Lots of Love (60 page)

‘No, you may not,’ Spurs snapped, waving him away, then casting Ellen a roguish smile. ‘Are you looking forward to the honeymoon?’

‘Where are we going?’ She cleared her throat awkwardly.

‘Secret,’ he whispered. ‘Such a bind chartering a private plane that can’t get a take-off slot until eleven.’ He opened the wine list and one eyebrow shot up. That clearly
did
have prices. ‘Still, I’ve always meant to drop by here and see what the grub’s like. Heard it’s rather good. See anything you fancy?’

She licked her lips, glancing around at others in the room, which was so huge that the furniture formed tiny priceless driftwood islands in a great sea of Persian rugs and runners. She could just make out the cotton-covered heads of a group of Arabs under one window, and hear Japanese being spoken nearby, along with at least two groups of Americans. Expensive cigar smoke floated around a Chinese vase the size of a large man. ‘What’s this in aid of?’

‘Don’t be so ungrateful, darling.’ He kept up his clipped, upbeat pitter-patter voice.

‘I’m the one paying,
darling.’
The meal would set her back about four months’ travelling money, if not her entire budget. She was only thankful the Shack had commanded such a profit.

‘Well, I was
going
to say this is in aid of friendship.’ He lifted his glass. ‘But it seems the shoes didn’t fit after all—’ He almost fell off his chair as a great pat on the back propelled him forward in a plume of cigar smoke.

‘Belling, my boy!’ boomed a walrus-yowl voice, which emanated, rather surprisingly, from a man the size of an ageing jockey, with beady black eyes and very sharp teeth. ‘By God, I
thought
it was you. Looking good. This the new fiancée?’

Spurs was momentarily thrown, his face as shifty as a car thief caught twiddling with the heated seats. ‘Er – yes. No. I mean, Sir George Hampden, this is Ellen.’

‘Delighted to meetcha.’ Sir George bowed his head and clicked his little polished heels together, eyeing the open-fronted dress with obvious appreciation. ‘Heard Spurs was in line for the dreaded shackles, but I had no idea she’d be so easy on the eye, eh?’

Ellen tried to tuck her scruffy shoes under the chair.

‘Been at the races?’ Having regained his composure, Spurs gave his mile-wide smile.

‘Indeed. Saw your father there.’ Sir George cleared his throat and examined his cigar. ‘Best not mention you saw me tonight, eh? Might be offended I didn’t invite the old boy over for a drink.’

‘Of course.’ Spurs glanced across at the six-foot blonde who was waiting for Sir George by the huge vase. ‘I’m sure you’d rather be alone with your—’

‘Financial adviser.’ He tapped his nose cheerfully. ‘Like to bring her here because it’s so damned expensive there’s nobody British around, if you know what I mean.’ He nodded to them and marched off jauntily to rejoin the blonde
en route
to their room.

‘Fuck,’ Spurs muttered under his breath, dropping the smile and checking over his shoulder in case any other of his father’s friends were floating about.

‘Who’s he?’ Ellen asked, longing to lean towards him for discretion’s sake but unable to move for fear of her dress shifting.

‘Hampden was my brief.’ Spurs was still checking out the room. ‘Known then as the Editor because if he couldn’t get you off he could get a sentence reduced to almost nothing. That was before he became a QC. He and Pa shoot together sometimes.’

‘Afraid he’ll say something?’ Ellen watched his darting eyes.

‘Christ, no. I’m just pissed off that he buggered up the ambience.’ A self-mocking smile danced on to his lips.

She stretched out a clog and kicked his ankle. ‘Hard to get into the make-believe mood when your barrister pops up and your “wife” complains about the prices, isn’t it?’

He cast her a dirty look from under his brows, then laughed. Slouching back in the chair, hair flopping over his silver eyes, he rubbed his chin against each shoulder in turn. ‘Maybe I should take tips from Rory?’

‘Maybe you should.’ She wasn’t about to make him feel better for making her a hell of a lot poorer.

‘Would you rather have gone to a pub and pretended to be friends?’ He creased his brow.

She watched the suave, silent waiters gliding around the room communicating with discreet nods and asides. ‘I’m more of a spit-and-sawdust girl at heart.’

