So Now You're Back (2 page)

Lizzie took a cautious sip. ‘Wow, that's delicious. Who knew?'

‘Do you like it?' Halle tapped her flute to her daughter's, biting off the question she wanted to ask but never would.
Surely you must have tasted the real thing with your father before now?
Seeing as he lived in Paris and had always had the maturity of a housefly, she would have expected Luke to have introduced Lizzie to the joys of champagne years ago.

Lizzie did a discreet burp behind her hand and then giggled. A bright girlish sound that Halle heard so rarely now it always made her grin. ‘It's certainly better than the supermarket cider I got pissed on at my seventeenth birthday party.'

Halle stroked the stem of her glass. ‘I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.'

‘Don't you start.' Lizzie rolled her eyes, but her tone was
more playful than surly. ‘Would you believe, Dad wouldn't let me have a glass when we were out celebrating on Saturday night? Some bollocks about me always being his little girl and him needing more time to adjust.'

The flutter of contentment made Halle's chest swell.

So, Super Dad doesn't do every single thing right.

‘I told him I had my first drink when I was fifteen at Guide camp and that him still thinking of me as his little girl was a bit pervy, but he would not give in—even after he told me his news and we had tons more to celebrate.'

‘What news?' The contraband enquiry slipped out—probably as a result of the fruity frothy wine and the golden glow of contentment bestowed by her daughter's easy smile.

‘Dad's writing his memoirs,' Lizzie replied, the enthusiasm in her voice as effervescent as the champagne. ‘He's already been offered a big advance from some publisher in New York.'

‘What?' Halle's flute hit the hardwood surface of the banquette table, her bubble of contentment collapsing like a profiterole tower left out in the sun.

‘They might even make a film of it. And I'll finally get to go to some decent parties, instead of those boring book launches your publisher arranges.' Lizzie's tone took on a jokey whine. ‘Seriously, Mum, why have a party in the kitchen section of John Lewis for fuck sake when you could have it in a West End nightclub?'

‘Don't swear,' Halle replied automatically as the taste of pink champagne soured on her tongue. ‘What do you mean he's writing his memoirs? What memoirs?'

Luke Best didn't have any memoirs worth publishing. OK, he was an award-winning journalist. She'd give him that. But he wrote about other people's lives, not his own.
Nobody gave a toss about the messenger. They only gave a toss about celebrities. Celebrities like her. Or they would have, if she hadn't worked overtime with the help of her management team and her publicist to keep her private life strictly private and airbrush any mention of Luke Best from her past.

‘You know, his life story, that sort of thing,' Lizzie said, the eager excitement making it obvious she was completely oblivious to Halle's collapsing croquembouche. ‘And I'm a big part of his life as his only child, so it totally stands to reason I'll be a big part of—'

‘But he can't do that …' Halle interrupted, panic and horror combining into a perfect storm in the pit of her stomach—and threatening to rip open the ulcer she'd gotten under control years ago. ‘That's a breach of our privacy.'

Did he plan to porn out the most painful part of her life—a life he'd once ripped to shreds with careless abandon—to a bloody New York publisher? Was he mad? Surely this couldn't just be Luke's trademark don't-give-a-shit attitude. What he was planning to do wasn't just thoughtless, or reckless, it was unconscionable, bordering on vindictive. And it would have repercussions, not just for her but for Lizzie and even Aldo—whom Luke had never met but whose childhood he was going to happily destroy for a bloody publishing deal?

All the hurt and anger she'd kept so carefully leashed for so many years, that she had been sure until about ten seconds ago she'd totally let go of, rushed up her torso like a tsunami and threatened to gag her.

‘Mum, chill.' Lizzie lowered her glass and stared at her mum, whose face had gone pinker than the rosé tint of the
bubbles in her glass. ‘What are you getting so upset about? This isn't about you.'

She and her mum had had some major slanging matches in the past few years. But she'd never seen her mum this shaken. Ever.

‘It is about me. Of course it's about me! What else has he got to sell except intimate details of our life together?' The protest surprised Lizzie with its vehemence.

