Take a Chance on Me (19 page)

The doorbell rang while Abbie was in the kitchen. Answering it, she found Fia Newman on the doorstep.

‘Hi.’ Fia held up a black bin bag. ‘Frank’s rushed off his feet so he asked me to bring his stuff over for Georgia. Is she in?’

‘Yes, I’m here! Come on through!’

Abbie bit her lip; she knew she should be glad Georgia was working, but she was beginning to feel like an intruder in her own home. Showing Fia into the living room, she breathed in the steamy smells of Lenor and spray starch. Freshly ironed shirts, trousers, and dresses were festooned around the place, arranged on hangers and dangling from picture rails and pieces of furniture. The radio, tuned to BWR, was blasting out. Piled up on the sofa were bags of clothes still waiting to be dealt with. In the center of the room, wearing a Snoopy tank top and a pair of stripy pink and white shorts, was Georgia, working away like a thing possessed. True to her word, she had indeed turned out to have a talent for ironing; her work was speedy and meticulous.

‘Wow, look at you.’ Fia was visibly impressed. ‘How much stuff have you got there?’

‘Loads.’ Beaming, Georgia expertly flipped over the shirt on the ironing board and smoothed out one of the sleeves. ‘I’m undercutting all the other ironing services in the area, so it’s all flying in. Isn’t it great?’

It was great, thought Abbie, so long as you didn’t want to sit down with a cup of coffee and watch the TV in peace. The living room was pretty much off limits these days. If there was a program she or Tom particularly wanted to see, they had to watch it on the temperamental portable upstairs.

‘Isn’t she amazing?’ Fia was in a chatty mood. ‘To be honest, I never thought she’d do it. Most teenagers wouldn’t be bothered.’

‘Oh, she’s a hard worker.’ Abbie wondered how Fia would feel if Georgia were to set up her ironing board in the middle of the pub.

‘Right, where shall I put Frank’s stuff?’

‘Over there by the fireplace. I’ll have it all done by tomorrow night. Abbie, can you do a label?’

Abbie reached for the roll of sticky labels, scribbled Frank’s name on one, and slapped it onto his bag.

‘You’re going to be working all day and night at this rate.’ Fia watched as Georgia finished the shirt she’d been ironing, lovingly hung it up, and pulled the next one from the basket at her feet. ‘Oh, I know who that belongs to!’

Georgia gave the crumpled shirt an ecstatic hug. ‘It’s Ash’s new one. His body has been inside it. This material has had actual physical contact with his
chest
.’

Abbie said by way of apology, ‘She has a bit of a thing about Ash.’

‘I know.’ Fia looked baffled. ‘Everyone in Channings Hill knows.’

‘It’s not a “bit of a thing”.’ Georgia lovingly wrapped the arms of the shirt around her neck and dreamily began to dance along to the radio. ‘It’s true love.’

‘One-sided love,’ Abbie pointed out. ‘Ash isn’t interested.’

‘
Yet
. But I’m going to win him over. With my wit and my charm and my dazzling skill with an iron.’

Fia was clearly amused. ‘It’s not as if he’s even good-looking. He can’t afford to be too picky.’

‘Exactly.’ Georgia nodded vigorously in agreement. ‘I’ve already told him that.’

Poor Ash. Abbie wondered how he’d feel if he knew he was being discussed like this.

‘I mean, who’s he holding out for?’ demanded Fia. ‘Angelina Jolie?’

‘He’d better not be. Because if she does turn up,’ said Georgia, ‘I’ll fight her for him.’

‘Angelina Jolie has more muscles than Rambo.’ Abbie couldn’t help herself. ‘She’d win.’

***

Waiting in the car for him, Cleo saw that Casey Kruger wasn’t pining for her too desperately. He had company tonight. When he finished signing autographs after the show, he reached for the hand of a woman who’d been lurking in the shadows and brought her over.

‘Heya Cleo, how ya doing? Bringing a friend back with me tonight.’

A blonde friend, naturally. If a little older than she’d have expected. Discreetly studying the woman as they settled themselves into the back seat, Cleo guessed that she was in her mid-thirties. She also noted the low-cut top, the spectacular cleavage, the acrylic nails. Undeniably attractive, Casey’s new friend was without doubt the best of the bunch that had been hanging around the stage door this evening. And she hadn’t seen her there before. She could have been sitting in the front row tonight and Casey had spotted her during the show. Maybe he’d caught her eye a few times, then winked and smiled and indicated discreetly that should she want to meet him afterwards, her luck would be in.

