Good at Games (15 page)

Harry, lying in bed hooked up to a cacophony of drips and machines making beeping noises, opened his eyes.

“Suzy. You're here. And Lucille.”

The nurse discreetly withdrew. Leo moved over to the far wall and leaned against it, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket, his expression unreadable.

“Oh, Harry.” Flinching slightly as she moved toward him—that contact with the size-twelve brogue had
crushed
the toes on her right foot—Suzy held out her hands in dismay. “What did they do to you?”

He looked like a cartoon of an accident victim. His left leg was in a cast. So was his right arm. Bandages were wrapped around his head and there was a skin-stitched gash along his left cheekbone. Even his chest was bandaged, Suzy saw when he raised his good arm. If Dennis the Menace fell down a mountain and got crushed by a ten-ton truck, he would end up looking exactly like this.

Although not so good-looking, of course. Because Dennis the Menace wasn't Harry the Bastard.

Except Harry wasn't Harry the Bastard anymore, was he?

He was now, officially, Harry the Hero.

“I'm sorry about tonight,” said Harry.

“Don't even
think
that!” Bending her head, Suzy kissed him. “You're here, you're still alive. That's all that matters.”

Behind her, from somewhere over by the far wall, she detected a barely audible snort of derision. Happily, the turban of bandages around Harry's ears appeared to have muffled his hearing.

“I bet you were cursing me, thinking I'd stood you up.” He smiled up at her.

“Well, we did wonder.”

“I'd never stand you up.”

“I know,” said Suzy. Because what else could she say?

“What happened to your feet?” said Harry. In his semi propped-up position he could just see them.

“My shoes hurt. I took them off. Ummm…how are you feeling?” She knew it was a stupid question.

“Oh, lucky to be alive.”

Stupid question, Hollywood answer. Harry the Hero gave her hand a squeeze, held it against his cheek and kissed it.

Very
Hollywood.

This time even he must have heard the snort of amusement from over by the far wall.

“You saved those children's lives,” said Suzy, slightly desperately.

“All in a day's work.” Harry smiled modestly, then shrugged and winced. “Blasted broken ribs. Are the press still outside?”

“Yes. They took some pictures.”

“Don't give them too much,” said Harry. “They're bidding for exclusive rights, did you know?” His expression grew less weary, more animated. “You wouldn't believe the amounts of money they're talking about.”

Suzy thought she probably would. When she and Jaz had broken up, the offers from the tabloids to kiss and tell had been enough to make anyone's eyes water. Thankfully, her eyes had been watering quite enough already—she had cried nonstop for six weeks—so she hadn't been remotely tempted to sell her soul in exchange for an eight-page spread.

Lucille, who had diplomatically hung back until now, sensed that Suzy was at a bit of a loss. Moving forward she said, “Poor Harry. Some birthday this turned out to be.”

“Oh God!” Appalled that she had forgotten, Suzy clapped her hand over her mouth. “Happy birthday!”

Great, brilliant, well
done
, Suzy. Happy broken leg, happy broken arm, happy fractured skull…

“We've got your cards and presents at home,” Lucille told Harry.

“Don't worry. I've got everything I could want.” Harry kissed the back of Suzy's knuckles again. “You're here, that's all that matters. And those kids are still alive.” He paused, considering this. “Actually, that's a great line. When you go, you could tell that to the press.”

The door opened, and the nurse appeared, tapping her watch.

“Time's up, I'm afraid. Mr. Fitzallan needs to rest.”

“Big day tomorrow,” Harry said briskly. “They've scheduled the press conference for ten thirty.”

Suzy was speechless. Harry was turning into a media expert before her very eyes. Before you knew it, he'd be commissioning Andrew Morton to write his biography.

“Everybody out now.” The bossy nurse ushered them through the door. “Time for Mr. Fitzallan to use his bedpan.”

Oops
, thought Suzy.
That's not very romantic.
Better not mention that at tomorrow's press conference, Harry.

He gave her a long, lingering kiss good-bye. Which, frankly, she could well have done without in front of Leo's sardonic gaze.

“See you tomorrow,” said Harry. “Ten o'clock sharp, OK?”

“But—”

“I need you here with me. And wear something…you know, to knock 'em dead.”

“Harry, I don't—”

“That black lacy top thing,” Harry said helpfully. “The one that goes…” With his good hand, he made the appropriate scooping gesture. Low-cut, basically, and leaving not a lot to the imagination. “Oh, and on your way out…don't forget to mention that bit about me getting what I want for my birthday.”

