Only two trains of thought occupied Izzie’s mind from the moment Pete the Greek walked away: what had become of Maddy, and what would be the fallout of the exposé. That the deal was off was no longer in question. And the chances of PE surviving such a publicity disaster were slim, to say the least. It was over. The whole mad roller-coaster ride was finished, and it was time for them all to return to earth with a bump. They’d come so close to solving all their money problems, but they were back where they had started.
Now that there was nothing left to fight for, Izzie sat back limply in the pub and let the other three speculate on why Pete had turned down such an enticing offer. Marcus reckoned he was on a retainer from the paper and didn’t dare to cross them. Shaun’s more cynical view was that Izzie had shown her hand too quickly and that he was expecting her to track him down again and offer more. Maz had come up with a theory that brought in the Mafia and MI6, but, there again, she had been downing Pimms with serious intent.
Izzie was past caring. Once the other three had finished their lunch—she no longer had any appetite—Marcus scooped her up, they picked up the car from Maz and Shaun’s place, and he drove her back home. Before going to pick up the kids from Janet’s, he poured Izzie a hot bath, slopped in as much product as he could lay his hands on, and left her to it. By the time he returned, Izzie was in bed and fast asleep. Not even Jess and Charlie’s resounding kisses on her cheeks could wake her, and eventually they gave up trying.
The next day was a different matter. The disadvantage of going to bed at six o’clock, Izzie told herself crossly, is that no matter how tired you are, you’ll be lying wide awake and bored out of your skull by four in the morning. And so she was. By half past four, she’d given up even trying to doze and went downstairs to make herself some tea. Nothing on her e-mail, nothing on her voice mail. This was getting beyond a joke. Was it time to report Maddy as a missing person? No one else seemed as worried about her whereabouts, when Izzie had done a frenzied ring-round the previous day. Not Colette. “She took a little bag with her and some beautiful shoes. Wherever she is, she is fine—you will see, Izzie.” Not Janet. “Perhaps it all just got a bit too much for her. The two of you have been working so hard and, you know, it’s not been all that long that poor Simon was taken . . .” Not even Peter, whom Izzie had rung after much soul-searching and had made promise he wouldn’t tell Giselle anything. “She’s a good girl, Izzie, my dear. This had been a hard blow to her. Give her time to come to terms with it and just be there for her when she returns.”
This had all sounded quite reasonable the day before. But now, sitting at the kitchen table in the dark with a mug of Assam going cold in front of her, all Izzie could imagine was that her friend must be dead in a ditch somewhere by now.
Izzie had never been much for ironing, but by six o’clock, she’d done a great big pile of it. As displacement activity, it left something to be desired—she now had Maddy abducted by crazed terrorists with terribly chapped skin and was feeling more anxious than ever, but ooh the lovely neat tea towels. She took Marcus a cup of tea and dressed deliberately in her florals—you couldn’t be too careful. “Right, Marcus, I’ve got to go and get it. Can’t put it off any longer.”
“Would you rather I went?” came a sleepy voice from underneath the quilt, obviously hoping she’d say no—that was more like the old Marcus.
“No, thanks. I’ve got to face the music sooner or later. Might as well be now. Can you get the kids ready for school, and I’ll take ’em in today.”
The atmosphere in the newsagent’s was electric. All the staff were standing round in a knot, talking and nodding. When Izzie walked in, they jumped apart and none of them looked at her. She pretended to browse at the magazines for a bit, then plucked up her courage to go to the counter. “Morning, George. Courier please.”
George, a tweedy figure with a startlingly red mustache, pantomimed searching behind the counter. “Sorry, Mrs. Stock. We haven’t had any in today. Delivery problems, probably.”
She smiled and nodded. “Thanks, George. I do appreciate it, but there’s no need to hide it on my account. I really do have to see it.”
Reluctantly, he brought out a copy and laid it facedown on the counter, refusing to take her money. “No, really. I can’t expect you to pay for that . . . that rubbish. Just take it, m’dear. And, remember, we’re all behind you and Mrs. Hoare.”
She nodded her thanks, touched at his consideration, and folded the paper in two, not daring to look at it until she reached the safety of her car. It was far worse than she’d feared. The photo was grainy in quality and had obviously been blown up, but they’d caught Maddy smoking hands free and taking a particularly deep drag that sucked her cheeks in and wrinkled up her brow, while holding a very large glass of red wine. She looked like trailer trash. Haggard and deep in concentration, she seemed to be standing in an odd dancing posture. Will was head down, looking anxious and bewildered; Florence was sticking her little bottom out and pouting furiously. It couldn’t have been worse. And the headline! “What a Hoare!!”
The editorial, as usual for the Courier, was snide and insidious but without actually committing to any facts that you could contest. There was that usual sickening cocktail of prurience and prudery—endless innuendo combined with supposed moral outrage, and although there were no photos of Izzie, she hadn’t been spared. They’d found out she and Marcus were having problems. Damn them, they’d even found out about his sacking, and they’d implied that he’d been a shadowy figure in the background, masterminding the whole image of the brand and manipulating her and Maddy like puppets. God! Could they have sunk any lower?
