A Minor Indiscretion (32 page)

N
eil was completely and utterly out of breath by the time he reached Alicia's house. Which was ridiculous, because he'd driven all the way there in the car.

He'd parked a little way down the street, partly because he wasn't exactly sure which was the right house and partly because he didn't want Alicia to peep out of the window just as he approached and catch him in the act of hand-delivering her should-have-been-posted invitation to dine at The Ivy. He plucked the envelope from the passenger seat and fingered it gingerly. God, Jemma would gnaw his balls off and eat them for breakfast if she ever found out that he'd forgotten to post the bloody thing.

Where was his brain? He knew how important this was, and yet he'd still nearly managed to cock it up. All it had done was strengthen his resolve to turn himself into a new all-singing, all-dancing powerhouse, not some twit who couldn't even be trusted with something as dangerous as an envelope. And to that end, as soon as he'd delivered this little time bomb, he was off to buy himself the nattiest suit in Christendom and bugger the expense.

With a quick and overly melodramatic check that the coast was clear, Neil got out of his car and crossed the road. Ed had told him ages ago where the house was, and he only hoped he'd remembered correctly and that some batty ninety-year-old next-
door neighbor didn't turn up at one of London's swishest restaurants instead, expecting her Prince Charming to be sitting there. How on earth had he let Jemma persuade him into all this in the first place! Because he was hoping that it would result in him relieving her of several articles of essential clothing at some later date, he seemed to remember. Bloody testosterone had a lot to answer for!

Neil crouched down slightly, acknowledging that it probably made him look even shadier than if he'd walked upright and confidently to the front door and just shoved it in. The theme tune to
Mission Impossible
started playing in his head, every potential curtain twitch alerting him to the danger of discovery. He should have known that no curtains would be likely to twitch, as no one in London was the slightest bit interested in what anyone else was doing anyway. But this was too important to mess up now that he had come this far—and so close to messing it up.

As he reached the right front door, he spun round, checking he wasn't being followed. He crouched lower and inched his way toward the letterbox, easing the flap open gently, gently, like a bomb disposal expert disarming a fuse. The flap lifted with an I-want-oiling creak, Neil took the invitation and squeezed it through the draft excluder inch by careful inch. When the letterbox had accepted its prey, Neil lowered it down, carefully, carefully, coaxing its creaking hinges to a state of calm and quietness. The envelope was inside. The letterbox was in the closed position. And Neil sighed with relief at the same time as his mobile phone went off, sending him three feet into the air.

“What?” he yelled.

“It's Jemma.”

His heart was pounding against his rib cage, and his knees had gone as weak as if he'd seen Britney Spears naked. Adrenaline as well as testosterone is bastard stuff. “Oh,” he said breathlessly.

“Neil. You did remember to post those invitations, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Neil panted. He could quite safely say, without fear of contradiction, that he had.

 

Robbie was having a beer and watching
The Weakest Link.
“Did you hear a phone, Becs?”

Rebecca looked up from her nails. She blew delicately on them. “No.”

“I did.” Robbie pushed himself out of the chair. He went over to the curtain and pulled it back. “There's a bloke on a mobile phone crouched down on our path.”

Rebecca looked worried. “Do you think it's someone we owe money to?”

Robbie curled his lip. “Could be.”

“What's he doing now?”

“Leaving,” Robbie said. “I'll go out and see what he was up to.”

He went out into the hall, and Rebecca heard the front door open and close. Robbie came back in carrying a small white envelope. “He's gone,” Rob said. “Seems as if he delivered this. It's addressed to Alicia.”

Rebecca held out her hand and he gave it over to her.

Robbie sat down again and stared at the television. “Where is Ali?”

“Upstairs,” Rebecca said. “She's not very well.”

“She's looked a bit off-color all week,” Robbie said.

“Christian's up there mopping her fevered brow. He's just taken her some soup.”

“That boy has got it
bad.
” Robbie wagged his beer bottle and then jumped up. “Slash,” he said. “Can't stand the excitement of the normally meek and mild Anne Robinson being a dominatrix.”

When he'd left the kitchen, Rebecca examined the envelope. If she had time, she probably would have steamed it open. Looked like it was something interesting. Maybe an invitation. She held it up to the light and tried to peer through it. Call of nature presumably completed, Robbie's footsteps thumped back down the stairs.

Quickly, Rebecca ripped the envelope into little pieces. “Goodbye, Alicia,” she said. “
You
are the weakest link!” And she stuffed the tiny shreds of Ali's invitation to The Ivy down the side of the sofa.

T
he famous Ivy was housed in a very unprepossessing building. It was down a rather seedy, litter-strewn side street opposite St. Martin's Theatre where Agatha Christie's
The Mousetrap
had been playing since time began. But, despite running for nearly half a century and the fact that it must, by now, be more jaded than a lapdancer's knicker elastic, there were still smiling crowds milling around waiting to see it.

