Good at Games (21 page)

At four o'clock, Fee was alone in the office enjoying herself tremendously. The typing was going like a dream. She had a list of phone messages to pass on to Rory, Suzy, and Martin when they returned from their various appointments. Prospective clients had been dropping in all afternoon and she'd offered them coffee, chatting with them about the kind of property they were after and sending them away with the appropriate particulars…

“Hi.” Fee smiled brightly as the door swung open again. “Can I help you?”

“You certainly can,” declared a startlingly pretty girl with a cloud of dark curly hair. “You could come hold this door open, for a start.”

Taken aback by this request, Fee nevertheless did as she was asked. Maybe the girl was struggling with a double stroller or a relative in a wheelchair.

But when she reached the door, Fee saw a cab tick-ticking outside, and the girl energetically hauling a succession of black trash bags off the backseat and out onto the pavement.

What on earth was going on?

“Ummm…is this a delivery of some kind?”

This was the trouble with being new to a job, Fee realized. It could be a regular Wednesday afternoon arrangement.

“A delivery? Oh, definitely,” said the girl, now throwing the full bags through the open door and into the office. “Special delivery for Martin Lord.”

“Er…can I ask what it is?”

“All his worldly goods, basically. You're new, aren't you?” said the girl. “I'm Nancy, Martin's wife. Soon to be his ex-wife.”

“Oh, good grief.” Fee gazed at the small mountain of trash bags in horror. One of them had split open and a tangle of trousers and shirts, like ruptured intestines, was spilling out.

“Don't look so worried. He deserves it.” Nancy shrugged and pulled a crumpled envelope from the back pocket of her pink jeans. “He'll probably be thrilled. Could you make sure he gets this?”

Fee's eyes widened. “Shouldn't you give it to him?”

“Look,” Nancy said pleasantly, “Martin's not interested in being married. He doesn't care about me, and he hardly ever sees our children. He's probably got himself another woman, but to tell you the truth, it doesn't even bother me anymore. So you just make sure my husband sees this letter, OK? And tell him not to bother coming around to the house because I've already had the locks changed.” As she hopped back into the taxi, she added, “Oh, and I hope he has a nice time tonight,
working late
.”

* * *

“What the…? Is this some kind of joke?” Martin demanded when he read the letter two hours later.

“I don't think so. She didn't sound as if she was joking.” Fee opened the door leading through to the back room and indicated the pile of shiny black trash bags stacked up against the far wall. “I put your stuff in here.”

“I don't believe it! What does she think she's playing at?” Martin stared at the bags, then back at the letter, then angrily at Fee. “What the hell d'you think you were playing at, letting her
do
this?”

Fee, who was a lot braver than she looked, stood her ground as Martin glared at her. The next moment the glass door flew open, and Suzy and Rory piled into the office behind him.

“I wasn't playing at anything.” Fee's gaze was unwavering, her tone ice cool. “According to your wife, you're a lousy husband and father, and you're having an affair with another woman, and she doesn't want to be married to you anymore. Now that's your problem, not mine, so I'd rather you didn't shout at me.”

Martin's mouth dropped open in astonishment. With her dark red hair, innocent green eyes, and russet angora cardigan, it was like being savaged unexpectedly by a baby squirrel.

“What's this?” Suzy was instantly enthralled. “Has Nancy kicked you out?”

Exasperated, Martin pushed his hair off his forehead.

“Of course she hasn't kicked me out.”

“She has,” said Fee. “And she's changed the locks.”

“She has
not
.” Martin shook his head. “She's just having a go at me because I called her and said I'd be working late tonight.”

“How can you have an affair?” Suzy was utterly disgusted with him. “Nancy's lovely. You've got a beautiful wife, gorgeous children—”

“I'm not
having
an affair!” shouted Martin.

“You know what you're going to need?” Suzy asked conversationally.

“What?”

“A new iron. Your clothes are going to get horribly crumpled in those black bags.”

* * *

“I know I should feel sorry for him,” said Suzy, when Martin had piled the bags into the back of his metallic green Renault Mégane and roared off to talk some sense into Nancy. “But I just can't. He
so
deserves this.”

Rory, who had spent the whole afternoon looking forward to coming back to the office, crossed to the door and put up the Closed sign.

