Chapter Twelve #2
The screen above the bar was showing the news, a clip of the premiere.
Suddenly aware of the image, he sat up and watched the pictures, abandoning the final shreds of the label.
There was Emily waltzing down the red carpet, he’d already seen Seb and Miranda.
Where was Olivia? Scanning the picture he looked for a glimpse of her blue dress. Maybe she was out of shot.
He lifted the bottle to his mouth to take an angry swig.
He couldn’t get her out of his head or the words that he should have said to her back in the hotel room.
He knew exactly how he should have played it.
Tell her he was worried because he knew what men were like.
Given her a male perspective. Made her realise that men took the line of least resistance.
Most of them were lazy bastards when it came to relationships, having their cake and eating . . .
It was one of those Homer Simpson, slap your own forehead ‘doh’ moments. His hand froze midway to his mouth as the realisation dawned on him.
Shit, was that really what he’d been doing with Emily for this last couple of months?
He took a long pull of his drink. The mouthful of beer soured as he swallowed.
It wasn’t as if he’d made any promises or talked commitment.
But then they’d never really talked much at all about anything that mattered.
He swung his legs off the bar stool and stood up.
They’d socialised a lot, meals out, pub visits, shared a bed .
. . had some, he winced at his own admission, half-hearted sex .
. . he wasn’t that consumed with lust to make a deal of it.
It had been too bloody easy — Emily had been easily pleased.
Demanding in that she wanted money spent on her, meals, days out .
. . so easy to do but without much substance behind it.
He finished his warm beer in one last swallow and gave the TV another glance.
There was Miranda in the famous dress — he vividly recalled the throwaway words Olivia had made in the car that day when she’d suggested the whole idea to Emily.
His brother and Miranda made a handsome couple, chatting and laughing up at each other as if they’d known each other for longer than half an hour.
It looked real. Instant attraction, the right chemistry or a well-honed performance by two professionals?
He had to admit the whole thing had been pulled off brilliantly. Em had bitched like crazy for the last few days about what a slave driver Olivia was, but it had paid off. For all her faults, Olivia was good at what she did.
His phone beeped with a text message. Sebastian. A wry smile crossed his face as he read the text. Stirring it up again. So, there’d been a cock up and Olivia was on her way back to the hotel. Interesting.
Throwing a tenner down, he left the bar.
Outside he considered taking a cab and then decided it was excessive.
If she’d gone back to the hotel, she’d still be there and besides he wanted to think about what he was going to say to her.
With Olivia it was probably best just to get straight to the point.
But what was his point?
‘I’m jealous as hell.’ His stomach pitched.
Is that what he should say to Olivia? He suddenly realised even if it was the truth, he couldn’t say it to her. But it was the truth. He was jealous of this unknown man. Because he and Olivia were friends?
And where did that leave Emily? How could he be jealous of one of her friends, if he was going out with her friend?
And that led to the inevitable question, what was he going to do about Emily?
She was innocent in all this. Olivia was taking her unhappiness out on her, which wasn’t fair or deserved.
Poor kid couldn’t do a thing right at the moment. He felt a twinge of guilt.
Someone had to tell Olivia she was making a fool of herself. Someone who knew her. Someone who had her best interests at heart.
* * *
Entering the suite this time, I closed the door with a firm click, leaning giddily against it. I was queen of the castle. Could one room possibly be worth this amount of money for one night?
It even smelt different up here. Miranda’s Samsara was the most recent in a palimpsest of subtle smells, new carpets and leather furniture mixed with Windolene and furniture polish overlaid with liquorice and cigars.
The stylist’s boxes had gone. All that was left was the discarded packaging and a Hansel-and-Gretel trail of polystyrene beads. A used glass with ‘Minx Red’ lipstick smears around the rim was the only other evidence of occupation.
The full-length windows, unfettered by blinds or voile, looked out over the rooftops of London. Nearby I could see the globe atop the London Coliseum and just beyond it the top of Nelson’s hat in Trafalgar Square.
