Rumor Has It

by Jill Mansell

  'Don't know. I'll tell you when I find out. I'm just in knots, Max. Knots.' She shook her head in desperation. 'I wake up in the morning and everything hurts. That woman stole my husband.'

  She wasn't looking so great, actually. Her face was drawn and the habitual super-polished exterior was missing. This was what jeal ousy did to you; it demolished your confidence and ate away at your appearance like a maggot invading an apple.

  Max said flatly, 'She didn't, you know. You have to believe that.'

  'But I'm never going to believe it, because I know it's not true.' Stella's jaw was rigid, her mind made up; as far as she was concerned, why else would Fergus leave her? Max knew there was no point in trying to tell her otherwise.

  'You just need to get on with your life. Living well is the best revenge.'

  'But how can I?'

  'Bloody hell, by being happy!'

  'But the only thing that could make me happy is a baby! That's all I want!'

  'So do it.'

  Stella was looking at him oddly. She poured herself another glass and jiggled her shoe.

  'What?' said Max.

  'Would you do it?'

  'What? If I was in your shoes?'

  'No. I meant would you give me a baby?'

  Oh shit. 'You don't mean that.'

  'I do! Max, don't you see? It makes perfect sense.' The way she was looking at him, she actually seemed to think it did make perfect sense. 'I like you. I always have. You like me. And you're a great dad to Louisa.'

  'Plus I'm gay,' said Max.

  'Not completely. No, don't start shaking your head! Think about it. We get on well together. I've fancied you for years. Apart from Fergus, you're the only man I could face sleeping with. We could give it a try. Who knows, you might really like it and decide not to be gay anymore.'

  'Stella, please stop this.'

  'If you were really gay, you'd have a boyfriend by now. OK,' Stella blurted out as Max rose to his feet, 'forget the relationship, we can just do the sperm thing instead. Artificial insemination, how about that? And you wouldn't have to pay child support or anything. It wouldn't cost you a penny. Don't you see, Max? If I go to a sperm bank, how do I really know what I'm getting? God, they could fob me off with any old leftover rubbish that's coming up to its sell-by date. I'd much rather have a baby and know for sure who the father is. And I'd love it to be you, I really would. You're funny and kind and better looking than bloody Fergus. Picture it, we'd have a beautiful baby…'

  Max backed away. OK, enough. Apart from anything else, he

  was picturing the baby and it was sporting spectacles, a full set of extensions, and a broad Liverpudlian accent.

  'Stella, you aren't thinking straight and you don't mean it. Believe me, you're a great girl and you'll find someone who's right for you, once you get over Fergus. But you have to promise me you'll stop hassling Erin.'

  'It makes me feel better,' said Stella.

  'Sweetheart, it's not dignified.' At that moment the cat flap rattled and Bing slinked in. Taking advantage of the cat's arrival, Max glanced at his watch and grimaced. 'Look, I'm really sorry but I have to get off now. I'm meeting a new client this afternoon and I can't keep them waiting. Promise me you won't top yourself, OK?'

  Stella, who doted on her cat, reached down and scooped Bing into her arms. 'That'd just make it easier for them, wouldn't it? Erin and Fergus.' Stroking Bing and showering kisses on his furry ears, Stella said with some of her old spirit, 'Don't worry, I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.'

  'Good girl.' Max nodded with approval.

  She smiled and shook back her hair. 'Especially when I've just had my extensions redone. Sod that; they cost me three hundred quid.'

  Chapter 25

  JAMIE MICHAELS AND HIS fiancée had just moved into a six- bed roomed, eight-bathroomed mock-Tudor mansion in a gated com munity on the outskirts of Birmingham.

  'Me mate recommended you. Cal Cavanagh, yeah? He said you was the business. And as soon as my missus found out you'd done his place, she said we had to have you too.'

