by Jill Mansell
“Shame they didn’t show a bit more appreciation then, while they still had me.” Resorting to flippancy in order to cover up the guilt, Maxine said, “Those little brats are forever telling me how much more fun they had when you were looking after them. Seriously, Janey, if you ever felt like selling the shop and switching careers… You could even have a crack at Guy while you’re there, see if you don’t have better luck with him than I did!”
It was like Pavlov’s dogs. Maxine was only joking, but even the most frivolous of insinuations was enough to bring the color surging into Janey’s cheeks. Silently cursing her inability to keep it at bay and desperate to change the subject, she resolutely ignored the jibe and instead launched a bold counterattack.
“Come on, Max. I’m your sister, remember? Do you seriously expect me to believe that’s all there is to it?”
Maxine blinked. “To what?”
“This whole Romsey Road business.” It hadn’t been an innocent blink. Janey, pleased with herself for having guessed, moved in for the kill. “Because I can’t help thinking what an extraordinary coincidence it is, you getting the part and at the same time losing interest in Bruno. Call it a shot in the dark,” she suggested lightly, “but would there happen to be any seriously wicked men in Manchester?”
This time even Maxine had the grace to look embarrassed. “Well,” she murmured vaguely, “now you come to mention it, maybe one or two…”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The fact that the weather had finally taken a dramatic turn for the better did nothing at all to lift Bruno’s spirits. Outside Mole Cottage—which Maxine had insisted on calling Toad-in-the-Hole Cottage following the discovery of a moldy cooked sausage under the bed—the sun shone with enthusiasm for the first time in months. Tiny clouds drifted across a blue sky, the sea—turquoise fading to aqua—glittered in the distance, and daffodils had sprung up en masse, their yellow heads nodding in the warm breeze. Even the hopelessly overgrown front garden was sprouting an assortment of yellow blooms, but since he had no interest in flowers, Bruno didn’t have a clue what they were.
He didn’t care either. He didn’t care much about anything at all right now, except the fact that, forty-eight hours earlier, Maxine had left him.
Standing at the living-room window, he gazed blindly out to sea as tears pricked the backs of his eyes. She hadn’t even let him down gently, dammit. Instead, with typically selfish haste, she had just come out with it—no, there was nobody else and he hadn’t done anything wrong; it simply wasn’t working. After that she’d slung the few clothes and bits of makeup she had left at the cottage into a pink raffia bag and said gaily, “Sorry, darling, but these things happen. Wish me luck. Bye!”
The lying bitch, he thought, pressing his lips together and turning the postcard over and over in his hands. She hadn’t even bothered to cover her tracks properly. That was what you got for loving and trusting someone, Bruno concluded bitterly. They took fucking advantage of you and didn’t even stop to think of the pain they were inflicting…
He had found the postcard stuffed into the breast pocket of his denim shirt. Maxine, who had borrowed it the previous weekend, had spilled chocolate milkshake down the sleeve and chucked it into his laundry basket. That way, of course, he could wash and iron it himself before she borrowed it again.
And it was such a vulgar card, Bruno thought, blinking hard and staring down at the scene depicting Romsey Road in all its grubby glory. Turning it over, he read for the fifteenth time the brief message scrawled on the other side: “‘Don’t I always deliver the goods? Ring me! Zack.’”
Even Bruno, who didn’t watch television, recognized the name. Zack Morrison might not be the most talented actor on the planet, he thought sourly, but he was renowned for his ability to deliver the fucking goods…
• • •
Bruno dressed with care, deliberately choosing the pink-and-gray striped shirt she had bought for him and teaming it with immaculately pressed charcoal-gray trousers. It was warm enough outside not to bother with a jacket.
Studying himself in front of the bedroom mirror, Bruno nodded, satisfied with what he saw. He could still turn it on when he wanted to, he thought with renewed pride. How many women, after all, had told him he had the sexiest green eyes in the world? How many had called his smile irresistible? How many had begged him to take them away from their husbands?
