by Jill Mansell
It was as if Guy had deliberately chosen women who in no way resembled his wife. Véronique, with her straight, blond hair and Madonna-like beauty, couldn’t have been more different from these gypsy-eyed, dark-haired females who pouted and smiled for the camera and who were evidently trying too hard to impress.
The difference in Guy, she observed, was equally apparent. Just as earlier she had been able to tell at a glance which photographs of Véronique had been taken by him, so now she could have guessed which of those featuring him had been taken after her death. It was almost indefinable but there nevertheless: a hardening of the expression in the eyes…the loss of carefree pleasure…concealed sorrow reflected in the wryness of his smile.
Feeling uncomfortably as if she was intruding upon his private grief, Maxine bundled the photographs together and handed them back to Josh. Ella, still sucking her thumb, had fallen asleep at her side.
“They’re lovely.” Maxine smiled as Josh replaced them with care in the cardboard box. “You’re lucky to have so many pictures of your mum.”
“Yes.” The boy looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wouldn’t have forgotten what she looked like, but Ella might have. She was only young when it happened.”
She wondered how he felt about the string of subsequent girlfriends but sensed that she had done enough prying for one night. Outside, it was growing dark. It was past both children’s bedtimes. Tugging tentatively at Ella’s thumb, Maxine found it plugged into the rosebud mouth as firmly as a sink plug.
“Come on. I’m still on parole. Your father will shoot me if he finds out how late I’ve let you stay up. You take the photographs back upstairs and I’ll carry Ella.”
Ellen was about to start on TV. Josh said jealously, “What will you do when we’ve gone to bed?”
Maxine gathered Ella into her arms. She was small, but she weighed an absolute ton. “What else?” she countered, with a long-suffering sigh. “The rest of the rotten ironing.”
• • •
True to his word, Guy was back by eleven with the Indian takeaway. Maxine, having watched They Think It’s All Over, switched the television off and the iron on the moment she heard his car pull up the drive and promptly assumed the kind of saintly-but-weary expression that indicated that while he’d been out enjoying himself with one of his floozies, she had been hard at work for hours.
Her mouth watered as he unwrapped the brown paper shopping bag and lifted the cardboard lids from their foil containers. Prawn korma, scented and golden, was piled over pilaf rice. Massaging her back for good measure, she switched the iron off.
“What time did they get off to bed?” said Guy, turning his attention to the lamb dhansak and naan bread.
“Nine o’clock.”
He grinned. “That means ten.”
“Well…” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what time he’d gone to bed, but she didn’t want to risk spoiling his good mood. “Ella fell asleep on the sofa and Josh thinks he’s the Cincinnati Kid. At this rate I can see my entire salary disappearing into his piggy bank.” She pulled a face. “I wish now I’d never taught him how to play poker.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” said Guy, deadpan, “you didn’t. I did. Last Christmas.”
For the first time, Maxine realized, they were actually sitting down and discussing the children rather than engaging in a battle of verbal wits. The sparring subsided, she began asking suitably intelligent questions about Josh’s education, and the atmosphere, helped along by a bottle of Sancerre, grew positively relaxed.
Before she knew it, she was asking Guy the question she hadn’t felt able to ask Josh.
He frowned. “Why? What’s he been saying?”
“Nothing really.” She crushed a popadam and licked her fingers. “Just that you have lots of girlfriends, but none of them is as pretty as his mother was.”
“I see.” The dark-blue eyes registered amusement. “Well, he’s probably right about that. Although I don’t know about the actual number. ‘Lots’ sounds pretty alarming.”
“Aren’t there?” Maxine cast him an innocent look. “Lots, I mean.”
“One or two.” He shrugged. “I’ve tried to keep it low key, for the kids’ sakes. On the other hand, I’m only human. And they’ve never seemed to mind the occasional…visitor.”
“Children are adaptable,” agreed Maxine, reassured by his reply. “And it isn’t as if you went through a traumatic divorce. At least they know you were happily married.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Guy looked pensive. “Maybe it does help.”
