Good at Games (17 page)

Maeve, arriving home from a productive tour of Clifton's thrift shops an hour later, filled them in on all the details. She had kept every edition of every newspaper to show Jaz and Celeste what they had missed while they'd been away.

“It's like a fairy tale, wouldn't you say?” She jabbed happily at the front page of the
Express
. “Isn't that just the most gorgeous photo you ever saw? Did you ever see a couple so happy?”

You mean like Bill and Hillary Clinton
, Jaz wanted to say. That
happy?

It was only a photograph. It didn't mean anything. The camera lied. Jaz knew that better than anyone. After all, how many times had he been caught by the paparazzi looking perfectly sober when in reality he'd been out of his tree?

“And here's Harry with the two children he saved. And there he is with the bandages off his head… See, that's better, isn't it? Will you look at those lovely glossy dark curls? He's up for all manner of bravery awards,” Maeve told them with enormous pride.

“Sure you wouldn't like to marry him yourself, Maeve?” said Jaz.

“What, and have Suzy chasing after me with a frying pan in one hand and a steak knife in the other? She's in love, bless her. You can see it in her eyes.” Pointing to yet another photograph, in the
Daily Mail
this time, Maeve dragged an Oxfam bag onto her lap and happily pulled out a man's vest. “I bought this for Harry. Isn't it a find? Thought he might like to wear it for the wedding.”

The vest was emerald-green satin, with maroon Lurex stripes. Even Elton John might have winced a bit at the sight of this one.

Yesss, there is a God
, thought Jaz.

“I'm sure he will,” he told Maeve. “It's…perfect.”

Celeste was poring over one of the pictures taken at the first press conference.

“What on earth was Suzy thinking of here?” In amazement she pointed to the yellow-and-purple zigzag scarf. “I knew she had diabolical taste in clothes, but this is ridiculous.”

* * *

The corner Suzy had found herself painted into was getting smaller by the hour. Having fully intended to be totally honest with Jaz, she rapidly encountered a couple of problems.

First, Lucille was sitting there listening to every word.

Second, Suzy's hackles had risen the moment she'd seen the look on Jaz's face when he'd opened the front door.

It was the kind of look a father might give his daughter when she tells him she's chucking her job in high finance and running away to join the ecowarriors.

It was definitely the kind of look that made Suzy want to kick him.

Smirking, he said, “Oh, Suzy, you cannot be serious,” like John McEnroe. “Pleeease tell me this is all a windup.”

If Jaz had been nice about it, Suzy realized later, and Lucille hadn't been there, she would have told him exactly that. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Instead, thanks to his patronizing attitude—and her own pride—she found herself saying breezily, “Oh, I know. I'm
totally
messing up my life. I'd
so
set my heart on marrying yet another clapped-out alcoholic rock singer and instead, I end up with some
really
good-looking superhero. Oh dear, oh dear, major calamity. Where
did
I go wrong?”

“Beautiful house,” said Lucille, ignoring Suzy's tirade and gazing around the massive marble hallway. She peered up at the modern, stained glass chandelier at the head of the staircase.

“She's getting the hang of you,” Jaz told Suzy with a grin. “At the first sign of an argument, change the subject.” To Lucille he said, “Good move. Come on through. Did you manage to get those flabby dogs home in one piece?”

“Their owner had bowls of chopped-up hamburgers waiting for them.” Lucille shrugged. “What can you do? I'm just the dog walker. When I tried telling her she shouldn't feed them so much, she told me I was heartless and mean.”

Celeste, drifting out to meet them, said, “And all you're doing is trying to help. I know how you feel—Suzy's exactly the same when I suggest she should go on a diet.” She paused for effect and smiled at Lucille. “Hello again. And you have to live with her. I bet you wish now you'd gone to the Salvation Army hostel, like I said.”

“Maeve!” shouted Suzy, heading for the kitchen from which sublime cooking smells were drifting. “Pour me a massive drink!”

Over dinner, and with Maeve's encouragement, Suzy grew into her role of besotted bride-to-be. She was damned if she was going to let Jaz jeer at her.

“We thought Thornbury Castle for the wedding,” she announced.

