by Susan Lewis
He still hadn’t mentioned the kiss last week and she couldn’t find the courage to do so herself. Sometimes she thought she’d imagined it, but she knew she hadn’t. She’d put her mouth on his and he hadn’t pulled away. So it wasn’t a real kiss, exactly, but it had lasted for at least three seconds which was a long time really. And then he’d said that it was probably best if neither of them mentioned it to anyone.
‘It’s not that it was wrong,’ he’d whispered, ‘but it could be misconstrued, so let’s make it our secret, OK?’
She wished she’d never told Sasha now, but Sash had sworn she wouldn’t repeat it, and she didn’t usually break any secrets.
Neither of them spoke again until he was pulling up outside the school for her to get out of the car. She wouldn’t be able to kiss him with everyone around, so she didn’t try. Then she felt crushed when he didn’t either. A small peck on the cheek would have been all right, wouldn’t it? There was nothing wrong in that.
‘Neve,’ he said, as she started to get out.
She turned round to look at him, knowing her eyes were probably red, but she couldn’t help it.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he told her softly. ‘We’ll work it out, I promise.’
‘Honestly, I’m up to my eyes with costume fittings, hair consultations, riding lessons, and don’t get me started on the publicity,’ Susannah was saying down the phone to Patsy. ‘The writer’s bible turned up yesterday containing everything from character backgrounds, to show-horse training, to major competitions, to story development. I need to get through it before the big pre-shoot meeting on the 21st, but you should see the size of it. Double an encyclopedia and you might be there. Alan finds the whole thing highly amusing, and slightly mad, it has to be said, and he’s probably not wrong.’
‘He’s probably sizing you all up with a view to expanding his client list,’ Pats responded drolly. ‘Have there been any shocking revelations in the papers yet, about Susannah’s soirée of sin?’
‘Very funny. No, but the press release only went out this morning. Apparently the publicists have already been inundated with interview requests – amazing how sex sells, isn’t it? – and I’m due to re-record my GMTV piece later today so they can include it. Which is lucky, because it’ll give me a chance to ask them to take out any mention of Alan from the previous piece.’
‘So where are you now?’
‘In the back of a cab about to be late for lunch with Marlene Wyndham, thanks to the documentary crew that’s following me around. They’ve gone off for their own lunch now, because Marlene doesn’t want them there for ours. You know, it’s weird having a camera watching your every move. It starts to feel like a person after a while. I keep talking to it, like it’s a friend.’
‘Which they must love. Anyway, going back to Michael Grafton, when are you likely to see him again?’
Feeling a pleasurable swell of anticipation, Susannah said, ‘Actually, not until the pre-shoot meeting which is still a couple of weeks away. Oh, that reminds me, Alan’s suggested taking us all out for a kind of good luck/send-off dinner, just before I go. Any chance you can come? Friday the 19th or Saturday the 20th?’
‘Hang on, I’m just checking my diary, and that’s looking very possible. I’ll write it in immediately, and make sure my secretary has a note of it too, so she doesn’t commit me to anything else.’
‘Great. Now, let’s get down to serious matters. How are things with Fronk?’
Patsy gave a protracted sigh. ‘Would you believe, absolute bliss?’ she replied. ‘This is because he’s been in our New York office virtually ever since we got back from Monte Carlo, because Christopher Mackey, the resident head honcho, has broken his leg, so Fronk’s taken over the helm.’
‘Oh,’ Susannah said, disappointed by the lack of development. ‘When’s he due back?’
