You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me (43 page)

‘You’ve gone really pale,’ Max noted. ‘You don’t get travel sick, do you?’

‘It’s not that,’ Neve said, winding down the window to get some fresh air. ‘I just don’t want to show you up.’

‘Well, that’s not going to happen, as long as you don’t tell anyone that your brother supports Arsenal. Is that a smile?’

‘Might be,’ Neve agreed, and she let her hand rest on Max’s knee for a moment because she’d missed touching him. Which was ridiculous because she’d only seen him three days before. Maybe it was because she’d always tamped down any sexual longing and now her body wanted to make up for lost time. And then some.

Max looked down at her hand, still on his knee. ‘I’ve come up with a song which is absolutely guaranteed to get rid of your nerves,’ he announced proudly. ‘Do you want to hear it?’

‘I didn’t know you could sing.’

‘Well, I can’t, but I think that will just add to my performance. Are you ready for this?’

There wasn’t enough time in the world to prepare Neve for Max’s out-of-tune rendition of ‘It’s a Nice Day for a Wag Wedding’. His loud, toneless voice was almost as bad as her reedy, high-pitched singing, because after she’d stopped laughing, Neve couldn’t resist joining in.

By the time they passed Birmingham, they were happily and randomly adding the word WAG to any song they could think of, when Neve was suddenly inspired and began to warble, ‘With her Fendi bag/She’s my wonderWAG.’

Max had to cut through two lines of traffic, pull over on the hard shoulder, rest his head on the steering wheel and get himself under control before he crashed the car. His shoulders shook violently as he tried to rein in the giggles. Every time he stopped, Neve would think of another line to torture him with, ‘And all the clothes we have to wear are skintight/And if we didn’t tan so much we’d be lilywhite.’

‘No more,’ he begged, his voice hoarse from laughing, as he started up the engine again.

They arrived in Manchester just after four, leaving the good weather behind them as they joined the M6. Malmaison Manchester was an elegant redbrick building – just round the corner from a large Marks & Spencer, Neve was pleased to note. Once they’d braved the paparazzi that were lurking outside, much to Neve’s disbelief, they then had their reservation details, wedding invites and ID approved at two different security checkpoints. Only then were they allowed to approach the reception desk. Another security guard escorted them to the lift, and finally Max and Neve were shown into their junior suite. The huge space was sleek and modern, all cool white with icy blue accents and striped wallpaper, which made Neve’s vision blur if she stared at it for too long. Max had already opened his laptop and was checking the wi-fi access, as Neve peeked into the black and gold bathroom and stared in awe at the huge shower and the sunken bathtub, which was the last word in decadence.

‘This is amazing,’ Neve said, as she walked back into the bedroom. ‘I’ve never stayed anywhere like this. In fact, I don’t think I’ve stayed in a proper hotel before.’

‘But this is only a junior suite. It’s not that amazing,’ Max protested. ‘And what do you mean, you’ve never stayed in a hotel before?’

‘Well, I stayed in bed and breakfasts when we went on holiday when I was little, and when I went to New York, I slept on Celia’s sofa.’

‘What about when you go away on holiday now?’ Max asked.

‘Well, for some reason spending two weeks on a beach in Corfu has never really appealed to me.’

‘I’m not big on vacations either. They’re not much fun when you live on your own and then you go on holiday on your own and you end up cruising bars to find someone …’ Max came to an abrupt halt as he realised that he was heading steadily for the door marked TMI. ‘Maybe we could sneak in a week’s holiday between now and July?’

‘I’ve always wanted to go to France,’ Neve blurted out, her heart thudding excitedly. In all her stress about the WAG-sponsored weekend, there hadn’t been one moment of angst devoted to spending three nights in a hotel room with Max. On the contrary, Neve had even attempted her first, very amateur bikini wax half an hour before Max had arrived to pick her up. She smiled at Max, who grinned back at her. ‘Right now though, I really want to go to Marks & Spencer.’

Max checked the time. ‘It’s half four now, so we could have a really late lunch or an early dinner, but we’ll still have a couple of hours to kill before cocktails.’ He struck a pensive pose, finger resting on his chin. ‘What would you like to do in this big, comfy room with a big, comfy bed in it?’

