by Jill Mansell
Janey hesitated. “Like what?”
“Like the possibility that there could be more to this so-called friendship between you and Guy Cassidy than meets the eye?”
Oh God, she thought wearily. Not again.
“Well?” he persisted.
“No.” She shook her head for added emphasis. “Of course there isn’t.”
“Hmm,” said Alan, not sounding entirely convinced. His eyes narrowed as he studied her evident discomfort. “There’d better not be.”
• • •
The discord had unnerved Janey. It was their first semi-argument, and the knot of tension in the pit of her stomach had stayed with her all afternoon. Easygoing by nature, she wished now she hadn’t snapped at Alan, but at the same time she didn’t feel she’d acted too unreasonably. As long as he wasn’t working, she didn’t see why she should put in a sixty-hour week in the shop and knock herself out cooking three-course dinners in her precious free time.
It was with some trepidation that she climbed the stairs to the flat at six thirty. She was hungry, and her feet ached. She definitely didn’t feel up to an evening of verbal sparring and unease.
As she began to turn the door handle, however, she heard Alan’s voice shouting from inside: “Stop! Don’t come in!”
For a fraction of a second, Janey felt her heart lurch. It was ridiculous, but the memory of a recent TV drama came flooding back to her. The wife, arriving home early from work, had been commanded to wait outside the front door in just such a manner while the husband’s mistress, fetchingly wrapped in a bedsheet, had made her escape through the kitchen door at the back of the house. It had struck a chord at the time, because she had experienced the same situation when Maxine and the cricketers had been hammering on the door and she had been caught with Bruno. The difference, of course, was that in this flat there was no back door from which one could safely escape, only windows and an ankle-snapping, fifteen-foot drop.
The next moment, Alan opened the door himself. He grinned. “OK, you can come in now. All ready.”
She hadn’t seriously doubted him, of course, but the sight that greeted her still managed to bring a lump to Janey’s throat. There were no seminaked females in the dimly lit living room. Instead, the small dining table had been set for two. Flickering candles cast an auburn glow over the tablecloth, and he had unearthed the crystal glasses she so seldom used. An unopened bottle of champagne stood in an ice-packed Pyrex bowl.
“Surprise,” murmured Alan in her ear. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Unbelievably touched by the gesture, Janey could only nod. The fact that it was so unexpected made it all the more special. This, she reminded herself, was why she loved him.
“I’m sorry about this morning.” Taking her hand, he led her toward the table. “My stupid jealousy. But I’m going to make everything up to you, sweetheart. Here, sit down. Didn’t I say we should celebrate my return with champagne?”
It was actually méthode champenoise, Janey observed, glancing at the label. But that was just as nice as the proper kind…
Watching him ease the cork from the bottle, she held her breath as she always did in anticipation of the moment of release. When it finally happened, however, it was sadly lacking in oomph. The cork, instead of ricocheting off the ceiling, toppled limply to the floor. The accompanying silence was deafening.
Alan looked disappointed. “Story of my life,” he said with a regretful grimace. “I suppose it was bound to happen. I always seem to get everything wrong.”
“Don’t be silly.” Janey’s eyes filled with tears as she leaped to her feet and hugged him. “You do everything right. You’ve cooked a stupendous dinner, haven’t you? Why don’t I dash down to the liquor store and pick up another bottle while you’re serving up?”
“Actually,” he said, “it might be a better idea if you give me the money and I get the bottle. You can take a look at the food. I’ve done my best, but you aren’t the only one who isn’t Superwoman,” he added defensively. “It may not be stupendous.”
Janey smiled. “Why, what’s the problem?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Alan shook his head and looked perplexed. “I’ve never cooked a stupid chicken before. Is it really supposed to have a plastic bag full of squishy bits up its bum?”
