Take a Chance on Me (9 page)

Bristol Airport was busy, packed with people arriving, leaving, and waiting to meet other people. Cleo, her greetings board tucked under her arm, waited at the back of the scrum and watched as the doors slid open to disgorge the latest stream of arrivals.

She was here to pick up a client flying in from Amsterdam, a Mrs Cornelia Van Dijk, which she wasn’t altogether sure how to pronounce. Well, hopefully she wouldn’t need to. Anyway, she was taking her to the Hotel du Vin, where she would be having lunch, then chauffeuring her wherever she wanted to go after that, until six o’clock. And, as always when all she had was a name to go on, she had a fully formed picture in her mind of Mrs Van Dijk; she would be tall and grey haired, in her sixties, and as thin as a whippet. Her nose would be long and pointy; she might be wearing an unusual hat and could even have a pointy beard and moustache…

OK, probably not. But her art teacher at school had been a big fan of Van Dyck the painter, and once you had an idea lodged in your head it was hard to—

Oh my God, look who was coming through the glass doors!

Cleo experienced that jolt of shock you always got when you saw someone out of context. Johnny LaVenture was wearing a sand-colored suede jacket, white shirt, and black jeans. He was also pushing a trolley piled high with dark blue cases. Glancing up at the arrivals board, she saw that he’d just flown in from New York.

There was no need to duck down; she just automatically found herself doing it. But the crowd was clearing around her, there were no handy pillars or enormous fat people to hide behind, and what did it matter if he saw her anyway?

As she straightened up, Cleo discovered that he already had.

Breaking into a smile, Johnny came towards her. ‘Misa! Sorry…
Cleo
.’ He shook his head, correcting himself. ‘Look at you in your uniform, all smart and efficient. Have you come to pick me up and take me home?’

He was wearing a new aftershave, lemony and intriguing. Different smell, same old deliberately provocative manner.

‘Not unless you’re in the middle of having a sex change.’ She showed him the name on her greetings board.

Johnny pulled a face. ‘No, that’s not me. Shame. How do you pronounce it, anyway?’

‘Van Dyke,’ said Cleo breezily.

He frowned slightly. ‘Really? Sure it’s not Van Deek?’

Damn, he’d been testing her. Trust him to know. Changing the subject, Cleo nodded at his mountain of cases and said, ‘That lot must have cost a fortune in excess baggage.’

‘All my worldly goods.’ He gave the uppermost case a pat.

‘Why?’

‘Why d’you think?’ Johnny raised a meaningful eyebrow. ‘Ravenswood still hasn’t sold.
Somebody
managed to scare off the only serious buyers. And it’s not the kind of place you can leave standing empty. So I’m getting out of New York and moving back to Channings Hill. For the foreseeable future.’ He paused, noting with amusement the look of dismay on her face. ‘I know, and it’s all your fault. So you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself.’

Ouch. Well, that served her right. She’d done a bad thing and now she was being punished for it.

Wasting no time in pointing this out, he went on, ‘Anyway, what’s happened with your married guy? Mr Oh-so-Perfect New-man?’

Because that was the thing about Johnny, he never had been able to resist making fun of other people, reminding them of their own imperfections and failures.

‘I haven’t seen him since that night.’ Glancing up at the arrivals board, Cleo saw that the Amsterdam flight had landed.

‘Found yourself another chap yet?’

‘No. I don’t need another man.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ He half-smiled.

As patronizing as ever. But… what
was
that aftershave he was wearing? Breathing in surreptitiously, Cleo inhaled the herby lemoniness and attempted to commit it to memory. Mrs Van Dijk would be emerging soon. She looked at Johnny and said, ‘Are you waiting to be picked up?’

‘Always.’ His dark eyes glittered. ‘Sorry. Yes, I am, thanks. So, do you like it?’

Deliberately cryptic. He probably enjoyed the sense of superiority it gave him to have the upper hand. It was slightly puzzling, though, that he should seem so cheerful about coming back to live in Channings Hill when he’d been so keen to sell the house. Patiently she said, ‘Do I like what? Being single? Waiting to be picked up? Snails in garlic?’

‘My aftershave. Actually,’ Johnny amended, ‘it’s not mine. I tried it in Duty Free and I think it might be OK.’ He leaned towards her, inviting her to smell his neck. ‘Here, what do you reckon?’

How on earth did he know what she’d been thinking? Had she been snuffling the air like a truffle-hunting pig? No, she definitely hadn’t been doing that. Cautiously, Cleo moved forward an inch and breathed in again. ‘It’s… fine.’

