Making Your Mind Up (17 page)

Was something the matter with Amber?

It was Lottie's morning off and she was in the salon having deep red lowlights in addition to a trim, in an effort to cheer herself up and stave off the prospect of eternal spinsterhood. Normally she loved coming to the salon with its buzzy, gossipy atmosphere and comforting hairdressery smells, but the other girls were off today, which meant she and Amber were alone. And for the first time since Lottie could remember, the conversation wasn't flowing naturally.

What's more, the silences between her attempts at conversation were becoming downright awkward.

After struggling on for another fifteen minutes, Lottie said, “Amber? Is anything wrong?”

Behind her, in the mirror, Amber shrugged. “I don't know. Is there?” She paused. “You tell me.”

There was definitely something wrong. Lottie shook her head and the wedges of foil around her temples flapped like spaniel's ears. “Tell you what?”

Amber put down the flat brush she'd been using to paint dye onto the separate sections of hair. “About Mario.”

“Mario? He's fine. Honestly!” Lottie wondered if Amber had heard about Mario's brief flirtation with Karen Crane.

“I know he's fine.” Amber's gaze was steady in the mirror. “I just want to know if he's been seeing someone else.”

Lottie shifted, her fingers twisting together beneath the dark blue cape draped over her shoulders. As convincingly as she could, she said, “No, he hasn't.”

“I think he has.”

“Like who?”

Another pause. Then Amber said, “Like you.”

Lottie was so relieved she burst out laughing.

“Is that what this is all about?” she said finally. “You think there's something going on between me and Mario? Amber, I'd tell you if there was. But there isn't. I
wouldn't
, not in a million years! And that's a promise.”

Amber exhaled slowly. Finally she nodded, her pink-and-silver earrings rattling as she reached for the pile of foil squares.

“OK. Sorry. I believe you. It's just…I called into the shop yesterday and Ted was really surprised to see me.”

“Well, that's because you've been away for a couple weeks.”

“That's what I thought. Then he said he'd thought you and Mario were back together. Then some old dear chimed in with, ‘That's what I reckoned too, what with him spending every night at Piper's Cottage.'”

Village gossips. Couldn't you just tie them up and throw them in the lake?

“He slept on the sofa,” said Lottie. Then she shifted again, guessing what was coming next.

“The sofa.” Amber nodded. “That's fine. But what I'd really like to know,” she went on slowly, “is whose idea it was that Mario should stay over in the first place.”

“Well, the kids
loved
having him there,” Lottie began brightly, but Amber quelled her with a look.

“It was you, wasn't it? You made Mario sleep at your cottage every night. Because you knew he couldn't be trusted and it was your way of keeping an eye on him, making sure he didn't get up to anything while I was away.”

Amber was nobody's fool. Lottie shrugged, signaling defeat. “OK, I thought it wouldn't do any harm. You know what men are like, brains in their trousers. Mario wouldn't deliberately set out to do anything wrong, but let's face it; he's a good-looking bloke. And some girls are shameless. I just thought he'd be safer with us than going out with the lads from work and—”

“Forgetting he has a girlfriend,” Amber said bluntly. “Out of sight, out of mind. Or maybe what she doesn't find out about won't hurt her.”

“I'm sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing.” Lottie watched in the mirror as Amber deftly parceled up the last of the foil packages and wiped her hands on a cloth. “Should I have just left him to it?”

Amber sighed and flipped her sun-bleached bangs out of her eyes. “Oh God, I don't know. Why
did
you do it?”

“Because I want you and Mario to be happy and stay together forever. I think you make a great couple,” said Lottie. “And I don't want anything to jeopardize that.”

“For the sake of the monsters.” Amber's tone was dry. “Because they like me.”

“They
love
you. And that's important,” Lottie admitted. “Of course it is. I want them to be happy. I was just trying to help.”

Amber looked at her. “And what about me? Do you want me to be happy?”

“Yes! That's the whole point!”

“No, it isn't.” Pulling up a stool on wheels Amber said steadily, “The point is, could I ever really
be
happy with Mario? With someone I'm not sure I could ever trust?”

