Just Say Yes (6 page)

Lucy tried a grin. “It’s OK. Just a lovers’ tiff.”

“Are you sure?”

She thought of the glass vase now wrapped in paper in the bin and finally had to bite back the tears. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Do you want me to make you a cup of tea anyway?”

She and Charlie had demolished a packet of Ginger Nuts when the door buzzed briefly again. Lucy set her mug down on the table.

“Lucy, it’s me,” came Nick’s low voice.

“Are you going to answer that?” asked Charlie as she stayed in her seat, wondering whether to let him in.

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you want me to open it?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll do it.”

“Lucy! Are you in there? I’ve got something for you,” she heard Nick call as she reached the door. He was standing in the corridor, clutching a brown paper bag in his hands, his face flushed. “I’ve been round every flea market and junk shop in north London,” he said breathlessly. “And I know this isn’t quite the same, but it’s the best I could do at short notice. I am really, really sorry for losing my temper.”

“I’ll be going then, Lucy, love,” said Charlie, picking up his messenger bag from the kitchen floor as Nick shuffled in.

“Hello, Nick. Nice to meet you again.”

A shadow of embarrassment crossed Nick’s face. “Hello, mate. Sorry about the noise.”

Charlie smiled graciously. “What’s fine with Lucy is fine by me. I’ll be here if you need me,” he whispered, brushing his lips across Lucy’s face. “Farewell for now.”

After he’d left, Lucy took the paper bag from Nick but didn’t open it.

“Aren’t you going to look inside?” he said, sounding disappointed.

“Maybe later.”

“It’s almost the same,” he murmured. “Not quite, but I did my best.”

“It’s the thought that counts, my gran would probably have said.”

“I should never have blown up in that way.” He held out the bag. “I’m in uncharted territory here, Lucy. The pressure’s making me freak out, but taking all the crap out on you is unforgivable. Look, why don’t you let me make you some supper?”

Lucy stared at the worried expression on his face, knowing that part of her was enjoying seeing him suffer.

“Or we can just open a bottle of wine and sit and talk things through,” he offered when she didn’t answer.

“Right now, I think I’d rather just have sex.”

The relief on his face was almost comical, then she felt the rasp of stubble against her skin as he kissed her, tentatively and hopefully. Already she was thinking of them being in bed together, relishing their passionate “making up,” and forgetting everything in the heat of the moment.

“Sex it is, then,” he whispered as they headed for her room.

The next morning at work, a huge bouquet of roses arrived, impressing even Letitia. But they hadn’t impressed Fiona. When Lucy had told her about Nick’s behavior later that week, her friend had snorted in derision.

“You’re just jealous because you’re on your own,” Lucy had retorted, finally stung by Fiona’s jibes. To which Fiona had replied: “I’d rather die alone and be eaten by Hengist than put up with Mr. Sodding Wonderful.”

After that, Lucy had stormed out of Fiona’s flat.

The weeks stretched out and there was still no phone call from Fiona, no exploratory text or test-the-water email. Lucy began to worry. They’d had spats before, of course, even rows that had ended in one of them walking out, but nothing that had ever lasted this long.

But she wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move. No way.

One Saturday morning Lucy was dawdling her way round the grocery store. Nick was doing a photo shoot and had promised he’d make it to the flat for dinner. She was fairly sure he meant it and was just loading some Häagen-Dazs into her basket when she heard a voice from the pet supplies aisle.

“Luce, is that you?”

Peering round the end of a dog chew display, Lucy saw the unmistakable profile of Fiona. They had to meet one day soon, and maybe Tesco’s was as good a place as any. At least it was public, so they could hardly start chucking tins of Pedigree Chum at each other.

“Lucy, it
is
you, isn’t it?”

“Hi, Fiona.”

It was too late to hide, even if she’d really wanted to. Fiona had abandoned her shopping cart and was headed toward her. They stopped about a foot from each other, like gunslingers at the OK Corral.

“I knew it was you,” she said as Lucy clutched the handles of her basket defiantly. Fiona was staring at her and frowning and Lucy guessed what was coming next. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”

“I thought it was time for a change,” said Lucy firmly.

Fiona’s silence said everything.

“Stop looking at me like that. This is my natural color, Fi!”

“No need to explain yourself to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Fine, then,” said Fiona with a sniff.

Privately, Lucy admitted that her new hairstyle must come as a surprise to Fiona. She’d had it jet black with purple highlights for a year until changing it to a nondescript brown bob.

Fiona narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I suppose it was his idea.”

“No, it was not his idea!” hissed Lucy indignantly.

Two pensioners turned and tutted so Lucy beckoned Fiona deeper into the dog-food aisle and lowered her voice. “It was
not
Nick’s idea, actually. I decided to dye it. I thought it was more appropriate for work.”

Fiona still looked doubtful.

Lucy was worried they really would end up hurling canned goods at each other if one of them didn’t back down, and she’d genuinely missed Fiona, not to mention Hengist. Her little flat didn’t seem the same without the stray dog hairs and wet-dog smell.

“Oh, sod it!” said Fiona, suddenly hugging her. “I’ve missed you, Luce. I’ve hated us falling out, but I just hate seeing you with a guy who doesn’t deserve you. I suppose I’m the one who should be holding out the olive branch, or should it be dog chews?”

Lucy sighed with relief. “Dog chews, definitely. Shall we go for a double espresso?”

Fiona pulled a face. “Sod the coffee. Is there anywhere to get a decent G&T around here?”

Lucy deposited her ice cream haul in the frozen pea section while Fiona abandoned her shopping cart, and they headed for the TexMex Diner on the retail park. Over a plate of nachos and the screeching of a toddler’s birthday party, they sat down to make an awkward peace. Fiona kept taking birdlike sips of her G&T, by which Lucy guessed she must be feeling nervous. “It’s no use me lying. You know I think Nick Laurentis is an unreliable, sex-mad, selfish git who’ll break your heart.”