She returned home, sick to her stomach and dreading having to show Marcus. His reaction, over the bran flakes, was a surprise. After a quick glance, he tossed it aside. “Tomorrow’s chip paper, love. I was expecting something of the kind. They’ve made me sound very clever, though. Maddy’s PR mate will be annoyed that they’ve given me the credit for all her hard work.”
“Pru! I hadn’t thought about her. I’ll have to call her from work. Come on, kids, time to go.”
Marcus looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’d better pick them up today. Once this story breaks, you won’t be off the phone all day. Good luck—I think you’re going to need it. Just remember, this may change what some people think about us, but they’re not the people that really matter. And it can’t change who we are inside.” He gave her a slightly awkward hug—the first for ages. “Stay strong. I’m here if you need me.”
At the barn, the girls were there early, clustered round the door like hens waiting to roost. When she turned up, they broke into a ragged cheer. “Don’t let the bastards grind yer down!” “I’m never buying that paper again!” “What would I want with a bonus anyway? Only burn an ’ole in me pocket!”
Even before she unlocked the doors, they could hear the phones ringing inside. “Let the voice mail pick it up. Maddy would call on my mobile anyway, and I can’t be bothered speaking to anyone else just now.” They shut the door firmly behind them, and sat down to discuss the outstanding orders, uncertain whether to make more product or not. Lillian flicked through the printouts and gave her opinion. “Well, we’ve got plenty of everything, so it seems a bit daft not to carry on. Perhaps PE will become a collector’s item. We’ve certainly got enough for two weeks’ production of balm and one week of the toners and cleansers.”
Izzie shrugged. It was hard to summon up the enthusiasm she’d felt only a week earlier, before they’d even met the Tessutini team, and had a carrot in the form of a big juicy payoff dangled in front of them. “I don’t suppose it really matters what we do now, so let’s stick to the schedule as planned. So it’s . . . balm today. Let’s go for it! But first, coffee all round. I know I could use one.”
When Izzie dared to switch on her computer, she downloaded a barrage of e-mails—some supportive, some not, some requesting interviews. But nothing from Maddy and nothing from Tessutini—yet. Voice mails were roughly the same. Lots of reporters requesting interviews and comments on the story. Izzie ignored it all and focused on getting through the day as normally as she could. Until about eleven, when Pru swept through the door, arms outstretched. “Those fuckers,” she spat. “The timing couldn’t be worse. Obviously, the deal will be off. I should imagine someone’s waking Tom Drake with the unwelcome news at this very moment. I wonder what he’ll make of it. There’s one slight possibility that I’m a bit concerned about . . . But, no, no.”
Izzie was on the alert at once. “What slight possibility? Is this another problem?”
“Weeeell, it could be.” She dumped her bag on the desk. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it really. Not until I speak to your lawyers. It’s just that if you can be shown to have misrepresented the facts, Tessutini could claim some damages—you know, legal fees and all that.”
“What? You mean that in addition to them not buying us and us losing all our credibility, we might have to pay them compensation as well? Oh, my God. How much is that going to be? We’ll be worse off than when we started. Oh, where the hell are you, Maddy?”
Pru looked uncomfortable. “You see? I know I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s only a possibility. Tom Drake knows you’re tiny. He almost certainly wouldn’t do it, unless—”
“Unless what?” Izzie shrieked.
“Well, unless he wanted to be vindictive—but there’s no reason why he should be. Look, can we stop talking about this? It’s only speculation, after all. What we really should be focusing on is damage limitation. It’ll be tricky, but I think we could get a big sympathy vote for Maddy here. You know, the single working mother thing. We have to make it look like a blip. In a way it might help to make the two of you look a bit more human—you know, warts and all.”
“What kind of warts did you have in mind?” Izzie asked cautiously.
“You know . . . something we could turn to our advantage. I mean, look at George Michael! And Liz Hurley didn’t go global until she got banged up by that disgusting man. Sometimes bad news is good news these days. It just depends on how you handle it.”
“If it’s a choice between coming out or getting pregnant again, I think we’d both opt for the comfortable shoes every time. But come on, Pru. Let’s face it. The whole PE story was based on a pretence. Without the myth, there is no PE. It’s over, and I think we’re just going to have to accept it.”
“Izzie, it’s not over till the PR lady sings. Let me have a crack at this. I’ve got a tame psychologist. He’ll deconstruct the picture and give it the right spin. Anyway, Courier readers are emphatically not your customer base. I don’t see this making a huge difference, to be perfectly frank. Let’s get proactive. I’ll handle the press—”
“Izzie!” called Lillian, who was manfully fielding the constant stream of phone calls. “It’s Jean Luc. He’s calling about your latest order. What should I tell him?”
