Rumor Has It (32 page)

    When he left, Stella watched him go then sank back against her pillows with a sigh. 'He's great, isn't he?'

    'Hmm.' Erin shrugged and semi-nodded, privately outraged by Max's earlier behavior. God, would it have killed him to
pretend
that—

'He's made me feel so much better.'

    Oh cheers. Max breezes in and makes all the difference in the world, while some of us cancel our holidays and spend practically the whole week here; how absolutely fantastic that one quick visit from him should help so much.

    'I feel silly even saying this, but at least I know now that I'm definitely not dying.'

    
'What?'

    'Oh well, you know.' Sheepishly Stella said, 'When you feel this rough and people keep being nice to you, it kind of crosses your mind. And that's pretty bloody terrifying, right? But if I was dying, Max would have gone along with anything I said, wouldn't he? He'd have humored me, promised me as many babies as I want. Pass me one of those.' She gestured weakly at the box of tissues as tears slid down her cheeks. 'But he didn't. He told me to get stuffed. So that means I'm all right.'

    'Well, good.' Erin didn't know what else to say.

    'God, it's such a relief! All I have to do now is get my strength up so they can make a start on the treatment. So, when are you and Fergus planning on getting married?'

    Erin was having trouble keeping up with this conversation. 'We haven't even talked about it. You aren't divorced yet.'

    'That won't take long. We can get it sorted. I don't care about Fergus anymore; you can have him. I just want you to promise me one thing.'

    Oh help, what now? 'Promise you what?'

    'That you'll invite me to the wedding. So I can turn up looking absolutely fantastic, in a truly great outfit. I'll be thin and classy and gorgeous,' said Stella, 'and everyone will wonder why Fergus ever divorced me.'

    'You know something?' said Erin. 'I have the strangest feeling your invitation's going to get lost in the post.'

    'Don't worry, I'll gatecrash.' Stella winced with pain, then her smile of satisfaction broadened. 'Ha, stealing the show at your ex husband's wedding. How cool is that?'

'GUESS WHAT I'VE BEEN doing all day?' Tilly burst into the shop and flung her arms above her head. 'You'll never guess!'

    Kaye, who had been carefully de-bobbling a Brora cashmere sweater, eyed Tilly with her arms in the air and said, 'Pretending to be an orangutan? Swinging from high branches? Ooh, I know, learning to be a trapeze artist!'

    'Any of those would have been so much more fun. I've been gluing Swarovski crystals to a midnight-blue ceiling. A thousand square feet of ceiling. Fifteen thousand Swarovski crystals. My hands are covered in glue and all the feeling's gone from my fingers.' Wincing as she lowered her arms, Tilly said, 'And I had the com pletely brilliant idea of rollering glue over the whole ceiling then just flinging handfuls of crystals at it, but Max wouldn't let me.'

    'He's an evil slave driver.'

    'Tell me about it. Oh, and you have to see the Alzheimer char ity's website.' Tilly reached past her and waggled the mouse to bring the computer's screen to life. 'Jack called Max earlier and told him to take a look.'

    'Oh my
God
,' Kaye wailed when she reached the charity's home page. Tilly, who had already seen it on Max's laptop, gave her arm a sympathetic squeeze.

    Beneath the headline NEWSFLASH! NEWSFLASH! came the announcement: 'Due to unforeseen circumstances Antonella Beckwith has had to pull out of our charity auction. However, we are thrilled and
delighted
to inform everyone that her place will now be taken by a true celebrity, the sensational and much-loved award winning Hollywood superstar, KAYE McKENNA!!!'

    'Oh God,' Kaye let out a groan and covered her face. 'That is
soooo
embarrassing.'

    'It's not too bad.' Well, sometimes you just had to lie.

    'It is. It's like a million people turning up at Wembley for a Madonna concert, then you walking out on stage and telling them they've got you instead.'

    'Wouldn't that be fantastic, though?' Enthusiastically, Tilly said, 'It's always been my secret dream to sing at Wembley.'

