by Jill Mansell
“Ah, but it’s all right for you,” she told Janey. “You’re running your own business. At least you’ve got something to take your mind off not having a man.”
“Of course.” Janey managed to hide her smile. “It’s a great help.”
“You’re really lucky,” sighed Suzannah. “I sometimes wonder if I should think about getting a little job.”
How about governor of the Bank of England, thought Janey. But at least she was talking to someone, even if it was only Suzannah. At this moment she couldn’t afford to be choosy. Feigning interest, she said, “What kind of work are you interested in?”
“God, I don’t know.” Suzannah flicked back her hair with a tanned arm, and half a dozen solid-gold bangles jangled in unison. “Something easy, I suppose. Like your job.”
Janey tried to envisage Suzannah getting up at five every morning, working flat out for twelve hours a day, and settling down at night to do the books. Determined to keep a straight face even if it killed her, she said, “I didn’t realize you were interested in floristry.”
“Oh, I love flowers.” To prove her point, Suzannah gestured vaguely in the direction of a frantically gyrating girl whose purple taffeta dress was patterned with enormous yellow daisies. “They’re so…um…pretty, aren’t they?” Then, brightening, she added, “In fact, my boyfriend bought me a big bouquet of flowers for my birthday. And he got them from your shop.”
“Really?” Every cloud, thought Janey. Men, incapable of coming up with anything more imaginative for the women in their lives, were what kept her in business. “What were they?”
“Red ones,” said Suzannah, pleased with herself for having remembered. “Roses, I think. With bits of funny white stuff mixed in.”
“Cocaine?”
“What?”
“Sorry.” Biting her lip, Janey said, “It’s called gypsophila.”
“Oh, right.”
“Did the roses last a long time?” Janey couldn’t help it. She always wanted people to get the very best out of their flowers. “If the heads start to droop after the first week you can re-cut the stems and plunge them into boiling water for a few seconds. It works wonders.”
“Really?” Suzannah looked blank. “I forgot to put them in water when he gave them to me. When I woke up the next day they were all dead.”
• • •
The dedicated revelers were moving up a gear. People were stripping off to reveal swimsuits beneath their party clothes, ready for a moonlight dip at high tide. A state-of-the-art camcorder ended up in a bowl of punch, and one of the male guests, suspected of working on behalf of one of the more down-market tabloids, was handcuffed to a tree in the restaurant garden, his hairy ankles tied together by the reel of exposed film from his camera.
For Janey, introduced by Nick and Tony to a hotelier who was interested in flowers, the evening was turning out to be not so bad after all. He needed regular arrangements for his foyer and sitting rooms, and a deal was struck over two hefty measures of cognac, both of which were drunk by the hotelier.
“Sign here,” said Janey, having written out details of the agreement on one of Bruno’s linen napkins. “You may not remember this tomorrow. I want something I can jog your memory with.”
“You sound like my wife,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “I still don’t remember asking her to marry me. She just woke me up the next day and told me I had.”
“Don’t worry.” Janey grinned as he scrawled a haphazard signature across the bottom of the napkin. “This isn’t going to tie you down nearly as much as a wife.”
Bruno caught up with her as she was on her way to the loo.
“I saw you,” he murmured, catching her around the waist and pulling her toward him. “You’ve been talking to Eddie Beresford for the last twenty minutes.”
“I’m amazed you even noticed.” Bruno reeked of Shalimar. Janey tried to pull away, but he was stronger than she was. Now he was drawing her back toward the dance floor.
“I notice everything.” With a derisory glance in Eddie Beresford’s direction, he drawled, “He could hardly take his eyes off your cleavage.”
“Don’t worry,” said Janey in pointed tones. “I’m sure he’s faithful to his wife.”