At last! Someone who could talk sense. “I’ll take it. Hello, Jean Luc? Yeah, it’s me. Now listen carefully. We’ve got a problem . . .” Ten minutes later, Izzie replaced the phone with a sigh of relief. He was on his way over to England and had come up with the brilliantly simple idea that Izzie should get hold of Maddy’s home address book and contact all her friends to find out where she had gone. She phoned Colette to make sure she was there, but the number was engaged. Maybe Maddy was back or had contacted Colette. Izzie checked that the spare set of keys Maddy had given her was in her bag, then headed for the door, leaving Pru to help Lillian fend off the demands for comments and interviews. The soft popping of a flash and the click of a shutter, teamed with the sudden burst of light, sent her reeling back inside. “Izzie—just a quick quote—”
“Pruuuuu! Get down here quick. There’s a couple of photographers outside. I need you.”
Pru came clattering down the wooden stairs, smoothing her hair and checking her lipstick. “Let me at ’em!”
At the same moment, Izzie’s mobile rang. It was the secretary of St. Boniface’s, and she didn’t sound pleased. “Mrs. Stock, I think you’d better come and collect Jess and Charlie straight away. We’ve had a reporter trying to talk to them through the railings outside the playground, asking them what they had for supper last night and offering them money for a look inside their lunch boxes.”
She hung up, having made profuse apologies—although, come to think of it, it wasn’t actually her fault—when Marcus called. “I won’t be coming over to the barn for lunch after all. There’s a couple of blokes lurking in the bushes across the road—journalists, I reckon, and I don’t trust myself not to thump them if they ask me anything. I did manage to get the laundry in off the line, though. Didn’t want them getting snaps of your undies.”
She explained the problem at school, and Marcus let out a curse. “Bastards! How dare they go after our children. I’ll thump them anyway. Right! Change of plan. I’ll go and get the kids now and bring them back here. You’d better see what’s happening at Eagles. It won’t be any better.”
“No, don’t you go and fetch them. They’ll follow you. I’ll call Crispin. He’s out on a job today. If he can pick them up, I’ll phone the school and let them know.”
Right, so that was the children sorted. Colette’s mobile and the landline were still engaged, so Izzie sneaked out of the barn by the back door while Pru was holding court at the front, jumped in the car, and zoomed away before anyone noticed. Glancing in her mirror to check she wasn’t being followed, she felt a bit like James Bond. Too bad she didn’t have any gadgets to help in her mission. An automatic in-car mascara applicator would be a start, and how about a perfume dispenser built into the headrest—instead of choosing between diesel and petrol, you could choose between Clarins and Diptyque. She was musing on what else would come in handy as she drove through Ringford, but snapped to attention when she saw Pokey Sue (their new nickname for her) talking animatedly to a tall, rather interesting man who was emphatically not her husband and who gave the impression of hanging on her every word. “Way to go, Sue-eey. Once a Pokey, always a Pokey!” Izzie whooped to herself as she drove past, giving Sue a cheery wave.
Remembering Marcus’s warning, she slowed before the turning to Huntingford House and, sure enough, there were several cars parked on the verge, each containing two men. She turned in without indicating—well, there was no one else around—and was amused to see them all jump to attention as she sailed past. She tucked the car by the barns and made for the back door, opening it with the spare key.
“Colette!” she called. “It’s Izzie. Are you all right?”
A cupboard door creaked open, and Colette and Pasco emerged, Colette looking terrified, Pasco delighted. “Encore! Encore!” he chirped, keen to carry on with the game.
“Oh, Izzie, I thought it was one of them! They have been calling here all morning. I took the phone from the hook in the end. I don’t know what to say to them.”
Izzie hugged the frightened girl and tooted Pasco’s nose. “So you still haven’t heard anything from Maddy? Listen, can I take her address book and see if I can track her down? Do you know where it is? Oh thanks.”
“Izzie, I don’t know what to do about collecting the children. I know there are people in the garden. I don’t feel safe.”
“I think we all need to stick together for now, and I’ve already asked Crispin to pick the kids up from school. He’ll drop them back here with you—unless of course you want to come and stay with us?” Colette opted to wait at home for Maddy but promised to lock all the doors and ignore the phone.
Whatever Marcus had said to the journalists had worked. There was no one to be seen lurking outside when Izzie returned home. Crispin had dropped the kids off but hadn’t stayed. “He said he wanted to check that everyone at the barn was all right. He looked quite worried, actually,” said Marcus. “If this wasn’t so awful, it would be quite fun. Like that first time we stayed at your parents’ and I had to hide in the cupboard when your mother walked into your room.”
Izzie laughed, but turned quickly away. She didn’t want to get into nostalgia trips with Marcus, especially not about the days when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. He was being brilliant, she couldn’t deny it, but this enforced proximity was not what she’d had planned. “I’m going to go through this address book now. Jean Luc suggested I should try all her friends to see if they know where she is.”
Marcus looked down and started laying the table for supper. Why had she mentioned him? It was deliberately spiteful, and now that she’d hurt him she wished she hadn’t. Was this going to turn into one of those awful “can’t live with him, can’t live without him” scenarios? She picked up her mobile and started at A.
By P she’d still had no success at all. Most of Maddy’s friends hadn’t even heard from her in the last six months, and the pretext she’d used on them all—that Maddy had taken her contact lenses by mistake—sounded lame even to her. Marcus had organized the kids into a game of Twister—strictly indoors, they were still unsure if there were any lurking paparazzi—and supper was all cleared away.