Lizzie had grown to hate her mum's yummy-mummy image, the one she cultivated on her TV show—the TV show that had come to mean so much more in her mum's life than Lizzie or Aldo—because she knew how fake that image was. But she would happily have the serene, relaxed and witty woman who had become a national treasure to millions back right now than the woman visibly trembling in front of her.

‘Mum, are you OK? You look weird.'

‘Shit.' The expletive burst out of her mum's mouth, disturbing Lizzie even more.

Mum had always been uptight about swearing. Not like her dad, who swore a lot. But her dad always swore in an offhand, colourful way that made Lizzie laugh—especially when he added, ‘Pretend you didn't hear that. Don't repeat it, and for fuck sake don't tell your mother.'

‘What's the problem with Dad writing a memoir?' she forced herself to ask, even though she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

Because she had a hideous feeling it would involve her mum finally saying something about her dad. Something she wasn't as sure as she'd once been that she wanted to hear.

As a child she'd tried to force her mum to talk about him. And vice versa when she was visiting her dad in Paris. But both of them had always maintained this freaky conspiracy
of silence all through her childhood, refusing to be drawn on the subject of their past, how they'd met, married, why they'd ended up apart.

She had friends at school whose parents had divorced and spent their whole time bitching about each other to their kids, so she had eventually stopped asking her own parents to talk about each other—because she'd rather hear nothing than a load of bad stuff. But that hadn't stopped her being ecstatic when her dad had mentioned the book he was writing. Not because they might make a film of it. She wasn't a total loser, she knew that was never going to happen, and if by some miracle it did, they'd get someone else to play her part—someone cool and beautiful and talented, like Scarlett Johansson. Not someone who was stupid and too skinny and had no tits, like her.

No, she'd been excited because she'd wanted desperately to read her dad's book. Not only was he a great writer—she'd read pretty much every article he'd ever written, so she knew that for a fact—but because he'd finally be writing about the one thing she'd always wanted to read. What had happened between him and her mum. In that fluid, focused way that could ‘unveil the beating heart of the human condition'. Well, that's what
Time
magazine had said on his profile, when he'd done a story for them about the murder of a socialite in Palm Beach.

Instead of answering the question, her mum locked the whisky-coloured gaze that Lizzie's brother, Aldo, had inherited onto her face, and a concerned frown formed on her brow. The concerned frown that Lizzie knew meant she was about to be lied to. Again.

‘It's OK, don't worry, everything will be fine. I just need to call Jamie and get the legal team on this.'

‘Why?'

Her mum placed a trembling hand on the table, then lifted her champagne glass and drained the lot, another sure sign she was freaking out, big time.

‘Listen, Lizzie, you don't have to worry about any of this.' Her fingers still shook on the glass. ‘It's between me and your dad, but it's really not that big a deal.'

Yeah, right. Not a big deal, even though you're swearing and sweating and knocking back champagne like an escapee from Alcoholics Anonymous.

‘You're going to stop Dad writing his book. That's it, isn't it?' she said, leading with her frustration so as not to give away how deflated she felt.

Why was her mum such a neurotic control freak? And why did she always have to ruin every single good thing that ever happened in Lizzie's life? Like when she'd first hooked up with Liam, and her mum had worried he was going to turn her into a drug addict because she could smell weed on him the one time she'd met him. Or when Lizzie had finally lost her puppy fat at sixteen—because she'd grown four inches in a year—and her mum had forced them all to go to family therapy because she'd panicked that Lizzie was becoming an anorexic and was on the verge of starving herself to death.

Perhaps if her mum spent more time actually being the Domestic Diva, instead of pretending to be her on TV, she wouldn't freak out all the time about nothing.

‘Excuse me, you're Halle Best, aren't you?' An ancient guy of at least fifty hovered next to their table, interrupting Lizzie's thoughts.

No shit, Sherlock.

Lizzie glared at the old git, but, as was always the case with her mum's fans, he didn't even see her sitting there.

‘My wife and I love your show.'

‘Thank you, that's very generous of you,' her mum replied, all the signs of her previous distress disappearing fast, until all that was left was the serene, polished and totally fake expression she always pasted on when she was doing her Domestic Diva act.

