What She Wants (53 page)

city and we found development money for companies starting out. It was high-risk but it’s an addictive life.’ ‘Why did you give it up?’ she asked unthinkingly. ‘It sounds as if you loved it.’ She glanced up and caught sight of Morgan’s face, which was mask-like. Instinctively, she reached across the table and touched his hand, her slim fingers closing round his strong masculine ones. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, Morgan. Forget I said that.’ The mask relaxed a little. ‘It’s all right. I’ve got to learn to be less uptight about it.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘That’s what Charlie keeps telling me. Charlie’s my stepson and he’s very into psychology.’ ‘I didn’t even know you had a stepson,’ Sam said. ‘You see, my man of mystery thing worked. Actually, I’ve three step children, two girls and Charlie. They live with my ex-wife but we’re still very close. I’ve known them all since they were little.’ ‘Oh,’ said Sam, sorry she’d been so intrusive. ‘I really didn’t mean to pry …’ ‘You’re a woman, that’s your job,’ Morgan said through a mouthful of pasta. ‘Well, you know all about me,’ Sam began defensively. ‘I’m teasing you,’ he said softly. ‘It’s not so bad now I’ve started. I understand what you’re like because that’s what I was like: a workaholic. I lived for my job and at the end of the day, it broke up my marriage. We split up and now we’re divorced, which is what spurred me to get out of the rat race. Too late for me and Val, mind you. That’s it, that’s my story.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said. He shrugged and pushed his plate away. ‘It was my fault,’ he said brusquely. ‘The house was my project, something to take my mind off life until I worked out what I wanted to do next. When Val and I were married, I never changed a light bulb or hammered a nail. We got someone in to do it

even though I could have done it, no problem. I was too busy.’ His mouth twisted into that half-smile again. ‘Too busy being a master of the universe to see that my family life was disintegrating.’ Sam was so sorry she’d started this. She hadn’t meant to upset him or to make him remember things he’d rather forget. ‘Will you go back into the City?’ Sam asked to change the subject. He shook his head. ‘I don’t want that sort of life any more. Index-linked pension funds aren’t much compensation when you’ve got nothing else. The past year has given me time to see what I do want in life and I needed time to get over it all. That’s why I’m not rushing into getting involved with anyone.’ He stared deeply into her clear blue eyes. ‘I wasn’t rushing into getting involved,’ he amended. It was an electric moment, pregnant with meaning. Sam bit her lip nervously, wanting him to say more, to say he liked her, because he had to say it, she couldn’t. ‘Finished? Was everything all right?’ The waitress swooped and cleared away their plates, gathering up side plates and the butter dish briskly, bestowing another beaming smile on Morgan. ‘Do you want dessert?’ ‘No,’ snapped Sam. ‘Yes,’ said Morgan. ‘I’ve a sweet tooth,’ he explained to Sam. ‘I bet you do,’ breathed the waitress with a naughty wink. Sam glared at her but it was no good: the electric moment had vanished. Morgan must have felt it too. He sat back in his chair, breaking the sense of intimacy that came from two people leaning closer to each other across a tiny bistro table. ‘It’s been sort of fun being a bum, never wearing a shirt with French cuffs, not having to leave the house at six in the morning for a meeting in Frankfurt.’ ‘And I thought you didn’t have a decent shirt to your name,’ Sam said lightly.

‘What’s wrong with this?’ he demanded, looking down at the faded blue casual shirt he wore with his usual jeans with worn seams.

‘Lovely,’ she said kindly, intensely aware of the effect of Morgan sitting so close to her, his long, jean-clad legs occasionally touching hers under the table in a way that was both comfortingly familiar and utterly exciting.

They chatted idly over coffee and ice cream, and then got a taxi home. All the time, Sam was conscious of Morgan sitting closely by her, long jean-clad legs taking up lots of room as they talked and laughed. That was the great thing about him: he made her laugh all the time.

Outside their respective houses, Morgan handed the taxi driver money before Sam had even got her purse out. ‘We’re supposed to be splitting everything,’ she said.

‘Relax, will you?’ he replied. ‘I’m not going to demand payback of a carnal kind just because I’ve shelled out eight quid on a cab.’

Pity, thought Sam.

‘How about having a cup of coffee at my place as a thank you, then?’ she inquired, trying to make it sound casual.

‘Sure.’ He opened her gate. ‘After you, Ms Smith.’

As they climbed the stairs, Sam felt her heart beating a tattoo in her chest. This was it: the chance to see if Morgan really did like her.