“Right, well, I wouldn't say no to a drink.” He rubbed his hands and struggled to sound casual. “How about it then, to celebrate the end of Fee's first day… Suzy, how does a drink sound to you?”

Suzy sighed and rotated her head and shoulders. “I've got to go see Harry. And I ache all over.” She winced, stretching her arms behind her back. “God, how did the muscles in my neck get so scrunched up?”

“Fee?” Rory said hopefully.

“I can't either.” Fee looked apologetic. “I've got an evening class at the Folk House. Come on, sit down,” she told Suzy, patting the chair next to her. “Let's have a look at that neck of yours.”

“Oh,
bliss
,” Suzy murmured as Fee's expert fingers set to work on her bunched-up muscles.

“You know what you're like when you get stressed out,” Fee scolded. “Right, now tip your head forward and let your shoulders go.”

Suzy, her rippling tawny hair spilling over her face, carried on groaning and sighing in ecstasy as the massage began to take effect. Rory, hunched over his own desk trying to work through a pile of letters that needed signing, tried not to listen but was unable to prevent himself glancing over every now and again. He could only imagine how it must feel, to be massaged like that.

Beneath his suit and crisp white shirt, his own shoulders felt naked and neglected.

I'm tense too
, Rory thought longingly, wishing with all his heart that Fee would do the same for him.

* * *

“Want to come to the hospital with me?” offered Suzy, pulling off her lime-green shirt as Lucille poked her head around the bedroom door.

“I was just about to ask you if you wanted to come to Leo's new restaurant,” said Lucille. “It's the opening night.”

Suzy kicked her lilac high heels into the corner of the room and wriggled out of her skirt.

“Is this a joke?” Grinning, she reached for her robe. “Leo's actually invited us to the opening of a fast-food joint? Hey, glitzy! Who needs champagne and canapés when you can have Coke and a burger and fries?”

Lucille started to laugh. “Leo's restaurant isn't like that. They don't do
burgers
. Are we talking about the same Leo here?”

Suzy was taken aback. “Harry said it was. He told me Leo had a chain of fast-food outlets.”

As she spoke, Suzy frowned. Harry had described Leo's business in such a derogatory fashion that she hadn't pursued the subject. Nor had she ever discussed it with Leo; being such a concerned, caring sort of person, she had thought he might be a touch sensitive about making his money out of such a tacky venture.

And she deliberately hadn't asked Lucille about the burger bars because she didn't want her to think she was interested in Leo.

“Harry was joking,” Lucille explained gently. Roughly translated, Suzy realized, this meant Harry was mocking his brother's business because he was bitterly jealous of Leo's success. “You've heard of the Alpha Bar in Chelsea, right?”

Suzy nodded. Of course she had.

“And there are Alpha Bars in Glasgow, Manchester, Brighton, and Cardiff?”

Light dawned.

“Oh
God
.”

“And now there's one in Bristol too,” said Lucille.

“So Harry wasn't lying when he said there was a chain of them.” Suzy sighed. The Alpha Bars catered to their namesakes, attracting the most glamorous, stylish, and successful clientele from miles around. Immaculate attention to detail, stunning food, and inspired decor—deep purple and dark green marble-mirrored walls were a signature feature—had all contributed to the company's success.

And Leo Fitzallan was the boss.

Well, well, who'd have thought it?

Happily, Suzy said, “Great, yes, of course we'll go. When did Leo invite us?”

At this, Lucille hesitated. Cautiously, she pulled an embossed purple and green card from the pocket of her jeans.

“Well, Leo gave me this last week…”

She was prevaricating. Mystified, Suzy reached for the card.

“Lucille Amory
and guest
?” Her eyebrows shot up even more dramatically than her voice. “You mean he didn't even
invite
me? That's all I am…
and guest
?”

“I thought he would have.” Lucille hastily concealed her discomfort with a so-what shrug. “He must have forgotten, that's all. Anyway, it doesn't matter, does it? We've got the invite here. We can both go!”

Suzy was having trouble getting her eyebrows down again; they felt as if they were lodged up there for good. Indignation wasn't the word for how she was feeling.

This was…
outrageous
.