Later, Marcus read to Charlie and Izzie gave up the hunt and went to tuck Jess in. She’d requested a “Mousey Brown” story, an invented saga that had been going on for years, and Izzie complied as far as she could. But her thoughts kept turning back to Maddy. She would have to call the police tonight. Once she’d phoned Ayesha Zafari, one of Maddy’s old friends from school, she’d have run out of road. “Mummyyyy! You’ve already done one where Mousey Brown gets stuck in a tuba. Make up a new one.”
Her pathetic efforts at invention were interrupted by Pru’s phone call. Not having kids herself, she was unaware of the problems that a seven thirty phone call causes, and went on at some length.
“Well, at least I’ve found a halfway decent hotel in this godforsaken place. Yes, I know you invited me to stay, but no one, repeat no one, sees me without eye makeup, and since you don’t offer en-suite facilities, I can’t run the risk. Now brace yourself. I think this is going to get worse before it gets better. I was accosted by some hunky reporter in Ringford this afternoon. He was asking anyone and everyone if they knew anything about you, and I fear he may have had a few takers. Don’t get the paper tomorrow. I’ll get it and come round to your place. Are you keeping the children off school tomorrow?”
“No, I think we’ll risk it and hope it’s all blown over. I can’t bear to give in to some state of siege. Can’t think of anything worse, frankly.”
“I think you should stay out of the frame though.”
“But we need provisions. The cupboard is bare, Jean Luc’s on his way here tonight and if Maddy still hasn’t turned up, Colette’s bringing the kids back after school tomorrow.”
Pru got efficient. “I’ll bring supplies with me, since you’ve got a houseful. What do children eat? Same as humans?”
“Probably not the same as you, Pru. Erm, pasta, ketchup, sausages—not fancy ones, mind, cheese—not Stilton, mild cheddar—apples, milk, Coco Pops, bananas. I think we can manage otherwise—oh, and loo paper, there’s an exponential relationship between the number of kids and how much you get through.”
Pru made a gagging noise. “Please, too much information. I’ll be round first thing, then I’d better go and hold the fort at the barn with Lillian.”
Izzie finished settling Jess and looked in on Charlie. Marcus had fallen asleep next to him mid-story, and was snoring softly. She poured a large glass of cold white wine, then sat in the kitchen on her own. She still hadn’t quite grasped the fact that they were going to be broke again. In her mind, she’d already spent the money Tessutini would have paid them. This was like waking up from a wonderful dream—and she didn’t like it! She heard a soft tap on the window and jerked her head up to see Jean Luc’s face.
She let him in, and he enfolded her in a warm hug. He smelled a bit travel worn, and looked exhausted but as gorgeous as ever. “What a mess!” he commiserated. “Your English newspapers are the worst in the world. Has she made contact yet?”
“No, nothing at all. I just don’t know what to do.”
Jean Luc stretched and rubbed his eyes. “Well, the most important thing is to pour me a drink.” He produced a bottle of wine from his holdall. “After that, I’ll have some ideas, but until then I’m no good.”
They were soon sitting comfortably across the kitchen table from each other, both nursing their wine and eating Bombay mix she’d bought specially when she knew he was coming over, a weakness he’d divulged shamefacedly on a previous visit.
“Thanks for coming over so quickly. She will need people she loves around her when she gets back.” She glanced at him, wondering if he’d pick up the hint, but he was still staring into the ruby depths of his glass. She pushed a bit harder. “I think she blames herself for what’s happened, but it could just have easily been me. She’s so hard on herself. Without Simon around, she thinks she has to take care of everything, but it’s too much for her. She won’t admit she needs anyone though.”
Jean Luc shrugged in resignation. “She wasn’t always like that. First there was Peter to look after her, then Simon with his stupid braces and his big City salary.” Izzie was shocked by his hostility. He’d never even mentioned Simon’s name before. He went on, “I think she’s different now. She never had to provide for herself before, but she’s proved she can. But she’s so proud. And she’s been hurt. She won’t let anyone get close again, I don’t think.”
Izzie hesitated, then took the plunge. “Jean Luc, how long have you been in love with her?”
He looked up suddenly in surprise, then smiled in rueful admiration. “Mon Dieu. I thought I’d done a good job of hiding it.”
“Not good enough, I’m afraid. I knew there was something that day in France. It wasn’t just you doing the decent thing, was it? Then at the party, I saw you watching her. The look on your face gave it away.”
He stood up and went over to the window, staring out into the darkness. “Izzie, I’ll say it again. In France I could so easily have made love with you. I wanted you so much. But her bloody face is always in my mind, fucking up all my relationships.” He laughed mirthlessly. “My wife couldn’t stand it and she was right. It’s always been Maddy. Always.”
His intensity took her breath away. How ironic. She remembered that far-off drunken night, Maddy posturing with a cigarette and laughing cruelly, “It’s you, Charlie, it’s always been you.” Poor, poor Jean Luc. Had Maddy any idea at all? She hoped not for his sake.
Suddenly he turned back and leaned over the table imploringly. “Izzie, there will never be anyone else in my life who comes close to her. I will love her always, but please don’t tell her. I couldn’t bear her rejection. This way I can still see her. Please, promise me?”
