Kiss (51 page)

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Authors: Jill Mansell

BOOK: Kiss
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‘
Never, never
Understood how
The rest of the world
Felt, until now
.
Was I ever, ever
Alive before now
?
You showed me how
It could be
.’
 
 
And then an even greater roar of amazement and delight went up from the audience as, dressed all in black like the devil himself, Tash emerged from the backlit clouds of dry ice and made his way slowly towards Izzy. The unexpectedness of his appearance was almost too much for them to take in; for the first few seconds, when only his silhouette was visible, the crowd weren’t certain that it was actually Tash Janssen. But then, when the spotlights finally beamed down on him, they knew for sure and their tumultuous welcome brought the house down. Screams, whistles and frantic applause raised the noise level to new heights. Izzy, who still hadn’t turned to look at him, had to concede that the surprise appearance was indeed a master-stroke of planning. Tash might be a bastard, she thought, but he was undoubtedly a clever one.
 
‘
Never, never Understood how
,’ sang Tash, behind her. Seemingly startled, she spun around to face him just as his hand slipped around her waist, and the audience erupted once more. Tash, grinning broadly, murmured, ‘
Mi amore
,’ into the microphone, just loud enough for seven thousand pairs of ears to catch the whispered endearment. Then, expertly picking up on the missed beat, he resumed the song. ‘
Lucky me, lucky world,You’re a woman, not a girl
.’
 
The husky, powerful voice had enraptured every female in the building except Izzy. But this, as he had told her earlier, was show business and she could feign rapture with the best of them.
 
‘. . .
You taught me how To love. And now
,’ she sang back, her voice soaring with emotion, ‘
As long as I have you, You’ll al-ways, al-ways Have . . . me
. . .’
 
It was a triumphant finale. The audience, delirious with joy, simply refused to let them go. The applause went on for ever, reaching new heights when Tash finally signalled the band to lead them into ‘Kiss’. Izzy had already sung it alone, but it would be unthinkable now not to repeat it as an encore. Besides which, the audience knew the words so well themselves that when Tash broke off from singing, ‘
I want you to kiss me
,
To know that you’ve missed me
,’ in order to kiss Izzy, they could happily carry on without him.
 
The kiss, when it came, went on far longer than Izzy had anticipated, but since an undignified tussle was out of the question she had little choice other than to keep her mouth resolutely shut and tolerate it while the audience, avid romantics that they were, whistled approval and bombarded the stage with flowers.
 
‘
I want you to kiss me, to know that you’ve missed me
,’ whispered Tash finally, his fingers stroking the nape of her neck beneath her tumbling damp curls, his hips moving imperceptibly against her own. ‘And I think you
have
missed me, sweetheart . . .’
 
The explosion of flashbulbs was dazzling. Izzy, gazing adoringly up at him for the benefit of a thousand cameras, smiled and said, ‘If you think that, you really
are
deranged.’
 
Tash’s glance flicked momentarily to her heavy emerald-and-sapphire Bulgari earrings. ‘You wouldn’t be wearing those if I didn’t still mean something to you.’
 
Izzy fingered her left earlobe. ‘I like them.’
 
‘So you bloody well should! They cost nine and a half thousand pounds.’ He grinned. ‘But what the hell, you were worth it.’
 
Behind them, the band continued to play the refrain of ‘Kiss’. All around them, the concert hall reverberated to the sound of seven thousand word-perfect Italians singing the chorus. Just then, a Cellophane-wrapped bouquet of yellow roses sailed through the air, landing almost at Izzy’s feet.
 
‘See?’ said Tash, picking them up and presenting them to her. ‘They think you’re worth it, too.’
 
With her free hand Izzy swiftly unfastened first one earring, then the other. The next moment, before Tash had time to react, she’d hurled them into the audience.
 
‘You bitch,’ he said, the amusement dying in his eyes.
 
