by Jill Mansell
‘Oh my God, whatever for? You don’t like rugby!’
Katerina smiled. Her mother was looking positively indignant. ‘I suppose I might change my mind. I’ve never watched a real match before. It might be fun.’
Curiouser and curiouser, thought Izzy. Tentatively, she said, ‘So, things are going well between the two of you?’
Her expression rueful, Katerina replied, ‘If you must know, I’ve decided that I fancy Simon like mad and he’s decided we should be just good friends.’
‘The nerve of that boy!’
Katerina shrugged. ‘But then why should I be any less miserable than anyone else? Mum, I swear there’s a jinx on this house . . . this thing with Gina and Sam is so farcical it’s embarrassing. There’s Doug, obviously in love with Gina, mooning around the place like a lost soul.’ She paused, ticking the disasters off on her fingers. ‘Then there’s Simon and myself, of course. You and . . . nobody at all. Lucille and anyone at all, but preferably Trevor McDonald—’
‘What?’
‘At this very moment,’ said Katerina with heavy irony, ‘Simon is downstairs in the kitchen being seriously chatted up by our housekeeper. Yesterday morning she had the milkman closeted in there with her for over an hour. And as for Doug, well . . . the poor man just isn’t safe when she’s around.’
‘And Trevor McDonald?’
‘It’s only a matter of time,’ Katerina replied darkly.
‘Heavens.’ Izzy thought hard for a moment. ‘But Jericho’s OK?’
Her daughter grinned. ‘Oh, Jericho’s happy enough.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘But the next-door neighbours aren’t too thrilled. It seems he’s been getting on rather too well recently with their labrador bitch. And now she’s developed a craving for Mars bars and pickled mackerel.’
Izzy knew within minutes that accepting Vivienne’s supposedly impromptu dinner invitation had been a dreadful mistake.
It was sheer desperation that had driven her to say yes in the first place. Back in the recording studios to complete her album, she was able to avoid bumping into Sam during the day, but evenings at home were a nightmare. Unable to cope with the increasingly strained atmosphere, she had leapt at the chance of escape. Just an informal supper and a couple of good bottles of wine, Vivienne had assured her, and an opportunity for her finally to meet Terry Pleydell-Pearce, the most wonderful man in the entire universe.
And if he was the most wonderful man in the universe, she thought drily, what on earth was he doing with a sneaky, conniving, traitorous old bag like Vivienne Bresnick?
‘It’s a set-up,’ she announced, her expression bleak. ‘Vivienne, how could you?’
Vivienne was just glad that Malcolm Forrester had arrived at the cottage first. Judging by Izzy’s reaction, she might otherwise have taken one look at the table set for four and walked straight back out.
‘What’s the big deal?’ she countered innocently, taking care to keep her voice down so that neither Terry nor Malcolm, in the next room, could overhear. ‘Like I said, it’s just a cosy evening with friends . . . no pressure . . . Malcolm’s a real nice guy.’
‘Hmm.’ Izzy, not taken in for a moment, said, ‘Well, excuse me if I don’t marry him.’
Vivienne, showing off her domestic skills, pressed the start button on the microwave. ‘You could do a hell of a lot worse,’ she replied lightly. ‘He’s divorced, charming and a real gentleman. He’s nothing like Tash Janssen at all.’
This was certainly true. Putting on a brave face, Izzy admired the cottage, which was enchanting, got to know Terry, who was every bit as nice as Vivienne had promised, and exchanged pleasantries with Malcolm Forrester, who was of all things an obstetrician.
He was also old, probably knocking fifty, with silver wings in his dark, swept-back hair, a paisley cravat and an avuncular manner that reminded Izzy of her grandfather. Vivienne, having found real happiness with Terry, had evidently decided that Izzy should broaden her horizons and at least consider a man of similar vintage.
But the excruciatingly polite conversation, which ranged from the latest exhibition at the Tate to the genius of Dizzy Gillespie, only succeeded in making Izzy realise how desperately she missed Sam. The sense of longing, so acute it was almost a physical pain, was showing no signs at all of going away. Every time Malcolm Forrester called her ‘my dear Isabel’ she found herself imagining the expression on Sam’s face if he could only have been there to hear it. His grey eyes, glittering with suppressed amusement, would have locked with hers as they had done so many times at The Chelsea Steps, and later they would have rocked with laughter together over a shared Chinese takeway.
Her appetite by this time had all but disappeared. Uncharacteristically picking at the delicious meal - boeuf Bourgignon with fresh asparagus and tiny new potatoes - Izzy listened in silence as Terry and Malcolm swapped ‘And-then-she-said’ stories about their respective grand-children. Her sense of aloneness increased when she realised that beneath the table, Terry and Vivienne were holding hands. Nor could they keep their eyes off each other for more than a few seconds; with each newly touted example of infant cuteness Terry would glance at Vivienne as if unable to quite convince himself she was still there. Then, his face lighting up once more, he would give her a brief, secret smile . . .
Finally, unable to contain herself a moment longer, Vivienne leapt to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen. Returning with a bottle of champagne, she said, ‘OK folks, this was supposed to wait until after the meal but patience was never my forte. Sweetheart, can you get this thing open? I don’t want to wreck my nails.’
