by Jill Mansell
Ten! No, twelve! No, six hundred and ninety-eight! Whoops, better not say that. Mentally reminding herself that she was several glasses of wine beyond sober, Sally gave the matter serious consideration and said carefully, ‘Well, he does have his own hair and teeth, so I would say… sevenish. And nice clothes… OK, maybe seven and a half.’
‘Exactly.’ Lola thumped the dining table in agreement. ‘That’s what I think too. And for an older man, seven and a half’s perfectly respectable, it’s a good score. But when I asked Mum earlier, she said three! I mean, three. And she wasn’t being horrible, it’s what she really genuinely thought.’
Hooray.
‘He’s not fat, he’s not a skinny rake,’ Sally went on. ‘Maybe even an eight.’
‘OK, now you’re getting carried away.’ Dismissively Lola shook her head. ‘He’s only my father. But the point is, how can my mum not fancy him? All those feelings she once had—where did they go?’
‘No idea. Maybe they evaporated.’ Sally shrugged and dripped wine down her chin. ‘Just vanished. Like Doug’s feelings for you.’
Lola winced. ‘Don’t say that! Do you have any idea how much it hurts to hear you say that?’
‘But it’s true. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. You can’t force Doug to change the way he feels about you. And you can’t make your mum fall back in love with your father.’ Especially when I want him.
‘You’re being mean. OK, how many marks out of ten would you give EJ?’
There was an odd, intense look in Lola’s eyes as she asked the question. Sally, topping up their glasses, sensed that this was important to her. Lola must be keener on EJ than she was letting on.
And he was good fun… in a speccy, nerdy, wealthy kind of way.
In a generous mood—and because it was in her best interests to make Lola happy—Sally said, ‘Honestly? Nine.’
‘Nine!’ Lola looked incredulous.
‘Why not? He’s lovely. Oh my God, what is that on your head?’ Having been idly flipping through one of the albums Blythe had brought along to show Nick, Sally was distracted by a photo of Lola, aged about seven, wearing a black leotard and unflattering black skullcap with huge pink and black ears attached.
‘I was a mouse in the school play. Don’t make fun of me—I was the star of the show. Do you like EJ?’
‘I just told you, of course I do.’ Turning to the next page, Sally snorted with laughter at a snap of Lola on a trip to the zoo, leaping back in fright as an elephant investigated the ice cream in her hand with its trunk.
‘No, but do you like-like him?’
Sally looked up; it was on the tip of her tongue to say no, the only man she like-liked was Nick. She could say it, couldn’t she? Just blurt it out, then Lola would know and she wouldn’t have to hide her feelings any more… Oh God, but what if it caused an upset? Lola hadn’t yet given up on the idea that she could get her parents back together. Maybe tonight wasn’t the best time…
‘Who, EJ?’ Dimly aware that the pause between question and answer was too long and terrified that Lola might somehow be managing to read her mind, Sally took another glug of wine and said over-brightly, ‘Of course I don’t. Oh look, I love this one of you in a wig!’ Hurriedly she pointed to a snap of Lola dressed as John McEnroe during his red headband era. ‘Was that for a fancy dress party?’
‘That’s not fancy dress, those were my best shorts.’ Her mouth twitching, Lola aimed a pudding fork at Sally’s injured, propped-up leg. ‘And I wasn’t wearing a wig.’
Sally made her wibbly-wobbly way across the landing shortly afterwards, careering off walls and giggling wildly as she exclaimed for the fifteenth time, ‘You cannot be serious!’
Leaving the washing-up for tomorrow, Lola headed for bed and took Sally’s photo albums with her. Doug might have made off with the album containing the most photos of him—spoilsport—but he still featured in the others often enough to make them interesting. Having had to pretend to be fascinated by the pictures of Sally earlier, she could now concentrate unashamedly on Doug. God, he’d been a beautiful baby… and an irresistibly angelic toddler… there he was at a school concert with his hair all neat, his knees all knobbly and one grey sock falling down… here were ones of him as a teenager, aged thirteen or fourteen, with a mischievous look in his eyes and a cheeky grin…
Lola wiped her cheek as a lone tear escaped. Dougie riding his bike with no hands, Dougie diving into a swimming pool, Dougie about to tip a bucket of seawater over Sally while she sunbathed on a beach, Dougie—older now, possibly eighteen or nineteen–cavorting in a park with a group of friends she didn’t know.