He prowled round the living room, running his fingers over her driftwood sculpture, hunching down to examine the silver Indian elephant, admiring the pictures on the walls.

‘I forgot to say it to you the night of the dinner party but you really have a lovely place.’

‘Thanks,’ she said from the kitchen where she was looking around frantically for some fresh coffee. She couldn’t be out of it, could she? Damn, double damn. She was. That was the fatal flaw in being a working woman with too little time to buy groceries: the cupboards were often bare.

‘Will instant do?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I put a CD on?’ he asked,

adding wickedly, ‘I promise not to turn it so loud that it annoys the neighbours and forces them to march in and pull the plug from the socket.’ ‘Very funny, Benson,’ Sam replied. ‘You turn that dial up over five and I’ll kill you. The guy who lives above me bangs on the ceiling if he can hear the slightest noise from down here.’ ‘I’m sure you’re a noisy neighbour,’ Morgan joked, ‘all those wild girls’ nights in with two-litre bottles of vodka and Gloria Gaynor on the CD player.’ ‘Don’t even joke about it,’ she begged with a shiver. ‘Mad Malcolm upstairs has a dog that barks at all hours of the day and night, he’s addicted to playing his music so loud that the people in the basement can hear it, and then, he hangs over the balcony at odd intervals telling us all to stop making noise.’ ‘Sorry, bad joke,’ Morgan said. ‘Can’t you do anything about him?’ ‘Every resident in the house has reported him to everyone we can think of but nothing’s happened. I’m waiting for him to go completely mad and get carried off to a mental hospital somewhere. Either that or I’ll have to sell.’ ‘Let’s forget about him,’ Morgan said, as the strains of Nina Simone drifted gently out of the speakers. ‘My favourite,’ said Sam in delight. ‘How ever did you know?’ Morgan settled himself comfortably on her big couch and grinned at her. ‘You look like the sort of woman who likes good music’ She was carrying the mugs of coffee over when the phone rang. ‘Shit,’ Sam said, dumping them down on the table. ‘Who’d be phoning at…’ she looked at her watch, ‘a quarter to eleven.’ She blanched. ‘Something bad must have happened,’ she said. ‘Nobody phones me this late. Except Hope.’ She rushed to the phone and grabbed it from the cradle. ‘Hello?’

‘Sam,’ said Hope. ‘It’s me. I needed to talk to you.’

‘Sure, Hope, can I call you back?’ said Sam, not aware of how her sister had psyched herself up to make this call.

There was a silence on the other end of the phone.

Morgan got up and waved at Sam. ‘I’ll go,’ he mouthed.

Sam shook her head.

‘It’s OK,’ said Hope on the other end, apologetically, ‘you’ve obviously got someone there. I’ll call some other time.’

She was clearly distressed about something.

‘No, hold on, Hope,’ said Sam as Morgan collected his jacket, waved goodbye and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

‘They’ve just gone,’ Sam said, ‘so tell me, what’s wrong Hope?’

‘Nothing,’ Hope burst out. ‘Nothing. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye.’

And she hung up. Sam sat looking at the coffee cups on the table and put down the phone with a sigh. She ought to give classes on how to end an evening on a high note.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Nicole checked her make up for the nth time that morning. ‘The mirror will crack if you look in it any more,’ said her mother with her trademark giggle. ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Gran. ‘At least she looks in the mirror when she puts it on. You just close your eyes and plaster on the lipstick.’ Nicole’s fingers tightened their grip on the cup of coffee. They’d been bickering ever since they’d left the house and got into the taxi. First, Gran had muttered that a taxi was a waste of money when there was a perfectly good bus service and if it was good enough for her, it was good enough for the rest of them. Sandra had countered this by saying that it was about time the Turner family lived with a bit of style and added that, talking of style, she had her eye on a very nice handbag she’d seen in a magazine that only cost 200 pounds pounds in Harrods. With Nicole being very rich soon thanks to all that record company money, they’d be doing all their shopping in Harrods, wouldn’t they? ‘Harrods!’ shrieked Gran, loud enough to give their laid back Rastafarian taxi driver a shock. ‘Far from Harrods you were reared, my girl. When I was a girl, we didn’t have Harrods, I can tell you. Style, rubbish. When I was your age, madam, I wouldn’t have dreamed of buying the sort of handbag that would keep the whole family in clothes for years.’ War had raged back and forth while Nicole stared out