Maeve sighed. “So romantic.”

“Harry wondered if you'd like to be his best man,” Suzy told Jaz.

He looked horrified. “You must be joking. I don't even know him!”

“OK, but you could give me away.”

“Sounds more like it.” Jaz grinned. “Giving away my ex-wife, handing her over to the next poor sucker.”

“Like selling an old car you don't want anymore,” Celeste joined in. “Hardly able to believe that someone is gullible enough to be taking it off your hands.”

“Stop it now,” Maeve scolded. “When's it going to be, love?”

“Oh, as soon as Harry's out of his casts.
Hi!
wants to feature it in its Christmas issue.”

“What I don't get,” Jaz said, “is you told me you were never going to marry again. You swore you never would. And now…this.”

“Of course I said that. Blimey, I'd just come out of the marriage from hell.” Suzy rolled her eyes at his stupidity. “But everything's different now. I met Harry, and we fell in love with each other. He's perfect for me.”

“He is, he is,” Maeve agreed dreamily. “He's like a real life James Bond. When that reporter phoned yesterday to speak to Jaz about it, I told him his paper should set up a fan club and sell T-shirts with Harry's face printed on them. He thought that was a grand idea.”

T-shirts.

Harry the Hero T-shirts.

Suzy suppressed a shudder of alarm.

But Jaz was smirking again. He clearly found the idea ludicrous.

“Jaz had a fan club once,” Suzy told Lucille, her tone conversational. “Of course, that was years ago, before he became a washed-up has-been.”

Jaz had chosen the music that was murmuring quietly in the background. Noticing that Lucille was familiar with the track currently playing—her lips were moving silently along with the vocals—he said, “D'you like Nina Simone?”

Lucille looked startled, almost guilty. “Ummm…yes.”

“Oh dear, you've got taste.” Jaz pulled a sympathetic face. “It can't be easy for you, sharing an apartment with Suzy.”

Glad to get off the subject of weddings and fan clubs and T-shirts with Harry's face on them, Suzy said, “Has it ever occurred to you that I could be the one with taste and the rest of you are all just hopelessly tone-deaf?”

“So who are you going to have singing at your wedding?” said Jaz. “The Smurfs?”

Suzy shrugged, feeling sorry for him.

“The thing is, you think that would be oh-so-terrible. But I don't. I think it'd be great.”

“But you're into real music.” Jaz turned his attention back to Lucille. “That's a relief anyway. Tell me who else you like.”

“Ooh,” cried Celeste, jumping up from the table. “I know!”

Bemused, Lucille said, “Chris Rea, Van Morrison, Mary J. Blige…”

“Hang on, it's here somewhere. I brought it down earlier.” Celeste was over by the stereo now, riffling through a pile of loose tapes. “Ah, here we are! This is the kind of music Lucille
really
likes…”

Lucille watched, mystified, as the Nina Simone CD was abruptly ejected and a cassette slotted into the tape deck.

Moments later her skin began to crawl as the opening notes flooded the room.

Triumphantly, Celeste upped the volume.

“Tuh,” said Suzy. “Call that music? Sounds like Björk, trapped in a trash can.”

“Turn it off,” croaked Lucille, breaking into a sweat.

“Björk, trapped in a trash can, having her teeth pulled out by a mad dentist.” Suzy started to laugh. “Oh well, if this is
real
music, I'm glad I'm a pleb. Give me New Kids on the Block any day.”

Recognizing the tune—such as it was—Jaz frowned and said, “This is the thing you were playing upstairs earlier. I don't get it. Why would—”

“It's you, isn't it?” Celeste turned joyfully to address Lucille. “That's you, singing. I wasn't sure at first, but it's definitely your voice.” She giggled. “Do tell. Did you write the song as well?”

Lucille leaped up from the table, raced across the room, and snatched the tape from the machine so fast it unraveled like knitting.

“You had no right to do that,” she shouted at Celeste. Crimson blotches of embarrassment had sprung up over her neck and shoulders and she was shaking with rage. “How dare you…how dare you! You
stole
that tape…”

Belatedly putting two and two together, Suzy said, “If you don't give her a slap, I will.”

