Take a Chance on Me (16 page)

Out of all the cars, the 1985 Tudor Red Bentley Continental Convertible was Cleo’s favorite. Although she preferred it when there weren’t a million bits of red and silver confetti scattered across the ivory leather seats and cream carpets.

But it was hard to be churlish when being picked up this morning had been a complete surprise for the bride, who had expected to be driven to the church in her uncle’s Mazda. She had burst into tears of joy, and Cleo had had to blink back a few of her own as the girl’s uncle carefully lifted her out of her wheelchair and into the back of the Bentley. She’d looked beautiful too, in a crimson velvet bridal gown.

And then after the ceremony, she’d driven the girl and her new husband back to the uncle’s house in Downend where the modest reception was being held, and their happiness had known no bounds. Hundreds of photos had been taken in, out, and in front of the Bentley and blizzards of confetti had been flung into the air in celebration. The girl’s parents had died three years ago, Cleo learned, in the car crash that had put her into a wheelchair. It had always been the father’s dream to take his beloved daughter to church in a red limousine on her wedding day.

Well, you’d have to have a heart of stone not to be affected by that, wouldn’t you? So much unimaginable tragedy, yet today the girl and her young husband had shown it could be overcome. Sitting together, holding hands in the back of the confetti-strewn car, she’d said, ‘You know what? I’m just the luckiest girl in the world.’ And Cleo had believed her.

So no moaning about the confetti, even if it was the metallic sparkly kind that built up a static charge and jumped around like delinquent popping corn rather than disappearing up the vacuum cleaner nozzle like it was supposed to. It just needed a bit more effort and—

‘Hi there!’

‘
Ow
.’ Startled by the unexpected tap on her shoulder, Cleo banged her head on the doorframe and saw stars. Switching off the vacuum cleaner, she backed out of the car and turned to see who’d been the cause of her self-inflicted injury.

‘Ooh, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you! Are you OK?’ The girl was tall, with emerald-rimmed rectangular spectacles of the arty-farty kind, and her bony frame was encased in weirdly styled grey clothes that probably cost ten times more than you’d ever guess.

‘I’ll live.’ Cleo rubbed the back of her head. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Well, I do hope so. We were wondering if we could borrow your car!’

A watery sun was breaking through the clouds and the village green was deserted. Double-checking that there was no one else in the vicinity, Cleo said, ‘We?’

The girl beamed. ‘I work for Schofield? We’ve been spying on you! Well,
he
has, and once Schofield sets his mind to something there’s no stopping him, so I really hope you’re going to say yes. We’re just over there,’ she added, gesturing vaguely behind her.

‘Johnny’s house?’ Cleo hadn’t the foggiest who Schofield was, but it was an educated guess.

‘That’s right! We’re doing a photo shoot… I’m Terri, by the way, Schofield’s assistant… and he spotted your car from the upstairs window. So he’s sent me over here to see if you’d lend it to us, just for a couple of hours.’

OK, it was half past one. Cleo thought fast. She didn’t have to pick Casey up until four o’clock, so it was technically possible. ‘Where would you want me to take you?’

‘Oh, nowhere! We want the car to feature in the shoot, that’s all.’

‘It’s for hire. I can’t lend it to you.’ Well she could, but she wasn’t going to. ‘A hundred pounds,’ said Cleo.

Terri nodded earnestly. ‘Oh God yes, of course, that’s no problem at all!’

Bugger, should have asked for more. This was why she’d be rubbish working as a market trader in a Moroccan souk.

***

Schofield resembled a wiry little gnome. He was wearing a tartan baseball cap, crumpled black linen suit jacket, and tight-fitting custard-yellow jeans. He greeted Cleo like a long-lost relative; she could only be grateful he wasn’t.

‘Darling, you’re a life saver. I was having a
nightmare
.’ He even sounded like a gnome. And his baseball cap was too big for him. Behind him, Johnny’s raised eyebrows signaled that Schofield wasn’t the only one having the nightmare. They were clearly in the presence of An Artistic Type.

