The Lost Guide to Life and Love (20 page)

‘It’s like the more you look at it, the less you know—and it could be any time, couldn’t it?’

I was intrigued not just by the painting, but the thought of Clayton in a foreign city, leaving his team-mates and wandering off by himself round backstreets and art galleries. I looked at him, thinking of all the different bits of Clayton Silver I knew from what he’d told me and what I read, and trying to put them together. It was a tricky jigsaw. I wonder if Kim Scarlett understood him.

Other paintings were starker, simpler, bolder—huge splashes of colour or intriguing subtle patterns of swirling colours. We went downstairs—the wood of the stairs was so expensive, so smooth, so beautiful, that it was a work of art in itself—where an inner hall was hung with some laddish paintings—Lewis Hamilton winning a grand prix, a horse race, a boxing match and, inevitably, one of Clayton scoring a goal, light gleaming on the taut muscles of his thigh as he was captured, leaping up about to kick the ball. ‘That’s meant to be the winning goal, but if I’d kicked that at the angle he painted it, it would have missed by miles,’ he said.

The hall led into a games room with a full-size pool table, table football, yet another huge plasma TV and another well-stocked bar. And a cupboard full of trophies and medals.

‘My playroom,’ he smiled. ‘Gym through there,’ he said, pointing. ‘I didn’t have space for a full-size swimming pool, but there’s an infinity pool. And also a wine cellar, of course.

‘Oh and I guess you’d better see this one…’

We were going back upstairs now, up another equally beautiful staircase, with windows along its length. It was, I realised, built into a sort of tower at the side of the house and I could see down the street and the row of houses with their high fences and designer gardens. We’d come out into what was obviously Clayton’s dressing room—walk-in wardrobes, rows of very expensive shoes, leather boxes containing cufflinks. Through one door I could see a huge wet room, through another a glimpse of his bedroom—black and white patterned duvet, lots of mirrors…And on the wall a picture of a nude, long blonde hair tumbling down onto her breasts, flirtatious eyes, pouting mouth. Poor girl. She probably meant it as a great present, but really it made her look needy, desperate. I realised I recognised the girl.

‘That’s Sapphire O’Mara!’ I said. A few years ago, Sapphire had won a reality TV show and now made a living being a celebrity, doing chat shows, quizzes, opening supermarkets and going out with footballers—famous on account of being well known.

‘Yeah. We had a thing going for a while and she had that done for my birthday. Knowing Sapphire, she was probably having it off with the artist. Can’t get rid of it: Seb Tarn’s work’s going for a fortune now. Sapphire always could pick rising talent. But it’s not too tactful when I’m entertaining…’

He spread his hands wide and shrugged as if he were totally puzzled by the world and its ways.

Suddenly I realised I was standing virtually in his bedroom. Definitely not a good idea. Especially when he was looking at a painting like that. How daft could I be? Come upstairs to look at his paintings. Oh my God. Dim or what? I turned and almost ran back down the stairs and into the huge living room. Clayton laughed and loped slowly after me.

On the low table in front of one of the huge orange leather sofas was a tray with tea things, including a plate of small and delicious-looking pastries. Afternoon tea? Another surprise. But there was also a pitcher of disgusting-looking liquid.

Clayton smiled. ‘Maria thought you looked like an afternoon tea lady. Must mean she likes you.’ He poured some of the foul-looking liquid into a high glass and drank it down.

‘Full of goodness. Nutritionist’s orders.’ He smiled at me over the top of the glass.

‘You’re quite safe, you know, Miss Tilly,’ he said. ‘I don’t bite.’

‘This is all very nice,’ I said, flustered, ‘but I just came to talk to you about the necklace. I—’

‘Why don’t you just have your tea that Maria’s made for you, while I go and have a shower and change. Then I’ll come down and we’ll talk. Unless you want to come up and shower with me…?’

‘No!’ I said, shocked, and tried not to imagine Clayton’s naked body with water cascading over it.

‘Back in a minute.’

By the time I thought of something calm and sensible to say, he’d gone. I thought of leaving the necklace on the sofa and just going. No. I had to wait. I had no option really. So I poured some tea and looked around.

Remembering Jake’s research and my own misgivings, I wondered if this could be the home of a corrupt footballer. What did I expect to find—boxes of used tenners stuffed in the corner? Brown envelopes bulging with cash? But I made a quick study of the room to see what it could tell me.

