Читать книгу A Night In With Grace Kelly - Lucy Holliday - Страница 8

Being a dutiful daughter, I’m obviously still planning to stick to the agreement to go and see Mum at the hospital this evening, even though (as Bogdan has helpfully pointed out) I could really, really use the time to get ready for my evening out with Joel the personal trainer.

Because, despite Bogdan’s hovering around with a pair of scissors and a hopeful expression most of the afternoon, I didn’t end up agreeing to a full makeover (plus fringe sculpt). In amongst all this craziness – Grace Kelly showing up, handsome strangers appearing out of nowhere – I do still have a business to run. This afternoon I spent two solid hours catching up on (mostly bridal) emails before popping up the road again to Starbucks to meet a new (bridal) client face to face to discuss the eight matching pendants she wants to give to her small army of bridesmaids to wear on her wedding day and, of course, the vintage-style bridal tiara she’s really hoping I can make for her in time for her wedding next month.

Oh, and then just as I was hoping I might get the chance to jump in the shower, shave all the relevant bits that I prefer to shave before I go out for the evening with a man as gorgeous as Joel, then pick out something über-flattering to wear and trowel on a shedload of subtle, natural-looking makeup, Elvira called.

So obviously I had to answer.

It wasn’t great, incidentally. Any progress I thought we might have made on the getting-along front yesterday has, obviously, been shattered into pieces. I got a blow-by-blow update on Tino’s appointment at the vet’s (no broken bones or internal damage, apparently, but this hasn’t stopped the vet charging her two hundred quid for the appointment, nor did it stop her announcing that she’ll be sending me the bill) and then she finished up the call with what she called an Official Warning. I must have been feeling emboldened by something, or imbued with some of Grace Kelly’s Teflon exterior, perhaps, because I did ask if it was actually fair to give me an ‘official warning’ when I’m still – nominally, if nothing else – working for myself, in charge of my own company. Which didn’t go down well with Elvira, obviously, and simply led to another ten minutes of her ranting on about how I need to be careful about biting the hand that feeds me, and The Importance Of Trust, and Taking Responsibility for my mistakes.

So although I did get to shower, thank heavens, it was a hasty jobbie, and there was no time to linger in front of my wardrobe and pick out something heart-stoppingly fabulous, and there was certainly no time to apply quite as much makeup as I’d have liked. But still, despite the fact I’ve played it a bit safe in skinny jeans, vest top and blazer, and ended up doing most of my makeup at the back of the bus on the way to Harley Street to visit Mum, I feel – possibly mistakenly – as if I’ll pass muster.

Not because I’m expecting anything to come of the evening. But still, it’s a night out with an extremely handsome man, so I don’t want to turn up looking like something the cat dragged in.

Talking of something the cat dragged in, though … I’ve just made my way to Mum’s room, up on the third floor of the hospital, and a truly astonishing sight greets my eyes.

Not Mum, prone from her surgery. Mum, in fact, is nowhere to be seen. I mean, her bed is actually empty.

It’s Cass.

At least, I think it’s Cass.

She – the possible-Cass – is sitting next to an open window, smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke out into the street below. Her hair is scraped into a ratty ponytail and she’s wearing – bloody hell – not a single scrap of makeup. I mean, not even concealer. Not even eyebrow pencil. She’s wearing leggings, and a baggy jumper, and the sort of papery flip-flops you sometimes get given after a posh pedicure.

She looks so different from the usual Cass – Cass of the five-inch heels, and the tight skirts, and the bouncy blow-dry; the Cass that I just saw the day before yesterday, in fact – that my heart skips a beat.

‘Oh, my God, Cass … is it Mum? Has something happened to her?’

‘What?’ she snaps. ‘No! She’s in the bathroom –’ she indicates the closed door on the opposite wall, from which I can now hear a shower running –‘getting herself freshened up.’

‘Then what … Cass, what’s wrong with you?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong! Zoltan’s fucking kids, that’s what’s wrong!’

Ah.

So the whole stepmothering thing isn’t going quite as well as she imagined.

