Izzie yawned and stretched, careful not to disturb Charlie who had clambered into bed in between them again sometime during the night. He’d given up coming into their bed a couple of years previously but, since the night she’d fled with the kids to Maddy’s house, he’d woken every night and sleepily sought her out. She hadn’t said anything. No point making an issue of it. Perhaps it would sort itself out in time. Perhaps her marriage too would sort itself out in time. Perhaps.
Charlie’s long, dark glossy lashes lay on his cheeks and his mouth was softly open, his breath sweet and warm. Skinny as ever, he was getting tall now, and she smiled to herself as she traced with her eyes the bump he made under the blue check quilt—not a little boy anymore, but he was still easily thrown by changes in his life. What would be best for him and Jess? For their parents to stay together, despite their flawed relationship? Or for them to split up, live apart, and carve up the children between them, a weekend here, a holiday there? The way Izzie felt now, the latter choice would be easier, or at least less painful. But she was not the only one involved. With Marcus around and the constant pressure to forgive, to analyze, to debate, she sometimes felt the top of her head was going to come flying off.
She felt tired—dog tired. If someone had led her into a darkened room with a nice comfy bed and left her uninterrupted, she reckoned she could sleep for three weeks straight. And the prospect of actually being able to do just that was dangling in front of her. All they had to do was to get the signed contract back to the States, hand all responsibility over to Tessutini, bank the check, and take it easy—maybe not for life, but for a while.
Charlie stirred, saving her from any further thoughts, and slurred huskily, “Kisses, please.” So imperious, so adorable. How could she love these children so passionately, yet feel so many doubts about their father? Jess came tippy-toeing in next and snuggled up on Izzie’s other side, completing her bliss. Izzie nuzzled her hair, inhaling deeply, and listened to an account of her latest dream.
Marcus, still on his best behavior, had already set out to jog down to the village to get their newspaper. He was working hard at getting back into shape, perhaps remembering how irresistible Izzie had once found him. She shook her head sadly. It would be a long and difficult process if they were ever to build a relationship that worked for both of them. And without the business to act as legitimate distraction . . . He wanted the emotion. All Izzie wanted was some undemanding task to divert her. Could it be that Marcus was the one from Venus, while all she wanted was a nice cozy cave somewhere on Mars?
A gulp of tea and she was ready for action. She shooed the children into their rooms, pointed them at their school uniforms, and retired to the shower. By the time she got out, Marcus had staggered through the door, wheezy but triumphant. He thrust the paper into her hands and made for the bathroom, stripping off his sweaty tracksuit as he went. She retreated to get dressed and have a quick shufti through the business pages. Aha! What was this little snippit?
Hoare and Stock Disenchanted with Their Paysage?
Rumors are rife that upstart cosmetics company Paysage Enchanté, generally credited with having set the New Ruralist ball rolling, may be next on the menu for a Very Big Fish. A not-so-orderly queue of bruised multinationals has been forming to snap up the tiny but perfectly formed PE, as profits from hi-tech cosmetics products have nose-dived. Who will be the lucky winner? No one wants to say for certain, but Madeleine Hoare and Isabel Stock, founder/directors, are unlikely to be losers if they sell out!
“Shit!” Izzie jumped up and pulled on her clothes at top speed. “Shit, shit, shit!”
As she dashed downstairs, she registered Jess, now fully dressed, and Charlie, still strumming along to Queen in his underpants, emerging from their rooms into the hallway and exchanging horrified grins at her language. She reached for the phone. “Maddy, have you seen it?”
“Yes. God knows how they got hold of that! Do you think someone saw us at the hotel and put two and two together?”
“Must have, I suppose. Drake’s team were really cloak and dagger—just like on Secret Squirrel—and it can’t have been any of our lot.”
“Can’t it?” Maddy sounded suddenly suspicious. “I know Peter would never do a thing like that, but—”
“Geoff? Do you really think so? What a slimy toad!”
“Mmmm,” mused Maddy. “Well, don’t let’s jump to conclusions and start accusing him. I don’t even know what effect this might have. Do you think Tessutini would pull out because of it?”
“Nah! They’re solid, I reckon. I’m sure they want us, and it confirms here what Geoff was saying about sales figures for the big cosmetic houses. At the moment, all publicity is good publicity.”
Less than an hour later, Izzie had reason to wish she hadn’t tempted fate with that rash comment. They were at the office and feeling pretty smug. Having signed their part of the contract, they felt safe in coming clean with the girls about what was in store for them, although they hadn’t yet said it was a cert. The initial shock at losing their jobs turned to elation as they explained the terms. “So you see,” said Izzie, “you’d each get the lump sum in addition to your three months’ wages, but they’ll probably be transferring production abroad fairly quickly, so you wouldn’t have to work out the three months anyway.”
“What? Paid for sitting round on our arses? Sounds all right to me.” Karen laughed throatily.
“You can sit on your arse if you want,” chimed in Donna, “I’m going to blow it all on a cruise.”
They were all laughing and talking at once, and Maddy had to put her finger in her ear to block out the noise as she answered the phone. Izzie noticed her problem and ushered the girls back downstairs, with a promise to buy doughnuts at lunchtime by way of celebration. Still laughing, she sat back down and turned to Maddy. But her friend’s white face and even whiter knuckles gripping the receiver wiped the smile right off her. She listened intently to the breathless, one-sided conversation.
