of the apartment was so at odds with languorous, faintly hippyish Nina.
But once again he seemed able to read her mind. “This is me. Nina isn’t bothered about interior design; she just goes along with my ideas.” As far as Janey could make out, Nina went uncomplainingly along with most things. Following him into the well-equipped kitchen, she leaned against the wall and watched Bruno prepare lunch. There was something almost irresistible about a man who could cook and talk at the same time. Before she had a chance to put down her empty glass, he had refilled it and added an extra dash of gin for good measure.
The unaccustomed strength of the drink went straight to her head. By the time they sat down to eat, her knees were like cotton wool and she was feeling deliciously uninhibited.
“Why aren’t you two married?” she asked, intrigued.
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
“So you aren’t faithful to Nina.” Gosh, she couldn’t believe she’d actually said that. To make up for it, Janey tried to look disapproving, although the effect was slightly spoiled when she attempted to fork up a frond of radicchio and it slipped, landing on the pale-green tablecloth instead.
This time his smile broadened. “Actually, I was thinking of the for richer, for poorer bit.”
“Oh.” She wondered if he was joking. It was difficult to tell with Bruno.
But this time, it seemed, he was serious. “Nina’s the wealthy one,” he explained guilelessly, the sweep of his arm encompassing both the apartment and the restaurant below. Then he shrugged. “She bought this place, I run it, and the arrangement suits us both. But if she didn’t have any money, well…”
“That’s terrible,” Janey protested, but Bruno wasn’t in the least put out.
“No it isn’t. It’s honest.” Finishing his omelet and pushing his plate to one side, he lit a cigarette. “There are trade-offs in every relationship. Ours simply happens to involve money. And Nina does realize this,” he added, pausing to execute a perfect smoke ring. “She understands. If she decided she didn’t like it, she could always kick me out.”
The Brie omelets and tomato salad were delicious, but Janey had lost her appetite. It was all very well for Bruno. He made it sound so simple and natural, but as far as she was concerned, his theories were too unnervingly close for comfort. She wasn’t wealthy by any means, but after meeting Alan, she had worked hard and long enough to acquire the lease on her own small shop and the flat that went with it. He, on the other hand, had been falling behind with the rent on his own shared apartment and taking on casual work only when it became absolutely necessary in order to eat. Surfing and waterskiing, his two great passions in life, weren’t exactly profitable. During the moments of dark despair following his disappearance, Janey had wondered uneasily whether she had ever been more than a convenient stopgap, supplying bed and board to a man whose love she’d only imagined.
But she was here now, with Bruno, and she damn well wasn’t going to cry. He and Nina had an understanding: they were more of a business partnership than a real couple, and they weren’t even married. Taking another gulp of Pimm’s, she felt her own resolve weakening. She’d been alone for eighteen months, mourning the loss of her husband and wondering if life would ever be truly enjoyable again. Maybe it was time she had a little fun. Maybe she should take the plunge and find out.
“So your life is perfect,” she said, her smile deliberately provocative. “You have everything you want.”
“Pretty much.” He nodded in agreement, those devastating bedroom eyes roaming lazily over her body. Janey shivered with sudden longing; it had been so long since she’d felt wanted.
Bruno certainly wanted her, but he had no intention of doing anything about it. Not yet, anyway. Tempting though the thought was, he knew that Janey had her preconceived ideas about him and that if he lived up to them this afternoon, she would undoubtedly have her regrets by tomorrow. And he didn’t want their relationship prematurely curt
ailed by a guilt attack. Where Janey Sinclair was concerned, he had decided, a single afternoon of pleasure simply wouldn’t be enough.
• • •
Janey, walking home several hours later, didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Her virtue was still intact, which was good in one way, but at the same time, her ego had taken a bit of a knock. For Bruno, true to his word, had behaved like a perfect gentleman. Lunch had been followed by coffee on the sunny balcony, easy conversation, and absolutely no untoward moves whatsoever. When she had succumbed to the effects of the Pimm’s and closed her eyes, he had brought cushions for her head and left her to doze while he dealt with the dishes. When she awoke, it was to the muted strains of Vivaldi emanating from the stereo and the sight of Bruno, sitting opposite her, quietly reading the Sunday Times. Glancing up, he’d grinned and said, “Oh good, you can help me with the crossword. I’m stuck on eight across.”
