by Jill Mansell
‘I’d love to see those photos again.’
His mouth twitched. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
Lola smiled back, realizing that he wasn’t going to tell her whether or not he still had them. That was the trouble with trying to outsmart someone smarter than yourself. On the other hand, reminding him of the existence of the photos might prompt him to dig them out and the sight of her cavorting in the sea in her pink bikini might in turn remind him of how happy they’d been, and how happy they could be again.
‘Well,’ Dougie cleared his throat. ‘I suppose we’d—’
‘Yes, better get back.’ She dived in, saying the words before he could say them himself. ‘Don’t want people starting to wonder where we’ve got to. Just one thing first.’ Her heart beating faster, Lola rested a hand on his arm. ‘Seeing as it’s New Year’s Eve and I probably won’t get the chance later, can I wish you a…’ move towards him ‘… Happy…’ slide your free arm around his neck ‘… New…’ half close your eyes, half open your mouth…
‘Year,’ said Doug, planting a brisk kiss on her cheek before stepping back.
Damn, foiled again. So near yet so far. This was a man with way too much self-control.
***
What a job. What was he doing here, freezing his nuts off outside a club, listening to everyone on the inside counting down to midnight?
Next to Gabe, Jez muttered, ‘Hey, man, Happy New Year.’
‘Yeah, you too.’ Gabe huddled further inside his fleece, his breath puffing out in front of him, his hands so cold he could barely grip the camera.
‘It’s midnight. They’re all in there, going crazy.’ Shivering, Jez jerked his head. ‘Fancy a cup of tea in that café up the road?’
Gabe nodded; this had to be the best time to get one.
Ten minutes later they made their way back to the club.
‘Bloody hell,’ cried one of the other paps, ‘you missed it! That EastEnders guy ran out; all he was wearing was his cowboy boots.’
‘You’re having us on.’ Jez paled.
‘Naked as a baby, I swear to God. And he did a handstand. Not a pretty sight.’ Chuckling, the pap showed them the shots on his camera. ‘That’s my work done for the night. Picked the wrong time to leave, you lads. Look out for these pictures in the News of the World.’ He left, crowing with delight.
Jez said with feeling, ‘I bloody hate this bloody job.’
‘Me too.’ But the annoying thing was, it had its addictive side. Balanced against the cold and the tedium and the endless hanging around was the knowledge that the next big picture might be only a click away. It was like shark fishing: one minute you were bored out of your mind, the next you were firing on all cylinders because at any second anything could happen… like this stretch limo heading down the street towards them now, slowing down. Getting his camera ready, Gabe experienced the now-familiar rush of adrenaline as a blacked-out window slid down. He moved into position alongside Jez. Because this could be anyone—Jack Nicholson dressed as a nun, Mick Jagger with Lily Allen, Simon Cowell with—
‘What the fuck?’ yelled Jez as half a dozen yellow plastic bazookas fired torrents of ice-cold water at them. Shaking his dripping hair out of his eyes, almost dropping his camera, Gabe cursed and watched the limo accelerate away. The occupants were roaring with laughter, delighted with their prank, and no one even knew who they were.
‘Happy New Year, losers,’ one of them bellowed through the window.
Gabe was soaked to the skin. Four interminable hours and he hadn’t managed so much as a single decent photo. This was possibly the very worst New Year’s Eve of his life.
Chapter 31
‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea,’ said Lola. ‘Remind me again why we’re here?’
Because I’ve got the most enormous crush on your father and I’m longing to show off in front of him, knock him dead with my dazzling footwork and spinny twirls!
Sally didn’t actually say this out loud. Turning to Lola she explained, ‘Because it’s fun and it’s something you’ve never done before. I mean, look at this place! Did you ever see anything so pretty?’
Lola followed the expansive sweep of her arm, dutifully taking in the flaming torches and architectural lighting illuminating the courtyard’s classical façades. ‘I’m going to fall over and break my ankles.’
‘You won’t. I’ll show you how to do it properly. Besides, falling over’s all part of the fun.’ Personally Sally felt her choice of Somerset House ice rink, off the Strand, had been inspired. ‘And it’s only here for a couple more weeks—ooh look, there’s Nick!’