“No, of course I’m not denying it. I’m just saying . . . But it’s completely out of context and it’s absolutely unfair to try to . . . No, you listen, please. It’s outrageous to abuse someone’s privacy like . . . This must be illegal. You can’t do this. But why would you do this? I don’t see . . . Is that all you have to say? Well then, no comment.” And she slammed down the receiver.
Izzie was befuddled. “What the hell was that? Crank call?”
Maddy put her elbows on her desk and dropped her head into her hands. “If only. Oh God, Izzie, you’re going to kill me! That was the Courier. Miles Oakley, that sleazeball editor—he says they’ve got a photo of me, taken the other day at home. It was after that meeting with Drake and his lot. I was so knackered. God, why did I do it? I had a ciggie and a glass of wine, and . . . oh, it just gets worse. The kids were outside, and Will was playing on his Game Boy and Florence was dressed up like a little tart, and I was wearing an FCUK T-shirt. Oh, I don’t believe it! The whole image gone in seconds. The bastard photographer must have been up a ladder somewhere.”
“They took a photo of you in the garden? But can they do that? Surely if it’s your garden, it’s private property, isn’t it? What are they going to do with the photo? Surely they’re not going to run it?”
“Yes, and on Monday. Front page, he said, the grubby little toe rag. He said he thought their readers would ‘like to see what we get up to in private.’ He said they’re going to compare all the things we’ve said in public with the reality.”
“Ooh, shit! I hope they haven’t been prowling round our place. They’d have a field day! Oh, but Maddy, I’ve just thought”—Izzie flushed and put her hand up to her mouth in alarm—“Drake won’t have signed by then. I mean, if we only signed yesterday, Hewlitt’s won’t have sent the contracts back to them yet. He’ll have seen the paper—or someone in his organization will before they sign. Do you think they’ll go through with it?”
“No! I don’t know,” Maddy wailed. “I don’t know anything. This could ruin the whole thing. We could end up with nothing. A complete laughingstock. No one will buy the stuff once this hits the newsstands. What have I done?”
Izzie took charge. “Look, I’ll make some coffee. You call Peter. He’ll know what to do. Maybe we can make them delay or something. Get our lawyers onto them.”
Izzie could tell from Maddy’s expression that Peter had not been able to reassure her. “He says it goes to credibility,” she explained. “The brand is based on a concept of integrity—well, we knew that. We worked hard enough to concoct the stupid image. He says without the image, the sales are almost bound to suffer. If Tessutini can’t quantify the damage, they’re just as likely to pull out. He said something about break fees if the transaction doesn’t go ahead, and a thing called Section 151, but I’d kind of phased out by then. I could tell it was bad news though.”
Izzie blew her fringe out of her eyes. “So does this mean we’re going to have to find that warehouse in Rotterdam after all?”
“I don’t think Boîte Bleue will touch us with a disinfected barge pole,” said Maddy bitterly.
“Oooh bum!” said Izzie quietly.
“My sentiments entirely!” Maddy sighed as she sat back down heavily in her chair. “Bum indeed.”
After that, Izzie found it difficult to deal with the low-level elation that the girls were indulging in. Bumping hips together rhythmically as they went about their work and singing along to the radio, they looked so happy, as though someone had given them an unexpected present, or at least the promise of one. And so they had. The only trouble was they were going to have to take it right back again, and soon. Maddy was staring into space, and Izzie didn’t like to disturb her. It could as easily have been her and she didn’t blame Maddy at all. She hoped she knew that, but wasn’t sure how to ask without raising the idea that she did blame her. Suddenly, Maddy jumped up.
“What was I thinking of? I completely forgot to tell you! I’m going away with the kids for the weekend. We’re going to stay with some old friends, and I said we’d get there as early as possible, so I have to go and pack everything up now. Yup, right now or we’ll be late. D’you mind?”
Izzie was slightly taken aback by this abrupt change. “’Course not. Do you good to get away. I really don’t think there’s anything more we can do about this now.”
“No, no. Of course not. Might as well forget about it and hope for the best.”
“Er, yeah. Well, have a nice time. I’ll call you if anything comes up. Do you want me to call Geoff?”
“No. I think Peter’s talking to him now. He’ll call if there’s anything new. I’d better head out. I’ll call you later.”
And off she went. Izzie shook her head, and watched her leave. She hoped she’d be all right. This forced energy and brightness was a bit worrying. A weekend away would probably be the best thing. Izzie hoped the friends would take good care of her. But it wasn’t like Maddy to dash off in the middle of a crisis—she hoped this hadn’t pushed her too far. Her hand hovered over the phone. She wanted to tell someone, ask someone’s opinion. All right—she wanted to speak to Marcus. Was that a sign of something? She couldn’t be bothered to analyze it, though Marcus almost certainly would. All she knew was she needed to hear his voice. She dialed the number.
An hour later, she was back home in the kitchen. She’d given the girls and a rather surprised Lillian the rest of the day off and explained that there might be some press interest. All had agreed stoutly to plead the fifth or at least defend the reputation of PE against the heathen journalists, like Crusaders taking the oath. Their loyalty was touching. So was Marcus’s.
