Kiss (25 page)
Authors: Jill Mansell
Joel McGill was still crying with laughter when he entered the tiny cubbyhole which Izzy called her dressing room. She had to sit him down on the only chair, hand him a box of Kleenex and pour him a drink before he could even speak.
‘I thought it was part of the act,’ he managed to say eventually, though his shoulders still shook. ‘Then I realised it wasn’t . . .’
‘That’s nothing,’ replied Izzy. ‘Think how I felt, not knowing whether he was you . . . or you were him . . .’ She thought for a second, then shrugged. ‘If you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he agreed, wiping his eyes with a handful of peach-shaded tissues. ‘That was fantastic. I think I love you.’
That had been one half of the fantasy, thought Izzy with a wry smile, but the rest of it appeared to have gone somewhat awry. Joel McGill wasn’t supposed to be five feet two, with orange hair the texture of a Brillo pad, tiny round spectacles and the very smallest nose she’d ever seen. Neither had it occurred to her, while she was scouring the audience, to seek out a man wearing a powder-blue Argyll patterned pullover, an orange shirt and the kind of tartan trousers more commonly found on a golf course.
‘You don’t look like an A&R manager,’ she said finally.
‘No?’ Still smiling, Joel McGill blew his nose with vigour. ‘What do I look like?’
Izzy knew what she thought. Instead, tactfully, she said, ‘Jack Nicklaus?’
He gave her a look that told her she’d disappointed him. ‘Really?’
‘OK. A train-spotter,’ she confessed with reluctance, and he burst out laughing once more.
‘I don’t know why you had to make me say it,’ Izzy grumbled. ‘It isn’t exactly enhancing my career prospects, after all.’
‘Listen,’ he said, leaning forward and stuffing the tissues into the back pocket of his terrible trousers. ‘I’m one of the best A&R managers in the business. This means, happily, that I don’t need to try and look like one. What’s important to me is spotting new talent, assessing its potential and signing it up. Now, I spent a great deal of time yesterday listening to your demo tape, and tonight I’ve seen you . . . in action, so to speak.’
‘Mmm?’ said Izzy with extreme caution. Her pulse was racing and her fingernails were digging into her palms.
‘And since I liked, very much, what I both heard and saw, why don’t you stop grumbling and let me be the one to worry about your career prospects?’
‘You mean . . . ?’
‘I’m offering you a contract on behalf of MBT Records,’ said Joel McGill, with an oddly engaging grin. ‘Although there must be, I’m afraid, one proviso.’
Anything, thought Izzy passionately, anything at all. If it were stipulated in the contract, she’d even wear baggy tartan trousers.
Almost speechless with joy and gratitude, the most she could manage to get out was, ‘What . . . ?’
‘The trick with the toupee,’ he informed her, struggling unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. ‘Whatever you do, don’t try it out on the president of MBT. Not unless you really want to die young.’
Guiltily aware that she should be studying for tomorrow’s exam, which was chemistry, Katerina had baked herself a chocolate-fudge cake instead and eaten it while mindlessly watching an hour-long episode of a serial she had never seen before, and which she would certainly never watch again. At least both Gina and Izzy had been out, which meant that neither of them realised she had spent the earlier part of her evening sitting alone in a winebar in Kensington High Street, sipping Coke and waiting for Andrew to turn up. When, after an endless ninety minutes he still hadn’t arrived, she had returned home and tried hard not to allow her imagination to run riot. He could be in hospital, he could be dead, Marcy could be in hospital . . . the possibilities had been both endless and agonizing . . .
When the phone shrilled at eleven-fifteen, Katerina and Jericho both jumped. Cake crumbs showered on to the carpet as she raced to answer it.
‘Hallo?’ she whispered, and this time it was so unmistakably her voice that Andrew didn’t need to hesitate.
‘Darling, it’s me. I’m so sorry, I’ve been trying to get hold of you, but I’m in the bathroom and Marcy’s next door.’
‘You’re OK?’ Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She slid down the wall, ducking to avoid Jericho’s chocolatey kisses, and rested on her heels. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Marcy had a miscarriage yesterday.’
‘What!’
‘She lost the baby,’ Andrew repeated, his tone even. It would be indecent to sound too overjoyed, yet at the same time it was the answer to their unspoken prayers . . .
‘Oh, poor Marcy,’ breathed Katerina, her palms now clammy with perspiration. At the same time relief flooded through her, because Andrew was all right. ‘Is she . . . very upset?’
‘Yes,’ he said briefly. ‘That’s why I couldn’t leave her. Darling, you understand, don’t you. I wanted to see you tonight, but—’
‘Sssh.’ Unbidden, the image of Andrew and herself in bed flashed through her mind. While she had been losing her virginity, Marcy had lost the baby. Overcome with shame, she said, ‘Don’t say that. Of course you have to stay with her. Look, I have to go now. Someone’s coming home.’
‘But—’
Quietly replacing the receiver, cutting him off in midprotest, Katerina realised that she felt sick. She was the Other Woman, and quite suddenly she was no longer sure whether she was equipped to deal with it. Simon had been right; it wasn’t clever and it wasn’t a game. It was becoming suddenly, frighteningly real.
From her vantage point, she held the phone in her lap and watched Gina - the other Other Woman, if she only knew it - wave a fond goodbye to Ralph.
‘Gosh, you startled me.’ Gina’s eyes were bright. She looked so
happy
.
happy
.
‘Sorry,’ said Katerina, rising to her feet and feeling old. ‘I was on the phone. So, how did your date with the actor go? I thought you might have invited him in for coffee.’