He let out an irritable sigh. ‘I wanted you to see what it’s like really living in a fairy tale. If we can’t make love I thought we could at least make-believe.’

‘This is just on-the-make believe.’ Ellen looked around the ornate room again, taking in the old masters clashing with new money. ‘As in, they make up the prices as they go along, and we can’t bloody believe them.’

‘Are you suggesting I’m trying to fleece you?’

‘I guess that’s what they mean by shear class.’ She remembered only too well his cheerful account of his uncle’s advice to avoid such a common ‘popsy’.

As Spurs watched her with troubled eyes, Ellen saw a vein steal up his neck and a muscle twitch in his cheek. He’s about to detonate, she thought. ‘Tell me about the Little Mermaid,’ she said quickly.

‘Too fucking romantic for you,’ he whispered.

‘I want to know the story.’

He picked up his champagne glass and looked at her over the rim, his eyes accusing. When he spoke, his voice was deliberately drawling and monotone. ‘As far as I remember it, the little mermaid grew up among the pearls on the sea-bed. The day that she was finally old enough to be able to swim to the surface to sing on the rocks with the other mermaids, she encountered a drowning man and saved his life. She fell madly in love with him and couldn’t be happy singing when she could see him high in the castle above the cliffs, looking out to sea each day. So she sold her exquisite voice to the evil sea witch in exchange for the most beautiful legs ever created, under the strict condition that should she ever return to the sea, she would become nothing but foam and her soul would be claimed too.

‘But when she went ashore,’ he went on, his voice losing its flatness and gaining a husk of emotion, ‘she found that the man she had saved was none other than the castle’s good-for-nothing prince. And while he was grateful that she had saved his life, he was betrothed to another. Try as she might, she had no voice to tell him of her love, and eventually his wedding day arrived and he married a very pretty and eligible princess. Heartbroken, the little mermaid waded back out to sea on her beautiful long legs and dissolved into the foam.’

Ellen looked away and studied an ornate ceiling carving, which divided several times and danced around in her watery gaze. She waited a few seconds until she’d got a hard grip on her emotions and said, ‘Couldn’t she have just written him a note?’

Spurs snorted disparagingly. ‘I don’t think he loved her.’

‘Probably a tits man.’

He gave her an angry look. ‘You are
so
unromantic.’

‘Did he love the princess he married?’

‘Unlikely. It was probably a political match. I doubt they even spoke the same language.’

‘The Little Mermaid couldn’t speak at all.’

‘So she got a bad deal from the witch. She should have negotiated.’

‘What would you trade in?’

He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. ‘I wouldn’t have saved him from drowning in the first place.’

Up swept their two obsequious waiters, one to refill the champagne flutes, the other to take their order.

Ellen looked at the florid descriptions on her menu, complete with the inevitably baffling array of French culinary terms and new foodie fashion trends. There seemed to be about eight courses to choose.

‘For you, Madame Gardner?’ The waiter gave her a chivalrous nod, knowing that to use her new married name would make her feel very special.

‘You decide for me, darling.’ She closed the menu and smiled at Spurs. ‘Anything but fish.’

‘We’d like sausage casserole, please.’ He closed his menu too.

‘I am sorry?’ the waiter queried, in a nasal French accent.

‘Sausage casserole,’ Spurs repeated very politely.

‘I am afraid that dish is not on the menu.’

‘Oh, I’m sure Chef can rustle something up.’ He reached for the wine list. ‘And to go with it, we’d like a bottle of,’ he glanced up at Ellen, ‘Clos de Vougeot Leroy ’ninety-five. And sparkling mineral water.’

The waiter tried and failed not to look absolutely staggered as he gathered their menus, flashed a wary smile and backed away.

‘You’re such a thug,’ Ellen told him, unable to resist smiling.

‘I know.’ He sighed with mock-regret. ‘Are you sorry you married me?’

‘Distraught. Is it too late to annul?’

‘We haven’t consummated the marriage . . . yet.’ He slouched back in his chair and tipped his chin to one side, eyeing her with such wickedness that her loose-cannon nipples almost forced their way out of the chiffon of their own accord.

Whoa. Whoa! Ellen thought, in a panic. We are not meant to be doing this. ‘We should have ordered consommé.’ She threw out a bad joke to play for time. ‘Then we could have consomméd the marriage.’