Lottie was alarmed. “But you've been together for, what, eight months now. You always knew what he was like. Mario's a charmer and a flirt, but you've always taken it in your stride—”

“I haven't.” Amber shook her head. “I just started off doing what millions of other girls do all the time. I thought that, deep down, I'd be the one to change him. I kidded myself that this time it'd be different, he'd learn from his past mistakes and realize that what we had was too special to risk messing up.” She paused and raised her eyebrows at Lottie. “I expect you thought that too, didn't you? When you married him.”

Yes, well. Lottie knew she had, of course she had. But she'd been nineteen. When you were nineteen it didn't occur to you that you might not be able to change someone for the better.

Conceding this with a shrug, she pointed out, “But he hasn't been unfaithful to you.”

“Thanks to you and the kids keeping him under house arrest.” Amber smiled faintly.

“He loves you.”

“I know. But does he love me enough?”

“So what's going to happen?” Lottie felt a stab of fear.

“I don't know. I'm still trying to decide.”

“But Nat and Ruby—”

“Lottie, I love them to bits.” Amber reached for a square of unused foil and began tearing it to shreds. “You know I do. But you can't expect me to stay with a man who's going to make me miserable, just to keep his children happy.”

“And his ex-wife,” Lottie reminded her. “You'd be keeping her happy too.”

Amber's mouth twitched. “You are shameless.”

“I wish I was rich and shameless.” Ruefully Lottie said, “If I had pots of money I could bribe you to stay.”

“Just as well you aren't then. Now, let's see how these are doing.” Scooting close on her stool, Amber began unfolding a foil parcel at the nape of Lottie's neck and carefully inspected the contents. “Not ready yet. Coffee?”

“Thanks.” Lottie nodded, relieved that at least the strained atmosphere had dissipated. Now at least the problem was out in the open and maybe between the two of them they could deal with it. Pulling a face she said, “Men, eh? Why can't they ever appreciate how lucky they are?”

Amber was busy spooning coffee into mugs. “Some do.”

“I suppose. But it's more likely to be the man who plays away, isn't it? Or always thinks the grass might be greener.” Lottie waved her arm vaguely in the direction of wherever the greener grass might be. “I mean, if I had a gorgeous man I'd never be tempted to lie or cheat. Neither would you. So why do—?”

“I have.”

“
Have
you?” Fascinated, Lottie said, “What, you've actually cheated on a boyfriend? Who was that?”

Amber carefully poured boiling water into the mugs, added milk, and stirred. “Mario.”

Lottie was stunned. This wasn't what she'd been expecting at all. “Seriously?”

“Oh yes, quite seriously. Sugar?”

“Two. My God, when did this happen?”

Amber said, “On vacation.”

“I don't believe it! You met someone in France! Oh my
God
!”

“Actually, I didn't.” Matter-of-factly, Amber handed over Lottie's mug and sat back down nursing her own. “We went to France together.”

Lottie's brain was in a whirl. She felt as if she was at a fairground trapped on the Tilt-a-Whirl. “But…you said…”

“I know. I told you I was going on vacation with my friend Mandy.” Cheerfully Amber said, “And no, I'm not a lesbian. I didn't go away with Mandy. That was a lie.”

Blimey. Lottie had to put her coffee mug down before she scalded her legs. “Who then?”

“His name's Quentin.”

Yikes.
Quentin?

“OK, I know what you're thinking. As names go, it doesn't exactly conjure up a picture of the ultimate hunk. Men called Quentin don't generally have movie star looks and rippling biceps, do they?” Drily Amber said, “And this one doesn't either. He's just ordinary. Nice, normal, and ordinary. We went out together a couple of years ago for a few months. It was one of those easy relationships, you know? Quentin phoned when he said he'd phone. He turned up whenever he said he'd turn up. He was a lovely boyfriend. Bought me flowers. Looked after me when I had the flu. He even lined up all night once to buy tickets to see Elton John in concert for my birthday.”