‘Fine?’ He looked disappointed. ‘You mean it’s not great, it’s not awful, it’s just… bearable?’

Oh, this was ridiculous. ‘Actually, it’s really nice,’ said Cleo. ‘What is it?’ At least now she could find out without it sounding like some cheesy chat-up line.

Johnny frowned. ‘Damn. I can’t remember.’

‘Well, think.’

‘I am thinking! There were hundreds of bottles. I picked up loads of different ones and smelled them… then this one seemed good so I gave it a go… and now I have
no
idea which one it was.’

‘That’s just stupid, then, isn’t it?’ More people were beginning to emerge through arrivals; Cleo kept an eye out for Mrs Van Dijk.

‘It’s annoying, I’ll give you that.’ Frowning again and tugging at the collar of his shirt, he offered her another sniff. ‘Don’t you recognize it? I thought girls were experts when it came to aftershave. They always seem to know what you’re wearing.’

‘Sorry, not this girl.’ There was a tall, beaky looking woman in her sixties coming through now; stepping away from Johnny, she held up her greetings board and assumed a smiley, welcoming expression.

‘Ah good, you are hjere!’ The client approached her and, not for the first time, Cleo’s preconceptions flew out of the window. As the beaky woman strode towards the exit, a curvaceous, sultry brunette in her late thirties, with cushiony crimson lips and smoky eyes, offered her the handle of her expensive looking case-on-wheels. ‘I am hjere too!’

Which just went to show, you never could tell. Oh well, never mind, she seemed fun anyway. Cleo said cheerfully, ‘Welcome to Bristol, Mrs Van…?’ This was how she handled tricky names; if in doubt, let the client tell you themselves.

‘Van Dijk.’ It was Johnny’s voice chipping in, pronouncing it Van Dyke. He broke into a broad smile. ‘Or as I call her, the wonderful Cornelia.’

Excuse me?

‘Johnny! You beautiful man, I didn’t know you were there behijnd the sign!’ Exclaiming with delight, Cornelia threw her arms around him and kissed him extravagantly on both cheeks.

OK, this clearly wasn’t a coincidence. Cleo watched as the woman made a production of wiping the lipstick imprints from Johnny’s face.

Still smiling, he told Cornelia, ‘Looking rather spectacular yourself. And is this a new bracelet?’ Diamonds glittered as he held up her arm, turning it this way and that.

‘Just a little Christmas gift.’ Her eyes bright, Cornelia confided, ‘From me to myself.’

‘When you live in Amsterdam it’d be a crime not to.’ Johnny regarded her with affection. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

‘Oh, dear Johnny, it ijs wonderful to see you too! Well, Ij am hungry! Shall we go?’

Cleo nodded. ‘Absolutely. I’m taking both of you, then? To the Hotel du Vin?’

‘That’d be great.’ Steering his trolley towards the exit, Johnny said easily, ‘I booked the car just for Cornelia, originally. I was planning to fly in yesterday. Then I had a last minute meeting, switched my flight to today… and we’ve actually managed to arrive at the same time, which is a bit of a miracle. Still,’ he beamed at Cleo, ‘it was good of me to use your limo company, wasn’t it?’

Hmm. As far as she was concerned, it had less to do with generosity and more to do with his eternal bid for one-upmanship. But Cleo smiled and nodded and said obediently, ‘Very good. Thank you.’

With the luggage stowed in the boot of the car—today she was driving the midnight-blue S-class Mercedes—Cleo pulled out of the short-stay parking lot and headed towards Bristol, still with no clue as to who Cornelia Van Dijk actually was.

Apart from absolutely loaded if the diamonds were anything to go by, and in possession of a stupendous pair of gravity-defying breasts.

‘Right,’ said Johnny. ‘We’ll be a couple of hours. Will you be OK out here?’

They were parked outside the Hotel du Vin where he and Cornelia had a table booked for lunch.

Cleo nodded. ‘No problem. It’s my job to be OK out here.’

‘I can send out a cup of coffee if you want.’

‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

He hesitated. ‘You will wait here, won’t you?’

The cheek of it! ‘Don’t worry,’ said Cleo, ‘I’m not planning to go off shopping and dump the car in some airport parking lot with all your worldly goods in the trunk.’

‘Darling, don’t worry, Ij am sure she’ll keep everything safe.’ Shaking back her glossy hair, Cornelia said, ‘Shall we go inside now? Ij am gasping for a drink!’

***

Johnny reappeared shortly after three.

‘See?’ Cleo climbed out of the driver’s seat, indicated the car. ‘Still here. I didn’t even sell your stuff on eBay.’