It wasn’t exactly the surprise of the century, but Izzy dutifully assumed a blank expression. While Terry wrestled somewhat inexpertly with the cork, Malcolm said in hearty tones, ‘What’s all this, then? Do we have something to celebrate?’
Vivienne, her amethyst silk dress shimmering in the candle-light, let out a squeal of delight as the cork ricocheted off the ceiling and champagne cascaded over Terry’s corduroys. When their glasses had eventually been filled, she clung to his arm and raised her own glass in a toast.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’d like you to be the first to know. Terry and I are going to be married!’
Amid the flurry of congratulations, with hugs and kisses all round, Izzy found herself being forced to submit to a decidedly firm kiss from Malcolm Forrester.
‘Marvellous news,’ he declared, straightening his cravat and looking smug. ‘How about that, Isabel? Isn’t it simply the most marvellous news?’
Izzy, fighting the childlike urge to wipe her mouth with her sleeve, said, ‘Absolutely splendid news, Malcolm,’ and glanced across at Vivienne to see if she, at least, was sharing the joke.
But Vivienne, who had never looked more radiant, hadn’t even been listening. ‘And of course,’ she continued joyfully, ‘we’d like the two of you to be godparents . . .’
Izzy stared at her. ‘You’re pregnant?’
‘Oh, not yet. But we certainly aren’t going to waste any time in that direction.’ Pausing, in order to give Terry another hug, she added, ‘I’m nearly twenty-eight, after all.’
‘But that isn’t old,’ Izzy protested, turning to Malcolm Forrester for corroboration and feeling hollow inside. ‘Twenty-eight isn’t old!’
But Vivienne had been reading all the books. ‘The sooner it happens, the better,’ she said simply. ‘You weren’t even twenty when Katerina was born, but in the baby-making stakes I’d already be classed as an “elderly primagravida”. My fertility is decreasing, the chances of complications only increase with every passing year . . . all sorts of things could go wrong!’
‘Twenty-eight still isn’t old,’ repeated Izzy stubbornly.
‘Good heavens, of course not.’ Malcolm Forrester, swooping diplomatically to the rescue, refilled their glasses and adjusted his cravat once more. ‘Why, more and more women these days wait until they’re in their thirties before starting a f
amily. Professionally, I’m all for it.’ To emphasise the point, he gave Izzy the benefit of his best Harley Street smile. Then, in a jocular undertone, he went on, ‘Although personally I can’t say I envy them. At least you and I have been through that stage and put it well and truly behind us now. We’re the lucky ones, my dear Isabel, don’t you agree? At our age we simply don’t need to worry about that kind of thing any more.’
Chapter 57
Having for the past week and a half been plagued by nightmares in which the second brain scan had shown up a tumour the size of a melon, the reality was almost disappointing. Gina, sitting in the consultant’s immaculate grey-and-white office on the fourth floor of the Cullen Park Hospital with Sam beside her, gazed in silence at the reality for several seconds before placing the films carefully back on the desk. Reaching for Sam’s hand, inwardly amazed by her ability to remain calm, she said, ‘So, what happens now?’
The consultant was no longer smiling. Gliomas - fast-growing malignant tumours formed from the central nervous system’s supporting glial cells - weren’t funny. And from the appearance of the scan, he had no doubt at all that this was the type of tumour with which Gina Lawrence had been afflicted.
‘We operate,’ he replied, his tone carefully matter of fact. Experience had taught him that this was the best way to avoid hysterical outpourings of grief. ‘The plan is to remove as much of the tumour as possible before commencing radiation therapy. I’ve already made the necessary arrangements. Surgery is scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘It is a glioma then,’ said Gina, only the convulsive tightening of her fingers as she clutched Sam’s hand betraying her agony. It was a glioma which had killed her mother.
The consultant hesitated for a second, then nodded. ‘I’m afraid that’s what it looks like,’ he admitted quietly. ‘Mrs Lawrence, I wish I could have given you more hopeful news. I really am very sorry indeed.’
The operation the following day went on for three and a half hours. Doug, unable to cope with the interminable waiting, had gone for a walk in the rain. Izzy and Sam, left alone in the waiting room, occupied seats opposite each other and drank endless cups of coffee. Since idle conversation would be too cruelly inappropriate, neither said much. Izzy tried hard not to imagine the surgical procedures being employed in the theatre downstairs. She wondered what Sam was thinking. Then she tried not to think about Sam and how differently things could have turned out if only there hadn’t been all those stupid obstacles between them.
‘You’re fidgeting,’ said Sam.
Putting down her cup and jamming her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, she rose to her feet and went over to the window. Outside it was still raining; a sea of multi-coloured umbrellas bobbed in the streets below. Katerina would be finishing her final biology paper around now. Thousands of city workers were taking their lunch break, wondering whether to choose cottage-cheese salad or lasagne and chips. And Doug, umbrella-less and no doubt by this time soaked to the skin, was still out there somewhere, just walking . . .
Wishing she’d gone with him, Izzy said, ‘I don’t even know why we’re here.There’s nothing we can do.’
