The Unexpected Consequences of Love (15 page)

“Don't be like that. It's a fabulous idea.”

“Easy to say that,” Josh said drily, “when you're not the one being publicly humiliated.”

It was a photo he hadn't seen in years, taken by Lawrence during a trip to the beach. In it, Dot was sitting on a rock in a stripy dress, looking glamorous as always and laughing at his antics. And there
he
was, about nine or ten years old, skinny and tanned and wearing bright blue shorts and a yellow snorkeling mask pushed to the top of his head. There were lime-green flippers on his feet and his dark hair was dripping wet. In his left hand he held a shrimping net and in his right he was brandishing a live crab as, beaming with pride, he showed it off to the camera.

“It's a gorgeous photo,” said Sophie. “I love that expression on your face. Look at you, so pleased with yourself.” Mischievously she added, “All smug and scrawny.”

“Hey. Less of the scrawny. I was…athletic.”

“And you weren't afraid to have your photo taken. Okay, let's do this, shall we? Roll up your shirtsleeves and sit forward a bit. Rest your elbows on the table. Give your head a shake. More than that.”

“Why do I have to shake my head?”

“Because your neck and shoulders are tense. You need to loosen up, channel your inner ten-year-old.” Sophie pointed to the photograph on the desk. “You were relaxed back then. Look at that brilliant smile.”

Was it any wonder he wasn't relaxed now? Josh watched as she adjusted the settings on the camera, took a few test shots and moved around the office searching for the best angles.

“How's your back?” She was still carrying herself carefully, limping a bit.

“Mending, thanks. Pretty spectacular bruise, but it's getting better. Okay, look at me and smile.”

Easier said than done. Sophie was behind the camera now, taking photos, issuing gentle suggestions, and being persuasive, doing her best to get the shot she wanted.

Oh, but just the fact that he knew she was studying him intently through the camera lens made it almost impossible. Maybe if it wasn't Sophie taking the photos he'd be able to relax more.

She stopped to change the lens and said good-naturedly, “You really aren't enjoying this, are you?”

“I know. Sorry. I once broke up with a girlfriend because of it.”

“You're kidding. How?”

“It was a girl in LA.” Maybe if he talked about his past relationships, it might encourage her to do the same. “Her name was Janine and she was an actress. We got on pretty well, but she was just
obsessed
with taking photos of herself and anyone she happened to be with. I mean,
all
the time. Wherever we went, whatever we were doing.” Josh shook his head at the memory. “She'd just whip out her phone, hold it at arm's length, strike a pose with her other arm around me, and, God, do this pouty sultry smile into the camera. Exactly the same smile every time.”

“And that was it; you were mentally scarred for life.”

“Well, no, I hated it before that. But it didn't help. And after a few weeks I couldn't stand it anymore. Had to break up with her. She even took a picture of herself then,” Josh marveled, remembering the occasion. “Seriously.
While
she was crying.” He shook his head. “You can't tell me that's not a weird thing to do.”

“It's pretty weird.” Sophie sounded entertained. “Maybe it's an LA kind of thing.”

“Well, I went out with a few girls while I was living there. None of the rest of them were like that.”

“But they didn't last either. So what was wrong with them?”

“I don't know. They were nice enough, just not…completely right.” He grimaced. “Some of them took themselves too seriously. Some were self-obsessed. Some were a bit overkeen on lettuce and yoga…”

“Can you pick up that pen? That's it, and write something on this.” Sophie pushed a blank sheet of paper toward him.

“Write what?”

“Anything you like.”

What should he write? Maybe:
Talk
to
me
about
your
husband; tell me how he died…

“Okay, hang on a sec.” Evidently thinking better of it, Sophie took the pen back, quickly scrawled something on the sheet of paper, and put it into his hands, with the writing facing away from him. “Now hold it up, show it to the camera.”

Josh did as he was told, then peered over to see what she'd written.

It said:
I
hate
having
my
photo
taken.

He sat back, burst out laughing, and Sophie fired off another series of shots.