“Wow. Can't argue with that.” Lottie was openly envious. She'd have torn off her own arm for the chance to see Elton John. “But you broke up. So what happened?”

Amber shrugged. “I got a bit…bored, I suppose. When someone's that thoughtful, you find yourself taking them for granted. There wasn't the adrenaline rush, you know? I thought I wanted more excitement, someone who'd make my heart race and my knees go weak every time I clapped eyes on him. So I told Quentin I didn't think we had a future, that he was too good for me.” Her expression wry, she went on, “And Quentin said, ‘You want someone who's bad for you, is that it?' But being the gentleman he is, he didn't put pressure on me to change my mind. He said he hoped I found what I was looking for and that I deserved to be happy. And the next thing I knew, he'd quit his job and moved to London.”

“And now he's back.” Lottie was simultaneously shocked and enthralled. She knew she shouldn't be riveted, but she couldn't help it.

“He is.” Amber nodded. “He dropped in six weeks ago to say hi, but I was rushed off my feet so I arranged to meet him for a coffee after work. Just to chat and catch up. It was nice to see him again, that was all. Quentin told me about his work and what he'd been up to. I told him about Mario. He asked me if Mario was bad enough for me and if I thought I'd found the one I'd been looking for. I said I didn't know, but I was enjoying myself. And that was it. Twenty minutes in the café down the road.” Pausing to fiddle with her earrings, Amber went on, “Then that night Mario and I went to a party, and this girl spent the whole evening chatting him up. We were there as a couple, but she just completely ignored me. I felt like Harry Potter under his invisibility cloak. And Mario was chatting away to her as if nothing was wrong. He really didn't seem to notice what she was doing. Which made me furious. And started me thinking. So when Quentin rang my doorbell the next evening, I invited him in for a drink.”

“Just a drink?” Lottie's tone was mischievous.

“Yes. He'd brought me a little bunch of freesias. Then he told me he still loved me. And I suddenly realized that there were worse things than being loved by a genuinely nice man.”

Lottie bridled on her ex-husband's behalf. “Mario's a genuinely nice man too.”

“I know he is. But will he really make me happy? Or will he break my heart?” Amber shrugged. “Because it matters. And I'm telling you now, Quentin never would.”

“So just how serious is this thing between you?” The back of Lottie's neck began to prickle with alarm.

“I haven't slept with him, if that's what you mean.” Her eyes bright, Amber said, “Not this time, anyway.”

“But…but you've just been on vacation together! For a whole fortnight!”

“Separate bedrooms. The vacation was Quentin's idea. He knew how torn I was. I needed some time away from Mario before I could make up my mind.” Amber paused, lost in thought. “So technically I suppose I haven't been unfaithful. Does it count when you go on vacation with another man but don't actually do the deed?”

Wild with impatience, Lottie said, “And now?
Have
you made up your mind?”

“Nearly,” said Amber.

“
Nearly?
Tell me!” Lottie squealed.

“No. That wouldn't be fair. I have to tell them first.” Amber inspected Lottie's magenta lowlights again. “You're ready. Come over to the basin.”

As the basin filled with discarded foils and warm water cascaded over her tilted-back head, Lottie said, “I still can't believe you did it. You're worried that Mario might cheat on you so you go away for a fortnight with some other guy. Isn't that a bit…unfair?”

“Probably.” Energetically, Amber began to massage almond-scented shampoo into Lottie's hair. “But if Mario cheated on me, he'd be doing it because he was flattered or bored or just fancied a bit of hanky panky. I went away with Quentin because I need to make a decision that's going to change the rest of my life.”

“So you didn't sleep with Quentin. But you kissed him?”

“I did.” Standing behind Lottie, Amber sounded as if she was smiling. “Lots of times. And I know what you're thinking. I'm a hypocritical bitch. But I wasn't just doing it for fun. So I do have an excellent reason for being a hypocritical bitch.”