“What we can do, babe, is call round the agencies. See if anyone knows who’s been sniffing round. I’ve got a few contacts at the Courier too, but they probably won’t spill the beans. Give me and hour or so, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”
With the bit between his teeth, he was like the Marcus of old, clicking his fingers between calls, scribbling notes, whistling tunelessly, and jabbing out numbers with the end of his very chewed biro. “Paddy? Hello, mate! It’s Marcus Stock. Yeah, I know. Long time, no nothing . . . Listen, mate, I’ve got a bit of a favor to ask. A friend of Izzie’s has got herself well and truly shafted by the Courier. Yeah, same old scumbags. Thing is, the photo was taken round here near where we live. Quite near Oxford, yeah. You gotta come up some time. Melissa and the kids too. Anyway, I was wondering, do you know anyone who’s been out this way lately? Really? Okay, thanks, I’ll try him. Yeah, keep in touch.”
So it went on. Marcus was making contact with people he hadn’t spoken to in years for fear of being rejected, perhaps. Yet no one had brushed him off, as far as Izzie could tell from the one-sided conversation, and lots of them had asked when he’d be in London next. Maybe some good might come of this mess after all. On and on it went. Marcus followed up leads, ran into dead ends, tried again. Izzie went to fetch the kids, leaving him to it. When she returned he was sitting back in the kitchen chair looking smug.
“I think I deserve a cup of tea this time,” he said triumphantly waving his notepad at her. “I think I’ve got a result! Bloke called Pete the Greek. I don’t know his real name—that’s what everyone’s called him for as long as I can remember. I’ve never met him, but I know people who have. He does a lot of this sort of thing, mostly for the tabloids. I’ve got a mobile, but he’s not answering. What do you want to do?”
Izzie shrugged helplessly. “Dunno. What can we do? Could I . . . offer him money, threaten to sue him, give him a knuckle sandwich? You tell me, Marcus—what should I do?”
“Wouldn’t bother with threats.” Marcus got up and started pacing the room, hyped up by the thrill of the chase. “That’ll just piss him off. The newspaper’s certainly paying a fair bit for this. If you can top their offer, he might sell it to you. Trouble is, the Courier won’t take very kindly to him blowing them out at the last minute, so you’ll have to make it worth his while.”
“What do you think? Twenty grand?” Izzie pulled a number out of the air.
“I should think that’d do nicely. All we have to do now is track him down. Hmmm. Hey, d’you fancy a trip to London?”
Izzie’s eyes widened. “Do you mean it? Should we go and find him?”
“Frontal approach is worth a try. And you haven’t got much time, have you? One thing though, love. Drop the Cider with Rosie look, eh? Go for something nice and inconspicuous, like a trenchcoat and dark glasses. Could the kids stay at Maddy’s?”
Izzie shook her head and frowned. “No, she’s run off to stay with friends. She was taking the kids straight from school, I think, so she’ll probably be there already. I might give her a call.”
“No, don’t. Let’s call her when we have some good news. Don’t want to get her hopes up too high. Shall I try Janet Grant, then?”
He busied himself phoning her. This was a new, improved Marcus, sorting out the kids’ needs without being asked. She poured him another cup of tea—he did deserve it.
On Saturday afternoon they dropped the kids off at Janet’s house and drove down to London. They’d arranged to stay with some old friends in Streatham. Shaun, another photographer, had given Marcus his best lead. “His name’s really Pete Kyriako-something or another. No one can ever remember what, so it’s Pete the Greek. He lives over in Tufnell Park, dunno where exactly, but he’s usually at the Flask in Highgate for Sunday lunchtime. They do a mean sausage and mash there and the beer’s good. If he’s not answering his mobile, that’s your best bet. Have you left him a message?”
“Nooo. This is more of an undercover operation,” confided Marcus. “I’ve never even met him but we need to speak to him, face-to-face. What’s he look like?”
“This sounds exciting.” Maz (too graphic-artist-funky to call herself Mary) flicked her long plait over her shoulder and placed a huge bowl of pasta on the table in front of them, and slid onto the polished wooden refectory bench next to Shaun. “He looks a bit like Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda. Can we come along? I’d recognize him, and you might want moral support from what you say.”
“Oh, yeah, do come along.” Izzie nodded. “We’ll stand you lunch. And if he’s not there, maybe you’ll recognize someone else there who might be able to help.”
Next morning, slightly the worse for wear, the two couples made their way up to leafy Highgate. Well, not quite so leafy in October but still pretty gorgeous. They were sitting outside at one of the trestle tables in the large triangular forecourt when Maz leaned across and hissed, “Don’t look round. That’s him. With the blonde.”
They all looked round. He did, indeed, look strikingly like Kevin Kline. Not the seedy, furtive criminal-looking type Izzie had imagined. Instead, he was quite a tasty, interesting-looking bloke in jeans, with a Rolex he kept flashing and a very expensive-looking leather jacket, but he was just a little too old for his designer stubble. Kleftiko dressed as lamb?
“How are we going to do this?” Izzie asked suddenly.
Marcus was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t see there’s any way of doing it subtly,” he admitted. “I hadn’t really thought this through, I must admit.” Silence. “Come on, Iz. We can’t waste any more time, let’s just improvise. Have you worked out how much you’re prepared to offer him? Quick, he’s going to the bar. Let’s cut him off on the way.”
They sidled casually toward him as he approached. Marcus opened. “Hi! Pete, isn’t it?”