“There it is.” Having paused to scroll though and examine them on the screen, she pointed to show him. “That's the one.”

Josh looked. She'd done it, captured the perfect moment. Against all the odds she'd relaxed him and caught him off guard. “You're good at this.”

“I'm better than good. I'm brilliant.” Sophie checked her watch. “There you go, the seven-minute photo shoot. Told you I'd be fast.”

He nodded and smiled. What was more, Dot had been right; the before and after photos would look great on the website. A family-run hotel needed a couple of family photos to entertain the clients. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Sophie was putting her camera away in its case; in another minute she'd be gone.

“What about your ex-boyfriends?” Josh kept his tone light. “Any unusual reasons for having to finish with them?”

She snapped the case shut, not fooled for a second. “Only if they asked too many questions.”

Ouch. Touché.

“Fine.” Josh raised his hands in defeat.

“No problem.” Sophie broke into a dazzling smile, swung the camera case over her shoulder, and pulled open the office door. “I'll email the photos through later,” she said cheerfully. “Bye!”

In an effort to take his mind off the Dot and Antoine situation, Lawrence had come along this evening to a party at the golf club to celebrate the fortieth wedding anniversary of people he wouldn't have particularly counted as friends. Trevor and Val Corbett loved to flaunt their wealth and boast about their marvelous lives. Their sailing boat was the best in the harbor, their grown-up children had never done
anything
wrong, and their home had once been rented by a film company and featured in a movie starring Kate Winslet—it was
that
perfect.

But they were also well-meaning and did a great deal for the local community. Besides, anything was better than sitting at home on your own, wondering what kind of evening your ex-wife was having with Antoine bloody Beauvais. And at least there were plenty of people at the golf club to keep his mind off that subject.

Spotting him, Val came bustling across the function room, plump arms outstretched.

“Darling man, how
are
you?”

Lawrence found himself being thoroughly embraced. Big and round, with soft white skin, Val resembled a strawberry Pavlova at the best of times. This evening she was actually wearing a necklace composed of strawberry-shaped crystals, and a matching hair ornament was perched jauntily atop her bleached white-blond curls.

For a moment, Lawrence was speared with sadness. If Dot had been here, she would have gotten the joke at once; without saying a word, they could have exchanged a glance and a complicit smile.

Except she wasn't here, was she? Dot was at Gidleigh Park right now, eating world-class food while being schmoozed by a Frenchman who knew
everything
there was to know about champagne.

“I'm good,” he told Val, who held him at arm's length and gave him a look of cow-eyed sympathy.

“Yes, but how are you
really
?”

“Fine.” Oh God, she wasn't going to give up.

“We've heard all about it, Antoine being back. Josie Mason-Law bumped into him yesterday—she says he's looking wonderful!”

How was he supposed to react to that?

“And she told us Dot seems
very
smitten. They were having dinner together at the Rose, you know.”

Josie Mason-Law was a meddling old witch. Lawrence forced a smile and said, “Of course I knew. The three of us met up for a drink afterward.”

“You did? Goodness, how very…modern.” Still sympathetically stroking his shoulder with her pudgy fingers, Val said, “It must be all so complicated, though. Broken marriages and new relationships. Incredibly painful. If only everyone could be as happy as Trevor and I. Soul mates, that's what we are! Love at first sight, and in all these years we've never had a cross word!”

“Marvelous.”

“Trevor always says he took one look at me and knew he'd found the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. So he snapped me up before anyone else could beat him to it!” Val beamed, powdered chins aquiver. “I just feel so sorry for all you people who haven't been as lucky as we have. Especially you, darling… I mean, after the mess you made of your own marriage!”

At that moment Trevor called her over to greet some new arrivals and Lawrence was reprieved. He took a deep breath, wondering if coming here had been a massive mistake. Maybe he should just slip away and—

“Here you go. Get this down you.” A glass was thrust into his hand and Marguerite Marshall said, “When people say something that really annoys me, I like to get my revenge by putting them in a book.” Her dark eyes gleamed. “I find it helps.”