But Bruno didn’t make the connection. “He’s so ugly I shouldn’t think he could find anyone to be unfaithful with. Anyway, it’s my turn now.” His green eyes glittered as he studied Janey’s rigid face. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about my birthday present either. How about a couple of dances to put us in the mood, then you head on up the stairs and make yourself…comfortable? I’ll have a quick drink with Guy Cassidy and the redhead and follow you up five minutes later. If anyone spots you on the way, just tell them you feel faint.”
He’d gotten her as far as the dance floor, but Janey wasn’t moving. Causing a major scene was the last thing she wanted.
“I see,” she said carefully. “But what should I do if the bed’s already occupied?”
Bruno laughed. “Sweetheart, the keys to the flat are right here in my pocket. I’m hardly going to rent out my own bedroom to whoever fancies a quickie!”
“It’s your quickies I’m talking about.” It was no good; she hated Bruno about as much as she despised herself for having been so weak-willed in the first place, and she couldn’t contain herself a moment longer. With icy disdain, she said, “I can’t seem to spot the blond you were dancing with earlier. Are you sure she isn’t still up there, hunting for her knickers and hoping for a repeat performance?”
“Oh dear.” He gave her a mock-sorrowful look. “Are we jealous?”
Janey, who’d said it but hadn’t meant it, realized with a sickening jolt that she’d been right.
“I’m not jealous.” The urge to punch him was almost overwhelming. “I just can’t believe it’s taken me this long to find out what you’re really like. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. Believe it or not, I actually trusted you…”
Bruno, who liked Janey a lot and who found her innocence particularly appealing, decided that he could bluff his way out of this one. True, she was upset, but only because she didn’t realize the sacrifices he’d made since their relationship had begun.
“Sweetheart, there’s no need for this.” Still smiling, he tried to draw her toward him. It was like dragging a child into the dentist’s chair. “You can trust me. OK, so maybe I’ve played the field a bit in the past, but if you only knew how many women I haven’t slept with since we’ve been together… I’m a reformed character, truly I am!”
“Liar,” hissed Janey. “I spoke to Nina. You don’t have any kind of understanding.”
Bruno, determined to chivy her out of her mood, gave her a disarming look. “OK, call it an unspoken agreement. Whichever, she’s hardly likely to admit it to you.”
“And what about all the others?” Janey countered bitterly. “My God, I don’t know when you find time to sleep! Let go of me!”
This was more than a mood, he realized. Janey meant business. Oh well. It had been good fun while it lasted.
“So what are you saying?” He released his grip on her arms so abruptly that she almost staggered backward. “That you don’t want to meet me upstairs in ten minutes after all?”
“You arrogant bastard.” Without her even realizing it, Janey’s eyes had filled with tears. “I never want to meet you again anywhere. I never want to see you again!”
Bruno’s relationships ended when he wanted them to end. He had never been dumped in his life. And if Janey thought she could get away with doing it in public, with making a fool of him at his very own party, she could suffer the consequences in return.
At that moment, by chance, the dance music that had been blaring through the speakers came to a halt. The tape had finished.
“Oh dear,” Bruno drawled into the ensuing silence. “And there I was, doing my Goo
d Samaritan bit and thinking you’d be grateful for the attention. I’m beginning to realize now why your husband might have wanted to disappear. Is that what you yelled at him, Janey? Did you tell him you never wanted to see him again?” He paused for a second, then added with a cruel smile, “If you ask me, the poor sod probably couldn’t believe his luck.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was a nightmare. A nightmare with an audience. With tears streaming down her face, Janey turned and searched frantically for the way out. All she could see was a blur of faces. Mascara stung her eyes, and she didn’t know where the hell she’d left her handbag. Her face burned with shame as she pushed her way through the crowd of riveted partygoers in what she prayed was the direction of the door.
The next moment, a pair of strong arms was guiding her. Behind her a voice murmured reassuringly, “It’s OK. I’ve got your bag. Just keep walking.”
Janey stumbled on the steps outside the restaurant, and the arms tightened their grip on her shoulders, keeping her upright. When they reached the pavement, she turned to face her rescuer.