‘Gina wanted us to be here.’
‘Yes, but I hate it.’ Unable to look at him, she continued to gaze blindly out of the window. ‘I feel so useless.’
‘Don’t be so bloody selfish,’ Sam replied evenly. ‘There are some things in life that even you can’t control.’
When the surgeon erupted into the room ninety minutes later, Izzy reached for Doug’s hand and found it as clammy as her own.
‘Well?’ said Sam, only the muscle ticking in his jaw betraying his tension.
‘It wasn’t a tumour.’ The surgeon, his mask still dangling around his neck, beamed at them. ‘Quite extraordinary . . . I must say, I haven’t seen anything like it in all my years of working. The scan appearances were so typical I’d have bet a year’s salary we had a glioma on our hands . . .’
‘So, what was it?’ Izzy almost shrieked, unable to bear the suspense. ‘Is she going to be all right? What was it if it wasn’t a tumour?’
‘It was an angioma,’ explained the surgeon in pacifying tones. ‘It’s a collection of abnormal blood vessels, rather like a bundle of tangled wool. As the vessel walls weaken the likelihood of haemorrhage increases, and that of course can be fatal.’ Pausing for effect, he rubbed his hands together and beamed triumphantly once more. ‘Happily, we got there first and were able to . . . defuse the time-bomb, as it were! Mrs Lawrence’s angioma was very amenable to surgery; I simply tied off the offending vessels and effectively disconnected them from her circulatory system. The operation was a complete success in every respect, and there’s no reason at all now why Mrs Lawrence shouldn’t enjoy a long and healthy life.’
Izzy promptly burst into tears.
‘She isn’t going to die,’ whispered Doug. Sweating profusely and looking quite dazed, he enveloped her in a mighty bear-hug.
‘Thank you,’ said Sam, shaking the surgeon’s hand.
When the three of them were alone once more, he handed Izzy a clean white handkerchief. ‘It’s good news,’ he said, sounding faintly exasperated. ‘There’s no need to cry.’
‘The bastard,’ sobbed Izzy, still clinging to Doug. ‘He could have sent someone in here hours ago to tell us that.’
‘I cut my best friend’s hair once, when I was seven years old.’ Izzy, her tongue between her teeth, gingerly combed Gina’s blonde hair over the shaved area. ‘It ended up looking just like this. Her mother belted the living daylights out of me when she saw it.’
‘Let me see in the mirror,’ said Gina. Turning her head this way and that, she smiled with relief. Now that the dressing was off and the stitches had been removed, her remaining hair fell naturally over the scar, concealing it so well that it hardly showed at all. ‘I can’t believe it . . . I thought they’d shave my whole head.’
‘You look fine,’ said Izzy, giving her a hug. ‘You are fine, thank God. And it’s great to have you back home.’
Gina was glad she was looking her best when Sam arrived to see her a couple of hours later.
‘More flowers,’ she protested, burying her nose in the pale apricot roses and inhaling their delicate scent. ‘I’ll soon be able to open my own branch of Interflora.’
Sam, looking distinctly edgy, pulled up a chair and sat down. Gina raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Is something wrong?’
The fact that he had been planning this speech for days didn’t make it any easier now, but the words had to be said. And at least, he’d reasoned with himself, he had a legitimate excuse for getting them out of the way sooner rather than later.
‘I have to leave for NewYork tomorrow,’ he said without prevarication. ‘There are serious problems with the club over there which may take some time to sort out.’
‘Sam, that’s terrible.’ To his profound relief, Gina seemed more concerned for him than for herself. ‘What kind of problems?’
‘It seems the acting manager has been embezzling the accounts on a major scale, in order to finance his drug habit.’ Sam paused, then shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s my own fault for not keeping a closer eye on the business myself. But the IRS are involved now and it’s evidently going to take a while to work out.’
‘You poor thing!’ she cried sympathetically. ‘And with Christmas coming up, too. What rotten luck.’
‘Yes, well.’ That was the easy part over with. His grey eyes serious, he said, ‘Gina, there’s something else we have to sort out before I leave. I don’t quite know how to say this . . .’
But Gina, the colour rushing to her cheeks, forestalled him. ‘Please,’ she begged, reaching for his hand. ‘You don’t have to say it. I know what it is and you really don’t have to say anything. It was all a silly mistake on my part . . . I panicked, and you were nice enough to humour me . . . but all that’s behind us now and I don’t expect . . . expect you to . . .’ Stumbling over the w
ords, by this time redder than a beetroot, she silently pleaded for his forgiveness. She was guilty of having put him under the most terrible pressure and, being Sam, he had shouldered it without a word of complaint. All she could hope for now was understanding and absolution.
‘. . . I was just so afraid,’ she concluded in a whisper. ‘Of dying. Alone.’
Sam, scarcely able to believe it had all been so effortlessly sorted out, felt the great weight of responsibility lift from his shoulders. The sense of freedom was indescribable.
‘Anyone would have been afraid,’ he assured her, lifting her thin hand and kissing it out of sheer relief. ‘Considering what you’ve been through, I think you were amazingly brave. Now all you have to do,’ he added solemnly, ‘is get on with the really tricky part.’