“Good plan.” Lawrence smiled briefly. “The thing is, she doesn't mean it.”

“I know. She's just monumentally tactless. Last year Val said I must have had some terrible Christmases in my time, what with having had so many failed marriages. When I mentioned once that I'd put on a few extra pounds, she told me it was because I was comfort eating. And the other week, when Trevor overheard me making some jokey comment about feeling old and decrepit, he handed me his little brother's business card, winked, and said he could sort me out, no problem. I thought he was doing a spot of matchmaking, setting me up with a younger man to lift my spirits.” Marguerite grimaced. “Turns out his brother's a cosmetic surgeon who specializes in face-lifts.”

Lawrence laughed; when she wasn't busy being intimidatingly bossy and grand, Marguerite had a nice line in self-deprecating humor. “What the hell are we doing here, eh?”

“Well, personally, I'm on the lookout for husband number four,” said Marguerite drily. “At least, that's why Val invited me. She said I should come along because I might meet someone nice for a change.”

“Decent of her.”

“Whereas in reality I'm here because there's nothing on TV tonight and I can't figure out how to set up the new DVD player.”

“Can't Riley do that for you?”

“He probably could, but he's gone out. Skirt-chasing, I imagine.” Marguerite rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “As ever.”

Lawrence said, “You're too soft with that boy.”

“I know. But he makes me laugh. Anyway, how about you? What brings you here tonight?”

“Boredom. Loneliness. All the usual reasons for the single man.”

“Still, could be worse. At least we haven't spent the last forty years married to Val and Trevor.”

They sipped their drinks and watched as Trevor, in the center of the room, demonstrated a practice swing with an imaginary golf club while Val, shrieking with laughter, called out, “Well done, Pumpy, lovely shot! Hole in one, ha-ha-ha!”

Lawrence felt sad again. It was easy to make fun of them, but they
were
a happy couple; just because he wouldn't want to be married to Val didn't mean he didn't envy them.

As if reading his mind, Marguerite said, “You never really know, though, do you? People can put on a good show. Maybe Trevor's spent the last forty years having torrid secret affairs with really thin women.”

“Or men.”

Marguerite transferred her glass from one hand to the other. “Lawrence, can I ask you something?”

Taken aback by the abruptness of her tone, Lawrence said, “Fire away.”

“What are you doing next weekend?”

He prevaricated. “I'm not sure. Why?”

“I'm appearing at a literary festival in Scotland. I just wondered, if you're free, if you'd like to come along with me.”

Bloody hell, talk about a bolt from the blue. He'd known Marguerite for years and there'd never been any hint of interest from her before. Personally he'd always found her rather too full of herself and demanding; her habit of plain speaking and thinking of herself as a bit of a star could be both terrifying and comical. Startled by the unexpectedness of this turn of events, he said, “Well…um…” and saw her expression change.

“Doesn't matter. Forget I said anything. Just a thought, if you were at a loose end, that's all.”

It belatedly occurred to Lawrence that he
did
have something on. “It's not that, I've just realized there's another event I'm meant to be going to. A friend's daughter's holding an art exhibition in Newquay and they invited me… I've already said I'm going, so I can't let them down.” This was true, all true, but it didn't
sound
true, even to his own ears. It came across as the most desperate excuse. And he could tell Marguerite didn't believe him for one minute.

“Art? I like art.” There was a note of challenge in her voice. “What's her name?”

Shit
. “I can't remember,” said Lawrence. “She uses her married name. But her father's called Ted Bishop.”

“It's fine.” Marguerite finished her drink. “It was just an idea. If it doesn't appeal, all you have to do is say no.”

“But—”

“Oh, look, there's Celia. I must go and say hello.” And that was it; he was summarily dismissed and she was off, in a swirl of perfume and Parma-violet silk.