Blimey
, wondered Suzy,
whatever might he hanker for next? World peace?

* * *

It was on the news the next morning. Suzy, switching on to see if Harry had merited a mention, was astounded when she realized the GMTV reporter was doing a live link from the grounds of Frenchay Hospital.

She dragged Maeve over from next door and yelled up the stairs to Fee to come see this.

“I'm standing outside the ward now, speaking to one of the nurses who has been helping to take care of this truly heroic man,” confided Martin Swizzle, straight to the camera.

“That's Harry they're talking about.” Suzy felt an odd sensation in her chest, like polystyrene expanding. It was impossible not to feel proud.

“Details are sketchy so far. We have to wait for the press conference later this morning.” Martin deftly drew a plump, pretty little nurse farther into the shot. “But perhaps Pat here could tell us a bit more about Harry Fitzallan. For instance, we know he's twenty-seven years old. So, Pat, what does he look like?”

Pat giggled, slightly hysterically. “Well, Martin, we think he's the best-looking man we've ever seen! He's really gorgeous, like a movie star or something! All the girls are drooling over him—”

“Not literally, I hope,” Martin Swizzle interjected with a swift smile to camera. “That would be unhygienic.”

“To each their own,” Maeve announced, blowing on the hot tea Suzy had made her. “Your Harry fellow's a looker, I'll grant you that, but if it's a real man you're after, you can't beat Barry Manilow.”

Maeve was mad about Barry. She sent him Christmas cards, cakes, even the occasional sweater. Not hand-knitted. Ones she'd picked up in Oxfam.

“I thought Michael Flatley was your favorite,” Suzy protested.

Maeve looked scornful. “Ah, he's nothing but a big show-off, flaunting his bare chest and acting like he's so great.”

“What about Len Goodman?” said Fee.

“Well now, I'll grant you he's a lovely man. Then again, this one isn't so bad either.” Maeve nodded happily at Martin Swizzle, who was now interviewing the wife of one of the other patients on Harry's ward. She hadn't spoken to Harry, as such, she was explaining enthusiastically, but she'd passed his room and glimpsed him through the crack in the door and he'd seemed utterly charming.

“Well, hopefully, I shall be speaking to Harry Fitzallan later on today,” Martin announced when the woman had finished gushing—hopefully, not all over his shoes. “And maybe also his girlfriend, Suzy Curtis, who arrived at the hospital in a distraught condition last night.”

A photograph flashed onto the screen of Suzy, shoeless and with her stockings disintegrating around her ankles.

“God!” groaned Suzy, covering her eyes.

“Suzy, ex-wife of the notorious rock star Jaz Dreyfuss, spoke only briefly to waiting journalists last night. As she left the bedside of her lover—”

“Lover!” Suzy let out a shriek of outrage.

“—she announced that yesterday had been Harry Fitzallan's birthday but that he hadn't minded in the least missing out on the traditional celebrations…because what better birthday present could anyone wish for than those two young children's lives?”

Although Martin Swizzle was nodding and gazing with utter sincerity into the camera, Suzy suspected that he was secretly longing to stick his fingers down his throat and make pretend sick noises.

It was certainly what she was tempted to do.

“Ahhh!” Maeve sighed as another photograph appeared on the screen, of the two children Harry had saved. “Look at their little faces!”

“Never mind that,” said Suzy, spilling coffee all over her knees as she scrambled to her feet. “Look at my face. I'm supposed to be at that press conference in two hours and I'm a mess!”

“Don't forget, Harry wants you to wear that black lacy top,” said Lucille.

“It's an evening thing! I'll look like a hooker,” Suzy wailed. “I can't wear that!”

“You mean the one that puts your bosoms out on show?” Maeve sounded delighted. “Don't worry, love, I've got just the thing.”

By the time Suzy emerged from the bathroom, Maeve was back. “I bought it for my sister in Dundalk, two pounds seventy-five from the St. Peter's Hospice shop, but she won't mind you borrowing it, seeing as it'll be in all the papers. There now, won't that look grand against the black? And you'll be able to cover up all that exposed flesh!”

If that was what it was for, Suzy wondered why she hadn't packaged it up and sent it to Barry Manilow instead. But as she took the scarf from Maeve and dutifully admired its yellow-and-mauve zigzag design, she knew there was to be no wriggling out of this one. She would have to wear it.

She would rather cut off her own arms than hurt Maeve's feelings.

