A Rather Curious Engagement (3 page)

As for the bit in the article about wedding bells, well, that’s rushing things. Love is spectacular enough for the moment! Also, regarding the sneery talk about pre-nups, the fact is that Jeremy and I have already figured out a way to pool our inheritance so that we can make the most of it.

So life is perfect and I toddled off to live happily ever after, right?

Erm. Look. I’m not complaining. How could I?

But even when you’ve fallen into good fortune and feel like you’re in heaven, you know, there’s always a snake in the garden. Our garden was no exception, and our snake was named Lydia.

Jeremy’s first wife.

I can remember that day with crystal clarity, even though it happened months ago. There she stood, right in the middle of Jeremy’s living room, holding a drink in her hand, wearing a low-cut black-and-red chiffon dress, and diamond earrings almost as big as those ice cubes clinking in her cocktail. Her hair was expensively coiffed, and her skin and body had that highly polished, smooth, glossy, pampered glamorous look that requires a woman to spend all day allowing strange doctors to do fearful things to her.

She looked me over once, twice, thrice, and then had the nerve to tell me, in her high-rent accent, “I’m afraid you’ll just have to go.” Funny thing is, she meant it.

I’d known about her, of course, but this was the first time we came face-to-face. Blonde, beautiful, posh and totally batty, she’d been out of his life for several years, but she apparently reads the newspapers, too, or else she’d heard about the inheritance on the grapevine from Jeremy’s friends, but in any case—and, here I do not exaggerate—the ink had barely dried on the French judge’s settlement of Great-Aunt Penelope’s will, when Lydia turned up that day, having got Jeremy’s doorman to let her into his spiffy modern bachelor’s apartment in South Kensington.

Naturally, with feline cunning, she’d managed to pick the night that Jeremy and I had just flown back from France and were planning to plot our future together, over a champagne supper. I’d gone to pick up some groceries, then returned to his apartment, while Jeremy was finalizing some stuff at the office before meeting me here for a night of wine, food, and . . .

Lydia.

Well, of course, I stood my ground. I plunked myself right there on his sofa, and Lydia and I stared at each other, motionless, like two lionesses. And that’s exactly how Jeremy found us, moments later. I heard his key in the lock, and his footsteps, and I turned around just in time to see the expression on his face.

He had been looking down, engrossed in thought, carefully juggling his keys, briefcase, champagne, and a big bunch of fragrant wine-red roses wrapped in blue tissue paper. He glanced up, saw me first, and gave me a smile that went right to my heart. Then he saw Lydia, who had sidled off into the shadows and fixed him a drink to match hers. She floated toward him as if they were still married, and she was the lady of the house, ready to give her hubbie a great big kiss and hug . . .

Look. I very rarely take an instant dislike to someone. But when a perfect stranger turns a high-beam glare of pure hatred on you the minute you walk in the door, and then tells you to shove off while she makes a play for the man you love, well, frankly, I just wanted to choke her, then and there. But, you’ve got to be careful, where men are concerned. The minute you show your claws, they think you’re the Bad One.

At the sight of his ex-wife, Jeremy’s expression went from happy to shocked dismay, then polite recovery, ending with a guilty, apologetic look. “Lydia!” he exclaimed. “What on earth—!” When she kissed him, he didn’t kiss back, I noticed, but he didn’t fling her off, either. I’d rather hoped he would.

“Hello, darling!” she cried, and she actually took the flowers and champagne from his hands, as if he’d bought them for her.

I abandoned all pretext of being civilized, and I leaped off the sofa, positioned myself between them and said rather pointedly, “How beautiful. Are those for me, Jeremy?”

Jeremy stepped back from her now, and said, “Yes, of course,” at which Lydia, without ever taking her eyes off Jeremy, passed the flowers and champagne to me with the careless gesture of a woman who’s asked the maid to take care of them for her.

“Penny,” Jeremy said, “this is Lydia—”

“Yes, your ex-wife, right?” I said bluntly, putting the flowers and champagne on the hall table. He looked like a trapped animal that didn’t know which way to bolt. Then he recovered, and took a step toward me and held out his arm to put around me.

