Reversing Over Liberace (28 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

“What, nothing
at all
?” Jazz coughed into his pint with shock. “Not a penny?”

“She's already had fifty grand,” Katie pointed out. “So it's not a bad return, really.”

“Of which she gave half to that wanker, Luke Fry. Why don't you sue, Will? Take him to the cleaners.”

I refilled my wine glass. “Because, people.” I took a drink. Once again I was enjoying being the centre of attention. “There would be no case to answer. I've been through it with OC. Everything I gave him, I did of my own free will. He never coerced me or bullied me.”

“He did tie you to the bed though,” Jazz said, with his head down to avoid Katie clopping him around the ear.

“As I
said
”—I carefully ignored him—“of my own free will. And I bet all the other women he conned would say that he never directly
asked
for money. They were so terrified of losing him that they'd hand over whatever he told them he needed.”

“But if they could afford it, then it's their lookout. Ow! Fuck, Kate, that hurt.”

“Good,” Katie said, tightly.

“It's the way he
did it
, Jazz. Even if the women could afford it, even if they were fucking
millionaires
, no one deserves to be treated the way he treats women. Do you know, I don't think he even
likes
women very much?”

“Gift to Ash then.” Jazz arched his eyebrows.

“Ash has got more sense. Anyway, I didn't mean he prefers men. I just think he sees women as glorified cash-point machines.”

“Holes in the wall.” Jazz guffawed and then choked. His pint might have gone down the wrong way, or Katie might have grabbed him under the table. I couldn't tell, but his face blanched and his voice was a little higher when he said, “Sorry.”

“You do know”—Katie laid a hand on my arm—“that it's not your fault, don't you?”

“What, Jazz being a tactless prick? Yeah, I know. Twenty-three years I've been trying to civilise him, but he's still convinced that being diplomatic is having a qualification in watch repair.”

“Falling in love with Luke, you dipstick.”

“Oh. Do you know, I'm not sure that I really did?”

“But you were going to marry him.” Both Katie and Jazz looked shocked.

“Yeah, well, when I was twelve I was going to marry Simon Le Bon and look what happened there.” I sighed, remembering my adolescent fixations for any man in eyeliner.

“He had stupid hair. And he's got fat,” Katie said as she collected her things together and picked up her bag.

“Yes, lucky escape for me.”

“Anyway, guys, much as I'd love to sit around and discuss Will's appalling taste in men, I must be off. The boys have gone to the park with Dan, so I'd better go home and tame the mess while they're out.” Katie got to her feet. “See you on Monday, Will. Later, Jazz.”

After she'd gone, Jazz and I stared into our respective drinks. “So, you'll be up for singing on Sunday?” Jazz said, continuing a conversation we'd started when I'd first arrived at the Grape and Sprout, as though the last ten minutes had never happened. “It's kind of a one-off. A special. Just the band and us, down by the river, near the Millennium bridge?”

“Oh, right. Open-air thing? For passersby?” I didn't mind that so much. Singing outdoors made everything a bit less intense and the weather at the moment was fabulous. “Yeah, why not. Count me in.”

“Good.”

I sipped my wine and looked at him. Over the past few weeks, Jazz had changed enormously. Gone were the towering boots, the funereal clothing and the tatty goatee. Although his hair was still long, it had returned to its natural dirty blond colour. Jazz now wore smart casual clothes, jeans and T-shirts and trainers. From Goth to Gap in three months. “You really like OC, don't you?” I asked. It was the only reason I could think of for the radical self-redesign.

He nodded, almost miserably. “When Grace was born and I was there, it was…” Horrifyingly, there were tears in his eyes. Jazz, who'd not even cried when he'd trodden on his signed Green Day album in stiletto-heeled boots. (It was a party and he'd not noticed, walked around with the CD spiked on his heel for three hours.)

I quickly looked around, in case I'd fallen into a parallel dimension. “I think she's very fond of you, too. You've been terrific, helping out with the dogs and all that.”

“Yeah. Mr. Terrific, that's me.” It really wasn't like Jazz to look glum. He looked as uneasy with the expression, as Santa Claus would look with a machete. “Do you really think she likes me, Will? I mean,
you know
, like a proper bloke?”

