What She Wants (66 page)

‘Well, yes, of course if you’re busy …’ Kevin said.

She pecked him on the cheek and had the front door open in a flash.

‘Byee,’ she said gaily, rushing past the lurid pink gladioli to her car.

Safe in the car, she could wave at him until she was out the gate and able to relax. So much for a bit of sedate dating. The merry widow indeed.

Kevin had done his best to woo her, but it would never be a proper relationship. He liked Virginia with his mind

but his heart was entirely reserved for Ursula. Which was a pity. ‘I hope you’re having some luck in heaven with a nice widow angel, Bill darling,’ Virginia said as she drove home, ‘because down here, I’m not having any romantic luck at all. Still,’ she smiled, ‘I’ve got the girls, so don’t worry about me.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I

On the morning of her fortieth birthday, Sam woke at dawn and sang the first few bars of ‘Happy Birthday’ to herself.

‘This is a sure sign of insanity,’ she told her reflection in the bathroom mirror, ‘talking to yourself like this. You are now forty and mad. Congratulations.’

She stood under the shower and thought that maybe she should get a cat. The company would be nice, she liked animals, and it would give her an excuse for talking out loud when she was alone in the apartment. But then, perhaps people would start seeing her as ‘a woman with a cat’, which was shorthand for ‘woman with a cat and no man’. Before forty, it was possible to have a cat and still be considered a fun, single woman who liked animals. After forty, she’d have to start styling her hair into a tight, spinsterish knot like Aunt Ruth’s, take up bridge and become testy with shop assistants. She’d be so high up on the shelf, someone would need a step ladder to take her down.

As she made her face up, she thought of the statistics about single women. In the next thirty years, forty, or was it thirty per cent of women would live on their own. There was absolutely nothing wrong with living on your own, Sam knew. She liked it, or at least she had quite liked it. What was hurting now was the fact that all the other successful singles she knew were now coupling up like ticket holders for Noah’s Ark. It was as if, after years of claiming they were happy on their own, they were now saying actually, we were lying all along. We want love and another pair of

slippers in front of the fire. Sam felt more than a bit betrayed. Or did she feel lonely? She was afraid to be brutally honest with herself and ask which it was.

She checked the post but there was nothing except for an electricity bill. Sam refused to feel miserable because there was no birthday card from Morgan.

The radio blared out ‘Walking On Sunshine’ as she dressed in a rose coloured silk cashmere sweater with a rounded neck and a long, lean cream linen skirt suit. It was the sort of thing she would never have worn to the office before, it was more a summer wedding outfit, but she wanted to look feminine and pretty today, of all days. She had her fresh fruit for breakfast, took a bio yoghurt out of the fridge for eating later in the office, and rushed out of the house to the hairdressers.

‘Can I have a manicure while I’m getting my blowdry?’ she asked the receptionist.

‘Of course Ms Smith,’ said the receptionist in surprise. Ms Smith never had anything done but a speedy blowdry in the mornings.

‘Going anywhere special tonight?’ asked the manicurist as she settled down to work.

The stylist blowdrying Sam’s hair raised her eyebrows in alarm. Sam Smith was not your average chatty client. She often read business reports while her hair was being dried or else she flicked through the newspaper, never glossy magazines. To be honest, the stylist was a teeny bit intimidated by Sam who seemed to be the epitome of the successful, wealthy career woman: a woman with no time for small talk. But to her astonishment, Sam replied.

‘No, more’s the pity,’ she said. ‘I wish I was going somewhere. I’m just going home after work and if there’s a good film on telly, that’ll be the extent of the excitement.’

‘I know what you mean, you’re just too tired after work aren’t you,’ the manicurist sighed. ‘I’m like that too. I have all these great plans and when I get home, I just collapse in

front of the box. Now, do you want clear polish, French manicure or a colour?’ Sam considered this. ‘Let’s go for dusky pink, I never wear colours but, what the heck, it’s my birthday.’ As soon as she’d said it, she was sorry. ‘Oh, happy birthday,’ chorused the manicurist and the stylist. Both women knew better than to ask her age. ‘And you’re not doing anything tonight?’ the manicurist said sympathetically. ‘I bet you’ve plans for the weekend, though, haven’t you?’ Sam smiled weakly. ‘Yes, of course.’ Hope was on the phone as soon as Sam left the salon and turned her mobile on. ‘I missed you at home,’ Hope said. ‘You must have left early. Happy birthday, Sam love. Oh, I wish I was there with you. It’s not right to have your fortieth birthday on your own.’ Sam’s eyes filled up. ‘I wish you were here too,’ she said, fishing a tissue out of her coat pocket. ‘Or better still, that I was there with you. Still,’ she tried to sound bright, ‘I’m going to have a lovely lunch with Jay.’ Normally, she and Jay had dinner on their birthdays but this time, Jay appeared to have forgotten it was a special one, and anyway, she was permanently glued to Greg, so her dinnertimes were all tied up with him. ‘Nothing tonight?’ Hope sounded upset at the thought. ‘I’m too tired to go out in the evenings,’ Sam lied. ‘I’m trying to get my energy back by catching up on sleep. Any word from Matt?’ she asked. ‘He’s phoned every night this week to talk to the children,’ Hope replied, ‘although he can barely bear to speak to me when I answer the phone. He was in a hotel in Bath but he’s moved into a rented apartment, which makes it sound as if he intends to stay. Millie keeps asking when he’s coming home again. It breaks my heart.’