They heard floorboards creaking as Marcus levered himself out of Charlie’s bed and headed downstairs. His eyes screwed up against the light, he stood in the doorway, staring in puzzlement from one to the other. Izzie got up from her chair, squeezed Jean Luc’s arm reassuringly, and nodded. Then she took a glass of wine over to her husband and smoothed his sleep-rumpled hair tenderly. “Darling, try this Cahors Jean Luc has brought over. It’s delicious. Come and sit down and join us. I’ll make up the bed in the spare room.”
Suddenly, her mobile beeped a message, then a moment later, Jean Luc’s joined in. They exchanged startled glances and pressed the read buttons.
When Maddy woke at last the house was silent. They’d clearly left for school. She tried hard to open one eye and focus on the clock. Ten fifteen. She rolled over onto her back and groaned. She could have slept for another week. Perhaps she was getting old, but jet lag had never got to her like this before. Gingerly sitting up and swinging her legs off the bed, she began to focus her mind on the past twenty-four hours.
The children had been thrilled at her return the previous night, and at being allowed to stay up late enough to greet her. They seemed happy enough with the paltry offerings she’d managed to cobble together at the airport shops. Judging by the look on her face, Colette wasn’t as convinced that a baseball hat quite made up for putting up with the kids and a horde of paparazzi for a couple of days, but she’d have to make it up to her later. She hadn’t bargained on Crispin and Lillian being there too, but she thanked them profusely for their moral support, kept her explanations to the minimum, and waved them off into the night in Lillian’s little car.
Once she’d packed the children off to bed, she’d turned her mobile back on. As expected there were several messages from Izzie demanding to know her whereabouts, each more desperate than the last. One too from Jean Luc, not so panicky, of course, but no less concerned. She’d replied to them both by text saying she was okay, and she’d be in touch. But the best news, the most joyous news of all, a voice mail from Geoff, which must have come sometime late yesterday afternoon. He’d had confirmation from Tessutini that the contract had been signed and finalized, but could she call him regarding the photo in the paper? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this. Had Tom seen the pictures? She didn’t imagine for one minute that he hadn’t. But who could say whether he’d signed before they’d landed on his desk?
She pulled back the curtains and looked out at the wet, windswept garden. Twenty-four hours ago she’d been zipping though a warm, sunny Manhattan, disgusted at herself and frantic with worry that the whole deal had been blown. A few hours before that? Well, perhaps that’s why she was so tired. She was very out of practice after all. Now here she was, a rich woman. Richer than she could have imagined—though by the skin of her teeth. And with nothing to do with herself.
First she had to put Izzie’s mind at rest, and she wanted to do it face-to-face. She turned toward the bathroom. Time for a shower. The best fun would be putting on her favorite old clothes that hadn’t seen the light of day for months, and she was going to pile on the slap too.
Feeling rather odd and unused to tight trousers and kitten heels, she jumped in the car and headed off toward Hoxley. It felt like a million years since she’d been down this way, or at least now she felt like a different person. Despite herself, she felt a wave of lust as she remembered Sunday night, and quickly buried it. That kind of thought wouldn’t do at all.
She pulled into Izzie’s driveway, and almost careered into the back of a Range Rover. Oh my God, it was Jean Luc. She thought the call had come from France. What was he doing here? Leaving her car jammed in the gateway, she squeezed past the bushes, soaking her back on the wet leaves in the process, and headed for the door. She had barely put her hand on the doorknob when it was ripped open by Izzie, who threw herself into Maddy’s arms.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“And hello to you too!”
“I’ve been worried sick.” She looked it, her hair stringy and greasy, her eyes red and tired. “I nearly rang ruddy Interpol. I’ve been calling and calling.”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“Yeah, but not until late last night. Where have you been? Things have been frantic here.” She led Maddy into the kitchen, and there were Marcus and Jean Luc sitting over half-drunk cups of cold coffee with newspapers strewn all over the table. Now that made an interesting tableau.
“Maddy!” They both stood up. “Where the hell have you been?”
“What a happy greeting from everyone! Any chance of a cup of coffee? And where’s this infamous photo, then?”
Marcus handed her the Courier.
She shuddered. “Does it make my bum look big?” she asked looking up at the three faces gazing at her.
“Christ, Maddy, it’s been frantic here. How can you be so trite?” One look at Izzie’s face and she knew she had to get serious.
“I’m sorry. I should have been in touch earlier, but I couldn’t.”
“The papers today are even worse, darling,” said Jean Luc in a somber voice, and pushed over more pages from the table. They had clearly been poring over them all morning. She scanned the copy, with Izzie pointing out particularly choice bits to her.
“Well, good old Pokey Sue.” Maddy laughed. “She’s really stuck the knife in, hasn’t she? The old bat. She’s right off my Christmas card list. Will always eating McDonald’s indeed! And I don’t think I’ll be buying Minstrels in the village shop either by the look of it. Oh lovely Linda Meades. She didn’t hold back either, did she? And who’s Mrs. Evelyn Williams? Never heard of her.”