Chapter Forty-Six
Valentina di Angelo was only temperamental when she wanted to be. Her fame had been founded upon the highly public rows between herself and her first husband, a hard-drinking but undoubtedly talented actor. Following their even more public divorce, Valentina had come to the reasonable conclusion that while displays of temperament were newsworthy, what wasn’t were sweet, quiet, nice girls who like sewing, reading, and watching EastEnders.
She was always careful, though, to ensure that the temperamental outbursts didn’t affect her work. As far as the paparazzi were concerned, Valentina di Angelo never turned up anywhere less than three hours late, but her modeling career was something else altogether. Always cheerful, always punctual, she worked like a trooper and never complained about anything. No supermodel, after all, was ever that indispensable. Hurling insults at chat-show hosts, journalists, and horrible hangers-on, and generally acting the drama queen was a strictly after-hours occupation.
It worked too, like a dream. She was famous for being a beautiful, acid-tongued bitch, and only the people she cared about knew any different.
And although she’d only just met Guy Cassidy, she had already placed him on the list of people she cared about. They had worked well together, she felt, but it was the tantalizing distance he’d kept which intrigued her more than anything else. Even during the shoot itself—during which she’d been wearing not very much at all—he hadn’t seemed to notice the lush perfection of her body in the way most top photographers did. The end results had been faultless of course, but as far as Valentina was concerned, there was a certain amount of unfinished business to be taken care of. With two short-lived marriages and seven broken engagements behind her, she also felt she had plenty of experience. She’d met her share of Mr. Wrongs and gotten them out of her system. Now, at twenty-five, she was ready for Mr. Right. And Guy Cassidy, with his talent, toe-curling good looks, and enigmatic personality, was without a doubt right up her street. Better still, he had unceremoniously dumped her archrival Serena Charlton. It therefore stood to reason, she thought happily, that the man had impeccable taste.
If Guy was surprised to receive her phone call, he didn’t show it. He was, however, curious to know how she had managed to track him down to a small hotel in Leicester Square.
“Ah, you’re talking to a girl with two and a half GCSEs,” said Valentina. She wasn’t entirely brainless. Not like Serena, she thought with a smirk of pride.
“I’m still intrigued.”
“I knew you were a friend of Mac Mackenzie,” she explained. “So I rang him. He gave me your home phone number. Then I phoned your home and spoke to someone called Maxine. She told me you were staying at the Randolph and gave me the number for that. I called the Randolph, asked to speak to you…and here I am!” She giggled. “There, does that put you out of your misery?”
Guy, sounding amused, said, “Oh, absolutely. Thanks.”
“Which is nice, because I didn’t even expect you to be here in London,” Valentina continued, her tone artless. “But since you are, how would you feel about having dinner with me?”
He hesitated for a second. “You mean tonight?”
“No, New Year’s Eve twenty years from now.” This time she laughed. “Of course, tonight. What’s the problem, are you already booked? Tell them you’ve had a better offer…”
Guy had run across more than his fair share of up-front women in his time, but even he was taken aback. Valentina, he thought, was forward with a capital F.
“I know, I know,” she said good-naturedly, reading his mind. “I’m a pushy
cow. Go on, you can say no if you want to. My ego will be crushed, but I daresay I’ll get over it. In a few years or so.”
It had been a long day. Guy hadn’t been planning anything more arduous than a hot bath and maybe a quick drink in the bar downstairs before grabbing the opportunity of an early night and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. But Maxine’s joking remark the other day, that what he needed was a woman in his life, had stayed in his mind. Faintly put out at the time to think that she and Janey had been discussing his imperfect love life, it had nevertheless struck a semipainful chord. Maybe he should be making more of an effort. All he had to do, after all, was say yes.
“OK,” he said before she started to wonder if he had hung up. “Dinner sounds good. Where would you like to go?”
To bed, thought Valentina with a triumphant smile. But even she wasn’t that blatant.
“The Ivy,” she replied. “Nine o’clock sharp. I’ll meet you outside.”
