Fast Friends (64 page)

Running into the sitting-room, wearing
only a bra and a
short white skirt and
nursing her stings which were surprisingly fierce, she stood in the middle of
-the room and glared at her
favourite
photograph of Matt, which stood in a plain silver
frame on the
mantelpiece.

‘
Where are you now when
I need you?’ she yelled, and felt
tears of panic and frustration welling
up behind her eyes.

And at that moment, by cruel coincidence, the radio began
playing a Bryan Ferry song which reminded her so
much of
Matt that she crumpled into a
chair. It was like an unexpected
blow in the stomach; just when she had
been doing so well,
rebuilding her life and
beginning to accept that all was not
lost. . .

The french windows which led on to the patio were wide
open.
Nico, standing outside, watched
Camilla’s shoulders sag and
his heart went out to her. Without
hesitating he stepped into the room.

Dazed and unquestioning, Camilla rose
and slid into his
arms,
holding him so tightly that he could feel her nipples
pressing against the wall of his chest. For several
moments the
only sounds in the room were the
haunting, melancholy strains
of Bryan Ferry and her uneven breathing as
she quelled the threatening tears.

Finally she drew away, and Nico saw her smile.

‘
At least I have more
clothes on today than when we first met,’ she said, glancing down at her white
silk bra and short
skirt and marvelling at the fact that she felt no
embarrassment.

‘
Only just. I’m not
interrupting anything, am I? You don’t
have
a lover lurking in the bedroom?’ He spoke the words
jokingly, then wondered with a stab of jealousy
whether they
might be true.

‘Hardly.’ Camilla laughed at the thought, still clutching
his
arms. ‘But there are enemies in the
kitchen. I don’t think I’ve
ever been
so glad to see anyone before. You must be my knight
in shining armour.’

‘I knocked at the front door, but there was no reply. Your
car was parked on the drive so I came round the side of the house,’
said Nico, needing to explain his unorthodox
arrival. ‘Who
have you got in the kitchen – tax inspectors?’

‘
I have a catastrophe
in the kitchen,’ she informed him
solemnly.
‘Please don’t think I’m being feeble. I really don’t
spend my entire
life bursting into tears but today so far has been the absolute pits.’

Nico really was amazing, she thought
five minutes later when
he joined her on the terrace with Rocky bounding joyfully around
his legs.

‘Crisis over,’ he said, resisting the urge to kiss her and
falling instead into the chair facing Camilla’s.

‘The wasps . . .?’

Nico shrugged modestly. ‘I lacquered
them to death with a
can of hairspray. There was a red cloth on the table. I cleaned
up the mess on the floor with that.’

My Fiorucci T-shirt, thought Camilla with an inward smile.
Who cares?

‘
So it’s safe to go
back into the kitchen,’ she said with obvious
relief. "Thank God – I have to bake a dozen cakes for Toby’s
school
fete.’

Nico shook his head and reached into the pocket of his
blue and green striped shirt. Juggling keys, dark glasses and a folded white
envelope, he handed her the envelope.

‘
You can buy a dozen
cakes. I came to see you because I
happen
to have a couple of tickets for the centre court at
Wimbledon and if you
say you can’t go I’ll . .

‘You’ve got what!’ shrieked Camilla, grabbing the envelope
with both hands and tearing it open. Amazement mingled with delight as she
studied the tickets and leapt out of her chair. ‘You absolute angel! I’d
kill
for a seat on the centre court . . . I can’t believe this . .

‘No need to go to those lengths,’ he said mildly, enjoying
her
reaction. Caroline, totally
disinterested, had flatly refused to
go.
‘But I think you’d better get dressed before we leave. I
wouldn’t mind,
but they’re a bit old-fashioned at Wimbledon – they prefer their spectators
with clothes on.’

Armed with paper cups, two bottles of chilled white wine
and a bag of croissants stuffed with cream cheese, mushrooms and prawns, Nico
and Camilla slid into their seats just as the first semi-finalists made their way
on court. A roar of approval rose
from the
crowd, everyone clapping wildly as the dashing,
mercurial Croatian and the cool, precise American headed for
the
umpire’s chair. Camilla, cheering at the top of her voice,
applauded with such enthusiasm that her sunglasses
slipped
down her nose and Nico, watching her while he ostensibly fitted
a corkscrew into the cork of the first bottle of
Chardonnay,
realized with a jolt of panic and desire how desperately in
love with her he was.

Here, now, wearing a simple white broderie-anglaise cotton
dress, her gleaming honey-coloured hair
fastened up and her
tanned face glowing with happiness, she had never
looked more desirable. Her scent was light and flowery, her make-up subtle and
her slender curves irresistible. Even the wasp sting on her shoulder, pink and
white like a tiny archery target and slightly
swollen,
couldn’t mar her perfect beauty, he thought as he
handed her the paper
cup.

‘
I won’t have any yet,’ said Camilla, scarcely
able to tear her eyes from the court. ‘I’m too excited to drink.’

Nico grinned. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he
asked, teasing her,
and with delicate
precision she pinched the inside of his elbow where it would hurt most.

