Having It All (52 page)

Thank God there was her smartest black dress –
and
her sheer black tights and high heels. And Ginny, bless her, had even put in a lacy bra and pants set. In less than five minutes
she sprayed on her perfume and was ready to go.

Feeling happier than she had for weeks, WomanPower and all its cares forgotten, she skipped down the staircase towards the Great Hall to meet Nick. Halfway down she stopped on the landing to
look at one of the gargoyles carved in the hotel’s exquisite panelling trying to decide if it was a monk or a knight. She looked up in surprise. She could hear raised voices downstairs.
Somebody must be complaining.

As she came down the final few stairs she saw to her horror it was Nick. He was arguing with a youth in a waiter’s outfit who looked so young and inexperienced that Liz guessed he must be
helping out in the hotel as holiday relief.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I really am. But it was a mistake. The last lobster was booked before your arrival.’

‘That’s disgraceful. You told me we could have lobster and I intend to!’ Nick was speaking so loudly that every couple in the lounge was turning to look at him. God, she hated
scenes, how on earth could she stop him?

‘I’m extremely sorry, sir.’ Liz saw the waiter look round nervously, obviously terrified that the manager would appear at any moment. ‘Perhaps we could offer you some
Chateaubriand Bearnaise. It’s the chef’s special.’

‘I don’t want a bloody steak. I want lobster.’

Liz watched appalled. Nick was behaving like Jamie. ‘Nick. Nick darling, I love Chateaubriand.’

‘Well I don’t. I’ve even ordered the wrong wine for steak!’

To her horror Nick was shouting now. She took him firmly by the arm. ‘Could we see the menu in the Great Hall, do you think?’ She guessed that a glass of sherry with the menu by the
roaring fire might calm him down.

But she was wrong. ‘I don’t want to see the menu, I want to see the manager.’ The youth looked as though he might get down on bended knees and beg Nick to have the steak.

Liz was losing patience. ‘Nick, it’s only a meal for heaven’s sake! I’m sure there are lots of delicious things on the menu.’

But Nick wasn’t giving in. ‘That’s not the point! Two hundred bloody quid the room costs and the service is worse than a transport café!’

‘Excuse me . . .?’ Liz turned to find an elderly American couple at her elbow. ‘Would you like our lobster? We come from Maine and it’s kind of like baked beans to us. We
eat it every day.’

The grandmotherly woman smiled. ‘We’ll try the roast beef. It’s more English anyway.’

Liz blushed to the roots of her freshly brushed hair. ‘Thank you so much, that’s incredibly kind of you. But we wouldn’t dream of . . .’

Before she’d finished her sentence Nick turned and beamed. ‘That’s exceptionally good of you.’ He smiled his most disarming smile. ‘You see,’ he added as
though it explained everything, ‘I’ve already ordered some Entre Deux Mers, and there’s no way you can drink it with steak.’

Without another word of thanks, Nick, clearly worried that his debt might involve an extended conversation with two elderly Americans, led Liz to the dining room for the meal she knew she had
absolutely no chance of enjoying.

‘Silly old farts,’ he murmured under his breath, ‘they probably drink Coca Cola with theirs anyway.’

Liz didn’t even dare to look back to see whether the nice old couple had heard.

Later that evening, after an excellent but horribly tense dinner of coquilles St Jacques, followed by Aldeburgh lobster in melted butter, which she didn’t enjoy at all,
to Liz’s endless relief Nick partially redeemed himself by sending the American couple a bottle of champagne and inviting them to join Liz and him in the Great Hall for coffee. There, in
front of the fire, over coffee and liqueurs, he proceeded to charm the socks off them with hilarious stories of life among the British upper crust and even, to Liz’s amazement, handed them
his telephone number at the end of the evening.

In Selden Bridge David and the essential staff of the
Star
were staying late to get a bumper issue ready to go to press. He looked round at the bright room, with its
neat rows of computers, its white melamine stands for doing paste-ups and its thickly carpeted floors. It was a pleasant place to work, a far cry from the newspapers he had started out on, which
had more in common with Blake’s dark satanic mills than with this quiet and clean environment.

For a moment he remembered the clang of hot metal, the clatter of old-fashioned typewriters and the murmur of the copytakers repeating their stories to reporters crammed into distant phoneboxes
hoping they didn’t run out of coins before the final para. Now, so he was told, reporters all had state-of-the-art devices in their cars and the copytakers were being pensioned off.

