The Lost Guide to Life and Love (26 page)

‘I couldn’t not, could I?’ I said.

He gave me one of his huge, slow smiles. ‘Good.’ Then one of the oiks at the bar shouted, ‘Blown up any railway stations lately?’ and guffawed loudly at his own wit. One of his mates kicked him and he muttered a sort of
apology and Clayton just raised his eyebrows in tolerant exasperation, which gave me a short stab of pride. Another chap said, ‘Good win today. Great goal. Bloody brilliant goal in fact.’

Clayton grinned, ‘Yeah it was, wasn’t it? Thanks,’ he said, as a chorus of football pundits chimed in over their pints. As they started discussing the match, I took the opportunity to nip to the loo. I might like him, but I’d never be content discussing the offside rule. As I checked my reflection and happily admired myself in the silver and amber necklace and Matty’s dress, I spotted that sampler again.
Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

I paused for a split second and then shook my head and grinned. Tonight was going to be a great night. I went back to the bar and Clayton.

‘Have a good evening!’ yelled Dexter as we went out to the car.

‘Watch out for witches!’ shouted Jan, who was standing in for Becca behind the bar.

Clayton and Sandro were in great humour. They’d picked up a car to fetch us and done some shopping on the way too.

‘Oh what’s that!’ yelped Becca as she slithered into the back with Sandro.

‘Pumpkins!’ laughed Clayton. ‘We got some Halloween stuff when we called in for petrol.’

They must have bought everything in the shop. Witches’ hats, pumpkin lanterns, devil horns that flashed red, even glow-in-the-dark teeth and a broomstick. Sandro popped a witch’s hat on Becca’s head. ‘But you are too lovely to be a witch,’ I heard him murmur.

Clayton drove confidently down the narrow roads but not, thank goodness, as fast as he had that morning in London. Wisps of mist would suddenly surround us, the
car lights just emphasising the denseness of it. Even in the warmth of the car, I shivered.

‘Perfect for Halloween,’ said Clayton cheerfully. ‘Ghoulies and ghosties everywhere,’ and he walked his fingers along my leg.

‘Stop it!’ I said, slapping his hand. ‘No talk of ghosts please.’

‘Why, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?’ he asked, surprised.

‘No, of course not. On the other hand, if there were ever a time and a place for them it would be here.’

We could soon spot Ravensike Lodge, even from a few miles away. The lights spread out in the mist and there were more lights of cars arriving, a procession up the long drive, so constant a stream that the magic gates barely had time to shut. As we crunched from the car park through the chilly damp air to the house, I pulled my little black silk jacket closer to me. Actually, it was Matt’s black silk jacket. When I’d told Kate where I was going, she’d suggested I borrowed something of her daughter’s.

‘There are acres of clothes up there. Take what you like. She won’t mind, I assure you.’

I’d had a wonderful time looking through the heaps of clothes, many of them just stuffed at the back of the wardrobe that had been built across the corners of the long, sloping bedroom with magnificent views across the moors. Such an incongruous place to find so many designer labels, many of them one-offs. The dresses were all hopeless on me—much too tight. I definitely didn’t have my cousin’s supermodel figure. The only possibility was a glorified vest of a dress—strappy and cleverly cut in a beautifully soft material. On Matt it would look stunning. On me it would look just like an overgrown T-shirt. But then Kate pulled
out the jacket—beautiful black silk in tiny Fortuny-style pleats, shot through with silver.

‘Try those together,’ she said.

‘Gosh!’ I said as I looked in the mirror. The dress was a little snug but OK, and with the jacket it somehow made me look a foot taller and inches thinner.

‘There!’ said Kate approvingly. ‘You could almost be Matty’s twin.’

Which was definitely an exaggeration, but a very confidence-boosting one.

So I stepped into the entrance hall of Ravensike Lodge feeling on top of the world. I looked as good as I ever had and I was on the arm of one of the most eligible men in England. More importantly, one I was getting to know and like. It was all a bit ridiculous and I wanted to laugh out loud as we made our entrance. Especially as Clayton had pulled out a witch’s hat as we got out of the car and popped it on my head. ‘The nicest witch I’ll know tonight,’ he said. ‘Just wait until midnight.’

