The One You Really Want (32 page)

‘OK, I haven't told you the other embarrassing thing that happened last night. I overheard him and Mia talking in his office. Mia was saying pretty much the same thing. It isn't going to happen.'

‘But—'

‘No, really, it's
never
going to happen. I heard what Connor said.' Nancy shuddered at the memory and glugged down her wine. ‘He doesn't fancy me and that's that. Really, nothing there. I'm a nice person, of course. He likes me as a friend. But that's as far as it goes. I'm not the kind of girl he'd ever get involved with, because I'm not his type. Because basically, as far as Connor's concerned, I'm just a
clever old stick
.'

Oops, she hadn't meant to raise her voice that much. The pub had fallen silent. Even the group of teenagers clustered around the pool table had stopped playing. How to announce to the world that you really were a sad and lonely woman.

Obligingly, one of the teenagers called over, ‘Don't worry, love, I'd give you one.'

Over at the bar, a middle-aged man said, ‘I wouldn't say no to being beaten by a stick.'

Another of the teenagers began tapping his friend's rear with a snooker cue, while his friend pulled Britney-type faces and bellowed, ‘Hit me, baby, one more time.'

So much for friendly local pubs. Carmen looked at Nancy.

‘Shall we not bother with that other drink?'

Naturally, everyone went, ‘Ooh,' and ‘Ow,' and hilariously clutched their backsides as Carmen and Nancy squeezed their way past them out of the pub.

On the pavement, Nancy exhaled slowly and said, ‘Thank goodness we went there. I feel so much better now.'

‘They were just having a bit of fun.' Carmen gave her arm a squeeze. ‘I'm sorry about Connor.'

‘Life goes on.' Nancy had already mentally steeled herself. ‘It would've been nice, but never mind. Connor can't help having no taste when it comes to girls. Anyway, ready now?'

‘Ready for what?'

‘To admit that there might secretly be a bit of a spark going on between you and Nick?'

Carmen smiled. She knew when she was beaten. ‘OK. Maybe a bit of one.'

‘A baby spark,' Nancy said encouragingly.

‘A sparkette,' Carmen agreed, blushing under the street-lamp. ‘God, but what am I turning into? No men for three years, not a single hint of a man, and now all of a sudden I'm turning into Zsa-Zsa Gabor. First Joe, now Nick . . . I mean, is it my hormones, d'you think? Are they rampaging out of control?'

‘I think they're just waking up after a long, long sleep. I think it's great news.' Winding her yellow scarf round her neck, Nancy said, ‘I especially think it's a good job I got you away from the poor defenceless boys in that pub.'

Janice Hazzard was intensely proud of her liposuctioned legs. She loved them almost as much as she loved Zac.

‘Bit shorter, darling. Up a bit, up a bit . . . yes, there, that's it. Got to give the fans what they want to see, haven't we? Ooh, mind where you're putting that hand, you naughty boy!'

‘Janice, I'm pinning the hem.' Zac rolled his eyes at the thought that he might be deliberately groping Janice's thighs. ‘If you don't keep still, you're going to get hurt.'

‘He's a genius,' Janice smugly informed Nancy. ‘Nobody else designs dresses like Zac Parris.'

Well, that was certainly true. Janice was currently wearing an almost finished emerald-green creation with one long narrow sleeve and one voluminous batwing one, with a fuchsia-pink maribou trim around the plunging neckline and triangular mirrors appliquéd across the bodice. The skirt, short and tight, emphasised Janice's generous bottom. Her shoes were fuchsia pink with emerald-green heels. She looked like a drag queen with a sense of adventure.

Nancy, having brought in two cups of coffee, wondered how many make-up remover pads Janice got through each night, taking off that much slap.

‘Is the coffee made with Evian?' Janice was peering suspiciously into her cup. ‘I only drink coffee made with Evian.'

‘Give it a rest, darling.' Zac spoke through a mouthful of pins, like a ventriloquist. ‘You aren't being interviewed for
Hello!
now. It's tap water and you can like it or lump it.'

‘He's so rude,' trilled Janice, ruffling Zac's hair as he crouched at her feet.

‘Now I know how Doreen feels.' Ducking away, Zac shook his hair back into place.

