Just Say Yes (3 page)

The card delivered to the Able & Lawson reception the following Monday morning came attached to a large potted plant. It had nondescript green-gray leaves but its main attraction was unmistakable: a proud red spike, about nine inches tall.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what on earth is that?” asked Letitia as a red-faced Lucy carried the plant, complete with ribbon-bedecked pot, into the office.

“It’s a
Vriesia
splendens
. A Flaming Torch,” said Lucy, placing the pot carefully on top of her filing cabinet. There wasn’t room for it; the small impatiens her mother had given her would have to be moved.

“This chap is seriously in love,” said Letitia, reading the card. “Either that or he’s had a blow to the head.”

“Actually, I think he’s overcome with guilt.”

Letitia settled herself in her black padded office chair and patted her bump. “I appreciate the gesture, but couldn’t he have sent something a little less practical? A dozen red roses maybe? Even carnations, if he’s truly strapped for cash.”

Lucy was almost certain that Letitia had never been strapped for cash in her life. Her idea of slumming it was buying a pair of knickers in the Victoria’s Secret sale.

“I suppose so, but maybe he thought I looked like a Flaming Torch kind of girl,” said Lucy. And actually, she would much rather have the plant than some grand gesture. The note was a little over the top, but it was so disarming, she couldn’t help but almost forgive him.

“On the other hand, five kisses is promising,” said Letitia. “Has he phoned you with a suitable fairy story yet?”

Right on cue, Lucy’s cell phone warbled out with the theme tune to
Lost
and she disappeared into the corridor. Five minutes later she was back.

“Well?” asked Letitia, midway through an organic muesli bar.

Lucy didn’t want to repeat her conversation because she knew what Letitia would think and probably say. She didn’t want to examine Nick’s alibi herself too closely. His explanation hadn’t been totally convincing and she was seriously wondering whether he deserved the benefit of the doubt or not.

“He says he got the cinemas mixed up,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, Lucy. Don’t tell me you’re going to fall for that.”

“Of course not! I’m not that gullible, Letty.” Lucy gave her best attempt at a scornful laugh. “I’m not going to be taken for a ride that easily by some guy. It was a pathetic excuse, but on the other hand, he’s only been in London a few months and it’s easily done. And he did say he waited ages outside the Odeon Swiss Cottage in the pouring rain. Maybe I should cut him some slack.”

“Doesn’t the man own a cell phone as well as weird plants?”

“He says the battery was dead.” Lucy slapped her forehead. “Doh! Blokes. What are they like, eh? They’d forget their brains if they had any.”

And besides, it wasn’t Nick’s brains she was interested in, she thought to herself, thinking of his chocolate-brown eyes and talented hands.

Letitia smiled benignly. “I admire you, Lucy,” she said. “I used to be trusting like you, but I’ve toughened up now. I’ve had to; otherwise people take advantage of your sweet nature.” She pulled an apple from her bag and opened a well-thumbed copy of
The
Little
Book
of
Labor
. “If you aren’t too busy, is there absolutely any chance of a teeny weeny glass of wheatgrass juice from that new Nectar place that’s opened?”

***

Fiona had been even less impressed with Nick’s floral tribute when she popped round to the flat the following Saturday to join Lucy on her latest fitness campaign: power walking round Kentish Town. Fiona was a bestselling crime writer and probably the most unromantic person Lucy had ever known. She was also serially suspicious and not just because she spent her whole life thinking up ingenious and horrible crimes.

After four years of marriage, her husband had run off with a glamour model and a large chunk of Fiona’s royalties. Since then, Fiona had vowed only to date men with an IQ that was smaller than their chest measurement. “That way, they’ll be too thick to fleece me,” her logic ran.

Lucy pulled on her trainers, hearing heavy breathing way before Fiona buzzed the door. There was panting too, and the sound of a tail thumping on the banisters, which could only mean one thing: Fiona had decided to bring Hengist with her.