    'Except you wouldn't get a chance, because the audience would rip you limb from limb before you even opened your mouth. And that's what it's going to be like for me.' Kaye banged the heel of her hand against her forehead. 'Furious old people, feeling cheated and booing me off the stage, throwing their false teeth at me—and I bet Max thinks it's hilarious.'

    'Just a bit.'

    'I can't believe Dorothy stitched me up like this. She asked me if I'd won any Emmys or Oscars and I said the only award I'd ever won was when I was seven, for the carrying-the-jelly-on-a-plate race.'

    'Well, it's for charity. People won't mind.'

    'They might not mind, but who's going to bid to spend a couple of hours with me?' Gesturing around the shop, Kaye said helplessly, 'If they wanted to, they could come and sit in here for free. All they'd have to do is give me a hand with the de-bobbling.'

    The door opened and a couple of women Tilly vaguely recog nized came into the shop. Well-groomed and in their early thirties, she'd seen them somewhere before. In the Lazy Fox, probably. They were chattering away together. Tilly watched as Kaye prepared her easy welcoming smile and waited for the potential customers to smile and acknowledge her in return.

    Well, that didn't happen. Ignoring both of them, the two women began flicking through the rails. Kaye shrugged slightly and turned back to the computer. Tilly checked her watch; she should be heading over to Harleston to pick Lou up from school.

    '…I mean, can you believe it? I know she's always been a tart, but not knowing who the father of your kid is, God, that's just
tacky
.'

    'Ha, though, I bet we can guess which one she's hoping it is.'

    Tilly exchanged a glance with Kaye; honestly, they might as well be wearing an invisibility cloak. Still, it had its own entertainment value. As Erin had remarked in the past, working in a shop was great if you wanted to eavesdrop.

    'Well, if it's Andrew's,' said the taller, blonder woman, 'it's going to be born with weird little stumpy legs.'

    'And if it's Rupert's,' the brunette grimaced, 'God help it! It'll have a bald head, hairs sprouting out of its pointy ears, and come out wearing mustard-colored corduroys!'

    They both snorted with laughter at this. Tart or otherwise, Tilly felt sorry for whoever they were mocking. Tapping her watch, she said in an undertone to Kaye, 'I'd better be making a move…'

    'Ha, no wonder she's worried. At least she knows it won't look like a gargoyle if it's Jack's. I suppose we should all keep our fingers crossed, for the kid's sake if nothing else. Now, what about the buttons on this shirt? Do they make it look too officey?'

    Tilly's stomach disappeared. One minute her insides had been there. The next, they were just gone. Like in
Tom and Jerry
when Tom hangs in thin air for a bit before crashing to the ground. She looked over at Kaye, who was staring at the women, equally stunned.

    'Those shoulders look a bit square. And I'm not sure about the collar. If it's Rupert's,' giggled the brunette, 'it might come out doing that laugh of his, like a hyena on helium.'

    Who were they talking about?
Who?

    'And if it's Andrew's, it'll be wearing vile stripy socks.'

Tilly closed her eyes. Please let it be some other Jack.

    'God, she must be desperate for it to be Jack's. Ooh, look at this!' Triumphantly the woman pulled out a grey crepe bias-cut dress. 'Ghost!'

    Tilly felt as if she'd seen one. Her heart was pounding and she felt sick.

    'Plus,' said the blonde, 'at least he has a decent surname. Imagine if she married Rupert!'

    'I never even thought of that. God, how
awful
,' squealed the other woman. 'She'd be Amy Pratt!'

    Amy, oh God no. Tilly still vividly remembered being inter rogated by skinny, stiletto-heeled Amy in the pub on the night of Declan's birthday. She'd been besotted with Jack then. And now she was pregnant with what could turn out to be his baby. How could Jack have been so reckless?

    Except that was a rhetorical question, wasn't it? Because the answer was that he was a man, and when it came to sex, they didn't bother to consider the possible consequences. Tilly felt light-headed and, to her horror, just the tiniest bit jealous.

    'So what does Amy's new bloke make of it all?' The blonde was still carefully examining the Ghost dress.

    'Haven't you heard? He's legged it. Dropped her like a stone. You know, you could wear your gold Kurt Geigers with that.'

