Love Nest (13 page)

‘Can’t we just sack him and get in another singer?’ Paul asked on a Tuesday morning, as – again – they sat around the studio waiting for Jack’s car to arrive. Yet again, the driver was reporting that he wasn’t answering the door. His phone was off.

‘No,’ Andrew said. ‘Unfortunately, Jack is the face of the band. A very pretty face. And a good voice too. Without him, we’d lose the fanbase overnight.’

It seemed unfair, as the rest of them weren’t bad-looking lads, but Andrew was right. They’d all tried singing at some point in the old days when Jack had been too bladdered to go on. None of them had his magic, his way of mesmerizing the crowd. So they just had to bide their time and wait until he did deign to turn up, usually around six p.m., and then cram in as much recording as they could.

Often Nick didn’t get back until the early hours. Kylie would be asleep in her Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas, but as soon as he crept into the room, she would sit bolt upright and smile.

‘Hiiiya! How did it go?’

‘Fine,’ he would mumble, and no matter what time it was, they’d always have sex.

But this evening was different. It was only half ten when Nick stepped out of the car. Time to eat something, maybe watch some telly with Kylie beside him. He was looking forward to the prospect – even though he shouldn’t have been. He should have been prepping himself to leave Kylie behind. But one more night snuggled in front of the telly wasn’t going to make any difference either way, was it?

Stepping into the flat, he was hit by the silence. Astonishingly, the telly was off. She must have gone out. Well, that was a turn-up. Kylie starting to get a social life. That would help when he finally broke the bad news.

‘Hello,’ said a little voice in the dark.

Nick jumped.

‘You scared me!’

She was sitting in the corner armchair. From the neon street-light peeking in through the window he could just see that her face was streaked with mascara.

‘What’s going on?’

She handed over a large envelope. ‘You got this.’

‘You’ve been opening my letters?’

‘It was an accident, I thought it was for me.’

‘Yeah, right.’ He pulled out a document. The survey on Flat 15. He’d forgotten all about it.

‘Who’s thinking of buying Flat 15, Summer Street?’

He didn’t allow his expression to flicker. ‘It’s something I’ve been considering. Charles told me to invest my money and this is one option.’

‘So we’re going to live there?’

‘Um… Probably not.
If
I buy it, I was planning to rent it out.’

‘Well, can I have a look at it?’

He sighed. ‘You can if I decide to follow it up. But probably I won’t. Now what’s the news?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I meant to. I forgot. You know how insane it’s been.’

She looked hard at him, then sighed. ‘So you don’t want me to look at this flat.’

‘No point until I know I want to buy it.’

‘Right.’

She seemed to have swallowed it. They shared a pizza, then went to bed and had energetic sex. But Nick was shaken. It had been a narrow escape. The following day, while a drums solo was recorded, he read the survey. Even he could see it didn’t look good. All sorts of problems with the building: a dodgy roof, rising damp, new windows needed throughout, which the tenants were going to have to pay for over the next few years. He still wanted the flat but he’d be crazy to go for it at the current price.

His phone rang.

‘Hello, Mr Crex. Lucinda Gresham here. Have you seen the survey?’

‘I have. It’s pants, isn’t it? So I’m going to reduce my offer by fifty grand.’

‘I see,’ Lucinda said smoothly. ‘Well, I shall put that to them and find out what they have to say.’

‘You do that,’ he said and, hanging up, he smiled. He had them right where he wanted them. Now he just had to find the energy and guts to leave Kylie. To move on to the life he believed should be his. He should start planning his seduction of Lucinda. He’d work out a strategy tomorrow.

13

Lucinda and Gareth had a morning appointment for a house near King’s Cross, in a square which used to be full of dosshouses and brothels but which was now being colonized by couples with dreams of kitchen-diners leading on to the garden and utility rooms.

The house had belonged to an old man who had just died, who’d been living there for the past thirty years with his middle-aged, dope-smoking son. The walls were yellow with nicotine and piles of newspapers covered every inch of floor space. All the same, it was an entire house, rather than one that had been converted into flats, which made it a rarity in the area. Developers would be all over it like orange-skinned girls round footballers in a nightclub.