Paco Rabanne, Bruno decided, reaching for the bottle standing on the chest of drawers. No, Eau Sauvage. She had bought that for him too. If that was what she liked best, it was what he would wear.
• • •
Nina was sitting up at the bar drinking tomato juice and chatting to one of the lunchtime regulars when Bruno walked into the restaurant. The good weather had brought with it an influx of customers, and they all seemed to be enjoying themselves. What Wayne Simmonds lacked in personal magnetism, Bruno decided, he evidently made up for with his skill in the kitchen. At least the business hadn’t suffered while he’d been away.
“Goodness,” said Nina shyly, her eyes lighting up when she spotted him. “Look who’s here! Bruno, how lovely to see you after all this time. And you’re looking so well. Working at the Grand Rock obviously suits you.”
Smiling, Bruno bent and kissed her pale cheek. Nina hadn’t changed at all; that was what he’d always liked about her. Even the floppy, floral Laura Ashley dress was utterly predictable. She’d been wearing it for the past six years.
“You’re looking pretty good yourself.” Standing back, studying her shining, unmade-up face and breathing in the comfortingly familiar scent of patchouli oil, he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Are you busy, or can we go upstairs and have a proper chat? It feels odd being down here and not having the right to insult the customers.”
The sitting room, flooded with sunlight, was less tidy than before but otherwise just as he remembered it.
Nina, intercepting his glance, smiled and said, “You were the one who put things away around here. I’m still as hopeless as I ever was.”
“You aren’t hopeless.” His tone was affectionate. “Just…relaxed. Oh, Nina, it really is good to see you. Tell me how you’ve been keeping. Tell me how you’ve really been.”
The dozen or so silver bracelets tinkled as she pushed her hair behind her ears. “Well, fine. Busy at Christmas, of course, and New Year’s Eve was as chaotic as ever. January was steady. We’ve changed the menu around, and the customers seem to approve.”
“I meant how have you been.” Leading Nina to the sofa, he sat down next to her without letting go of her hand. “I don’t suppose it’s been that easy for either of us…”
“Oh, you know.” She shrugged and examined a fraying hole in her skirt. “As you said at the time, these things happen. Life goes on.”
“Nina.” Bruno’s voice softened. “I said some very stupid things at the time. And I’ve lived to regret them. You—”
“How’s Maxine?” she said suddenly, her eyes bright with interest. “I saw her in that toilet-roll commercial on television. I thought she was very good.”
Bruno sighed. “Maybe she was. But Maxine isn’t you, sweetheart. She doesn’t even begin to compare with you. I realize that now. I don’t want Maxine anymore,” he said simply. “I want you to forgive me for behaving like a fool. I want you.”
For a moment, Nina looked as if she were about to burst into tears. Gazing at him, hesitantly touching the sleeve of his shirt, she whispered, “This is the one I bought you last summer.”
He nodded and gave her an encouraging smile.
“Oh, Bruno, I wanted you back so badly it hurt,” Nina said softly. “I dreamed of this happening. It was practically the only thing that kept me alive…”
“And now I am back.” Bruno stroked the inside of her thin wrist.
“If only you’d changed your mind sooner.” Nina spoke with genuine distress.
The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. “Oh dear, I don’t quite know how to tell you this…but I’ve met someone else. I’m happy with him. We’re going to be married in April—nothing flashy, just a small wedding, not even a proper honeymoon.”
“Married?” echoed Bruno, his eyes widening with horror. He stared at her, aghast. “Who the hell to?”
She flinched. “Um…Wayne.”
“You are joking!” he shouted, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Nina! You can’t do that!”
Nina stuck to her guns. She loved Wayne and he loved her. She knew that.
“But we are doing it,” she said nervously. “It’s all arranged. April the twentieth.”