Chapter Nine
Over at Trezale House, Maxine found herself on the receiving end of a similar lack of interest, but in Guy Cassidy’s case, it was entirely genuine. Spending his working life surrounded by some of the most beautiful women in the world, she decided sourly, had evidently had some kind of immunizing effect. Instead of the admiration to which she was accustomed, she was only too well aware that when he looked at Maxine Vaughan, all he saw was the new nanny. And when he had observed the haphazard way in which she tackled the ironing, he’d been even less impressed.
“I can’t do it if you’re standing there watching me,” she’d said defensively, seizing Ella’s fiendishly difficult pink cotton dungarees and realizing that she should have checked the pockets before chucking them into the machine earlier. Shreds of blue paper tissue clung to the bib like burrs.
“Don’t worry,” he’d replied, backing out of the kitchen in horror. “I can’t bear to watch.”
And now here she was, stuck in the rotten kitchen with the beastly ironing, feeling more like bloody Cinderella than ever. Outside, Guy was fooling around with Josh and Ella, threatening them with the garden sprinkler. Ella, shrieking with laughter and making a desperate bid for freedom, tripped and landed in the flower bed. As she scrambled to her feet once more, Maxine sucked in her breath; the clean, white T-shirt and jeans were clean no more. And no prizes for guessing who would have to deal with them.
Josh, skidding into the kitchen, grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge and emptied the contents into a mug, rubbing ineffectually with his muddy toes at the drops spilled on the floor.
“Why don’t you come out and play?” he asked kindly when he had gulped down the orange juice in one go. “We’re having fun.”
“Fun?” Maxine echoed, glancing out of the window at Guy. Her voice heavy with irony, she said, “Oh dear, I’d better not then. Your father wouldn’t approve of that.”
Josh looked troubled. “Don’t you like it here?”
Softening, she turned and smiled at him. It was hardly his fault, after all, that coming to work for Guy Cassidy wasn’t turning out as she had expected.
“Of course I do. I’m just not that keen on ironing.”
“You aren’t going to leave, then?”
Maxine, reminding herself that she didn’t really have anywhere else to go, shook her head. “No.”
“Good,” he said, not bothering to hide his relief. “I know Dad’s a bit strict sometimes, but we like you.” Brightening, he added, “And he’s going out tonight, so we’ll be able to have fun without him. We can play poker again. For real money, if you like…”
• • •
In the event, the evening was more entertaining than she had anticipated. Guy, preparing to go out, was in a good mood. To Maxine’s utter amazement, he had even asked her if she’d like him to bring back Indian takeout.
“Where’s he gone?” she said when the cream Mercedes had disappeared down the drive. Josh was sitting cross-legged on the floor, practicing his shuffling technique. Ella, curled up next to her on the sofa wearing pajamas with red polka dots and furtively sucking her thumb, was engrossed in a rerun of Friday night’s Coronation Street.
“Dad?” Josh shrugged. “Seeing one of his girlfriends, probably.”
“One of his girlfriends?” Maxine’s spirits plummeted. Despite having got off to a not-terribly-promising start, she still entertained fantasies of her own in that department. The ridiculously handsome widower and the pretty nanny, living and working together and eventually falling in love had a certain ring to it. But this was the first she’d heard of any girlfriends. When Guy had remained unpartnered during yesterday’s wedding reception, she’d assumed the field was clear.
Josh, however, was more interested in mastering the art of the shuffle. “He’s got lots,” he said vaguely. “I expect it’s Imogen tonight, because she phoned this morning.”
Pushy, thought Maxine. Aloud, she said, “Is she nice?”
Coronation Street had finished. Ella, who was humming along with the theme tune, took her thumb out of her mouth and said, “I like Imogen. She’s pretty.”
Hmm. Maxine decided she couldn’t be that fantastic. Guy had said he’d definitely be home by eleven.
“She’s quite pretty,” Josh corrected his sister. “But Tara’s better.”