‘I value this property at nine hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds,’ she said.

‘Do you think?’ The son looked disappointed. ‘I thought it would be more like two million.’

‘I think this is an excellent price, given that the property does require some – ahem – modernization.’

‘But I had it valued when Dad was still alive and they said one point two. And it should have gone up.’

Gareth shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the market’s slumped a bit since then. I mean, it’s on the way up again now but it’s still got a way to go.’

Walking back to the office, they shook themselves as if exorcizing a demon.

‘People are so bloody greedy!’

‘Probably won’t get the instruction now, it’ll go to Bleeker & Wright, they’ll lie to him, tell him he’ll get five million, and he’ll go with it. He’s the type.’

‘Fair dos to them. If they want the fun of dealing with Mr Malodorous they’re welcome to him.’

Lucinda glanced sideways at Gareth. She’d been touched by his Valentine and she’d thought about saying something, but in the end she’d decided not to. Though she liked him more and more as a mate every day, she just didn’t fancy him and never would.

She turned the corner heading to the office. Standing outside it was Anton Beleek. Automatically Lucinda blushed and looked away. OK, so he’d never know the Valentine was from her, but it had still been a stupid thing to do. Attention-grabbing. Pathetic.

‘Anton,’ Gareth called merrily. ‘Good morning.’

‘Morning, Gareth. I was just passing and hoping to have a word with Niall.’

‘He’s out on a viewing,’ Gareth said, unlocking the door. ‘And I’m afraid our PA is… busy.’ Marsha was in court again – one of her children was up on more GBH charges. ‘Shall I ask him to call you?’

‘Actually I’ll call him, if you don’t mind,’ Anton said, following them inside. ‘Could you give me his mobile number?’

‘Sure.’ Gareth was busy disabling the burglar alarm. ‘Lucinda, could you give Anton Niall’s number?’

‘Of course.’ She searched Niall’s desk for some business cards but he appeared to have locked them away in his drawer. ‘I’ll write it down for you,’ she said. She called up Niall’s number on her mobile, scribbled it down and – trying to be professional – wrote his name and ‘Dunraven Mackie’ on a page of A4 and handed it to Anton.

‘Thanks,’ he said brusquely.

‘You’re welcome,’ Lucinda replied sarcastically. Her desk phone started ringing. ‘Sorry, excuse me. Hello, Dunraven Mackie.’

‘Lucinda, it’s Gemma Meehan here.’

Lucinda’s heart plummeted. She’d been planning to call her to break the news that Nick Crex had dropped his offer, but she’d wanted to do it once she’d outlined her speech. ‘Gemma, hello! How are you?’

‘Well, thanks. Just wondering when we’re going to hear something more from Mr Crex, now he’s seen the survey.’

‘Ah, yes. I was going to call you.’

Her tone alerted Gemma. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

Lucinda took a deep breath, and told her.

‘What? But we’d already accepted far below the asking price from him! How can he do this to us?’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Lucinda said. ‘It’s his decision. You are, of course, entirely free to turn the offer down.’

‘I don’t believe this! Bastard! I’ve got to call Alex.’

‘I’m very sorry.’

‘For Christ’s sake.’ Gemma sighed. ‘I’ll get back to you. In the meantime here’s my new mobile number if you hear anything. I’ve had my old one stolen…’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Lucinda said. She scribbled down the number, writing Gemma next to it. Idly, she added: C
hase up solicitor
. Then, as Gemma ranted a little bit more, Lucinda started on a to-do list.
Birthday card for Ginevra. Organize getting windows cleaned in the flat. Email Lily at Harvard.

Lucinda’s spine was tingling. Someone was watching her.

‘The survey was a little negative, you see,’ she said loudly, glancing over her shoulder.

Anton Beleek was standing right behind her, staring down at her piece of paper. As she swivelled round in her chair, his solemn face turned scarlet and he instantly looked away. Lucinda’s own face flamed. She stared into the mouthpiece as if it contained nude dancing pictures of Brad Pitt. Fuck. He’d seen her handwriting, first on the piece of paper she’d given him and then on her doodles. Her distinctive, curvy French handwriting. He’d worked out she’d sent the Valentine. This was hideous. Lucinda hadn’t been so embarrassed since Cassandra had caught her blowing herself a kiss in the mirror and saying, ‘You’re gorgeous,’ in a fruity American accent.