Izzie lost it completely. “Maddy, don’t you realize what this all means?” she stormed, hands on hips. “There is no way that Tessutini are going to sign now. I tried Geoff this morning but he’s not answering the phone.”
“Perhaps he’s topped himself with grief.”
“Maaaaaddy!”
Maddy realized she’d been teasing too long. “Oh, sweetheart, fear not. They signed yesterday. It’s all settled.” There was a stunned silence.
Izzie opened and closed her mouth. “How?”
“Because, my darling, I took the bloody contract to New York and—” she paused “—and delivered it to Tessutini by hand.”
“You did what?”
“Broadway sends its love.”
Izzie sat down hard on a chair. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell us? This has been about the worst weekend of my life.”
Maddy sat down beside her, pushing the coffee cups out of the way, and put her hand on Izzie’s. “I’m sorry. I know I should have, but I couldn’t just in case it all went wrong. Those pictures were all my fault. I could have blown it for you, the girls, Jean Luc, everyone, and I had to sort it out myself. It just sort of came to me on Friday, so I went to London, to Hewlitt’s, and collected the contracts—they were a bit surprised and said it was highly irregular—then I booked a ticket, which wasn’t that easy either, and I rang To—Tessutini and said I was coming to New York anyway. They seemed a little surprised, but, well if I learned anything over the last twelve months, it’s how to bullshit, and they seemed happy with my explanation. Thanks.” She picked up the coffee Marcus placed in front of her and cupped the mug in her hands. “I didn’t see them actually put their names on the bottom; Geoff told me they had yesterday.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No, actually, he left a message, but then . . . I didn’t have my phone turned on.”
“I know,” said Izzie, her eyes on fire with anger. “I must have called you twenty times. Don’t ever, ever do that to me again! It was like the time when Simon died. I was worried sick.” Her eyes filled with tears and Marcus squeezed her hand. Maddy leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Izzie, I know it was wrong, but I had to do it. Anyway, it’s done now. We’re in the clear.” She pulled something out of her bag. “I got this for you—best thing Kennedy could offer, I’m afraid.” And she handed the package to Izzie.
As she pulled open the bag and fished out a bottle of Clarins “Relax” bath foam and the flimsiest, pinkest, laciest knickers from the bag, Izzie looked momentarily bewildered then, sniffing, a broad smile came over her face and she threw her arms around Maddy.
“You bloody cow!”
“Now listen. Here’s orders. You go and get in the shower. Gallons of hot water, big squirt of that, then new knickers on and your very best combats and naughtiest T-shirt.” She helped her up and directed her toward the kitchen door, patting her on the bum as she went. “And, Izzie, don’t forget the makeup. We can celebrate!”
As Izzie made her way upstairs, wiping her runny nose childishly on her sleeve, Maddy turned back to the men sitting silently at the table. There was a pause.
“She was very worried, Maddy. You shouldn’t have done that to her,” said Marcus after a moment. She looked hard at him.
“I know, and I realize now that sometimes we all keep things from people when we should tell them, don’t we? But this time I think I was really doing what was best.” He clearly registered what she was saying, then nodded his head slowly in agreement.
“I didn’t just do it for myself, Marcus. I went there because it was the only way. I still don’t know whether Tessutini saw the pictures before they signed, but that’s academic now. I was just trying damage limitation.”
“You must be tired after so much traveling,” Jean Luc interrupted, perhaps sensing the uncomfortable atmosphere. “Have you had a breakfast? I bet you haven’t.” He walked over to the toaster. “One slice of this revolting cardboard stuff or two?”
“Two please.” Marcus was still looking at her. “Truce?” she said quietly.
For the first time he smiled a genuine smile at her. “Okay, truce. And thanks, Maddy.”
“I did it for my mate.”
“I know.”
She was halfway through her second piece of toast and reading more thoroughly the hatchet-job news items in the tabloids on the table when her mobile rang.
“Hello?” she said, mouth full of crumbs.
“Maddy, it’s Peter.”
She swallowed rapidly. “Hi.”
“You’ve certainly got yourself all over the papers, my love.”
“Yes, I know. Reputation in tatters. I don’t think we’ll have our own TV show now, do you?”
He laughed deeply. “Unlikely, but you never know. Look what disgrace did for the Hamiltons.”
Maddy giggled. It was good to hear him knock the whole situation back into some sort of perspective. “Listen, Maddy, I don’t suppose you’ve seen the FT, have you?”
“No, frankly, but we pretty much have every other paper here. Do they do a gossip column?”
“Not of any interest. But, Maddy, there’s a feature about the sale, and it’s got some information in it you may not want to hear. Can you get hold of a copy?”
She fished out her purse and her keys, mouthed to Marcus and Jean Luc that she was just nipping out to get some fags, and ran out down the drive to her car, ignoring Jean Luc’s frown. The nearest place she knew might have a copy was the garage on the bypass. No joy. Two shops later, and still no FT—well, it was hardly popular Ringford reading matter—so she headed for the center of town and, pulling up on a double yellow line and sticking on her hazard lights and sunglasses, she ran into WHSmith.