‘Do you mind? I hate to be a nuisance, but …' He presented a napkin to her mum, then pulled a pen out of his pocket—obviously not hating being a nuisance enough to not be a total bloody nuisance. ‘Could I get your autograph?'

‘Yes, yes, of course.' Her mum sent Lizzie a tentative smile—as if to say sorry for the interruption—before taking the pen and signing the napkin. But Lizzie already knew that apologetic smile was as fake as the rest of her mum's act. Her mum was probably rejoicing at being rescued by this jerk.

No way would she get a straight answer out of her now.

‘Y
ou are a bastard.
Salaud. Imbécile
.'

Luke Best ducked the jar of cornichon pickles that came flying towards his head and flinched as it shattered against the apartment wall. ‘Bloody hell, Chantelle. Calm the fuck down. Why are you so angry?'

‘I love you and you lie to me,' she cried.

‘No, you don't, and no, I didn't. I told you this wasn't serious from the start. It's not my fault you didn't listen.'

‘I hate you now.'

‘I get that,' he said as he edged towards the hallway. ‘Which is all the more reason for us not to see each other again. We haven't got together in months. You must have seen this coming?'

‘You see this coming,
connard
?' Chantelle grabbed an onyx ashtray with an Asterix figurine on it and let it fly.

He ducked again, but the heavy object spun in mid-air, hurtling towards him like an Exocet missile, and smacked into his brow.

Pain exploded.

‘Shit!' He touched the developing knot on his forehead and his own temper ignited. ‘Right, that's enough.' He
marched forward, grabbed hold of one hundred pounds of fuming French womanhood and wedged her against the wall, trapping her throwing arm. ‘Quit acting like the Madwoman of Chaillot and get a clue. We've been over since March and you know it.'

He'd tried to do this gently, tried to explain to her that their ‘relationship' had never been more than a couple of dirty weekends. But she'd refused to let it go. Refused to get the message. And finally refused to leave him alone while his daughter had been over for her eighteenth birthday.

And that had been the last straw. The nuisance texts and the hung-up phone calls whenever Lizzie answered his phone had been stalkerish enough, but Chantelle's sudden appearance at his place yesterday morning, wearing nothing but a coat, a thong and skyscraper heels, had made him see he had to sort this situation out.

He'd bundled the half-naked woman out of the building before Lizzie woke up, promising to trek over to Chantelle's apartment in the thirteenth arrondissement and ‘discuss their relationship' this morning, once Lizzie was safely back in the UK. So here he was, giving it to Chantelle straight, with no sugar-coating and no more avoidance tactics. And what did he get for his straight talking? A bloody head injury, that was what.

‘This is over, OK?
C'est fini
.' He gave her a slight shake to get the message across. ‘I don't want to see you around my place any more. No calls, no emails, no texts. If I don't answer them, it's because I don't have anything to say to you.' He'd hoped that might be a clue, but apparently Chantelle wasn't good at processing subtle.

‘You tell me this now, when we had sex like dogs all weekend?' She meant rabbits, he thought, but he didn't correct her, suddenly weary at the memory of how he'd originally
thought the way she mangled all his British expressions was so cute and sexy.

‘That was months ago,' he said, his temper dissipating as quickly as it had come.

‘Be reasonable,
cherie,'
he said as gently as he could manage while his brow was throbbing from her unprovoked assault. Chantelle was only twenty-five and hopelessly immature from the few actual conversations he could remember them having. ‘I told you right from the start I wasn't interested in anything big. This is going nowhere. You need to grow up and figure that out.'

And it was way past time his dick grew up, too, and stopped making stupid decisions that got him into these sorts of fixes.

Ever since Halle, he'd stuck to casual flings, because his life was complicated enough without inviting any more drama into it. But even with casual hook-ups you had to watch your step.

And with Chantelle he'd obviously missed a step.

He'd picked her up in a bar near his apartment in the Marais the night he'd put Lizzie on the plane home to London after their week-long pre-Christmas holiday in St Moritz. And an hour after Chantelle had served him his first drink, they'd been going for it in the bar's stockroom.