Pleased with herself for having said the right thing, she nodded. “I’m sure it does.”
“I could show you photographs of Véronique, if you’re interested.”
Maxine wondered if this was some kind of test. She didn’t want him to think of her as morbidly curious.
“There’s no hurry,” she replied easily, getting to her feet and taking his empty plate from him. “Maybe Josh and Ella will show them to me while you’re away.”
And then it was all spoiled. By the time she returned from the kitchen, Guy was standing by the sofa with his back to her. When he turned around, she saw the crumpled photograph in his hand and the look of disdain on his face.
“Why did you lie?” he said coldly. “I wouldn’t have minded if you’d told me you’d already seen them. But why the bloody hell did you have to lie?”
The photograph of Véronique must have slipped down the side of the sofa when she had lifted the sleeping Ella and taken her upstairs. Since then, she had been sitting on it.
“I’m sorry…” began Maxine. To her horror, she saw that it was not only crumpled, but torn.
“Don’t be sorry,” Guy replied, his tone curt. “Just be careful, that’s all. These pictures might not mean much to you, but they do to us. They’re all we have left.”
Chapter Ten
Never at her best at the ludicrously early hour of seven in the morning, Maxine propped herself up on her elbows at the breakfast table and wondered how on earth Janey managed to get up at five in order to visit the flower market. It simply wasn’t natural.
And as for having to cope at the same time with two starving children and their picky, irritable father, she thought as she battled to stay awake, it was downright unfair.
“There’s a pink elephant in my Rice Krispies,” squealed Ella, waving the plastic toy in Maxine’s face and sprinkling her with milk.
“Eat it. It’s good for you.”
“Don’t forget we’ve got to go and buy my batteries today,” Josh reminded her, speaking through a mouthful of toast and blackberry jam and jingling the money in his shorts’ pocket for added emphasis. “Maxine, open your eyes. I said we’ve got to buy new batteries for my—”
“Game Boy,” she supplied wearily. “I heard you. And don’t talk with your mouth full—you look like a cement mixer in overdrive.”
“You shouldn’t have your elbows on the table,” Josh retaliated, unperturbed. “Berenice says it’s rude. Doesn’t she, Dad?” He turned to his father for confirmation. “Berenice says elbows on the table are rude.”
Having to get up at six thirty evidently didn’t bother Guy Cassidy. Fresh from the shower and wearing a white linen shirt and faded Levi’s, he was looking unfairly good for the time of day. Although it was all right for him, thought Maxine mutinously; he was zipping off to Paris. While she spent the week looking after his monsters, he would be surrounded by beautiful, seminaked models only too eager to show him their version of a really good time.
He was standing by the dresser, painstakingly checking the cameras he would be taking with him and piling rolls of film into the small case which would accompany him on to the plane. Ignoring Josh, he turned that unnervingly direct, dark-blue gaze upon Maxine.
“Now, are you sure you’re going to be a
ble to cope while I’m away?”
She wished she’d had time to brush her hair before stumbling downstairs. “Don’t worry. I’ll manage,” she replied evenly, thinking that he’d be stuffed if she said no. “And you’ll have Paula’s mother coming in to keep an eagle eye on me in case I’m tempted to do anything drastic, like tape their mouths up and lock them in the cellar.”
“We haven’t got a cellar.” Ella, dive-bombing the elephant into her cereal bowl, looked triumphant.
“In that case, it’ll just have to be the attic.” Maxine confiscated the elephant. For the first time that morning, a glimmer of a smile crossed Guy’s face.
“There you go then,” he warned. “You’d better behave yourselves. A week in an attic wouldn’t be much fun, would it?”
Ella, who was devoted to Coronation Street, said, “I wouldn’t mind if I could have a television up there.”
“Oh, you could have a TV set,” Maxine exclaimed, cheering up and buttering herself a slice of toast. “But no plug.”