‘Far too cheap.’ He shuddered.

‘I knew you only married me for my credit limit.’ She tried to calm her nipples down as they rallied their goosebump friends and her entire body began popping like a Rice Krispie Kid bathed in milk.

‘Of course I did.’ He picked up his champagne glass. ‘Do you mind?’

‘My lord and Mastercard.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I suppose it’s unique to have a husband who can forge one’s signature on the register.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He watched her through the cut crystal. ‘I should mention that I had to book a room to get a table tonight.’

Ellen’s goosebumps burst out angry little flames. ‘On my card?’

‘Of course. This
is
your treat.’

She had to work very hard indeed not to throw her glass at him. ‘I could kill you for this.’

‘Divorce is less messy.’

‘In that case, I definitely want an annulment. And then I’ll kill you.’

‘I’m sure there are grounds.’

‘There
are
grounds.’

‘Yes, three thousand acres,’ he gestured towards the window, ‘including a deer park and a big lake. We drove past it.’

‘How convenient. We can drown each other in it.’

‘Far better to shoot one another on the clay-pigeon range, don’t you think?’

‘I prefer drowning.’

They locked eyes and drowned far from the lake.

‘I wanted to take you to the sea,’ Spurs whispered, and touched her knee with his finger, ‘but there wouldn’t have been time.’

Ellen’s knee developed a mind of its own and started shaking stupidly. ‘Oh, any old place that serves sausage casserole is fine by me.’ She could see the waiter, having emerged from the kitchens, having frantic words with the maître d’. ‘This is okay.’

Fighting to break the spell, she uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other way to trap the disobedient knee and hastily rerouted a boob as it fought to peep round the chiffon curtain. Anxious not to lose it again, she sat more primly than ever.

Spurs slumped back in his chair and stared up at the ebullient ceiling fresco of fat cherubs cavorting with even fatter goddesses. ‘You’re like one of those women up there with just a tiny piece of gauze covering your wicked delights.’

‘Is that why you chose this dress?’

‘No.’ His eyes levelled with hers. ‘I chose it because I knew you would look more beautiful in it than any other woman could ever hope to. That’s because you look more beautiful in anything than other women. And probably in nothing.’

‘Stop it,’ Ellen muttered.

‘But you’re my wife. I’m allowed to desire you.’

The waiter chose that moment to stalk up with delicate little appetisers and the news that the chef would comply with their request for sausage casserole. He spat the two words as though they’d asked for boiled babies, but he was under strict instructions to cater to the volatile newlyweds’ every whim from the enchanted maître d’, who firmly believed they were Brit Pack actors. At least this simple dish meant they wouldn’t be in the dining room very long, offending the more delicate of the overseas visitors with their white-hot looks and her (very) dirty shoes. Forcing a sickly smile, he melted away to deal with a neighbouring group of Arabs.

‘Why don’t you want to play?’ Spurs slouched even further into his chair as soon as he’d gone.

Ellen looked down at the beautiful dress that meant she had to sit like a little girl at ballet school, and the tatty shoes beyond. ‘You were right when you said that you can’t “do” friends, Spurs. Friends don’t pretend to be married, defraud their mate’s credit card, then order bottles of wine which cost as much as a month’s rent at the other’s expense to boot.’

‘You saw the wine-list then.’ He clicked his tongue guiltily in his cheek.

‘I saw the waiter’s expression.’

His silver eyes, shaded by black lashes and wild curls, moved round her face. ‘I want to spend all your money so that you can’t go away.’

Ellen felt the goosebumps perform a Mexican wave from neck to toe once again. ‘I’ve already paid for my flight. I leave a week on Saturday.’

There was a long pause.

‘What if you have no money left for a taxi?’ he asked lightly.

‘I’ve found somewhere near Heathrow that’s happy to buy the jeep for cash, then run me to my terminal.’

‘What if I torch it before you can set off?’ Something in his expression told her he wasn’t altogether joking.

‘I’ll hot-wire Giles’ Aston Martin.’

‘You’ll have a fight on your hands. Ely Gates is driving it that day.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ll probably be under it.’

The waiter swooped a tray down between them to pluck up their glasses. ‘Your table is ready.’ He eyed the untouched appetisers. ‘These did not meet with your approval?’