I drooled in earnest the minute I pushed open the bathroom door.
The rest of the suite was palatial and luxurious in a magazine double-page-spread sort of way.
The pillows were plumper than plump, the décor was straight from Homes subdued lighting, black slate, a double-ended bath, a Philippe Starck sink and full-sized expensive toiletries, none of this miniature rubbish.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if asses’ milk poured from the high-spouted tap.
Fresh orchid petals were strewn around the edge of the bath, vivid fuchsia against stark white and black. Bouncy, fluffy towels were piled inches thick on a long wide shelf, from which hung a monogrammed cotton waffle bathrobe. Completing the utter decadence was a flip down plasma TV screen.
I’d definitely be using that bathroom but first I needed an ice bucket and two champagne flutes. Kate and I were going to enjoy this bottle of Cristal.
* * *
‘I could get used to this,’ said Kate, lying full-length on one of the chocolate-brown leather sofas, her head propped up with one arm, clutching a full glass.
‘It is rather lovely.’ I gazed around looking appreciatively at the gorgeous glass coffee table between us, just one of the many artefacts decorating the room.
It was a squat hippo, his small ears, eyes and broad snout rising above a sheet of glass as if it was surfacing in water.
Like everything else in the room, it was beautiful.
‘I never thought I’d be grateful to Miranda for anything. Here, drink up. I’m a glass ahead.’
To my surprise Kate’s glass was still virtually full and then she put it down on the polished table.
‘No more, thanks.’
I stared at her flat stomach, her hand hovering protectively above it. Suddenly everything clicked into place. Mood swings. Tiredness. Tummy trouble and Boots. I knew immediately.
‘Yes,’ she said bitterly. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Really?’ My eyes widened. Kate never made mistakes. Still gaping at her, I asked what I thought was the obvious question. ‘Have you told Greg?’
It was her turn to look startled.
‘You know, the father?’ My sarcasm was wasted.
Kate’s lips twisted. ‘He’s not the father.’
There was a gaping silence. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. I was astounded. How could she know with such certainty?
‘How do you know?’ I asked puzzled.
She looked pityingly at me. I was obviously missing something.
‘Because,’ she paused. ‘There is no Greg.’
‘What? No Greg. I don’t understand.’
‘There never was.’
I still looked blank.
‘I made him up,’ she snapped.
Why? Kate! Of all people. She was the last person who needed to invent boyfriends. Since the age of fifteen she’d been bringing the opposite sex to their knees.
‘So,’ I asked casually, as casually as I could when I was practically bouncing with agog-ness. ‘Who is the father?’
There was a long silence. Kate looked away and picked at a speck of fluff on her trousers. She swallowed a few times but she still didn’t say anything. I waited. Now she turned her attention to the button on the cuff of her jacket.
Then in a very small voice she said, ‘Bill,’ before bursting into tears.
What! No way. I shook my head, I must have misheard her.
Unable to think of a single thing to say, I stared for a moment.
How? More to the point, when? And what was she going to do about it?
There were so many questions I wanted to ask, I didn’t know where to start.
Instead, I put my glass down, moved over to sit next to her and held her tight as she rocked back and forth sobbing silently.
‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’ I said, when her sobs finally slowed, smoothing her hair back from her face.
Wiping the tears with the back of her hand, she pulled a face and put her head on my shoulder. ‘I thought if I didn’t say anything to anyone it would make it less real. Stupid, huh?’
I stared at her waiting for her to go on but not wanting to rush her.
‘I suppose you want to know what happened?’ Her ribcage lifted and fell with the heavy sigh.
‘Only if you want to tell me,’ I lied, scooting to sit opposite her, our knees touching.
It turned out that, despite her earlier denial, she had seen Bill when in he was in Australia. Being a rugby player in Australia was next best to royalty, so he’d been put up in one of the best hotels.
‘It was so amazing. The Swarovski crystal fountain in the lobby was incredible and you should have seen the room Bill had. Complimentary everything. Veuve Clicquot champagne, Godiva chocolates, you name it.’
‘Wow.’