This was like a truly terrible dream. Bruno, not even realizing that his fingernails were digging into her wrist, howled, “For Christ’s sake, cancel it! He’s only marrying you for your money.”
“No he isn’t.” Nina pulled free and rubbed her arm. Poor Bruno. He may as well hear all the news in one go. Straightening her shoulders, her face glowing with pride, she said, “He’s marrying me because I’m pregnant.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
It wasn’t much, thought Guy ruefully, but it was all he had. Maxine’s throwaway remark last night, when she had teased Josh about his new eight-year-old girlfriend—“Goodness me, you’ve gone almost as pink as Janey does whenever I mention your father!”—wasn’t a great deal to go on, but it was the most promising sign so far that she might actually feel more for him than she’d been admitting.
It had been enough to persuade him that the moment had arrived to do something, to find out for himself. Not knowing was beginning to get to him, Guy decided. The time had come to act. And if Maxine had been wrong, he thought, he could always strangle her with his bare hands…
Two dozen pink roses. Janey winced as one of the thorns ripped into the tender skin between her finger and thumb. He’d had to order not one, but two dozen long-stemmed pink roses.
Jealousy, pure and simple, surged within her as she tried to imagine whom Guy was so eager to impress. And how tempting it was to choose less-than-perfect blooms, the ones whose petals were beginning to loosen so that within a day or two they would drop off. But pride compelled her to select the finest, just-flowering buds instead, flawless shell-pink tinged with apricot. If whoever-it-was took the trouble to look after them, they would last a good fortnight. Bitchily, Janey wondered if Guy’s interest in whoever-it-was would exceed the life of the exquisite roses.
It was sheer pride too, that sent her up to the flat to brush her hair and change into a clean, olive-green shirt and white jeans before setting off with the delivery. If the girl—presumably yet another svelte model—was going to be there when she arrived at Trezale House, Janey didn’t want to feel any more inferior by comparison than she already did. Knowing that you had a crush on someone was bad enough. Having to face his infinitely more glamorous size 4 girlfriends was downright intimidating.
Stop it, thought Janey wearily, rubbing off the lipstick she had just applied and staring at the little pot of bronze eye shadow that had somehow found its way into her hand. Now she was being really stupid, she told herself, flinging the eye shadow back into the drawer of her dressing table and gazing at her reflection in the mirror. As if a bit of makeup was going to help.
• • •
Guy opened the front door as she was lifting the flowers out of the van. It would have suited Janey to hand them over to him then and there, but all he did was step aside, enabling her to carry the bouquet into the house.
There didn’t appear to be anyone else at home, certainly no stunning, seminaked brunette draped across the kitchen table. In an effort to sound normal, Janey said casually, “No Maxine?”
“No Maxine, no kids.” He shrugged and smiled. “She’s taken them to some birthday party in Truro. They won’t be back for hours.”
“And there I was, thinking the roses were for her.” Janey placed them on the table, suddenly remembering that she hadn’t seen Guy since the day he had come to the shop with the invitation to the charity ball. Praying he wouldn’t mention it, realizing to her despair that her cheeks were hot, she turned her attention to the ribbons on the bouquet, fiddling with the curly bits and tweaking them into shape.
“Actually”—Guy’s voice came from behind her—“they’re for you. And why did you make up that story about Paula having flu, by the way? Was the prospect of spending an entire evening in my company really that awful, or is there another explanation? And don’t expect me to count to ten while you think of one,” he continued, his tone even, “because you’ve had eight weeks already.”
This time Janey blushed with a vengeance. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t know what to say either.
“Look,” she said finally, and with at least semitruthfulness, “I just thought you’d enjoy yourself more if you took somebody else.”
“Janey, if I had thought I would have enjoyed myself more with somebody else, I would have asked them to be my partner in the first place.” His tone registered both amusement and impatience. “And you aren’t admiring your flowers. You’re supposed to say ‘How lovely, you shouldn’t have.’”