It was eleven o'clock in the morning. Cressida winced and clutched her aching head when she saw there was a new email from Tom waiting in her inbox. This was all Lottie's fault, coming over here last night with bottles of wine and getting her drunk. Then swanning off into the night, leaving her alone in a house with a computer connected to the World Wide Web.

And that was another thing. She'd had the
whole
world
to choose from. She could have sent embarrassing emails to people living in Alabama or Fiji or Tbilisi or Tokyo, and they would have been complete strangers, so it wouldn't have mattered one bit what lunacy she might have spouted.

But that hadn't happened, had it? She hadn't written to any of the other billions of Internet users on the planet—oh no, that would have been far too sensible. Instead she had sent her disinhibited outpourings of drivel to the man she liked most in the world, the man she was
most
keen to impress, and the man she
least
wanted to conclude that she was a complete idiot.

Cressida mentally braced herself. Too late now to wish she hadn't done it. And what was the worst that could happen, anyway? Tom could be writing back to tell her that she was a sad deluded loser and he'd be obliged if she'd never darken his inbox again.

Then she could just go quietly drown herself in Hestacombe Lake.

OK.
Click.

Hi Cress.

Well, it's only nine o'clock in the morning, but you've already brightened my day. Your email was wonderful. You say you look forward to mine, but I look forward to yours more, I promise you. No need at all to apologize for sending “Love and hugs” (which you did, by the way, followed by several kisses). I'm flattered. And definitely no need to be embarrassed.

Oh, thank heavens for that. Cressida exhaled slowly, giddy with relief. No need to drown herself after all.

And there was more…

Now, a suggestion. Donny mentioned Jojo last night. Despite feigning indifference, I think he's quite fond of her. When I asked if he'd like to see her again, he grunted and said, “Dunno,” which for a thirteen-year-old boy is pretty positive. (If I asked Donny if he'd like Keira Knightley for his birthday, he'd grunt and say, “Dunno.”)

So I was wondering if you and Jojo would like to come up to Newcastle next weekend. I could show you the sights, and there's plenty here to keep the kids happy. Donny has never had a female friend before, and I think it would be good for him to keep in touch with Jojo. She's such easy company and a genuinely nice girl.

Anyway, just a suggestion. I know it's a long way to travel, but if you and Jojo are free next weekend and would like to visit, we'd love to see you again. Let me know what you think.

Love and hugs,

Tom xxxxxx

Let him know what she thought? Let him know what she
thought
? It was all Cressida could do not to launch into a jig before throwing open the windows and bellowing
Yessssssss!
This must be how soccer players felt when they scored a winning goal in the Cup Final. Tom had
liked
her email! He hadn't been scared witless by her initial faux pas and subsequent drunken ramblings. He'd even signed off with
Love and hugs
and…how many kisses? Six!

And he was inviting them to Newcastle next weekend—what could be more fantastic than that? Breathlessly Cressida pictured Jojo and herself traveling up together on the train, being met at the station by Tom and Donny, the four of them spending the next forty-eight hours in a whirl of fun and laughter, maybe even
love
and
hugs…

OK, getting ahead of herself now. Talk about turning into a shameless hussy. But it would still be a brilliant weekend, and Jojo would enjoy it too; she was always up for a jaunt.

In fact, she'd leave a message on Jojo's cell phone now, before finding out train times.

Next weekend. Fizzy with excitement, Cressida reached for the phone. Next weekend she'd be seeing Tom again. Yes!

An hour later Jojo texted her reply:
Sounds great. Can't wait. Travel up on Friday night? Love J xxxx.

Cressida kissed the phone. She'd known Jojo wouldn't let her down.

Oh
yes!

* * *

The rest of her life might not be going according to plan, but Lottie was enjoying being a private detective. She hadn't been able to trace the second name on Freddie's list, Giselle Johnston, but since Johnston was her maiden name and she was now sixty-two, this was hardly a surprise. She had had more luck with the next name on the list. Fenella McEvoy.

“I've got her,” Lottie told Freddie, bursting into the living room of Hestacombe House and waving a sheet of paper in triumph. “Now you have to tell me who she is.” As he reached for the sheet of paper she snatched it away. “Before I give you this.”

