A Hopeless Romantic (46 page)

“Er—” said Laura uncertainly. “It’s not over yet, is it? Oh, no. What a great evening. Perhaps—”

“Come back to mine,” Marcus urged, hedging his bets with the optimism of the drunk. “Go on! You’d like it.” He patted her arm, his hand sliding heavily down her skin. “Please.”

“Well, thanks,” said Laura, feeling a bit like she was wrestling with an octopus, only a drunk octopus in a dinner jacket who was head of some important league under the sea. She removed his other hand, which was making its way between her knees. This was silly. Time to admit defeat. “Look, Marcus, I think I’d better head off. We can talk on Monday,” she said flatly.

Marcus sat up and said, “C’mon, Laura. You really shouldn’t go, you know. Really should stay.”

“Why?” said Laura, not looking at him. She picked up her cape.

“You should…be being more nice,” said Marcus, lolling softly forward so that he was propped up by the table. “Be nice. I’ve taken you out and everything. Wanted to discuss the—the, erm, the thing—the thing with the schools. Them. And now you’re not even being very nice. Are you?”

“Oh, my God,” said Laura, freezing with one arm in her cape and one arm out of it. This was what it must have been like to be Michael J. Fox’s mum in
Back to the Future
, being forced to make out with the boorish villain in his car at the prom.

Everyone else had left their table, and the majority of the crowd was moving back into the front of the hall. Marcus looked up at her resentfully. “God, Laura. Don’t you like me? Am I…ugh.”

“I’m sorry, Marcus,” said Laura, not sure how much of this was drunk Marcus talking and how much was potential date-rape Marcus talking, and not willing to hang around to find out.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Marcus’s voice was slurred. She couldn’t see his face; he was staring at the tablecloth. His hand was still on her arm; it slid off onto the table. “You can whistle for it. The money. Bloody sorry I ever asked you.”

“Fine,” said Laura. “Look—I’m sorry,” she said again, and suddenly it made her furious that she was saying sorry, and a sense of impotent anger at her own failures—all of them, all alive and present and jogging into each other in this bloody huge room—made her stand up. She pulled her arm through the cape in one almighty wrench, feeling the lining tear slightly. “I’ll…” She looked down at Marcus, who was gazing up at her with the vacant, uncertain look she remembered from before, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. She turned on her heel—she’d always wanted to know exactly what that was like, and now she knew—and strode toward the door without looking back, not knowing whom she despised more at that moment: herself, for getting all excited about the evening, stupid girl, for trying to mix business with—pleasure, if that’s what this was. Or bloody Marcus, for—well, being a fruit loop. Hopefully, just a drunk fruit loop.

As she reached the first set of doors, a voice behind her said, “Hello, Laura, how are you?”

Laura spun round, her heart in her mouth, but standing there was Charles. Lovely, dependable Charles. Relatively normal (relative to the rest of the room, that is). She looked up at him, and he smiled at her with his kindly smile and said, “You have a face like thunder. Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” said Laura, nearly laughing. “Charles. It’s so nice to see you! How are you? You’re here—with…” She trailed off.

“Nick’s just saying goodbye to Cecilia,” said Charles, looking at her carefully. “I’m sure he’d love to know you’re here, though, Laura. I should—” He looked around.

“No! No,” cried Laura insanely. “I’ve seen him already, we’ve said hi! Don’t worry.”

“Oh,” said Charles, and an expression of—what it was, Laura didn’t know—crossed his face. He shifted a little. “So, who is he? The chap you were with tonight?” Laura bit her lip. “The one I saw you shaking off? I was about to come over, actually, see if you were okay, but just as I started over, you were up and away.”

“Ha,” said Laura, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. “Just—oh, some bloke.”

“Are you leaving?” said Charles, gesturing toward the main doors. Laura nodded. “Some bloke, eh?” he said, falling into step beside her.

“Yep. It’s a work thing. Oh,” Laura said rather brokenly, “never mind.”

“Oh, go on,” said Charles, his voice warm. “I’ve spent the evening between one woman moaning about her interior decorator in Chamonix and a really attractive girl from the bank who asked me if I was gay. Can’t get worse than that, can it? What’s up? Tell me.”

They were in a human traffic jam as people clogged the doors, hesitating as the rain lashed the pavements. Laura laughed softly and looked at him, remembering how easy he was to talk to.

