Nothing to Lose (31 page)

‘I’m Benny Clegg now.’ She reached for her bottle of beer. ‘That’s why I’m so involved with the stadium. I’m a bookie.’

If she’d said she was a hot contender for the next Pope, Sebastian couldn’t have looked more amazed. The stunned expression gradually dissolved into one of astounded delight. He stood up, towering over her for a minute, blocking out the sun, then bent down and kissed her lightly, softly, briefly on the mouth.

He tasted of doughnuts, of strawberries and cream, and beer and sunshine. Jasmine, suddenly wanting to bellow the chorus of ‘My Favourite Things’, dazedly kissed him back.

It certainly hadn’t turned out as April had expected. The drink with Noah – for old times’ sake – hadn’t been the emotional reunion full of explanations and apologies, ending in declarations of undying love, that she’d fondly imagined. The art groupies and the caftan lady had turned up only minutes after she and Noah had sloped off to the wine bar, and all chance of intimacy was lost.

Not only had she not been able to tell him how much she still loved him, but Beatrice-Eugenie’s existence hadn’t got a look in either. Noah had been bundled away to do press interviews and had mouthed that he’d ring her – soon – and disappeared in a swell of adulation.

Now, four weeks later, he hadn’t phoned, and April was sure she’d never see him again. Jix, Daff, Sofia and Antonio had all been sympathetic, but the ‘I told you so’s’ were dangling unsaid. It had all been such a huge mistake, seeing him. It had merely ripped the scab off the healing scar and left her hurt, alone and vulnerable all over again.

And October had been grey and wet and dreary, and Martina had been even more of a cow than ever, and the Copacabana seemed like hell.

Pouring a Cinderella from the shaker over a mountain of ice, April felt as if her one chance of happiness had been snatched away. Noah would now be back in France with the improbably named Anoushka, and she’d robbed Bee of the only opportunity of ever meeting her father. She should have handled it differently, been more assertive, clung on to him when the caftan woman had tried to claim him – anything – damn well anything to make sure they had enough time together.

‘Oh, sod! Sorry.’ She looked at the mess spreading across the top of the bar. ‘I didn’t realise I’d overfilled it.’

The customer sighed in a resigned way – as if he’d expected nothing less from a bimbo in a silly costume – and April rubbed angrily at the sticky mess with a J-cloth, praying that Martina wouldn’t notice.

‘April!’ The shriek reverberated around the bar. ‘I want a word!’

Oh God – April hurled the syrup-laden cloth beneath the counter and smiled. ‘Sorry, Martina, I just overfilled the glass.’

‘What?’ Martina’s heavily embossed eyelids flickered. ‘What glass? What are you talking about? You haven’t been doling out double measures instead of singles, have you?’

‘No – er – it was just a bit of spillage.’ The customer had borne away the sticky glass and April quickly shoved a beaker full of brightly coloured umbrellas and twizzle sticks on top of the congealing mess. ‘Nothing major. So which word did you want to have?’

‘Waitress.’

April sighed. She really hoped this wasn’t going to be one of Martina’s gimlet-eyed nights where she stood about six inches behind the Copacabana’s staff and grizzled about everything, comparing their sloppiness with the
Debrett’s Book of How to Serve a Cocktail
while your feet killed you and your knickers showed.

‘I’m a barmaid first and a waitress second. I haven’t actually dropped a tray or smothered anyone in ice cubes for ages.’

Martina frowned. The little body-pierced bits glittered as her face creased. ‘No, that’s why I wondered if you’d be interested in doing a bit extra.’

Extra? Where the hell in a twenty-four-hour day was April expected to find time for anything else? If she stayed awake all night the money might come in handy. ‘Well, I do work at the Pasta Place as well. I mean, I don’t really think I could squeeze in extra hours here at the moment and – ’

‘No, no.’ Martina removed some purple lipstick from her front teeth with the tip of her tongue. ‘I wasn’t offering extra hours. This is a one-off opportunity. My very, very dear friend Emily Frobisher has asked me if I knew anyone who’d be willing to work waiting on tables at a banquet.’ Martina leaned forward cosily and dropped her voice to merely glass-breaking. ‘She’s apparently had outside caterers in the past who’ve supplied waiting staff and they have been beyond the pale. Serving from the right! That sort of thing . . .’