Ravensike Lodge was perfect for Halloween. It was a huge Victorian building, all carved oak and antlers. Very gothic. The Halloween decorations were terrific. The party planners had definitely earned their fee. The entrance hall was hung with proper pumpkins carved into lanterns. Just as well we’d left our plastic versions in the car, I thought. They’d look pretty feeble compared to this lot. Bats hung from chandeliers, silver cobwebs from every picture. Witches whizzed on broomsticks up to the ceiling. There were flickering flame effects. Huge cauldrons of drink that bubbled wonderfully.

Waiting to greet us was a tall woman with piled-up black hair and the tightest scarlet dress I’d ever seen. Lynette was Simeon Maynard’s third or maybe fourth wife and at least twenty-five years younger than him. ‘Clayton! Alessandro! Wonderful!’ she said, shimmering up to us.

‘Lynette!’ said Clayton, and brushed cheeks with her.

‘Do have a drink,’ said Lynette, barely glancing at Becca and me. ‘Simeon will be out in a minute. He’s just dealing with a few things. You know what he’s like…’ She laughed. I think she meant it to be a light tinkling laugh but it sounded more like a cackle. Appropriate. Luckily, some more people were arriving behind us, so she moved on to swoop on them instead.

A skeleton pranced up to me, bearing a tray of bright red and green drinks. ‘A potion?’ he cackled. ‘Devil’s Delight or Witch’s Brew?’ then whispered in a very camp way, ‘It’s all right, sweetie, they taste nicer than they look. But there’s plenty of champagne around too.’ More skeletons whirled past with trays of drink and exotic canapés.

Clayton looked around. ‘No Maynard,’ he said, ‘what a shame,’ in a tone that showed he didn’t mean that at all. ‘He normally likes to do the gracious host bit.’

I remembered what he’d said about Maynard thinking of Shadwell as his very own Subbuteo set, and was in no great hurry to meet him.

Dry-ice clouds billowed into the hall, almost meeting the real-life mist from outside. Up on a small stage, a DJ wearing a mask like a Venetian plague doctor was pumping out some great music. A few people danced in an absent-minded fashion. The light and the dry ice made for a weird effect. Not helped when devils with tridents poked and prodded the guests into different rooms. One was like a cave, hung around with spiders and giant cut-out toads with glittering eyes. In another, set out as a casino, people were already putting money on the roulette wheel, the glamorous croupiers managing that perfect blend of professionalism and bored indifference.

Clayton nodded at a group of men in the far corner. ‘Poker school’s started early,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose they’ll move from there all night now.’

‘Do you play?’ I asked.

He grinned. ‘It has been known,’ he answered. ‘It has been known…’

One of the men, spotting Clayton, called across. ‘You up for it later? Let me get some money back?’

‘No thanks,’ said Clayton. ‘Got better things to do this evening,’ and he turned and kissed me. ‘No trains to catch. Or miss,’ he grinned. ‘And maybe this time you won’t go to sleep on me.’

I loved it all. I loved the way he could joke about things that I had found so embarrassing. The panic of that morning when I’d woken up on his sofa all cramped and dribbly, and then the awfulness of that car journey and the police questioning and all the stick he got for it on TV and radio and in the papers.

True, he needed a bit of time to deal with things. But once the first fury or embarrassment had worn off, he could laugh about it. And here he was, with his arm round my waist, gazing into my eyes. I remembered that night in Club Balaika, struggling to get Jake’s attention, and I smiled back at Clayton.

‘What’s so funny, Miss Tilly?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all. I’m just…well…happy.’

His eyes smiled and he said, ‘Do you know what? I think I am too.’

Back in the hall, we danced for a while. It was just an excuse to be close to him, to feel his arms around me and mine round him. For that moment, in that time and place, everything just felt right. Well, almost. I just wished it had been someone else’s party, a party we’d gone to because we wanted to, not just because Clayton was paid to be here.

When the DJ pushed his plague mask up onto his head to sort his music out more easily, we wandered head in hand into a room that had very lifelike flame effects licking
at the walls. A doll-like girl—size zero, blonde hair extensions, no light behind her huge vacant eyes—screamed in horror at the fake spiders and clutched at her partner, one of Clayton’s team-mates. Her vertiginous heels scrabbled on the wooden floor as she made the tricky manoeuvre to turn round and leave the room. I wondered how she would have coped with Kate’s early-morning mole traps.

The music was fainter here, just a pulsating background so you could hear yourself speak. The men were, inevitably, talking football. ‘Excuse us,’ said Sandro apologetically to Becca, ‘it is good to win and we are still so…’ He groped for a word. ‘…excited about it.’