Pete smiled absently. Great teeth, thought Izzie. “Yeah, that’s right. How’re you doing?”
“Fine thanks. Business good? Can I get you a pint, by the way?”
Pete had that vacant look of someone racking his brains to remember who on earth this was. “Thanks, you’re all right. I’m getting a round in for some people I’m with. Yep, business couldn’t be better thanks, mate. What are you up to now?”
Izzie butted in. “We’re living in the country now. Near Ringford. Ever been out that way?”
He blinked rapidly, looking at Izzie properly for the first time and swallowed hard. “Now, hang on, what’s all this about?”
“Oh, I think you know exactly what it’s about and exactly what we want. Have you got the negative?” Marcus smoothly led him to a quiet table, speaking in a low voice. Izzie followed clutching her bag tightly.
“Why do you want to know?” He was looking distinctly uncomfortable now.
“Well, I think we could make you a better offer. Is it an exclusive with the Courier?”
“Er, kind of.”
Marcus sighed impatiently. “Well, is it or isn’t it? How much are they paying you?”
Pete laughed shortly. “You don’t really expect me to tell you that?”
“Would ten thousand do it?” Izzie couldn’t keep quiet any longer, and earned herself a glare from Marcus.
“Sorry, love. I can’t do that.” He started to move away. Izzie grabbed his arm. “Twenty, then.”
“You really want this, don’t you? Look, I’ve told you, I can’t make a deal.” He tried to peel her fingers off his sleeve, but she wasn’t letting go.
“Fifty thousand. Please! You can’t do this to us. It’s just not fair.”
He stopped and sighed heavily, puffing his cheeks out, then looked her in the eye and spoke slowly. “You’re not listening. I can’t do it. If it was just the paper, I might be up for it. You’re offering enough. It’s not that. Look, I’ve got nothing against you or your partner. I’m just doing what I’ve been hired to do.”
Izzie let go of his sleeve and her shoulders sagged. “Isn’t there anything . . . ?”
“Are you listening? I said no deal.” Looking back and forth between their shocked faces he got up to leave. “I’ve said too much, but it’ll all be over tomorrow. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about it now. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Nothing personal.” And he went back to the bar.
Izzie and Marcus looked at each other in disbelief. “What’s going on, Marcus? Did you understand any of that?”
“No, I can’t see . . . It sounded as if . . . No, I can’t see what he’s on about.”
“I’ll just try and ring Maddy again. I guess I’ll have to break the news and tell her what he said.”
A moment later, she was outside again, looking worried. The others were discussing what had just happened. Pete the Greek had left hurriedly and was already disappearing toward Highgate Hill, with his blonde trailing disconsolately behind. “I can’t get through to Maddy. It goes straight to voice mail again, so I’ve just asked her to call me. Where the hell is she? Something’s not right. I’ll just leave a message on her voice mail at home too . . . Colette! What are you doing there? I thought you’d be in London or somewhere. What? So you’ve no idea at all? . . . Right. Well, if she calls you again, can you ask her to call me? Yeah, anytime, anytime at all.”
Izzie’s heart was pounding in her ears and she knew she was sweating despite the chill in the air. She flipped her phone closed and put it back in her bag, then looked round at the faces watching her expectantly. “That was the nanny. She’s at home with the kids. Maddy went off on Friday afternoon and said she wasn’t sure when she’d be back. What on earth’s going on?”
Maddy felt her mobile buzz in her pocket. Izzie again. This must be the third call this morning. As she had done so many times since the calls had started yesterday, she pressed the cancel button. She felt bad. The least Izzie deserved was an explanation for her disappearance, but just at the moment she couldn’t face talking to her. Then after a moment she dialed home.
“Everything okay?” she asked Colette. “Good. No, tell Will he can’t have any chocolate until after lunch.” Suddenly a voice boomed out on the PA system, so grabbing her bag she made a dash for the ladies and an empty cubicle.
“Pasco feels a bit hot? Give him some Calpol and keep an eye on him. It could be teeth, but if you’re not sure, take him to the doctor in the morning.” Someone in the next-door cubicle pulled the chain. “Sound of water? Er, I’m just about to have a bath actually. Yes, very echoey . . . these friends have a big house. Fabulous bathroom. Big enough to have a party in.” She could hear two women come into the loos, talking loudly. “Better go, Colette. Someone else wants the bathroom before me. Speak to you later.” She clicked off the call, then slowly and deliberately turned off the phone.
Back in the main concourse, she looked up at the board. Slipping her phone into her bag, she pulled out her ticket and boarding pass and headed for passport control. It seemed ages since she’d been on a plane. How she’d missed all the rigmarole of check-ins, taxiing, and that sensational thrill of taking off.
She’d never been on a trip like this before though.
Finding her seat in club class, she stashed her overnight bag in the overhead locker and settled down. The man beside her looked up and smiled briefly before returning to his paper. She couldn’t have expected anything more. She’d left in such a rush this morning and, wiser after recent experience, she had made damned sure she was wearing her Ruralist “uniform” to the nth degree: dung-brown boiled wool suit, buttoned to the round-collared neck, box pleat skirt, and her flattest, frumpiest pumps, all covered up with her woollen shawl. It had pained her to buy it, but, boy, it had done her some mileage. She’d stuck in a couple of Florence’s cotton flower clips she’d found on the side in the kitchen to keep her hair back off her face, innocent of makeup. All she was missing was the guitar and she’d be good and ready to arrive at the von Trapp mansion.