Another crowd of people entered The Grape and the diverting noise prevented me from having to answer. There wasn't much I could say, really. How should I know how OC felt about Jazz? Her husband had only just dumped her and now she'd got a new baby. I doubted that the lonely-heart pages were on the top of her reading list at present.

“Jazz.” I took his hand, charitably. “Even if OC isn't interested, there's a woman out there somewhere for you.”

Jazz looked me in the eyes, searching my face. “But maybe not the one I want,” he said softly.

“Oh,
Jazz
.” My heart contorted a little and I squeezed his hand. “Honestly, everything will work out.”

Thwack.

My first thought was “gosh, exactly like in the comics”, as a fist shot out from behind my shoulder, catching Jazz a blow under his chin, in classic He-Man-punch style. My second thought, of course, was “what the
hell
?” and I whipped around to find Luke standing there, with a gleam in his eye.

“Was he trying to get you back?”

Would I be horribly shallow if I admitted to a moment's quiet pride? No man had
ever
punched another guy for me. I was a fist-fight virgin! And now, here was Luke, defending my honour, or at least defending his woman from the predatory advances of her supposed ex-boyfriend.

“No, we were talking.”

“You were holding
hands.
”

Jazz began climbing to his feet, clutching his jaw. I made frantic keep-quiet signals with my eyebrows which he, perhaps understandably, chose to ignore. “What the
fuck
was
that
all about?” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“You, schmoozing your way around my girlfriend! Can't you get it into your head that it's all over? Mind you, Willow, I didn't exactly see you shoving him away.”

“We were
talking
, Luke. That's all. Jazz is going out with my sister.” Jazz's eyes went big and round at this flagrant lie and he opened his mouth to contradict. I stood hard on his foot under the table. He winced, but at least closed his mouth. “Honestly.” I put a pacifying hand on Luke's arm. “We came out for a quiet drink. Katie was with us too, until a minute ago, and Jazz asked about OC. She's giving him a bit of a hard time at the moment.”

“I came to find out how it went at the council today.”

Jazz opened his mouth again, and I had to get brutal. I drew back my arm and slapped him firmly round the face. “How
dare
you grab my hand anyway.
Were
you trying to make Luke jealous? If so, it won't work.” Then I turned my head to one side, pretending outrage, and mouthed “sorry” hidden from Luke by my hair. Jazz obviously now saw the value in being silent.

“Well, I dunno. Willow.” Luke scratched at his stubble and rubbed his knuckles. “I mean, how do I know I can trust you? How do I know that you're not going to go running off with psycho-killer boy here whenever my back is turned?”

I felt a sudden rush of indignation. Forgetting that the romance with Luke had been fake from the moment he'd pretended to knock into me in this very bar, I reacted like any girl would, being accused of infidelity. “I was
not
up to anything with Jazz. If I was, why the hell would I do it in here? Luke.” I lowered my voice and moved closer to him. “
You
are the man I'm going to marry,
you
are the man I'm in love with. Not Jazz.”

I was slightly surprised that the bar didn't fill with the smell of brimstone at the totality of the fib, or that Jazz didn't burst out laughing. But it's probably quite hard to laugh with a cracked jaw. Besides, I had to say
something
. The thought of Luke—filled with unnecessary hurt pride—dumping me just when I was sorting out the kind of revenge most women can only dream of, made me feel sick. Then I came up with something that would swing things my way completely. “Come on.” I pulled at his arm. “Let's go somewhere and buy a bottle of champagne.”

Luke was still looking stern, but his face softened. “You mean?”

“They've paid up.” I put a little wobble of excitement into my voice. “The council wrote me a cheque this afternoon for four hundred and fifty thousand pounds. But, of course”—I let my voice drop, cast my eyes repentantly downward—“if you don't want to, I'll understand.”

“I'm not sure.” Luke ran his hands through his hair. “Can you really promise me, Willow, that nothing is going on between you and
him
?”