“I’m all right. Thanks… I’ll be f-fine now…”
Her voice wavered and began to break as a fresh wave of humiliation swept over her. Fumbling blindly for her bag, she tried to hide her blotchy face, cruelly exposed by the bright spotlighting outside the restaurant. She must look a complete wreck; this was almost more awful than having to endure Bruno’s sneering jibes.
“Don’t be so bloody stupid,” said Guy, handing over her bag but keeping a firm hold on her arm. “You aren’t all right at all, and you’re certainly in no state to drive home. Come on, give me your car keys.”
He might have come to her rescue, but he wasn’t being wildly sympathetic. Still sobbing, Janey said, “I’m not drunk.”
He sighed. “I know you aren’t drunk, but you can’t see where you’re going either. Why don’t you just give me the keys and let me drive?”
“Because the van isn’t here.” She sniffed loudly. “I walked.”
For some reason he seemed to find her reply amusing. Turning her around and leading her briskly across the road toward his own car, he said with a brief smile, “Fair enough.”
“You can’t take me home.”
“Why not?”
Janey wiped her wet face with the back of her sleeve. Sequins, like miniature knives, grazed her cheeks. “What about…thingy? Charlotte?”
“Oh, thingy will understand.” This time he grinned. “Besides, you only live half a mile away. All I’m doing is giving you a lift home; we aren’t eloping to Gretna Green.”
It was dark inside the car, which was a relief, but Janey still flinched each time another vehicle passed them, beaming sadistic headlights over her face. She couldn’t seem to stop crying either; the harder she tried not to think about Bruno and the degrading scene back in the restaurant, the more insistently the tears slid down her face. She hoped Guy Cassidy couldn’t see them plopping into her lap.
The journey took all of two minutes. Janey was free of her seat belt and reaching for the door handle before the car had even drawn to a halt outside the shop.
“It’s customary to invite the man in for a coffee, you know,” he observed when she had mumbled her thanks and scrambled out onto the pavement.
Janey, who had been about to slam the passenger door shut, forgot to avert her swollen eyes. “Look, you’ve been very kind, but I’d really rather be on my own. Don’t you think I’m embarrassed enough as it is?”
But Guy had switched off the ignition and was already stepping out of the car. “I think it wouldn’t be fair to leave you on your own, bawling your eyes out.” His tone of voice was more gentle now and reassuringly matter-of-fact. “Come on, we can’t stand here arguing in the street. People will think you’re Maxine.”
“She said you were a bully,” Janey grumbled, realizing that he wasn’t going to go away. “And what about Charlotte, anyway? You took her along to the party. She won’t be very pleased with you if you don’t go back.”
“She’ll survive.” Guy dismissed the protest with a careless gesture. Taking the keys from her trembling hand, he opened the front door and guided Janey into the hallway ahead of him. “Besides, rescuing damsels in distress is as good a reason as any for escaping. I grew out of those kind of parties years ago, and I’ve already told you I don’t much care for Bruno Parry-Brent.” With a brief sidelong glance at Janey, he added, “That’s something we appear to have in common, at least.”
• • •
So much for looking great, thought Janey, gloomily surveying her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Having scrubbed her face, soaping away every last vestige of makeup, it no longer looked like a plowed field, but it was certainly in a sorry state. The whites of her eyes were pink, and her cheeks, normally pink, were white. Her eyelids remained hopelessly swollen too, despite her best efforts with a cold washcloth. And somewhere along the line she had managed to lose one of the combs holding her hair back at the sides. All in all, she looked like a lop-eared rabbit.
But since she wasn’t about to run off to Gretna Green, as Guy had so caustically reminded her earlier, what did it matter? Pulling a face at herself in the mirror, chucking the other bronze comb onto the windowsill, and running her fingers through her no longer perfect hair, Janey unlocked the bathroom door. Guy was in the kitchen making coffee. If he was so hell-bent on hearing her side of the unflattering story behind Bruno’s contemptuous outbursts tonight, she would give it to him. She had no reason to want to impress him; he was only another rotten man anyway.