But it was his terror of the printers he remembered most. As a young reporter he could recall to this day his fear of touching anything in the printers’ domain.

‘What d’yer think yore bleedin’ doin, mate?’ the printers would bellow if you so much as picked up a bit of copy. Now, with the new technology, reporters did it all
themselves on their terminals. And no one had shed too many tears at saying goodbye to the printers. They had dominated papers for years. But still, there were some things he missed about
newspapers before the hi-tech revolution. They’d had a kind of excitement about them that the new papers, comfortable and quiet as a travel agent’s, could never replace.

David checked through the first issue as it came off the presses, noticing with pleasure how much the Woman’s Page had improved in the few short weeks since Suzan had joined. It was
becoming one of the most popular sections in the paper, with a huge post-bag, and it looked as though it was bringing in new readers. He was even thinking of giving it extra pages.

Suzan was a real talent. Enthusiastic and energetic, always ready to roll up her sleeves, and with a writing style that could have taken her right to the top. He wondered for a moment why
exactly she’d accepted his offer. Stuck here on a Saturday night at ten p.m. on some little provincial paper. Was it really because of him?

He smiled across at her as she packed her things into her bottomless satchel. Reporter’s notebook, files, pens and the tatty contact book she took everywhere with her, falling apart and
with hundreds of extra pages sellotaped into it, because she was too impatient to buy a new one and painstakingly copy out all her numbers. She slipped into her huge army greatcoat, incongruous
over the shortness of her skirt and her trademark Doc Marten lace-ups, and smiled back.

‘Come on, David,’ she announced as the last of the reporters banged the door. ‘There’s still an hour till the pubs close. Let’s go and buy ourselves a pint. We
deserve it.’

At nine-thirty the next morning, just as Liz was half emerging from a night of glorious lovemaking and wondering if they had missed breakfast, there was a knock on the door and
a waiter, thankfully not the waiter of the night before, came in carrying a tray which he discreetly put on the table by the window overlooking the lake and departed.

Gazing at the pristine white tablecloth, her favourite Pink Sonja roses, the half-bottle of champagne with two glasses, Liz reached for her silk dressing gown, finally noticing as she did so the
small black leather box nestling in the middle of the basket of pastries.

‘Go on, open it,’ Nick smiled.

Inside the box was a glorious ring. A huge diamond surrounded by smaller ones in the shape of a flower.

‘Oh, Nick, it’s perfect!’

‘Not quite.’ He took the ring from her and slipped it on to her finger.

‘Mrs Ward, will you marry me?’

Liz marvelled at the sheer artistry of the moment. Nick had missed his calling. He should have been a stage director. Only this time the leading lady had been given the wrong script.

‘I’d love to. But I’ll have to ask Mr Ward first.’

She’d meant it as a joke but the flash of irritation in his eyes told her her mistake. Why on earth had she said anything so dumb?

For a moment she thought about his proposal. It was a big step. And Nick could be infuriating as well as wonderful. But he’d made her feel alive again. She’d tried someone passionate
and serious and it hadn’t worked out. Nick, on the other hand, was frivolous and fun and he made life into a romantic and unpredictable adventure. There were worse things to settle for.
‘Let me amend that. Yes, Mr Winters, I will.’

As they joined the queues of weekenders driving back from their country hideaways, Liz thought about how to break the news to Jamie and Daisy. Daisy adored Nick but Jamie still
missed his father. They’d just have to keep it a secret till David had at least agreed to a divorce. She’d wear the ring just for the afternoon, then put it away.

David. How was he going to take the news himself?

As she looked out at the dreary hinterland of DIY superstores and giant furniture warehouses that marked the outskirts of London, Liz imagined him ranting and raving and slamming down the phone
when she told him she wanted a divorce.

And, quite irrationally, for some reason the thought gave her unexpected pleasure.

‘Just come in for a last cup of tea. I can’t bear this wonderful time to end.’

Liz wanted to get back to Jamie and Daisy, but Nick seemed particularly keen she come in for some reason. So she laughed at Nick’s appealing smile, and ruffled his hair like she did
Jamie’s. Another half an hour wouldn’t hurt.