She didn’t open the paper until she was in a lay-by on the bypass again. There on page three was the story: “Tessutini Buy and Bury Paysage Enchanté.” Bury? What was this?
As predicted, American cosmetics giant yesterday announced the acquisition of the small UK natural cosmetics brand Paysage Enchanté. The amount the company paid for this young but highly successful enterprise has not been disclosed, but commentators suggest the figure was well beyond the company’s value. “We thought it would be an excellent addition to our portfolio,” said Tessutini CEO, Tom Drake, in New York last night—the empire also includes U.S. brands like Agnès Broussard—“but we have subsequently decided that it is uneconomical to transfer the manufacturing operation.” “This move is extraordinary,” said Graham Fields, of bankers HBFR. “One can only imagine that in view of falling profits in this sector, Tessutini decided to buy the brand in order to take it out of the competition.” Tessutini’s share price fell a further ten points after news of the takeover.
Maddy dropped the paper onto her knee. The bastard! The complete and utter bastard. They’d been shafted. All that bunkum about “valuable asset” and how impressed they were with the company. They just wanted them out of the picture. What galled her most now was how much more they should have asked for the sale. If they were that desperate to get rid of them, they might have stumped up even more.
She looked out over the wet fields and the hills beyond, shrouded in a blue haze with the threat of more rain. What had she done? She’d behaved like a bitch in heat and had slept with Tom Drake for nothing. Well, to no significant end anyway. He’d have signed the contract even if she’d appeared topless on page three of the Sun.
Cars shot past her, sending spray up behind their wheels. People rushing about in their busy lives, and hers felt as though it was in ruins. The money in the bank was one thing, but shame was the price she had had to pay. She could feel her heart pumping hard. What would Geoff’s reaction be?
She picked up her phone and tried to call him. Where could he be? It struck her as odd that he hadn’t called or made contact in some way. He must be as surprised as she was by the news.
She started up the engine again and headed back to Hoxley.
Izzie, fresh from her bath, hair fluffy and uncontrollable as before—but clean at least—was clearing up the breakfast debris.
“Got the knickers on?”
“Yes, thanks. They’re scrummy.”
“Now you’re rich you can keep your thieving hands off mine, okay! Where’re Marcus and Jean Luc?”
Izzie closed the dishwasher and turned it on. “Jean Luc took one look at what Pru had provided for lunch—she’s at the barn and coming back later—and announced he was off to the deli to buy a celebration lunch. He took Marcus with him, which was quite tactful, I thought.”
“He’s being great, isn’t he? Marcus, I mean.”
Izzie leaned against the humming machine, drying her hands on a tea towel. “I suppose so, but it’s all a bit forced. Remember having a row with your best mate at school and then making up, and lending her all your favorite crayons to make sure she was still your friend?”
“And probably your Sindy doll too.”
“Quite. All a bit false, really, but things feel more equal now. We’ve both learned something, but we’ll have time to think about it when all this shit is over.”
Maddy pulled out the paper from her bag. “It’s not the end of it, I’m afraid. We’ve been well and truly screwed.” Oh the irony of that statement.
Izzie scanned the story fast, her eyes racing over the copy. When she raised them again to Maddy, they were wide with emotions that ranged from disbelief to abject fury. “Why?” she asked weakly.
“It seems we made more of an impact than we thought.” Maddy went over to Izzie’s fridge, hoping to find a bottle of wine. It was still early, but what the hell. Pulling out the cork from the half-full bottle and smelling the contents—well, you couldn’t always be sure with Izzie’s fridge—she poured them both a glass.
“It wasn’t just us. I think, as Pru said some time ago, we just hit some back-to-nature nerve when it was ripe for the hitting. Don’t worry, the pendulum will swing back and people will all be doing something equally silly before long.”
“But it all seems such a waste.” Izzie had the look of someone who had been boxed around the ears and was reeling.
“No, Izzie, it wasn’t a waste at all. It was amazing. Unreal, actually.” Her zeal increased. “We had a ball. We were brilliant, we were inspired! And now”—she grasped Izzie’s hands, nearly spilling her drink—“we are rich!”
They hugged each other as hard as they could and danced an awkward little jig around the room.
“We all ought to party. Have you spoken to Geoff?” asked Izzie between gasps. “Where is he, by the way? You’d have thought he’d have been a bit nearer the coal face of things.”
“I was wondering that too. Shall we try to call him again?” Maddy dug out her phone, just as it started to ring. The screen showed “Private number.” “Perhaps this is him. Hello?”
“Hi, Maddy.” Her face blushed deeply as she recognized that deep accent and she turned away from Izzie as quickly as she could and left the room.
“Hello. How did you get my number?”
“There isn’t much I can’t find out if I need to.” She fumed at the arrogance of the man and hated that in spite of herself the timbre of his voice managed to make her shiver. “It had to be done, Maddy.” She knew he wasn’t referring to the acquisition of her mobile number.
“Were we that much of a threat?”
“Potentially, yes. It wasn’t just you, though. It was the way you were leading people, whether you meant to or not. You are both more clever than you thought.”
She wandered into the sitting room and sat down on Izzie’s piano stool, silently running her fingers up and down the keyboard. “But what about the photo, Tom? I suppose that wouldn’t have changed anything?”