Lydia immediately grasped the meaning of this gesture. I could see panic register in her hazel-colored eyes, which then narrowed in ill-concealed fury. Quickly, she said in an urgent tone loaded with meaning, “Jeremy. Might I have a word with you?”

Jeremy said knowingly, almost as if talking to a naughty school-girl, “Lydia. For God’s sake. What
are
you doing here?”

“I’m afraid it’s very serious,” she said, looking tragic, “and very personal. I really do need your help, Jeremy, or I wouldn’t have come. I’ve no one else to turn to. Obviously.”

She didn’t look at me, and she didn’t exactly say, “So let’s toss this other woman out the window,” but she might as well have. I knew what was coming next. I guess I’ve known one or two neurotic types well enough to understand that she will next insist on sequestering the man for a private conference, that would lead to talking on the telephone at all hours of the day and night. This poison flower had to be nipped in the bud, right now.

“Why don’t we all sit down and sort this out?” I said helpfully but crisply. “Lydia, if you need our assistance, we will do what we can. Please speak freely in front of both of us. But I’m afraid we must be quick, because we have plans for tonight and we are already late.”

Jeremy’s jaw dropped. Frankly, I don’t even know where my words came from. I just sort of made them up as I went along. But hell, if she was going to act so dramatic about it, then I could be cinematic, too, and let them both see how absurd she was being.

Because not for a minute did I believe that Lydia was in any real jeopardy. I had already studied her quite carefully, looking for telltale clues, Girl Detective that I am. No bruises, no trembling, and she appeared perfectly healthy and clear-eyed and determined, and even remarkably well-rested, not at all like a damsel-in-distress.

Jeremy recovered a bit, and grinned at me. “Yes, a good idea, let’s sit down,” he said hastily. “Certainly, Lydia, whatever you have to say to me, you can say freely in front of Penny. I take it you two have been introduced?” he asked dryly.

“Not exactly,” Lydia said, a bit crossly. “Is
She
your fiancée?”

I really hate when women refer to other women as
She
. You know the tone. You know what it means. And then there’s that phony fiancée question, as if to imply that if you aren’t engaged, then he doesn’t really love you.

Jeremy ignored the question and asked, “What’s up, Lydia?”

And, I swear to God, she burst into hysterical sobs. I watched in utter admiration of how such a woman could go from haughty bitchiness to pathos, right on a dime.

I looked over at Jeremy and I said, “Oh, hell. Ten minutes, okay? I’ll go chill the champagne.” And then I murmured so that only he could hear, “And don’t you dare let her put her head on your shoulder or use your handkerchief.”

He didn’t object to this; he even patted my shoulder consolingly, which at least indicated that he understood the impact on me of her crummy timing.

I stalked off into his kitchen, and put the champagne in ice and salt and water, and snipped off the ends of the roses and put them in a vase of lukewarm water. I never left Jeremy and his “ex” entirely alone, however, because Jeremy’s kitchen has an open section that looks right onto the living room. So, as Lydia spoke to him, he could see me balefully watching him. He and Lydia spoke in low voices, and then he rose and came into the kitchen, looking worried.

“I know you think she’s shamming,” was the first thing he said.

“Call it a woman’s intuition,” I said airily.

“I know, I know,” he said. “She’s always been given to high nerves. And believe me, nobody’s more aware than I of how adept she is at manipulating people.” He paused. “But be that as it may, it does sound as if she’s had a bad time.” And he told me her indisputable tale of woe, in a nutshell.
After
she ran off with Jeremy’s best friend from work (a liaison which didn’t work out), she then “fell in love” with a wealthy Bolivian boyfriend who had grown up so spoiled that he wasn’t accustomed to ever being told “No.”

“Apparently,” Jeremy said, “he was a cruel bastard, took money from her and cheated on her, and yet when she wanted to break up, he rather ominously told her that he would ‘never let her go’ and even went so far as to lock her in his hacienda or whatever, and had his bodyguards spy on her. But somehow she managed to evade them, and got on a friend’s private airplane and came to London.”

“Swell,” I said. “So now she’ll lead her boyfriends’ thugs straight to your doorstep. And don’t tell me, let me guess. She wants to stay right here, in your apartment.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jeremy said. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Good,” I said, feeling momentarily ashamed.