The restaurant was swathed in scaffolding which did little to enhance its appearance, which was dreary on the best of days. The windows were dark, leaded, diamond-shaped panels in jewel tones, like the coat of a harlequin or the stained-glass windows of a particularly modern Catholic church. You could see nothing of the inside through them. Not a hint. Ed knew, because he had spent an awfully long time trying to peer through to see whether or not Ali had arrived yet. He nibbled his fingernails uncertainly. Ed was nervous. That much was clear. Otherwise he wouldn't have been hanging around outside, eulogizing about the bloody windows.

Decked out in his best suit, bathed, shaved, doused in smellies, Ed was wearing a red rose in his lapel, which he thought added a humorous touch to what was potentially a very tense meeting. The rest of the bunch was hidden furtively behind his back. He wasn't a natural flower-buyer—but then, which man was? He al
ways felt a bit of a twat walking through the street with flowers. It was too poofy for words, even though they usually had the desired effect, which was well worth the effort. He didn't know if red roses were the right thing to buy given the occasion, but what the hell? They were Ali's favorites—as far as he could remember. Ed scratched his chin. Or had she said she hated red roses? Bugger!

Ed clicked the tension from his neck. It was best to get all his clicking over with before he went in, as it always drove Ali barmy and he didn't want her irritated before the evening got under way. This was ridiculous! It was more nerve-racking than his first date with her! Mind you, he'd had a cold then—which she'd kindly given to him—and the whole thing had been conducted through a fug of Benylin Expectorant. Tonight, he needed a clear head, as he didn't want to put a foot wrong. And, before he could think better of it, Ed wrenched the door open.

O
rla hummed quietly to herself as she clanked her way up to her apartment in the elevator. She was laden down with carrier bags filled with things she didn't need, but then that was the joy of retail therapy, and she had certainly needed some. Ed had been avoiding her all week, she could tell. Whenever he saw her coming, he'd dived into one of the editing suites or pretend to be deep in conversation with a bemused-looking Trevor. It was driving her to distraction, and she could put her finger exactly on the minute she knew it had all started to go wrong.

It was after that conversation about the children. She had handled it badly, but then it isn't every day that you have three children foisted upon you, Ed should appreciate that. She could deal with this. They could work it through. Ed was too good a director. Too good in the sack. Too good a catch all-round for her to mess up now. She'd never been in what you would call a “long-term” relationship—three months had been the extent of her dating stamina. But then the only men she dated had turned out to be self-centered, mamas' boys with suspect homophobic opinions.

She was going back to the States, but there was no way she was going back without him. Maybe they could all go to family therapy, it was one strand of counseling she hadn't yet tried. Whichever way, the years were passing far too quickly for her to
continue being choosy, and this was just one little blip in an otherwise very sunny horizon—or three little blips, to be precise.

Ed hadn't asked to see her tonight, but then she'd preempted it by saying that she would be unavailable, so that she wouldn't feel too abandoned and perhaps that might give him something to think about. After all, he had given her plenty to think about. She'd seen the envelope he'd had at the Sit-Down Showers shoot which had made him blush like a guilty schoolboy. It looked like an invitation, and she'd tried to scan it quickly before he'd had a chance to push it back into his pocket. It was impossible. The writing was too neat, too small. Had it been from Alicia, as he'd said? Or was it something entirely different? Did she know Ed well enough to trust him? Probably not. Whatever it was, she knew instinctively in that small hollow at the pit of her stomach that it was something Ed was trying to hide from her.

Orla turned her key in the lock, barged her parcels through the door and kicked it shut behind her. She dropped them all on the floor in the hall. Drink first. Deal with unnecessary purchases later. The red light on her answerphone was blinking furiously at her and, stripping off her coat, Orla clicked the play button. She went through to the kitchen and opened the door to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of ice-cold Vodka Absolut. It was her mother's voice.

“Hi, honey. Mommy here.” Orla reached for a shot glass from the cupboard. “I'm glad to hear you're coming home, honey. I'm missing you.” She went on to say an awful lot about nothing, ending with: “I'll catch you later, honey. I hope you're out having fun. Kiss. Kiss.”

Orla downed the vodka, enjoying the sensation as the freezing liquid heated up the back of her throat. Her mother never missed her. It was the first time she'd phoned in months, which usually meant that she was between boyfriends and had time on her hands. She'd made her fortune as a theatrical agent and now spent her time bedding twenty-five-year-old actors, offering them the earth and dumping them again before she had to stump up so much as a grain of sand. And who could blame her? Nice work if you could get it.

The second voice stopped the second shot of vodka on its way to her lips.

“Orla…” It was Ed. And he sounded terrible. Truly terrible. Distraught. The tape hissed and crackled, so that she couldn't
catch the first bit clearly. Orla turned up the sound. Ed's voice was still faint. “I can't help it. Orla… I need… I need you…” The tape cut off, beeping enthusiastically, and whirred itself back to the beginning. Her mother, yammering on about Brett or Bradley or whoever it was this time, must have used up all the goddamn tape.