‘You see what I was aiming for? Silver, grey, white… all monochrome.’ Schofield was now leaping around, framing the scene with his hands: Johnny, in a white shirt and grey combats, working in the huge white room on the silver steel sculpture of a stallion rearing into the air. And in the background, through the French windows, a grey and white garden utterly devoid of color and iced with…

Hang on a minute.

Snow
?

Observing her double take, Johnny said dryly, ‘We had a snowmaking machine here earlier. They sprayed the whole garden. It’s papier maché.’

‘I know that.’ Honestly, did he think she was stupid?

‘White… grey…
monochrome
,’ intoned Schofield. ‘But then we started the shoot and there was something missing. Something crucial…
vital
… and I couldn’t figure out what it was that I needed. Until I looked out of the upstairs window and saw…’

‘My Tudor Red Bentley Continental Convertible.’

‘Yes!
Yes
! You’re going to park it over there, behind those trees… and it’s the juxtaposition of the horse’—Schofield indicated the rearing steel stallion—‘and the horse
power
’—he flung his arms out to indicate where the car would be. ‘You see? D’you see it now?’ His too-big baseball cap slid sideways over one ear as he nodded excitedly. ‘Do you
see
?’

Cleo nodded. He was barking mad. ‘Yep.’

It took ten minutes of driving back an inch, forward two inches—‘No, no, back again, just a
smidge
more,’—before the Bentley was finally parked to Schofield’s satisfaction and the shoot was able to recommence. Discovering that she was required to stay in case it needed moving again, Cleo was secretly delighted. She’d never seen a photo shoot in action before. This one, for a feature in a glossy magazine, was set to continue for hours and the attention to detail was mind-boggling. In addition to Schofield-the-hyperactive-gnome, there was his assistant Terri, a stylist called Lorna (orange jumpsuit, turquoise hair, chain mail tank-top), a hair and makeup artist called Mike (shaven head, no makeup), and the journalist conducting the interview, whose name was Roz.

Coming over to join her during a break in proceedings, Johnny murmured, ‘Can you believe this? I thought they’d turn up, take a few snaps, and it’d all be over in five minutes.’

‘Oh no no no.’ Cleo kept a straight face and shook her head slowly,
a la
Schofield. ‘It takes longer than that to find the right… juxtaposition.’

‘You’re so right. I had no idea. Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Are you wearing hairspray?’

‘No!’

She peered more closely. ‘Makeup?’

‘Bugger off, no I am not.’

‘So why do you have a hair and makeup artist?’

‘I don’t. He’s here for Roz. She wants to be photographed interviewing me.’

Mike, sorting through his boxes of cosmetics, glanced up and saw them looking over at him. Reaching for a brush and a pot of loose powder he said hopefully, ‘Ready for some of this?’

‘No thanks,’ said Johnny.

‘Sure? Just to take the shine off?’

‘Quite sure, thanks.’ While Schofield was scampering up and down a stepladder checking potential angles, Johnny said to Mike, ‘Is he always like this?’

‘God, yes. He’s pretty chilled today. The last shoot I worked on with him, we ended up in Regent’s Park with three supermodels in couture gowns surrounded by a dozen pissed-up old tramps glugging cans of Tennants Extra.’ His lip quivered at the traumatic memory. ‘And they
all
wanted makeup.’

‘Ha,’ Roz perched on a chair next to Johnny. ‘We did one last year and he made Terri go and bribe a female traffic warden to come back to the studio. Next thing she knew, he had the woman lying on the ground with this Oscar-winning actor holding a steering wheel and standing over her with one foot on her chest. He even had a title for the picture. Driving Over Miss Daisy.’

‘I heard about that!’ Cleo remembered reading something about it in the paper. ‘Didn’t the woman end up losing her job?’

Roz nodded. ‘Which was really sad, of course. And completely unfair.’ She paused. ‘Except hey, she was a traffic warden, so who’s bothered?’

‘Right, everyone back in position.’ Schofield was now dangling from the stepladder like a monkey. ‘Johnny, over to the right of the horse, darling, then I’ll tell you just where to go.’

‘Snap,’ Johnny murmured under his breath.

‘Only a couple more hours,’ Roz consoled him.