“Apparently she’s found an apartment,” Jeremy said. He paused. I knew.

“Where, exactly?” I said in a deadly tone. He just looked at me.

“Right down the street?” I asked in disbelief. Silence.

“In
your
building?” I exclaimed. Jeremy flushed guiltily. “What floor?” I asked.

“This one,” he said, then added hurriedly, “way on the other end, though.”

“No,” I said. “No, no, a thousand times no.”

“What can I do? I don’t exactly own the whole building, you know,” he said in the tone of annoying reasonableness that a man uses when he suspects that your instincts are totally justified, but if he says so, it will then require him to do something difficult which will undoubtedly cause a ruckus. “She says she got a good deal on the place, and had to act fast.”

“She sure did!” I glanced over at Lydia, who had gone to the window to strike a wounded pose. “What exactly does she want from you, apart from being jolly neighbors now?” I asked.

Jeremy sighed wearily. “Nothing, really. Just moral support, I suppose.”

“Piffle,” I said.

“Penny,” Jeremy pleaded, “you must trust me on this one, I think there’s enough truth to this story so that I can’t just turn my back on her.”

“I trust you,” I said. “I just don’t trust her.”

“She didn’t manage so well when we split up,” Jeremy said, looking upset. “She tried to commit suicide, even.” Normally, this would have given me quite a pause, but then I recalled a conversation I’d had with Jeremy’s mother, in which she confided about how much neurotic stress this woman had inflicted on him, so that Jeremy never really had a day’s peace in their one-year marriage.

I peered at him keenly. “Lydia’s managed to make you feel guilty and totally responsible for the divorce all along, hasn’t she?” I asked gently.

“It’s just that we had so much bitterness at the end,” Jeremy said. “I do feel that I could have managed it better.”

“It takes two to tango,” I pointed out. “It couldn’t have been all your fault.”

“I know that,” he said. “But look, you and I are so happy, and so fortunate, that we can afford to be kind. Can’t we? Because I’d like to take this opportunity to end this chapter of my life peaceably, now that I have the chance.”

Privately, I observed that Lydia didn’t appear remotely ready to “end” anything. But, as I said, I was not about to let some woman trap me into being the Bad One. Nor was I going to be played for a sap, either.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be as kind and civilized as is humanly, and womanly, possible.” He smiled wryly. “Just do me a favor, willya, pal?” I asked as charmingly as I could with Lydia prowling around. “Will you get rid of her so we can drink our champagne and start having fun?”

Jeremy kissed me quickly. “You bet,” he said. I waited in the kitchen, watching, and I don’t know exactly what he said to her then; however, it worked, because she got up and waved gaily to me and went out.

Sure, I thought miserably. Tootle-oo to you, too. I’ve won the battle tonight, but she’s ready for war. She’ll be around him day and night. Bumping into him in the hallway whilst collecting her newspaper in her nightie. Riding down the elevator to do laundry together, can I share your suds? Stopping by on Saturday morning to borrow the proverbial cup of sugar. Inviting him in for a drink on New Year’s Eve and acting drunker than she really is, so she can kiss and seduce him at midnight. Oh, please.

After she was gone, we went ahead with our plans. Jeremy seemed philosophical, in that thoughtful way of his, as we unpacked the groceries, and he recovered from it all when he started busily chopping vegetables and sautéing them in a pan. He’d clearly planned the whole meal in his head beforehand, so he wanted to cook the entire thing himself. I could tell that it was going to be wonderful.

“You sit down, put your feet up, relax and let’s have some of that champagne,” he said enthusiastically. Just before he popped the cork he said, as if making a wish, “To our future, and thank you, Aunt Pen!” The cork made a fine vigorous
Pop!
and I watched him pour the champagne, which was full of perfect small, lively bubbles.

“I’m not as good a chef as your Dad, of course,” Jeremy called out from the kitchen, “but I’m going to ask him to teach me. After all, you are a girl raised on
gastronomie
dinners. I love the way your parents cook and joke around together.” He glanced up through the pass-through window, then said, “What’s the matter? Why are you opening all the windows out there?”

“Hmmm? Oh, just felt like some fresh air,” I said innocently from the living room, having tried yet failed to do it surreptitiously.