the window and wondered why she hadn’t told the people at Titus that she was an orphan and would not be bringing anyone with her to meet the would-be managers. Darius had insisted that she bring her family for moral support. ‘It’s highly unusual for a record company to be setting up this sort of interview in the first place,’ he said. ‘Most people have got a manager by the time we’re going to sign them but Sam Smith really wants to make sure you’ve got the best representation. She’s dead on, Sam is.’ ‘Yeah, she’s nice,’ Nicole said for want of something better to say. She’d been terrified of Sam that time they’d met. Calm, in control and silent for most of the meeting, Sam Smith had appeared to be icily cool. Not the sort of person who’d be putting herself out for a new singer by lining up a group of prospective managers for her. But Darius was very impressed by the whole thing and pointed out that by coming up with a list of people for Nicole to meet and choose between, Sam was actually making things slightly harder for herself. ‘By getting you to meet the top management companies, she’s putting you in touch with people who’ll screw a better deal out of us,’ he pointed out. Nicole didn’t know if she could trust Darius or not. She wasn’t sure if she could trust any of them but this was her big chance and she had to plunge right in. The meeting with the first company was in the Titus boardroom at half ten and each meeting was to last half an hour, finishing up by lunchtime, when Sam and Darius would take the Turners out for something to eat. Nicole prayed that her mother and grandmother would have stopped sparring by then. So far, they hadn’t been much use in the moral support department. With half an hour to spare, they’d gone for a coffee in the chic little cafe across the road from the Titus office and, once Reenie Turner had complained loudly about the price of a cup of tea and why wasn’t there proper sugar apart from those silly little paper tubes of sugar, the battle had recommenced.

They were now bickering over hair colour, a favourite topic for both of them. As Goldie Hawn’s biggest fan, Sandra was a lifelong believer in the ‘blondes have more fun’ dictum while her mother’s Catholic upbringing had entrenched in her the notion that it was wrong to meddle with what God gave you. ‘Look, you even have Nicole at it now,’ grumbled Reenie Turner, whose greying dark hair had never seen a drop of hairdresser’s colour. ‘It suits her,’ retorted Sandra. ‘Better than going round with more grey streaks than an old English sheepdog.’ ‘Well, why don’t you just insult me and be done with it,’ snapped back Reenie. With nerves eating away at her insides at the thought of the meetings to come, Nicole had had enough. Standing up abruptly, she shoved her metal chair across the floor with a resounding screech. ‘I brought you both here to help me, to support me,’ she lashed out at the pair of them. ‘I thought that it might be nice for once to have support but all you both want to do is carry on your stupid arguments. If that’s all you want to do, go home! I’ve enough to worry about without worrying about you two.’ Her grandmother and mother looked up at her shamefaced. ‘Lord, you’re right, Nicole love,’ said her Gran apologetically. ‘We’re both sorry, love, really we are. We’re just nervous for you.’ ‘And I’m not nervous?’ demanded Nicole. ‘You seem so cool about it all,’ added Sandra helpfully. Nicole sat down again and let her arms fall limply to her sides. She wanted to tell them the truth, that she wasn’t cool about it at all, that she was scared stiff. But she couldn’t. They relied on her too much. They needed to know she was ready for whatever life threw at the Turner clan. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said brusquely. ‘There’s nothing to be nervous about. This is all very straightforward. We’ll

meet five different managers and choose one. Simple. It’ll be easier to concentrate if I’m not keeping you pair from killing each other, that’s all.’

Her mother and grandmother stared at her with pride. Their Nicole: strong, clever and beautiful. Nothing fazed her and she was well able for those record company types. Wherever had they got her from?

Sandra was highly impressed with the smoked glass and chrome decor of the Titus headquarters. Her mother was less impressed with the length of the mini skirt on the receptionist’s long legs. But neither of them said anything. They were doing their best for Nicole. They were going to be decorum personified if it killed them.

However, Reenie couldn’t help commenting on Darius when he left them alone in the board room in order to tell Sam that the Turners had arrived.

‘He’s a well brought up, boy, that one,’ she said. ‘Very grand and such nice manners. I thought all these record company people were mad into drugs and all that. Pity about the clothes, though.’

Despite her nerves, Nicole grinned. Personally, she thought Darius’s distressed denim jacket, simple white T-shirt and black canvas trousers looked great on his long, lean body and she liked the way his fair hair was spiky with wax and stood up at mad angles to his skull. It was funky and yet somehow made his pale neck look vulnerable and young.