When She Was Bad... (44 page)

‘Both of them feeding dirty stuff round Fleet Street. Real juicy. Rebecca Lancaster was a back-page story, but she’s society, and the other girl is from the Bronx … it’s good copy.’ A tongue darted out

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and slicked her too-red lips that were starting to feather at the edges. ‘Now, we asked around New York, and some of the page-six types that feed Liz Smith and the other gossip columnists said you were once engaged to Rosalita?’

‘Lita.’ Rupert sighed theatrically. ‘Yes, I was, but briefly. It ended by

mutual agreement. We just didn’t fit.’

‘Was that the real reason?’

‘Well.’ He winked at the old soak. ‘Let’s just say a gentleman doesn’t like to tell tales.’

‘She’s very successful now. Made a ton of money, married a society doctor, big house, nice car - Aston Martin, I think. Like James Bond.’

Rupert stewed over this. Bloody Lita. How was it that she’d made money when his life had fallen apart, just due to bad luck? Bitch.

‘Of course, Rebecca Lancaster is trying to stymie her. Out of revenge for the Lancaster thing. You must know about that.’

‘The way she ran … No, let me say instead, the way my family company was run into the ground? Destroyed? Yes, I heard something about it.’ His tone was bitter.

‘Well, Lita helped Wilson Shipping do that. And with this PR war, the only connection my editor could think of was you.’

‘Very likely.’ He preened a little. ‘They were both madly in love with me. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. And that it seems to have degenerated into a cat-fight.’ Rupert shook his head. ‘The title seems to attract some women. I don’t know why, it’s so unimportant. Anyway, you say they are both successful businesswomen?’

‘Rebecca has a nice little hotel business going, which she started in Fairfield Court.’ °

The journalist drew back. The fire in Rupert’s eyes was icy. He looked as though he might be going to hit her.

‘That house is a listed building,’ Rupert hissed.

‘She got all the permissions. We checked.’

‘My God. She’s mining the family seat.’ His fingers gripped the bar rail. ‘Who does she think she is?’

‘It’s been very successful,’ the journalist pointed out.

‘Yes? Well, if she’s such a successful wheeler-dealer, what’s the point of this petty feud? It’s rather bad for business fo both of them, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes, I would,’ said the woman, clearly delighted. She pulled out a pre-printed cheque and handed him a grubby card. ‘Here you go, Lord Rupert, and don’t hesitate to contact me if you want to say anything else. We pay good cash for real leads.’

‘Tell me something. Do you have these things they’ve been sending

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to the press about each other?’ Rupert asked, quickly pocketing the cheque.

‘I can get them to you,’ she said.

‘Why don’t you do that?’ Rupert said. ‘It might jog my memory.’ ‘Delighted, milord,’ she said, smirking.

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‘I have to put a stop to it.’ Becky bit down on her lower lip, furious.

It was only one story, but it was devastating. Smarmy, patronizing, with large photos of her and Rosalita, Fairfield and Rupert. She cringed as her blue eyes flickered over the lines describing Rupert’s embarrassment, his ‘gentlemanly’ unwillingness to tell tales out of school, and his ‘polite dismay’.

Lord Rupert Lancaster bowed his head as he sat in the ultra exclusive Monte Carlo hotel, obviously upset that love of him caused two women to behave like hissing cats, or perhaps like spoilt children. Lord Lancaster tried and failed to hide his disgust at the American heir to an old English country manor turning it into a common guest-house for money, and then running to the press…

This was disastrous. Becky’s exclusive competitors on the luxury holiday circuit would make sure people saw this. It would make a terrific blind item on page six, back in New York. She had to staunch the bleeding right now. Sharon and her other workers didn’t know what to say to her.

R.osalita - apparently it was Lita - would have to see it her way. Becky didn’t think it would be hard, because the woman ran an advertising and PP,. agency, and corporate clients hated this sort of thing. But, still, she couldn’t risk a phone call. She had to go and see her.

‘I know you do, but reading it a million times isn’t going to make it go away,’ Sharon said.

Becky felt the familiar, revolting rush of sickness. ‘Oh, God, I can’t take this.’ She bolted into the small loo next to the library, which was out of bounds to the guests and acting as her office. She barely made it to the bowl before she was retching, dully and violently ill. It felt like she was puking out her entire guts. She stood up and wiped her mouth; her face looked pale, shot to hell. She didn’t think she’d had a good night’s sleep since Logan had left.

