by Jill Mansell
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Gabe yelled above the noise of the wind, advancing towards her. ‘I just wanted to…’
The words faded in his throat and he stopped dead, gazing in disbelief as the furiously waving branches clawed at her hair and, having yanked it free, waved it like an ecstatic contestant on Supermarket Sweep. Savannah Hudson let out a whimper of anguish and dropped the shopping as she attempted to shield her exposed head—click—from Gabe. Letting go of the dog’s lead, she used her other hand to grasp helplessly—click click—at the blond wig caught up on the spiky branches.
Jesus Christ, she was as bald as an egg. This was a major scoop, bigger even than his petrol station exposé of Tom Dutton and Jessica Lee. Appalled, Gabe hastily sidestepped as the dog raced up to him barking furiously.
‘Sshh, it’s OK, don’t do that.’ Reaching down, he grabbed the dog’s lead before a car could come along and mow it down. Together they made their way over to the verge where Savannah Hudson was still battling to free the wig. It was a hawthorn hedge and the spikes were needle-sharp. Tears swam in her eyes and she ducked her face away at Gabe’s approach, flinching as a thorn scratched her wrist.
‘Here, let me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll do it,’ said Gabe. ‘You just hold the lead.’
‘Please,’ her voice broke, ‘just leave me alone. Bunty, shh.’
Bunty, what a name for the world’s yappiest terrier. The yaps were actually making his ears hurt. Ignoring the scratches his hands were amassing, Gabe grimly disentangled strands of hair from the vicious branches and finally managed to liberate the blond wig, although it did look as if it had just been dragged through a… no, no, definitely not the moment to make a joke.
‘Thank you.’ Tears slid down Savannah Hudson’s white face; angrily she dashed them away.
‘Sorry,’ Gabe said again as she crammed the wig onto her head, covering her naked scalp and pulling up the hood of her jacket for good measure. He retrieved the dropped carrier of shopping from a clump of dead stinging nettles in the ditch and handed that back too.
‘Sorry? Really? I doubt that.’ Savannah’s lip curled with derision. ‘I should imagine you’re jumping for joy. You’ve got just what you wanted, haven’t you?’ She indicated the camera around his neck and said sarcastically, ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself.’
Gabe reached for the camera; earlier, Pavlovian instinct had taken over and he’d barely been aware of taking the photos. But—he checked—yes, there they were, clear as day on the screen, ready to reveal Savannah Hudson’s secret to the world.
She’d now turned and was already hurrying on up the lane with her shopping and her ridiculous yippy-yappy dog.
‘Wait,’ Gabe called out. He caught up within thirty seconds and put a hand on her arm to slow her down.
‘Please, just leave me alone.’ Snatching her arm away Savannah said evenly, ‘And don’t touch me either or I’ll have you for assault.’
‘OK, OK, just stop for a moment and watch me.’ Closing his mind to what he was about to do, Gabe waited until he had her attention. His hands trembled as he showed her the photos on the camera screen. ‘OK, see the delete button? You press it.’
If he’d expected Savannah Hudson’s rosebud mouth to fall open, for her to turn to him in wonder and whisper, ‘Seriously? Do you mean it? Are you really sure?’ he’d have been disappointed. In a nanosecond her index finger had shot out, pressing the button and deleting the images forever.
Dink, dink, gone. Just like that. And if Gabe had been expecting her to fling herself at him in gratitude crying, ‘Oh God, my hero, thank you, thank you,’ well, he’d have been sorely disappointed there too. Instead she turned away, muttering, ‘And don’t tell anyone either.’
He watched Savannah Hudson trudge up the hill with Bunty still yapping at her side. Then they rounded the bend and disappeared from view. A smattering of icy rain hit Gabe in the face and he shivered at the realization of what he’d just done.
Damn right he wouldn’t be telling anyone. If he did, they’d only call him a prat.
Chapter 35
In retrospect, Lola was able to acknowledge that she’d made a big mistake in confiding to the others at work—OK, boasting to the others at work—about having been asked out—OK, practically asked out—by EJ Mack. Now, at least half a dozen times a day someone would clutch their chest and exclaim, ‘Oh my God, here he is! Lola, EJ’s here to beg you to go out with him… quick, look, he’s crawling on his knees through the shop… he’s saying, “Pleeeease, Lola, pleeeeease will you go out with me?”… Oh look, and now he’s crying, there are tears dripping all over his lovely blue anorak.’
