The One You Really Want (33 page)

‘I can't believe we've done four walls in less than three hours.' Perched on the stepladder, Carmen gazed down at Nick. ‘Now you're the one with paint in your hair. Pistachio green.' Tapping his head with her brush she added playfully, ‘And parma violet.'

‘Big mistake.
Big
mistake.' Nick sighed as he gripped each side of the ladder. ‘Never think you can get away with
anything
like that when you're the one stuck up there like a parrot on a wibbly wobbly perch.'

‘
Waaah
,' squealed Carmen as he gave the stepladder an experimental shake. Instinctively her arms shot out and she slithered down, half stumbling against Nick's chest.

‘See what I mean? Now you've got paint on your nose.' Nick's mouth twitched as he wiped the bridge of her nose. ‘And you're all speckled, like an egg. Blimey, was that your stomach again?'

‘You must be hungry too.' Carmen was conscious of how close to each other they were. ‘I haven't got any food in yet. How about a takeaway?'

Nick was gazing down at her. Carmen felt her heart leaping like an antelope being chased by a wildebeest. They had spent the last three hours talking non-stop, yet all of a sudden she was unable to utter a single word.

The silence lengthened between them as she waited for Nick to slide his fingers through her hair and kiss her. He wanted to, she knew he did. And she definitely wanted him to, so why wasn't it happening? What was he waiting for? Why didn't he just
get on with it
?

Then she realised that Nick was deliberately leaving it up to her. She had to be the one to make the move. OK, well, she could do that. Reaching up, breathing in the mingled smells of peppermint and paint, she brushed her mouth against his. Then pressed more firmly, before relaxing into the kiss.

Oh
yes
.

Finally, Nick pulled away. Smiled. ‘So. I've wanted to do that for quite a while.'

Recklessly Carmen said, ‘Me too.'

‘It might have been more romantic if you could have stopped your stomach rumbling.'

‘I know. Sorry about that.'

‘Stomachs are like small children. No sense of occasion. They don't like to be ignored.'

‘We'll get a takeaway.' Nodding decisively, Carmen wiped her hands on her paint-spattered shirt. ‘There's an Indian just around the corner in Donovan Street.'

When the doorbell went, Carmen jumped as if a spider had just crawled out of her cleavage. Who on earth was that?

‘Nervous,' Nick observed with amusement. ‘Don't tell me you forgot to mention your jealous husband.'

Downstairs Carmen found Nancy on the doorstep, pink-cheeked with the cold and clutching a plastic food container. ‘Surprise! Thought you might be hungry.'

‘Or you thought you might be nosy.' Carmen wasn't fooled for a minute. When she'd rung Nancy earlier to tell her she would be coming straight here from work, she had added that Nick would be giving her a hand tonight.

‘Nosy? Me? How can you even think that? Is he here?'

‘No. Left an hour ago.'

Nancy's face fell. ‘Bugger.'

‘Yes, he's here.' Breaking into a grin, Carmen ushered her into the cramped hallway. ‘Just don't be too obvious, OK?'

‘I won't. I'll be wonderfully discreet. You've got paint on your nose, by the way.'

Remembering the tender way Nick had attempted to wipe it off, Carmen said happily, ‘I know.'

Upstairs she said, ‘This is Nancy, my oldest friend. Nancy, this is Nick from work.'

‘Hi,' Nancy beamed. ‘I come bearing shepherd's pie, made by my mother. Carmen told me she was so busy painting last night she forgot to eat.'

Carmen knew at once they'd get along. Nick had that easy-going air about him that enabled him to strike up an instant rapport with the most difficult-to-get-along-with visitor to the shelter. Viewing him as if she were Nancy, she saw the messed-up hair, big nose, kind eyes and execrable dress sense. Tonight Nick was wearing a blue and grey striped sweater with holes in the elbows, a green and brown checked shirt and scruffy khaki combats. She knew he'd bought the sweater and shirt from Oxfam; cutting-edge fashion wasn't a priority as far as Nick was concerned, and why should it be?

All the same, she was glad he wasn't wearing the Mr Blobby T-shirt.

‘Shepherd's pie, my favourite. And to think we were about to grab a takeaway.' Nick beamed. ‘I'm even more pleased to meet you now.'

‘You've done all this.' Nancy gazed around the finished room. ‘It's looking great.'

‘Wait until tomorrow, we'll be in the bedroom then.' Realising too late what he'd just said, Nick hastily back-tracked. ‘I mean, um, decorating it.'

Sensing the chemistry in the room, Nancy hid a smile. ‘I'm just going to stick this in the oven. There's apple crumble too.'

‘Can it get any better? Annie's going to be so jealous. I'd better wash all this stuff before it goes solid.'

Nancy watched him lope through to the bathroom with the rollers, trays and paintbrushes. Nudging Carmen, she whispered, ‘He's
nice
.'

Carmen's eyes were bright with long-overdue happiness as she clutched Nancy's arm and whispered back, ‘I
know
.'

When his brother had died three years ago, Rennie had taken care of Carmen. During the first few days, when she had been paralysed with grief, he had moved into the house in Fitzallen Square and dealt with everything. The funeral had needed to be arranged, a task that had been beyond Carmen. Journalists and mourning fans had congregated outside on the pavement and it had been necessary to organise security to keep them under control. When the initial shock and numbness had begun to wear off, Carmen had been tortured by the thought that she should have been able, somehow, to prevent Spike's death. Night after night Rennie had sat up with her, rocking her in his arms, comforting her and allowing her to weep the worst of the overwhelming feelings of guilt out of her system. He had loved his brother too. Their grief had been shared. But, back then, he'd known that Carmen was the one who most urgently needed support. And he had given it to her, to the best of his ability.