‘Cass.’ I go over to the window, take her cigarette from her hand, and stub it out in a tea mug beside Mum’s bed before the smoke sets off any alarms and we get thrown out of the hospital. ‘What’s happened?’

‘They’ve only bloody come to live with us, the little fuckers!’

‘OK, you can’t call a six year old and a nine year old little fuckers …’

‘You can,’ she says, savagely, ‘if they are little fuckers.’

‘… but what on earth do you mean, they’ve come to live with you?’

‘It’s her. The ex-wife. Her revenge on me. She drove them round last night, just when Zoltan and I were about to go to bed with a bottle of champagne. Dumped them on the doorstep and said she’s going away to stay with a friend in New York for a few weeks, and they can stay with their father. Thanks to that, I’ve not had a single minute of Me Time all day! I haven’t so much as had a shower, or done my makeup, or my hair … and they went into my room, without asking, and started playing Shoe Shops with all my shoes! Sticky fingers all over my Louboutins! And snot – actual snot, Libby! – on my new Kurt Geiger sandals! I mean, they said it was an accident, but I don’t believe that for a minute, the horrible little vandals …’

‘OK, Cass, calm down. They’re just children. And come on, they’ve only been living with you for one day!’

‘Yeah, and it’s one day too fucking many, I’ll tell you that … anyway, what would you know? Little Miss Footloose and Fancy-Free.’ She scowls at me. ‘Why are you so glammed up this evening?’

‘I’m going out.’

‘Huh! Must be nice.’

‘Well, you know, Cass,’ I say, ‘if you hadn’t got involved with a married man with kids …’

She sulks, but doesn’t say anything.

“Look, can’t you and Zoltan have a proper talk? See if there’s a dignified way out of this mess?’

Cass crumples up her pretty, unpowdered nose for a moment, as she thinks about this.

‘You mean, tell him we need a full-time nanny?’

‘No!’

‘Two full-time nannies?’

‘Cass …’

‘Or are you thinking boarding school?’

I stare at her. ‘For a six and a nine year old?’

‘Yeah. You can get boarding schools for kids that age, can’t you?’

‘I’m sure you can. But why not just send them to the workhouse and be done with it?’

‘Ooooh, I haven’t heard of the workhouse,’ Cass says, leaning forward, eagerly. ‘Is it far away? Do they let them out for half-term?’

My reply to this – which contains more swearing than I’m normally comfortable with – will have to wait, because the bathroom door is opening and Mum is on her way out.

She doesn’t look too bad for a woman in her early sixties who’s just had her gallstones out – sorry, sorry, minor cosmetic surgery. In fact, in her silk kimono and what look an awful lot like cashmere slippers, she’s actually terribly glamorous. For a moment, and it’s a rare moment, I feel rather proud of her. There’s a certain kind of chutzpah, a certain kind of bloody-minded grit, behind the ability to look fabulous only forty-eight hours after invasive surgery, and Mum has it in spades.

‘Oh,’ she says, puncturing the moment with the sheer amount of dissatisfaction she can pack into one single syllable. ‘Libby. You’re here.’

It’s not that my own mother dislikes me, or anything – though it does occasionally feel that way. It’s more that she and I have literally nothing in common. And that Mum isn’t very good at feigning interest in people she has nothing in common with. Mum isn’t very good at feigning interest in people she does have things in common with. There are two things that matter to Mum: herself, and Cass. All right, maybe I’m being unfair: three things. Herself, Cass, and Michael Ball’s performance as Marius in the original London production of Les Mis in 1985.

There are then approximately two hundred things that intermittently matter to her a very little bit – depending on what else is going on with the three really significant things in her life – before you scrape right down to the bottom-ish of the barrel and find her elder daughter. Me.

‘How are you feeling, Mum?’ I ask.

‘Oh, well, you know, I’m a fighter,’ she says, in her best Bravery In The Face Of Adversity voice. ‘It’ll take more than being cut open on the surgeon’s table to get the better of me!’

‘Well, that’s good, then. You look really well,’ I add, in my best You Can’t Have It Both Ways voice. ‘Really glamorous and zingy, for someone who’s just had an op.’

