Rumor Has It

by Jill Mansell

  Kaye, who hadn't been asleep, opened her eyes. Knowing her luck, she was in John o'Groats. But no, peering out of the taxi she saw that the sat nav had worked its magic and brought her home.

  Well, not home home. But it had been until three years ago. And she knew she was welcome, which meant a lot. Actually, it meant everything in the world just now. To be with people who believed her, to be back with her family…

  OK, don't cry, just pay the taxi driver and get your cases out of the trunk.

  Not trunk. Boot. You're back in England now.

  Within ten seconds of ringing the doorbell, she began to regret sending the driver away. How stupid not to have checked first that someone was at home. Having assumed that the cars were parked in the double garage, she now realized they more than likely weren't. This was what jetlag and chronic lack of sleep did for you; it scram bled your brain. Bending down, she pushed open the letterbox and yelled, 'Max? Lou? Anybody there?'

  Her hopes soared as a door creaked inside the house, followed by the sound of someone approaching at a fast pace—

  'Woof!' Betty let out a volley of barks, bouncing up at the let terbox on the other side of the front door.

  'Betty!' Kaye dropped to her knees and felt her eyes fill with tears. 'Betsy-Boo, it's me! Oh sweetheart, hello!'

  Every time Betty bounced off the floor, Kaye was able to catch a glimpse of her for a split second. It didn't seem to occur to Betty that if she moved back from the door they'd be able to gaze at each other uninterrupted. Then again, she'd never been the brightest of dogs, certainly not the practical kind like Lassie who might, with some encouragement and a bit of nifty paw work, be persuaded to somehow unlock the door from the inside.

  'Woof! Woof!'

  'Oh Betty, it's so lovely to see you again. I've missed you so much.' Stuffing her fingers through the letterbox, Kaye felt them being licked by the little dog's dear familiar tongue and almost burst into noisy sobs. Then she accidentally let go of the spring-loaded letterbox with her other hand and gave a yelp of pain instead. This was ridiculous; why on earth hadn't she hung on to her front door key as Max had sug gested? But no, at the time she hadn't felt comfortable about keeping a key to her ex-husband's home and had insisted on giving it back.

  She shivered; even more ridiculously, she'd forgotten just how cold it could still be in March, so-called spring, in this country. OK, what to do next? Phone Max, obviously. She sat down on the mat—less uncomfortable than the stone step but only just—and unearthed her mobile and called his number.

  Switched off. So typical of Max. Where was he?

  Next she tried Lou's phone. Oh yes, and this time it was ringing, thank God.

  Shit, she could hear it chirruping away from the other end too. Opening the letterbox again, Kaye's heart sank as she recognized the jaunty ringtone. Lou might not be at home but her phone was.

  Which wasn't the most useful place for it, given the fact that her bum was going numb, her fingers were freezing and her nose was starting to run.

  Kaye McKenna, infamous Hollywood actress, unwitting star of the Jay Leno show, crouching on a darkened doorstep with a runny nose. Couldn't get more glamorous than that.

  OK, how about if she went round to the back of the house, smashed open a small window and climbed in? But Max would have set the burglar alarm before going out and she wasn't sure she could remember the code. Plus, it had probably been changed by now. Setting off the alarm and getting arrested for breaking and entering would just about put the tin lid on it.

  So much for a happy homecoming.

  Right, think. What other choice did she have? Stay here and hope someone came home before she died of hypothermia. Or leave her cases here and walk into Roxborough.

  Oh well; there was bound to be someone she knew in the pub.

  How had it come to this? Tilly marveled at the difference a dropped pashmina could make. It was nine thirty, they'd eaten the meal Jack had cooked, and now here she was, sitting on the sofa gazing at a photo of Rose Symonds.

  And she hadn't had to creep around the house or rummage fur tively through drawers in order to get her hands on it. This time Jack had said, 'Still curious to know what Rose looked like?'

  Just like that. And when she'd nodded, he'd said with amuse ment, 'You could have asked Max. He's got photos. Didn't you think of that?'

  Honestly, did he think she was completely clueless?

  'Thought of it. Decided not to do it.' Because Max wouldn't have been able to resist telling you if I had.

  Jack had left the living room at that point, returning a couple of minutes later with the photograph.

  Now he resumed his seat on the sofa, watching her. 'I have to say, I don't usually do this. I just keep thinking that if you two had ever met, you'd have really liked each other. You would've got on together really well.'

  Tilly carried on taking in every last detail; Max hadn't been exaggerating when he'd talked about Rose. She'd had conker-brown eyes and long, fantastically glossy dark hair. In the photo, she was wearing a Comic Relief T-shirt, muddy jeans, and wellies, and big silver hoops in her ears. She was standing in the middle of what looked like a building site, laughing into the camera. Love radiated from her eyes. Tilly knew without having to ask that the person taking the photo had been Jack.

  'I think we'd have got on well together too. She looks… fun.'

  'She was.' Jack nodded, his expression controlled. Giving nothing away.

  'And you took her to all the best places.' Tilly indicated the building site.