Luckily the sub-zero temperatures meant that her cheeks were already pink. In her white fake-fur hat and matching vest, worn over a red cashmere sweater and black jeans, Sally was ready to impress the hell out of Lola’s dad. When Lola had idly wondered what father-daughter things she and Nick could do together on their road to getting to know each other, it had taken Sally… ooh, all of two seconds to think of something that could include her as well.
Even if it meant having to sacrifice Lola’s ankles to do it.
OK, that was just a joke; it wouldn’t really happen anyway. Oh God, look at Nick, he was so gorgeous, she could just—
‘Over here,’ Lola called out, windmilling both arms to attract his attention.
‘Hey, you two.’ Joining them, he gave Lola a hug and a kiss.
She beamed, clearly delighted to see him again. ‘Look at you, so brown.’
Nick, just back from ten days in St Kitts, in turn greeted Sally with a kiss on the cheek that made her quiver like a terrier on a leash. Even his polite kisses were thrilling.
Nick grinned. ‘So you’re going to be teaching us all the moves tonight?’
Was that an unintentional double entendre or was he saying it like that on purpose?
‘Absolutely. You’re both going to love this.’ Her eyes shining—just in case he was flirting with her—Sally said, ‘By the time I finish with you two tonight, you’ll be whizzing round like pros.’
‘And by this time next year we’ll be going for gold in the Olympics.’ Inspired, Lola said excitedly, ‘Can we get out onto the ice now?’
‘Lesson one.’ Sally yanked her back. ‘Always best to queue up first and hire some skates.’
Lola was a revelation on the ice, more spectacularly useless than Sally would ever have guessed. She had no sense of balance whatsoever. Clinging to the barriers and wailing, ‘This is really slippy!’ she was edging her way round the outside of the rink at the speed of a lame tortoise.
Happily this meant Sally was free to coach Nick, who might not be any great shakes on the ice, but who was fifty times better than Lola. At least he could stand up and—more or less—manage circuits, so long as Sally was there to hold on to his hands. Which was heaven, almost as good as when, upon losing his balance and wobbling crazily in the center of the rink, he had flung both arms around her waist.
Oh yes, that had definitely been a highlight, a moment to treasure. Maybe later she’d make it happen again and this time allow herself to stumble and fall on top of him in a laughter-filled tangle of arms and legs. When Lola wasn’t looking, of course.
Leaning closer and breathing into her ear, Nick protested, ‘This can’t be much fun for you.’
Was he serious? This was the most fun she’d had in years. ‘I’m fine.’ Sally experienced a frisson of excitement as his left thigh brushed against hers, then another as the right thigh followed suit.
Was that an accident?
‘No, it’s not fair.’ Nick shook his head. ‘Why don’t I have five minutes’ rest, then you can do some proper skating without having to hold me up. I’ll just watch from the side and admire the way you experts do it.’
Oh dear, nobody liked a show-off. But his eyes were glittering and she
couldn’t resist. Having guided him to the barriers then skated back to the less crowded center of the rink, Sally struck a pose then pushed off into an impromptu routine. God, skating was so brilliant, it was one of the few things she was really good at. And she was gliding across the ice now, as accomplished and elegant as a swan, with the stars twinkling overhead in an inky sky and hundreds of admiring eyes upon her… if she went into a fabulous spin or launched into a triple salchow, would everyone gasp with delight and break into a spontaneous round of applause?
OK, a triple salchow was too ambitious, but how about a double axel? Was Nick watching? Would he be suitably impressed by her technique? Yes, there he was, Lola had managed to hobble-skate over to him and they were both hanging on to the barriers, watching her. Right, here goes…
‘OW!’ bellowed Sally, crashing to the ice like a felled tree. ‘OW, OW, OW, who did that?’