She glares at me. ‘I’m trying to keep on keeping on for your sister’s sake, actually. Do you have any idea what a terrible time she’s been having? Stalked by paparazzi. Hounded by a vicious ex-wife. And now terrorized by these little horrors!’

‘Actually, Libby’s come up with a really good suggestion,’ Cass says, reaching for the contraband cigarettes on the windowsill beside her. ‘Have you ever heard of somewhere called The Workhouse, Mum?’

‘That wasn’t what I was trying to suggest, actually, Cass,’ I say, as Mum’s eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘I’m really trying to suggest that maybe it would be best for you to call it quits with Zoltan. I mean, it’s all very complicated, and it hardly seems fair to—’

‘Oh, well, I’m not sure that would be very sensible,’ Mum says, in the sort of disapproving tone most mothers reserve for stuff like going outside in the winter with damp hair, or forgetting to take a good multivitamin in the middle of cough and cold season. ‘Are you aware, Libby, that he’s a footballer?’

‘I am aware, Mum, yes. Does that mean there’s some sort of law that says she can’t break up with him?’

‘Of course there isn’t. But it would be plain silly to give up on him this early!’

‘Oh, come on. So Cass is meant to stay with this guy, with all the obvious problems, purely because he’s a footballer?’

Cass shakes her head, her ratty ponytail wobbling as she does so. ‘It’s got nothing to do with the fact he’s a footballer!’

‘Exactly,’ Mum agrees. ‘Well said, Cassidy, darling!’

‘I mean,’ Cass goes on, ‘why on earth would I want to be with someone just because they’re good at kicking a ball around on a field? The main thing is that because of the fact he’s good at kicking a ball around a field, he’s really loaded.’

Even Mum has the grace to look a bit sheepish.

‘And,’ Cass goes on, ‘being with Zoltan makes me an actual WAG! Which is all I’ve ever wanted,’ she breathes, ‘since I was, like, thirteen years old. I mean, I’ve never forgotten the image of the original WAGS walking around Boden-Boden …’

‘I think you mean Baden-Baden,’ I say.

‘… their clothes, their shoes, their hair …’ Cass clasps a hand to her chest. ‘That’s the kind of thing that stays with you.’

‘The main thing,’ Mum says, hastily, ‘is that Zoltan seems like such a wonderful young man.’

‘You’ve never met him,’ I point out.

‘I can tell he seems like such a wonderful young man.’ Mum glares at me. ‘I’ve been reading a lot about him these past couple of days, in the magazines. He does all sorts of wonderful charity work – hospital visits for sick children, that kind of thing …’

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s great. Though, I mean, it might not be a bad idea for him to think about his own children, when he has a minute …’

‘… and he’s obviously a great family man, because he has the most wonderful house in Surrey,’ Mum goes on. ‘Doesn’t he, darling? I saw it in Hello!’

‘Yeah,’ Cass grumbles, ‘but the ex-wife will get that in the divorce.’

‘Not if he plays hardball. After all, if you have the children living with you even some of the week, darling, you’re going to have to move somewhere bigger and better yourselves. And in Surrey, obviously, because those poor wee mites can’t be uprooted from their schools and their friends.’

Only three minutes ago, they were little horrors. But that was before they’d become quite useful pawns for Mum to justify why Cass needs a WAG-tastic mansion in Surrey.

‘In fact, while I’ve been resting today, I’ve been looking on Rightmove, darling,’ Mum goes on, pottering over to the bedside table and picking up her iPad. ‘There are some lovely places up for sale at the moment in the Cobham area … look,’ she goes on, getting out her phone. ‘This one even has stables!’

‘Oooooh, I’ve always wanted to get back to horse-riding,’ breathes Cass, peering into Mum’s iPad with a fraction of her old get-up-and-go. ‘This one’s gorgeous. Is it anywhere near that workhouse place Libby was telling me about?’

I think this is my cue to leave them to it.

‘OK, well, if you’re OK, Mum, and if you’re all set here for the night, I’ll head off.’

‘Libby’s got a date,’ Cass sighs, bitterly.