  'What's good enough for the Cavanaghs is good enough for us,' giggled Tandy. 'And we've got loads of ideas. I can't wait to get started. Can I offer you a drink before we get going? We've got Cristal champagne on ice, if you want. Eighty quid a bottle!'

  Tilly kept a straight face, because Max had warned her that any sniggering would get her sacked on the spot. He'd also explained that just because young Premiership footballers had more money than sense, there was no cause to turn your nose up at their ideas. 'They pay good money for our services and it's our job to give them whatever they want. There are interior designers who try and force their version of good taste on to clients who don't share it. I usually get called in to redo the work six months down the line. People are entitled to live with an end product they bloody well like.'

  Which was fair enough. Tilly completely agreed with that. And it was just as well too. Because as they followed Jamie and Tandy over the house, they certainly had some eye-popping ideas.

  'I'm thinking of, like, tartan walls in silver and pink metallic hand-painted wallpaper for the dining room. Because when I was little, I had a Barbie with a pink and silver tartan dress.' Tandy was tiny, blonde, and doll-like herself, bubbling with enthusiasm in a minuscule white skirt and khaki top. She smelled of Chanel No.5 and fake tan, and the ring on her engagement finger was the size of a walnut. 'And you know the chandelier you put in Cal's kitchen? Well, we want one bigger than that. And could you do one of those disco floors that light up, like in Saturday Night Fever?'

  It was Tilly's job to write down each of their ideas while Max made suggestions as to how they might be adapted, explaining that if the chandelier was any bigger, Jamie would crack his head every time he walked under it, and a disco floor was a fantastic idea but how about having it in the karaoke room rather than the kitchen, because that was where more dancing might take place.

  Turquoise and pewter leopard print en-suite bathroom? Tandy crossed her fingers; she evidently had her heart set on this.

  Perfect, said Max, he knew just the suppliers. And how about Versace taps?

  After two hours, the preliminary meeting was over. Tandy threw her arms round Max and cried, 'I love your plans! This is so cool, I can't wait for everything to be done!'

  'Hang on,' said Max. 'You haven't had your estimate yet. You might go off me when you find out how much it's going to cost.'

  Jamie frowned and rubbed his hand through his spiky bleached hair. 'More than two hundred grand?'

  'No.' Max shook his head. 'There's nothing structural. I'll get home and work on the figures, but I'm thinking around one eighty.'

  'That's all? Cool. No problem.' His face cleared. 'We're doing a shoot for Hi! magazine once it's done, for two hundred. So, quids in!'

  Yeek, two hundred thousand for a photo shoot and interview.

  'It's going to be a huge party to officially celebrate our engage ment.' Having done the math, Tandy said brightly, 'We'll have twenty grand left over! How about if we get a dear little church built in the garden, for when we get married?'

  'Or,' said Max, 'why not get married somewhere really spectacu lar and have a massive hot tub installed instead.'

  'You're brilliant!' Tandy clapped her hands, then hugged Tilly. 'And so are you. You'll both have to come along to the party when everything's finished. All my girlfriends will be wanting to book you when they see what you've done to our house.'

  Then the doorbell went and Tandy disappeared upstairs for her weekly session with her nail technician. Jamie showed Max and Tilly out and they made their way across the drive, past the midnight-blue Maserati, the pillar-box-red Porsche, and the Barbie pink 4x4 with the diamanté-studded steering wheel and pink suede upholstered seats.

  'She's nineteen,' Tilly marveled. 'This is where I've been going wrong.'

  'Bag yourself a footballer. Become a WAG,' said Max.

  Except Tilly knew she didn't have it in her to become high mai
ntenance; the endless fake tans, trips to the hairdresser, and having to get her nails done would drive her nuts. 'I think I'm more of a SAG. Slobby and geriatric.'

  'Or how about a DROOP?' Ever helpful, Max grinned as he unlocked the car and said, 'Dumpy, ropey, 'orrible, ordinary, and past it? Youch.'