I didn’t mind. It was just good to stand there with Clayton’s arm around me, listening to him replaying the match, watching him move in his world. And watching the other women too. One looked like a real-life Barbie doll. Very tall, huge boobs, long legs; she was made of so much silicone that I hoped she’d keep away from the fire, or she’d melt. She was already drunk and clinging desperately to a footballer I didn’t recognise. He looked pretty out of it too.

Some of the other women were stunning. Frighteningly so. Definitely high maintenance. One or two others were very attractive but almost ordinary. No, not ordinary,
real.
That was the word. While they were dressed to kill and out to enjoy themselves, you had a feeling that they had lives of their own elsewhere—jobs, kids, hobbies. This was only a part of it. And not the most important part either. One was looking dubiously at her bright green drink.

‘Do you think it’s safe?’ she grinned at me.

‘It tastes better than it looks,’ I said. ‘Not that that’s hard.’

She sipped it tentatively. ‘Mmm, still pretty disgusting…My name’s Nell, by the way.’

‘Tilly,’ I said, realising I recognised Nell, wife of Clayton’s
team-mate, Jojo François. She was a regular on a daytime TV show I’d seen when I was looking after Mum.

‘Weird do, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘We only came because the lads were playing up here and my gran lives on Wearside, so I could kill two birds with one stone.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m working up here at the moment. I guess that’s why Clayton rang me.’

She studied me for a moment, trying to place me in the pattern of footballers’ girlfriends. Just as I was doing with her, I suppose. Then she put her glass down. ‘It’s no good. I can’t drink that. The boys are going to be replaying that match for ages yet. Shall we go and see if we can find a proper drink?’

I glanced at Clayton who smiled at me and let go of my hand and kissed it quickly. ‘Won’t be long, Tilly,’ he said, laughing. ‘We’re almost at my goal now.’

Becca was entwined round Sandro and, as she had a blissful smile on her face, I guessed she was perfectly happy where she was. I smiled as I followed Nell into the next room, Clayton’s kiss lingering on my fingers. ‘Have you known Clayton long?’ she asked as we made our way through the throng.

‘Just a few weeks,’ I said.

‘I thought I hadn’t seen you before,’ she said. ‘So how did you meet Clayton?’

‘Oh, I’m just working up here for a magazine. He came into the pub where I go to use the computer.’

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I thought you seemed to have a few more brain cells than his usual girlfriends…Oh, I’m sorry,’ she added hastily, ‘that wasn’t meant to sound…well, you know…’

She looked so crestfallen that I smiled. ‘No, it’s all right. He does seem to have a record of a different blonde every week.’

‘Goes with the territory,’ said Nell cheerfully. ‘The girls throw themselves at the footballers. They’d have to be made of stern stuff to turn down such opportunities. Many of them have the brain cells of a cabbage and the sex drive of a rabbit, so that doesn’t matter. But with some of the others—Clayton, for instance—it stops them meeting people they might really connect with.’

‘So how did you meet Jojo?’

‘I interviewed him for daytime TV—one of the first interviews I was allowed to do, and that was only because I spoke French, in case he went to pieces and couldn’t remember his English. I realised that, as well as a footballer, he was actually a really interesting person. So I didn’t let him get away! I appointed myself his interpreter—cunning move. And,’ she grinned, ‘I’ve been giving him English lessons ever since. Anyway,’ she added, ‘Clayton certainly seems smitten.’

I went bright red and beamed. Clayton smitten? With me?

‘Oh no,’ I said, firmly, ‘we hardly know each other.’

The place was filling up now but, apart from the staff, there seemed to be no sign of our so-called host. Yet another waiter offered us a tray of brightly coloured liquid.

‘There are champagne cocktails and there is a bar, madam, in the library,’ said the waiter, noticing our lack of enthusiasm. Nell and I went off in search of the bar. We came to a huge oak door, barely open.

‘This looks like a library,’ said Nell confidently, pushing at the door. But immediately it was pushed shut again, though not before we’d had a glimpse inside. There was a man I recognised as Simeon Maynard and a couple of others. They seemed to be arguing. Maynard was shouting at one of the men, while he scrabbled through a pile of papers on a desk. The desk drawers were open and another man was on his haunches, taking out piles of files and pushing them into a holdall.

It was an odd scene, but we had only a split second to make sense of it before the door was shut. Nell shrugged.