  'That was here. In the back garden while the extension was being built.'

  All those months of work to put together the house of their dreams. Then the dream had been shattered. Tilly wondered how you ever got over something like that. Perhaps by sleeping with hundreds of women and making a point of not getting emotionally involved with any of them.

  But did it work? Was that getting over it or getting through it? And was Jack still going to be doing the same thing when he was sixty?

  'Thanks.' She handed the photo back. 'She was beautiful.'

  'I know.' Jack glanced at it again, smiled briefly. 'She's laugh ing there because her grandmother's just come out carrying a tray of mugs. We'd asked for coffee, no sugar. We got tea, six sugars. With grapes floating on top.' He paused. 'Does that sound cruel? We weren't laughing at her, just making the best of a situation that had its funny side. Rose loved her to bits. We both did.'

  'Was she still alive when… the accident happened?' For some reason Tilly had thought Rose's granny-with-Alzheimer's had died many years ago.

  'Oh yes.' Jack exhaled slowly. 'At the funeral she kept asking who'd died. Then every ten minutes during the service she'd look round the church and say, "Where's Rose, then? Why isn't she here yet? Honestly, that girl would be late for her own funeral." Which I have to say was less funny. And every time someone told her who'd died, it was as if she was hearing it for the first time. Which was pretty hard to bear.' He stopped, shook his head. 'I can't believe I'm telling you all this. I don't usually.'

  If he hadn't just relayed such a heartbreaking story, Tilly might have been tempted to retort that it was probably because he was usually far too busy doing other things.

  But she obviously couldn't say that now. In fact, seeing as there was a lump in her throat the size of a tennis ball, she wasn't sure she was up to saying anything much at all.

  'Actually, that's not true,' Jack amended. 'I think I do know why.' Another pause, then he shook his head. 'Shall we change the subject?'

  Tilly nodded, still not trusting herself to speak. All of a sudden, like some kind of weird but unstoppable chemical reaction, her whole body was reacting to his. There was his leg and here was hers, right next to it. Could Jack feel what was happening, could he tell that every nerve ending in her body was jangling and buzzing with an urgency completely beyond her control? She wanted to touch him, hold him, lessen the terrible pain and make him feel better… Oh God, this must be the infamo
us tragic-widower effect, the lethally effective means by which Jack persuaded women to abandon their principles, their free will, their dignity…

  'Go on then.' He looked at her. 'You choose.'

  As he said it, his hand momentarily brushed against hers and Tilly felt the spark of emotional static arc between them. She heard her own breathing quicken. 'Choose what?'

  'We're changing the subject. To something happier.'

  Happier, happier. She swallowed with difficulty. 'How about handbags?'

  'That's cheating.' Jack slowly shook his head.

  'Cricket?'

  'Fine, let's talk about cricket.'

  'I hate cricket.' Was it her imagination or was he moving closer?

  'We could discuss Italy.' OK, his mouth definitely wasn't as far away as it had been twenty seconds ago. 'Ever been to Italy?'

  'No.'

  'Oh dear. We're running out of things to talk about.' He waited. 'If I told you that I like you, would you think I was spinning you a line?'

  Tilly managed a nod.

  'Well, I'm not. It's the truth. I really do like you. A lot,' said Jack. 'In fact, it almost scares me. I'm not sure I want it to be happening.'

  Was this how he did it? Was this the well-spun line? It probably was. She imagined him trotting it out over and over again to an endless parade of gullible females, each of them falling for it and believing they were the one person capable of making that difference and unthawing the tragic widower's frozen heart…

  Oh God, but what if it wasn't a line? What if this was the one time he actually meant it?

  'And in case you were wondering,' Jack's voice was low, 'it almost killed me, keeping my promise last night.'

  Had it? Really? He looked as if he was telling the truth. He sounded believable. And he had the most incredible mouth she'd ever seen. Breathlessly, Tilly said, 'I thought you weren't bothered.'

  He half smiled with his incredible mouth. 'Oh, I was bothered all right.'

  Tilly's stomach was by this time awash with butterflies. 'I wish you didn't have such a reputation.'

  'I know. Me too. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done.'

  'Like that girl Amy, from the Fox last week. As far as you're concerned, she meant nothing. But you still slept with her. She was boasting about it,' said Tilly. 'She was so thrilled and besotted, because she didn't realize it was just a meaningless one-night stand, and that's so sad. You're just making her look stupid.'

  Jack surveyed her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he said evenly, 'I don't want to talk about Amy. I never discuss my relationships. Everyone knows that.'

  'So is that part of the attraction? They know they can trust you to be discreet?'

  A glimmer of amusement. 'I'm sure it helps.'

  He was right, of course. Tilly had never forgotten the desper ate humiliation of going back to school after breaking up with Ben Thomas, only to discover he had broadcast intimate details of their relationship to everyone they knew. But instead of telling them what a great kisser she was—like he'd told her a million times while they'd been seeing each other—he'd delighted in spreading the news that she stuffed tissues in her bra to pad it out and had once laughed so hard at a video of Mr Bean that she'd accidentally wet herself.