Her mother's voice piped up again. “Hi, honey—”

“Damn,” Orla said, and punched the buttons until Ed's message kick-started again.

“Orla… I need… I need you…”

Orla replayed it again. “Why do you need me?” she shouted at the answerphone, straining to listen through the crackling.

“Orla… I need… I need you… I need you to understand…”

Again the tape, uncaring of its impeccable timing, rewound itself. Damn. Damn.
Damn!
Whatever it was he needed her to understand, he sounded pretty damn desperate about it. Orla downed the belated shot of vodka and punched out Ed's mobile phone number. It went straight to his messaging service, so she hung up and started pacing the hall. She had read
The Rules,
and you were never, ever supposed to return men's calls, particularly when they sounded desperate, as it would make you seem just as desperate. But then,
The Rules
had never worked, otherwise she wouldn't still be single and desperate. Orla clenched her fists. That wasn't a good idea. If she contacted him by phone, he could just fob her off with any old excuse, make light of his message.

“Orla… I need… I need you… I need you to understand…” the message played of its own volition. She snatched up the receiver again and bashed the handset with it. “Why? Why?
Why?
” she shouted. “Why do you need me now?”

Orla nibbled her fingers, a habit she'd long since forced herself to abandon except in times of extreme stress. She wasn't used to being at a man's beck and call. This would put a whole new slant on the relationship. Maybe it was time to abandon any defenses and enter into this relationship wholeheartedly. Time to throw the rule book in the trash can where it belonged. One final nibble and she'd decided. She had to find him, wherever he was. Orla abandoned the vodka and shrugged into her coat once more. He needed her and it was urgent. Of that, there was no doubt. And if he needed her, she would damn well go to him.

N
eil was admiring his reflection in the mirror. “I feel good,” he sang to himself in the style of James Brown, straightening the lapels of his brand spanking new Paul Smith suit. “I knew that I would…” He tried a few exploratory dance steps. “I feel fine, like a glass of good wine….” He gave a twirl. “Da, da, da, da!”

Neil adjusted his tie. “If you looked any sharper, mate, you'd cut yourself to ribbons,” he said and winked cheekily at himself. He could have nearly bought himself a new Hasselblad camera for what this little bit of schmatter had cost, but it was worth it. He felt like he'd just walked off the set of a Will Smith film.

When he'd finished admiring himself, Neil tried Ed's mobile phone again. It was still switched off and Neil had left half a dozen messages on Ed's answering service and his brother hadn't replied to any of them. But then, Neil didn't feel confident that he'd left the most coherent messages imaginable as he hadn't wanted to give the game away.

It was fast approaching the witching hour, which was eight-thirty in this particular case. He hoped Ali had finally received her invitation, although he couldn't have done a lot more than actually press it into her hot little palm. And that too would have given the game away. Neil caught a glimpse of himself again.
God, he was looking good! Supposing Ali had got her invitation, but she wasn't able to go for some reason—although what reason would keep Ali from The Ivy, or food in general—he couldn't quite imagine. Why had he ever got involved in all of this? Neil chewed his fingernails and sighed out loud. What if, despite their brilliant planning, this all went belly-up? It would be hell for Ed if he was sitting there alone. He would never forgive Neil for his involvement. Although Neil, of course, would try to shift all the blame onto Jemma.

Neil stared at himself again. He couldn't stand here all night admiring his new image, he had to do something. Something constructive. But what? A light went on in his brain, and Neil clapped his hands together with glee. He would go and lurk outside The Ivy, just to make sure they'd both turned up. Though how he would explain what he was doing there if either of them saw him would take some creative thinking. Neil slipped his car keys into his snazzy new pocket. He would give it some brainpower on the drive there.

Regretting the fact that he hadn't had time to polish his one and only good pair of shoes, Neil bounded downstairs to his car. For once, the Citroën didn't show its usual charming reluctance to start and roared into life at the first turn of the key. Well, perhaps not roared…

As Neil set off down Camden High Street, he had an extremely good feeling in his bones. He'd had the same feeling the day that Manchester United beat Bayern–Munich, 2–1, in the 1999 European Cup Final—both goals scored in extra time—and you didn't get that kind of feeling very often. He fizzed with positive vibes. As he passed an Esso station, he decided to pull in and buy some flowers in case his clueless brother hadn't thought about it. But then his clueless brother didn't know who he was meeting and could, quite possibly, be excused a certain amount of cluelessness. Neil ran into the petrol station Late-Nite shop and there, right beneath the stack of cornflakes, the stale-looking bread and the few remaining battered and tattered
Daily Mail
s was the most beautiful bunch of red roses wrapped in rich purple tissue paper. Neil snatched them up and winced only slightly as he paid for them. As he sprinted back to the car, thoroughly delighted with his second
extortionate purchase of the day, he noticed that the pretty blond cashier was smiling coyly at him through her security window. Neil blew her a kiss. This was definitely going to be his lucky, lucky suit.