  'So sorry,' said Tilly. 'My foot slipped.'

  The more you didn't want to bump into someone, sod's law dictated that the more often you would. When Erin paid a visit to the chemist after work, a few days after her last run-in with Mad Stella, she spent a relaxed ten minutes trying out eye shadows and lipsticks on the back of her hands, blissfully unaware that Stella was in the shop.

  Only when she was queuing up at the counter to pay for her sultry beige lip gloss, sparkly bronze eye pencil, and oh-so-glamorous packet of panty liners did she find out. Momentarily distracted by the bottles of vitamins promising brighter eyes and clearer skin, she didn't realize the man ahead of her had finished being served. Jolted back to her senses by the woman behind the counter asking, 'Can I help you, love?' Erin opened her mouth to reply when a voice behind her rang out, 'Well, she's having an affair with my husband so she's probably here to stock up on condoms.'

  That drawling, sneering, all-too-familiar voice. Erin experienced the swoop of fear that went with it, the rush of blood to her face, and the sense of mortification that invariably—

  Actually, no, sod it, why should she be feeling all these things? Why the bloody hell should she stand here and take it? Adrenaline surged up from goodness knows where and Erin slowly turned to lock stares with Stella. Enough with the pussy-footing. She had the attention of everyone in the shop, didn't she? And Stella, with her basket containing a can of Elnett hairspray, aspirins, and a bottle of expensive conditioner so thought she had the upper hand.

  In a voice every bit as loud and clear as Stella's, Erin said sweetly, 'Condoms? Too right! It's amazing how many we get through.'

  'I can't believe I said it.' When Fergus arrived at the flat an hour later, Erin was still shaking.

  'So what happened next?'

  She shuddered at the memory. 'Stella dropped her basket on the floor—crash—and shouted, "I don't know how you can live with yourself." Then she stormed out.'

  Fergus folded her into his arms. 'Oh baby, shh. You haven't done anything wrong.'

  'Maybe not before. But I have now. I was cruel.' The front of his shirt smelled of washing powder and offices. 'It's like she's drag ging me down to her level. I thought retaliating would make me feel better, but now I just hate myself.'

  'You mustn't. God, I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have to put up with hassle like this. I'm going to ask my solicitor what we can do.'

  'Don't. No.' Shaking her head, Erin pictured more and more people getting involved, the situation spiraling out of control, each bitter exchange being quoted in court, and her own spiteful retort returning to haunt her. She couldn't live with the shame. 'Just leave it. We'll emigrate.'

  Fergus looked worried. 'Do you want to?'

  'No.' She managed a half-smile. 'I just really want it to stop.'

  Fergus kissed the top of her head. He said again, 'I'm sorry. I love you.'

  'I love you too.' Despite all the horrors, happiness still flooded through her. Giving up her relationship with Fergus simply wasn't an option; he was everything she'd ever dreamed of, from his gentle personality to his easy warmth and innate goodness. Better still, he was attractive without being physically perfect, which had evidently irritated Stella to no end but was wonderfully reassuring when you were less than svelte yourself.

  Not that she only liked him—loved him—because of that. It was just that not having to suck in your stomach and pretend you were a size twelve was a heart-warming bonus.

  'You know, we could go abroad.' As he spoke, Fergus's hand rubbed comforting circles over her back.

  'But I like living here. Honestly, I didn't mean it about moving abroad.' Gosh, he knew how to give a sensational back rub. 'And we have these things here—what are they called? Oh yes. Jobs.'

  'I was thinking of something less drastic. Look, next fortnight's chaotic at work, but I'm pretty sure I can swing a week after that. How about if I book us a holiday? Somewhere hot; my treat.'

  Erin twisted round to gaze up at him, unable to speak for a moment.

  'Well?' said Fergus. 'We deserve a break, don't we?'

  'We do.' She nodded helplessly. What had she done to deserve such a wonderful man? 'We definitely do.'

