Good at Games (23 page)

Maeve was in her element that evening, fussing over Harry. She exclaimed delightedly over his glossy dark curls and sparkling blue eyes. She brought over all the food she had spent the afternoon lovingly preparing. She told Harry what a lucky fellow he was to be marrying Suzy, even if she did possess all the domestic skills of a beetroot.

Harry, in turn, flattered Maeve outrageously, made her laugh, and told her she was the best thing to come out of Ireland since Guinness.

You're wonderful
, thought Suzy, watching the pair of them together.
No,
you're
wonderful. Oh no no no, I'm not
nearly
as wonderful as
you…

“This is mad,” Lucille protested later, finding Suzy wrestling to get a clean cover on the spare duvet. “It's your apartment—you
can't
sleep on the sofa.”

“Really, I'll be fine. Give us a hand with this.” Suzy's voice grew muffled as the duvet cover fell over her head.

“But you should have my bed. Let me sleep on the sofa. Honestly, I wouldn't mind.”

“Maybe not, but I would.” Touched that Lucille had made the offer, Suzy emerged tousle-haired from the depths of the cover. “Anyway, it's not going to be forever, is it? Only three or four weeks.”

As they began fastening the ends of the duvet together, the doorbell rang. Leaving Suzy on her knees doing battle with the stubborn zipper, Lucille went to answer it.

To her delight, she found Leo on the doorstep.

“Have you changed your mind about the singing?” he asked without preamble.

“No.”

“OK. Well, I sacked one of the waitresses tonight, so you can take over if you like. Start at midday tomorrow.”

“Blimey.” Lucille's light brown eyes widened. “Not if you're the boss from hell. You only opened on Wednesday. How could you have sacked someone so soon?”

“She was treating the place like a dating agency.” Leo's tone was brisk. “More interested in chatting up customers than doing any work. So, are you interested?”

“Definitely. Midday tomorrow, I'll be there.” Lucille moved to one side, giving him room to pass her. “Are you coming in to see Harry?”

But Leo shook his head. “Can't stop. Ummm…what's the name of the guy who passed on my message this morning?”

Lucille gazed blankly at him.

“What guy? What message?”

“Doesn't matter,” said Leo. Leaning against the door frame with his hands thrust casually into his trouser pockets he looked thoughtful for a second. “Actually, I wouldn't mind a quick word with Suzy if she's around.”

Suzy came clattering down the stairs, out of breath and fresh from her triumphant victory over the duvet cover.

“Hi, Lucille said you wanted to see me. Harry's upstairs.”

“I know. He called me this afternoon.”

Suzy looked surprised. “And? Aren't you going to come up and say hello?”

“I have to get back to the restaurant. By the way, who was the fellow I spoke to this morning?”

“Haven't the foggiest.” Mystified, Suzy said, “Prince Edward? Steve Coogan? Elton John?”

Leo didn't smile. His mouth didn't even flicker. “He was here in your apartment, having a shower and cooking breakfast. Making himself very much at home.”

“Oh!” Catching on at last, Suzy said, “You mean Martin. Heavens, I completely forgot he was here…”

Her voice trailed away as she realized why Leo was surveying her in that unforgiving manner. Oh no, surely not. Surely he didn't think what she thought he was thinking.

“Right,” said Suzy, because he clearly did. “Let's get this straight. Martin is a friend, nothing more. He works for Curtis's, his wife has just kicked him out of the family home, he's staying at a friend's apartment, but it's a complete toilet. Martin was desperate for a shower so I said he could come have one here, and
that is all there is to it
. So I'd be grateful if you'd stop glaring at me, because I've done
nothing
wrong, OK, and I especially haven't done anything to deserve being glared at like that.”

During the course of this argument, Suzy had heard her voice gradually rising higher and higher and been powerless to stop it. The harder she tried to convey her total innocence, she realized, the more guilty she sounded. The expression on her face, she also knew, was the expression of someone clearly lying through her teeth but hell-bent on
looking
innocent.

And to add insult to injury, she'd gone bright red.