More tears dripped off Lola’s chin, because these were his university years now, the ones she could have shared with him, should have shared but hadn’t.
Everything would have been so different and you could drive yourself mad wondering how your life might have turned out if only you’d done this or that.
And wondering was irrelevant anyway. At the time she hadn’t had any other choice.
Lola jumped as the phone began to ring, causing the album to slide sideways off the bed. It was gone one o’clock in the morning; who could be calling her now? Unless it was Dougie, who had been looking through the dark green photo album he’d made off with earlier and been overcome with longing and regret…
‘Hello?’ Lola said breathlessly, her palms damp with hope. Her imagination conjured up a split screen of the two of them in their own beds flirting over the phone with each other like Rock Hudson and Doris Day in Pillow Talk… or Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally…
‘Ello, eez Carlo zere to spik wiz?’ It was the gruff voice of an elderly Italian woman.
All the hope inside Lola plummeted like a rock dropped into a well. ‘Sorry. You’ve got the wrong number.’
‘Ach.’ The old Italian woman clicked her tongue and heaved a sigh of annoyance before abruptly hanging up.
Lola switched off the phone. Of course it hadn’t been Doug. What did she expect?
***
‘Do you trust me?’
‘I trust you.’
‘Go on then. Take it off,’ said Gabe.
Savannah flushed and double-checked that the bedroom curtains were drawn shut. Not even the most persistent paparazzo could sneak a peek into the cottage. She was safe from prying lenses, safe from discovery. Reaching up, she removed the wig and put it on the dressing table in front of her.
‘Maybe a bit of powder,’ Gabe suggested. ‘Just to take off the shine.’
She did as he said, then took a steadying breath and turned on the seat to face him.
‘Round to the left a bit. I don’t want you full on.’ Keen to avoid the wing-nut effect, he wanted to minimize her ears. A three-quarter shot would be most flattering. ‘And tilt your head slightly… relax your shoulders, I’m not about to rip your teeth out. Now give me a hint of a smile… perfect, that’s perfect…’
Afterwards Savannah hugged him. Together they watched as the series of images emerged from the printer on high-gloss photographic paper. Gabe was pleased with the results; as their session had progressed, the tension in Savannah’s muscles had dissolved. Towards the end of the sitting she had begun to relax and enjoy herself. Her smile had broadened and lost its I’m-posing-for-the-camera-without-my-wig-on anxiety. The final few had achieved what he’d been aiming for; a beautiful woman who happened to have no hair was gazing into the lens without fear. She was wearing natural make-up, silver hooped earrings, and a simple white camisole top over jeans.
‘Thank you.’ Savannah couldn’t stop gazing at them. She shook her head in wonder. ‘Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to me.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘You’re incredible.’ She turned and kissed him.
Gabe grinned. ‘You’re not so ba
d yourself.’
‘Maybe if I keep looking at them, I’ll get more used to them.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ He watched her slide the glossy color photographs into the wall safe, where no one else could get at them.
‘You do the rest,’ said Savannah, and Gabe set about deleting first the images from the memory card, then the files from the laptop itself.
‘All done.’ There was data recovery software on the market capable of retrieving deleted images but he didn’t mention this to her.
‘Thank you.’ If she was aware of this she didn’t mention it either. The point was that she had trusted him to take the photographs, which was good enough for Gabe. Slowly, slowly, Savannah was gaining in confidence.
She was also besotted with him, which was a pretty flattering thing to happen, even if it meant that for the last week or so he’d been getting less sleep than a new mother of twins with colic.