God, April thought, how really, really dreadful for poor Emily Frobisher. Fancy getting your roulade and jus dished up from the wrong side! It could ruin your life! She did a few mental calculations. ‘And this Emily Frobisher – is she Brittany’s mum?’

Martina simpered. ‘Actually, yes. They’re having a black-tie dinner and ball on New Year’s Eve to announce the venue of the Platinum Trophy.’ She almost wriggled in excitement. ‘Which of course, between you and me, because of Sebby and darling Brittany’s little affair, will be here – but we have to go through the motions so that there are no cries of foul – and she’s frantic to find proper people to wait table. After all,’ she played her trump card with a flourish, ‘it’s not as if you’ll have anything else to do on New Year’s Eve, is it?’

Cow, April thought. But it was sadly true. The end of the year would mean staying in with Bee and Daff and watching some dire comedian on the telly hosting something from Edinburgh that had been filmed in a July heatwave. And she could do with the money. And most alluring of all was knowing what Jix had overheard when he was chauffeuring. If he’d heard right, then Oliver and Martina may be in for one hell of a New Year shock.

‘It would depend on the money, and transport there and back because I haven’t got a car.’

‘Ten pounds an hour and transport.’

‘Done.’

‘Good girl.’ Martina waved her bony bejewelled fingers under April’s nose. ‘I knew you realised which side your bread was buttered. Oh – and I’ve got some more really exciting news.’

April sucked her teeth. How many fun-filled hours of sweating over a hot banqueting table could she take? ‘I really can’t fit any more hours in.’

‘This isn’t to do with work. You’ll probably read all about it on the society pages. Well, I mean, that is if you read the proper papers.’ Martina smoothed down tonight’s clinging twinkly dress. ‘We’re talking broadsheet superstar status here, not tacky tabloid.’

April sighed. Martina was in full show-off overdrive. As they were used to celebrities frequenting the stadium, April could only assume they were about to be visited by someone of mega-importance. Martina always managed to have her photograph taken with them and appeared frequently on the gossip pages, leering spikily up at famous people like an evil emaciated pixie.

‘Really? And which superstar would this be? Tom Cruise? Little Leonardo? Cher? Madonna?’

‘Not celluloid celeb,’ Martina looked shocked. ‘This is really highbrow stuff. Noah Matlock.’

The Copacabana became a swirl of noise and colour. April, who had never fainted in her life, clung on to the polished counter and took gulping deep breaths.

Martina’s voice sounded quavery and distant. ‘Of course the name’ll mean nothing unless you’re a patron of the arts.’

April took more breaths.

‘He’s an artist. Famous. Does abstracts,’ Martina said by way of explanation. ‘Very acceptable with the dinner party crowd now. Hugely famous, in fact.’

April nodded. It made her giddy. ‘Yes ... I know . . . Er – um – what about him?’

‘I’d read about him in the Sunday supps,’ Martina was tidying the cherries and orange and lemon slices. ‘I’ve asked Oliver for one of his paintings for my birthday.’

Christ, April thought dizzily, pop along to my flat and take your pick. Was that all? For one awful moment she’d thought Noah was going to stride into the Copacabana, or present the prizes for the last race or something. ‘Oh, lovely . . . Ah, yes – excuse me a sec . . .’

April staggered unsteadily along the bar to serve a clutch of customers. She mixed and poured pina coladas on autopilot. Why the hell couldn’t Martina have wanted a David Shepherd elephant painting? Why couldn’t she have just said she was getting a little bauble from Cartier for her birthday? Why the hell had she decided to go arty-trendy and mention the forbidden Noah word?

April dawdled as long as she could over die drinks, but sadly, Martina was still waiting when she’d finished.

‘And,’ Martina continued, ‘it turns out that he actually lived here – in one of the flats we owned, can you believe some years back. Of course that was Oliver’s side of the business and then Sebby took it over and we’ve never bothered about the tenants’ names unless they cause trouble or don’t pay their rent – but, my God, I wish I’d known then that we had a celeb amongst the riffraff.’

‘Well – um – Noah wasn’t famous then – er – that is, I mean, I suppose he wasn’t that famous then . . .’ April coughed. Even if she told Martina that she knew Noah Matlock intimately, every beautiful perfectly formed inch of him, Martina wouldn’t believe her. And honestly, what was the point? She tried to change the subject. ‘Do we need more Cointreau?’

‘Nah –’ Martina cast a cursory glance at the liqueurs. ‘There’s enough there for tonight. Anyway, it gets better. I’m going to get it autographed. My birthday present.’