There was a huge reclining armchair opposite the wall with the TV set. I could just imagine Clayton lounging back
there with the remote in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. There were a couple of games consoles, a stack of DVDs. But there was a bookcase too—a quick glance showed that Clayton Silver liked thrillers, sports books and travel guides and also had a collection of books on modern art. Which didn’t surprise me as much as it would have done a while ago.

The shelf full of photographs mainly featured football teams and triumphs. Lots of medals, cups and champagne. There was one in bright foreign sun of a shop front with a big ribbon across it and Clayton and an older woman about to cut it. His mum, I guessed. Very tanned, very blonde, looking very pleased with herself. And why not? Another photo showed a pleasant middle-aged couple pictured sitting in a garden. The man looked vaguely familiar and I realised I’d seen him on television occasionally. It was Denny Sharpe, the manager of Clayton’s first team, the one who’d been like a father to him. It was nice to see his picture there. I looked quickly along the rest of the pictures—but there weren’t any of women. Every week Clayton Silver was pictured with some new model or actress, but none of them had got as far as his picture shelf.
Interesting.

Suddenly cheerful, I decided it seemed a shame not to try those pastries that Maria had brought, and they were only small. I nibbled one. It tasted deliciously of almonds.

I rummaged in my bag and took out the box with the necklace in it and placed it on the coffee table. I opened the box for a last look. I wondered if Kim Scarlett would wear it. I’m not sure if it was her sort of thing. But how was I to know? I was just running it through my hands, feeling the weight and smoothness of the silver, the gloss of the amber, admiring the deceptive simplicity of the design, when Clayton came back into the room. He leant
over my shoulder, so close that I could smell the very expensive scent of whatever he’d used in the shower. He wore a dazzling white T-shirt and beautifully cut jeans. Gulp. It was hard to ignore the sheer physical power of the man. But I was determined to try.

‘So this is what a twenty-five-thousand-pound necklace looks like, is it?’ he said. ‘I didn’t get to study it the night I bought it. Too busy looking at the lady wearing it.’ He turned his head—his beautifully shaped head—and smiled at me.

He was so close to me I was actually having difficulty breathing. I moved away from him, took a deep breath and said firmly. ‘It’s a beautiful necklace but I can’t keep it, so I’m giving it back to you.’

His smile faded. He looked puzzled as he stood up and moved around to face me.

‘And why can’t you keep it?’ he asked, with a hint of coldness in his tone, that was just a bit scary. Too bad. I knew what I had to say and ploughed on with it.
‘Tell the truth,’
as the sampler in the cottage said.

‘Because it was so expensive. And you don’t really know me. And it’s not…’ I groped for the word I wanted and suddenly found it. ‘It’s not…
appropriate
.’

The scary coldness instantly left Clayton’s eyes and he hooted with laughter. ‘You’re telling me that it’s not…appropriate…to give you this necklace. Appropriate?’ The world almost gurgled in his throat.

‘Yes,’ I said, beginning to feel like something out of a Jane Austen novel. ‘I mean, you don’t know me. It was very nice of you to take me to the dinner—and to lunch before that in the helicopter. I don’t mean lunch in the helicopter,’ I was gabbling, ‘but you know what I mean. Anyway, that was very kind of you and thank you very much. I had a very nice time. But the necklace—well, that’s just too much.
I mean, that’s the sort of present you only give to someone when they’re very…and I’m not. Am I? I mean, I don’t know you. Do I? So I can’t. I really can’t. But thank you.’

I put the necklace back in its box and pushed it across the coffee table to him.

Clayton was still towering over me, his hands in his pockets.

‘You are certainly a one-off,’ he said. ‘That is the first time, the very first time, anyone has ever returned a present to me. And definitely the first time anyone has said that something had to be “appropriate”.’ He rocked on his heels.

‘But it’s like this,’ he went on. ‘I bought the necklace as a way of helping Ted Blake’s charity. He’s a nice guy. It was sad about his wife and he’s trying to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen to other mums. That’s good. I gave him twenty-five thousand pounds. I could have given him twenty-five thousand pounds anyway, and not got anything back at all. But this time, I got this nice necklace. Now I can’t wear it. Might get the guys talking. So what am I going to do with it? Why, give it to a nice lady, of course, and hope she wears it. Otherwise it would just sit in its box and no one would ever see it. And that would be a shame because I think it’s quite a nice necklace.’