‘You know what?’ Mike gave his pudgy stomach a slap. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Terri? Terri! We need food.’ Just in case Terri didn’t understand, Mike cartoon-mimed eating with a knife and fork.

‘OK, right, no problem.’ Pressing a button on her phone, Terri said efficiently, ‘Hi, Terri here, we’re ready now.’ She switched off the phone, looked over at Cleo. ‘Are you a vegan?’

‘No.’

‘Oh phew, thank goodness for that.’

Ditto, thought Cleo.

Five minutes later, the doorbell went. Terri, holding up a reflector board for Schofield, called out, ‘That’ll be the food. Can someone get it?’

Cleo was watching the shoot, enthralled by the process. The lighting was all-important. Schofield was working away, capturing every twist and turn as Johnny manipulated the wire. It was actually fascinating, observing the way he captured the angles as—

‘Someone
please
?’ bellowed Schofield as the doorbell rang again.

OK, fine. Cleo rose to her feet.

‘Hang on.’ Schofield abruptly stopped snapping and narrowed his eyes at the Bentley through the French windows. ‘We need a… a… chauffeur.’

‘Fabulous idea,’ breathed Terri.

‘You.’ He swung round to Cleo. ‘Do you have a chauffeur’s hat?’

‘Um… yes. At home.’ Yay, he was going to ask her to be in the photos, she could have her hair and makeup done, people she knew would actually see her in a glossy magazine…

‘Be an angel and go and fetch it,’ said Schofield.

Cleo opened the front door and saw Fia standing there with a huge covered tray. Behind her, holding another tray, was Georgia.

Fia was visibly taken aback. ‘What are you doing here?’

Ha, this felt so good. ‘They’re using me in the photo shoot.’

‘Oh God you lucky
thing
,’ squealed Georgia. ‘Can we stay and watch?’

‘Terri came over and ordered a load of food earlier.’ Fia, who didn’t normally wear makeup during the day, was wearing a ton of it today. ‘They’re ready for it now; shall we take it on through?’

‘Go ahead. I just need to pick something up from home.’

‘Is Johnny looking hot?’

Cleo did a double take; the question had come from Georgia. ‘
Excuse
me?’

‘Fia wants to know. She’s been piling on the mascara like nobody’s business.’ Giving Fia a nudge, Georgia added mock-lasciviously, ‘She’s really hoping it’s a naked photo shoot.’

Honestly, talk about shameless. It took Cleo less than five minutes to fetch the seldom-worn chauffeur’s cap from the top shelf of her wardrobe, give it a quick dust with her sleeve, and hurry back across the green to Ravenswood. Letting herself in, she found the food laid out in the kitchen, Mike and Roz piling fajitas, crostini, and triangles of frittata onto plates, and Fia and Georgia in the drawing room, avidly observing the shoot.

Cleo said, ‘Don’t you have to get back to the pub?’

‘It’s two-thirty. We’ve stopped serving.’ Fia could barely tear her eyes away from Johnny. ‘Anyway, I asked the photographer guy if we could stay and he said it was fine. He likes an audience.’

Honestly, she was ogling Johnny like some kind of groupie. Where was her pride? ‘Yes, well. Just make sure you don’t get in anyone’s way.’ Cleo turned to Georgia, her nearly-niece. ‘And how come you were in the pub anyway? I thought you were supposed to be setting up a business.’

‘I
am
.’ Georgia was indignant. ‘Yesterday I got a thousand cards printed. I’ve been out delivering them since seven o’clock this morning. I popped into the Hollybush to give out some more, and Fia needed a hand carrying the food over here. Plus, I thought Johnny might be interested in my service.’ Delving into her denim jacket pocket, she produced a fat envelope and took out two blue and white business cards. ‘Here, you can have one too. Aren’t they great?’

Cleo scanned the card, which stated:

Never fear, Georgia the Ironing Genie is Here

To grant all your Ironing Wishes!

You won’t believe how cheap I am!

This startling pronouncement was followed by a phone number and web address.

‘You see, people throw flyers away, but they’re far more likely to keep a card, pin it up on their cork board. And I set up the website yesterday.’ Modestly, Georgia said, ‘It’s brilliant.’