‘This weekend, and though it pains me to say it, it actually can’t happen soon enough, because I’m in the middle of retail hell right now, and I think he might have a far better chance of getting the concept of customer service across to our uniquely French sales teams than I ever will. In fact, it was his idea to promote this “revolutionary business practice” to the top of the agenda as a way to turn our flagging retail sales around. He thinks, and I agree, that a more personal service will do wonders to help put our company into the public consciousness, here in France, where we still don’t have as high a profile as we’d like. And being polite and helpful to the customer should give us a cutting edge over our competitors, who tend to operate along the lines of “The customer is an annoying part of the transaction that must be put in its place at all times, or preferably ignored altogether, or given the wrong, or a faulty, product so you can have a good row when they try to bring it back.” Being American, Bryce Beauty Inc. takes the view that “The customer should be made to feel welcome, appreciated, right even if they’re wrong, and if they bring something back they receive a smile, an apology and are asked what can be done to rectify the problem.” You can always vent with a good slagging-off when they’ve gone.’
Laughing, Susannah said, ‘I can’t imagine the French assistants are really that bad.’
‘Believe me, anyone who shops in these overblown, overpriced excuses for department stores, of any nationality, including French, will know exactly what I mean. So it’s going to be quite a contest getting a team of Miss Congenialities installed amongst all those snooty little vendeuses, but if anyone can do it Fronk can.’
‘What a hero! So, if he’s been away all this time I guess he still hasn’t told you what happened that night.’
‘What night?’
‘The one in Monte … Oh, I get it. Total memory loss now. OK. So, would you like to bring him to my send-off?’
‘Are you crazy? No thank you. I only socialise with him when forced at work-related events. Now, I have to go in a few minutes, so tell me quickly, how are Lola and Neve?’
‘Lola’s great, apart from a bit of a dizzy spell yesterday. Luckily Alan was there helping with some form she had to fill in, so he took her to the doctor. Blood pressure, again, so they’ve upped her medication. And Neve I’ve hardly seen anything of. We manage to text one another every few hours, and pass on the stairs once in a while, so based on that I think she’s OK.’
‘Any more incidents with Alan?’
‘Not that he’s mentioned, so I’m daring to hope it’s starting to die a death. He’s getting our phones changed, by the way, so I’ll have my own number at the house. He’ll keep the old one, because some of his patients have it, then, if they ring, they can go straight through to the machine in his study without having to speak to me.’
‘OK, well don’t forget to let me have the new number, I don’t want to find myself lumped in with the saddos and psychos who ring up to chew the fat with him. Having said that, looking around this place, that’s probably exactly where I am. Send him my love, Lola and Neve too. Let’s try and speak again at the weekend.’
As she rang off Susannah barely had time to draw breath before another call came in, and seeing one of the publicist’s names appear she clicked on right away.
‘Hi, Harvey,’ she said chirpily.
‘Hi, yourself,’ he responded. ‘You’re needed at the Ladbroke studios to do an interview and photo shoot for the Mail.’
‘When?’ she asked, taking out her diary.
‘As near to now as you can make it. It’s just come up and Marlene wants you to make it a priority. You’re already booked in at the same place for the series photo shoot at three thirty, so it works perfectly. George Bremell’s going to be joining you for that, and the stylist is on her way now so she can oversee what’s happening with the Mail as well. Oh, and Lizzy’s organised some outfits for you, they’re on their way by taxi, and …’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ Susannah interrupted, ‘I thought I was re-recording the GMTV interview at five.’
‘Oh sorry, did I forget to tell you? That’s been changed. You’re doing
it live tomorrow morning now, so what went before will be scrapped, or used in some other way, I guess. This evening, you’re down to record … Let me see, is it Graham Norton, or Jonathan Ross?’
‘Oh my God,’ Susannah gulped.
‘Actually, they’re both tomorrow evening. It’s Soap TV tonight. The stylist will be there for that too, and yours truly. Where are you now?’
Susannah checked out of the window. ‘Heading down the Mall towards Trafalgar Square, so I’ll have to redirect the driver. What about lunch, or don’t I get to eat?’
‘I’ll make sure there’s something waiting when you arrive at the studios. OK, abandoning you now. Phones are going crazy. Call if you need anything,’ and he was gone.