“If you're having an affair with this man…” Leo began softly.

Suzy stamped her foot.

“I'm not having an affair with
anyone
. Ask Martin! Go on,” she shouted. “Phone him up now and ask him! He'll tell you I'm not having an affair with him.”

“I'm sure he would,” drawled Leo. “Out of interest, why
did
his wife kick him out?”

Suzy knew when she was beaten. She would have bitten off her own tongue rather than tell Leo that Nancy had kicked Martin out because she was convinced he was involved with another woman. But she didn't have to. Reading the answer in her eyes, he laughed mirthlessly and shook his head.

“All these men you insist you're just good friends with. Harry might believe your excuses, but I'm not as gullible as he is. I've told you before”—he lowered his voice—“if you hurt Harry, you'll have me to answer to.”

Leo left, and Suzy leaned back against the door, marveling at the spectacular mess she'd gotten herself into. For a split second there, she'd actually been tempted to tell him she
was
having a rip-roaring affair with Martin. That way, she could rid herself of the twin burdens of Harry, and the strain of having to live a lie, in one fell swoop.

But there were those two innocent young children to consider, and their trip of a lifetime to Disneyland.

Then there was the effect it would have on Harry. This was his one chance to prove to Leo that he wasn't always second-best.

Oh God,
thought Suzy, closing her eyes. Not to mention the other possible complications. Knowing her luck, Nancy would hear the rumor about her and Martin and hire some local thug to dispose of the pair of them.

Harry could go berserk at the news and throw Martin off the bridge.

Or Leo, to save Harry ever finding out about me and Martin, might throw
me
off
, Suzy realized with a shudder. She could picture it only too clearly.

Bungee jumping off Clifton Suspension Bridge, without the bungee.

Lucille, appearing at the top of the stairs, said, “Has Leo gone? What are you still doing there?”

Scaring myself half to death, that's all
, thought Suzy.

“Nothing.”

“What I don't understand is why he came around,” said Lucille. “I mean, he's supposed to be at the new restaurant. He's in a tearing hurry… Why didn't he just call and offer me the waitressing job?”

Suzy shrugged.

Because he wanted to interrogate me, the bastard. And watch me go red.

Aloud she said, “I don't know.”

Lucille, who had clearly taken Leo's visit as a personal compliment, said delightedly, “I start tomorrow! Isn't that fantastic?”

“Fantastic,” echoed Suzy, wearily beginning to climb the stairs.
OK, look on the bright side. Be positive. I may be making a bit of a mess of my life, but things could be worse. At least I don't have to work as a waitress in one of Leo Fitzallan's restaurants…

“Suzy, Luce, GET IN HERE NOW,” Harry bellowed from the living room.

Oh God. Had he fallen? Was he bleeding internally? Having a heart attack?

“What's wrong?” gasped Lucille and Suzy simultaneously as they piled into the living room.

Harry beamed and upped the volume on the television with the remote control.

“They're showing that piece about me coming out of the hospital on
NewsWest
.”

* * *

By two o'clock the next afternoon, Lucille was getting into the swing of working in the restaurant at the Alpha Bar. She was serving a table and admiring the domed, mosaic mirrored ceiling along with the customers when she recognized the fractured, upside-down reflections of the two people who had just walked in.

Celeste was wearing a lime-green fluffy angora cropped top, a floaty short skirt the color of sherbet lemons, and silver high-heeled sandals with matching spiral ribbons in her hair. Just right for a quiet Saturday lunch, thought Lucille with a brief smile.

Jaz, in a black V-neck sweater and black trousers, caught Lucille's eye and winked. When the maître d' had ushered them to a well-placed table and finished seating them, he sidled up to Lucille and said, “They want you to serve them.”

Spot-lit at the far end of the restaurant, a slender brunette seated at a piano was playing music to eat your lunch by. Sometimes she sang, sometimes she didn't. Most of the songs were her own compositions—Lucille had already asked her—and they were OK, but they weren't great.

The brunette, needless to say, lived in hope.

