Fast Friends (22 page)

‘
Cami, this is Josh,’
said Loulou proudly, sliding her arm
back around his waist. ‘And this,
darling, is my friend Camilla whom you’ve heard me talking about.’

‘
I remember,’ he said
cheerfully, and Camilla realized that
he spoke with a slight Scottish
accent. ‘You were at school with
Lou
and Roz Vallender. Well, I love Lou, but I can’t stand the
sight of
that bitch Roz, so what do you think I’ll make of you?’

It was the
kind of blunt, verging-on-rude comment that Nico would have made and Camilla
relaxed instantly.

‘
I bet I can’t stand Roz more than you can’t stand
her,’ she
said, and Josh threw back his perfect head and laughed.

‘
Hey, I like you already. Lou, get us a beer, will you? We
have to
drink to this.’

‘I found out today that Roz is pregnant by the way,’
Camilla
told Loulou as she was handed an
ice-cold can of beer. She felt
no shame nor guilt at passing on such
private news.

‘
Poor baby,’ remarked Joshua, but Loulou was
fascinated. ‘How did that happen?’

‘In the
usual manner, I suppose.’

‘
But
who?’
persisted Loulou, her eyes alight with intrigue.
‘And how on
earth did you get to hear about it first?’

Then it clicked and she threw up her hands in an agonized,
helpless gesture. ‘Oh Christ! Nico. Poor you,
finding out like
that. He told you last night and
that ‘s
why you
left.’

‘
Wrong,’ said Camilla,
amused by the way Loulou’s mind
had raced wildly ahead and feeling
relieved because that really would have been an awful way to have found out.
Roz may have
been the catalyst, but at least
her pregnancy hadn’t. ‘I decided to leave last night. It wasn’t until this
morning that I saw Roz
and learned about the baby.’

She could tell that Loulou was biting
her tongue, simply
longing
to ask how that meeting had gone but feeling that just
for the moment she should keep quiet.

Joshua filled the moment of silence.
Having drained his can
of beer and
handed it back to Loulou, he said, ‘Got another one for me, angel?’ then turned
his eyes to the ceiling. ‘That Roz,
she isn’t
exactly a one-man woman, is she?’ he remarked
thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if Nico Coletto really is the father of
her
child?’

Chapter 21

Marbled sunlight filtered through the pale green leaves of
the
beech trees, bringing much needed warmth
to Roz’s cheeks.
The recent rain had left the long grass bright and
springy which she noticed as she strode back towards the house.

Walking into the village to pick up a newspaper had seemed
such a rural,
healthy
thing to do,
but choosing to do it the
morning after her announcement to the Press
had been a big
mistake. The inhabitants of
Littleton Grey, having overcome their initial self-consciousness at having a
media celebrity in
their midst, were showing signs of becoming
distressingly over familiar with her. And gossip concerning Roz Vallender was
so
much more fascinating than that about
widowed Mrs Everton
and John Davies, the sub-postmaster.

‘Says in the paper that that pop star chappie’s the
father,’ said
Maudie Thompson doubtfully, as
she counted out the change
with
maddening slowness amidst the cluttered, haphazard
interior of the village shop. ‘But he don’t drive a
blue car does
he? Isn’t his the black one?’

Bitch, thought Roz, smiling so that Mrs Thompson wouldn’t
guess what she was thinking. She lived here; she couldn’t make life difficult
for herself in Littleton Grey.

‘My brother drives a blue car, as a matter of fact. Maybe
you
were thinking of him?’ she suggested
sweetly. From the corner
of her eye
she could see a group of four teenagers dawdling in
the High Street
outside. "Thank you, Mrs Thompson.’

‘
Oh well, don’t forget
that we sell all that baby stuff here,’
said the woman, gesturing aimlessly towards the back of the
shop. ‘Everything
you need,
Miss
Vallender.’

Roz didn’t doubt it. She left the shop hurriedly, wishing
now
that she could jump into her car. Being
recognized was
something she was
accustomed to, but glimpsing the sly looks
on the faces of the teenage
girls as she passed them made her
uneasy.
Here in this small village, pregnancy outside wedlock
was still something of which to be ashamed. In
their eyes she
had been caught out; ‘in
the club’ and without a husband to
show for it.

‘
Hey, miss,’ one of them
yelled after her, while the others
burst
into giggles. ‘If you ever want a babysitter, I’ll do it. An’
I got all
Nico’s records. He’s the business. I’ll do the babysittin’ for free if he drops
me home after.’

‘
That ain’t all you’ll
do for free an’ all, Shirley Birkett,’
spluttered
one of the other girls, and they all collapsed with
laughter against the
front of the shop.

Village idiots, thought Roz viciously, burrowing into her
fur coat and ignoring them totally.
Damn,
she wished she’d brought her
car.

And now, as she rounded the corner
and the front of
the
cottage came into view, Roz swore again. A pearl-grey
Bentley was parked outside on the
drive. Her first thought
– reporters – faded with the realization that not many of
them drove Bentleys. Someone from the
TV company? A big
boss,
who had driven down to deepest Gloucestershire in
order to castigate her for daring to
become pregnant without
asking
first if it were allowed? She briefly considered slinking
back into the cover of the bushes and waiting
until whoever
it was disappeared, but at that moment the driver’s door
was thrown
open and the mystery solved.