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‘Becky? Are you OK?’

She wiped her mouth and went back into the library. ‘I don’t know,

to be honest. Maybe I just can’t hack the stress.’ Miserably she admitted, ‘Maybe I’m lovesick. Oh, God; Sharon, I can’t stop thinking about him.

And I never even went out with him, not really. Isn’t that pathetic?’ ‘Have you considered,’ Sharon said slowly, ‘that it’s not that at all?’ Becky look dismayed. ‘I don’t have time to get sick. You think I’m

sick?’

‘I think you might be pregnant.’

‘Don’t be silly, that’s impossible.’ Becky stared at her. ‘I use a diaphragm… Oh, God…’

‘It wasn’t exactly planned that time, though, was it?’ ‘Give me the phone. I’m calling the doctor.’ ‘No need to rush it, Becky—’

‘Forget it.’ Becky held up a hand. ‘I have to know, and I have to

know now.’

The Caterham clinic was set in a small bungalow with a red slate roof that had been converted into doctors’ offices. There were comfortable, faded chairs, a table with a stack of ancient magazines and a rounded nurse at the front desk in a neat uniform.

‘I have to see Dr Ellison right away,’ Becky panted, with Sharon hovering anxiously behind her.

‘Is it an emergency?’ The nurse peered doubtfully at Becky’s tall,

healthy frame, with her glossy platinum hair and sparkling colour.

‘Not exactly, but—’

‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. Name, please?’

‘Rebecca Lancaster,’ Becky muttered.

‘We’ll call you when we have a slot, madam,’ the nurse said brightly. Becky tried to be patient. She read faded copies of Punch and issues of Country Lift,, the Lady, and Horse and Hound. Sharon gave up on the magazines and went outside to smoke.

Eventually, after the shuffling old man with the hacking cough had

been despatched, Dr Ellison poked his grey head through the doorway. ‘Rebecca Lancaster? Come through, please.’

She followed him into a small room with posters of children with

measles on it, a desk and an examination table covered in a smooth

white sheet.

‘What seems to be the trouble?’ he asked, hardly looking at her.

‘I throw up in the mornings. I think I might be pregnant.’

‘Well, we’ll soon find out. Do you and your husband practise birth control?’

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A feeling of shame crept over her. ‘I’m not narried,’ Becky half whispered.

‘I see,’ Dr Ellison said amiably, his brown eyes twinkling. ‘Might have to move the wedding up, eh? Who is the lucky chap?’

‘Do I need to pee in a cup or something?’ Becky asked desperately.

‘What? Oh, yes.’ He handed her a plastic tumbler. ‘Urine sample, please. There’s a loo at the back there.’

Sharon drove her home in merciful silence. Becky was worrying her lower lip, staring out of the window.

‘What time is he going to call?’ Sharon asked eventually.

‘God knows. I can’t wait by the phone,’ Becky burst out. ‘I feel like I’m suffocating. I’m going to London to see the Morales woman.’

‘Well,’ Sharon said sensibly, ‘at least take the train. You shouldn’t drive. You’re too stressed out.’

Becky sat in first class and ordered a glass of Coke to steady her nerves. Thank God for Coke, so reliably American. She pressed her hands to her head and wished that she could just transport herself back to Aunt Mindy’s. Back to the States.

Well, nagged a little voice in her head sarcastically, you’ll be getting a little slice of the Bronx right now.

As the green fields of England slipped past her, she tried not to think about Logan and the baby. There was no way, if she was pregnant, that she wanted an abortion. If it was alive inside her, her baby, she just couldn’t do it… But, God, she didn’t want to be a single mom either, didn’t want to have the press at’her door, baying about her ‘fast’ lifestyle, hurting her child with their foul stories …

Oh, God. She’d have to call Logan. There was absolutely no way of getting around it.

By the time the train pulled up at Paddington she was almost glad to be on her way to see Lita.

At the New Wave offices, Becky didn’t give her name. She simply

said she had a message for P, osalita Morales. ‘It’s Conran now.’ ‘Oh, right. Yeah.’

‘She’s on the fourth floor.’