Fenella. Freddie lit a cigar and smiled to himself. This was going to be interesting. “First you have to tell me how you found her.”

“Well, I wrote to the address you gave me and the man who lives there now called me back. He and his wife bought the house from the McEvoys twenty years ago. The McEvoys moved abroad, to Spain. But he heard on the grapevine a couple years ago that Fenella was back in Oxford, then last summer she walked past his house while he was out in the garden and they got chatting. She told him she was living in Hutton Court, an apartment block overlooking the river, and that she'd been divorced twice since leaving Carlton Avenue.
So
,” Lottie gaily announced, “I Googled Hutton Court and found a web designer who lives there and works from home. I rang and asked him if he knew a Fenella, and he said, ‘Oh, you mean Fenella Britton. She lives on the top floor.' You know, I am brilliant.” Lottie looked suitably modest. “If I say so myself, I'd make a fantastic international spy.”

“And now she's written back.” Freddie's eyes were on the letter Lottie was keeping tantalizingly out of reach.

“She has. Your turn,” Lottie prompted.

“Some people have a moment of madness.” Puffing on his cigar and picturing Fenella as she had looked all those years ago, Freddie settled back in his leather armchair. “I had a month. I was with Giselle. Fenella was married. I couldn't help myself,” he went on. “She was like a drug I couldn't resist. We had an affair.”

“And I thought young people had morals in those days.” Lottie tut-tutted as she handed over the letter. “You know what, Freddie? You were a right little tinker. Who dumped who?”

“She dumped me. As you young people so charmingly put it.” Remembering how devastated he had been, Freddie smiled and tapped the ash from his cigar. “Fenella was a high-maintenance woman. She already had a successful husband. Basically I just wasn't rich enough.”

* * *

Unlike Jeff Barrowcliffe who had been initially cautious, Fenella was overjoyed to hear from him.

“A voice from the past!” she exclaimed with delight when he called her. “Freddie, how wonderful, of
course
I'd love to see you again! Where are you living now? Near Cheltenham? Why, that's no distance at all! Do you want to pop up here or shall I come down to you?”

As easy as that.

Putting the phone down several minutes later, Freddie wondered why it couldn't have been that simple thirty-eight years ago.

The first time he had seen Fenella McEvoy she had been in a leather shop in the center of Oxford, choosing a pair of gloves. Freddie, dropping in to pick up a repaired watch strap, observed her trying on one supple dove-gray kid glove and one satin-lined pale pink one. Aware that she was being watched, Fenella turned and waggled her fingers at him. “Which do you think? To go with a white suit.”

She was stunning, as dark and elegant as Audrey Hepburn. Confidence emanated from her like French perfume.

“The pink ones,” Freddie replied at once, and she had flashed him a mesmerizing smile before turning back to the assistant behind the counter.

“A gentleman of taste. I'll take them.”

Freddie was already captivated.

Somehow they had left the shop together. As it started to rain outside, Fenella said, “Of course what I should have bought was an umbrella. I'm never going to find a taxi now.”

“My car's just over there.” Freddie pointed across the road. “Where are you heading?”

“Not only a gentleman of taste.” Cheerfully, Fenella moved toward the car. “A knight in shining armor too. And what a beautiful car.”

“Not that one.” Slightly shamefacedly, Freddie steered her away from the gleaming Bentley and unlocked the doors of his own less than gleaming Austin 7, parked behind it. “Still want a lift?”

Fenella laughed at the dig. “It's better than a bicycle made for two.”

He dropped her outside her house, an imposing Edwardian villa on leafy, upmarket Carlton Avenue. By this time he'd already learned that she was married to Cyril, who was fifteen years older than her. Cyril, it transpired, was something big in textiles.

“We're holding a cocktail party this Saturday.” Fenella's catlike smile was hypnotic, her tone confiding. “Seven o'clock. Would you like to come along?”

Freddie swallowed. He'd never attended a cocktail party in his life.