‘Not at all,’ countered Izzy sweetly. ‘These are our fans, Tash. Surely
they’re
the ones who are worth it . . . ?’
 
Chapter 54
 
In order to escape Gina’s claustrophobic attentions, Sam found himself inventing work and arriving at The Chelsea Steps earlier and earlier each evening.
 
When he let himself into the club at eight-fifteen on Tuesday night, four days after Izzy’s departure to Rome, only Sarah, the blonde receptionist, was there before him. Lounging on one of the charcoal-grey curved sofas adjacent to the main bar, she was eating a Mars bar and racing to finish a fat, lurid-looking paperback before work began. She glanced up with some surprise when Sam came in.
 
‘Well, I know why I’m here early,’ she said in reproving tones. ‘I hate my husband. So, what’s your excuse?’
 
‘I hate mine, too.’ Sam tipped her feet off the chair opposite, picked up her glass and sniffed it. ‘And I like to check up on my staff now and again. Is this straight bourbon?’
 
Sarah, a teetotaller and life-long Pepsi addict, giggled. Then, remembering something, she said, ‘Oh!’ and reached for her handbag, rummaging energetically until she unearthed a folded sheet of newspaper. ‘I saved this in case you hadn’t seen it. It was in this morning’s
Express
.’
 
The Chelsea Steps, with its illustrious clientele, was frequently mentioned in various gossip columns. Taking the clipping, Sam hoped it wasn’t a scathing comment upon the fact that one of the minor Royals had been observed leaving the club the other night slightly the worse for wear.
 
‘It’s OK, it’s not about us,’ said Sarah, reading his mind. Pointing to the photograph with a manicured damson-red fingernail, she added, ‘You’re a friend of Izzy Van Asch, aren’t you? I thought you’d like to see it. Looks like she and Tash Janssen are back together again.’
 
It certainly did. Sam had enough experience to know not to believe everything one might read in the papers, but it was hard not to believe this. The picture, taken at her concert in Rome, showed Izzy with her arms around Tash and an unmistakable expression of triumph on her face. The short accompanying article reported the concert’s riotous success and dwelt lasciviously on the apparent resumption of their affair.Tash Janssen, it seemed, had told the avid reporters that their temporary estrangement was now behind them, and that the lyrics of ‘Never, Never’ had never been more apt. The blissfully happy couple, furthermore, were staying at the Hotel Aldrovandi Palace and were rumoured to be extending their stay . . .
 
Sam wished he could dismiss the possibility that Izzy and Tash were back together from his mind, but Izzy’s unpredictability and notorious lack of judgement where men were concerned made it impossible. And if she was determined to pursue her career, as she had so ruthlessly informed him the other morning, who better to do it with than Tash Janssen?
 
‘I think she’s incredible.’ Sarah prattled cheerfully on, craning her neck to take another look at the photograph. ‘She’s nearly forty years old, but she looks younger than I do. Mind you, Tash Janssen’s pretty stunning himself. If they got married, they’d have the most amazing-looking children, don’t you think?’
 
 
The urge to socialise having temporarily deserted him, Sam remained upstairs in his office until nearly midnight, concentrating instead on a backlog of paperwork.
 
The phone on his desk finally interrupted him.
 
‘Meredith Scott’s here, Sam,’ announced Sarah, ringing from reception. ‘She’s just gone in, but she was asking for you so I told her you’d be down shortly. Was that OK?’
 
‘It rather looks as if it has to be OK,’ he replied, his tone brusque. Meredith Scott, one of the few child stars of the Fifties who had made the successful transition to adulthood and even greater stardom, simply wasn’t accustomed to rejection in any form. Now based in Hollywood and - handily - married to a plastic surgeon of some repute, she was an intermittent visitor to The Chelsea Steps and a wonderfully bitchy gossip whose innocent violet eyes belied a lethal tongue.
 