Sam winced at the thought of Millie’s earnest little face as she asked after her daddy. Poor Hope. It was selfish to be feeling depressed about being forty when Hope was coping with single parenthood. When they’d said goodbye, Sam walked along, enjoying the sun and the sensation of her silky hair flopping freshly washed on her shoulders. A girl with long dark blonde hair walked out of a shop onto the footpath ahead of Sam, carrying packages and bags. Her hair was fresh and bouncy too, but she looked no more than twenty-something in pedal pusher denims that tapered down to slim brown ankles. The girl’s undulating walk took her past two suited guys talking animatedly beside a BMW. Both heads turned to watch her and then their eyes flicked over Sam with interest. Sam grinned. There was still something enjoyable about turning men’s heads, even if you half despised them for turning. In the office, a huge bouquet of flowers from Hope awaited her. Only her sister seemed to know that the stern and permanently in control Ms Smith adored the most romantic flowers going: Hope’s birthday bouquet to her was a riot of pink Vendella roses, some full blooms, some exquisite little buds with tightly curled petals, all nestled in rich dark greenery that set off the luscious pink to perfection. Thrilled with her first, and so far only birthday gift, Sam hid the flowers behind a filing cabinet, not wanting anyone to see and ask her what she’d got them for. But the office network hadn’t missed the delivery of pink roses to Ms Sam Smith. Speculation on what they were for and who they were from was rife on the fifth floor all morning. ‘A lover, it must be,’ said the fifth floor receptionist. ‘A married lover,’ remarked the publicity assistant, who knew about such things. ‘She probably sent them to herself,’ said Izzy from A & R spitefully. At eleven, Catrina phoned.

‘Happy birthday Sam,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Had any nice pressies yet?’ ‘A few,’ Sam said, not wanting to sound like Billy No Mates. ‘Did you get ours yet?’ inquired Catrina. ‘No, sorry.’ ‘Oh, Hugh posted it several days ago. I’m sure it’ll be there tomorrow. Or when you get home,’ Catrina said. ‘It’s not very thrilling, I’m afraid. What are you up to tonight? Out for a mad party with your trendy record company pals, I suppose?’ Sam wondered if Catrina was taking any particular mind altering drugs to help with her pregnancy. Sam had never been part of the trendy record company scene. Her friends were the gang. Or, at least, they had been. ‘Well, there’s so much on at the moment,’ Sam said lightly. ‘There’s a party in the Sanderson tonight but I’m getting sick of drinking Cosmopolitans.’ There, that sounded suitably hip and thrilling. ‘Lucky you,’ groaned Catrina. ‘I haven’t had a drink in so long, if I so much as smelled a cocktail, I’d pass out.’ There followed a lengthy discussion of Catrina’s pregnancy. At nearly eight months pregnant, she was going through an exhausted phase where by the time she’d got into work in the morning, all she wanted to do was go back home to bed. Typically, being Catrina, she was determined to work practically up until her due date … ‘You need to rest, Catrina,’ Sam insisted. ‘Stop trying to do everything and be superwoman. It’s important for the baby. Why don’t you and Hugh take a long weekend away somewhere nice? Forget about work for a bit.’ ‘You’re right,’ Catrina said, sounding like herself for the first time in the conversation. ‘Everybody else is telling me I’m great for being so active and that I shouldn’t stop doing all the normal things I do.’ ‘That’s only if you feel like doing all the normal things,’