‘Oh, do stop whingeing. D'you want to come along to this premiere with me or not?' Winking at Nancy, Janice said, ‘I could always invite that pretty boy of yours instead.'

Janice was in her sixties now. In
the
sixties, she had been a gloriously pretty young actress with a bawdy laugh and an insatiable appetite for men who treated her badly. As she had grown older, the men had become younger and more adept at relieving Janice of her earnings. She had continued to work like a trouper, basically by becoming one of the nation's more downmarket treasures.

An endearing mixture of vanity, vulnerability and self-deprecating humour had won Janice new fans over the years and she never minded being made fun of. Five years ago she had unexpectedly married the septuagenarian multimillionaire Malcolm Hazzard, a man as reclusive as his new wife was outgoing. Even more unexpectedly, the marriage appeared to be a success. Janice had famously announced to the press that after years of being the older woman, becoming the younger woman was the biggest ego boost of all time and she couldn't imagine for the life of her why she'd never done this before. There really was nothing nicer than being spoiled rotten by an adoring, appreciative, hugely wealthy man.

‘There, all done.' Having finished pinning, Zac stood up and allowed Janice to survey herself in the full-length mirror. ‘And leave Sven out of it; he's my pretty boy, not yours.'

‘Scared he'd prefer me, is that it?' Janice wagged a teasing finger at him; these days she collected gay acquaintances like other people collected china figurines - they entertained her, flirted with her and posed no risk to her marriage. ‘Oh yes, this'll knock 'em dead.' Admiring her reflection, she struck a few ‘Hello boys' poses. ‘Perfect, darling, you've done it again. Now, I'll send someone over to pick it up when it's finished. Malcolm and I are off to New York for a couple of days, but I'll speak to you before the end of the week . . . ooh, I say, those are new!'

Her darting gaze had alighted on a couple of bags protruding from a box in the corner of the workroom. Fetching them to show her, Zac said proudly, ‘I've just finished working on them. They're for next season's collection.'

‘They're the business.' Janice ran an admiring manicured hand over the pink satin and suede shoulder bag lined with lilac shot silk. ‘How much?'

‘For you, five fifty.'

‘I'll have this one, and this one.' Janice lovingly smoothed the second bag, turquoise lined with sunset-orange silk. ‘And can you do one the colour of a Cadbury's chocolate wrapper? Purple with hot pink inside?'

Without missing a beat Zac said, ‘Darling, you're my favourite kind of shopper.'

‘Just send the bill to Malcolm. God, I
love
saying that.' Janice beamed at Nancy. ‘Before I met my husband you can't imagine how broke I was. Couldn't even afford Top Shop!'

 

At lunchtime, Zac took Doreen out for a walk. Upstairs in his flat, Nancy heated the cartons of wild mushroom risotto from his favourite delicatessen and put together a salad. She enjoyed their lunches in Zac's kitchen. When summer came, they would eat out on his roof terrace. For a single man with no family money behind him, Zac had a beautiful flat.

By one thirty he and Doreen were back. Nancy served up the risotto and said, ‘Can I ask a really impertinent question? '

‘No.'

‘Oh.' Bum.

‘
Joking
.' Zac grinned. ‘Hey, I love impertinent questions. About me and Sven, right?'

‘Yuk,
no
.' Zac was still besotted with Sven. ‘Actually, it's about this place.'

Zac broke off a chunk of bread. ‘And?'

‘Well, I just wondered. Your dad worked on the docks. You've told me yourself how hard it can be to keep a business like yours afloat. But you have the shop downstairs, and this flat, and we're here in the middle of poshest Chelsea . . .'

‘So you're wondering how the heck I manage to pay the bills,' Zac finished for her. ‘Well, that's easy. I'm actually a high-class prostitute.'

‘No you're not.' Nancy pulled a face at him. ‘You're too ugly.'

‘Flattery'll get you everywhere. OK,' Zac admitted, ‘I was left money when my godmother died. She was my mother's best friend and didn't have any family of her own. Wanda, her name was. She was a stylish lady, liked fashion, encouraged me when I told her I wanted to become a designer. Of course that was when I was thirteen.' He broke off another piece of bread and fed it to Doreen. ‘So there you go, that's how I managed to afford the down payment on this place. All thanks to my fairy godmother - ooh, let me phone Sven before I forget.'