He’d probably done it hundreds of times over the years.

Then the woman caught Cleo’s eye in the rearview mirror and she smiled, a charming friendly smile. Cleo was instantly ashamed. Who was to say she wasn’t a genuine old friend of Casey’s? They might have known each other for years and she wasn’t a groupie at all.

Before they reached the outskirts of Bristol Casey said, ‘Can we pull over at those shops up ahead? Outside the off license?’

‘No problem.’
What a skinflint
.

‘Not being tight,’ Casey went on, ‘but the room service charges at that hotel are just mental.’

Cleo stopped the car beneath a street lamp and he touched his companion’s thigh. ‘Won’t be too minutes. What would you like to drink, um…?’

‘My name’s Maria. And white wine would be lovely, thanks. New Zealand sauvignon if they have it.’

Casey nodded and clambered out of the car. Looking through the shop window, Cleo saw that the off license was busy and there was a queue at the till. Oh well. It wasn’t up to her to start up a pass-the-time conversation with Casey Kruger’s ‘friend’.

Except, had he really scanned all the females in the front row of the stalls, picked her out, and persuaded her with a wink and a suggestive tilt of his head to spend the night with him?

From the back of the car, Maria said easily, ‘So what’s this hotel like? Pretty nice, I’d imagine.’

‘
Really
nice.’ Cleo shifted sideways in her seat, noted the absence of a wedding ring. ‘Fourteenth century. And the grounds are beautiful too.’

She was met with an engaging grin. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll be getting to see much of the grounds, will I?’

There wasn’t really any answer to that. ‘Well, anyway, the hotel’s great.’

Maria said dryly, ‘Although the room service is expensive.’

You couldn’t help warming to her. And Casey, still busy selecting wine, would be a while yet. Indicating him with a tilt of her head, Cleo said, ‘Is it the first time you’ve seen him in the show?’

‘Who, Casey? I haven’t seen the show. Can’t stand musicals. So how long have you been doing this job?’ Smoothly the subject was changed.

‘Three years.’

‘And is it good fun? Boring?’

‘Some of each.’

‘Like any job, I guess.’

‘It has its ups and downs.’ Cleo wondered what she did for a living.

‘And you live here in Bristol?’

‘Actually, no. I’m not too far from Casey’s hotel. It’s a village called Channings Hill—’

‘Oh, I know that place!’

‘Yes?’ Casey could do a lot worse than this one; she might be ten years older than the girls he usually went for, but she was actually really likeable. ‘Have you been to the Hollybush?’

Maria shook her head. ‘I knew someone who lived there, a friend of mine. His name was LaVenture.’

Oh God, not another one. Was there anyone he hadn’t
‘known’
? Deflating, Cleo said, ‘Johnny.’

‘No, Lawrence.’

‘Oh! Johnny’s dad!’ That was so much better. ‘How d’you know Lawrence?’

Maria shrugged. ‘We were friends.’

‘He was quite a character. Everyone loved him.’ Cleo stopped abruptly; maybe she hadn’t heard. ‘Um… OK, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m afraid Lawrence died a few months ago.’

‘Yes.’ Maria was already nodding. ‘I knew.’

It was on the tip of Cleo’s tongue to find out if she’d heard about the circumstances of his death, when something about the set of Maria’s mouth stopped her.

The penny slowly… finally… dropped.

Oh my God
.

So…

Hee
!

Their eyes met for a prolonged moment. At last Maria tilted her head and said cheerfully, ‘Got there in the end, then.’

‘It was you!’ Cleo couldn’t believe she’d been so slow to catch on.

‘Dear old Lawrence. He didn’t suffer.’ Maria’s eyes danced. ‘Mind you, he gave me a bit of a fright.’

In the off license, Casey was now handing over his credit card at the till.

‘I thought you were a groupie!’

‘Casey Kruger’s biggest fan? Give me a break!’ Maria looked appalled. ‘The Kaiser Chiefs, now they’re my kind of music. Anyway, groupies don’t get paid.’

She had a point. Fascinated, Cleo longed to talk money. How much was Casey paying for the pleasure of her company tonight? A fair amount, presumably, if he was reduced to buying their alcohol from Threshers.

But no, that was a question she couldn’t ask. Instead she said tactlessly, ‘We wondered if you’d turn up for Lawrence’s funeral.’

Maria shook her head. ‘I was invited. I’d have liked to, really. Lawrence was a regular client of mine, and I was very fond of him. But it would’ve caused a stir.’