Pulling out the newspaper, she braced herself, hoping that the picture hadn’t been brought forward a day and, relieved to see it hadn’t—or at least not in this paper—she tried to concentrate on the news. Instead, her voice shouted at her in her head: What the hell are you doing? Is this really what Peter meant by a “vat load of craftiness”? Somewhere in her thoughts Simon’s face kept appearing, too, shaking his head with disappointment at her. But everything hangs on this, her rational brain kept butting in. Even if her momentary lapse on the terrace last week stymied the sale, they could wave good-bye to the company’s future. Who on earth would be fooled by the Paysage Enchanté message when it was being peddled by a fag-smoking, wine-drinking slut who let her son play Game Boys and her daughter prance about in dainty pink high heels and an obscene T-shirt?
She dropped the paper and groaned, watching the tarmac fly past out of the window. She couldn’t be sure whether the lurch in her stomach was the takeoff or the nausea she’d felt every moment of the day and night since the paper called on Friday.
She didn’t move until her brunch had been served (and ignored) and the movie began. It was some thriller nonsense with George Clooney, but even his come-to-bed eyes couldn’t engage her interest. All she could see were someone else’s eyes staring back at her. He’d sounded surprised when she’d called on Friday afternoon, but with the ease of someone getting so used to the art of deceit, she managed to convince him that she’d had the trip planned for ages, how this was the only flight she could get (well, that part was true at least), how her brother was so looking forward to seeing her on Monday, and that it made such good sense to deliver the contracts by hand. Yes, he’d said, he’d come back from the weekend early and would be at JFK to meet her at lunchtime.
“Bye, Maddy,” he’d said deeply down the phone. “See you then.”
Now as she looked out of the window at the candy floss of cloud beneath them, so clear you could almost stick your hand out and touch it, she wondered what she planned to do now the arrangement was made. Would he be free for the rest of the day? What about family? God! Perhaps he had a wife? The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. He might simply drive her back to her hotel, take the contracts, and drive back to his apartment—somewhere deeply fashionable, no doubt—and be greeted by a pretty wife with her station wagon and three blond beautiful children. She’d have stayed on a bit longer at the beach house, Maddy imagined, to make the most of the day, and would unpack the weekend bags efficiently in their gorgeously stylish kitchen, and ask him if it had been a complete bore to have to break up the weekend and drive to the airport on a Sunday. She’d be beautiful, too, no doubt about that, perhaps an ex-model he’d met through the business, with long glossy dark hair and a fabulous figure. No. Maddy shook her head. She’s an overweight battle-ax with varicose veins and a penchant for double cheese bacon burgers. Unlikely.
She must have slept for a couple of hours, because she awoke to hear the cabin crew announcing the time it would be when they landed in New York. Adjusting her watch, she glanced up to see if the loo was vacant, then took down her bag from the hold and wended her way down the aisle. She locked the door, dumped the bag on the lid of the loo and faced herself in the glaringly bright mirror. She breathed in and then out slowly through her mouth, dropping her shoulders, delved in her bag, and laid out makeup, razor, and tweezers neatly in a row as if about to perform an operation. All ready, she set to work.
When she sat back down in her seat half an hour later, the man beside her glanced up at her return, but this time there was no vague assessment and dismissal. He looked fixated, then with slow deliberate ease, he took in the smoothed bobbed hair and the flawless makeup (she’d had to spit on her mascara it had dried out so thoroughly through lack of use). His gaze wandered down over her breasts, outlined clearly under her soft pink shirt, and over her waist and then to her thighs, where the short wraparound silky skirt stopped, and down, down her long tanned legs to her spiky brown Jimmy Choo shoes. His eyes wandered back up to her face, and she smiled at his obvious appreciation. She clearly hadn’t lost her touch.
“Special meeting in New York?” he said with a Stateside drawl.
“Oh yes,” she purred. “Very special.”
She was, however, out of practice with the heels, and had to maneuver her way off the plane, down through the boarding tunnel and out onto the JFK concourse with studied care. She’d forgotten how high heels made you wiggle your bum suggestively, and she felt like an updated version of Marilyn Monroe in the railway station scene from Some Like It Hot. It was all very hard work and, by the time she got through to arrivals, she had to rearrange her face from intense concentration to the sexy, devil-may-care impression she wanted to make. I hope he’s here, she thought, because I don’t think I can keep this up much longer.
She wasn’t disappointed, and she saw him, head and shoulders above the crowd of people awaiting arrivals, before he spotted her. He was looking away somewhere over to the left, which gave her time for a serious panic attack. She felt her arms turn ice cold. There he was, dressed casually in long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, his hands jammed firmly in his pockets, and the grim reality of her journey was made real.
His head turned back toward the stream of travelers and she saw him scan the group. She stopped and stood still, her Louis Vuitton overnight bag in her hand and her Prada “good-luck” handbag over her arm. His gaze flicked over her and onto the people coming through behind and around her. Zap, then they were back and focused right on her. Slowly, like a cat, he smiled and she knew that he had got whatever ill-advised message she had wanted to convey. No going back now.
Skirting those around him, he met her as she passed through the barrier, and without saying a word, she held out her overnight bag to him. I may feel like a tart, she thought, but he can treat me like a lady.
