Flawless (37 page)

Was there more to her claims than he’d imagined? Was it possible that whoever his little sister had so needlessly irritated last year was now extending their long arm of retribution toward him?

He glanced at the clock on his BlackBerry—five fifteen; where the fuck was the tow truck?—and then at the calendar. Scarlett should have landed at Heathrow three hours ago. As soon as he got this mess with the car sorted out, he’d call and have it out with her. If she wanted to risk her own skin pursuing some hopeless save-the-nig-nogs campaign, that was up to her. But if she thought she could turn his life upside down with impunity, goddamn it she had another thing coming.

After a nightmare two hours at Heathrow—British Airways had somehow managed to lose her luggage, necessitating an endless round of form filling before she could catch the tube home—Scarlett finally collapsed through the door of her flat at half past six at night.

Christ, it looked depressing. With hindsight, she really ought to have rented the place out. But when she’d left for LA in January, she’d still been kidding herself that the move was temporary, and getting a tenant felt uncomfortably like admitting defeat. Instead, she’d arranged for Mrs. Minton from downstairs to keep an eye on the place and pop in every now and then to open the windows and vacuum up the worst of the dust. This she had clearly done. The whole flat smelled of wood polish and carpet cleaner, and there was some horrid blue gunk down the toilet. She’d even gone out and bought a bunch of lilies from the market in an effort to make the place a little more welcoming, and changed the sheets on Scarlett’s ridiculously big bed. But nothing could quite eradicate the feeling of emptiness that hung in the air as Scarlett wandered from room to room. All the warm,
homely atmosphere seemed to have been sucked out along with the carpet dust. From the empty grate in the sitting room to the bare, disinfected fridge, the entire place seemed to be enveloping Scarlett with a cold reproach, as if to say “and where the hell have
you
been?”

She was desperate to have a bath, but there was no hot water, and when she went to turn the boiler on the pilot light was dead as a doornail. It was turning out to be that sort of a day. Skulking into the sitting room, she turned on all the lights—perhaps some hundred-watt illumination would lift her mood?—and lit the fire with the last of the Tesco extra-long matches before grabbing the bedspread and blanket from her bed and dragging them onto the sofa. Deciding to order some takeout—fish and chips from The Pie Shop should hit the spot—she picked up the phone and was surprised to see the red message light flashing. The recorded message told people not to leave voice mail here but to try her LA number. Maybe it was her parents, calling to welcome her home?

Close, but no cigar. Hitting the
PLAY
button, she found herself greeted by a torrent of abuse from her brother. It was all a bit confusing, but he seemed to be accusing her of having had him followed or some such nonsense. She caught the name O’Donnell and the tail end of a typical Cameron rant about Trade Fair and how she was in over her head, but she deleted the rest of the message before she got to the end. Whatever his problem was, she had no doubt he’d fill her in up at Drumfernly this weekend. She was far too tired to deal with it now.

The second call was from Nancy, sounding happy and excited. She deleted that message too, deciding it was quicker to call straight back and hear the good news, whatever it was, in person.

“Omygoditsyou!” Nancy picked up after one ring, in full-on hyperactive mode. Scarlett must have caught her right after her midmorning quadruple espresso. “Thank God. Did you get my message? I have
soooo
much to talk to you about.”

Scarlett, feeling desperately weary, was about to explain that she hadn’t heard the message, but had barely drawn breath before Nancy started up again.

“He is gorgeous; he is divine. I don’t know where to start!” she squealed. Then, as if registering that Scarlett had not yet spoken, added, “But how are you, sweetie? How was your flight? Must have been nice not to have to listen to Jake ‘I put the
me
in Meyer’ the whole way.”

“It was,” lied Scarlett. “The flight was fine.”

“OK, good, so, Che Che,” said Nancy, back on message now that the pleasantries were over.

“Who?” asked Scarlett.

“Che Che. The guy I told you about.”

“You slept with a guy called
Che Che
? What is he, a maracas player in a Cuban band?”

“Why do you assume I slept with him?” Nancy feigned outrage. “We only met last night. What are you saying? That I’m some kind of slut?”