‘It would. Who invited you?’

‘Lawrence’s son, Johnny.’

‘You met him, then?’

‘No, but he phoned me. After my interview with the coroner. He sounded really nice.’ Interested, Maria said, ‘
Is
he nice?’

Cleo paused. OK, this was a potential scenario she definitely didn’t need to envisage. ‘He has his good moments. And his bad ones.’

‘Bit of a looker, is he? Like his dad?’

Cleo said casually, ‘He’s all right. Then again, lots of people think Casey Kruger’s gorgeous.’ Relieved, she saw that Casey was heading towards them, bulging plastic carriers in each hand.

‘Phew, sorry about that. Took longer than I thought.’ The carriers clanked as he climbed in. ‘Had to sign a load of autographs.’

‘No problem.’ Crikey, how much had he bought? There had to be a dozen bottles in there.

‘Thought I might as well stock up. Don’t you just hate it when you run out of stuff to drink?’ Settling himself into the back of the car and giving Maria’s knee a seductive squeeze, Casey said, ‘Well that’s not going to happen to us, is it? We’re going to have a
grrrreat
night, yes sirreee!’

He was already unscrewing the top of a bottle of Scotch and noisily glugging it back. Cleo restarted the engine. For a split second, her eyes met Maria’s in the mirror.

God, imagine having to submit to the sexual demands of someone who made your skin crawl.

It didn’t bear thinking about.

However much Maria was getting paid, it wasn’t enough.

‘There you go. Enjoy!’ As Fia put the plate down on the table in front of him, Ash caught a waft of faint but delicious perfume. ‘And don’t forget, this is on me.’

It was a bowl of spaghetti Bolognese. Normally, a statement like that would provoke a joke from him, but he was too busy being tongue-tied and awkward in Fia’s presence. Just for a change. Not to mention thinking that his on-the-house spaghetti Bolognese had in fact cost him one hundred and twenty pounds.

It was Wednesday lunchtime. Last night Fia and her oh-so-deserving friend Aaron-the-do-gooder had gone to the Colston Hall
on his tickets
, and so far she had told him seventy-three times that it had been the best concert she’d ever seen in her life.

OK, maybe not seventy-three. But she was certainly rubbing it in.

‘You know, he was just so…
fantastic
.’ Fia shook her head, lost in admiration for Richard Mills’s talent, good looks, and captivating stage presence.

Ash wondered how it would feel to hear her say those words about him.

‘Even my hands are sore.’ She held them out to show him the palms. ‘They’re still burning from clapping so much.’

He forced a smile, willing himself not to imagine those warm hands roaming over his body… no, no, now he was just torturing himself, don’t even go there, she’d probably leap away in disgust and run a mile.

‘And Aaron’s still on cloud nine. He’s phoned me up three times today already!’

‘Good. That’s… good.’ Ash twirled a mound of spaghetti around his fork, raised it to his mouth, and leaned forward, managing to catch a single spaghetti strand between his teeth while the rest promptly unraveled and dropped back onto the plate. ‘
Shit
.’ He snatched up his paper napkin and rubbed at the orange splashes on the front of his shirt.

‘You’ve got a bit on your chin too,’ Fia said helpfully.

‘Oh. Thanks.’

She pointed. ‘And your ear.’

‘Right.’
Fucking
uncontrollable spaghetti.

‘Well, I’d better get back to work.’ Gaily, Fia turned and swung into the kitchen, singing a line from one of the arias Richard Mills had performed last night.

Ash exhaled and put down his sauce-spattered napkin. Was this rock bottom? Had he finally hit it?

Because if he had, maybe it was time to take that step and call Losers Anonymous.

Hi, my name is Ash Parry-Jones and when I’m at work I’m funny, smart, and super-articulate without even trying… I have thousands upon thousands of fans who tune in to my show every morning because they know I’ll entertain them and brighten their day.

And outside work, I’m a complete dick.

***

The trouble with having a bit of a clear-out downstairs and hauling three bin bags of assorted clutter up into the loft, was that you never actually dumped them and came straight back down again. While you were there, you always somehow managed to spot something you hadn’t seen for years and get sidetracked.

Cleo, sitting cross-legged with her back to a bundle of blankets, had been up in the loft for the past two hours. She’d looked through a suitcase of her dad’s favorite clothes. Losing her mum at eleven had been devastating, but she knew how lucky she’d been to have her loving, gentle father, who had become two parents rolled into one and done such a good job—along with Abbie—of bringing her up. One day she’d feel able to donate his old woolly sweaters and faded checked shirts to the charity shop, but not quite yet.