Why the hell couldn’t she shut up? Why on earth did she want to turn into Mrs Nice-and-Chatty tonight? ‘Yes, well, don’t all artists sign their work?’ April sometimes wondered about Martina’s intelligence levels. ‘I mean, it wouldn’t be worth much without the signature, would it?’

Martina clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘I don’t mean just the painting. Of course I know that’ll be signed mean Oliver is going to ask Noah Matlock to sign my birthday card to go with it.’

April was beginning to lose track. She’d had birthday cards from Noah. They’d always been hand delivered at least a day late and had usually been rather cheap flimsy affairs with sparkle dust on them. She’d kept them, along with his photos, to show Bee when she was old enough to understand.

‘Goodness, April!’ Martina was suddenly stung into agitation. ‘You’re being very slow tonight! Why don’t you ask me how?’

‘How what?’

‘How I’m going to get my birthday card signed to go with my painting?’

April sighed and asked.

‘Because,’ Martina said triumphantly, ‘Oliver has a – er – business colleague who has a friend who is a mate of Noah’s agent and they contacted him in France . . .’

Whoopee-do, April thought. Through his thug network, she was pretty sure that Oliver could manage to put the squeeze on the entire House of Windsor if Martina had set her heart on a small castle for her birthday.

Martina’s eyes were like saucers now. ‘And – the very best bit of all – it turns out that Noah is in this country at the moment. In London, in fact. And – oh, well, I know this won’t be of much interest to you, of course, but I’ve got to tell someone – Noah Matlock is downstairs with Oliver at this very minute and we’ve invited him to supper – Oh, bloody hell! Do be more careful, April! You’ve spilled the chartreuse!’

The evening dragged on. April was pretty sure she’d mixed Screwdrivers instead of Deathwishes, and Salty Dogs instead of Depth Charges. However, as no one complained she supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Noah was here – back in Bixford – and as he didn’t know that she worked in the Copacabana, unless she invited herself to supper with the Gillespies, he’d go back to France and never know about Beatrice-Eugenie. April groaned. Assuming that Oliver’s connections had wangled the invite, there was no way, this being social, that Noah would be alone. Anoushka, he’d said, only stayed in France when he was on one of his exhibition tours. Of course Anoushka must be with him this time. Bloody Anoushka, who had miraculously metamorphosed from city slicker into paysanne peasant at the drop of Noah’s 501s.

Race after race took place on the other side of the plate glass, and the rowdy, noisy crowd seemed to have no idea that their drinks were being poured by a zombie. April watched the clock’s hands climb round to ten thirty. The last race would soon be over, the serious drinkers would storm into the bar and hang around until midnight. By half-past she’d meet Jix in the stadium, and at quarter to one she’d be home . . .

‘Fucking hell!’ The explosion of words sounded very familiar.

April turned, and dropped two umbrellas into the ice-making machine. They were immediately chomped up into matchsticks. April really didn’t have time to worry. Noah was standing at the bar. Less than a foot away.

Her teeth had riveted themselves together. Despite the fact that she was shaking from head to toe, she managed to force them apart. ‘We – um – meet again, sort of . . .’

Noah, it was pleasing to note, seemed even more pole-axed than she did. He ran his hands through his hair, blinking at her as though she was some sort of mirage. Eventually he cleared his throat. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I work here. The shop I worked in closed just after you left – like most of them in the High Street. I’ve been here ever since. Didn’t Martina tell you?’

‘No she bloody didn’t. I needed a drink. I’ve just escaped from her clawing at me and telling me how much she likes my paintings and how she can’t wait to tell all her Inner Wheel Lunch Circle that she’s having me for dinner.’

April managed to stretch her mouth into a smile. ‘She probably didn’t mean it literally.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

Of course, there was no reason why Martina would have mentioned to him that one of her staff was called April Padgett, was there? Martina knew nothing about the affair. Now that he’d recovered from his first shock, Noah was staring at her with a rather weird expression in his eyes. Belatedly she remembered the French maid’s outfit and tugged ineffectually at the hem of her dress.

‘It suits you . . .’ His voice was husky. ‘There seem to have been a lot of changes . . .’

More than you’d ever guess, April thought, wishing that the sound of his voice wouldn’t play such havoc with her hormones. ‘Er, oh yes, loads . . . Would you like a drink?’