“Well, hi,” he said slowly, and putting down the bag, put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Her nose filled with the smell of soap and beach.
“Have you had to drive a long way?” she asked with mock innocence.
“Not too bad on a Sunday morning. At least some New Yorkers sleep in. Let’s find the car.” He strode off, and it was all she could do to keep up. Those ghastly flat shoes had their advantages after all.
She imagined some large car, the make of which would elude her completely, but was surprised when he unlocked the door of a silver Porsche Boxster. Not exactly a practical family car, she caught herself thinking. She slid as demurely as she could into the passenger seat, letting her skirt open a little over her thighs, and surreptitiously slipped her feet slightly from her shoes. Not too much that they would swell and she’d be unable to get them on again, silently thanking Giselle for teaching her the finer points of social survival. He slipped in beside her.
“Where are you staying?”
“Sixty Thompson in—”
“Soho. Yes, I know it well. Excellent choice.” She heaved a sigh of relief. Her Friday call to a New York girlfriend had paid off, though she was pretty pissed that she wasn’t to be included in Maddy’s flying visit.
He drove fast, as she suspected he might, and made little attempt at conversation. How could she ensure he wasn’t going to drop her, pick up the contracts, and shoot off to domestic bliss, leaving her high and dry before her flight home tomorrow? The whole idea was to keep him as occupied as she could, but if the worst came to the worst there were more painful ways to bemoan your ruined career than a night in New York. She gazed out of the window, to avoid looking at his big brown hands on the steering wheel as they headed down the Van Wyck Expressway toward Manhattan. God, how she loved this city. It always thrilled her—not quite as much as Paris, granted, but infinitely more than London. New York was sex. Fast, dirty, and exhilarating. Except, of course, that it was full of Americans.
He broke the silence. “So what time are you meeting your brother?” Brother?
“Oh, Crispin”—well, he was kind of brotherly—“er, he doesn’t come back until tomorrow, so I’ll meet him for lunch.”
“Where does he live?” Oh, Christ. She scrambled through her memory bank. What the hell was Ruthie’s address?
“Um, out near Queens. Not very salubrious, but he lives with his girlfriend who’s a designer. They’re visiting friends for the weekend.” Keep it vague, Madeleine, before the hole gets too damned deep to dig your way out.
“Right.”
“But I thought,” she plowed on, “I could give you the contracts today, then it’s done. I’m very grateful you could pick me up. I hope I haven’t pulled you away from an exciting weekend.”
He kept his eyes on the road but smiled. “Oh, nothing I couldn’t leave. It’s a long time since I spent a Sunday in town anyway. Bit of a novelty.”
They talked vaguely about the New York Maddy knew, and she asked him about the office and where he lived—even more fashionable than she had imagined—until they pulled up in front of the hotel. Suddenly she wasn’t sure how to handle it from here.
“Shall I check in and then bring down the contract?”
He turned off the engine and rested his hands on his thighs, turning toward her. “Well, you’ve dragged me away from the beach. Let’s at least have some tea, or whatever you Brits do in the afternoon.”
She smiled, unable, she suspected, to keep the triumph out of her eyes. “Okay.”
“I can leave the car not far from here. You get yourself settled in, and I’ll be back in half an hour in reception. And, Maddy,” he added, “lose the heels.”
Her room was everything the Paysage Enchanté ethos wasn’t—cool, chic, understated thirties minimalism—and she reveled in it. Big wide bed with suede headboard and crisp linen sheets; white, brown, and gray tones everywhere, even on the tiles in the bathroom. She wandered about in excitement, opening cabinets to reveal DVD and CD players hidden away oh so discreetly, looking out of the window with its view over lower Manhattan and Soho, until she almost lost track of the time. Emptying out the contents of her bag, she shook out her clothes, and stripped down to her underwear, throwing everything over the chair. After a shower which would have merited an award for speed, and careful not to wet her hair, she dressed as fast as she could, reapplied her lipstick, and looked in the long mirror. Not bad. The go-natural regime they’d had to stick to all summer had left her with a good tan on her legs, which had survived their first shave for months, and now they glistened with the moisturizer she’d slathered on after the shower. You may be riddled with deception, but you’ve got a fine pair of pins, Madeleine Hoare, she told her reflection. Simon always thought they were her best feature. Don’t think about Simon.
Tom Drake was waiting in the funky, rectangular reception area, flicking through the paper. What if her picture was in there, she thought suddenly. Don’t be ridiculous. The Americans had never heard of her. He folded up the broadsheet and as appreciatively, if a little more subtly than the man on the plane, took in her low-cut white top, short wraparound skirt (this one in pastel beiges and pink—she’d loved them so much in Harvey Nicks last year she’d bought three in different colors) and down her legs to her low-heeled pumps.
Nonchalantly, she put her pink cashmere cardigan around her shoulders. “Shall we go?”