“You're not serious,” said Jaz. “That wasn't really you?”

Maeve said diplomatically, “Well, I liked it. I think you have a grand voice, love. Very…original.”

Celeste looked bewildered. She held up her hands in surrender. “I didn't mean to upset you, truly. It was just a joke.”

Lucille was longing to slap Celeste, but she was here as a guest in Jaz's house. Innate good manners—much to her disgust—got the better of her and kept her tightly clenched hands down by her sides. Only the gentle rattle of the beads in her hair betrayed the fact that she was still trembling.

In a low voice, Lucille said, “It's not funny, OK? If you ever touch any of my things again, I'll kill you.”

“Now, now, girls.” Maeve held up a serving spoon. “Who's for another helping of coq au vin?”

“Anyway,” Suzy said hotly, “what Maeve said just now was right—Lucille
does
have a grand voice. It's
true
,” she added, because Jaz was giving her one of his looks. He clearly thought he was going to have to do the decent thing—lie through his teeth and tell Lucille her tape was a work of towering genius.

Lucille sat back down. “Look,” she said firmly, “can we just forget this?”

“No, we can't,” Suzy countered, even more firmly. She turned back to Jaz. “I don't know what that tape's all about, but Lucille's a fantastic singer.”

“I'm sure she is.” Jaz really wished Suzy wouldn't do this to him.

“I mean it. Better than that Nina Simone girl any day.”
Well,
Suzy silently amended,
any day apart from the one Lucille had made that weird tape.

“Yes, yes,” murmured Jaz.

“She's a professional,” Suzy went on, exasperated. “She sings in clubs and bars. The only reason I didn't tell you before was because Lucille made me promise not to. She's a very modest person…”

“I'm not surprised,” Celeste murmured in an undertone.

“Oh,
do
shut up.” Marching around the table, Suzy stopped at Lucille. “Right, well, this is easily solved.”

“Oh no it isn't,” said Lucille.

“Don't be such a wimp.” Suzy held out her arms and tried to yank her to her feet. “Go on, sing!”

“I will not,” hissed Lucille, hanging on to her chair for dear life.

“Suzy,” Jaz said wearily, “leave the girl alone. Please.”

“I want you to hear her! How else can I prove I'm telling the truth?”

“You don't have to. We believe you.”

“Yes, but—”

“Lucille, do you want to sing for us?” Jaz asked reasonably.

“No,” said Lucille, her knuckles white where she was still clinging to the chair.

“There, you see? She really doesn't want to.” Jaz gave Suzy his I-mean-it look. “Now put her down this minute.”

To Lucille's immense relief, she did.

“This is ridiculous.” Suzy sat down and helped herself to more mashed potato from the oval dish in front of her. “Lucille didn't want you to know she was a singer because she didn't want you to think she was some kind of groupie.”

“Not groupie,” said Lucille. “I didn't mean groupie.” She turned to look at Jaz. “I just thought you might feel…you know…”

Jaz nodded. He knew exactly what she was trying to say.

“It's OK.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “But I still can't figure out the tape. What happened there?”

The colored beads rattled as Lucille shook her head.

“I was an idiot. This bloke heard me singing one night at the Pineapple. He said I had talent and persuaded me that what I needed was a demo tape to send to people in the business. For two hundred pounds he said he'd produce it for me in his recording studio.” She paused, embarrassed. “He was very flattering and I was daft enough to believe him…even when the recording studio turned out to be a broom closet under the stairs in his house. Of course, when he sent me the tapes a week later, I realized it was a scam. The backing track was out of sync with the vocals, the acoustics were diabolical, and the tapes were so warped and distorted, you could barely tell it was me. Of course, when I went around to his house he called me a lying bitch and slammed the door in my face.”

“Bastard!” yelped Suzy, outraged. “You should have gone to the police.”

“I'd paid him in cash. There was no way of proving the tapes had been made by him. Anyway, I felt quite stupid enough already.” Lucille's smile was crooked. “It didn't do a huge amount for my confidence. I thought if I had been any good, he wouldn't have buggered up the tapes in the first place.”