Which might have been mildly amusing the first couple of times but was altogether less hilarious now.
Anyway, concentrate on the books that needed to be ordered. In the back office, huffing her hair out of her eyes, Lola returned her attention to the computer screen and double-checked a list of ISBNs.
Across the desk, after hastily swallowing the last mouthful of her lunchtime prawn sandwich, Cheryl picked up the ringing phone.
Seconds later, windmilling her free arm in front of Lola, she squealed, ‘It’s for you! You’ll never guess… it’s him!’
‘Who?’ Lola couldn’t help herself; her ever-hopeful heart leapt at the idea that it might be Doug.
‘EJ Mack!’
God, weren’t they sick to death of playing that game yet? Cross with herself for even thinking it could have been Dougie, Lola said, ‘Well, tell him sorry, but I don’t want to speak to someone who has the nerve to go out in public wearing a turquoise anorak. Tell him to bugger off and pester Madonna instead.’
Hastily covering the receiver, Cheryl hissed, ‘You berk, I’m serious. It really is him.’
‘She’s right,’ EJ confirmed when Lola took the phone. ‘It really is.’
‘Oops. Hello.’
‘And I’ll have you know, the anorak is Jean Paul Gaultier.’
‘OK,’ said Lola. ‘Sorry. I’m nothing but a fashion heathen.’
‘The trouble is, you think I dress like a trainspotter because I can’t help myself. Whereas in fact I choose to dress like a trainspotter because I am a leading proponent of cutting-edge, postmodern, pseudo-supergeek fashion, as featured by Jean Paul in his last Paris collection.’
Shit. ‘Right. Sorry again.’
Gravely, EJ said, ‘That’s perfectly all right. You can’t help being a heathen. How are your feet now?’
‘What’s he saying?’ mouthed Cheryl frantically, her eyes like saucers.
‘They’re… much better.’ Lola ignored her.
‘And you’re not feeling too shattered?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘So if I were to ask you if you’d like to meet me tonight, do you think you might say yes?’
Yeek! Cautiously—because he’d caught her out last time—Lola ventured, ‘I might.’
‘Shall we do that, then?’
It was like, Are you dancing? Are you asking?
‘If you want to,’ said Lola.
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Do you really want to see me?’
‘Sorry, I’m playing it cool. Deep down I’d really like to see you.’
‘Progress at last. Do you play pool?’
‘Er… crikey, not very well.’
‘Great, more chance of me winning. Can I ask you something else?’
‘Fire away.’
‘If I looked like me and dressed like me but my job was collecting trolleys in a supermarket, would you still be agreeing to see me?’
Lola thought about it. Finally she said, ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
He laughed. ‘Good for you. A bit of old-fashioned honesty does it for me every time. When shall I pick you up?’
‘Um,
eightish?’ How long did it take to play a game of pool? ‘I live at—’
‘Don’t worry,’ EJ cut in, sounding amused. ‘I know where you live.’
When Lola had put the phone down, Cheryl let out a parrot-like shriek of excitement. ‘He actually rang! You’re going out on a date with EJ Mack! What was it he asked you when you said no you wouldn’t?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’ Lola shrugged and studied the computer screen. ‘He just wanted to know if I’d sleep with him while he was wearing his geeky anorak.’
***
‘My leg looks as if it’s gone fifty rounds with Mike Tyson,’ Sally complained. ‘The sight of it’s starting to make me feel sick.’
She had a point. In the ten days that had passed since the accident, her leg from the knee down had morphed into something grotesquely discolored—it was literally black and blue—and so swollen it looked ready to burst. Lola, feeling faintly queasy herself, finished gingerly unstrapping the bright blue gel pack from Sally’s overheated calf and said as the doorbell rang, ‘It’s defrosted, I’ll get the other one out of the freezer. Who’s that?’