She hadn’t known what to expect. She’d hoped to God it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable and contrived. What she hadn’t imagined was that it would be fun. They walked together down Thompson Street in the warm afternoon sunshine, and just carried on walking. He took her for coffee and a muffin in Soho, then they strolled down to Ground Zero. He talked about the fact that he’d been out of the country on September 11 and what it had been like to return to the carnage. They took a taxi to Central Park, and found themselves stopping and watching a juggler entertaining children under the trees. They drank more coffee by an impromptu softball game, and all the time no mention was made of contracts, buyouts, cosmetics. He talked little about himself, just the odd fact here and there—he’d gone to Yale, his parents lived up near the Catskills, he had a sister who worked in Paris. Instead he turned the questions on her, and she found herself telling him about the children, the house, living in London. She almost let down her guard when he mentioned that he knew about Simon’s death, but skillfully turned the conversation round to neutral ground, like how much she loved Paris, holidays in Cap Ferrat, the weather. Anything rather than think about home, the business, the reason she was here.
At one point she almost came a cropper, when he asked her about her family. She told him briefly about her father’s death and Peter’s arrival on the scene. “He was a savior to my mother and me.”
“And your brother?”
“Oh no, he’s much younger. He’s only my half brother, Peter’s son. Much, much, much younger than me.”
By seven the light was beginning to fade, and cars with dipped headlights sped past them as they made their way back to the hotel. What now? The shit would hit the fan in about seven hours, UK time, when everyone opened their newspapers at breakfast. That would be 2 A.M. New York time, and she was pretty sure someone from London would be hot on the phone to Tom Drake with the happy news that his new little acquisition was not all it appeared. If she didn’t get him to sign tonight, the deal would all be blown. Nondisclosure would be the least of their worries. Good-bye everything.
Time to launch Operation Drake. She stopped at the doorway and turned around to him, addressing somewhere between his chest and his chin. “Thank you, Tom, that was fun. Er, would you like to come in for a drink? I believe there’s a new rooftop bar. We could watch night fall.”
He was standing very close to her, hands back in jeans pockets, and looked down at her. “Let’s go one better, Maddy. Will you have dinner with me?”
She’d bought herself another few hours. It was all going to plan. They agreed to meet in the hotel’s bar at eight thirty—she tried to give him as little time as possible to reduce his chances of receiving any phone calls—and went into war-paint application overdrive. After a second shower—well, the room cost enough, she might as well empty the hot water tanks too—she lifted out her palest pink La Perla underwear (the only set she hadn’t let Izzie get her hands on—oh God, Izzie, what would you think of all this?) and slipped it on. She smoothed stockings over her legs and pulled on her short, black Lycra dress, standing in front of the mirror to check it didn’t show too much stomach now she was almost off the fags. Phase two: on went the foundation, the soft pink eyeshadow, the straightest line of eyeliner she could manage with shaking hands, then she dried her hair until it was smooth and sleek.
She knew she looked great, but if anything he looked better. If this situation hadn’t been so bizarre, so contrived, and unforgivably planned out, then she could think of nothing more appealing than dinner overlooking Manhattan with this very good-looking man in his open-necked sea-blue shirt and clean, pressed chinos, sitting at the bar. He had a cocktail waiting for her, and she found herself almost downing it in one. Steady on, old girl. You’ve only had a muffin since this morning, which was five hours longer ago than it should have been.
Another cocktail later, they were taken to a discreet little booth in the restaurant and, in her increasingly hazy mind, she wondered whether he had asked for this in case anyone he knew spotted him with someone other than his wife. Or perhaps they had an “arrangement.” Or perhaps she was too ugly and he never took her out anyway. He ordered wine, and she piled into the bread as elegantly as she could to try and absorb some of the alcohol now coursing through her. I hope to God I don’t need a pee, because I’m not sure I can stand up, she thought.
“So what will you do once the company is sold?” he asked her through the candlelight once they had given their order.
Curl up and die? Maddy thought. “I don’t know, really. The last year has all happened so fast that I haven’t had a chance to think about anything at all. I expect Izzie might go back to her books, but I’m not sure I’m fit for anything.”
She watched his hands as he fiddled with the fork in front of him. “Oh, I disagree,” he said laconically. “I expect you could do any number of things you set your mind to.”
“I’d like to spend more time in France.” She hadn’t thought of it before, but now he had asked her, she really thought she would. Perhaps she might buy a house with the proceeds of the sale, somewhere in Provence or near Jean Luc. Jean Luc. God, what would he think? She could imagine him strolling over to their table now. “What are you doing, Maddy, darling? Are things really so desperate?”
The food, exquisitely laid out on large plates in front of them, looked too good to eat, and Maddy wasn’t sure she could anyway. She felt confused. She knew what might be in store, but what concerned her was how much she wanted it to be. That part of her that had lain dormant since Simon died had suddenly and unexpectedly burst back into life. Whether it was the dress, the candlelight, the booze, or just those bloody arrogant, amused eyes looking back at her, she wasn’t sure. All she did know was that she felt as horny as hell.
She toyed with a rocket leaf and the scallops. What should she do now? She was well out of practice at this game, but it didn’t take a master’s degree to know that he wasn’t here to pass the time. If she wanted him, she was fairly sure he was there for the taking. But did she need to? Was it really a critical part of the plan? If she handed over the contracts now, he would go off home now and go to bed—alone? with his wife?—then he’d wake up tomorrow, go off to work, find out about the photograph and . . . well, that would be it, no doubt. What she needed was for him to sign the contracts, tonight, and then she could be off out of New York tomorrow like a ferret up a trouser leg. She kept the conversation going, while the remaining part of her brain tried to sort everything through.