‘Oh! With Dillon?’

This perks Mum up slightly; me going out with Dillon O’Hara was the Best Thing I Ever Did, in her eyes, and she can’t really forgive me for the fact I don’t seem to have any intention of doing it again.

‘No, Mum. Not with Dillon.’

‘Who, then?’

‘No one. Just a guy I met in the street.’

‘Oh, Libby. I know you’re almost thirty-five—’

‘I’m thirty!’

‘… but I still think you ought to be setting your sights a little bit higher than some random man from the streets.’

‘He’s not from the streets! I met him on the street, right near my flat. He’s a personal trainer, actually, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.’

‘Ooooooh, is he one of the trainers from FitRox?’ Cass breathes. ‘You jammy cow! They were all massively hot. Is it Nathan? Or Kyan? Or Sabrina?’

‘Sabrina’s a girl’s name.’

‘Yeah but, seriously, she was so hot, I’d have done her, too. God. Why does Libby get to go out with a gorgeous personal trainer while I’m stuck at home being Mum to my stupid boyfriend’s kids?’

‘I know. I know. It’s very insensitive of her to point it out,’ Mum says, soothingly. ‘But look, darling: if you talk Zoltan into this place, near Walton-on-Thames, you could even think about putting the kids in the annexe …’

I leave them poring over the iPad, and head out of the room, somehow managing to refrain from banging the door behind me as I go.

*

I reach my flat at eight twenty-seven exactly, let myself in the front door, and just have time to hurtle upstairs to zhuzz my hair and bung on a coat of lipstick before, on the dot of eight-thirty, there’s a knock.

Joel is waiting politely outside when I answer it, and is holding a bunch of extremely lovely dusty-pink roses.

‘If those are apology flowers …’ I begin.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ he says, with a grin. ‘For an apology, you’re really looking at a hyacinth, an iris, or a nice calla lily. These are Looking Forward To A Nice Evening Out flowers. I’d have thought that was obvious.’

‘You’re quite right. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ I smile at him. ‘They’re really gorgeous, Joel, thank you. Oh!’ I add, as I take them from him and notice the branded tissue paper they’re wrapped in, inside the layer of cellophane. ‘And you got them from that place up past the tube! For God’s sake, they must have cost you an arm and a leg up there! You honestly shouldn’t have.’

‘It was worth it. Besides, I’d never have been able to drop the words hyacinth, iris or calla lily so expertly into the conversation if it hadn’t been for the woman who sold them to me. Were you impressed?’

‘Ever so. I’ll just dash up and put these in some water, and then we can get going.’

I should probably, for politeness’s sake, if nothing else, invite Joel up while I bung the gorgeous roses in a sink-full of water, but we’re not quite on that level of intimacy yet, I don’t think. Besides, after Marilyn Monroe, I’m once bitten, twice shy. Even though there’s been no further sighting of Grace Kelly since last night, I’m wary of the worst-case scenario, which is that she’s materialized up there right now and is stretched out on the sofa in full wedding dress, still going on about me being her alter ego, or whatever the hell it was she had me pegged as.

She’s not, as I can see pretty quickly as soon as I get up there. But still. Better to be safe than sorry. I’m pretty inexperienced at this whole dating thing at the best of times; no need to add to my awkwardness by introducing my magical sofa before we’ve even cracked open the first bottle of Pinot Grigio.

‘Shall we start out at that nice pub on the corner of the next street,’ Joel asks, as I re-emerge and lock up the front door behind me, ‘and then we can negotiate what sort of thing we’d like, eating-wise?’

‘Perfect.’

I try not to make it too obvious, as we set off, that I’m looking at him. But he does look good. He’s only wearing jeans, a plain white shirt and dark-brown desert boots, but the combination of these, plus his wonderfully fit body and that chiselled, handsome face … well, it’s a winner, let’s leave it at that.

‘So, what do you like?’ he asks, glancing down at me.

‘Sorry?’

‘To eat. Just so we can get some irons in the fire, dinner-wise.’

‘Oh, right … I’m easy. About food, that is!’