“A potted plant. What is wrong with men these days?” declared Fiona at the sight of Nick’s Flaming Torch. Lucy had decided to bring it home with her and leave her mum’s Busy Lizzy on the cabinet.

Lucy zipped up her tracksuit top as they stepped out into the chilly autumn air. “It’s fine. You know I love plants.”

Fiona was following a “Get Fit with Your Dog” program but, so far, Lucy hadn’t known either of them to get much further than the lamppost at the top of the road. The problem was not so much Fiona’s allergy to physical exertion but Hengist’s fetish for street furniture. Today he headed straight for the street sign opposite the flat and refused to budge. Being a Great Dane, he usually got his way.

Fiona tugged in vain at his lead. It was like a flea trying to tug a juggernaut.

“Do you think they use superglue on those lampposts?” asked Lucy, trying not to laugh.

“Buggered if I know. Hengist, you villain. Hee-eel!”

“Let me try,” said Lucy, taking his lead. At that moment, Hengist spotted the Chihuahua from the tanning salon and took off at warp speed. “Whoa!” cried Lucy, as her arm was nearly wrenched out of its socket.

Fiona jogged alongside. “Still, this Nick guy”—
puff
—“leaving you in the lurch and”—
huff
—“sending a plant. It’s not promising. Don’t tell me you’re”—
puff
—“seeing him again?”

Hengist ground to a halt with a clatter of claws.

“Y-yes. T-tonight, as a matter of fact. We’re having a m-meal at m-my place,” panted Lucy. “N-not that it’s r-really any of your business, Fiona,” she added, just to show Fiona she was in control of the situation.

Fiona stopped to lean on a postbox. “On your head be it,” she said. “And Hengist, will you
please
leave that poor man’s leg alone!”

***

To stand a girl up once, Lucy decided later that evening, was suspicious but excusable. To do it twice in a row was definitely shittiness of the highest order. Despite her resolve not to invite Nick round to her flat on a first date, he’d somehow managed to get her to anyway. She was well aware of what a charmer he was and had determined not to be taken in. On the other hand… Nick was by far the sexiest guy she’d ever met, and even if she didn’t know him that well, did it really matter? Why should she play things safe? Why shouldn’t she take a risk for a change?

Eight o’clock came and went and there was still no sign of him. Lucy certainly wasn’t going to call him so she spent the time pacing the flat, plumping up cushions, then hastily trashing them again so that the place didn’t look too tidy. She didn’t want him to think she was a control freak. But what if it had some sort of subliminal odor which she’d become used to? Then again, Fiona would have told her about that. Fiona had a very sensitive nose, even better than Hengist’s.

By nine, her Jamie’s idiot-proof chicken casserole was a rock-hard mess and the bottle of French wine that had been chilling in the fridge was half empty.

“That’s it,” she declared as the hands on the kitchen clock crawled past ten. “You had your chance, Bagel Boy, and you blew it.”

Tipping the chicken on top of a pile of wilted salad, she headed for the bathroom. As she splashed cold water on her face, she ran through all the reasons why Nick seemed to have his cell phone switched off, why he hadn’t even called, why he’d let her down
again
. She liked to think of herself as a tolerant person, but if there was one thing she wouldn’t stand for, it was lying, and what else could Nick be doing other than deceiving her? Why else would he make promises, send flowers, and stand her up twice unless he had something to hide? As she lifted her head, she saw her face in the bathroom mirror and her expression hardened. No man, not even one as lush as Nick Laurentis, was going to stand her up twice and think he could get away with it.

Back in the sitting room, she was about to turn on the TV when a rogue thought struck her. Was she overreacting a tiny bit here? Letting what had happened with her mum and dad turn her into a bitter and twisted old crone before she’d even hit thirty—which wouldn’t have been surprising, considering her one experience of True Love. The truth was, she’d seen enough disappointment during her teenage years to last her a lifetime. Lucy’s dad had been a charmer like Nick and, having swept her mum off her feet (according to her mum, anyway), he’d proceeded to sweep several other women up in the same way.