Why not admit it? He'd been feeling down, maybe even a little lonely. So he'd jumped on Chantelle and her come-hither looks. And used her for sex.

But he'd already known in that stockroom that Chantelle was needier than the women he usually dated. And while he couldn't have known then she was this unhinged, he still shouldn't have allowed himself to drift into a two-month affair with her.

He soon realised he hadn't picked the best moment to
consider where he'd gone wrong with Chantelle, though, when she sucked in a breath and spat in his face.
‘Salaud. Imbécile.'

He flinched, the spittle dripping off his nose and making the cut above his eye sting. ‘Yeah, I know, that's where I came in.'

He wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, ignoring the insults being hurled at him as he headed for the door. Better than getting sticks and stones and Asterix ashtrays lobbed at him.

‘You're not the only man in Paris,' Chantelle cried, her voice breaking, her sobbing breaths making a headache bloom under his injured brow. ‘I will find another.'

Standing in the doorway, he looked back at her. She was stunning in her fury, her thick dark hair rioting around her head, her eyes a rich caramel, glaring daggers at him like the Angel of Death, and her negligee falling off one shoulder and threatening to expose one full breast.

Thank Christ, she'd finally got the message.

‘Bonne chance avec ça.'
He sent her a mocking salute, before he slammed the door.

The sound of something crashing against the wood echoed in the stairwell, making him flinch as he jogged down the steps.

The chilly afternoon air in the apartment building's courtyard made the dent in his forehead sting some more. He hunched his shoulders against the pain, writing off the injury as collateral damage.

No more hook-ups with crazy ladies, especially if they have a better throwing arm than Shane Warne.

He headed for the metro station at Les Gobelins, resolving to stay celibate for a while. He had a perfectly good hand that had seen him through his horniest teenage years.
And, if nothing else, he needed to conserve his energy to navigate the perfect storm he had headed his way with Halle. Which he'd set into motion on Saturday night at La Coupole, when he'd told Lizzie about his book deal while they'd been celebrating her eighteenth at the legendary brasserie on Montparnasse.

She'd been excited and enthusiastic about the project, as he'd known she would be—enough to go home and blab all about it to her mother.

He sidestepped a kamikaze scooter as he crossed the busy boulevard and headed into the metro. The train barrelled into the station, its rubber tyres squealing on the rails. He scored a seat for the six-stop journey back to Châtelet before the metro car jostled into motion, the blank stares of the commuters endearing in their indifference.

He'd felt bad for manipulating Lizzie, but how else was he supposed to get Halle's attention? Despite countless overtures in recent years, she was still insisting on communicating every damn thing through their respective legal representatives, which, apart from costing him an arm and a leg, had really begun to piss him off.

No way could she still be mad at him. She'd had a hugely successful career not to mention other relationships. She'd even had another child. So the only motivation for the silent treatment now, that he could see, was stubborn pride and a desire to see him suffer.

Well, sod that, he'd suffered enough.

Halle had limited his access to his child to six weeks a year right up until she'd turned sixteen. And that lack of quality time was still screwing up his relationship with Lizzie now.

Once upon a time it had been a nice little ego boost to have Lizzie dub him Super Dad, because he was the one she did all the fun stuff with. But ever since Lizzie had hit
her teens, he'd begun to realise Super Dad was really just a euphemism for Superficial Dad. Then his daughter had let slip she'd been in therapy a year ago—and scared the shit out of him.

Emerging from the underground chaos of concrete and commuters at Châtelet–Les Halles, he crossed through the park situated above the huge interchange towards Rue Ram-buteau. Resentment simmered in his gut as he considered all the times he'd got his solicitor to contact Halle's solicitor to set up a meeting with her to talk about their daughter. And all the times he'd been refused, or stonewalled, or rebuffed, or simply ignored.

The mild miasma of sewage, traffic fumes and rotting vegetables from the nearby market blended with tree sap and brick dust from the gravel that surrounded the trees in lieu of grass. Like most Parisian parks, the one at Châtelet was utilitarian, functional and elegant in an entirely prosaic way.