‘It is. A very nice necklace. But…’

‘Now what buts?’

‘Well, surely, there must be…you must have…I mean, you must have plenty of other women you could give this to, women you know better than me.’

He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Well, there are lots of ladies, yes. Always lots of ladies. And do you know what, Tilly? Every one of them would have snatched that necklace so fast they would nearly have taken my hand with it. But not you. And that just makes me even more sure that you should have it.

‘After all, it’s just a necklace. I bought it to help a mate’s charity. And now I’ve got it, I have to give it to someone, and I think it would look nice on you. So…’

He picked up the box with the necklace in it, bowed in a jokey way and handed me the box. ‘This necklace is for you. For being different. For keeping me company at that dinner and because it looks great on you and I shall think of you wearing it.’

I was still sitting on the sofa. He leant down towards me, took the necklace out of its box and, once again, slipped it over my head. There was that wonderful closeness of him again, that difficulty in breathing. The infuriating part was that he knew damn well the effect he was having on me. And I was determined that he wouldn’t.

Why does life have to be so complicated?

‘Tell you what,’ Clayton was saying. ‘There’s a viewing tonight that I’ve been invited to. You could come too. Then maybe we could have dinner. Would you like that?’

He moved away and was looking out of the window, as if my reply didn’t really matter that much at all. Which made it easier for me to say. ‘No. Thank you for the offer, but I can’t. I’m booked on a train this evening. In fact,’ I glanced at my watch, ‘it’s time I was leaving.’

Clayton turned back and looked at me. ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘You can catch a later train.’

‘No. I have to get back. I have an appointment with a monk tomorrow. You can’t let monks down. Probably a sin.’ I started to ease the necklace off over my head. I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it.

But Clayton took hold of both my hands in his, so I had to let the necklace fall back round my throat, and looked into my eyes. ‘What time are you seeing your monk?’

‘Lunchtime.’ Damn! Why didn’t I say ten o’clock? That
would have made life more straightforward. Why did I always have to tell the truth?

‘Then that’s easy,’ said Clayton triumphantly. ‘We can go to the gallery. We can have dinner. You can catch the last train. If you’re not seeing your monk till lunchtime, you’ve got time for a nice lie-in. No probs.’

‘No, I can’t. I have to…’

‘Yes you can. Unless you really, really don’t want to be with me. And I thought we were OK. I thought we liked each other. Aren’t we friends? Can’t friends spend an evening together?’ He smiled. ‘Please?’

I was lost. I was torn. I was tempted. I knew exactly what I
should
do, what would be the sensible plan. But there again, in the last few weeks, in this strange freedom since Jake and I had split, I had got used to adventures, most of them involving Clayton. And so far, it had been fun. I laughed.

‘OK. You win. But I must get the last train. I really must get it.’

And if I’d known what would happen, would I have done things any differently?

Despite its easily missed entrance, the gallery was long, thin, light and airy. A waitress offered us a glass of wine. I took one, but Clayton waved his away and took water, which he sipped while studying the catalogue.

A seriously smart woman in a severe suit was bearing down on us purposefully. The gallery owner, I guessed. ‘Clayton!’ she gushed with one of those very bright smiles that go nowhere near the eyes, ‘
so
glad you could come.’ She looked at me questioningly.

‘Marcia. Hi!’ said Clayton. ‘This is my friend Tilly Flint. Tilly—Marcia Longwood. It’s her gallery.’

Marcia extended a chilly hand. ‘How do you do, Tilly?’ she said, but this time her unsmiling eyes never left my necklace.

Because, yes, I was wearing it. Because in any case it turned my black clothes into an outfit and if you’re going to go out with a footballer, even to a fairly low-key viewing, you’ve got to up your game, haven’t you?

Marcia was gushing about the paintings, the artist, a hot raw talent. She was sure Clayton would…
identify
…with the young man.

‘Well, it’s sure to be interesting,’ said Clayton, gently walking away from her and towards the pictures. One or two of the other guests looked up and nodded at him
politely. They clearly knew him or recognised him, but they weren’t going all silly on him. They certainly weren’t papping him on their mobiles the way people had done outside Club Balaika.