    'So she's going to be chasing after all three of them.'

    'Poor sods. I bet they're wishing they'd kept it in their trou sers now.'

    'Um, excuse me.' Frowning, Kaye said, 'Is this Jack Lucas you're talking about?'

    The two women turned to look at her, eyebrows raised as far as Botox would allow. The blonde said, 'That's right. Do you know him?'

    Kaye was visibly dismayed. 'Yes I do.
Very
well.'

    'Ohhhh.' The brunette gave a slow, knowing nod. 'You're another one. Well, the law of averages says it had to happen one day. I mean, I know it's his own fault, but you can't help feeling sorry for him.'

    Tilly's mouth was dry. There was a one in three chance that Jack had casually impregnated Amy and the news had knocked her sideways.

    The other woman shook her head. 'And you know what Amy's like when it comes to money. She'll be praying that baby's Jack's. If he's the father, she'll have that lawyer of hers working overtime, pushing for every last penny she can get.'

FERGUS SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY ON the bright orange hospital chair. The sight of his estranged wife, shrunken and discolored and growing visibly weaker by the day, filled him with a mixture of emo tions he could barely define. Years ago, he had loved Stella enough to marry her. But theirs had never been the kind of easy, natural relationship he now had with Erin. Stella's towering ego, her high self-regard, and her endless capacity for criticizing others had suc ceeded in wearing that love away. But now, seeing her like this was really churning him up; he felt guilty and ashamed of himself and resentful and… oh God, guilty again because if she hadn't put her physical symptoms down to the fact that her husband had just left her, she might have gone to the doctor months earlier, in time for the cancer to be caught before it had spread…

    'Come on, come on, you're supposed to be making polite con versation.' Even now, Stella was able to mock him.

    And it was true; he was an estate agent, a salesman. The art of chatting about anything under the sun was something he should be good at, normally
was
good at. But here, in this hospital, he was finding it hard, almost impossible. He didn't know how Erin did it. Erin, of all people, the one Stella had been most vile to. Incredibly, though, she had put all that behind her. Day in and day out, for hours at a time, she stayed here and kept Stella company, talking easily about the hospital staff, their favorite doctors and nurses, the other patients, clothes, TV, schooldays—anything and everything.

    'You look like someone in deep trouble, waiting to see their bank manager,' said Stella.

    Fergus made an effort to cheer up. But that was exactly how he felt. Checking the clock on the wall, he saw that it was almost three. Erin would be here soon, thank God. And he could get back to work. Looking at Stella, he wondered if she knew, deep down, that she was dying. And if she did, what did it feel like? There were so many questions he wanted to ask her but couldn't. God, who could have imagined that something like this would happen?

    Sarkily, Stella said, 'We could always play I-Spy.'

    More guilt. He was being a lousy hospital visitor. 'Do you want to?'

    She rolled her eyes. '
No.'

    'Erin'll be here soon.'

    'Thank God for that. She's a damn sight better company than you are. Mind you, a bedpan would be better company.'

    'Sorry.'

    'I like Erin, you know. She's nice.'

    Fergus slowly nodded. At last.

    'I'm coming to your wedding, did she tell you?' Stella half smiled. 'When it gets to that bit where the vicar asks if anyone knows of any reason why you shouldn't marry, I'm going to stand up and say yes, because you wear women's underwear in bed.'

    It was Fergus's turn to smile. It wasn't true, but he could cer tainly imagine Stella standing up and saying it. Except she wouldn't get the chance, would she? Because by then she'd be—oh God, no, no, don't let him cry…

    But it overtook him without warning, a great tidal wave of emotion, and with a loud honking noise like a startled goose, Fergus buried his face in both hands and broke down completely. He sobbed and sobbed, unable to control himself, and the woman in the bed opposite sent her husband over with a box of man-sized tissues.

    Finally, he got himself back on an even keel. He wiped his face, noisily blew his nose, and looked up to see Stella lying back against her pillows, impassively watching him.

    'Sorry.' Fergus shook his head, embarrassed by the outburst. 'I don't know where that came from.'