‘I need to have a bath and wash my hair,’ Neve said innocently, as she slipped her jacket back on. ‘And it takes me for ever, ten minutes at least, to do my make-up. That still leaves us an hour with nothing to do.’

‘An hour and a half,’ Max decided, as he ushered Neve out of the room. ‘Can’t turn up at eight exactly. That’s ninety minutes, Neve.’

Neve waited until the lift doors were just about to open before she turned to Max, ‘I could always give you another blow job if you wanted. Just to kill the time.’

In the end, Neve only had time for a quick shower and made do with some dry shampoo and five minutes for her make-up. The moment that she’d slid between the covers of that big, comfy bed and collided with Max who was already hot and hard, time had seemed to slow down, then speed up, and it wasn’t until she was coming down from her second orgasm that she happened to catch sight of the clock and discovered it was already eight o’clock.

‘We’re not fashionably late,’ she said to Max, as she screwed the top back on her mascara. ‘We’re just plain late.’

Max shrugged. ‘It was worth it. Next time I’m going to persuade you to take off your slip at some point.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Neve said tartly, because yes, she’d come a long way but letting that last barrier fall away … she didn’t think she’d ever be that brave. She took a step back to peer at herself in the mirror, tilting back and forth so the skirt of her black lace and oyster satin dress fluttered around her.

Her new black suede, three-inch Mary-Janes were already making her toes want to curl up and die, but paired with black opaque tights, they made her legs look longer and leaner, and the dress gave Neve a decent cleavage and a smaller waist. But it was more than just the agreeable reflection that Neve saw in the mirror, it was Max sitting on the bed, watching her watch herself, with nothing but appreciation, his eyes lingerering on her breasts.

‘You look beautiful,’ he said quietly, as they descended in the lift to the bar.

Neve stole one last look at her hastily assembled up-do in the mirrored walls of the elevator and nervously patted a stray tendril of hair. ‘I need to find something else to do with my hair that isn’t a messy ponytail or a messy bun,’ she murmured. ‘But thank you,’ she added, when she saw a flicker of irritation on Max’s face, because the one thing he didn’t have any patience with was her self-deprecation. ‘And you look pretty spiffy yourself, but I still think you should have worn the suit trousers as well as the suit jacket. And maybe some shoes that weren’t made by Converse.’

Max looked down at his Levis and sneakers. ‘But these are my good jeans and my least scuffed Converses,’ he protested. He protested even more when Neve pulled her comb out of her bag and tugged it through his hair.

‘For someone who won’t hold my hand, you’re clutching my arm really tightly,’ he whispered once they’d given their names to yet another security person and were walking towards the bar.

Neve could hardly hear him over the pounding of her heart and the hum of conversation and laughter that got louder and louder as they approached the open doors at the end of the corridor. Neve had a vague impression of a very upmarket bordello; red lights descended from the ceiling and illuminated tiny tables and leather armchairs decorated with huge metal studs that swept in a gentle arc around the huge room.

‘Clutching your arm very tightly isn’t a bit like holding your hand,’ Neve whispered back, her voice high-pitched and squeaky, and they were getting closer now and she wanted to dig her heels into the thick carpet, or even better, turn and run back to the safety of their junior suite. Instead she leaned against Max, trying to leech some of his calm, and put one foot in front of the other, until they were in the bar and fighting their way through the crowd.

The faces were all a blur and all Neve could focus on was the black wool sleeve of his jacket, as she kept a death grip on Max. She tried to shrink in on herself to navigate the narrow path between the press of people, head down, and it was only when she found herself staring at a pair of tasselled loafers and pink polished toenails peeking out of a pair of open-toed gold sandals that she realised they’d come to a halt.

‘Neve, I’d like you to meet Bill and Jean, Mandy’s parents. This is Neve, my … girlfriend,’ she heard Max say and his hand was covering hers, which was still on his arm and she forced herself to look up.

‘It’s very nice to meet you,’ she said automatically, as her parents had drummed into her from an early age, and smiled weakly at them.