Becky rode the elevator up. The offices were decorated well, a funky, cutting-edge style, like something out of a movie, a’little slice of Manhattan here in Chelsea. She didn’t have far to look for Lita. The girl was pacing around in her offices, yelling and waving a copy of the same paper that Becky had been agonizing over earlier.

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She saw Becky through the glass walls of her office, and stopped cold.

Her staff, following her eyes, rushed out of the office.

‘No, it’s OK.’ The girl’s voice carried loud and clear into the outer

office. ‘Let Miss Lancaster in. And hold all my calls.’

‘Thanks,’ Becky said, sweeping past a hostile Janice.

Lita was wearing a pair of scarlet leather pants that cupped an impressive booty and a little, sexy, black shell top. She had on high heeled boots, and her hair was down, and she looked like she was

prepared to take on the Devil single-handed fight now.

Becky took a seat without waiting to be asked.

‘Well.’ Lita admired the elegant beige pantsuit with the fitted jacket

and butter-coloured silk shirt. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘It shouldn’t be.’ She gestured to the paper tossed on to the table.

‘You’ve read it. Now, I intend to be brief.’

Lita arched an eyebrow.

‘I’ve got personal business I need to take care of. So let me just say,

first, that I can’t stand Rupert, and he almost beggared my business before I kicked him out. Second, that I can’t stand you either, but this is killing my business. I’ll back off if you will.’

‘Fine. Settled,’ Lita snapped back. ‘But I still owe you. It just won’t be

this way. And I want you to know that I hate Rupert Lancaster. He dumped me by telegram, and then he stole all the money I had in the world.’

‘Perfect.’ Becky got up to leave but, despite her preoccupation,

curiosity had started to gnaw at her. ‘I have to sy, it didn’t look like that when you turned up at Fairfield. Which, by the way, was when he had just started to ask me out.’

‘Of course. You had the house. Look, I just refused to believe it.’ She

laughed. ‘I loved him, can you believe that?’

‘I’m afraid I can,’ Becky said. ‘What do you xnean, “You had the

house”?’

Lita made an airy gesture. Her long, painted nails gleamed in the

weak autumn sunlight.

‘You know he had that court case … He was winning it when he

was with me. So I guess he thought he’d inherit a lot of money and the house. Then, when he lost, he bailed, just bailed, and flew to England to pick you up. Not that you minded.’

‘I didn’t know.’ Becky sighed. ‘You know, that’s exactly what my

girlfriend told me. That he had to get the house back through me.’

‘She was right.’

There was the start of a thaw in the air, but both gifts suddenly flashed

on the sobbing Lita in Fairfield’s entrance hall. Becky stood awkwardly.

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‘I think this temporary truce will benefit us both. I can see myself out.’

‘Goodbye,’ Lita said coldly.

The relief Becky felt as she got straight back on the train was minimal. Yes, that danger was gone from her business but, despite her love of it, her mission to rebuild her father’s empire faded out of Becky’s mind compared to what might be about to happen to her.

She tried to read on the train, and she tried to nap. Nothing worked. She stumbled out at Caterham station and got into a local cab, fending off the driver’s good-natured observations about how filthy London was, and how glad she must be to be back in the country. She felt as though somebody were suspending her over a vat of boiling oil, and the rope was fraying.

Unless you counted her dreams, Will Logan hadn’t been back, not once. His men had completed the glorious, formal rose garden, planting organic, original flowers, mulching the bushes in for winter and, after that, leaving. The company had sent her a nice formal bill, which she’d paid, and then there had been nothing but silence.

Becky had spent weeks telling herself that it was totally pathetic to fixate on Logan. He was just a gardener, for heaven’s sake, and a proud, arrogant bastard who’d never been to college even, who’d just screwed her and then disappeared for six goddamn weeks with nothing but a shitty card …

And a baby. Oh, Jesus.

She burst into Fairfield, walking straight to her office, and dived on the phone to the clinic. It was just before five. Hopefully the doctor would still be there … °

‘I’ll see if I can catch him, madam.’ There was a pause, then the soothing, impersonal voice of Dr Ellison on the phone.

‘Congratulations.’ She steadied herself on the soft green baize of the desk so that she could stand up while the dizziness rocked her. ‘You’re going to have a baby, Miss Lancaster.’

‘Yes, he will be calling into the office at some stage.’