“OK,” said Scarlett, “so you didn’t sleep with the maracas player—”

“He is not a maracas player. And of course I fucking
slept
with him,” laughed Nancy. “Jesus, are you kidding me? With the body that guy had on him? Not to mention his—”

“All right, all right,” said Scarlett. “I get the picture.”

“The picture” turned out to be a lot more interesting with Che Che than with Nancy’s usual conquests. A black African painter—“Not African American,
real
African” as Nancy told her proudly—he’d fled to the States four years ago as a refugee from Sudan and made a name for himself on the LA art scene.

“He’s totally different from everyone else I’ve dated,” gushed Nancy. “God, Scar, I wish I could describe him to you. He has this strength, this presence. I think I’m gonna move in with him.”

“Nance,” Scarlett did her best to sound disapproving. “You’ve only known the guy twelve hours.”

“I know,” said Nancy, as if amazed by the situation herself. “But when you know, you know, right? Like you and Magnus?”

“I suppose so,” said Scarlett. She didn’t want to think about Magnus.

“Anyway, Boxie adored him on sight,” said Nancy. “The only fly in the ointment is my parents. You know what I mean. They’re not exactly…enlightened.”

Scarlett smiled at the understatement. Mr. and Mrs. Lorriman were decent people, but they made Mitt Romney look liberal. They’d almost certainly prefer for their only daughter to be abducted by aliens than for her to bring home a black boyfriend—never mind a Sudanese freedom fighter, or whatever this fellow was.

“I wouldn’t worry about that yet,” she said kindly. “Like I say, I’m sure Che Che’s wonderful, but you only just met. Maybe he won’t have to meet your parents?”

“He will,” said Nancy, seriously. “I’m telling you, Scar, you don’t get it. He’s the one. I’m gonna marry this guy.”

The conversation continued in this vein for another five minutes, with Scarlett finally hanging up when Nancy launched into an impromptu ode to Che Che’s “insanely huge” manhood. That was more than even Scarlett could stand on no sleep and an empty stomach.

Deciding a change of air might do her good, she abandoned the takeout idea and decided to walk to The Pie Shop instead. The rain had stopped, and it was only a ten-minute stroll down Portobello. Ducking into her bedroom to dig out some winter clothes, she pulled the first two sweaters she found on over her head and, teaming them with a pair of comedy Christmas reindeer gloves and matching hat left over from last year’s Christmas stocking, headed downstairs.

Opening the front door, she jumped a mile.

“Jesus! Oh my God, you frightened the life out of me.”

There, swaying on her doorstep, his finger on the buzzer to her apartment, was Jake.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping back onto the path into the pool of light thrown by the streetlamp. Only then could Scarlett see that his lip was bleeding and a bruise the size and color of a small plum had formed above his left cheekbone. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Nice hat, by the way.”

Blushing, she pulled the offending article off her head and stuffed it into her jeans pocket.

“What happened?” she asked. She reached up to touch his bruised face, but he instinctively pulled back.

“Oh, nothing,” he said unconvincingly. “I fell out with a bloke in the pub, that’s all. Arsenal fan, you know what that lot are like.”

“Hmm,” said Scarlett skeptically. “I see.”

In fact, he’d run into a guy he’d sold some dodgy diamonds to years ago, quite by chance—a guy who unfortunately wasn’t inclined to let bygones be bygones in the spirit of the season, as Jake suggested, and who had declined his offer of a drink with rather more force than Jake felt was strictly necessary.

“D’you want to come in?” said Scarlett, horrified by how pleased she was to see him. “I think I have some witch hazel and arnica cream in the bathroom. Although they’re probably past their sell-by date.”

“That’s all right,” said Jake, smiling drunkenly through the pain in his face. “So am I.”

He followed her back up the stairs, admiring the tight fit of her jeans on her perfect bottom, and wondering what excuse he could offer for his presence on her doorstep, once she got around to asking.