‘Oh,’ Sally looked at her watch, ‘is it seven already? Mum and Philip said they’d pop over. Could you buzz them in?’
Adele, super-svelte in a pale grey wool suit and a cloud of Arpège, acknowledged Lola with the kind of distant smile one might bestow on a friend’s uninteresting five-year-old grandchild. Crossing to the sofa, she gave Sally a kiss and said, ‘Darling, how horrendous! Did you get our card?’
‘Hello there, Lola.’ Philip, far more friendly, nodded at the defrosted gel pack in her hand. ‘Got you working overtime, has she?’
Lola grinned. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll get a shock when she sees the bill.’ Oops, possibly not the most diplomatic thing to say, given the circumstances.
‘Hmm.’ Her tone dry, Adele addressed her daughter. ‘Well, just don’t let her haggle the price up. Anyway, darling, now that we’re back we can have you at home with us.’
‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m fine here. Everyone’s been great, Lola and Gabe are looking after me really well. And Doug and Isabel have been helping out too.’
Adele beamed and said serenely, ‘Oh, isn’t Isabel an absolute angel? I’m so glad Doug’s found someone wonderful at last! We couldn’t be happier for him, could we, Philip?’
For a split second Philip and Lola exchanged glances. Lola struggled to keep a straight face because Adele was definitely doing it on purpose. Philip cleared his throat. ‘Whatever makes Doug happy, dear. That’s good enough for me.’
‘And she’s from such a good family,’ Adele exclaimed. ‘Her father’s a cardiac surgeon, you know.’
Wouldn’t it be nice, thought Lola, if he could whip out the old, mean, unforgiving heart in Adele’s chest and replace it with a lovely warm new one?
But no matter how much she knew Doug’s mother wasn’t going to change her mind about her, a small, ever-hopeful part of Lola couldn’t bear to give up trying. Returning from the kitchen with the frozen gel pack for Sally’s leg, she said, ‘I like your necklace, Mrs Nicholson. It’s beautiful.’
‘Why thank you.’ Delighted with the compliment, Adele reached up and stroked the silver and onyx necklace. ‘It was a present from Isabel. She has the most exquisite taste.’
***
The Groucho Club, that was where they’d be playing pool. Lola had now read EJ’s book—not an autobiography as such, but the story of his experiences in the music industry—and there had been a couple of mentions of playing pool at the Groucho, where he was a member, so she was pretty sure this was where he’d be taking her. Which was unimaginably exciting because everyone knew the Groucho was stuffed with celebs. Imagine being able to boast to everyone at work that you’d spent last night shooting pool with Damien Hirst and Will Self and… ooh, Madonna and Guy, Stephen Fry, the boys from Blur… and she’d be witty and wonderful and make them all love her, then—ooh, doorbell.
The car was, frankly, a bit of a disappointment.
‘Is this yours?’ Lola hesitated as EJ opened the passenger door for her.
‘Yes, that’s why we’re driving off in it. Otherwise it would be called stealing.’
Oh well, maybe the car only looked like a grubby cherry-red Fiesta. Maybe it was actually a gleaming scarlet Ferrari Marinello in disguise.
‘Where are we going?’ Please say the Groucho, please say the Groucho, please don’t say some grotty dive in the backstreets of Bermondsey.
EJ’s mouth was twitching; had he read her mind? ‘Wait and see.’
***
‘Well?’ said EJ forty minutes later. ‘What d’you think?’
‘I think blimey.’ The house was lit up from the outside like Buckingham Palace. In fact, it looked a bit like Buckingham Palace. They were in Hertfordshire, out in the depths of the countryside but only a few miles from Hemel Hempstead.
‘I think blimey too,’ EJ said cheerfully, ‘every time I see it. I grew up in a council flat in Chingford. Now I live here. Pretty cool, eh?’
So this was what he spent his money on. ‘Better not let the Beckhams see this place,’ said Lola. ‘They’ll be jealous.’
‘Come on, we’ve got a pool match to play.’
Security lights zapped on as they crunched across the gravel. In the distance a couple of dogs began to bark. The front door, black and solid, looked as if it would keep out an army of marauders.
‘Did your anorak really come from Jean Paul Gaultier?’ Lola eyed its nylon sheen.