“Well,” she said, and briefly outlined the reasons for her presence there. It was all rather tangled, and as she finished with “And now I don’t know what to do. I said I’d get the money, I promised I’d be better at my job,” she realized she was sounding like a five-year-old who isn’t allowed a pet rabbit. But she couldn’t help it—she felt stupid, standing there all dressed up, having danced out of Mary’s flat looking forward to a date and the chance to make things right at work. Why, oh, why? But there was something hugely comforting about Charles, he was so easy to talk to; and as they inched forward in the queue for the exit, she said, “I’m sorry. God, I keep saying that tonight. But I am.”

“For what?”

“For being so boring. It’s so stupid,” said Laura. She shook her head. “Forget about it.”

“Forget it. So, what are you going to do? About the money, I mean?” said Charles.

“I have ways and means,” said Laura, smiling with a confidence she didn’t feel.

“Good for you,” said Charles. “I bet you do,” and he patted her shoulder reassuringly.

That was almost too much for Laura. She gulped, and said in a wavering tone, “Thanks, Charles. Thanks a lot,” and he gave her a quick, slight grin as they stood together in silence.

“Where are you going now?” Charles asked as they finally reached the lobby. He looked out through the doors onto the Strand, staring thoughtfully at the rain as it splashed into puddles.

“Well,” said Laura, looking at her watch. “God, it’s still early-ish, isn’t it? I think I’m going to head into Soho.” She took a deep breath and said, “Actually, I want to go home. I’m really tired and I need to—to think it all through.” She looked up at him. “I think I’m going to get a—oh.”

As if in a dream, Laura saw Nick arriving, patting Charles’s shoulder; saw him as he saw her, raised his chin, faced her. She saw all of this as if they were underwater, moving slowly; as if it were someone else instead and she had no control over what she said or did.

Charles said, “I’ll go and see where the car is.” He nodded politely at Laura, and stepped aside.

“Laura,” said Nick. His expression held no emotion whatsoever. “Nice to see you.”

He looked at his fingers, flicked something imaginary from one of his nails, and smiled at her. His expression was cold and his dark eyes rested just above her head. It was strange; she remembered his eyes as being so full of warmth, emotion, flashing with anger or amusement, and to see him like this was—it was almost like seeing a corpse, a waxwork of him. This wasn’t the Nick she knew.

This is who you are, isn’t it? Laura thought in a flash of clarity. You really are this person most of the time. She looked at him, and didn’t know what to say. The events of the evening were catching up with her.

“I have to go,” she said, starting away.

“Of course,” said Nick, his voice slightly raised. “Well. Goodbye, then.”

Laura looked back at him. “Say goodbye to Charles for me, will you? Tell him I couldn’t stay.”

She headed for the door, and felt a hand on her arm.

“It’s raining,” said Nick’s voice in her ear. “Look, Laura, why don’t we give you a lift to wherever you’re going?”

“No, thanks,” said Laura desperately. “I’ll get a cab.”

She turned to look at the steady column of men and women in evening dress, fluttering and cooing on the pavement outside as the rain came down more heavily and steaming cabs already filled with passengers passed by.

“It’s pouring with rain, everyone’s leaving, you’re wearing virtually nothing. You’ll never get a taxi, so just stay here and I’ll drop you off.”

“I…” Laura said, shaking his hand off her arm, very tired. “Oh, please just let me go….”

“Come on, Laura,” said Nick. “Let us give you a lift. Please.” His jaw was set. He said, not looking at her, “Charles is with me, he can keep the peace.”

“Honestly, don’t worry,” Laura said, her mother’s fear of socially awkward situations settling over her like a cloud. “I live in North London, it’s miles away.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” said Nick. “We’re going that way anyway.” He unwrapped his scarf. “Great. There’s Charles.” He hailed his friend. “What news?”

“Car’s outside, Nick,” said Charles.

“We’re giving Laura a lift back to North London,” said Nick. “Because it’s on our way.”

Charles’s expression didn’t flicker. “Great,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He opened the door for Laura, and she felt something light drop onto her shoulders, over her thin evening cape. She looked down. It was a scarf.