With her head still spinning Susannah called out the new destination to the driver, then gave herself a moment to take stock of the changes Harvey had just given her. The best part of them, without a doubt, was the rescheduling of the GMTV interview. True, she was going to have a sleepless night thinking about appearing live, but at least it was giving her the opportunity to drop any mention of Alan. And while she was at it, she’d better try not to get into any kind of discussion about Michael Grafton, because Alan probably wouldn’t like that too much either.
Pats was walking back to her office from the boardroom after a particularly trying meeting with the department heads. It was close to the end of the day now, and she’d give anything to kick back and open a bottle, maybe watch a movie, or go out to a restaurant with friends. The trouble was, she still hadn’t had time to try and make any yet, apart from at the office, and that was proving about as successful as a knees-up in a nunnery. Not that she didn’t have plenty of business functions to attend, but they were always so formal and serious and full of the kind of people who seemed to draw down their shutters and put out the cat by ten, just when things should really get going. What she felt in sore need of was the kind of raucous girls’ night she used to enjoy in Sydney, where people really knew how to let their hair down, even if the boss did happen to be around.
With a sigh, she dropped an armful of ledgers and files on her desk and sank down in her sumptuous leather chair. She wasn’t sure who she was trying to kid that she fancied a night on the tiles; the truth was she could hardly keep her eyes open past ten thirty these days, she was working so hard. And she’d be here again tonight until gone nine by the look of it, answering emails, reading and writing reports and dealing with all the other urgent issues she hadn’t yet got round to today.
Clicking on to her inbox she began scanning her emails, knowing subconsciously that she was hoping to find one from Frank. It bothered her to realise how much she was missing him, though she knew the instant he walked back through the door he’d say or do something to annoy the hell out of her. Still, there was no getting away from the fact that the place had more life in it when he was around. The hours ticked by with a jaunty sort of trip and meetings ended on an up note, rather than the sober agreement to review and reconvene next week that she’d left ten minutes ago.
Though Claudia had warned her that the Europe assignment would be tough, she really hadn’t been prepared for so much resentment towards her just because she was a woman – and a foreigner and unmarried and younger than most of the senior executives to boot. It made everything so much more complicated and time-consuming and exhausting than it needed to be, which was why, for the main part, she was missing Frank. When he was around he seemed to bridge the gap between her and the others in a way that made it barely noticeable. Without him it had become so glaringly obvious that she resolved there and then to do something about bridging it herself.
Hearing the chime of a new message dropping into her mailbox, she clicked on again and felt a little smile perk the corners of her mouth when she saw it was from him.
Just to let you know that Madame la Comtesse will be taking the same flight as me to Paris on Saturday. I have arranged for us to meet with her on Tuesday morning at 10.30. If this is not suitable for you please to let me know and I will change the rendezvous.
Looking forward to seeing you.
Your Frank
With a start she wondered if there was an s missing at the end of ‘your’, and decided there must be, because he certainly wasn’t her Frank, nor did she wish him to be. In fact, as far as she was concerned he could be anybody’s, and probably was the way he fizzed about the place like a sexed-up firework.
Quickly checking her diary she made a note for her secretary to move the meeting she had scheduled for Tuesday morning, then sent an email back to Frank letting him know that the date and time worked for her, but she’d like to meet with him first on Monday to discuss the presentation.
After pressing send she returned to the rest of her emails, and once they were dealt with she called up the PowerPoint she’d begun creating for the comtesse – who was flying back to Paris with Frank. Funny, she was thinking, as she began entering some new images, how until this evening she’d assumed that Madame la Comtesse du Petits-Louvens was old and slightly frail and far too rich for her own good. Certainly that was how she looked on the official website, but the carefully coiffed wrinkly smiling back at her from the top right-hand corner was the company’s founder. There was nothing to say she was still running the show. In fact, for all Pats knew she could have croaked decades ago, and some gorgeous little Fifi from the new generation of this obviously wealthy and titled family had taken over the company’s affairs. If that were the case then it might not be as great a pleasure doing business with her after all.