“Say what you really think, Fi.”

“I am. That’s why we’re friends. Someone has to save you from yourself.”

“And what is myself?” asked Lucy, slurping her strawberry daiquiri as though it were going out of fashion.

“A gullible, trusting, loved-up idiot.”

“I’m not loved up.”

“Sexed-up, then.”

“Our relationship is based on a lot more than sex.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and—not that it’s any of your business—even if it was just based on sex, is that so wrong?”

“No. I think a relationship based on sex is an excellent idea and I’d try it myself if I could find some buff young guy to be shallow with. But it’s only right if both partners have the same expectations.”

“How do you know we don’t?” said Lucy quietly.

“Just a hunch.”

“So you think I’m expecting more from this arrangement than Nick is?”

“I’m not sure, but I’d hate to see him using you, Luce. I mean, how often does he take you out? How often has he let you down?”

“OK, I’ll admit he’s been a tiny bit unreliable at times but, Fi, we have such a great time when we’re together and you’re forgetting, this is his chance of a lifetime. I mean, a lot of guys wouldn’t want to be saddled with a relationship at all. I’m perfectly happy to go along with it and soon it will all be over anyway, and then we can get back to real life.”

“What if he wins?”

Lucy hesitated. Hadn’t she turned that scenario over in her head a hundred times? She had no idea what would happen if Nick did win, other than that their lives would be even more manic and bizarre than they were now.

“We’ll deal with it,” she said firmly.

“And if he loses?” said Fiona from over the top of her glass.

Ah, that was even more difficult, thought Lucy. Nick wouldn’t hear talk of defeat or negative thinking these days. She didn’t want to be the one to pick up the pieces if he got voted out, but she’d have to, of course. She’d have no choice.

“I’ll handle it. Now listen, Fi. I won’t discuss Nick any further. Tell me what you’ve been up to in the past six weeks. How many victims have you killed off this week and have you managed to get that Welsh guy from the health club to show you his lotus position yet?”

Later, as Lucy finally reached home, she couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable over her conversation with Fiona. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from her relationship with Nick other than a chance to find out. Nick had swept her off her feet and she’d been enjoying the whole drama too much to stop and analyze it. Why shouldn’t she just enjoy herself? After all, Nick was never boring, utterly gorgeous, and startlingly creative in bed. Yet, other times, when he was stressed or just couldn’t get what he wanted quickly enough, he would just lose it and blow up. The problem was that she hadn’t really got to know him before this whole bizarre TV thing kicked off. She couldn’t tell whether he was volatile because of the extraordinary situation he was in or whether he was like that anyway. She still felt she didn’t know the real Nick.

But did that really matter?

Did she even know the real
her
anymore? Fiona had been spot-on about one thing. It
had
been Nick’s idea to change her striking color to something more “mainstream.” Just in case I do win, he’d said, and the papers wanted to take pictures of her. That prospect had filled her with horror but she could see some logic in the hair thing. Her boss at Able & Lawson was always giving her funny looks. Maybe it was time she went for something a little more “corporate.”

As she dumped her bags on the passenger seat of her car, Lucy caught sight of her reflection in the rearview mirror and wasn’t sure she recognized the person staring back.

Later, as she laid the table in her little sitting room with a proper cloth and candles and even a vase with a rose in it, she couldn’t dispel the feeling of unease. Even as she opened the pesto, got the pasta out of the packet, and shaved the parmesan, she wondered if he would turn up. Then the door buzzed and he was there: half an hour late, looking devastatingly gorgeous and bearing champagne and a white lily.

“Hello, my gorgeous Bagel Girl,” he murmured while gently stroking her cheek with his hand. “You know, there are times when I think that all I really need is you.”

Then he’d led her to the bedroom as the pasta boiled dry in the saucepan. As his head disappeared beneath the sheet, Lucy could almost believe him.

“And now, the moment we’ve been waiting for, for twelve long weeks. The moment when dreams come true for one of you. This is your opportunity of a lifetime! Your ticket to fame and fortune! Your chance, possibly your one and only chance in your entire life, to be a Hot Shot…”

Lucy gripped the edge of her seat as if for dear life as dazzling Gerry Brigham, the presenter of
Hot
Shots
, introduced the Grand Final. The day had come at last. The day they’d never thought would happen, the day Nick had worked so hard for and that they’d both dreamed of. It was here after four long months. Just minutes separated him from his dream.

“Where does that man get his tan from—a bottle?” hissed Fiona, who was sitting beside Lucy in the audience.

“Fiona, shut up!”

Nick and his rival, Layla, sat opposite each other around a mock boardroom table. Sir Denby sat at the head of it, flanked by two of his assistants. Layla looked terribly serious. Nick was smiling but underneath, Lucy knew the truth. He’d thrown up in his dressing room as Lucy had wished him good luck.

“In a few moments,” squealed Gerry, “we are going to know the identity of the woman—or man—who will walk away with a £250,000 investment in his or her business. Who will get the backing, the acumen, of Sir Denby Sweetman, the entrepreneur you all love to hate!”

Boos rang out from the audience. Sir Denby grimaced. In front of her, Lucy could tell Nick’s family were feeling the tension as much as she was. Lucy had only met Hattie, his sister, twice before, once at Nick’s flat one Sunday evening and once for a snatched meal in a restaurant. She’d never met his parents until tonight. They were all sitting in a row in front of her. Hattie with her hands over her eyes; his mother twisting a handkerchief between her fingers; his father stiff-backed and impassive. Lucy’s own stomach was on the spin cycle.