“I’d better give them a ring first.” Reaching across the bed, Guy picked up the phone directory. “They may be fully booked.”
“Don’t worry.” Valentina laughed, because she was practically their resident tourist attraction. “They always find room for me.”
• • •
Heads turned when Valentina di Angelo entered the restaurant. Heralded all over the world as the new Audrey Hepburn, she took the term gamine to its limits. Despite having been born and raised in Tooting, her southern Italian parentage clearly showed; skillfully cropped black hair framed an immaculate, olive-skinned face, chestnut-brown eyes three times bigger than Bambi’s, and possibly the most sensual red mouth on the planet. Around her long, impossibly slender neck she wore a narrow satin choker, a Valentina trademark copied by teenagers everywhere. And if anyone had ever thought it was impossible to look fabulous in a pink leather jacket, lime-green Lycra cycling shorts, and red sneakers, Valentina proved otherwise.
She looked positively angelic, thought Guy, despite the bizarre, Mimi-esque outfit. Everyone else in the room was covertly watching her. He only hoped she didn’t take it into her head to object and start creating her usual mayhem.
But Valentina was in high spirits. She was hungry too. Over a dinner of watercress soup, lamb cutlets, and sinfully rich chocolate pudding, she set out to prove to Guy Cassidy just how much of a perfect partner she could be. The sense of distance she had noted last week was still there, but it was definitely lessening. Another bottle of Chablis, she felt, could well be all that was needed to do the trick.
“So how old are your kids?” she asked, resting her chin in her cupped palm and fixing him with her liquid brown eyes. When a man looked this good in a plain white linen shirt and dark-blue chinos, the prospect of checking out the body underneath was positively enthralling. “It’s a boy and a girl, isn’t it? Have you got any photos I can see?”
“Josh is nine. Ella’s nearly eight. And photographs of other people’s children are boring.” Guy, who had a couple in his wallet, kept them there.
“Don’t be so defensive,” Valentina scolded, almost disappearing under the table as she reached for her bag. After rummaging energetically, she pulled out a battered leather wallet of her own. “Come along now, don’t be shy. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
He smiled. “You don’t have any children.”
“Ah, but I do have an extremely fertile family. Two brothers, three sisters, five nephews, and eleven nieces. So grit your teeth,” said Valentina happily, “and prepare to be bored out of your skull.”
“Tell me if it’s none of my business,” she said twenty minutes later, “but wasn’t it weird being with Serena, knowing how much she hated kids?”
The fact that there was no love lost between Serena and Valentina was no secret. Guy, however, had no intention of providing additional fuel for gossips. There had been enough speculation already about the ending of his affair with Serena.
“She doesn’t hate kids,” he replied easily. “She just doesn’t swoon over the idea of them.”
Idly, Valentina swirled her spoon through the double cream and chocolate sauce on her plate. “How can anyone not love children?” Then, observing the expression on Guy’s face—the distance was returning—she shook her head and grinned. “I suppose you get this kind of thing all the time. Eager women dying to get their claws into you, banging on about how much they adore kids because they think it’ll make you like them more.”
“Pretty close.” He found her perception and honesty appealing. “Do you always say what you think?”
“Oh, always!” This time her eyes glittered with amusement. She had a tiny smudge of chocolate on her lower lip. Instinctively he reached across the wiped the smudge away with his thumb. Smiling, Valentina kissed it. “There, I did warn you. Say what I think, do what I want. That’s my motto.”
According to Maxine and Janey, he needed a woman in his life. They hadn’t had much time for Serena; maybe Valentina would meet with their approval. Guy was entertained by the idea of parading her before them like a prospective champion at Crufts Dog Show. At least she was about as far removed from Serena as it was possible to be.
“And what do you want?” he said, entering into the spirit of the game. Beneath the table, Valentina had slipped off her sneakers. One bare foot was now lazily caressing his thigh.
“More chocolate pudding,” she answered, and the famous smile widened. “Then you.”