“No, no, really, I'm fine. You go. I have to visit Harry anyway.” Belatedly remembering her earlier plans, Suzy headed for the shower.

Not fooling Lucille for a moment, needless to say.

“But I'm sure Leo meant to invite you too. He'd definitely want you to be there,” she protested.

“If he wanted me to be there that badly, he'd have put my name on the invitation list,” said Suzy. She forced herself to turn and smile at Lucille, to prove that she wasn't the one at fault here. Oh no, this was entirely Leo's doing. Probably to pay her back for accidentally kissing him the other day.

And that had been
all his fault
.

“I feel awful now,” wailed Lucille.

“Look, don't worry about it. You go and have a great time. Anyway, Harry's expecting me.” To make up for having completely forgotten about him earlier, Suzy vowed to be extra nice to Harry tonight. “I couldn't possibly let him down.”

* * *

When Suzy reached Harry's room, loaded down with men's magazines and Kit Kat bars, the effect was spoiled somewhat by the pile of duplicate magazines already littering the bed and the mountain of Kit Kats heaped on top of his locker.

“I know. Mad, isn't it?” Harry grinned as he kissed her. “The local radio station phoned up yesterday wanting to dedicate a record to me. When they asked the receptionist what my favorite track was, she thought they said treat. We've had nonstop deliveries of Kit Kats ever since.”

“Should have said tins of beluga caviar.” Suzy flipped through one of the magazines he'd been looking at. “Where did these come from?”

“One of the staff nurses brought them in for me.”

“One of the pretty staff nurses?”

Harry winked. “Well, I suppose you could call him pretty.”

Next moment, Suzy's fingers froze. Incredibly, there was a photograph of Leo in the magazine she'd been idly flipping through.

ELIGIBLE BLOKES—IT'S A TOUGH JOB, BUT SOMEBODY'S GOTTA DO IT!

That was the headline, followed by a series of photos and mini features detailing the histories, lifestyles, and sexual conquests of various British businessmen, sporting heroes, and media types. Dying to read the piece about Leo, Suzy glanced up and saw the expression on Harry's face.

Well, maybe now wasn't the moment.

Instead, she closed the magazine and said casually, “His new restaurant opens tonight.”

“I know.” Harry nodded, then clasped her hand. “I thought you might have gone along.”

Pride wouldn't allow Suzy to admit the truth. Instead, choosing her words with care, she said, “I was invited.”

Harry's grip on her hand tightened, causing Suzy to flinch. That was the trouble with great big engagement rings—when someone gave your fingers a squeeze like that, those glittering diamonds really
hurt
.

“Thanks,” murmured Harry, his electric-blue eyes gazing into hers.

“Thanks for what?”

He smiled lovingly at Suzy. “You know what I'm talking about. I'm glad you didn't go.”

He squeezed again, bringing tears to Suzy's eyes.

Ooh,
ouch
.

At the Alpha Bar, Leo drew Lucille to one side, away from the crush of chattering guests.

“No Suzy?”

“She's visiting Harry.” Lucille diplomatically didn't mention Suzy's eruption into orbit upon discovering that she hadn't been properly invited to tonight's launch party. Instead, gesturing around the packed restaurant and bar, she said, “This place is fantastic. It's going to do brilliantly.”

“Especially once we get our resident singer.” Leo smiled down at her. “How are you fixed for Wednesday and Friday evenings? We can make it a regular thing, two nights a week.”

Lucille's stomach did a back flip. Her initial reaction, to jump for joy and stammer out her thanks, died in an instant.
I'm not going to put myself through that anymore, remember?

From now on she had to forget the dreams that were never going to come true, and concentrate on being practical instead.

Sensible.

Realistic.

And with a regular wage coming in.

Lucille took a deep breath. “It's really nice of you to offer, but I'd be more interested in waitressing five nights a week.”

Leo looked shocked. “Why?”

“I'm putting the other stuff behind me.” Biting her lip, Lucille prayed her voice wasn't about to wobble. “Giving it up as a bad job.”

For once, Leo was lost for words. He knew how much Lucille's singing meant to her; it was what she lived for.

“I don't understand. Look at you.” He indicated Lucille's figure, encased in a caramel silk cropped top and matching long skirt split to the thigh. Her beaded braids were fastened up in a topknot, emphasizing her huge brown eyes and swanlike neck. “You've got the face, the body, everything it takes—”

“Except the talent,” Lucille said simply.