“You’re looking better.” Guy, having made the coffee and brought it through to the sitting room, handed her the pink mug with elephants around the side. Stretching out in the chair by the window, he added, “Not wonderful, but better.”
“Thanks.” He certainly had a way with words, thought Janey. Flattery like that could turn a more susceptible girl’s head.
“So what was it all about?”
She shrugged. There was no reason on earth why Guy Cassidy should be interested in hearing this, yet he was certainly giving a good impression of an advice columnist. One of those brisk, no-nonsense ones, Janey decided, who wouldn’t hesitate to tell you what a prat you’d been.
“Well,” she began with a rueful smile, “I suppose you could say I got myself involved with the wrong kind of man. I fell for the old pickup lines, and even managed to convince myself that we weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“Don’t tell me. He said his wife didn’t understand him.”
“Quite the reverse. He said Nina understood him only too well and that she didn’t mind.”
“Of course.” Guy’s dark eyebrows twitched with suppressed amusement. “And you believed him.”
“I don’t make a habit of getting involved with attached men,” Janey protested. “I know what you must be thinking, but I’m really not like that. I suppose I believed him because I wanted to. And he was plausible,” she added defensively. “I’m not trying to excuse myself; I’m just explaining how it happened. It simply didn’t occur to me that he might not be telling the truth.”
“Until tonight, presumably, when you learned otherwise.”
“I found out a couple of days ago,” Janey admitted. “I asked Nina.”
“Good God.”
“I didn’t tell her!” she said crossly. “I’m not that much of a bitch.”
“OK. So what happened after you’d made your momentous discovery?”
“You were there.” To her shame, she felt fresh tears on her cheeks. “You heard the rest. I told Bruno what I thought of him, and he retaliated.” Fumbling for a tissue, she took a deep breath. “He…he hit back where it hurt. I wasn’t expecting him to say what he did.”
“About your husband?” Once again, Guy’s tone was reassuringly matter of fact. “I didn’t even know you’d been marrie
d. How long ago were you divorced?”
“I’m not divorced,” said Janey, her voice beginning to break. “My husband…disappeared. We hadn’t had a fight or anything like that. He just went out one day and n-never came b-b-back. Nobody knows what happened to him… We don’t even know if he’s alive or d-d-dead.”
It should have been embarrassing, breaking down in tears all over again in front of a man she barely knew. But Guy took it all in his stride, allowing her to get all the pent-up despair out of her system, making more coffee, and showing no sign at all of wanting to slope off.
“Stop apologizing,” he said calmly when Janey, lobbing yet another sodden tissue into the wastepaper basket, mumbled “Oh hell, I’m sorry” for the fifth time. “You haven’t exactly just had the best two years in the world. You’re entitled to cry.”
“I don’t usually talk about it,” she admitted in a small voice.
“You should. It helps to talk.”
“Did you?” Janey hesitated, wondering if he would be offended. “Talk, I mean. After your wife died.”
“Probably bored a few close friends rigid,” said Guy. “But they were kind enough not to let it show.”
“And now here I am, boring you.”
“Not at all.” He grinned across at her. “If I were hearing it for the twentieth time and knew the words off by heart, then I’d be bored. But I’m being serious, Janey. It doesn’t help, bottling it all up. You really need to get it out of your system.”
“I know, I know.” The tears had dried up now, making it easier to speak. “But it’s so…unfinished. If I knew what had happened, it would help. If Alan had wanted to leave me, why didn’t he just say so? Sometimes I think—oh hell, it doesn’t matter.” Mindful of Guy’s own past experience, she bit her tongue before the shameful words could spill out. But he was already nodding in agreement, having understood exactly what she was about to say.
“Sometimes you think it would be easier if he were dead.”
Plucking at the sequins on her dress, Janey nodded.