Sam pointed out. ‘You’re only weeks away from giving birth, so be gentle with yourself.’ They said goodbye, with Catrina promising to phone Sam the following week. Almost immediately, the phone rang again. It was Jay crying off lunch. ‘I feel so terrible,’ she said, ‘doing this to you on your birthday but something’s come up.’ Jay didn’t say what that something was. In Sam’s experience, people with genuine excuses gave them. When the excuse was something having come up, it was a fake. The something was probably Greg at a loose end and begging Jay to get out of lunch with her dull, career-obsessed girlfriend. Sam hated women who let transitory men come between them and their friends. Men were just for Christmas; women friends were for ever. Hope’s Macrame Club girlfriends would never dump her for a guy, Sam thought darkly. ‘That’s OK, Jay,’ she coolly. ‘I understand. Give me a ring next time you have a gap in your diary.’ ‘Oh Sam,’ pleaded Jay. ‘Don’t be cross, please. You’ll understand, I promise.’ Sam ground her pen so firmly into the yellow post-it pad on her desk that she made a deep dent in it. People were promising her a lot of things lately. She wanted to say that Jay had promised they’d have a lovely birthday lunch but she didn’t. ‘Just call me, Jay. I’m busy over the weekend.’ That was a lie for a start. ‘Maybe we could meet up next week.’ Sam could remember a time when she and Jay met up every second day. ‘Bye Sam.’ Jay sounded terribly subdued. ‘And happy birthday.’ ‘Yeah, thanks.’ Sam threw the defaced post-it pad in the bin. What a great day this was turning out to be. There she was on her fortieth birthday and none of her

close friends seemed to have remembered. Those that had, all had better things to do than spend the day with her. At half twelve, Sam marched out of the building and went to Harvey Nichols, where she decided to investigate if retail therapy really did work. She started the investigation in the perfume department where she bought herself a giant bottle of Chanel No 5 and matching body lotion. If nobody else was going to buy her a birthday present, she might as well buy her own. Next stop was the lingerie section where she splashed out on two sets of exquisite La Perla underwear. Then she marched into the designer rooms and in twenty minutes flat bought a Richard Tyler black suit with a jacket so fitted it looked as if it had been sewn onto her, two delicious Fendi sweaters, and finally a wildly sexy iridescent Gucci dress that looked as if it was designed to fall off her body with one practised tug. The sort of tug that Morgan Benson was a specialist in, she thought gloomily as she signed the credit card slip. Why was she even buying this stuff? Who’d get to see the lilac uplift bra and where could she ever go where anyone would want to tug her dress off ? There were plenty of music award ceremonies where babes in Gucci dresses looked right at home but she was one of the music industry types who normally arrived in wall-to-wall Prada suits. Everyone would choke on their straight-up Stolis if she turned up in a sexy dress. Sex was for artists. Suits wore suits. Still, she’d be the best dressed bachelorette for miles around. She’d bought so much black that she’d better get a black cat so then the hairs wouldn’t show up quite so much. Her concession to lunch was a takeaway bagel with cottage cheese and slivers of avocado for protein. It was just after two when she got into the lift at the office, big, expensive Harvey Nichols bags dangling. Retail therapy worked but only momentarily, she concluded. She’d felt good when she was trying everything on but now that she’d bought it all, she just felt as bad as ever. And with a diminished bank balance.

The lift doors were about to close when Steve Parris eared at the gap and slammed the button. The doors, knowing what was good for them, opened obediently, and let him in. Today, he was doing his laid-back look: white t-shirt, jeans, leather jacket. All designer, Sam knew. Steve was too paranoid about being five foot six and skinny to wear anything that didn’t have a label hanging off it. The Titus staff often speculated that if Steve had been born taller, he’d have been much nicer on account of not having a chip on his shoulder about his height. Privately, Sam thought Steve was extremely well balanced seeing as how he had chips on both shoulders. ‘Hiya Sam. Been shopping?’ Steve said, small dark eyes whizzing over her. Sam knew that Steve could read a profit and loss account in three seconds. It was always disconcerting when he did the same with a person. ‘Yes,’ she said in her calm office voice, resisting the impulse to say no, she just liked carrying department store bags around with her. ‘Anything nice?’ Sam blinked. This was very un-Steve-like behaviour. He never talked about anything but work. ‘Er… a few things.’ ‘Anything drop-dead gorgeous?’ he inquired chirpily. Sam looked at him curiously. Mischief overcame politeness. ‘Yes, a dress that’s so hot, it comes with a Government health warning,’ she breathed, then instantly regretted it. God help her, the only fun she got these days was trying to shock the boss. But he didn’t look shocked. ‘Great.’ Steve’s eyes, cold chips of ice which normally only ever lit up when the number one album and single were both Titus acts, gleamed with pleasure. ‘Listen Sam, you know we’ve got the Lemon Awards coming up.’ Of course Sam knew. Everybody in the industry with two brains cells did. These high-profile awards were a status symbol for both the artists and their record