“Well, you know what I mean.” Aware that she was gabbling, she took a step back. “There were those photos in the paper of you and Valentina, and that’s the kind of partner people expect you to turn up with. They’d wonder what on earth you were doing—”
“They might even think I was coming to my senses at last.” Guy, a million times more nervous than he was letting on, said quietly, “Janey, did you hear what I said just now?”
“Of course I heard you.” Flustered, hopelessly confused, Janey shook her head. “I just don’t know why you’re saying it. You phoned me up and ordered these flowers. You can’t give them back to me…”
“Why on earth not?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve paid for them. I gave you my credit card number over the phone.”
“But this is stupid.”
“No it isn’t. It’s sensible.” Guy started to smile. “It got you here, didn’t it?”
She bit her lip. “I still don’t understand.”
“You could try saying thank you,” he suggested, his eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s how people generally express their appreciation when they’ve been given two dozen ruinously expensive pink roses.”
Janey gave up. “In that case, thank you. They’re beautiful. How-very-kind-you-really-shouldn’t-have. And they weren’t that expensive,” she added with a faint answering smile. “I thought they were very reasonable.”
It was now or never, Guy decided. He took a deep breath.
“Another way of expressing your appreciation when you’ve been given two dozen very reasonably priced pink roses,” he said slowly, “is with a kiss.”
Janey stared at him. Was this some kind of hideous practical joke? Was Maxine hiding behind the Welsh dresser, camcorder at the ready? Was some TV prankster lurking inside the fridge?
Finally, she said, “You want me to kiss the roses?”
But the expression on Guy’s face was quite serious. No longer smiling, there was almost an air of apprehension about him. Janey, suddenly light-headed, felt her heart begin to race. Her stomach did a loop and disappeared.
“It’s up to you,” said Guy, “but I’d prefer it if you kissed me.”
As if in a dream, inwardly amazed that her legs were still capable of carrying her, she stepped forward and with infinite caution brushed her lips against his tanned cheek.
“OK?” she said stupidly when it was done.
But Guy, half smiling down at her, shook his head. “Terrible,” he murmured. “Very poor attempt. I’m sure you can do better than that.”
He put his arms around her. Janey, no longer in any condition to protest, closed her eyes as his mouth found hers. Caution abandoned, th
is time the receiver, she gave herself up to him. This time the kiss seemed to go on forever.
“Big improvement,” said Guy at last, speaking the words into her hair and not releasing his hold on her.
Janey, glad to be held—she needed all the support she could get—took a deep, steadying breath.
He smiled. “All right?”
“I’m not sure.” Raising her brown eyes to his face, she said shakily, “Is this a joke? Because if it is, I think I shall have to kill you.”
“You could always set Maxine on to me. That would be a fate far worse than death.” Guy, overjoyed by the success of his plan, broke into a broad grin. “Except it isn’t a joke, so you don’t need to. My God, Janey, do you have any idea what you’ve put me through these past months?”
Bewildered, still unable to take in the fact that this was happening to her, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“So you bloody well should be.” He kissed her again, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume. “You don’t give away any clues. I didn’t know whether you found me even remotely attractive. You wrecked my sex life…”
“What are you talking about?” Janey demanded, trembling all over and clutching the front of his shirt. Able to feel the warmth of his skin through the cotton, she suppressed an incredible urge to start undoing buttons.
“You were involved with that terrible husband of yours, so I couldn’t have you,” Guy complained. “And I didn’t want anyone else. It’s been sheer torture.” He rolled his eyes in mock reproach. “You aren’t exactly forgettable just now either. Everywhere I go, I’m haunted by that damn charity poster. I was seriously beginning to regret using that photograph, I can tell you. How was I to know they were going to plaster your face across just about every billboard in the country?” With an extravagant sigh, he concluded, “All in all, you’re one difficult lady to fall in love with, Janey Sinclair, and I think you should apologize for all the trouble you’ve caused.”