As if
that
was likely. Nancy watched him key in Sven's number, listen expectantly for a few seconds then visibly deflate when the answering service kicked in.

‘Hi, you, me here!' Zac adopted his buoyant, haven't-a-care-in-the-world manner in order to leave a message. ‘All set for tonight? Pick you up at eight. And I'll bring that yellow shirt, OK? See you later, alligator! Bye-ee!'

Nancy helped herself to more risotto.

‘Was that all right?' Zac raised anxious eyebrows at her.

‘Fine.'

‘Not too over the top? Just nice and casual?'

‘Maybe leave out the alligator next time,' said Nancy.

‘It was only meant to be a bit of fun. Oh God, does it make me sound ancient?'

‘You aren't ancient. Eat your lunch and stop being such a worry-guts.'

‘It's just that his phone's switched off. Why would his phone be switched off?' Sounding fretful, Zac checked his watch. ‘It's quarter to two. Why would anyone switch off their phone at a quarter to two?'

‘He probably went to the cinema. What was the name of your godmother?'

Zac looked blankly at her for a moment. ‘What? Wanda, I told you. Why?'

‘Just forgot, that's all. Now, are you going to finish that risotto or shall I?'

Nancy hadn't forgotten; she was checking if Zac had. If that was the official line, she wasn't going to argue with him. But there was definitely something about his story that didn't ring true.

 

‘Is this a fashion statement?' Nick nodded at Carmen's hair as she arrived at the shelter on Wednesday morning.

Since her dark spiky hair was anything but styled, Carmen said, ‘Sorry?' Had she forgotten to comb it after getting out of the shower?

‘Those turquoise bits. Mainly at the back.' Helpfully Nick pointed them out. ‘And some at the side here. I like them.'

‘Oh.' Patting her head and feeling the stiffened spikes, Carmen said, ‘I've just moved into a new flat. Been redecorating. '

‘Really? Hey, you should have said. I'm a demon with a paintbrush.'

‘Demon being the operative word,' Annie chimed in. ‘He can't bear the thought of wasting paint, so anything left over has to go
somewhere
. Which, in case you'd been wondering but were too polite to ask, is why our bathroom ceiling is red.'

‘Ignore her, she has no sense of adventure. Much left to do, or have you finished?'

‘Well, I've done the bathroom and the kitchen.' Guessing what was coming, Carmen pretended she hadn't. ‘Still got the living room and bedroom to go.'

Nick said easily, ‘So you could do with a hand? I'm free tonight.'

A warm Ready Brek glow spread through her stomach. ‘If you're sure, that'd be . . . great.' It
would
be great. She hadn't left the turquoise paint streaks in her hair on purpose, but if she'd thought of it she would have.

‘Where's the new flat?'

‘Arnold Street, Battersea,' said Carmen.

‘Right, that's settled.' Nick rubbed his hands together in let's-get-painting fashion. ‘We'll go straight there from here.'

‘Don't say I didn't warn you,' said Annie.

‘Hey, you did the right thing. This is a pretty nice place.'

Was this perverse? As she showed Nick around, Carmen realised that she felt ridiculously proud of her scruffy little flat in a way that she never could about the house in Fitzallen Square.

‘See? Here's the bathroom. There was some mould up on that wall, but I scrubbed it off and bleached it.' She pointed to the painted-over stain. ‘And down there in that corner I filled the hole with scrunched up newspaper and covered it with Polyfilla.'

‘Good work.' Nick ran his fingertips appreciatively over the repair, then straightened up. ‘Right, let's get this show on the road, shall we? You can put the kettle on, then tell me where to start. And I promise not to paint any ceilings red.' Squeezing behind her to get out of the bathroom, he rested his hands on her shoulders and whispered, ‘Unless you really want me to.'

The next three hours flashed by. Carmen didn't know where the time had gone; one minute they'd been pulling on oversized painting shirts and prising the lids off tins of emulsion; the next minute it was nine thirty, the living room was finished and her stomach was rumbling like a tank.