He inclined his head. ‘Excellent. Cornelia’s just freshening up. She’ll be out in a moment.’

‘Good lunch?’

‘Great, thanks. So, are you curious about Cornelia?’

What a question—of course she was curious. She spent her whole life being curious… not knowing the answers to questions drove her
insane
…

Aloud, Cleo said, ‘No, why would I be?’

‘Oh, OK.’ He shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets, and kicked at a stone on the road.

Pause.

Longer pause.

Oh for heaven’s sake. ‘Go on then,’ said Cleo. ‘Who is she?’

‘A client.’ Johnny smiled briefly at her capitulation. ‘A very wealthy one. Her husband died last year.’

‘Really?’ She was shocked. ‘How awful.’

‘Not really. He was eighty-six.’

Euw
. Careful not to pull a face, Cleo gulped and said, ‘And she’s how old…?’

‘Think of a number, then double it.’ Amused, he replied, ‘She has a great plastic surgeon. But that’s beside the point. She isn’t my girlfriend, if that’s what you were thinking. Cornelia bought two of my pieces last year while she was over in New York and now she’s interested in commissioning a third.’

Cleo nodded, because this was how the other half lived. In her line of work she’d experienced it before. If normal people wanted to treat themselves, they ordered something off the internet or popped down to the local shop to see what caught their eye. Whereas when Mrs Van Dijk fancied a new sculpture for her drawing room, she hopped onto a plane to meet up with the artist.

And here she came now. Crikey, was she really in her sixties? Smiling fondly at Johnny as Cleo held the car door open, she trailed the back of her hand along his cheek and said, ‘Darling, you do smell delicious. Acqua di Parma, am I right?’

A flicker of recognition crossed Johnny’s face as the name rang a bell. ‘In a bright yellow box? I think that’s the one. Clever you.’

‘Colonia Intensa.’ Inhaling appreciatively, Cornelia purred, ‘I’m always right. Cary Grant used to wear it, you know. And David Niven.’

Cleo didn’t dare look at Johnny. Crikey, Cornelia was older than they thought.

***

It was five o’clock. Having dropped Johnny and Cornelia at Ravenswood an hour ago, Cleo was now back to take Cornelia on to Cheltenham, where she was due to spend a couple of days with an old friend before flying back to Amsterdam.

Johnny answered the door and said, ‘We’ll be a few more minutes, is that OK?’

‘Absolutely.’ She took a couple of steps back but he opened the door wider. ‘No need to wait in the car. Come along in and see my new studio.’

Curiosity got the better of Cleo. Having never seen inside a proper artist’s studio before, she followed Johnny across the oak paneled hall.

‘Well,’ he amended, ‘it’ll be my new studio when I’ve finished with it.’

They were in the drawing room, a vast, high-ceilinged space with tall sash windows and French doors that opened onto the garden at the back of the house. Given that Lawrence LaVenture’s priority in life had been socializing in the pub and not interior design, the décor was on the tired side. The wallpaper was stripy and peeling at the edges, the carpet was a riot of swirls, and none of the sofas matched. There were hunting prints on the walls, bookcases crammed with books, and the TV, Cleo saw with a start, was balanced on the back of a three-foot high, bright red clay statue of an elephant.

‘I know.’ Watching her reaction, Johnny said dryly, ‘but this was how Dad liked it. The estate agents were marketing the house as an excellent opportunity for the buyer to stamp their own personality on the place. Meaning basically that it needed a total refurb.’

‘I love the elephant!’ Cleo moved towards it, unexpectedly entranced. There was a quirky, cheeky glint in the creature’s eye.

‘So did Dad. It’s the first piece I did that he ever really liked.’

She looked at the elephant again. ‘You made this?’

He nodded. ‘When I was sixteen.’

Back when they’d been enemies. But he’d had real talent, even then.

‘Anyway,’ said Johnny, ‘now that I’m going to be living here, there are going to be some changes. And this room will be perfect to work in.’

Cleo could see that it would be. She headed over to an octagonal dining table, across which were strewn oversized sheets of paper covered in sketches. As she studied the charcoal drawings of horses grazing in a field, Cornelia burst into the room and said, ‘Hjere I am, all ready to leave now! Ah, you are admiring my beautiful horses? Johnny is going to make them for me. He’s brilliant, isn’t he? I’m such a lucky, lucky girl! Thank you, thank you,’ she exclaimed as Johnny helped her into her long velvet coat. ‘There, all sorted, I have everything now. Shall we go?’