‘Yes, yes, I’ll let you know as soon as possible,’ she said loudly to cover her confusion. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Niall walk in.

‘Niall,’ Anton hailed him. ‘I was hoping to grab you.’

They started talking. ‘Goodbye, then. Take care,’ Lucinda said to Gemma and hung up.

‘Um, Lucinda, do you know how phones work?’ Gareth asked, grinning. ‘Your voice is carried by cable or satellite to the other phone. They’re not just a megaphone to allow yourself to be heard on the other side of London.’

‘Get lost’ is what she’d normally have said, but Anton’s proximity intimidated her, so she simply laughed nervously, then turned flummoxed to her screen. But Anton, conversation with Niall over, began approaching her. Horrified, Lucinda picked up her handset and gabbled into it.

‘Hello, Mr Masterson. Yes, it’s Lucinda here from Dunraven Mackie. Just calling to confirm our appointment later today…’ She glanced over her shoulder. Anton was standing there again. There was a smile on his serious face which creeped her out. Smiles didn’t suit him. He looked like a politician trying to get down with a posse of teenage rappers.

‘Of course, I’m looking forward to seeing you. Yes, I’ll take some details…’ Christ, he wasn’t going away. What was she supposed to do? ‘Obviously, it sounds like a fascinating property,’ she continued. ‘Seven bedrooms? Marvellous!’ At this ears began pricking up. A seven-bedroom house was as rare as a Mandarin-speaking donkey. Lucinda saw Joanne’s face pucker with suspicion. Damn. ‘Oh, sorry, I misheard you. Three bedrooms, ha-ha, yes, that’s more like it.’

Diddle-dah, dah-diddle-dah, dah, diddle dah, dah, dah!

Shit, the phone was ringing loud in her ear. She answered, her face the colour of hell’s hottest pit.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey, it’s me. Listen, I just can’t decide between these two pairs of boots. One is Jimmy Choo and the other…’

‘Ginevra, I’ll call you back,’ Lucinda hissed, then, for the benefit of her smirking colleagues, ‘You just cut me off on an important call.’

‘How could I have done that?’

‘I don’t know. The line must have gone dead and I must have been talking into thin air. How embarrassing. Ha ha ha!’ Her giggle sounded feeble and airy, but Anton Beleek didn’t seem to care: he was grinning at her in the moony sort of way old ladies smile at ugly babies in prams. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she repeated and hung up.

‘Goodness, I can’t believe I got cut off when I was talking to Mr Masterson,’ she said loudly. ‘How embarrassing.’

‘Um, are you sure you were talking to Mr Masterson?’ Joanne sneered. ‘Only while you were on the other line he just called me and he said he hadn’t spoken to you for ages.’

‘Really?’ Lucinda tried to look confused. ‘How can that be?’

‘I don’t know,’ Joanne said stonily. Niall frowned. Gareth looked rightly concerned for her sanity. Lucinda cringed. And Anton Beleek still stood there.
Go away! Don’t you have a successful business to run?
Hastily, she picked up the desk phone and this time called Benjie.

‘Hi, what do you want?’

‘Mr Silver,’ she said. ‘It’s Lucinda Gresham here. Just calling to chase up the quote on your property.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘I know you weren’t sure if you wanted to put it on the market, but…’

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anton Beleek reluctantly move off. He pushed open the door of the agency. Lucinda exhaled with relief. Why had she been such a prat? What had she been thinking of? But Anton would take it no further. He must realize the Valentine had been a joke. Surely?

*

The Drake family were all in a high state of excitement about their imminent purchase of Chadlicote Manor. All, except Karen.

‘I can’t believe we’re going to live in a castle,’ Bea kept saying, while Eloise yelped, ‘It’s
not
a castle – Mummy, tell her not to be so silly!’ She was more excited about the new school she’d be going to, a school selected after another long drive down to Devon, which would accept both sisters as day girls but which also took boarders. ‘Can we board, Mummy?’ she kept asking. ‘
Please
. It would be so much fun. There’d be midnight feasts and we’d put on plays and I could do lacrosse.’