It was a habit that had stuck. Now, three years later, Carmen was back on her feet and capable of living her own life again. A normal life, with all that entailed. Rennie, lying on his bed smoking a cigarette, knew that he should be taking a mental step back now. He should allow her to make her own decisions, her own mistakes.

He'd already interfered once, with Joe - whom he'd never entirely trusted - and that had turned out to be the
right
thing to do. But Carmen hadn't appreciated it, to the extent that she'd now rented this damn flat in Battersea and was conducting her love life away from his critical gaze.

Rennie sighed. He didn't mean to be critical, it was just that old habits died hard. And now, hot on the heels of Joe, she was plunging into a new relationship from which he was entirely excluded.

The phone rang in his jeans pocket. Levering it out and exhaling a plume of smoke, Rennie said, ‘Yes?'

‘Hi! Sheryl!'

He frowned. His name wasn't Sheryl and he was fairly sure he didn't sound like a girl. ‘Excuse me?'

‘It's Sheryl, remember? Last night at the Met Bar?'

Taking another drag of his cigarette, Rennie recalled the bouncy terrier-like blonde who had approached him at the bar and spent a good twenty minutes telling him how much she idolised Red Lizard.

‘Right. I remember. And?'

‘I gave you my number.' Sheryl sounded as if she was pretending to pout. ‘I've been waiting all day for you to ring, but you haven't.'

Clearly the shy and retiring type. After enthusing about his band, Rennie recalled, she had gone on to list all the Premiership footballers she had
been out
with. In the euphemistic sense of the word, no doubt. How had she put it? Oh yes: ‘I mean, it's not as if I even like football that much, but they're just such great lads, aren't they? Really, like, fantastic company!'

Not to mention wonderful conversationalists, thought Rennie. What might they have discussed? Proust? Third World debt? The Man Booker shortlist?

‘So?' Sheryl demanded when he didn't reply. ‘Fancy meeting up? I'm free today.'

‘You gave me your number. I didn't give you mine.' Rennie frowned. ‘How did you get hold of it?'

Giggling, Sheryl said, ‘When that ugly girl asked for your autograph, your phone was on the bar next to your drink. I just had a quick peep.'

Bloody hell. He'd turned away for, what, less than twenty seconds? And in that time this predatory female had investigated the contents of his own phone.

‘Wouldn't you class that as an invasion of privacy?' As he asked the question, Rennie idly wondered if the girl would have turned out to be a nicer person had she not been born with striking good looks. If hanging out at the Met Bar blatantly propositioning celebrities hadn't been a viable option, might she have settled for less and ended up leading a happier, more contented life instead?

‘Look, I really fancy you,' said Sheryl. ‘I'd like to see you again, that's all. And I promise you, I'm a great lay.' Persuasively she added, ‘Everyone says so.'

Rennie blew a series of smoke rings up at the ceiling. Then he sighed.

‘Not interested, thanks. Don't call this number again.'

‘
But
—'

‘Goodbye.' He hung up.

Silence. Stubbing out his cigarette, Rennie stood up and went over to the window. It was a grey, cold day and he had just turned down the opportunity to spend the afternoon in bed with a pneumatic girl whose immodesty knew no bounds. Was this what it was like to grow old? Would he be buying himself sheepskin slippers next?

There was nobody out in the square this lunchtime. The house was empty too. Carmen and Nancy were both at work. Rose, no longer a visitor to Chelsea but a bona fide resident, had trotted off to get herself registered at the local health centre. From there, she was heading over to Battersea to inspect Carmen's new flat and, no doubt, clean it to within an inch of its life. When Rennie had offered to go along with her, Rose had looked at him pityingly.

‘You great daftie, you'd ruin the whole thing,' she'd chided. ‘Carmen's taken the place because she wants to be
normal
. Now, I won't be back until tea time but there's a nice fish pie in the fridge so you'll not starve, pet . . .'

Now, resting his hands on the window ledge and listening to the silence, Rennie wondered what on earth the point was of turning down an offer of wild sex from an undeniably attractive admirer when there wasn't anyone around to hear you do it.

Had he made a mistake? How else was he going to spend the rest of the day? Well, there was always other stuff he
could
do, like getting his brain into songwriting mode and coming up with ideas for the next album, whenever
that
was likely to happen.

Boring.

Twenty minutes later, Rennie checked his phone and rang a number. Slightly despising himself, he waited until it was answered then said, ‘Hi, it's Rennie. Can we meet up?'

The return of the bitingly cold weather had brought more visitors than usual to the shelter. In the recreation room every chair was occupied, the TV was blaring and at least a dozen regulars were crowded around the refectory table where a rowdy game of Trivial Pursuit was in progress. A cheer went up from one of the teams as their dice-thrower rolled a six.

‘Piece of cake,' bellowed Charlie, who was eighty-two. ‘We're up for a piece of cake! OK, Art and Literature. Concentrate now, lads, concentrate.' His hands as he rubbed them together made a rasping noise like sandpaper.

Baz, sitting opposite him, pulled out a card and cleared his throat importantly.

‘Who wrote the novel
The Mill on the Floss
?'

Pandemonium broke out.

‘Charles Dickens!'

‘Nah! That posh old bird with the eyelashes. Barbara Cartland.'

‘Jeffrey Archer, wasn't it?' said Charlie.

‘Jackie Collins, she's got eyelashes. I dunno, would you call her posh?'

‘She's not posh,' Charlie remonstrated. ‘She wears leopardskin. Do you ever see Her Majesty the Queen wearing leopardskin? No you don't. And that's because she's posh.'

‘Madonna writes books.' Alf, barely visible behind the cloud of smoke billowing from his pipe, said confidently, ‘I reckon Madonna's the answer.'

‘What's a Floss when it's at home, anyway? I've never heard of a Floss,' grumbled Charlie.