He seemed willing to join in her little game, and answered her questions about movies and books with the same dry, slow humor. Yes, he liked movies, but nothing violent. No, he thought British movies were crap on the whole, and that Hugh Grant should be shot. Yes, he read books, but none she would ever have encountered. She bristled at this. Did he think she only touched chick lit or something? No, he replied, but he doubted Norman Mailer or Gore Vidal was quite her thing. Yes, he loved music, and reeled off a list of obscure British bands.
“Big CD collection?”
He smiled wryly. “Too big.” He paused. “And there’s something else British I admire too, Maddy.”
“Such as?” She took another sip of her wine, then rested her chin in her hand, head to one side, a seductive look she knew worked a treat, and awaited his reply.
He leaned closer toward her and fixed his eyes on hers. “Your incredible double-decker buses!”
She laughed so loud the Japanese couple at the next table turned in reproach. “Well, I’m glad something about us floats your boat. They must be worth coming all that way to see.”
He knocked back the rest of the wine. “Oh, yes—the style, the eccentricity, the color!” He put down his glass. “A true masterpiece of design. But of course there are other things too.”
She was more cautious this time. “And what might they be?”
He leaned close again. “Your gorgeous lips.” He was looking at them. “I’ve wanted to kiss them since I first met you.” Maddy didn’t know what to say. She could feel the color rising up her face. This was supposed to be her show. She was supposed to be making the moves, and he had taken the wind right out of her sails.
“Er,” she faltered, desperately trying to cope with it. “Well, right.” Don’t lose sight, woman, of what this is all about. The contract. Perhaps she could persuade him to sign it now. She leaned down to her bag. Damn, she’d left the papers upstairs when she changed bags. Oh fickle fortune or Freudian slip.
“The contract. We really ought to sign it while I’m here. But I’ve, er . . . I’ve left the contract up in my room. Do you . . . ?”
It was the wrong way to phrase the question. Very quietly he said, “Yes, Maddy, I do.” He stood up and waited for her to join him, which she did blindly, then he led her to the lifts. As the doors shut behind them, she felt trapped by the intimacy of it and turned toward him. He turned at the same time and, stepping toward her, put his hands either side of her against the wall, and gently, oh so gently and slowly, not touching any other part of her, lowered his head and kissed her on the side of the lips, on her cheek, down to her neck, before returning again to her mouth. He tasted so good, she opened her mouth to him, and let him slip his tongue inside.
The lift stopped smoothly, and as the doors opened she pulled away panicked, delving into her bag for the key card. She put her hand on the light switch, but he stopped her, the room already lit by the lights of the Manhattan skyline, and turned her round to face him.
She dreamed there was a fire alarm at the barn, and everyone—all the girls, Izzie, Lillian, and the children—were stuck inside. She couldn’t open the door, so she smashed her hand against the fire bell again and again to stop it, but still everyone inside banged against the door, screaming to be let out.
She sat bolt upright. The early morning light was coming through the still-open curtains. Where the hell was she? She took in the room, the sheet pulled over her, her clothes strewn all over the floor, a sea-blue shirt and chinos, and then looked at the figure lying asleep beside her. He was lying on his front, his face turned toward her, both arms hugging the pillow under his head. She could hear his slow, steady breathing, and lay back down again carefully so as not to disturb him.
She turned on her side, making herself look at his face, yet ashamed by the intimacy of watching him sleeping. He looked so relaxed, that face that only hours earlier had been twisted in the ecstasy of passion. She had been wrong about him. He was a passionate man. She ached from his lovemaking. She could still feel him inside her, his kisses all over her and the way he had called out “Jesus, Maddy” as he came. Yes, it was passionate, but it was far from right. And what made it even worse was how much she had enjoyed it, reveled in it.
The digital clock said six thirty. Her flight was at midday. Would he wake in time to get to work? And what about the contract? She slipped out of bed for a pee, trying to avoid her flushed and ravished face in the mirror and, on the way back to bed, slipped the contract out of her bag. She squinted at it in the half-light. What a price to pay for one signature. She threw it down onto the chair and slid back into bed next to him. He stirred and moved his body closer to hers.
She must have slipped back into that deep, deep early morning sleep again because, when she woke, he was gone. And so was the contract. It was half nine, so she showered as briskly as she could, put on the pink shirt and skirt she’d worn on her arrival, made as good a fist of repairing her face as she could, and thrust everything else into her bag. She checked her handbag for her tickets and there at the top was a note on hotel notepaper. She read it, screwed it up, and went down to reception to settle the bill.
“No breakfast, madam?” said the receptionist.
“No time I’m afraid. Could I just have the bill? And could you call a cab for me, please?”
He punched some keys onto the computer screen. “Your account has already been settled for you by Mr. Drake, madam. I’ll call you a cab right away.”
Stunned, she picked up her bag and went down in the lift to street level. Without her even registering, a cab pulled up, the door was opened, and she climbed inside.
“Where to, Miss?” the cabbie asked in a strong Bronx accent.
“Kennedy, please.”
He pulled away from the curb, and she fixed her gaze out of the window as Monday morning New York City shot by beside her. People were bustling to work, road sweepers were moving like snails beside the sidewalk, shops were opening up their iron grills for business. As she watched, registering none of this and feeling like a whore, the tears rolled down her face. Oh God, Simon, I’m so sorry.