Oh God. ‘You can’t put that,’ said Cleo.

‘Yes I can.’

‘Sweetheart, you can’t.’

‘She can’t what?’ Johnny joined them while Schofield set up the next shot.

Wordlessly Cleo handed him the card.

‘See?’ said Georgia when Johnny burst out laughing. ‘He gets it!’

‘He doesn’t
get
it. He’s laughing at what you’ve written.’

‘And he’s paying attention to it. Far more than if it was just some boring old
ordinary
business card. It stands out from the crowd,’ Georgia explained. ‘And it’s going to make some people think I’m probably a bit thick, so if I say I’m doing the ironing on the cheap, that means it’s going to be
really
cheap, which in turn makes them think they’ll be getting a bargain.’

‘Excellent.’ Johnny nodded, clearly impressed. ‘Smart move. Well done you.’

‘They’re going to be phoning up asking what other services you provide,’ said Cleo.

‘And I’ll tell them I only do ironing.’

‘Right, where’s the girl with the hat? Ah, there you are.’

This was it, her big moment. As Schofield made his way over, Cleo put the cap on and struck a modest pose. She’d never had her makeup done by a professional before. If she sucked her cheeks in, would it give her face that classy, sculpted look?

‘Perfect.’ Removing the navy peaked cap from her head, he examined it from all angles. ‘Perfect, perfect,
yes
.’

‘Shall I go and see Mike?’

‘What for?’

‘So he can do my face?’

Schofield said blankly, ‘Why would he want to do that?’

‘Well…’ Honestly, was he
that
artistic? Had he forgotten already? ‘…you wanted a chauffeur in the shoot, remember? You asked me to go and get my cap.’

‘I know I did. But I don’t want you to be the chauffeur.’ He looked at her askance as if she’d just sprouted a unicorn’s horn, and over his shoulder, Cleo saw hope flare in Fia’s amber eyes. Before Schofield went and spoiled it all by announcing, ‘I want Mike.’

Mike raised an eyebrow and carried on stuffing tortilla into his mouth. It evidently wasn’t the first time he’d been corralled into a shoot. ‘Two hundred, cash in hand.’

Damn, she knew she should have charged more for the Bentley.

‘Unless, hang on…’ Schofield was gazing out at the car, lost in thought, ‘…or we could try something else, we could
add another layer
…’

‘No more snow,’ Terri interjected worriedly. ‘They’ve taken the snow-making machines away.’

‘Not snow. I’m talking about adding another layer to the story.’ He narrowed his eyes at the Bentley and slowly began to nod. Then he turned to look with fresh interest at Cleo.

Yes, yes, he wanted her to be in it after all! Her heart was still racing in her chest when she saw the interest fade and his intense gaze switch to Fia. Cleo saw Fia react in exactly the same way. Then at last…

‘
You
,’ Schofield pronounced, abruptly seizing Georgia by the shoulders. ‘We see the chauffeur in the limousine, being seduced by a beautiful young girl. But the sculptor is so involved, so… lost in his own world of creation that he’s
oblivious
to what’s going on in the car behind him… ha, yes, perfect!’

‘I’m not seducing anyone,’ said Georgia flatly.

Fia blurted out, ‘I will!’

Ignoring her, Schofield focused on Georgia. ‘I’m not asking you to have sex with the man…’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ murmured Mike.

‘… Look, he’s sitting back in the driver’s seat and you’re about to kiss him. You’ll be arching over him, your mouths a few inches apart.’

‘Clothes on?’

‘Oh yes. Clothes definitely on.’

‘Three hundred pounds.’

‘Two hundred.’

‘No way.’

‘OK, three.’

‘Deal.’ Georgia beamed and high-fived him. ‘Cool! That’s, like, the same as ironing two hundred shirts!’

***

For the next forty minutes, Cleo and Fia sat and watched Schofield take hundreds more shots of Johnny at work while Mike and Georgia cavorted and nearly-kissed in the background.

‘It’s her hair,’ Fia muttered. ‘That’s the only reason he chose her, because she’s so blond.’