Because someone had come up behind her and delivered a vicious kick to the back of her calf. Letting out a shriek of pain she clutched her left leg as melted ice soaked into her jeans. What kind of psychopath would sneak up like that and kick a complete stranger so hard? Ow, God, she couldn’t breathe, she could barely think straight, it hurt so much…
‘Are you OK?’ Nick and Lola slithered up to her, having somehow managed to weave their way through the crowds of skaters. For heaven’s sake, did she look OK?
‘Did you see who kicked me?’ Sally felt perspiration breaking out on her forehead.
‘Nobody kicked you.’
‘They did! I felt it!’
‘There was no one near you.’ Lola pulled an apologetic face. ‘If it felt like being kicked by a donkey, you’ve probably snapped an Achilles tendon.’
Damn, she was right. ‘Nooo!’ Sally sank down in despair and rested her face against the ice, because this was a nightmare. ‘I don’t want it to be my Achilles tendon!’
Lola, valiantly attempting to help her into a sitting position, promptly lost her balance and gasped, ‘Oof!’ as she tumbled back like an upturned beetle on to the ice.
***
‘What’s going on?’ Puzzled by the commotion on the stairs, Gabe emerged with dripping wet hair and a dark blue towel draped around his hips.
‘What does it look like?’ Sitting on her bottom, inelegantly hauling herself up one stair at a time, Sally was huffing and puffing and looking fraught.
‘Ice skating went well, then.’ Gabe looked at Lola and her father, who were following her up the stairs carrying a pair of crutches.
‘It’s not funny,’ Sally wailed. ‘We’ve just spent three hours in casualty. When they told me I’d torn my calf muscle I thought I’d just be limping a bit for a few days. I was actually relieved because I thought it was better than snapping an Achilles tendon, but it’s not better at all, it’s going to be a complete nightmare.’ Finally, laboriously, she reached the top step, raised both arms and demanded imperiously, ‘Don’t just stand there. Help me up.’
Gabe’s heart sank. Was his luck ever going to change? ‘Sorry, who’s going to be a complete nightmare?’
Nick, struggling to keep a straight face, said, ‘She has to rest the muscle completely, keep the leg elevated at all times. She’s going to need some serious looking after.’
Oh God.
Lola said helpfully, ‘You’ll have to lift her in and out of the bath.’
Fat chance of that.
‘No you won’t,’ Sally hurriedly chipped in before he could say anything about cranes. ‘I can still manage a shower.’
‘So long as you don’t fall over.’ Lola winked as she held open the door for Sally to go through.
Gabe winced as one of the aluminum crutches clunked against the door frame. ‘Look, wouldn’t it be easier to go and stay with your mother? Then she could look after you.’
Crash went the other crutch against the skirting board as Sally lurched inside. ‘Whoops, these are tricky things to get the hang of.’
Gabe took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, I’m going to be out working a lot of the time.’
‘But if I went to my mother’s house I’d be on my own all the time.’ Over her shoulder Sally said, ‘Because she and Philip are off on holiday tomorrow. So that wouldn’t be very good, would it?’ There was a crash as she stumbled into the coffee table, sending flying the cups and plates she hadn’t cleared away earlier. With a sigh of relief she lowered herself onto the sofa and stretched out across it, propping her leg up on a couple of cushions. ‘There, that’s better. All comfy now. Ooh, I’d love a cup of tea.’
Chapter 32
Sometimes a name simply didn’t register on your personal radar but it turned out that everyone else knew at once who it belonged to. Such was the case with EJ Mack, whom Lola had never heard of. But when his publishers had announced that he’d be available during the third week of January for signing sessions, everyone else at Kingsley’s had got as over-excited as if Al Pacino had offered to turn up.
‘But how can you know who he is?’ Bemused, Lola had studied the publisher’s press release. ‘He’s only a music producer.’
Cheryl, Tim, and Darren had exchanged despairing looks. ‘He’s huge,’ said Darren. ‘He’s worked with everyone who’s anyone.’
‘And he’s so brilliant, all his female artists get crushes on him,’ Cheryl chimed in with relish. ‘He’s very discreet but I bet he’s slept with loads of them.’
‘Fine, we’ll let him come here then.’ Still unconvinced, Lola said, ‘But it’ll still be your fault if nobody turns up.’