  Only a tiny bit, but Ben hadn't said that, had he? To hear him crowing about it, you'd think it had been a bucketful. The jokes she'd had to endure had kept everyone else in Year Twelve entertained for months.

  So yes, the prospect of a relationship with someone who knew the meaning of discretion definitely had its upside.

  'What are you thinking?' The little finger of Jack's left hand brushed against her wrist as he spoke, reminding her that he was still there.

  As if she could forget. Tilly's mouth was dry.

  What am I thinking? That I could sleep with you and no one would ever know. We could go upstairs and have sex right now and it would stay our secret. All I have to do is be home before midnight, when Max and Lou are due back from Stratford. As far as they're concerned, I'll have spent the evening watching DVDs with Betty, because that's the great thing about dogs: they can't raise an eyebrow and coolly announce—à la Hercule Poirot—that actually, Tilly Trollop, that's not quite true, is it, because you were—

  Dddddrrrrinnnngggg.

  Chapter 21

  DOORBELL. Bugger.

  Back to earth with a bump.

  'Who's that?' Apart from the most inconsiderate caller of all time, obviously.

  Jack shrugged. 'Never did get round to having those CCTV cameras installed.' But he wasn't looking too thrilled. Nor was he moving from the sofa.

  'Shouldn't you find out?'

  'They might go away.'

  It was probably one of his many women, someone who might not take kindly to being turned away on the doorstep, who might even insist on being invited into the house. Maybe Jack's way was best.

  Dddddrrrinnggggg, the bell went again, followed by the sound of the letterbox being pushed open. Tilly held her breath. Perhaps they were posting a note to say they'd been round and could Jack give them a call later when he—

  'Jaaa-aaack! Are you there?'

  A female voice, surprise surprise. Tilly looked at Jack, who was frowning.

  'Who's that?'

  'Jack, it's meee! Please open the door, I'm desperate.'

  Tuh, and not ashamed to admit it.

  'Looks like you're going to have to let her in.' Unfolding herself

  from the sofa, Tilly said, 'If it's someone with a jealous streak, maybe I'll leave by the back door.'

  But Jack was already on his feet, his face clearing. 'It's OK, I know who it is. My God, I don't believe it…'

  He hurried out to the hall, leaving Tilly hovering in the living room like a spare part. The next moment she heard the front door open and mutual exclamations of delight, followed by footsteps hurrying across the parquet flooring, then another door being opened and shut.

  Jack returned to the living room, shaking his head and smiling. 'She was desperate for the loo.'

  Ha, that old excuse. 'Is it Amy?' It hadn't sounded like Amy.

  'You'll see. She'll be through in a minute.'

  They heard the flush of a toilet, then the sound of water running in the cloakroom sink. Finally the door opened.

  'Thank goodness you were in,' the female voice called out. 'I was going to use the loo in the Fox but it's Declan's night off. I didn't know a soul in there and a group of teenagers recognized me and started making smart remarks so I got out fast. And then of course it just got worse; I was ten times more desperate. If you hadn't answered the door, I'd have had to wee in your back garden—oh, hello!'

  Having finished drying her hands, the mystery visitor material ized at last in the living room. Tilly's mouth dropped open as she realized who it was.

  'Oops, am I interrupting something?' Kaye pulled a face. 'Sorry, have I just barged in at completely the wrong moment?'

  Yes, yes, yes.

  'Not at all. Kaye, meet Tilly Cole.' Easily, Jack effected the in troductions. 'Tilly, this is Lou's mum, Kaye.'

  'Tilly!' Kaye's eyes lit up. 'How lovely to meet you.' She crossed the room, greeted her with a hug and a kiss. 'Although it would have been lovelier if you'd been at home when the taxi dropped me off! No one there but Betty. I've had to walk all the way from Beech House.'

  'Max and Lou have gone to Stratford,' said Tilly. So much for no one ever knowing she'd spent the evening here with Jack.

  'The RSC!' Kaye smacked the side of her head. 'Lou told me. I didn't realize it was tonight. My memory's gone completely to pot since I became public enemy number one in the States. Oh God, here I go again.' Abruptly her sapphire blue eyes filled with tears and she flapped her hands by way of apology. 'Sorry, sorry, it's been a hell of a week. I just had to get away…'

  'Hey, sshh, don't cry.' Jack was there in a flash, folding Kaye into his arms and rubbing her back comfortingly.

  'Oh God, and I haven't even got a
tissue.' Sniffing, Kaye wiped her eyes. 'Everything's just been building up and up.'

  Over her head, Jack said, 'There's a box of Kleenex in the kitchen.'

  Tilly obediently found them then paused in the doorway on the way back, pierced with envy as she watched Kaye and Jack standing together in the middle of the living room. Which was ridiculous and shameful, because Kaye had been through a horrible time, but the sight of her rocking in Jack's embrace while he murmured words of consola tion and kissed the top of her head… well, it did look heavenly.

  'Tissues,' she said lamely, and Kaye turned, grateful and pink-eyed.