“Tara can sit on her hair,” agreed Ella happily, confirming Maxine’s suspicion that the girl in question was Tara James, currently one of the most sought-after models in Europe. Hell, she thought gloomily. Talk about competition.
Josh was now painstakingly dealing out the cards. Looking up and glimpsing the expression on Maxine’s face, he said in matter-of-fact tones, “They’re OK I suppose. But none of them is as good as Mummy. She was prettier than anyone.”
“Really?” Maxine was intrigued. “I’d love to see some photos of her.”
“We’ve got loads,” said Josh cheerfully. “I’ll bring them downstairs later and show them to you.”
She looked hopeful. “We could do it now.”
“We have to play poker first,” he replied firmly. “And I need to buy some new batteries for my Game Boy tomorrow, so we can’t stop until I’ve won at least two pounds.”
It took some deft manipulation on Maxine’s part, but she managed; a respectable forty minutes later, Josh was two pounds and twenty pence up, and he hadn’t noticed the sleight of hand that had been necessary in order to achieve it.
“Well done,” said Maxine, clearing away the cards with some relief. “Go on, then. Run upstairs and find those albums. I love looking at other people’s photographs.”
Particularly when they belonged to Guy Cassidy. And there were hundreds of them, depicting his life over the past decade. Josh steered her through the albums, pointing with pride to the many pictures of Véronique.
“That’s Mummy with Ella, just after she was born. This is me with Mummy in Regent’s Park when I was four. And this one’s Mum and Dad at a party in Saint Tropez. He’s laughing because Sylvester Stallone just asked her for a dance and she said no.”
Véronique Cassidy had certainly been beautiful. Maxine pored over the close-ups, which revealed stunning, blond good looks in all their glory. Even more dauntingly, she had been a natural beauty, never over-embellishing herself, simply allowing the exquisite basics to speak for themselves.
But what shone through most of all was happiness. Maxine knew instinctively which of the photographs of his wife had been taken by Guy. And those featuring the two of them together were almost unbearably poignant. Their obvious love for each other shone out; it was almost a tangible thing.
Quite uncharacteristically, she felt tears pricking at the back of her eyelids. Something approaching envy curled in her stomach—not for Véronique, but for their shared happiness. Looking at them with their arms around each other, Maxine was reminded that she herself had never been in love, not really. Her own experiences were of a string of tumultuous and u
sually short-lived relationships where lust had figured high on the agenda. Instinctively drawn to men whose volatile personalities mirrored her own, it was almost as if she was ensuring that the affairs wouldn’t last. For all their similarities, she and her partners never seemed to have much in common insofar as ordinary, day-to-day living was concerned. Within weeks of the initial, dazzling attraction, boredom would set in and she would find herself looking for a way out. Invariably, the way out involved another man.
Yet she was, it seemed, doomed to failure. In a deliberate attempt to break the sad and sorry pattern, she had gotten herself involved with Maurice Stanwyck and that, thought Maxine ruefully, had turned out to be the biggest mistake of all. Poor, pedantic Maurice, hell-bent on conforming to his mother’s ideas of success, simply hadn’t been able to cope with a wayward fiancée. And she in turn had tried to conform, she really had, but all she’d managed to do in the end was to hurt and humiliate him.
Returning to London last week to pick up her belongings, she had attempted to apologize. The meeting, however, had been an awkward one. Maurice, his stiff upper lip superglued into place, had initially betrayed no emotion at all. Then, after twenty minutes of following her around while she packed her cases, his guard had dropped. Maxine had been forced to endure the far more harrowing ordeal of listening to him as he begged her to change her mind. At one point, he had been on the verge of tears. All she’d been able to do was to remind him how miserable she would undoubtedly have made him if she’d stayed, and what a disaster she would have been as a corporate wife.
Poor Maurice, she thought now, gazing numbly down at the photographs of Guy and Véronique in her lap. She hoped he’d put the experience behind him and find himself another more suitable girlfriend soon.
Josh, meanwhile, was still sorting through the piles of photos that hadn’t made it into the albums. Thrusting a selection into Maxine’s hands, he said in matter-of-fact tones, “This is us after Mummy died. That’s me when I was seven, on my new bike. That’s Ella’s birthday party when she was five. And these are some of Dad’s girlfriends.”