“Oh, no,” he said gently. “It wouldn’t have mattered at all. In fact, it was more of an insurance policy.”
A germ of suspicion began to grow in her mind. “A what?”
“In case you refused to sell. We had to bury the brand somehow.”
“You bastard! You arranged the whole thing!”
There was a pause down the line. “We’d had you both covered for ages, just waiting until you made a slipup. Unfortunately, it was you who did it first.” He waited for her to say something.
“Do you really imagine that just by burying our brand women are going to come flocking back to liposomes and antioxidants? This wasn’t just about cosmetics, it was about the way women feel about themselves today. They are so overcommitted and neurotic about juggling child care and working, and you are even playing on their insecurities about their looks. We gave them a chance to reassess it all.”
“Maddy, I have shareholders to answer to. I’m not interested in some half-assed sociological theory. We know our market. It was my job to turn around the company’s faltering fortunes. We had to get rid of you somehow, and it was buy you or discredit you.”
“How thoughtful.” Buy you? From somewhere in the back of her mind another realization dawned. Where had the buyout idea come from? Her mind ran over the events of the last few weeks since Geoff’s late-night call about the offer and Geoff’s enthusiasm to push it through and Geoff’s very tiny, tiny error when he had revealed that he knew Tom Drake was a “great guy.”
“You were in with Geoff, weren’t you?”
Tom laughed deeply. “He’s a very useful guy, your Geoff. I’d had dealings with him and Hewlitt Pritchard before and, oh serendipity, found out he was working for you. I simply contacted him and told him it would be worth his while to persuade you to sell to us.”
“And was it?”
“Oh, I think so.” No wonder they hadn’t heard from Geoff in days. He was probably sunning his carefully honed body right at this moment on a yacht moored off Antigua, slimy little git.
“God, you had the whole thing covered, didn’t you?” Incredulous at the deceit of it all, she could feel her anger rising. “You didn’t miss a shot. You knew about Simon, Marcus Stock, even the state of Izzie’s marriage, Bôite Bleue too probably—”
“No, you actually surprised me with that one. It was good going to land them, I’ll give you that.”
She wouldn’t be stopped. “What else did you know about us?”
“Well, I sure as hell know you don’t have a brother.”
“Okay, so I lied, but it was nothing compared to the depths of your deception. And what else is there? Do you know what my kids eat for breakfast? My mother’s national insurance number? The color of my underwear?” What on earth had made her say that?
“Yes, Maddy. I know the color of your underwear.”
She saw red. “And that too. Was that part of the plan? God, how you must have enjoyed watching me make such a fool of myself. And you just held out your hands and let me fall into them. Was that all in the great scheme, Tom? Well, was it?”
There was a pause. “No, Maddy, that wasn’t in my plan. That was something else. That was the real thing.”
She thought about his note he’d left in her bag at the hotel. “And that’s your idea of ‘something else,’ is it? A curt little message saying, ‘That was an unforgettable way to close the deal’?”
“That wasn’t all I put though, was it?” Maddy didn’t answer. “So would you want to resume negotiations?”
“Frankly, I’m too damned angry to want to do anything with you. And how do you think I felt when I discovered you’d paid my hotel bill? Christ, Tom, that’s what men do when they spend the night with a hooker.”
“Okay, Maddy. I’m sorry. That was insensitive, and perhaps I didn’t handle it too well.”
“Too right. And then you sneak off without signing the contract—”
“I was always intending to sign it—photo or no photo—but I had to have it witnessed. Would it help if I told you you look beautiful when you are sleeping and that Sunday night blew me away?” She felt her stomach turn. Damn him.
“Why didn’t you tell me you would have signed anyway?”
There was a pause. “That would have taken away the fun.”
“You bastard.”
“Would you have slept with me anyway?” For a moment he didn’t sound so confident.
She heard Jean Luc’s Range Rover pull up in the drive outside her window and the men’s voices as they got out. Then a second car behind it. Maddy craned to look out of the window and saw it was Pru’s. “Tom, I have to go now. There are people here.”
“Before you go, Maddy, I’m sorry it had to be like this. It was strictly business. But what happened between us, that was all about you and me. And it’s not over.” That arrogance was back again.
“Oh, I think it is, Tom. Find someone else to screw over.” And she cut the line dead.
She turned round slowly at a movement behind her and saw Izzie leaning up against the doorjamb, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help catching the end of that. Is everything all right?”
“Er, yes, I guess.”
Izzie thrust her hands into her pockets and scuffed her foot on the carpet. “Maddy, I’ve no right to ask this, but you didn’t do anything stupid in New York, did you?”
The front door opened and Jean Luc, Marcus, and Pru barged into the hallway, arms laden with carrier bags, talking animatedly. Maddy and Izzie looked at each other before the moment was lost and celebrations took over.
“Stupid?” said Maddy quietly. “Maybe. But sometimes we all do things we regret. Izzie, Marcus needs your forgiveness. You both need to put it behind you.”
“Yes, mate. I think we’re getting there.” They linked arms and went into the noisy kitchen to join the others.