And, looking on the bright side, at least it didn't have pictures of cartoon cats splashed all over it.

The phone rang.

“I've just had a call from Mr. and Mrs. Taylor,” said Rory, who never watched early morning television. “You're free this morning, aren't you? They want to take another look at the house in Alma Vale so I said you'd meet them there at ten.”

“Ah.” Suzy told him why she couldn't make it.

“But I'm tied up, and Martin's got a full list.
Blast
,” Rory said, which was as near as he ever got to swearing.

Covering the receiver, Suzy said to Fee, “Are you busy this morning?”

Fee, who was clearing away the coffee cups, shook her head.

“Panic over. Fee says she'll do it. And I'll be back after lunch.”

Triumphantly, Suzy hung up. Fee looked at her. “What did I say I would do?”

“Act as getaway driver. Rory's robbing a bank at ten o'clock.” Suzy scribbled down the address and the name of the clients.

Fee said brightly, “Great! Will he mind that I never go faster than twenty-five miles an hour?”

“He'll be thrilled. It means you'll never be stopped for speeding by good-looking policemen.” Suzy handed her the details. “Actually, all you have to do is call into the office, pick up the keys, and meet these people at this address. They're ditherers,” she reassured Fee, “so don't worry about getting an offer out of them. They're the kind of people who need fifteen trips to the store before they'll buy a set of eggcups.”

The conference room at the hospital erupted into a tumultuous round of applause as Harry was wheeled in. Cameras had been set up on tripods all around the room. In the center, seventy or eighty hospital-issue chairs were occupied by journalists from more radio stations and newspapers than Suzy knew existed. When the doctor in charge of Harry's care had finished parking the wheelchair in its designated position, Suzy was allowed to sit down next to him. The flashbulbs were still going off. Harry gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and smiled his dazzling smile at the cameras. Suzy crossed her legs and hoped her Kurt Geigers were in the shot. She didn't want people to think she spent her whole life wandering around bedraggled and barefoot like some stoned-to-the-eyeballs hippy.

“Take that scarf off,” Harry hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “I told you, it looks terrible.”

“Can't,” Suzy murmured back, because anything was better than grinning inanely at the massed ranks of cameras. “They'll think I'm going to get up and strip.”

The hospital administrator overseeing the press conference held up her hands for silence.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Dr. Hubble will now run through Mr. Fitzallan's injuries, treatment, and prognosis. Following this, Mr. Fitzallan will read a prepared statement describing his experiences yesterday evening. Then we shall take questions from the floor.” She paused for effect. “Finally, the children rescued by Mr. Fitzallan will be brought in by their mother to meet him properly for the first time and express their gratitude for what he did.”

More applause, then the room grew silent. Despite inwardly cringing at the woman's tone, Suzy felt pride welling up once more. There was no getting away from it; Harry had done a very brave thing. He was a true hero.

And Dr. Hubble fancied him like mad, Suzy was almost sure. Slender and exceptionally pretty, she rested a hand on Harry's shoulder as she spoke warmly of his terrible injuries and incredible strength of will. Only a man in superb physical condition, she went on to explain, could withstand so much damage and overcome such severe pain in order to not only save himself, but also put himself through the tremendous ordeal of rescuing two children from a submerged car.

“We in the medical profession,” she concluded, “are skeptical about miracles. But I have no hesitation in stating that Harry Fitzallan is—at the very least—a man in a million.”

Harry shook his head modestly as applause rang around the conference room once more. Blushing and smiling, Dr. Hubble sat down. The administrator announced, “Ladies and gentlemen…Harry Fitzallan!”

It was like the London Palladium, thought Suzy. She half expected a troupe of cancan dancers to launch themselves onto the stage, flashing their frilly bloomers and yelling
yeeha
!

“I'm just an ordinary guy,” Harry said simply. “I did what anyone else would have done. I'm a policeman, so it's my job anyway.” He waited for a second, gazing out at the sea of journalists. “But if I wasn't a policeman it would still have been my job.”

He'd rehearsed this, of course, over and over again. But it was still good. Suzy felt hot tears well up in her eyes. The only funny thing was Harry's voice, which was weaker and huskier than it had been twenty minutes ago when she'd first arrived at the hospital. It was the kind of voice people used when they called work to say they were sick. Even if they'd sprained an ankle, they still seemed compelled to do that croaky voice thing in order to convince the boss that they really did deserve the day off.