Lawrence headed outside to the long terrace overlooking the emerald velvet putting green, and sat down at an empty table. He wondered how Dot and Antoine were getting along at Gidleigh Park. He took out his phone and made a quick call before heading back to the party. There were plenty of people he knew here; it wasn't as if he didn't have other friends to talk to.

Forty minutes later, he found himself close to wanting to commit actual bodily harm.

Maybe it was like not being bothered about helping yourself to another cake…until you realized there was only one left. Or a small boy who hadn't touched his remote-controlled car for months, until his younger brother suddenly decided he wanted a go.

Lawrence exhaled. Okay, that sounded bad, but he honestly
had
been considering his options in a quiet, biding-his-time kind of way. What he hadn't counted on was Edgar Morley turning up and metaphorically crashing the party.

For the last thirty minutes Edgar had been preening, peacocking, and engaging Marguerite in flirtatious conversation. Worst of all, she appeared to be enjoying it. Over and over again their laughter rang out, and the sound of them having fun together was like nails being dragged down a blackboard. Edgar Morley was overkeen and periodically made advances toward Dot, who effortlessly rejected him. Desperate to replace his late wife, he was about as subtle as a rhino. He was also a stalwart of the golf club and a complete bore; how he was managing to entertain Marguerite was anyone's guess.

The next moment she glanced across the room and Lawrence found himself caught watching her. For half a second he held her gaze, then broke into a rueful half smile. Turning, he headed back outside. There were steps down from the terrace and a path leading around the clubhouse to the parking lot; maybe he'd slip away unnoticed and avoid having to say all those tedious good-byes.

But once outside, he heard the tap-tap of high heels behind him and inhaled the familiar waft of heady, patchouli-based perfume.

“What was that look for?” demanded Marguerite.

He stopped and turned. “Sorry?”

“Were you laughing at me?”

Beneath the superconfident exterior, there definitely lurked a modicum of insecurity. He'd never even known it existed before.

“Not at all.”

Her eyes glittered. “I don't like being laughed at.”

“I can tell. But that's not what I was doing.” Before he could censor himself, Lawrence said simply, “If you must know, I was jealous.”

“What?”

“You heard. Where is he now?”

“Waiting for me to go back in there.”

“Has he asked you out?”

“Edgar? Oh yes.”

“Are you going?”

“No. He's the world's biggest bore.”

“He was making you laugh,” Lawrence pointed out.

“Wrong. He was making himself laugh. I just chose to go along with it to be polite.”

“You were going along with it for a long time.”

“I'm a writer, Lawrence. It's in my nature to study characters.”

“Anyway, there's something I want you to see.” Taking out his phone, he showed her the screen. “I called my friend. This is his daughter's website. And there's the date of her exhibition.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because you thought I was making up some excuse. And I wasn't.” He puffed out his cheeks. “It just sounded like I was.”

“It really did.” Marguerite nodded.

“And I promised I'd go. Can't let them down.” Lawrence paused, feeling like a teenager. “But I'm free any other evening this week, if you'd like to…meet up.”

There, he'd said it. The ball was now well and truly in her court. God, this was scary stuff.

“Sounds good.” Another nod. “Meet up for what, exactly?”

“Anything you like. Company. Conversation. Food.”

“At a restaurant?”

“Certainly at a restaurant. Trust me, you wouldn't want to risk eating anything I'd put together.”

Marguerite smiled. “In that case, how about if I make something for us? I'm a great cook.”

Home-cooked food. Lawrence, who was hopeless in the kitchen and lived off whiskey and supermarket ready meals, said with feeling, “That would be the most tremendous treat.” He added, with some surprise, “I had no idea you enjoyed cooking.”

“One of us has to be able to do it. And it certainly isn't Riley. We'd live off cereal and sandwiches if it were left up to that boy. Oh Lord, here comes Edgar.” Marguerite grimaced. “How about Thursday, then? Come over at seven.”

“Thursday.” Suddenly feeling a whole lot better but at the same time wondering what he was getting himself into, Lawrence said, “Thanks. I will.”