The truth was, he hadn’t been entirely honest with her about his movements after his Sierra Leone trip. His original plan was to go to Paris and see some old clients. But after two weeks of obsessing about Magnus, he decided he couldn’t stand it anymore, and had to do something either to confirm his doubts or lay them to rest. So he’d flown up to Seattle instead. And after a
little digging he had uncovered more than even he had bargained for.

It turned out that not only were Magnus and his wife not divorced, but three months ago they’d moved back in together—hence the “romantic” hotel breaks with Scarlett. Worse still, they had a two-year-old son.

“Make yourself at home,” said Scarlett, ushering him through into the sitting room where the fire was still blazing. “I’ll see what I can find for you in the bathroom.”

“I could murder a Scotch, if you’ve got any,” Jake called after her as she disappeared. The numbing effects of the tequila shots he’d been downing in the pub, before things turned nasty with the ex-client, were starting to wear off, and he suddenly felt in need of Dutch courage. On the flight back to London from Seattle he’d been rubbing his hands with glee at the prospect of finally opening Scarlett’s eyes about Shag-nus. But now that he was finally here, the thought of causing her pain seemed a lot less palatable. “Maybe some food if you’ve got any?”

“Sorry,” she called back. “I’m completely out of everything.” He could hear various bottles tumbling out of the medicine cupboard onto the tiled bathroom floor and smiled. For someone used to doing such delicate work with her hands, she could be a terrible klutz. “There’s a takeout menu by the phone. I’ll have fish and chips, and a green salad if they’ve got it. Otherwise mushy peas.”

Half an hour later, his face smeared in arnica and his lip still stinging from the witch hazel Scarlett had insisted on applying, ignoring his yelps of protest (“Oh for heaven’s sake stop whining. You’re worse than Boxford at the vet’s”), Jake was still no nearer to telling her what he’d come there to say. Ensconced next to her on the sofa, eating chunky fries smothered in salt and vinegar and rambling about his Africa trip—he skipped the part about Dr. Katenge’s orphanage, scared that she might think he was sucking up—he couldn’t seem to work out how to begin.
I went to
Seattle to snoop on your boyfriend
made him sound like a stalker.
Magnus has a kid
was too blunt.
I’m hopelessly in love with you and can’t stand watching you throw your life away on that lying toe-rag
was probably too honest at this early stage.

“I got some terrific deals in Jo’burg,” he said instead, chickening out again. “You’re gonna die when you see the stones.”

“I’m assuming you got the certificates of authenticity?” said Scarlett, eyeing him skeptically.

“Yes, Mum.” Jake gave a salute. “All diamonds present and correct. There’s nothing to trouble your conscience, don’t worry.”

“What about Danny? Did you bring back anything for him?” asked Scarlett. She didn’t want to shatter Jake’s good mood by probing further into his business ethics.

Jake shook his head. “No point. The poor sod can’t sell a dollar for ninety cents in New York. Brogan’s got him over a barrel.” He gave Scarlett a brief rundown of Danny and Diana’s financial woes. “Plus, and this is top, top secret so you can’t breathe a word,” he said, dispatching another fry to its doom in the gloomy recesses of his stomach, “Diana’s pregnant.”

“She is?” Scarlett sounded thrilled. “Oh, how wonderful! Danny must be over the moon.”

“Not so as you’d notice,” confessed Jake. “I mean, he loves her. But he’s feeling the strain, with business going down the shitter and O’Donnell dragging out the divorce. Then there’s Mum.”

Because of Minty’s decided dislike of her prospective daughter-in-law, Danny had persuaded Diana to keep mum about the baby, at least until things cooled down. Even so, the atmosphere at Casa Meyer so far this Christmas could only be described as toxic.

“Really?” Scarlett sounded surprised. “Your mother seemed so warm and funny when I met her. She was lovely to me.”

“That’s because you weren’t about to lead me down the aisle,” said Jake.

“I should say not!” Scarlett blurted out.

“It’s not personal, with Diana,” Jake explained. “It’s just the way it is in families like ours. You’re expected to marry a Jewish girl, ideally one whose mum and dad live down the road.”