Leo raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “That's not true. Your voice is amazing.”

“Thousands and thousands of people have a great singing voice. If you want people to sit up and take notice, you need a great song.” Lucille fiddled with the clasp of her clutch bag, clicking it open and shut, open and shut as she spoke, “I always thought that one day, maybe I'd write one. Now I know it's not going to happen.”

“How?” Leo demanded. “How can you know that?”

“Someone gave me their honest opinion.”

“Who?”

Lucille shrugged.
Click click, click click.
“Someone I trust.”

“Not Suzy, I hope.” Horrified, Leo said, “Oh God, tell me it wasn't Suzy!”

The expression on his face was a scream. Lucille started to laugh.

“I promise you it wasn't Suzy. Have you ever heard her singing?”

“I've heard
about
it.” Leo shuddered briefly. “And I had a narrow escape once, in her car. Luckily, she had
Riverdance
in the tape deck.”

“Luckier than you think,” Lucille said with feeling. “Suzy's one of the few people who can and does sing along to
Riverdance
.”

Leo realized she was trying to steer him away from the subject at hand.

“So who told you to give up the music?”

“Someone who knows what they're talking about.” Lucille straightened her shoulders and forced a bright smile. “Jaz Dreyfuss.”

Leo sighed, because Jaz clearly did know what he was talking about.

Still, what kind of bastard would actually come out and say it?

“Don't look like that,” said Lucille. “I asked him to be honest. I don't want to spend the next fifty years waiting for something that's never going to happen.”

“You'd rather be a waitress instead.” Leo's attention was caught by Gabriella frantically beckoning across the room; there were people over at the bar waiting to speak to him. “Look, we'll have to discuss this tomorrow,” he told Lucille. “If that's what you really want, then fine, we'll sort something out.” He went on evenly, “But I still think Jaz Dreyfuss could have kept his expert opinion to himself.”

“Don't blame him,” Lucille insisted.

Leo wondered how she was really feeling, beneath the brave exterior.

“I don't
blame
him,” he said. “I just wonder how he can sleep at night.”

* * *

Jaz couldn't sleep. By three o'clock in the morning he'd given up trying. Next to him, Celeste was out for the count, curled up like a dormouse on her side of the king-size bed with her left hand clutching her right shoulder. When Jaz pushed back the duvet she didn't even stir.

Maybe a swim would help.

Pulling on his toweling robe, Jaz padded downstairs. Yes, a swim, that might do it. Forty lengths of the pool should be enough to stop the endless churning in his brain. Maybe sixty lengths—that would tire him out physically and
force
him to sleep.

Eighty lengths later Jaz eased himself out of the dimly lit pool, his mind still racing unstoppably.

Jesus, it was like being back in the band, realizing that for a laugh someone had slipped speed into your drink.

Except this time drugs had nothing to do with it.

Instead—Jaz ruefully acknowledged—the cause was Lucille.

Naked and dripping, he gazed down at the orange lights shimmering up at him from the bottom of the pool.

The house was utterly silent.

To his left stood the door that would lead him back up the stairs to bed.

Directly ahead of him lay the pool—of course—into which he could always dive once more. Another eighty lengths would surely do the trick. Christ, thought Jaz, pushing both hands through his wet hair and quailing at the prospect. At this rate he'd end up swimming the equivalent of the English Channel in one night.

And then there was the door on the right. All he had to do was make his way along the narrow corridor running parallel to the pool room and open the heavy wooden door at the end of it.

It was what his brain was urging him to do, Jaz realized. It was what
he
wanted to do. But he was terrified, in case it was a trick. What if his brain was only doing it because it was desperate for a drink?

This was crazy,
crazy
. Jaz gritted his teeth. Music was the last hurdle. OK, he'd managed three and a half years. Which was good, of course it was, particularly when you took into account the fact that if he hadn't stopped drinking he'd surely have been dead by now.

But music was his life, it mattered more to him than almost anything. And without it, he knew he was leading an unfulfilled existence. His days were dreadfully empty.

Which was why, needless to say, he spent so much time swimming up and down this bloody boring pool.