• • •
The next week, despite Maxine’s misgivings, was a greater success than either she or Guy had anticipated. After one or two inevitable power struggles as the children tested the limits of her patience and she in turn exerted her own particular brand of authority, they settled into a routine of sorts and began to enjoy each other’s company. Josh and Ella could be noisy, argumentative, boisterous, and infuriating, but Maxine, retaliating in kind, found she didn’t hate them after all. In some ways, she realized with amusement, they reminded her quite a lot of herself.
“Yuck, I don’t like cauliflower,” declared Ella, her tone fractious.
To the child’s astonishment Maxine replied, “Neither do I,” and promptly lobbed the offending vegetable out through the kitchen window. “Let’s have frozen peas instead.”
“We like Big Macs,” said Josh hopefully the following evening.
Maxine, who had been burrowing through the contents of the freezer in search of fish fingers, because she knew how to cook them, closed the door with relief. “OK,” she said to Josh’s amazement and delight. Berenice had always been a stickler for proper, home-cooked meals. “But don’t tell your father.”
Guy phoned every evening. Maxine, hovering unseen in the doorway, eavesdropped shamelessly while his children sung her praises. Nannying wasn’t so bad once you got the hang of it, she decided, priding herself on her success. And letting the children stay up until midnight had been a stroke of genius; no more horrendous six thirty starts. She couldn’t imagine why more households hadn’t cottoned on to such a perfect scheme.
“Everything all right?” Guy would inquire when she was summoned to the phone for interrogation.
“Perfect!” Determined to impress the hell out of him to pay him back for ever having doubted her, she boasted, “They’ve been absolute angels.”
Josh and Ella, sitting on the stairs, collapsed in giggles.
“Hmm,” said Guy, not believing her for a second. “In that case you’ve got the wrong children. Return them to the spaceship and make sure the real ones are home by the time I get back.”
“You didn’t tell Dad you’d reversed his car into the gatepost,” Josh reminded her when she had replaced the receiver.
Maxine’s smile was angelic. “Don’t you remember, darling? That stupid man in the white van drove into the back of the car while we were parked on the seafront.”
“No he didn’t. You reversed into the gatepost.”
“Fine.” She picked up the phone once more. “I’ll call and tell your father now. Oh, and maybe you’d like to explain to him how you managed to smash the kitchen window with your sister’s Sindy doll…”
Josh’s shoulders sagged and he waved his hands in a gesture of defeat. He might have known he didn’t stand a chance against an expert like Maxine. “OK, OK. Put the phone down. You win.”
But while being with the children was fun, it had its restrictions. Maxine found herself yearning for adult company. By Thursday, she realized she was even looking forward to Guy’s phone call from Paris and felt absurdly put out when he spoke to Josh and Ella, then hung up.
“He was in a hurry,” Josh explained. “He said some people were waiting for him and he had to go out.”
“How nice for him,” said Maxine sourly. It was five o’clock and the evening stretched ahead interminably. All she had to look forward to was beating Josh and Ella at Monopoly and maybe the added thrill of washing her hair.
• • •
Janey, who enjoyed washing her hair, was in the bath when the phone shrilled at six o’clock. Inwardly cursing but unable to leave it to ring—there was always that infinitesimal chance that it might be Alan, after all—she climbed out of the bath and made her way, naked and dripping bubbles, into the sitting room.
“Big favor,” Maxine beseeched on the other end of the line. “Big, big favor. How would you like to save your poor demented sister’s life?”
“Not very much.” If Maxine was planning a moonlight flit from Trezale House, Janey didn’t want her flitting back to the flat. With a trace of suspicion she said, “I thought Guy was away this week.”
“Exactly,” declared Maxine, then giggled. “What a strange thing to say. I wasn’t asking you to play hired assassin.”
That was a relief, Janey supposed. Shifting from one foot to the other, she watched the bath bubbles melt into the carpet. “So what do you want?”