EJ grinned. ‘Nah, Millets.’
As evenings went, it was an experience. The house was vast and Lola got the full guided tour. EJ beat her at pool on the purple baize-covered table and she managed to shoot the yellow ball clear across the room, narrowly missing a mullioned window. There were nine bedrooms, each one with an en-suite. He showed her his offices and recording studio, and the gold and platinum discs lining the bottle-green walls. There was also a home cinema complete with plush plum-velvet seats, a fully equipped gym, a stadium-sized living room, and a kitchen bigger than Belgium.
‘Are you hungry?’ said EJ, reaching for his phone. ‘I can give Myra a call and she’ll make us something.’
Myra was the cook/housekeeper who lived with her husband Ted the handyman/gardener in a cottage in the grounds.
‘I’m starving. No, don’t drag her over here.’ Having nosily inspected the fridge, so packed with food it resembled a Tesco Metro, Lola stopped him dialing the number. ‘I’ll do us both a frittata.’
***
At one o’clock in the morning EJ drove Lola back to Notting Hill and said, ‘Thanks, I really enjoyed this evening.’
‘Me too.’ In the dim orange light from the street lamps overhead, Lola could see the lines and shaded angles of his thin, clever face. He still wasn’t conventionally good-looking, but it was definitely the kind of face that the longer you studied it, the better it got.
‘Want to do it again?’
‘Maybe.’ She paused. ‘If you do.’
His cheekbones grew more pronounced. ‘Hedging your bets.’
‘I didn’t know if it was a trick question. What if I said ooh, yes please, and you said oh well then, good luck with finding someone to do it with.’
‘Hey.’ Taking her hand, EJ said, ‘I like you. And I’d like to see you again. I’m off to New York tomorrow, but can I give you a ring next week when I get back?’
‘Fine.’ Lola liked him too; he had a dry sense of humor and was good company. Plus he’d eaten all his frittata despite her having accidentally tipped in far too much chili powder, causing it to be mouth-explodingly hot.
‘At this point, as a general rule, I’d give you a goodnight kiss.’ EJ paused. ‘But we’re being watched.’
Gosh, he was observant. Peering up, Lola saw h
e was right; the lights were off but there was a face pressed avidly to the window.
‘It’s my pregnant lesbian lover.’ Evidently Sally’s bad leg wouldn’t allow her to get up to make a cup of tea, but hobbling over to the window to spy on other people’s nocturnal goings-on was another matter.
‘Being nosy.’ Waving up at Sally, EJ said, ‘On the bright side, at least with her gammy leg she can’t dance.’
Sally waved back. Seconds later, Lola’s phone began to ring.
‘Is he nice?’ Sally demanded. ‘Have you had a good time? Where did he take you? You can bring him up for a coffee if you like. Are you going to have sex with him? And why’s he driving such a god-awful car?’
‘I’m very nice.’ EJ, who’d grabbed the phone, said, ‘And yes, we had a great time thanks. We played pool at my place. I won. And my car isn’t awful, it’s reliable and doesn’t get vandalized in town like the Lamborghini.’
‘Sorry,’ giggled Sally. ‘Are you coming up for coffee?’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid. Early flight to catch.’
‘How about sex?’
‘Thanks, generous of you to offer, but aren’t you supposed to be giving that leg of yours a rest?’
‘OK, stop that.’ Lola seized control of the phone.
‘I like him,’ Sally said delightedly. ‘You should definitely sleep with him.’
‘He can still hear you,’ said Lola. ‘I’m going to hang up now.’ Before Sally could ask if she had any idea how big EJ’s willy was.
‘Tell her to move away from the window,’ EJ added.
Into the phone Lola duly repeated, ‘Move away from the window.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to kiss Lola and I can’t do it if you’re watching. I’m very shy.’
Chapter 36
Coming to Malcolm’s house to celebrate his birthday hadn’t been Lola’s idea of a fun-packed way to spend a Saturday afternoon but it was part of the deal. Blythe had finally, reluctantly agreed to meet Nick again—and this time be civil to him—on condition that Lola first returned the compliment and met Malcolm’s family and friends.