‘You’re doing it again,’ Savannah chided.
‘Doing what?’
‘Looking at your watch. I hate it when you look at your watch like that.’
Gabe smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I know, I’m sorry, it’s called being a part of the real world. We can’t all be A-list movie stars taking a few months off between films. Some of us have to get back to London, earn a living.’
‘But I don’t want you to go. I’ll be all on my own.’ Pouting, Savannah slid her hands beneath his holey pink T-shirt.
Gabe gently removed them; thanks to her insecurity she was exhaustingly clingy. ‘Just a quick coffee, then I really do have to leave.’
He leaned against the stove and watched Savannah make the coffee. Her actions were delicate, precise, as neat and organized as the kitchen itself, always wiping away wet mug rings with a rag and cleaning up crumbs on the worktop. She was more than capable of keeping the cottage immaculate without Pauline the housekeeper—and owner of Bunty the yappy terrier.
‘Would you like to stay, if you could?’
Here came the rush of neediness again. To reassure her, Gabe said patiently, ‘Of course I would.’
‘OK. In that case, stay.’ Savannah tilted her head. ‘I’ll pay you what you would have earned. How about that?’
‘How about that?’ echoed Gabe. ‘How about no?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not a gigolo. Don’t take it personally.’ He held up his hands. ‘It’s just not something I could do. Look, I need to work tonight and tomorrow. But I can come down on Sunday.’
‘Or I could come up tomorrow.’ Savannah looked hopeful. ‘Book a suite at the Ritz.’
‘Sunday’s better. I’ll see you here.’ Gabe shook his head; in London there were paparazzi everywhere and being holed up in a hotel wasn’t his idea of fun. At least down here in the depths of the countryside they could go out for walks, although Savannah’s preferred form of exercise was more bedroom-related. Not that he was complaining about that, and it wasn’t as if it would last forever. Next month she was off to the States to make two films back to back and their brief fling would be over.
‘Two whole days. I’m going to miss you.’ She threw her arms around him.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ said Gabe. He must give Sally a call on the way back, see if there was anything she wanted him to pick up. Reaching for his cup, he spilled a couple of drops of coffee on the flagstoned kitchen floor. Before he could reach for the rag, Savannah had grabbed it and wiped up the drips, rinsed the cloth under the tap and squeezed it dry.
Gabe smiled to himself. Sally would never have done that. At best she would have casually scuffed at the drips with the sole of her shoe.
Chapter 40
Blythe loved to watch Lola at work in the shop, helping customers and making them smile. To the rest of the world Lola might be a capable twenty-seven-year-old, but as far as Blythe was concerned she’d always be her little girl.
Spotting her, Lola waved and called over, ‘Hey, Mum, what a coincidence. Dad was in here just now! You missed him by five minutes.’
Blythe smiled and nodded, noting that Lola had stopped calling him Nick. She was happy for Lola that the two of them were getting on so well; she just wished Lola would stop trying to—
‘Ooh, why don’t you come with us tonight? We’re going along to the opening of a new exhibition at the Simm Gallery, then on to dinner at Medici’s.’ Eagerly Lola said, ‘How about the three of us going together? We can pick you up and drop you home afterwards.’
Correction, Lola would always be her persistent, never-give-up, endlessly hopeful little girl. ‘Thanks, love, but I won’t. You and Nick have a nice time. Art galleries aren’t really my thing.’
That was putting it politely; art galleries bored her witless.
Lola looked disappointed. ‘Oh well, what if we give the gallery a miss? We could just go to Medici’s instead, is that a better idea?’
Never-ever-give-up…
‘Lola, it’s fine, I’m seeing Malcolm tonight. It’s quiz night at the Feathers and we’re going along to that. I don’t dislike your father, it’s just that we have our own lives to lead. Trust me, we’re both happier this way.’ Blythe hadn’t told Lola—had no intention of telling her—what had happened on the night of Lola’s dinner party when she and Nick had left at midnight and shared a taxi home. When it had arrived at her house in Streatham and Nick had invited himself in for a coffee, she’d gone along with the suggestion just to be polite. They’d chatted amicably enough for half an hour before Nick kissed her.