“I’m suffering from cabin fever,” cried Maxine with suitable drama. “If I don’t get out of here for a couple of hours, I won’t be responsible for my actions. And Colin’s just phoned, inviting me to have a drink with him.”
“I’m in the bath,” complained Janey.
“No you aren’t; you’re in the sitting room. Sweetie, it’s not too much to ask, is it?” Maxine switched into wheedling mode. “Josh and Ella would absolutely love to see you again. And you know how brilliant you are at Monopoly…”
• • •
It really was a gorgeous house. Janey, kicking off her shoes and stretching out across the long sofa, gazed around appreciatively at the beamed ceiling, matte burgundy walls, and glossy, rug-strewn parquet floor. Maxine and her incurable mania for clutter had reduced her own small flat to chaos, but Trezale House was evidently large enough to handle it. The style of the sitting room was elegant but at the same time relaxed. The paintings hanging on the walls vied for space with a selection of framed photographs, expertly lit. Thanks to Jessica Newman, Paula’s mother, the antique furniture was lovingly polished, the indoor plants immaculately tended. Janey was pleased to see that her own flower arrangements were still looking as fresh as they had the previous Saturday.
But it was midnight, the children were in bed, and she was starving. “Help yourself to anything,” Maxine had declared, the expansive sweep of her arm encompassing the contents of the entire kitchen. That had been at seven thirty when Janey hadn’t been hungry. Now, checking her watch and marveling at her own gullibility—Maxine had promised faithfully to be back by eleven at the very latest—she padded barefoot into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Josh, who was the most appalling cheat, had beaten her at Monopoly, and a girl deserved some compensation, after all.
Abandoning her diet, she’d just finished piling a dinner plate with french bread, pâté, and a hefty slice of dolcelatte when a car snaked up the drive, its headlights dazzling her as she peered out through the kitchen window.
Maxine was back at last. Too hungry to stop now, Janey gave her a wave and picked up the already-opened bottle of red wine that had been left balancing precariously on the edge of the windowsill. She wouldn’t have bothered if she’d been on her own, but now that Maxine was here, they might as well finish it up between them.
By the time the front door opened, Janey was comfortably ensconced once more on the sofa. Through a mouthful of pâté she calle
d out, “And about time too! Come in here this minute and tell me what you’ve been doing to that poor, defenseless cricketer. I hope you haven’t been tampering with his middle wicket…”
“Absolutely not,” said a cool male voice behind her, and Janey turned pale.
“Oh God, I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, hideously embarrassed at having been caught out. The attempted witticism had been feeble enough anyway, but at least Maxine would have laughed.
Guy Cassidy, however, wasn’t looking the least bit amused. Janey’s complexion, unable to make up its mind, promptly reddened. The dinner plate clattered against the coffee table as she shoved it hurriedly away from her like a shoplifter caught in the act. It was ridiculous, she told herself; she had a perfect right to be here. She just wished Guy wouldn’t look at her like that.
“Well,” he said finally, glancing at the two brimming glasses of wine on the table and at the almost-empty bottle beside them. “You appear to have made yourself at home. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
Bastard, thought Janey. To add insult to injury, her hand shook like a leaf as she silently passed him the nearest glass.
“And I suppose I don’t need to ask where Maxine is. Screwing some unfortunate cricketer, from the sound of it.” Collapsing into one of the chairs opposite her, he consulted his watch. “It’s past midnight. Is this a regular occurrence?”
“What?”
“You, doing the babysitting. Has it been going on all week?”
“Of course not!” Janey retaliated. Outraged by the unfairness of the suggestion, she took a great slug of wine. There was really no need for him to take his irritation out on her. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be flying back until tomorrow, anyway,” she said in accusing tones, wishing she didn’t feel at such a disadvantage. He must have been traveling for hours, but in his olive-green cashmere sweater and white jeans, he still looked as fresh as if he’d just got up, whereas she was only too conscious of the fact that she was wearing an ancient, gray T-shirt and leggings, and no makeup at all.