“In a restaurant like this, you never know who could come in,” she had confided to Lucille. “One lucky break, that's all it takes. When Mr. Fitzallan called me last night and offered me the job, I was so excited I couldn't sleep!”

Lucille felt sorry for the girl. Thanks to Jaz, she no longer labored under the delusion that one day It Could Happen to Me.

“Our housekeeper has defected,” Jaz told Lucille when she arrived at their table. “The only person she's interested in cooking for is the invalid next door. We were forced to come out for something to eat.”

“So we thought we'd try this place,” said Celeste, gratified to see that they were the center of attention. Gazing around, pretending not to notice the eyes of the other diners on them, she said perkily, “I like it.”

Lucille handed them their menus. “How about something to drink while you're deciding what to eat?”

“Great,” said Jaz. “Perrier and lime for Celeste, large Scotch for me.”

Lucille gave him a look.

“OK.” Jaz's mouth twitched. “Make that two Perriers and lime.”

He was watching the pianist when she returned with their drinks, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened intently to her singing voice. He pulled a face and glanced up at Lucille. “She's garbage.”

“Shhh,” Lucille hissed, mortified. Subtlety just wasn't Jaz's thing.

“It's true. You're ten times better than her.”

“Will you keep your voice down?” squeaked Lucille.

“OK, OK.” Smiling broadly, Jaz sat back in his chair and glanced at the menu. “I'll have the seafood risotto, then the saltimbocca with linguine. But don't you wish you were sitting there instead of her?”

The abrupt change of subject caught Lucille completely by surprise; for a heart-stopping second, she thought he meant sitting at the table with him, instead of Celeste.

Even more heart-stoppingly, Lucille discovered, the truthful answer would have been yes.

Not that she'd have admitted it in a million years.

But that was irrelevant, because Jaz hadn't meant that at all. He was—
of course
—talking about the pianist.

“No.” Lucille shook her head firmly. “I'm glad I'm not.”

Jaz shot her a look of disbelief. “You can't be glad.”

“I am. I'd rather be a waitress, far more relaxing. It's like spending a day trapped inside a pair of jeans two sizes too small,” said Lucille, “then finally undoing the zip.”

“Ugh!” Celeste wrinkled her nose and put down her menu. “Do you mind?”

“So it's ‘good-bye, tight jeans,'” Jaz told Lucille with a grin, “and ‘hello, crimplene slacks with an elasticized waist.'”

“And stirrups. Don't forget the stirrups,” Lucille reminded him.

“Excuse me,” complained Celeste. “You're putting me
right
off the idea of lunch.”

* * *

As they were leaving the restaurant an hour and a half later, Jaz slipped an extra tenner into Lucille's hand.

“You've already tipped me,” Lucille protested.

“I know. Give this to the singer after we've gone.”

“I thought you said she was garbage.”

“She is,” said Jaz with a careless shrug.

Oh my
God
…

Lucille shuddered as the realization struck her like a brick. She'd always assumed that people had thrown money into her hat because they'd thought she was good.

It simply hadn't occurred to her that they might have been doing it because she was garbage and they felt
sorry
for her.

“Hey, are you OK?” Jaz was studying her with concern.

Feeling winded, Lucille nodded. There it was again, the Brutal Truth. Still, no point worrying about it; all that music malarkey was well and truly behind her. From now on, waitressing was her thing. She might even give up the dog walking and become a full-time waitress; after all, it would soon be winter and racing across the Downs for hours in subzero temperatures and driving sleet wasn't exactly what you'd call a seductive prospect.

“It's only half past three,” said Celeste. “Let's go shopping. I really need some new shoes.”

Lucille, who knew for a fact from Suzy that Celeste had over two hundred pairs of shoes at home, struggled to keep a straight face.

“I'm not sure.” Jaz frowned. “But I think I'd rather throw myself into a tank of man-eating sharks.”

Pouting, sliding her thin arm through his, Celeste said in a singsong, little-girl voice, “Oh, Ja-az, you know you don't mean that.”

Jaz rolled his eyes in good-humored resignation.

“OK. Come on, let's go.”