Roz swore for the third time. For Christ’s sake, what was
her
mother
doing here?

‘You naughty girl, I’ve been waiting here for hours!’
declared
Marguerite Martineau, her black
kid-gloved hands upon her
narrow,
leather-clad hips. Then she opened her arms wide, in
the manner that
reminded Roz so strongly of school open days that she could almost smell chalk.

‘I’ve only been out for half an hour, mother,’ Roz told
her, as she kissed Marguerite’s amber-shaded cheek, ‘and if you’d used your
mobile you wouldn’t have needed to wait at all.’

‘Then it’s a shame you didn’t use yours, darling,’
reprimanded her mother triumphantly.

‘
I’m sorry. Come inside
and have a drink. It’s lovely to see
you again.’

Marguerite slipped her arm through her daughter’s as they
walked together across the gravelled driveway to the front door.

‘Of course it is, darling. In times like these a girl
needs her
mother. As you well know, Roz,’ she
added, catching the
expression in her
daughter’s dark eyes. For a brief moment,
Roz’s face reflected the painful memories her mother had
evoked. Recovering quickly she turned to her and
said: ‘Oh,
come inside and let’s have a drink.’

Marguerite Martineau, born with the
somewhat less enticing
name of
Margaret Trott, was looking good.

She’s fifty-five, Roz thought,
mentally counting on her
fingers. She must have had a face lift – when she had last seen
her two years ago she had had bags under her eyes, hadn’t
she? Now there were none, just fine tanned skin and those arresting topaz eyes.
As immaculately co-ordinated as ever, Roz was mildly surprised that she hadn’t
come down in a car that matched her outfit.

‘
So, darling,’ remarked
her mother brightly, leaning back in
her chair and lighting a cigarette
with a black and gold Dunhill
lighter which
did
match, ‘you’re pregnant. Any idea who the
father might be? And any
plans to marry him?’

Roz was too accustomed to her mother’s ways to be shocked.
And to be fair, although she did know who the
father of her
baby was, it was more
by luck than judgement that she had
been able to narrow it down with such
accuracy.

‘Since you obviously read about my news in the paper,’ she
said evenly, ‘you must also know who it is.’

‘
And are you going to make an honest man of
him?’

‘Now there’s
a question.’

Roz’s poor opinion of marriage had been founded early on
in her life having watched her parents plough five into the ground
between them. The very idea had horrified her.
What was the
point, after all, of tying oneself to a single person and
pretending
that you were going to be faithful
to them? At least, that was
what she had always thought, until now.

‘Tell me everything, darling,’ said Marguerite, trying
hard to sound cosy. ‘After all, I am your mother. And you know that nothing you
say will shock me.’

‘All right,’ Roz said cautiously, realizing that although
it was quite out of character for her, she did need to talk about it. My
hormones must be up the creek, she thought, feeling suddenly
alone and out of control. ‘Nico’s the father. I
didn’t exactly say
so to the Press, but when one of them hazarded a
guess, I didn’t deny it. I hope he doesn’t think I’ve done it deliberately.’

Her mother smiled and stubbed out her
cigarette. ‘If that
young man doesn’t know
by now what the Press are like, no one does. He isn’t exactly unused to their
attentions now, is he? But how does he
feel
about the news, sweetheart?
Why isn’t he here
with you? He is rather
gorgeous, I must say. You’ll have a
splendid looking baby, at least.’

Roz felt sick. As she leant across to pour coffee from the
jug into two wide cups, she noticed that her hands were shaking. Admitting
defeat was something she very seldom did.

‘That side of things isn’t working out too well,’ she
whispered
with reluctance. ‘It seems I’ve
finally met a man who isn’t
interested in me.’

‘But, for heaven’s sake, why not?’ exclaimed her mother
indignantly. Roz was her only child, after all. ‘He was interested
enough a few months ago. And he’s Italian, too! I
thought his
kind were supposed to adore children.’

‘
Only their own,
apparently. And this one
is
Nico’s,’ said
Roz, feeling hot tears behind her eyelids because her mother
was taking her side. ‘I wrote him a note and he
didn’t reply to it
so I phoned him up
and all he said was: "It’s not very likely to
be mine, is it?"
And then he hung up. I haven’t heard from him since.’

‘The ungrateful little shit!’ exploded Marguerite, topaz
eyes blazing as she snatched up the telephone from the coffee table.
‘Give me his number this minute, Roz, and let me
speak to
him.’

‘Mother, really!’ Despite everything, Roz started to
laugh. ‘What a very working-class line to take.’

Marguerite stared at the phone as if it were a kitten that
had just peed all over her hands, and dropped it back on to the table. Then she
had the grace to smile at her actions.

‘
It would sound a bit
silly, I suppose. But I still don’t
understand why he doesn’t want
you,
darling, regardless of the child. You’ve always had any man you cared to
choose.’

‘
It’s complicated,’
said Roz, fidgeting with the silk fringe of
the cushion beneath her arm.
‘You see, I was seeing a man at
around the
same time as I was . . . seeing . . . Nico, and by a bit
of bad luck he
turned out to be the husband of someone I was at school with. Do you remember
Camilla Avery-Jones?’