But he wanted to now, more than anything.

“The thing is, I've got this…um, girlfriend.”

Fenella's smile broadened. “Good for you. What's her name?”

“Giselle.”

“Pretty.”

“Yes, she is.”

“I meant her name.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“But I'm sure she's jolly pretty too. I couldn't imagine you with an ugly girlfriend.” Touching his sleeve, Fenella said, “Come along to our party, Freddie. Bring Giselle too, if that's what you want. I'd like to meet her.”

On Saturday night Freddie and Giselle had gone along to the McEvoys' cocktail party and spent the evening feeling uncomfortable. The other guests, all older and intimidatingly well-to-do, had been polite but uninterested in socializing with a young couple so clearly out of their depth.

“What are we doing here?” Giselle whispered.

“I don't know,” Freddie murmured back.

He found out twenty minutes later when, on his way back from the bathroom, he encountered Fenella on the staircase.

“She's not right for you.”

“Excuse me?” Startled, Freddie was nevertheless aware of how close her body was to his.

“I can always tell. What are you doing on Wednesday evening?”

“Seeing Giselle.”

“Make an excuse. Come and see me instead. Cyril's going to be away.”

Freddie began to perspire. “I can't do that.”

“Of course you can. Eight o'clock. Oh, cheer up, Freddie.” Fenella regarded him with amusement. “Don't look so shocked. You know you want to.”

And, hating himself but unable to help himself, Freddie discovered that he did.

Having thought that Giselle was the love of his life, the explosion of Fenella into his world came as a shock to Freddie. Giselle felt guilty about sex before marriage, and their infrequent couplings were marred by that. Whereas Fenella, already married, had no such compunction. On Wednesday night she seduced Freddie expertly and repeatedly. The sex was mind-blowing. Luckily Cyril was often away on business trips. He was a good provider financially, Freddie learned, but something of a flop in bed.

Unlike himself.

“You're working too hard,” Giselle complained four weeks later when he told her, yet again, that he wouldn't be able to see her that night.

“I know, but the boss needs me to close the deal. It won't be forever,” Freddie promised. And he knew it wouldn't. He and Fenella were meant to be together. Life without her was unimaginable. Hours later, in bed, he told her so and asked her to leave Cyril.

“Darling, how sweet.” Fenella ran her toes playfully along his bare leg. “But why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Because I love you!” Utterly bewitched, Freddie was taken aback by her failure to understand what was happening here. “We can't just carry on like this. I'll finish with Giselle. You can tell Cyril about us.”

Fenella giggled. “
What?
”

“You have to divorce him.”

“Heavens, he'll be furious!”

“This isn't about him,” Freddie said urgently. “It's about us. I want to marry you.”

“And keep me in the manner to which I'm accustomed?” Gesturing around the vast tastefully furnished master bedroom, encompassing the wardrobes bursting with expensive clothes and shoes, Fenella said, “Freddie, be serious. Exactly how much
do
you earn?”

Being plunged into a barrel of ice couldn't have shocked him more. Feeling his jaw muscles tighten, Freddie said, “I thought you loved me.”

“Oh, Freddie. I like you.” Fenella stroked his face. “Very much indeed. We've had fun together, haven't we? But it was never meant to be serious.”

Freddie noted her use of the past tense. He also realized that Fenella had done this before, and that while she didn't love Cyril, she had absolutely no intention of leaving him.

“I'll be off then.” Feeling crushed, foolish, and miserable, Freddie slid out of bed and began hunting for his hurriedly discarded clothes.

Fenella nodded sympathetically. “Probably best. Sorry, darling.”

Freddie was sorry too. He'd betrayed Giselle, who truly loved him. And now he'd made a complete idiot of himself.

Dressed at last, he turned in the bedroom doorway and said, “I'll see myself out. Have a nice life.”

“I will.” Nestled against the snowy white pillows, Fenella blew him a kiss and fluttered her fingers good-bye. Belatedly she added, “You too.”

Freddie sat in his car. It was over. Because he couldn't afford her.