Which could well be true, but it was still galling to have yearned to be involved in something, then spurned in favor of someone else. Like being picked last for hockey.

‘God, don’t you just love watching him work?’

Cleo helped herself to another slice of frittata. ‘Who, Schofield?’

‘Johnny.’ Fia exhaled. ‘He’s just… so amazing.’

‘He definitely thinks he is.’

‘Ooh dear.’ Roz, waiting to interview Johnny and with her hair in rollers in readiness for their photos together, said, ‘Is there a history between you two?’

‘No. I’m just talking about men like him.’ He might have been away from Channings Hill for years, but they had all heard the stories about Johnny’s escapades from his father; never one to shy away from an entertaining anecdote and wickedly indiscreet, Lawrence had kept the village up to date in that respect. Glancing at Fia, Cleo said, ‘Like Will too. They’re the same type. Men who think they can have anyone they want, do anything they like.’

Fia was still fixated on Johnny. ‘He can do anything he likes to me. I wouldn’t complain.’

‘But that’s exactly what I mean. He
would
. And you
wouldn’t
complain. And you’d end up getting hurt.’

‘So?’

Roz said playfully, ‘I think she’s trying to say, it doesn’t always have to be the romance of the century. Sometimes all a girl wants is a bit of fun.’

‘You’re exactly right.’ Fia nodded vigorously. ‘And God knows, after the time I’ve had, I reckon I deserve some.’

Roz laughed. ‘Good on you! If I wasn’t happy with my chap, I’d be tempted myself.’

Honestly, Fia was a lost cause. Cleo jumped as her phone beeped. Three-thirty.

‘Ten more minutes,’ she called across to Schofield, ‘then time’s up.’

Schofield finished in five. He paid Georgia in cash and she almost exploded with happiness. ‘I could do this for a living!’

‘No you couldn’t.’ He was busy poring over the photos on his laptop.

‘Look, if you ever need me again just give me a call. Seriously.’ She handed him one of her business cards. ‘I can come up to London. Or anywhere you like. I could be your muse!’

Schofield glanced at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re too short to be anybody’s muse. But you did a good job today,’ he flashed her a brief smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m five foot six. Kate Moss is only five seven. I could
think
myself tall.’

‘I think you’ll find she’s Kate Moss. And you’re not.’

‘It’s OK, I know what you’re saying. My knees aren’t knobbly enough. Ooh, that’s a good one.’

Cleo, behind her, peered over Georgia’s shoulder at the photo currently dominating the screen. In it, Johnny’s face was half in shadow, his hair falling over his forehead, and he was looking particularly menacing and hawklike.

‘Yep.’ Schofield nodded approvingly and tagged it.

‘Not very flattering,’ observed Cleo.

Joining them, Johnny slung an arm across her shoulder. ‘I’m not interested in being flattered.’ He gave a squeeze. ‘But it’s sweet of you to care.’

She flushed. ‘I don’t care. I’m just saying.’

‘And flattery’s not my thing. It’s all about character for me,’ said Schofield. ‘If anything, the good-looking ones are the hardest to shoot because their looks are a distraction. You have to work to get people to see past the outer layer.’

‘And they’re usually rotten underneath, because they’ve never had to try to be nice. Sorry.’ Georgia realized her gaffe then defiantly tossed back her hair. ‘But it’s true. Trust me, all my life I’ve watched my mum chase after good-looking men with crappy personalities. They just treat her like rubbish and she ends up getting kicked in the teeth every time.’ She paused, saw the looks on their faces. ‘OK, not literally kicked in the teeth. But you know what I mean.’

Which went some way towards explaining why she was so mad-keen on Ash. And who was to say she wasn’t right to be? Well, apart from the slight drawback that Ash didn’t appear to reciprocate her interest, possibly because he was in the grip of a crush on Fia.

Who, in turn, only had eyes for the star of today’s photo shoot.

And as for
herself
… oh, forget it. Cleo jangled the keys to the Bentley; she had an annoying Australian has-been to pick up. Honestly, life would be so much less stressful if only getting people successfully paired off didn’t have to be so complicated.