  'Could you get someone to run the shop?'

  Possibly, hopefully, maybe… maybe not… but what the hell, some offers were just too good to turn down.

  'If I can't find anyone, I'll close it for the week.' Oh God, a holiday was so what she needed right now. 'We can just relax and not worry about who's going to turn up and start causing trouble.' Kissing Fergus's lovely stubbly chin, Erin said, 'I love you. Thank you so much.'

  'Right, we're doing it. Name your destination. Marbella, Florence, Paris, Rome. You tell me where, and I'll book everything.'

  'Anywhere I like?'

  'Anywhere.'

  'I've always wanted to go to Gdansk.'

  'Really?'

  It was just another reason to love him. Erin grinned and kissed him again. 'No. But I've definitely always wanted to go to Venice.'

  Chapter 26

  IT WAS FRIDAY EVENING and Max was taking Kaye to dinner with old friends in Bristol.

  'They're celebrating their wedding anniversary,' Max explained to Tilly as he pulled on his jacket. 'We got married around the same time.'

  Kaye was busy checking her tourmaline necklace in the living room mirror. 'Only Paula was lucky. Her husband didn't turn out to be gay.'

  'Maybe not, but he's bloody boring when he starts banging on about golf. If he so much as mentions a nine iron,' said Max, 'I swear to God I'll start singing show tunes.'

  Kaye said good-humoredly, 'You hate show tunes.'

  'I know, but if it gets on Terry's nerves, I'll do it. Right there in the restaurant. Up on the table if I have to.'

  'Embarrassing Terry is what he lives for,' Kaye told Tilly. 'Right, are we setting off now? Where's Lou?'

  'Noooo! Don't go before you've seen me!' Lou, clattering down stairs, landed with a thud in the hallway. 'Right, what about this?'

  It was her third outfit change in thirty minutes, in honor of to night's school disco. Having swapped jeans and a purple T-shirt for slightly different jeans and a blue cropped top, she was now wearing a grey and white striped T-shirt, grey jeans and Converse trainers.

  Well, a Year Nine disco was an important event.

  'You look lovely, sweetheart.' Kaye looked hopeful. 'But don't you want to wear a nice dress?'

  Lou looked appalled. 'Mum, of course I don't want to wear a nice dress! And I don't want to look lovely either. I just want to look like me.'

  Max said, 'In that case, you definitely look like you. I could pick you out of a police line-up, no problem. That one there, the one with all the red hair and the big zit on her chin, that's my girl.'

  'Ha ha, Dad. I don't have any zits. But does my hair look too big?' Crossing to the mirror and grabbing handfuls of curls, Lou said worriedly, 'Should I tie it back?'

  'You look just right. Ignore him.' Kaye gave her daughter a hug and a noisy kiss. 'Have a fabulous time tonight. Be good.'

  Lou rolled her eyes. 'I'm always good.'

  'No getting bladdered,' said Max.

  'Dad, this is the Year Nine disco. It's a choice of Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, or water.'

  'And no snogging.'

  'Dad,' Lou wailed. 'Shut up.'

  'I'm your father. It's my job to say embarrassing stuff. No bad dancing either, OK? If I hear you've been doing any of that hokey pokey malarkey—'

  'OK, stop now. We don't have the hokey-pokey at our discos because we're not dinosaurs. And the only person who dances badly in this family is you.'

  'Hear, hear.' Kaye threw the car keys over to Max. 'And we're going to
be late if we don't set off now. Come on, Methuselah, let's go.'

  The timing was a minefield. Lou's disco ran from seven thirty to ten o'clock. But only tragic losers—obviously—were uncool enough to turn up at seven thirty. On the other hand, leave it too late and the evening would be over before you'd had a chance to relax and start enjoying yourself. Oh yes, making the perfect entrance at the exact right time was crucial. Following much frantic texting, the consensus among Lou's friends was that ten past eight was that optimum time.