‘That’s good. So you’re not one of those gluten-intolerant, raw-food, permanent health-kick types?’

‘No. But – er – aren’t you one of those?’

‘Should I be?’ He sounds faintly astonished.

‘Well, I just thought, with you being a personal trainer, you might be into the latest health fads and stuff.’

‘Oh … well, up to a point, I eat pretty healthily, I guess. But I’m not one for … sorry, what did you call them? The latest health fads?’

‘That might not be the technical term,’ I say, feeling a bit silly. ‘I’m a bit clueless about all that kind of thing, sorry. And just so I can get this out of the way at the start of the evening, before you make me feel a bit crap about the number of miles you run a week, or anything, I should probably just let you know that I’ve not set foot in a gym in about five years!’

‘I would never make you feel crap about anything,’ he says, in a slightly dismayed tone, as if I’m wildly underestimating him. ‘Least of all your record at the gym. Besides, it doesn’t show. You look, if I may say so, amazing.’

This is generous, because although I’ve done my best, and I think I’ve scrubbed up reasonably well this evening, I think amazing is pushing it.

But fortunately, we’ve just reached the pub, and he’s holding open the door for me, and we’re heading in, which brings to an end this slightly awkward line of conversation.

We find a table, a surprisingly nice corner one given that it’s already pretty packed in here, and then I hang on to it while he goes and gets a bottle of wine from the bar.

‘Red?’ he asks, a couple of minutes later, as he reappears with a bottle and two large glasses. ‘I realized when I got there that I hadn’t actually asked you what you prefer. It’s just a Merlot. Is that OK?’

‘Joel, honestly, it’s fine. Please don’t worry! I’m not fussy.’

Though it has to make you wonder a little bit about the sort of woman he’s used to dating, I suppose: the precise punctuality, the flowers, the checking about my happiness and preferences at every turn. Not that I’m complaining, because obviously his manners are pretty much as exquisite as that flawless skin of his. I just hope he relaxes a little as the evening goes on.

I’m not used to being the chilled-out one, that’s for sure.

‘Good.’ He sits down opposite me and pours us each a well-judged glass: not so big that it looks as if he’s trying to get me drunk, but not so small that it looks miserly. ‘Cheers. And I know I said I wouldn’t apologize again—’

‘Then don’t,’ I say, firmly, ‘because I’m absolutely fine. I mean, I’m pretty well padded.’

The image of me and my well-padded body linger, mortifyingly, in the air for a moment.

Then he chinks his glass to mine again. ‘Bottoms up, I suppose?’

The ice, thank God, has been broken.

I laugh, he smiles, and then he takes a drink from his glass and starts looking – thankfully – a little more relaxed.

‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me a bit more about yourself. I mean, all I have so far is that your name is Libby, and you’re a jewellery designer. A well-padded jewellery designer.’

‘Well, for starters, I don’t think anyone wants to know more about my well-padded body.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ he says lightly, and softly, into his wine glass.

I won’t deny, this gives me a bit of a thrill.

I mean, I got so accustomed to Dillon’s barrage of seductive charm – full-on, no-holds-barred, innuendo-laden verbal foreplay – that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to indulge in some proper, grown-up flirting. No, scratch that: I’ve never actually known what it’s like to indulge in proper, grown-up flirting. Everything I know about proper grown-up flirting, I’ve gleaned from the movies. Gregory Peck, Cary Grant, Fred Astaire. To name just three of the men I’d have given my eye-teeth to be dating rather than the sorry assembly that makes up my past. I’ve never been wined and dined. I’ve never been wined or dined, come to think of it. All my past relationships have taken a direct path from 1) Drunken Snog At Party through 2) Vaguely Ending Up Sleeping Together to 3) Saying We’re Going Out With Each Other Just To Avoid The Embarrassment Of Actually Having To Address The Fact We Only Have (Unsatisfactory) Sex Because We Don’t Have Anything To Say To One Another. Followed by 4) Hasty (but never quite hasty enough) Break-Up.

Seriously, my ‘love life’ has pretty much looked like the icky, embarrassing bits Taylor Swift has never wanted to chronicle in one of her hits.