Doggedly playing down the fact that he might have done anything the teeniest bit heroic—which naturally had the opposite effect—Harry related the events of last night and earned himself a spontaneous standing ovation.

Then it was time for the question-and-answer session. Suzy felt a trickle of perspiration crawl snail-like down her spine.

“Suzy! How d'you feel about what Harry did?”

Harry gave her a loving—yet self-deprecating—look. He wasn't British for nothing.

“Disappointed, actually,” said Suzy. “I thought after he'd rescued the children and swum ashore, he could have at least chased after the car jackers and put them under arrest.”

Ha, she could be British too.

Everyone laughed. Especially Harry. Croakily.

“I'm sorry.” Leaning over—and wincing a bit, en route—he planted an apologetic kiss on her cheek. “I let you down.”

The cameras flashed on all sides; so this was what it was like to be Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise.

“I couldn't be prouder of him,” said Suzy.

“So how serious is it between you two?” called out a journalist in the third row.

Eek, ask me another one, quick!

But the silence was lengthening.

Nobody, it seemed, was prepared to ride gallantly to her rescue.

“Um.” Suzy rubbed her damp palms together. “Well, we're very happy, thanks.”

“Any plans for the future?”

Plans? OK, let's see: up until last night the plan was to finish with Harry before the weekend, because actually I was getting a bit bored with him.

Suzy tried to imagine saying these words aloud. Crikey, this crowd would string her up and disembowel her faster than you could say “razor-sharp scalpel.”

Dr. Hubble would probably volunteer to do the job herself.

Heavens, she couldn't say
anything
like that.

Going for the neutral reply—wise move—Suzy smiled and said pleasantly, “No, no plans.”

Beside her, Harry raised his good hand.

“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt, but I wonder if I might say something here?”

This was, of course, a rhetorical question. Harry was the undisputed star of the show. Obligingly, the audience quieted, waiting for him to speak.

He could probably recite “Humpty Dumpty,” thought Suzy, and earn himself a round of applause.

“As some of you may already know,” Harry began, “yesterday was my birthday.”

Laughter. Everyone knew that.

“Thanks to events beyond our control, Suzy and I weren't able to celebrate the occasion in…well, in quite the way I'd planned.”

Ribald whoops of approval greeted this remark. Out of the corner of her eye, Suzy couldn't help noticing that Dr. Hubble was looking tight-lipped.

Harry shook his head and smiled the self-deprecating smile that in less than fifteen minutes had practically become his trademark.

Hugh Grant, watch and learn.

“Sorry, sorry…I didn't mean it like that. What I'm trying to say is, I didn't get the chance last night to say something to Suzy that I've been wanting to say for some time. So, with your permission, I'd like to take the opportunity to say it now.” He paused, took Suzy's hand, and went on huskily, “Phew, this is scarier than hanging on to a car by its windshield wipers. OK, here goes. Suzy, you know how I feel about you. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. And I know I'm nothing special, just an ordinary guy…but I love you more than anything… What I'm trying to say is, will you marry me, Suzy? Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Suzy heard the blood drumming like a thousand tom-toms in her ears. Loudly, but sadly not quite loudly enough to drown out Harry's words.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion too. But, again, not quite slowly enough.

You could have heard a pin drop in the conference room. All eyes were upon her.

Oh no, this isn't fair. I'm trapped! I need an ejector seat!
How can I say yes?

Except, except…how could she possibly say no?

OK, keep calm, deep breaths. Basically, there's no way in the world I
can
say no. Not here in public, like this.

Right, so all I have to do is say yes but not mean it. And explain to Harry in private later that I can't possibly marry him, I only said yes to spare him the ultimate humiliation.

“OK,” said Suzy.
Oops, loads more enthusiasm than that.
Hurriedly—and at the same time mentally crossing her fingers—she said, “Yes, Harry. Yes, I'll marry you. Of course I will!”

* * *

After that, wheeling in the children whose lives Harry had saved came almost as an anticlimax. The toddler, Mikey, clung to his mother's skirt, and the six-year-old, Lauren, was clearly overwhelmed by the attentions of so many photographers. Their mother, tearful and almost speechless with gratitude, hugged and kissed Harry and told the reporters over and over again that it was a miracle and Harry was an angel who had fallen to earth.

Even Harry had the grace to look embarrassed by this.