Her presence at the club, however, was good for business and Sam had always found her to be entertaining company. ‘Tell Marco to uncork the Veuve Clicquot,’ he said into the phone. ‘I’ll be right down.’
 
 
‘Darling, it’s been simply ages!’ cried Meredith, in time-honoured Hollywood fashion. Faultlessly de-bagged eyes sparkled with fun as she studied Sam carefully for a second before raising her face for a kiss. ‘And you’re looking more gorgeous then ever, I must say. Go on Sam, break my heart and tell me you’re married!’
 
Glancing with amusement at her shapely, astonishingly uplifted breasts, he nodded in the direction of her heart and said, ‘Don’t panic, it’s safe.’
 
‘Well, hooray for that.’ Smiling, she reached up and kissed him once more for good measure. ‘If nothing else, it does my husband the world of good to know there are still one or two handsome, eligible men on the circuit. Keeps him on his toes, you know . . .’
 
‘He isn’t over here with you?’ Sam poured the champagne and handed her a glass. Meredith Scott was always good value and his mood was beginning to improve.
 
She gestured dismissively in the general direction of America. ‘Poor man had to stay behind to do a chin-lift on some wizened old ex-president whose wife, I
happen
to know, is about to leave him anyway. I’m here to promote my new film. I have
the
most stultifying series of chat-show appearances lined up . . . I just know I shall fall asleep during one of them . . . so, I thought I’d at least seize the chance to have some fun first. Oh, and to make the most of my last few days as a forty-something. It’s my birthday next week, darling . . . the dreaded half-century . . . and my manager’s planning the most tremendous party for me. You simply must come!’
 
Sam grinned. Meredith Scott was fifty-five if she was a day, but who would ever dare to remind her of such an unpalatable fact?
 
‘Of course I will. But tell me about the new film. What’s it like?’
 
The awe-inspiring bosom, only semi-encased in plunging white velvet, heaved. ‘An absolute stinker! Every member of the cast hated each other, we all hated the director even more and the storyline’s putrid. But when you see me being interviewed on TV, of course, I shall praise the damn thing to the skies and declare it the most wonderful experience of my life.’ She paused and took a sip of her drink, then added with a trace of sadness, ‘I might not get any awards for acting in this Godawful film, but I deserve an Oscar for promoting it.’
 
‘It certainly sounds as if you need a good party to make up for it.’
 
But Meredith’s eyes had grown misty. ‘I think I’d prefer a good man. I do love my husband, Sam, but he isn’t here. I don’t suppose you’d consider doing the honourable thing? Escort a lonely actress back to her hotel and . . . keep her company?’
 
When he didn’t reply, she said falteringly, ‘I’m sorry, but a woman in my position has to be careful. And at least I know I can trust you to be discreet.’
 
 
She was staying at the Savoy. When Sam pulled up outside the entrance, he left the ignition running. In the darkness, Meredith managed a half-smile.
 
‘So, this is your discreet way of turning me down?’
 
The car was filled with the voluptuous scent of her perfume. For a fraction of a second, Sam wondered what it would actually be like to make love to a world-famous sex symbol.
 
Instead, he took her hand and gave it a squeeze. The fifteen-carat diamond on her wedding finger dug into his palm.
 
‘You’re happily married,’ he said, his tone gentle. ‘And although I’ve only met your husband a couple of times, I liked him. He’s a nice man.’
 
She nodded. ‘And now you’re being an honourable one. I suppose you’re right, really.’
 
‘You know I’m right.’ Leaning across, he planted a swift kiss on her cheek. ‘Come on, cheer up. Think of all those Oscar-winning performances you have to give in the next few days.’
 
With a rueful grin, Meredith said, ‘I could have given one for you, tonight. Except I don’t think they hand out Oscars for that kind of performance, more’s the pity. Hey, now there’s an idea for my party! Everyone gets an Oscar . . . Biggest Jerk, Most Repulsive Paunch, Least Believable Toupee, Smallest Willy . . .’

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