Jazz had regained his seat and his pint and was looking at me with the hurt air of a dog which has had its tail trodden on. But at least he was quiet. I beamed good thoughts at him. “I can totally promise you that.”

Luke still looked stern, his mouth tight and his eyes narrow.
Would
he dump the prospect of nearly half a million pounds? Had we all underestimated him? Did he
really
have a sense of pride, of love for me, was I the woman he wanted for herself not her wallet?

“Well, all right. I do believe you.”

Obviously not, then.

“I'm sorry, Willow. I'm under a lot of pressure at the showroom. The thought that you might be fooling around was unbearable.” Luke smiled at me. “We'll say no more about it.”

Hang on. Did that still make it sound as though I
had been
in the wrong? And with a daggy guy like
Jazz
? At least if he'd caught me with my hand in Cal's jeans I could have gone out with a sense of pride at my good taste. “We really weren't…”

Luke put his hand in the small of my back to guide me out of the Grape. “I believe you,” he said, in a tone which made it clear that he didn't, but was being tolerant. We got to the Pitcher and Piano, and ordered a bottle of the finest champagne (£140, I was beginning to regret my lie about the money, I hoped he wasn't going to suggest we went on somewhere equally pricey for dinner) before I realised what he was doing. Making me feel guilty, unsettling me, forcing me to try to buy him back with grand gestures. He was bloody good at it, I had to admit, generosity itself with his “I really don't mind that you met up with your ex without telling me,” and yet just the tiniest bit withdrawn. No handholding under the table, no suggestive winks or casual remarks about our future. Cool enough that, had our relationship been for real, I would have been more than a little bit panicky by now. Smooth. You had to admire it.

So, since I was pretending that our love affair was real, I also had to pretend that I wanted his approval again. I told jokes and took him to dinner (although it wasn't the hugely expensive one he'd clearly set his heart on, it wasn't exactly cod and chips twice). We ended the evening with many references to my condition “down there” and an encounter which, although not the full back against the wall shag, wasn't exactly cod and chips twice, if you get my drift. He dropped me at my door after an “I've forgiven you” snog and I dashed straight in to phone Jazz and apologise.

First thing on Saturday morning, I cadged a lift up to the farm on the back of Ash's bike. We were both glad to get away from home, where Grace had discovered the joys of colic and had therefore kept us all awake most of the night.

“It's not that I
mind
, as such, but it's not even my fucking baby.” Ash pulled the bike up onto its stand and leaned against it in the lay-by.

“Ooh, not getting broody now, are you?” I nudged him and after a moment he nudged back.

“Not for kids, no. But, don't you ever think you're getting old, Will? With nothing to show for it?” He pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his spiky brush of hair, making it stand on end and himself, in consequence, look about twelve.

“We're thirty-two, Ash. It's not exactly cardigan-time.”

“Yeah, but, I was clubbing last night and, know something? For the first time I felt old. There's loads of guys there, all about nineteen, all totally fuckable but it's like there's nothing going on apart from clubs, drugs and sex.” There was a pause.

“I'm still looking for the bad in that statement.”

“Well, there
is
more to life than that, isn't there? I want to buy a house, Will. I want to live with someone, eat breakfast with them, get a dog. Be real. Don't you ever feel that you want to be real?”

I inhaled heftily. “I think it's called growing up.”

“I guess. Right, I'm going, leave you here with Gorgeous Boy.” Ash threw a derisive look at the Metro, slewed into its parking space in the worst example of parallel parking since the
Exxon Valdez
. “I'll see you back at the ranch house.” Helmet on and engine started, he threw up the visor to yell, “Give him one from me,” and roared off into the scenery, which briefly became less scenic with the addition of a Yamaha 750 and concomitant exhaust fumes.

As I crossed down over the field, I could see that the door to the barn was open a touch. Nothing visible inside, of course, he was too careful for that. All the machines were tucked away in the far, dark corner, ticking and flickering and purring to themselves out of sight of any casual passersby.

“Hello?” Forgetting exactly who I was dealing with, I tugged at the slightly open door. The resulting noise drove me to my knees, both hands clamped over my ears. The noise was so big it had character.