By the time Lucy was twelve, she and her mum had left home to live with her gran four times after her dad’s “moments.” Those moments had all involved another woman, none of whom had been old enough to be Lucy’s mother, and, each time, he’d returned, contrite, begging to be allowed back. Each time, he’d wooed her mum back with flowers and tearful promises—wooed Lucy back too, with trips to Disneyland and (oh God, she was so easily bought then) a designer coat she’d been desperate for. Come to think of it, maybe that was where her allergy to lying had come from: seeing her dad do it so well and so often had given her a phobia about it.

By the age of fourteen, she was almost as seasoned to disappointment as her mother, and probably a lot more hardened. She already knew, then, that there was no way she was
ever
going to put up with what her mum had in her own relationships, no matter how charming and cheeky the guy was—no matter how much she wanted to kiss him, feel those sexy hands on her body…

No
way.

Flicking on the TV, she resisted the urge to check her cell phone one last time. She tugged open the fridge and reached for the bottle of wine. She poured another glass, grabbed a bottle of Evian for the inevitable three in the morning rehydration call, and headed for her TV with a
Lost
box set. Sawyer got naked in this episode and, for the purposes of lust, Lucy had A Thing about bad boys. Scumbags were a different matter.

“Lucy!”

“Bleurgh…”

As she peered over the top of the duvet, Lucy’s first thought was that someone was trying to break into her bedroom. They appeared to be doing it by lobbing bricks at the window and next they would probably get a ladder and crawl through the hole with an ax and have their evil way before stealing her complete
Sex
and
the
City
box set. She scrabbled about on the bedside table for her watch, saw the time, and lay back on the pillow with a groan. Another assault on the window had her jumping out of bed, stubbing her toe on the exercise bike, and pulling up the blind so hard it clattered against the window.

Her eyes adjusted slowly. Too slowly.
It
couldn’t be
. He wouldn’t dare. A man was standing at the bottom of the steps to the flat with a rose.

“Morning!” he called cheerfully.

Lucy blinked. “Nick?”

“Yes. Who did you think it would be?”

“What are you doing down there?”

“Hoping to say it with flowers?”

“Shhhh! You’ll wake up the neighbors!” she said, crossing her fingers and praying that Charlie, who lived below, had enjoyed a hard night and was dead to the world.

“So am I forgiven?”

No, actually, she thought, he wasn’t. Not even if he did have a great body and a cheeky smile and more flowers. She wasn’t going to forgive him unless he had a very good excuse for last night’s no-show. Closing the window, she pulled on a robe, debating whether to go down and let him in. She waited a few minutes before padding slowly down the stairs. He deserved to be kept waiting. It was only a shame it wasn’t pouring down outside.

“Sorr-ry,” he mouthed as she unlocked the door and poked her head round the jamb.

“And you actually expect me to let you in?”

His face fell. “Well, I was kind of hoping. I know you must be surprised to see me—”

“Surprised isn’t the word I’d use.”

“Pissed off, then.”

“You’re getting warmer.”

He nodded. “I don’t blame you, but I do have an explanation.”

“Involving what? Alien abductions? A multiple pile-up on the North Circular?”

At this last suggestion, he heaved a sigh. “Now, I’m afraid,
you’re
getting warmer.”

His last comment had her interested enough to open the door a little wider. Nick tugged at an imaginary forelock and held out the rose. “I really am most dreadfully sorry, Miss Lucy, but if you let me in, I can try and explain myself.”

He managed to sound both contrite and sexy and, to her annoyance, Lucy felt her resolve thawing a fraction of a degree. She reminded herself that, ultimately, she was in control of the situation. There would be no harm in letting him say his piece, surely. If she didn’t buy what he had to say, she could still kick him out. She also realized she was clutching the front of her robe tighter.