It was always embarrassing when that happened. Watching the poor authors’ faces fall as they sat there behind their teetering piles of books, gradually realizing that not one single person was going to come along and buy one. Their smiles faltered; sometimes they pretended they’d never wanted to sell any copies of their book anyway. Other times they feigned illness and escaped early. On one memorable occasion an author had reacted particularly badly, launching into a major temper tantrum and flinging his greatest rival’s books all across the shop.
Anyhow, it didn’t seem as if this was a problem they were likely to encounter tonight with EJ Mack. Loads of customers had been thrilled to discover he was coming to Kingsley’s. As Lola unloaded boxes of his books and arranged them in spiral towers around the signing table, people were already starting to gather in the shop. Too cool to form an orderly queue but not cool enough to turn up at seven thirty, which was when EJ Mack was scheduled to arrive.
And he wasn’t even good-looking, according to Cheryl. Turning over one of the hardbacks, Lola scrutinized the arty, grainy black and white portrait that gave away hardly anything at all. The face was averted from the camera and further obscured by the brim of some weird trilby-style hat.
Oh well, he’d be here soon. Hopefully to sign two hundred copies of his book in double-quick time so they could all be home by nine thirty. OK, maybe not home by nine thirty on a Friday night if you were a super-successful uber-cool cutting-edge music producer, but definitely if you were a knackered bookshop manager with a drastically empty stomach and hot achy feet.
‘He’s here!’ squealed Cheryl twenty minutes later.
Lola scanned the crowded shop, absolutely none the wiser. ‘Where?’
‘That’s him, the one in the blue anorak.’
Oh good grief, how could anyone be cutting-edge in a turquoise anorak?
Then her gaze stuttered to a halt and her eyes locked with those of EJ Mack.
‘God, man, this is wicked,’ gushed Darren, appearing out of nowhere. ‘Look at him, he’s so brilliant.’
Tim, next to him, breathed enviously, ‘And he’s slept with some of the most beautiful women on the planet.’
Lola opened her mouth but no sound came out. Flanked by his publisher’s balding rep and blonde PR girl, EJ Mack approached them.
Lola tried her best to come up with an answer. Tim, keen to bridge a potentially awkward silence, leapt in with, ‘Hi, I’m Tim! She doesn’t have a partner.’
‘God, sorry. You mean you broke up? What’s going to happen with the baby?’
Funny how someone could look like a geeky speccy accountant-type one minute and not quite so geeky and accountanty the next, even if he was still wearing spectacles and that bizarre anorak. Although now that she knew who he was, Lola could see that the silver-rimmed rectangular spectacles were probably trendy in an ironic postmodern kind of way.
‘It’s all going to be fine,’ she told EJ Mack.
‘Baby?’ Cheryl stared in disbelief at Lola’s stomach. ‘What baby?’
EJ Mack gave her a speculative look.
‘Right,’ Lola said hurriedly. ‘Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? Can I take your coat? And welcome to Kingsley’s! You’ve got lots of fans queuing up to meet you! And can I just say how much I enjoyed your book…’
‘That’s very kind.’ EJ Mack slowly removed his anorak and passed it over to her. ‘Which chapter did you like best?’
‘Oh, um… all of them.’
‘So that means you haven’t read it.’
‘Sorry, no, but I definitely will.’ Lola blinked as someone took a photograph. ‘Can I get you a drink? Coffee, water, anything else?’
‘Did my publisher not send you my list of needs? Bourbon biscuits,’ EJ Mack said gravely. ‘Peeled grapes. And a bottle of Jack Daniels.’
Cheryl was still frowning. ‘What baby?’
***
The signing session had been a great success. In the music world EJ was a 31-year-old legend and devotees of his work were thrilled to have this chance to meet him. EJ in turn didn’t disappoint them; he was charming, witty and interested in talking about music. He had worked with everyone who was anyone and plenty of tonight’s book-buyers were keen for him to work with them too. By the time they’d finished, EJ had been saddled with a stack of CDs pressed upon him by starry-eyed wannabes.