She had then examined a cardboard box containing all the books she had adored as a child; OK, the charity shop definitely couldn’t have these because one day she planned on reading them to her own children, whether they wanted to hear them or not.

And there was another box filled with jigsaws, which she really should chuck out; God knows, no twenty-first-century child would be seen dead doing a jigsaw.

She’d also been through a tin of her mother’s costume jewelry, a shoebox filled with old postcards, and a box-file of graffiti-strewn school exercise books and end-of-year reports. Reading them had brought the memories—not all of them great—flooding back. Mr Elliott had written, ‘If Cleo were to pay more attention to History and less to Boyzone, progress might be achieved’. Miss Barlow had put, ‘On the tennis court, Cleo is enthusiastic.’ Which was a polite way of saying unable to hit the ball over the net, but good at picking it up again. And Mr Haines, her Maths teacher, had described her as ‘Easily distracted during lessons, usually by herself.’

Which was just snarky. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t been able to get to grips with quadratic equations.

Anyway, karma had come good in the end. Two years later, Mr Haines had been stopped in his car by the police and charged with driving without due care and attention. Whilst wearing nothing but a satin corset, stockings, and lacy garters.

Ouch, her foot had gone numb. Cleo shifted position, bent forward, and reached for the next packet of photos in the trunk in front of her.

This was what had kept her up here for the last hour. Her father had never gone anywhere without a camera. He’d taken endless photographs throughout her childhood, and at the time, she’d quite often wished he wouldn’t. Back then, it had been a source of embarrassment and shame.

But almost two decades later, the embarrassment factor had faded and she was glad he’d done it. Village life had been captured to a tee and it was brilliant to see everyone looking as they’d looked all those years ago. Sorting through the snaps, she came to one of herself with an ill-advised baby bangs, showing off her new lemon yellow dungarees in the back garden. And here were a whole load taken at the village summer fête… there was Welsh Mac when he still had hair… and Glynis from the shop, wearing a white polyester trouser suit and high heels that were sinking into the grass as she manned the hoopla stall. Flipping on through, she came to one featuring Abbie and Tom looking young and in love, and another of Glynis’s husband Huw looking hot and half-cut outside the beer tent. And—ha!—there was Johnny in the background, in jeans and a dodgy striped T-shirt, fooling around with a couple of friends in front of the coconut shy. Next was one of herself—oh good grief—wearing a homemade hula skirt and crepe flowers in her hair for the fancy dress competition. Then another of Johnny stretched out on the grass, feeding crisps to the vicar’s yappy Jack Russell terrier. And here was one of Huw sprawled in a chair and fast asleep now, oblivious to the fact that, behind him, his young nieces were gleefully sprinkling daisies and bits of grass on his head.

She smiled at the pictures. The next one showed Wayne Carter, who had always been the wild boy of the village, snarling at the camera and brandishing a can of lager. His hair was dyed black and gelled into aggressive spikes and he was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt, strategically ripped to reveal a nipple ring that, back then, had sent shockwaves through the community.

He was a chartered accountant now.

Her mobile burst into life and she answered it.

‘Hi, it’s me.’ Her pulse quickened; there was no mistaking Johnny’s playful drawl.

‘This is a coincidence. I’ve just been looking at old photos of you!’ Hastily Cleo added, ‘Not in a stalkery way.’

‘How did I look?’

‘You’ve had better hairstyles.’

‘And how did you look?’

‘Stunning, of course.’

He laughed. ‘Listen, remember you liked my new dining room?’

‘Um… yes.’ When he’d shown her over his house the other week, she’d fallen in love with the shade of paint he’d chosen for the walls, a rich velvety topaz yellow.

‘Well I’ve just been sorting through junk in the garage and I’ve found another ten-liter tin of the stuff. I knew we’d ordered too much, I just didn’t realize how much. And you said you were thinking of redoing your living room, so I wondered if you wanted it.’

‘Great, thanks!’ Ten liters of good quality paint, for free? Brilliant.

‘If you’re at home, I can bring it on over.’

‘I’m in the attic. It’s easier to get into than it is to climb out of,’ said Cleo, ‘so you’ll have to give me five minutes. But the door’s on the latch.’

Johnny didn’t hesitate. ‘In that case, just stay where you are. I’m on my way.’