Love-40 (33 page)

‘Hear hear!' Despite everything, despite that kiss, Liam had to admire the bloke for speaking his mind, for defying Erica. And he had to admit that a few words from someone like Nick Rossi – who, some might argue, belonged to the privileged classes – had a lot more clout than what Liam – avowed Socialist – might have to say.

Erica didn't look quite so happy. ‘You'll have to share the cup,' she told Nick and Amanda. ‘We only have one. Or –?'

If she had been about to make some coy assumption about whether Nick and Amanda might be sharing the same trophy cabinet at some time in the foreseeable future, she didn't get the chance. Amanda shoved the cup towards Nick with a hissed, ‘You can have it for the first six months, lover-boy.'

At which point Erica made frantic signs to Deirdre to switch off the microphone, Nick merely looked hurt, and Amanda stalked off, flowers in one hand, champagne held loosely by the neck of the bottle in the other. She brushed past Liam.

‘Congratulations,' he said.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You'd think they could have run to a magnum,' she said.

It was some time before the rest of the people started drifting away, and by the time Liam escaped from Amanda and got to where Estelle had been standing, she had gone.

So he was left in the same quandary as before. To go or not to go, that was the question.

Chapter 25

Estelle was propping up the bar of Chestnut Grove clubhouse, waiting for Suzi to get the drinks. The band, a throwback to the 60s or 70s – they didn't seem to have made up their minds – hadn't yet begun to play, though they'd got to the stage of plugging in, tuning instruments, and all the hoo hah that preceded sound. But Chestnut Grove's clubhouse and conservatory were already full and fit to bursting.

The place had been festooned with silver banners and balloons, and by the doorway floated an enormous silver helium butterfly, whose purpose Estelle couldn't begin to imagine. The tables had been cleared to the sides of the clubhouse to create a dance floor, and were decorated with lacy cloths and white daisies in tiny glass vases. The conservatory looked much as it always did – a haven.

Women of all ages – sometimes hard to recognise out of tennis gear, it had to be said – were dressed in all their finery and men were in dinner jackets and dress shirts, sporting wing collars and bright bow ties. She saw a lot of people she recognised. But there was no Liam.

Estelle shifted her weight and smiled at Nick, over on the other side of the room. He was looking, she had to admit, very debonair in his black baggy dress suit, waistcoat and black bow tie. Very debonair, but still not Liam.

At this point Suzi returned with their white wine. And Suzi had really made an effort. Estelle felt ridiculously proud of her. For once, she had thrown aside her usual blue jeans, and was wearing instead a jade green chiffony creation that matched her eyes and whose soft lines certainly gave her a new femininity. Or at least, Estelle assumed it was the dress …

‘Where the bloody hell is Liam?' Suzi handed Estelle her glass.

OK, Estelle amended, a new and fierce femininity. ‘Maybe he won't bother to come,' she said, looking around vaguely as though she'd only just realised he wasn't there.

‘He'd better,' Suzi ground out. ‘I've got something I need to tell him.' And from the look of her, that wasn't the only item on her agenda.

Estelle shrugged. ‘Where'd you get that dress, Suze?' She admired the drape of the sleeves, the slashed neckline that … hang on, she bent closer, that didn't quite look as if it had been slashed all its life.

‘C.S.' Suzi joined in the applause as the band struck up the first notes. ‘About time,' she added.

‘C.S?'

‘Charity shop.' Suzi hissed. ‘And why not? I'll never wear it again, for heaven's sake.'

Estelle suppressed a giggle. Talk about living up to the ethos of CG's.

Suzi grabbed her arm. ‘Estelle, I've got something I really need to talk to you about –'

‘And to take us away into the first dance…' The lead singer – who was wearing 60s flares, a 70s collar and had a pudding-basin haircut – smiled encouragingly at Nick, who remained where he was, lounging on the far side of the clubhouse. ‘May I ask our two glamorous winners…' he tried again, ‘to take to the floor?' There was an expectant hush. Neither Nick nor Amanda moved a muscle.

‘Please?' the lead singer added valiantly.

Nick put down his drink and advanced towards Amanda, a tightness to his mouth and a certain menace in his eyes.