After an hour’s solid whining on the theme, Karen was severely tempted, but she continued to repeat calmly, ‘No, darling. Mummy and Daddy would miss you too much.’

Phil was the most animated he’d been since he received his diagnosis, calculating first how much to offer, then commissioning his survey and spending hours on the internet contacting other people who’d renovated country houses for tips.

‘We can have our own vegetable garden,’ he told Karen as they lay in bed. ‘And keep chickens. Goats maybe. Be totally self-sufficient. Have an utterly holistic lifestyle. It’ll be amazing.’

‘But what will we live on?’

Phil made a sheeshing sound. ‘Stop worrying about that. We’ll be OK. I can’t believe this house came to us. It must be something cosmic. Giving us a second chance.’ He placed his hand on her bottom, their shorthand for ‘How about it?’ Karen winced. Only six bloody hours until morning; how could he not crave sleep in the way that she did? But then, like most men, Phil’s need for sex had always been pretty feral – she’d known he’d been really sick when he hadn’t wanted it, and as soon as he was better it had shot straight back to the top of the agenda.

‘Darling, do we have to?’ she said. ‘I’ve got that headache again.’

‘I’m getting worried about you and your headaches,’ Phil said crossly. ‘I think you should see the doctor.’

That was another problem with having a husband who’d knocked at death’s door, you couldn’t invent symptoms to get you off nookie duty. Not without being eaten by guilt.

‘If I get any more, I will,’ she lied miserably, as his hand slid along her thigh.

In the Parenthope Clinic’s plush waiting room, the only sound was the purr of the credit card machine from the lobby. Alex frowned over a thick brief. Gemma attempted to read a magazine, but she couldn’t concentrate. She felt as if a drawer had been pulled out of her stomach. Where the hell was Bridget? How could she do this to them on today of all days? All right, it was only ten minutes, but suppose Dervla saw this as a sign of not being committed and declared them unfit for parenthood?

Dervla was their counsellor. She was in her forties, skinny, dark and mesmerizingly well dressed. Just a glance confirmed that she was the kind of woman whose soufflés always rose and who had views on contemporary art. She would also be a Pilates devotee. Gemma had found it hard to concentrate during their session with her, wondering if her dress could really be Marni and if so what could her husband do – there couldn’t be that much money in counselling, surely? Then she’d found it hard to focus because she’d been worrying that entertaining such shallow thoughts instead of focusing on your unborn child’s welfare might lead to instant expulsion from the clinic.

Still, she’d taken in something. Dervla had made them discuss their expectations of parenthood, what role they expected Bridget to play in Chudney’s life, how and when they’d tell the child everything about its origins. (‘When Chudney’s two weeks old and then we might fail to refresh its memory,’ Alex had joked on the way home and Gemma had cried, ‘Al! You know we must never hide anything from our child.’)

They’d discussed how they must be prepared for disappointment every step of the way, how even if Bridget’s eggs were good enough quality, there was still only around a thirty-five per cent chance that the embryos formed from them would attach to Gemma’s womb. They’d talked about how, with Bridget’s permission, they would like any extra eggs produced to be frozen in order to give them a chance at having a second child.

Alex moaned that the counselling was all a formality and the clinic would pass any couple who could find the money and weren’t obvious child abusers. Gemma disagreed; she was sure they’d be failed but it seemed her husband was right because Dervla had approved them and – more miraculously – approved Bridget. Now they were all back for their final session together.

‘Stop tapping your feet,’ Alex said in the soft voice people always use in waiting rooms.

‘Sorry.’ Gemma picked up a copy of
OK!
and flicked through it, while subtly eyeing the beaming couple sitting on the leather sofa. They were holding hands and occasionally exchanging soft words. Making eye contact was the worst possible faux pas in this situation, but Gemma was sure she could spot just the tiniest bump under the woman’s purple shift dress. Cow. The woman was old – well, not
old
, but over forty, and she’d obviously hit the jackpot. Why was Gemma such a freak to be still in her baby-making prime but unable to produce?

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ boomed Bridget on the threshold.