Alan’s face was taut with anger as he watched Susannah coming in through the front door. She was clearly so engrossed in the conversation she was having on her mobile phone that she hadn’t even noticed he was there. Certainly she wouldn’t have been expecting him, since it was almost nine o’clock in the morning, and his car was parked further down the street thanks to someone blocking their carport last night, but he’d waited to confront her following her live interview on GMTV.
After kicking off her boots and hanging her coat, she padded towards the kitchen and came to a sudden stop when she saw him. ‘Hi,’ she said, starting to colour, ‘I thought you’d have left by now.’
‘I imagine you did,’ he replied shortly.
‘Harvey, I have to go,’ she said into the phone. ‘I’ll call you later.’ And after ringing off, ‘Is Neve still here?’
‘She’s upstairs getting ready for school. So why did you do it?’ he challenged. ‘I told you I didn’t want to be drawn into your publicity …’
‘I swear, I wouldn’t have mentioned you if she hadn’t asked, but …’
‘All you had to do was say that you wanted to keep your private life private …’
‘I would have, but when I recorded a piece with them the other day I talked about you then, how we were each other’s first love, and how we got back together through Friends Reunited. So when she brought it up this morning I had to go with it, or I’d have made her, or myself, or both of us look fools.’
‘But it’s all right for me to look one, the pathetic jerk of a lonely heart who surfs the Net looking for his old girlfriend …’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Everyone’s signing up to those sites these days, and you must have heard me say it was Neve who instigated it …’
‘For you, yes, but not for me – and it still doesn’t get us away from the fact that I made my feelings perfectly clear about being used in your publicity. I do not want to be a part of it. I’ll do my best to be supportive in every other way, but I do not want the spotlight on me, or my home, or my career.’
‘Well, that really does spell it out. Thank you. Please be assured that from now on you will remain the shadowy, reclusive figure in the background who takes himself so seriously that he can’t, even for a minute, or for someone he’s supposed to love, allow his name or face to be revealed. Christ, anyone would think you worked for MI5 the way you’re carrying on. You’re a psychologist, Alan. Plenty of people in your p
rofession have become celebrities themselves …’
‘That’s their choice. Mine is not to be dragged into a promotional circus that has absolutely nothing to do with me. If you want a clown or performing seal, you need to look elsewhere, because those particular talents are no more in my repertoire than sycophancy and star-fucking.’
Susannah’s eyes blazed. ‘Then we really do have a problem on our hands,’ she said furiously, ‘because a star is what I’m about to become, and if you can’t bring yourself to sleep with me …’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m simply saying that I don’t want to be seen as one of the halfwits basking in the glory of knowing you, the way half the nation does with celebrities.’
‘And in your opinion partners or husbands come across that way?’
‘Some, yes.’
‘You know, I might be finding it a lot easier to apologise if you were at least trying to be reasonable.’ She glanced round as Neve came down the stairs, then turned back as Alan said, ‘Being reasonable to you means seeing everything your way, while not bothering to see it mine.’
‘No. I accept that you have a right to your privacy, and from now on I will respect that right, and at the same time maybe you could try to have a little more respect for me and what I do. I know you think it’s trivial and a waste of time, but whether you detest celebrity and soap operas or not, they still have a place in our society and right now I am about to become a part of it. If you find you can’t live with that, then maybe we need to review our relationship.’
His face turned white. ‘Well maybe we do,’ he agreed, and snatching up his keys he stormed down the hall. ‘Come on,’ he said to Neve, ‘or you’re going to be late.’
As he tore open the front door Neve looked worriedly at her mother.
‘Go on,’ Susannah said, ‘I’ll be all right.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ Neve promised, coming to give her a hug. ‘And by the way, you were brilliant in the interview. I was dead proud of you.’