by Jill Mansell
‘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 clea
r 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 he 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.
‘But why?’ Lola protested. ‘What’s the point of me being there?’ Apart from anything else, they were bound to be a load of beardy, lentil-eating, Scrabble-playing old fogeys.
‘Because everyone’s heard all about you,’ Blythe said patiently, ‘and they’d love the chance to meet you properly. Come on, it’ll be fun.’
Hmm, that was debatable. In truth it was all a bit too meet-the-in-laws for Lola’s liking. She didn’t want her mother’s relationship with Malcolm to be progressing in this direction. Why would Blythe even want to carry on seeing Malcolm now that Lola had found her such an infinitely more desirable alternative? How could she possibly prefer bumbling teddy-bear Malcolm to someone as sleek and stylish as Nick?
But a deal was a deal and maybe Blythe just needed a bit more time to venture out of her comfort zone, to get used to the idea that Nick James was back in her life. Lola vowed to be utterly charming to Malcolm’s family and friends no matter how bearded and dull they might be, and then her mother would be forced to do the same when she came over to Radley Road next week to meet up again with Nick.
Oh God, please don’t let anyone this afternoon suggest a nice game of Monopoly.
***
After two hours of being relentlessly charming, Lola was beginning to flag. She’d talked—well, bellowed—about books to Malcolm’s ancient deaf neighbor from across the road. Then she’d chatted some more about books to one of his other neighbors, who was very keen on gardening. The drawback of her job was that when strangers were making polite conversation, they invariably started talking about their favorite books and authors. She now knew that the ancient deaf lady was a fan of Daphne du Maurier, that the gardening fan liked books about… um, gardening, and that Malcolm’s ruddy-faced friend Miles was immensely proud of the fact that he was capable of quoting great swathes of P. G. Wodehouse he’d learned by heart. Even when nobody was remotely interested in hearing him do it.
It almost came as a relief when Miles’s boisterous son—‘Can you ask J.K. Rowling to put me in her next book?’—accidentally knocked a slice of pepperoni pizza down the front of Lola’s cream shirt. Resisting the urge to reply, ‘You mean squashed between the pages like a beetle?’ she excused herself and escaped to sponge off the stain.
In the kitchen she found Annie, Malcolm’s plump daughter-in-law, busy taking trays of quiche and stuffed peppers out of the oven.
Annie chatted away as Lola sponged the front of her shirt.
‘It’s so lovely to meet you at last. Malcolm’s told us so much about you.’ Her bosom jiggling as she carved up the quiches, she added jovially, ‘That’s when he isn’t telling us about your mum!’
‘Poor you.’ Lola pulled a sympathetic face.
‘Oh we love it, it’s so sweet! They get on so well together, don’t they? Just like a couple of teenagers!’
OK, they definitely weren’t like a couple of teenagers.
‘Mm.’ Lola kept her voice neutral. Talk about getting carried away.
‘It’s wonderful for both of them. Malcolm’s such a lovely person,’ Annie prattled on. ‘And of course your mum is too! And now it’s just so perfect that they’ve found each other. I’m a sucker for a good old romance, aren’t you?’
Lola said cheerfully, ‘Old being the operative word!’ Yuk, please let Annie be wrong.
‘Oh dear, that mark isn’t coming out.’ Annie eyed the orange pizza stain Lola had been scrubbing at on the front of her shirt. ‘And now you’re all wet!’
‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. And definitely don’t offer to lend me one of Malcolm’s sweaters to wear instead.’ Flippa
ntly Lola added, ‘Or one of his lumberjack shirts!’
‘Oh but—’
‘Honestly, I’d rather stay wet. I’m sure Malcolm’s lovely, but the geography teacher look isn’t quite me.’ Lola pulled a complicit face because Annie was herself wearing a stunning navy silk dress and jeweled Karen Millen shoes, so would understand.
Annie paused and gave her an odd sideways look. ‘Malcolm’s just Malcolm. Clothes aren’t his number one priority.’ Tipping frozen rosti onto a baking tray she went on, ‘Why, does that bother you?’
Damn, she didn’t understand. Hastily, Lola said, ‘No, it was just a joke.’
‘He might not dress like Prince Charles,’ Annie said stiffly, ‘but he’s still a nice person.’
Oh God, now she’d offended Annie. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘And it’s not as if your mum’s a great style queen anyway.’
Now it was Lola’s turn to be offended. She might be allowed to criticize Blythe’s dress sense but no one else was.
‘See?’ Evidently reading her mind, Annie raised an eyebrow. ‘Not very nice, is it?’
‘I just want my mum to be happy.’ Lola dabbed furiously at her wet shirt with a fresh handful of kitchen roll.
‘And you don’t think Malcolm’s up to the job? You don’t think he’s good enough for her, is that it?’
Honestly, all this kerfuffle because she’d said Malcolm dressed like a geography teacher.
‘Not at all,’ Lola ventured carefully. ‘I just wonder if they’re as compatible as you think they are. They might enjoy each other’s company, but how much do they really have in common?’
‘They don’t have to have anything in common! People are different! You love books,’ Annie retorted. ‘I think books are boring! But that’s just me and it doesn’t matter. My husband’s a motorbike fanatic and I love mushy movies. I like listening to Barry Manilow—he’s crazy about Meatloaf. But we’re still happily married. It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.’
‘You might go off him if he made you play endless games of Monopoly.’ Lola couldn’t help herself; the words popped out.