“Keep the rain off,” Nick said. Out on the pavement, a smartly dressed man was rushing forward with an umbrella. Nick put his arm under hers; she felt the slight pressure of his hand guiding her. Her eyelids were heavy; and she felt dizzy all of a sudden. She climbed into the car and straightened her skirt, pulling it over her thighs; he stood looking down at her for a moment, and shut the door with a bang. She heard him throw the umbrella into the back, then have a brief conversation with the driver as Charles slid into the front seat next to the driver, and Nick got in next to her. The car smelled of leather, luxurious, oddly stifling.

“Thanks, Paul.” Nick nodded at the driver, and they moved away without noise.

chapter forty-three

S
he may have been feeling totally drained, and wanting to bang her head on the window, but Laura was a trooper. No matter that the evening had begun badly and ended disastrously—she briefly considered whether there was any chance the Marcus she had left semiconscious at the dinner table could still be the Marcus who would ring up on Monday with a donation to the sponsorship program for twenty thousand pounds, and then realized the answer was no—she wasn’t going to behave like a five-year-old. No matter that it was pouring rain. No matter that her date was drunk and a bit weird, and that Nick was here with a beautiful blond millionaire’s daughter. She could still make civilized conversation, be polite.

“Thank you for this,” Laura said, shifting on the leather. “It’s really kind of you.”

“Not at all. My pleasure.”

Laura fell silent, aware it was just the two of them talking while Paul, the driver, and Charles in the front pretended not to be listening; Nick seemed to be completely at ease with it, of course. She looked at him, sitting comfortably in the back, his beautiful gray wool coat glistening with raindrops, one arm flung across the back of the seat, one strong brown hand resting lightly on the leather, just a little way from her head.

She wasn’t really sure what to do or say next. All the cheerful, socially adept questions she could possibly ask him—“Have you had a nice evening?” “Who was at your table?” “How’s the estate?” “Ha-ha, well, isn’t it strange, bumping into you like this?”—sounded too loaded to her. And the ones she really wanted to ask—“What’s going on with Cecilia?” “Have you missed me, because I’ve missed you?” “Can I lick your face, or would that be weird in the back of the car?”—were obviously not suitable. So she pulled his scarf around her a little more, and sank down a little farther into her seat.

“So…” said Nick. He tapped his fingers on the headrest behind Laura, and she jumped. “Sorry.” He touched her shoulder lightly. “Sorry, Laura. I’m—this is weird.” He looked at her frankly, and Laura turned to him.

“It is, isn’t it?” she agreed, remembering again with a rush of—what?—how nice he was, how easy and straightforward, and wondering how she could ever have thought he was remote, hard to understand.

“Good evening, wasn’t it?” Nick said. “Lovely atmosphere. Very relaxing. German bankers are my favorite bankers.”

“Good?” said Laura, laughing. “Ooof. What a night. I thought it was never going to end. How can you do it?”

“I don’t, that often,” said Nick. “But I was in town, and Lars…”

Laura was determined to be chipper, upbeat, polite. He had made the effort; it was up to her to repay him. “Is that Cecilia’s dad?” she asked, in a tone of polite interest.

“Yes,” said Nick. “Nice bloke. He’s really helped me out over the past couple of years, and he invited me. I thought it would be rude not to go.”

“Absolutely,” said Laura airily. “Yes, these things can go on a bit, can’t they.”

Nick gave her a strange look. “Go to them a lot, do you?”

“Oh. Well, you know, here and there,” said Laura, trying to sound like she knew what she was talking about.

“Go with Marcus, do you?” said Nick.

“Er,” said Laura. “Well, tonight I did.”

Nick flicked a piece of dust off his coat. “Surprised to see you with him.”

Laura thought of Marcus—not the Marcus she’d run away from, the one lying drunk and passed out on the table, but the one who had kissed her rather determinedly at the bar, holding her hand. His old-fashioned courtesy, how he just wanted to meet someone nice. She said defensively, “He’s all right. Okay?”

“I’m sure he is.” Nick’s face was in the dark; she couldn’t really see it. “Sure he is.”

The car moved steadily along the Strand, the streets glossy and black in the rain. Charles turned to Paul and asked him about directions in a quiet voice. They were alone in the back.

“How’s work?” said Nick suddenly.

Laura knitted her hands in her lap. “Um. Okay.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Laura cast around in her mind for the right response. “Oh,” she said wearily, “I’m not sure.”

“You’ve got your job back, though?” he said, and there was concern, interest in his voice.