“Right,” Jaz said aloud, dragging his toweling robe around him once more. “Let's go.”

Because if he didn't, basically, it meant the drink was still ruining his life.

As he made his way along the narrow corridor, it occurred to Jaz that the recording studio might not even
be
there anymore. It had been three and a half years, after all, since he had last visited it.

For all he knew, Maeve could have turfed out all that expensive equipment and transformed it into a launderette.

* * *

She hadn't. It was still there, just the same, exactly as Jaz remembered it.

His hands trembled as he closed the soundproofed door behind him. His heart crashing against his rib cage, his throat automatically craving bourbon, Jaz sat down on a swivel chair in front of the mixing desk.

Some part of him had half expected the studio to resemble Miss Havisham's dining room in
Great Expectations
, with inches of dust everywhere and spectacular cobwebs festooned like curtains from every mike stand.

It wasn't a bit like that, of course. Without once mentioning that she ever ventured down here, Maeve had kept the place spotless. Like a mother whose son has left home, Jaz thought with a brief smile, lovingly keeping his bedroom clean and ready for him in case one day he should decide to move back.

What would any of them do without Maeve?

The urge to get out of the room was powerful, but he'd come this far, and Jaz was damned if he was going to give up now. Forcing himself to stay put, he gazed fixedly at the mixing desk. Next, he ran his fingers over the controls.

He was really sweating now. The connection between songwriting and hard drinking was so powerful he could almost taste the alcohol in his throat. He longed to reach out for the bottle of Jack Daniel's he'd always kept right
there
, on the edge of the console, within uncoordinated groping distance of his left hand.

He'd never written so much as a single note sober.

Christ, more to the point, he couldn't
remember
ever writing a single note. For all he knew, someone else could have written every song in his entire back catalog.

Maeve, perhaps.

OK, maybe not.

Jaz sat there for another hour and a half, refamiliarizing himself with the control desk. He felt like a veteran pilot climbing back into the cockpit of a Spitfire fifty years after the end of World War II.

In theory he could probably still fly the plane, but he didn't try.

Just imagining flying the plane was enough.

When the studio door was pushed open, Jaz didn't hear it. Without touching anything, he was busy running through the process of laying down a track in his mind.

“What are you doing in here?”

Celeste's pale blue eyes were wide with disbelief. She was wearing her
Rugrats
T-shirt as a nightie and her baby fine white-blond hair stuck out all over her head like a dandelion puff.

“What?” Startled, Jaz came crashing back to the present. His own hair was drenched in perspiration and for a split second he didn't seem to register who was standing in the doorway. Then his expression cleared. “Oh, nothing. How did you know where I was?”

“The light was on.” Celeste pointed to the glowing red recording light, outside the studio door.

Jaz nodded.

“What time is it?”

“Six o'clock. I woke up and you weren't there.” She held out her thin arms and moved toward him, her bare feet making no sound against the soft spongy floor.

“I'm OK,” said Jaz. “Really I am.”

Celeste shook her head. She hated this room with its walls lined with weird corrugated foam. There were no windows. The smell of latex made her feel sick. Most of all, she didn't want Jaz to start coming down here again.

“You look terrible,” Celeste announced. “This isn't doing you any good. Look at you, sweating and shaking. I bet you wanted a drink.”

“Maybe I did,” Jaz said quietly. “But I didn't have one.”

“We're in this together, don't forget.” Celeste gave him a sorrowful look. “It's not just yourself you'll kill if you start drinking again. If you relapse, I'll relapse. And if that happens I could be dead in a couple of months.”

“I'm not going to relapse.” Jaz's knuckles were white as he gripped the sides of his chair.

“You don't
want
to relapse,” Celeste whispered, “but you can't guarantee it, can you?” She let out a sob and threw her arms around him. “Oh, please, don't do this. It's not worth it! We could both be dead by Christmas!”

She was hugging him tightly, her head buried against his bare chest. Jaz breathed in the smell of the Organics shampoo in her hair and gazed down at the fragile exposed nape of her neck.

Celeste was so vulnerable, and he owed her so much.

“OK, OK. I'm sorry.” He patted her shaking shoulders and eased her to her feet. “Come on, let's go back to bed.”