‘Oh, I suppose it’s OK. A pretty average sort of day,’ she
murmured sweetly. ‘Although I really was looking forward to a peaceful
afternoon at home baking cakes . .

‘
You must hate me for
dragging you away,’ said Nico,
tweaking
the back of her hand in retaliation. ‘Forcing you here against your will to
watch some dreary little game of
tennis . .

‘
Shh,’ Camilla hushed
him, her long-lashed eyes narrowing
in
concentration as she watched the handsome Croatian’s
blistering service
action.

‘
Cann; protested Nico,
realizing that he had lost her, that
she
really was engrossed. ‘For heaven’s sake, they’re only
warming up.’

The match was so enthralling and was played with such
death-defying brilliance that Nico actually felt guilty. Every single
spectator around the sun-drenched court was living
and breath
ing the game and all he
could do was think about the woman at
his side.

While Camilla yelled and applauded every point, apparently
rooting for both men with equal fervour,
Nico had only the
haziest idea of the
score. He clapped automatically whenever
she did and prayed for the match to end because only then
would he
be able to regain her attention. Never having been to Wimbledon before, he had
somehow imagined that they would spend the afternoon sitting in the sun,
drinking wine and sharing an intimate, loving conversation, oblivious of the
crowds around them and the players on court.

He was beginning to wish he’d
suggested a picnic on
Hampstead
Heath instead.

But when the match finally ended after
five brilliant sets
and the volatile
dark-eyed Croatian vaulted the net in victorious
celebration, Camilla made the wait worthwhile. Unable to
control herself she threw her arms around Nico,
gave him a
joyful hug and then kissed him quickly on the cheek.

‘
Thank you for bringing
me,’ she whispered beneath the
roar of the crowd around them, and as he
inhaled the mingled
scents of her warm body
and the flowery perfume she wore he
felt
the beginnings of an erection beneath the taut, faded denim
of his Levis. Camilla, resuming her wild applause
as the
players left the court, said, ‘Sorry,
I shouldn’t kiss you in
public. There are TV cameras all over the place
and you’re a married man.’

How can she not know how I feel about her, wondered Nico
helplessly, taking care to adjust his jeans as he sat back down.

‘If it bothers you that much, we could always leave,’ he
murmured as Camilla collapsed, exhausted, into the seat beside him. "Then
you could kiss me in private.’

Realizing that despite his teasing manner he actually
meant what he said, Camilla felt her stomach grow hollow with desire.
It was unfair of him, she thought, to say such
things, knowing
as he did her views on
adultery. She wasn’t a nun, she had
reached
the stage now where the absence of a loving – and
sexual – relationship
in her life was really beginning to prey on her mind, and she was extremely
attracted to Nico. If he wasn’t
married there
would be no question of fending him off . . . it
simply wasn’t
fair
of
him .. .

‘And you’d still be married,’ she replied flatly. Then,
seeing that he was about to say something else, she raised her eyebrowsin
horror and added, ‘Besides, what on earth do you mean: "We
could always leave?" With another match about
to start on
court? You must be out of
your mind – wild horses couldn’t
drag me away now!’

Giving in, Nico replaced his dark
glasses and refilled his
paper cup with wine. Turning to her, his eyes hidden by their
twin black shields, he grinned. ‘Not even a wild Italian?’

‘Wild Italians – no chance,’ declared Camilla, then tilted
her
head and considered for a moment. ‘Although
maybe that
gorgeous Croatian tennis player might be in with a chance if
he really asked nicely . .

Chapter 47

During the next two days Nico found
himself doing more serious
thinking
than he had in years.

And he had to think fast, because the
following Wednesday
he
was due to leave for Montserrat, that idyllic tropical island
in the Caribbean, where he was due to
record his next album.
The wildly
expensive studio had been booked for a month, his
band were already out there, grabbing a few days of sun, rum
and relaxation before the hard work began, and
Monty Barton
was on the phone every thirty minutes checking and rechecking
flight times, work schedules and
musician-hire arrangements
like a demented secretary.

But all Nico could concentrate on was
the fact that he
wanted
Camilla. He
had
to have her — she was the only person
in his life who mattered and he wasn’t
going to piss about
pretending
to be her friend, her good old platonic friend Nico,
any longer.

He was going to persuade Camilla to
see sense, then he
would divorce
Caroline. It was the only thing to do — and he
didn’t want to have an affair with Camilla any more than she
did,
anyway. It wasn’t enough.

He wanted
to marry her, and that was quite simply all that mattered now.

’I’m going out,’ Caroline announced, coming into the kitchen
where Nico
was sitting brooding over a strong black coffee
which reeked of
brandy and pretending to concentrate on the
racing
results in the paper.

Watching his light-and-dark blond
hair fall forwards as he
bent his
head, and irritated by his lack of response, she added
recklessly, ‘With my lover’, then cringed as Nico looked up at
her.
There was no disguising the expression of hope, almost eagerness in those jade
green eyes, like a caged tiger suddenly realizing that the door has been left
ajar.