• • •
The paparazzi were waiting outside on the pavement. The moment Valentina emerged from the restaurant with her pink leather jacket draped casually over her shoulders Italian-style, flashbulbs began exploding like fireworks.
“No pictures. I said no fucking pictures!” she yelled, glaring at them with disdain. “We’re having a private evening out, for God’s sake. What are you, a bunch of animals?”
They loved her, of course. She made them a fortune. Seldom did a week go by without Valentina di Angelo featuring center stage in the celebrity montages of the Sunday supplements. An encounter with Valentina was guaranteed to line their pockets and brighten their day. The public, it went without saying, lapped it all up like cream.
“Come on, Val, give us a smile,” one of them shouted. “You know you can do it!”
“And you know what you can do,” she retorted, tossing her inch-long black hair.
“How about a quote then?” another ginger-bearded freelancer said hopefully. “Are you and Guy Cassidy an item?”
“Are your legs breakable?”
“Hey, Guy! What’s the idea? Did you take her out for a bet or something?”
Guy simply grinned and said nothing. He was content to leave the insults to the experts.
“Hey, Val. Show us what you’re hiding under that cheap jacket!” goaded one old hand who knew her well. “Is it true you’ve had your tits fixed?”
This was the moment Valentina had been waiting for. This was the man who had started the rumor a fortnight ago, and she was ready for him.
“Why don’t you come and take a closer look?” she said sweetly, and the other men grinned. Guy, who knew what was about to happen, took a discreet step to one side.
“Yeeeuck, you bitch!” howled the photographer as the bowl of ice cream she had been concealing beneath the folds of the pink leather jacket cascaded down his face and chest. It was particularly splendid ice cream, honey and walnut, but well worth wasting on such a good cause, and wonderfully photogenic against a black polo-neck sweater. Served him right, Valentina thought happily, for being too stupid to tell the difference between plastic surgery and a tissue-packed Wonderbra.
Another volley of flashbulbs exploded, another feature in the tabloids was instantly guaranteed. Having made her mark, Valentina handed the empty bowl to one of the other members of the pack and reached for Guy’s arm. “Come on,” she murmured under her breath as they moved toward their w
aiting cab. “That’s the business taken care of. Now for the pleasure…”
Chapter Forty-Seven
“No?” Valentina shrieked, scarcely able to believe what she was hearing. In her agitation, she almost catapulted off the bed. “No? What the hell do you mean, no?”
The realization that he was making a huge mistake had crept up on him even as they made their way up to his hotel room. Having initially fended her off with a drink from the minibar, Guy had spent the last fifteen minutes searching for an acceptable way out of the situation he’d so stupidly gotten himself into. And it was a supremely ironic situation, he couldn’t help thinking, because 99 percent of men would no doubt drool like dogs at the prospect of a night of passion with Valentina di Angelo.
It wasn’t even as if she had done anything wrong. Beauty apart, she was funny and honest, great company, and altogether about as engaging a person as anyone—paparazzi excluded—could wish to meet. But he just couldn’t go through with it. For some unfathomable reason, he knew he would be making a terrible mistake. “I’m sorry.” Guy shook his head, forcing himself to look at her. There was resignation in his dark-blue eyes. “I really am. It’s been a great evening, but…”
“But what?” wailed Valentina, overcome with a sudden rush of fear. “What have I done wrong? What’s the problem, for God’s sake?” Casting around for a reason—any reason—she said helplessly, “Am I too fat?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” It was every model’s greatest fear. What was worse, he thought with an inward sigh and a glance at her stick-thin legs, was that she really meant it. “You aren’t fat, and you haven’t done anything wrong. It’s me.”
Relief mingled with suspicion. Valentina’s fingers continued to clench and unclench against the bedspread. “What, then? If you’re going to try and tell me you’re impotent,” she warned, “I may have a bit of trouble believing you.”