All of which makes it even more ironic that during all those years of relationship failure, I could – should – have been settled in blissful harmony with Olly.

And dammit, there I go.

I’m not thinking about Olly tonight. I’m not. In fact, I’m putting a total ban on it. A total ban I’m going to have to tighten up pretty quick-smart if I want to enjoy the evening.

‘Libby?’ Joel is looking at me across the table, and looking mildly concerned about the fact I’m (probably) gazing into space like an idiot and not giving him an answer to his perfectly polite question. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Yes! More than OK! Gosh,’ I say, in a super-enthusiastic, jolly-hockey-sticks sort of style, to make up for drifting off, ‘well, yes! What can I tell you about me? Er … well, I’ve been running my jewellery company for almost two years now. It only started out as a hobby, really – I mean, I was an actress before that, and a pretty unsuccessful one – but it’s really taken off, way more than I ever dreamed it would, really. I’m working with some … um … really great people.’ Best not to sit here and whinge about Elvira’s Official Warning, I think; it might lend a bum note to the evening. ‘And I’m just concentrating on building the brand at the moment,’ I say, which I’m rather pleased with, as an off-the-top-of-my-head statement, because it makes me sound purposeful and dynamic, both of which are things I suspect Joel is impressed by.

‘Amazing.’ He nods. ‘What’s the name?’

‘Libby Goes To Hollywood. I’m a huge fan of old movies, and my stuff is sort of inspired by Old Hollywood glamour … you know, Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner … er … Grace Kelly …’

‘Oh, well, now you’re talking …’ He puts a hand to his chest. ‘Grace Kelly was my first love. Not that she knew it, unfortunately. But still … what I wouldn’t have given to have met her in her prime.’

‘Yes. I, um, imagine that would have been something.’ I take a large drink from my glass. ‘Truly.’

‘Hey, if you love the movies, we should go to the cinema for our next date. I mean, always assuming there is a next date,’ he adds. ‘You might decide against it.’

‘You might decide against it.’

‘I can safely say,’ he says, ‘on the basis of everything I’ve experienced so far this evening, Libby, that no, I won’t be deciding against it.’

I smile at him. He smiles back. And we just sit there, for a couple of moments, beaming at each other like a couple of idiots.

‘Anyway!’ I say, breaking the spell, ‘that’s quite enough about me. Tell me about yourself. I mean, a surname would be nice!’

‘Perreira,’ he says. He turns ever so slightly pink. ‘Sorry,’ he blurts, inexplicably.

‘Why on earth would you be sorry about your surname?’

‘Just because … well, I know it’s a bit of an odd one. Brazilian, as it happens.’

‘Oh, you’re Brazilian.’

‘Half. My dad. My mum was born in Slovakia.’

‘Wow, so you’re … Brazilian-Slovakian.’ His vanilla-fudge skin and mysterious accent are making a bit more sense. ‘That’s quite a mixture.’

‘Yeah, I’m just an old mongrel,’ he says, with a short laugh. ‘Well, maybe not that old, thirty-nine next birthday. And you’re … what? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?’

‘Nice try,’ I say, wryly. ‘I’m thirty.’

‘Never!’

‘Again, nice try,’ I say. ‘But yes. Thirty.’

He grins back. ‘Thirty is good. In fact, thirty is terrific. You know, I accomplished more from the age of thirty onwards than at any other time in my life.’

‘Good to hear.’ I sip my wine. ‘So. You’re thirty-eight. And you’re a personal trainer. Do you enjoy it?’

‘Yes, I do enjoy my work.’ He sounds oddly stilted, but after another sip of wine, he goes on, a little less awkwardly, ‘I mean, I have some really great clients. And some good people working for me.’

‘Oh, wow, so you actually own FitRox, then? I thought you were just one of the trainers who worked there.’

‘No, no, I’m not one of the trainers.’

‘That’s amazing. Running the place, I mean. But is it ever difficult, owning your own business like that? Because I suppose I always thought it would be the most incredible fun – and it is, don’t get me wrong – but are there ever times when you feel like it’s not turning out quite how you wanted it to?’