Bill had thinning, snowy-white hair brushed back from a weather-beaten face and was tugging at the collar of his pink dress shirt with one hand while the thick fingers of his other hand were clutched round a delicate flute of champagne. He looked as if he’d be more comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt with a can of lager to hold.

‘Now, Max has told us all about you, but he never mentioned how gorgeous you are. Look at that skin,’ Jean said, and she actually raised a hand and pinched Neve’s cheek, just like Granny Annie had used to do, though Granny Annie could never have got away with wearing a white trouser suit and a black sequined camisole, unlike Jean McIntyre with her big blonde hair and glossy pink lips, which were stretched in a warm, welcoming smile. ‘Smooth as a baby’s bum. She’s got a degree from Oxford as well, Bill.’

‘Surely a clever girl like you could do better than this little sod,’ Bill said, with a nod in Max’s direction, his barrel-like chest shaking with laughter. Then he wrapped an arm around Max so he could ruffle his hair, while Max squirmed and rolled his eyes. ‘This boy is the son I never had and never wanted. Hope you’re not going to break his heart.’

‘Well, I’ll try not to,’ Neve said helplessly, and they were both still smiling at her so she smiled back and racked her brains for something else to say.

‘So, Bill, Neve’s dad is in the building trade too,’ Max said once he’d been released, and as Bill immediately started firing questions at her, Neve shot Max a grateful look.

After they’d discussed the impact the credit crunch had had on new builds, Neve mentioned that her father owned a builder’s yard in Sheffield and it turned out that Jean’s sister lived in Brincliffe, just down the road from Neve’s cousin, Linda, and ten minutes had gone past.

Neve was still nervous. Her fingers tapped against Max’s arm, but she wasn’t paralysed by fear any more and when Jean suddenly gasped and said, ‘We’d better go and find our Mandy. She’s dying to meet you. You stay here, Max, and tell Bill about when you met that Paris Hilton,’ Neve was able to let go of Max’s arm and let Jean lead her through the crowd.

It was a very slow process because every time they took a step, Jean would introduce her to someone that Neve dimly recognised from
Coronation Street
or the old issues of
Now
and
OK!
that she’d borrowed from Rose so she could swot up on her WAGs.

‘This is so kind of you,’ she said to Jean, as they reached the back of the room and the crowd began to thin out. ‘I mean, taking the time to introduce me to everyone when you must have so many people that you need to talk to.’

Jean patted her hand. ‘Don’t you worry about it, pet. Could tell you were terrified as soon as I clapped eyes on you. Between you and me, I’d give my right arm to be back at home with a nice mug of tea and a box of fondant fancies. Now, where has that girl got to?’

They didn’t find Mandy McIntyre because she found them. One moment Neve was gawping at a man across the room who looked a lot like Thierry Henri (and even
she
knew who he was), the next there was an ear-splitting squawk and someone was throwing their arms round her.

‘Neve? You’re Max’s Neve, right?’

Neve could neither confirm nor deny this as her mouth was pressed against Mandy’s neck and she was almost asphyxiated from inhaling great whiffs of Gucci’s Envy.

‘Mandy! Let the poor girl go. You’re smothering her.’

Neve was thrust away by two strong hands as Mandy said, ‘Let’s have a proper look at you, then.’

All Neve could see was tanned, tanned skin, blonde, blonde hair and the shortest, tightest, stretchiest white dress in the world, until her eyes reached Mandy’s face. Once you stripped away the tan and the highlights and the bandage dress, even the bright blue contact lenses, Mandy McIntyre was what her mother would call homely looking. Her mascara-encrusted eyes were small and she had a snub nose and a short top lip, but there was something so unthreatening and achievable about the way she looked, that Neve totally understood why she earned millions of pounds from endorsing supermarket chains, starring in workout videos, lending her name to a range of home tanning products and pretending to write books about an ordinary girl living in an extraordinary world.

‘I knew Max would go for a boho girl. You’re so arty and cool,’ Mandy declared so sincerely that even Neve was convinced for a few blissful seconds. ‘I’d love to work the opaque tights but I think, well, what was the point in getting fake baked? Then I spend the whole evening freezing my arse off.’