Suzy sat through the rest of the press conference in a daze. Her life was spinning crazily out of control. The wedding—Harry had already assured everyone—would take place
soon
.
Of course
they wanted a family of their own…three, maybe four children, God willing. And yes, of course Jaz Dreyfuss would be invited to the wedding—he and Jaz were great friends, they got on like a house on fire… And the ring? Oh, nothing flashy, probably a platinum-set diamond solitaire.

* * *

Suzy had planned to tell Harry the moment they arrived back on the ward that he needn't buy her a ring because there wasn't going to be any wedding.

But when they reached Harry's room, someone else was already there waiting to speak to him.

Waving—quite literally—a checkbook.

“Hi! Terence DeVere, from
Hi!
magazine!”

Clearly, this was his little joke.

“Great,
great
story,” the man went on. Flicking back his groomed hair, he beamed at Suzy.

“The feel-good story of the year, I'm telling you! Just the kind of thing our readers go for. OK, cards on the table. Initial in-depth interview. Exclusive rights to cover the wedding. And honeymoon pictures, of course. Total, two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. So, do we have ourselves a deal?”

Suzy felt as if she were on a plane having trouble with cabin pressure. Her ears were popping, and there was no sign of the flight attendant with the big silver tray of hard candies.

Harry leaned forward in his wheelchair and shook Terence DeVere's pudgy pink hand.

Grinning broadly, he said, “Oh yes, we definitely have ourselves a deal.”

* * *

Having battled with disinterested pub landlords to get Jaz and his band their first bookings when they were unknown, Fee wasn't afraid of anyone.

But while she wasn't what you could call afraid of Rory Curtis, she was certainly in awe of him. It was all right for Suzy to describe him as a big old pussycat—she was his sister. As far as Fee could make out, Rory was brusque, uptight, somewhat humorless, and basically a bit daunting.

Still, no need to feel daunted today.

Rory was on the phone when Fee pushed open the door to the office of Curtis and Co. Correction, he was on the phone, scribbling notes with one hand and simultaneously tapping into a computer with the other. A ferociously hard worker—Fee knew this from Suzy—Rory never did one job when he could do three. Suzy might provide the style and the panache, but he was undoubtedly the one who supplied the sheer hard slog that kept the business afloat.

This, of course, was the reason his brief marriage ten years earlier had failed. And Rory had given that side of things a miss ever since.

Over at her desk, Donna was on the phone. Waiting for one of them to become free—and secretly hoping it would be Donna—Fee waited and watched Rory's dark eyes narrow with exasperation behind his glasses as, glancing up at the computer screen in front of him, he realized he'd deleted something he hadn't meant to delete.

“OK. Two o'clock. Bye.” Rory hung up, clattered a few computer keys, heaved a gusty sigh, ran his fingers through his straight dark hair, scrawled a note in his diary…and looked up at Fee. “Oh, hi. Bringing the keys back? Thanks for doing that—tell Suzy she owes you a drink.”

Fee handed him the keys to the house in Alma Vale. “No need. I enjoyed it.”

“Time wasters.” Rory threw the keys into his desk drawer. He had no time for time wasters, but in this business, you had to humor them.

“Actually,” said Fee, “they want to buy it.”

Rory's eyebrows shot up. “You're kidding! They actually put in an offer? A lousy one, I suppose.”

Fee took the folded-up particulars out of her shirt pocket. “It says here three hundred and twenty thousand. They offered three hundred, but I told them the vendors had already turned down three hundred and ten. So they decided to go with the asking price. I said I'd tell you, and you'd call them back when you'd spoken to the sellers.” Feeling the beginnings of a blush crawling out from under her russet bangs, Fee said, “Was that OK?”

“OK?” Rory actually broke into an incredulous smile. “It's a miracle!” The smile vanished. “Unless it's a joke, of course. Did Suzy put you up to this?”

“No,” said Fee equably. “Why don't you call them, if you don't believe me?”

“I believe you. But I'd still better call them. Ummm…there's coffee in the machine.” Distracted, Rory was already reaching for the phone. “Help yourself.”

Fee made coffee for the three of them. By the time she'd finished, Rory had hung up.

“You're a genius,” he told her.

“You're not.” Feeling brave, Fee nodded at the flashing computer screen. “I don't think you meant to do that, did you?”

Rory sighed and pushed his fingers through his hair again, ruffling it up at the back.

“I wasn't meant to be doing it in the first place, but we're pretty snowed under. Donna's up to her eyebrows, and I've got clients lining up for appointments…”

Over at her desk, Donna waggled her jet-black, painted on eyebrows and pulled a face.