Wicked. What now? Surely they'd have to look at one another at some point? ‘Tell me later,' Estelle whispered to Suzi. She wanted to watch this.

Nick reached Amanda, who was standing near the bar, and held out an ironic hand to her. Estelle wasn't sure how a hand could be ironic, but Nick seemed to manage it. ‘Shall we?' he muttered.

‘If we must.' Amanda smiled sweetly and placed her hand in his.

There was no denying that she looked fabulous, Estelle thought. She was wearing a silver, black and gold beaded creation which had a high cut-away neckline, three narrow back-shoulder straps on each side and a scooped low line at the back. No bra, Estelle thought dismally, admiring the fact that Amanda could get away with it.

The band began in earnest and predictably, with ‘Congratulations', which neither Nick nor Amanda seemed to have any idea how to dance to. Amanda sashayed gracefully from side to side, arms akimbo, but Nick was having none of that. His footwork wasn't bad and as his confidence increased, he took her hand and led Amanda into a twirl and then a spin. It was impressive, though obvious to Estelle that Amanda didn't want to go there. Maybe it was the length of her dress. It was full at the back where it fell to the floor and rustled provocatively as she moved, but it might not have the give required for this kind of dancing, Estelle guessed.

Nick seemed to have no idea of any of this. He spun her again, pulled her back into a semi-lift, plainly enjoying himself now.

Amanda struggled to get her balance, dragged herself upright, adjusted the dress, glared at him.

‘Oh dear.' Estelle grinned at Suzi.

‘What a lovely couple they make.' Erica's tones boomed even over the big band sound. She was standing on the other side of Estelle and addressing Amanda's father, Henry Lake.

‘Charming.' But Estelle could see that Henry was distracted, more interested in who was coming through the door by the silver butterfly than in Erica or his daughter and her dancing partner. Who was he waiting for? She was intrigued.

Erica turned to her husband. ‘Pull in your stomach, William,' she whispered loudly. ‘Don't breathe.'

Estelle and Suzi exchanged a glance, Suzi got a fit of the giggles and at that point Nick steered Amanda purposefully towards the doorway and the silver floating butterfly.

He turned her into another lift (this time supported on his knee); there was the ominous sound of tearing fabric; wide-eyed the two dancing partners stared into one another's faces, and everyone – or so it seemed to Estelle – held their collective breath.

*   *   *

Michael grinned at his audience. They were listening, really listening, and some of them – like that guy in the denim jacket over there in the corner, for example – had been here last month. Maybe they'd come back specially to see him, Michael. Bloody great.

He ripped open his shirt so that the buttons flew in all directions, laughed at himself, strutted a bit (eat your heart out, Rod Stewart) grabbed the mic, stuck it in the bent wire coathanger and put that round his neck so he could move around more freely, encouraged the audience to laugh too.

His act had changed a lot in the past weeks. It had evolved, by accident mostly, and now included all sorts of touches – like that wire coathanger he'd bent to create a mic-holder, like chucking his guitar to the landlord waiting by the bar, so he could do an impromptu somersault or two. That worked well (though not the time he'd tried to chuck it while inadvertently standing on the lead). He'd even incorporated a short impression of Dylan – thanks to Blondie and ‘Lay Lady Lay' – of Elvis, and a jokey version of ‘House Of The Rising Sun'.

Yeah, he was enjoying himself tonight – there was a kind of freedom in singing and playing when Suzi wasn't here to watch him. No hassles. No worrying what she was thinking about the new part of his act – the strutting, the semi-strip, the falling off the stage stuff. No looking over at her every ten seconds, trying to read every expression on her face.

He tripped over the wire, whispered, ‘fuck it', soulfully into the mic like it was a sweet nothing and grinned himself into their good books. Michael had come to a decision. He was going to the dance tonight – after the gig – and he was going to tell Suzi the score. Things weren't standing still. He was moving on. He'd got a room here above the pub which would do him until he found something better. And in return he was going to help out in the bar a couple of nights a week. Sorted.