She had been looking forward to seeing Ralph and out-acting him. Now she was glad she didn’t have to.
‘I did ask, but he has to be up at five o’clock tomorrow morning.’ Gina, blushing slightly, looked happier than ever. Katerina, summoning up a smile, thought, You coward, Ralph.
‘But did you have a nice evening?’ she prompted. ‘Do you think you’ll see him again?’
‘We had a wonderful evening,’ Gina replied proudly. ‘And yes, I’m seeing him again. Tomorrow night, as a matter of fact.’
‘Tomorrow!’ Katerina tried not to look too astonished. ‘Good heavens, he must be keen.’
‘I know,’ said Gina, so dazed with joy that when she tried to hang up her jacket she missed the coat stand altogether. ‘It’s incredible. We just seem to have so much in common . . .’
Chapter 26
Seduction Rule Number One, thought Vivienne cheerfully as she knocked on Sam’s bedroom door: catch your subject naked and unaware.
After a long silence, Sam said, ‘Go away,’ which wasn’t the most promising of starts, but Vivienne had decided that enough was enough. The way they had been carrying on for the past few weeks was plain silly. Smiling to herself, she knocked once more.
‘I said . . . go away.’
Rule Number Two, Vivienne reminded herself: offer your subject unimaginable delights.
‘I’m making breakfast,’ she explained. ‘Bacon and mushroom sandwiches . . . but if you’d rather go back to sleep . . .’
There was another long silence. Finally, he grumbled, ‘I’m awake now. OK.’
‘Such gratitude,’ Vivienne replied lightly. ‘It’ll be ready in ten minutes.’
Moments later, she heard the shower begin to run, as she had known it would. Grinning to herself, she returned to the kitchen and turned the heat under the grill down very low indeed.
The noise of the shower meant that Sam didn’t hear the bathroom door click open. Vivienne, revelling in the voyeuristic pleasure of watching him through the frosted glass, slipped out of her robe and moved quietly towards the shower cubicle.
‘What the—’ spluttered Sam, as flesh encountered flesh.
‘Sssh, no need to panic,’ Vivienne murmured, behind him. ‘I’m a trained lifeguard.You won’t drown.’
It was no good; she had caught him out. Before he even had time to protest, he knew he was lost. Vivienne, running her hands over his body with soapy, slippery ease, pressed herself against him. Within seconds Sam was aroused.
‘This is crazy,’ he sighed, willing himself to ignore the erotic effect of her warm, wet flesh and teasing fingers, and failing absolutely.
‘But hygienic,’ Vivienne murmured, her breasts sliding tantalizingly against his back, her tongue circling one shoulder-blade. Unable to contain her amusement, she said, ‘This must be what you British call Good, Clean Fun.’
Turning finally to face her, acknowledging defeat with good grace, Sam took her in his arms and kissed her. Moments later, with a crooked smile, he said, ‘We British call it risking life and limb.’
‘Oh well,’ Vivienne replied huskily, switching off the shower, ‘if you want to be staid and boring, I suppose we’ll just have to retreat to the safety of a bed.’
Afterwards, Sam rolled on to his side. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Was that staid and boring?’
Vivienne, so happy she thought she would burst, smiled back at him. ‘As you British might say,’ she informed him solemnly, ‘it was very pleasant indeed . . . jolly well done . . . ahbsolutely mahvellous . . . top notch . . . altogether rahther splendid . . .’
‘Good,’ he interrupted in brisk tones. ‘So, now can I have that bacon sandwich?’
‘Oh, Izzy!’ cried Vivienne, beside herself with delight. ‘This is fantastic . . . Jeez, you really
are
on your way, now!’
are
on your way, now!’
Izzy grinned as the chauffeur, who swore his name was George, held open the door of the gleaming, ludicrously elongated limousine. ‘The first of my lifetime ambitions,’ she explained, running her hands lovingly over the ivory-leather upholstery. ‘Even if it is only mine for six hours.’
‘What’s your second lifetime ambition?’ Vivienne demanded, pouncing on the cocktail cabinet.
Izzy winked at the chauffeur. ‘Wild sex in the back of a limo.’
‘God, count me out. George, you aren’t listening to this, are you?’
‘No, madam,’ replied George, maintaining a straight face.
‘So, where are we going?’ continued Vivienne, pouring enormous drinks and handing one to Izzy as the huge car purred into life.
‘Are you kidding?’ Izzy looked pained. ‘In this thing,
everywhere
.’
everywhere
.’
By the time they arrived at The Chelsea Steps it was almost one-thirty and a huge crowd of paparazzi were milling around on the pavement outside. Within seconds, they were swarming around the rented limousine.
‘My God,’ said Izzy, awestruck. ‘I got famous quicker than I thought.’
The photographers’ expressions soon changed, however, when George opened the rear door.
‘Shit, you aren’t Tash Janssen,’ exclaimed one with evident disgust.
‘Never said I was,’ Izzy replied loftily. ‘Nincompoop.’
He shrugged and sighed. ‘So, who are you? Anybody?’
Ignoring him, Izzy turned her attention to the chauffeur. ‘Don’t let anyone touch the car, George. We won’t be longer than a couple of hours. And no gossiping to nincompoops in the mean time, if you value your job.’
‘Very well, madam.’ He tipped his cap to her.
The photographer regarded Izzy with suspicion. ‘Hey,
are
you somebody?’
are
you somebody?’
In reply, she gave him a pitying half-smile. ‘Why don’t you ask Tash Janssen if I’m “somebody”, OK? He’ll be here in five minutes. Maybe he’ll tell you.’
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