It should have been romantic but Blythe had felt nothing. At all. He’d done his level best but she hadn’t been able to summon so much as a goosebump of excitement. It was like being kissed by a packet of cornflakes.
Poor Nick, it hadn’t been his fault; he was undoubtedly a more than competent kisser, and with all the practice he’d undoubtedly had over the years possibly an Olympic-level one. But had he had any effect on her? No, he hadn’t. Once upon a time he’d meant everything in the world to her, but now she was completely immune to his charms.
Nul points.
It was a mystery how these things happened. But they did.
‘We could go upstairs,’ he’d murmured, all seduction guns blazing. ‘For old time’s sake.’
‘Oh Nick. Thanks for the offer.’ Blythe had smiled and given his arm a regretful pat. ‘But I don’t think so.’
He’d done the eyebrow thing then, that instantly familiar combination of surprise and disbelief. It was the look she’d seen on Lola’s face when at the age of seven she’d opened a drawer and found, hidden away in a matchbox, all the baby teeth that hadn’t been magically whisked away by the tooth fairy after all.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to.’
More eyebrow action. Something told Blythe he wasn’t often turned down.
‘Is it because of this other chap of yours? What’s his name…?’
‘Malcolm.’
‘Malcolm.’ For a split second Nick’s mouth twitched as if he might be on the verge of saying something disparaging about his rival. Evidently thinking better of it, he reined himself in and said instead, ‘Sweetheart, it’s us. You and me. Malcolm doesn’t have to know.’
Blythe gave him a long look. ‘Oh Nick. I wouldn’t do that to Malcolm. And you shouldn’t ask me to.’
He had the grace to look ashamed. This time his expression uncannily echoed Lola’s on the morning of her first-ever hangover when, at fifteen, she had gone along to a friend’s party and ended up falling asleep in her friend’s parents’ bed.
Nick shook his head. ‘Blythe, I didn’t mean to—’
‘I know, I know, it doesn’t matter. And I’m not saying no because of Malcolm,’ Blythe told him. ‘I’m saying it because of me.’
He half smiled, accepting he
r decision. ‘Fair enough. That’s absolutely your prerogative.’ He paused, then added with a complicit glint in his eye, ‘It might have been fun though.’
Amused, Blythe showed him to the front door. ‘I daresay. I’m just not curious enough to need to find out.’
‘Mum? Hello?’ Lola’s voice snapped Blythe back to the present. ‘What are you daydreaming about now?’
OK, probably best not to say sex with your father. ‘Sorry, love, just wondering whether Malcolm would like a nice book about World War II for his birthday next week. He likes that sort of thing.’
‘I thought you’d decided to buy him a sweater.’
‘Oh, I already have. A lovely stripy red and yellow one with an eagle on the front.’
‘In that case, better come with me.’ Lola steered her in the direction of the history section. ‘Sounds like poor old Malcolm’s going to need a book about World War II to cheer him up.’
***
The weather had taken a distinct turn for the better in the last week; temperatures rose and the sun shone, drying out the ground and encouraging the first primroses to peek through the tangled undergrowth. Avoiding the public footpaths where they might bump into other walkers, Gabe and Savannah strolled arm in arm through the woods on the hill below Minchinhampton Common. Savannah was talking about her experiences of working with other actors and the fights that ensued when they discovered their co-stars had negotiated bigger Winnebagos than they had. Even when you were an A-lister, evidently, size mattered.
‘… he said if he couldn’t have one as big as George’s, he was walking off the set. And the director said from what she’d heard—whoops.’
‘Careful.’ Gabe caught Savannah as she tripped over a tree root.
‘All strong and masterful. I love being rescued by you.’
‘Don’t need any more invalids in my life just now. One woman crashing around on crutches is plenty, thanks.’