He felt even more cheerful as he dropped into ‘My Girl' without thinking of Suzi and more cheerful still when the blonde (he'd almost started thinking of her as his blonde) waltzed through the door, wearing her usual black mini skirt with a skimpy, clingy, violet-coloured top. Sexy. She smiled at him, clocked his bare chest, pouted, waved, but, ah shit, she had a guy with her. First time ever.

What the hell. Michael played on. ‘Last one before the break,' he murmured into the microphone. ‘Dedicated to an ex of mine.' And he launched into ‘Someone else not you'.

Just before he closed his eyes, he caught the look that Blondie shot him, the ironic lift of the eyebrows, the sexy full-lipped smile. The kind of girl he'd always dreamed of having. And it's never too late, he thought.

*   *   *

‘Idiot,' Amanda hissed, just as the band stopped playing. ‘How could you be so bloody careless?'

Estelle – and quite a few of the other guests – peered closer, trying to see which part of Amanda's dress had finally given in to the pressure. But with the unquestionable grace of one born to be admired at all times – including times of adversity, no doubt – Amanda merely swept the torn skirt over one arm – thus creating a look not only dramatic, but revealing in the leg department – and made for the door.

‘It was an accident,' Nick protested, following her.

‘I don't care.' She turned on her heels, probably not realising he was so close behind her.

Estelle gave her the benefit of the doubt. Because Nick tripped over the silver-sandalled foot, and went down with a crash.

He landed awkwardly on his right arm and shoulder. Several people moved forwards to help. But Amanda was there first.

‘Darling, darling, I'm so sorry.' She knelt down beside him, all contrition. ‘Are you hurt, my darling?'

Nick's face was white. ‘My bad arm,' he muttered. And then, ‘Hang on a sec. Did you just call me your darling?'

*   *   *

At the end of the number, Michael went to get a pint, observing the body language of Blondie (how the hell was it that he still didn't know her name?) and the guy she was with. He was short, stocky, didn't look her type, and, to Michael's relief, there was no touchy-feely, lovey-dovey stuff, just some pretty intent talking and the odd burst of laughter. Her brother maybe?

She saw him looking, said a few words to her companion and made her way over. Lovely legs, Michael thought, watching appreciatively.

‘Let me get that for you,' she purred. ‘Can we have a chat?'

Michael shrugged. ‘Why not?' He followed her over to the table, wondering what was coming, and why he'd ever thought her predatory. She was just sexy and sure enough of herself not to be afraid to come on to a guy. Anyway, she could hunt him down anytime.

‘This is Chris Baker.' She introduced them. ‘He's an old colleague of mine. From when I was working in London.'

Michael nodded to the guy, but he was more interested in his blonde. ‘What did you do in London?' Modelling, maybe, with those legs.

‘I was a P.A.'

‘Oh yeah? Who to?' And brains, Michael thought. A P.A? His life could do with some organising and assisting of the personal variety.

‘A guy who handled Public Relations internally for the company.'

Public relations. ‘Right.' Michael thought about making a joke about private relations, but decided that now was not the time. He'd always had a habit of cracking jokes when he was a bit nervous and Suzi for one had never appreciated them. Why should this woman be any different? Perhaps jokes were a lad thing. Sure, women sometimes seemed to find them funny, but were they pretending, as if they thought a guy had to be flattered before he'd take any notice of them? Michael took a gulp of his beer. He might be forty but sometimes he thought he was doing more learning now than he'd done in his whole life before. ‘So why did you leave London?' he asked her.

She smiled. Great teeth, Michael thought. In fact great all over.

‘Looking for the rural idyll. Me and my ex thought we'd put down roots, have kids, start a business.'

Her companion grinned. ‘It's a dream most of us Londoners have from time to time. Sounds great, doesn't it?'

‘Until you wake up,' she agreed.

Michael wasn't sure where all this was leading. And he couldn't think how the hell to find out what she called herself. How could you ask someone you seemed to have known for ages, someone you'd chatted to so often, ‘oh, by the way, what
is
your name?' ‘So you woke up?' he asked instead, wanting her to go on. There were things he wanted to know. Like, what had happened to the ex, for example?

‘With a jolt.' She sipped her wine. ‘We never got as far as the kids. Steve missed London…'

Great, Michael thought. He knew the name of her old colleague and now the name of her ex-lover. But not hers, damn it.