There were, she noticed, flowers in the vases and a log fire in the sitting room as they waited for tea. The housekeeper was clearly worth her weight in gold. I hope she’ll stay on when
we’re married, Liz found herself thinking. It was such a strange thought. That one day they’d be living here.

When the housekeeper arrived, Henry was with her. ‘Henry!’ Nick got up, smiling. ‘Come and join us for tea.’

A shade reluctantly, Liz thought, Henry sat down on the sofa beside her. ‘Good weekend?’

‘Glorious,’ answered Nick lightly, concentrating on pouring the tea. ‘We got engaged. Liz, show Henry your ring.’

Liz smiled and looked down at her ring, entranced by the diamonds that sparkled like rainbows in the firelight as she held out her hand for Henry to admire. So she didn’t see the look of
terrible pain that crossed Henry’s face as he willed himself to lean forward and look at the ring.

‘So, Henry’ – Nick finished pouring the tea and handed him a cup –‘aren’t you going to congratulate us?’

‘Engaged? You got
engaged
yesterday?’ Mel tried not to sound as stunned as she felt.

Liz smiled shyly at her three friends and put the black leather box down on the round table in her office. The huge diamond winked at them knowingly from its blue velvet lining.

‘Wow! I bet he didn’t get that from the Argos catalogue!’ Ginny lifted it up and turned it in the light and watched it flash expensively. ‘Oh, Lizzie, it’s
beautiful!’ She flung her arms round her friend. ‘I’m so happy for you! You deserve a good man!’

Liz looked up from the ring to Britt and Mel.

‘So, aren’t you going to congratulate me too?’

Unconsciously a look passed between them and there was a beat of silence before Mel answered.

‘Call me old-fashioned, but don’t you already
have
a husband?’

‘Only in theory. Anyway, David’s bound to agree to a divorce.’

‘Is he?’ Mel looked sceptical. ‘I always thought he was hoping for a tearful reunion in the last act myself.’

‘Nonsense. He’s shacked up with his teenybopper in Snelden Bridge.’

‘
Selden
Bridge,’ corrected Mel. ‘And she isn’t a teeny-bopper. And as far as I know they aren’t shacked up together. She’s the Woman’s
Editor.’

‘Oh yes. Have you
seen
her? And why the hell would she give up her brilliant career to go to some godawful provincial town unless she’s in love with him?’

‘Liz, do I detect a slight tone of dog in the manger?’

‘Certainly not. I’m very happy for him.’

‘Are you? Well I hope he’s happy for you. Have you told him yet?’

Liz picked up a file and moved it aimlessly around the desk. ‘Not yet.’

‘Well, hadn’t you better, before Richard Gere goes out and books the honeymoon hideaway?’

‘I must say, I’m really glad I told you all.’

Mel shrugged and finally produced a smile. ‘Congratulations, Lizzie. I hope you’ll be really happy.’ Mel wished she could sound more enthusiastic. There was nothing she wanted
more than to see Liz happy.

‘How about you, Britt? Are you going to give me a lecture as well?’

‘Of course not,’ Britt said quietly, ‘it’s wonderful news.’ Liz noticed that Britt seemed eager to change the subject. She had already seated herself at the round
meeting table. ‘I know wedding plans are much more fun’ – Britt opened her briefcase and got out a large folder – ‘but does anyone want to hear about the future of
WomanPower?’

Liz put the ring back in its case and closed it with an angry snap. She was damned if she was going to let this lukewarm reception spoil her moment. They were probably jealous. Other
people’s happiness was always unsettling. It made you put your own life under the microscope and often you didn’t like what you saw.

She put the box away in her bag and smiled pityingly round at them. They weren’t in love, poor things. But she was and fortunately love made you generous. She forgave them.

‘To be brutal, what you have to decide is whether you’re running a business or playing shops.’

Britt had been dreading this session because she knew that what she had to say wasn’t going to be what they wanted to hear. But she also knew they’d have to listen, whether they
liked it or not.

‘On the plus side, WomanPower is a great idea and it’s a big success. You could be mega.’ She looked round at the three faces watching her intently. ‘To most businesses
this would be music to their ears. But WomanPower isn’t most businesses. It started almost as a hobby and you want to run it part-time.’

Britt stood up. She was used to delivering hard truths to hard businessmen, not to her best friends.