He took a deep breath of the comfortingly familiar scent.

This city had saved him when he'd been stranded here sixteen years ago, broken and bleeding from wounds he'd thought would never heal. The hectic pace of life, the brusqueness and pragmatism of its inhabitants and, best of all, the anonymity had given him space and time to put the shattered pieces back together. He'd built a life here, and a career that, while not as phenomenally successful as Halle's, had given him everything he needed.

Or almost everything.

He touched his thumb to the bruise on his brow, the nagging headache starting to fade. Confrontations were not part of his DNA, he had never been a fan of unnecessary drama—occasional battery by Asterix ashtrays notwithstanding—but he was stronger, wiser and a lot more sorted than he'd been at twenty-one. He had a career he enjoyed, and he had
worked hard to be a good dad, but he wanted to be a better one. A more involved one. And he wasn't going to let Halle stand in the way of that any longer.

So he was getting off her naughty step, once and for all.

And the book deal was just his opening salvo.

He was through being treated as if his place in Lizzie's life was as important as a cat flap in an elephant house. Which meant forcing Halle to talk to him about his daughter, at length and at his convenience, where there was no chance of any five-hundred-pound-an-hour dickwads running interference.

‘What do you mean he's refusing to respond through his solicitor? How can he do that?' The knot under Halle's breastbone cinched tighter as she gaped at Jamie Harding, top City solicitor and the head of her legal team. ‘Surely if we threaten a court order to stop publication of his book, he has to respond?'

Jamie propped his forearms on his cherrywood desk, brushing the smooth wave of chestnut-brown hair back when it flopped over his brow. ‘I didn't say he hasn't responded. I said he's refusing to respond through his solicitor.'

‘What's the difference?'

Jamie let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Look, Halle, I know you've always preferred to communicate with Best through us. And that makes sense when it's a legal matter to do with Lizzie's custody. But she's been of age now for two years, and I'm not even sure this book's been written yet. Or if he's actually signed a contract. So if we start throwing our legal weight around, it could be counterproductive.'

‘How could it be counterproductive? I want this thing stopped. As quickly and cleanly as possible, before anyone finds out about it.' The hideous thought that people
would be able to read about her starry-eyed teenage self, that needy vulnerable girl who'd fallen for Luke Best's dubious charms, made her feel nauseous. She hadn't been able to think about anything else ever since Lizzie had broken the news about Luke's book deal yesterday evening. She'd spent a long night going over all the things Luke could reveal in his memoirs that would humiliate her beyond bearing, and, worse, allow the tabloid press to feast on all the stupid mistakes she'd made where that man was concerned.

The Domestic Diva wasn't just a bakery brand, it was a statement of purpose, a symbol of empowerment, that said to women everywhere, you can come from nothing and still make something of yourself. She didn't want people to know that her whole empire had been built on the pain, the loss, of being ceremonially dumped by an arsehole like Luke Best.

Wasn't it bad enough that the man had screwed her over once, without him wanting to do it again?

‘Halle, you need to think with your head here, not your heart,' Jamie said in that patronising tone that reminded her once again why she should never have slept with the guy.

It had been only one night, six years ago, after a party to celebrate her first book deal, and Jamie hadn't even been her solicitor at the time. She'd been horny and tipsy, Jamie had lingered to help clear up, or so he'd said, and they'd ended up in a lip lock over a dishwasher full of dirty champagne flutes.

The sex had been hot—because Jamie had surprising physical stamina for a desk jockey and was as goal-orientated in the bedroom as he later proved to be in the courtroom. But not hot enough to atone for the cripplingly awkward moment the morning after, when a four-year-old Aldo had run into the room to wake her up and accidentally bounced on Jamie's balls. Or all the times since she'd hired Jamie to
head her legal team—on the understanding that they would never mention their former indiscretion—when Halle had detected that trace of condescension in Jamie's tone.

Note to self: If you screw a man who later becomes your solicitor, expect him to assume he's your moral and emotional superior.

‘I
am
thinking with my head, Jamie,' Halle replied with exactly the same level of condescension. ‘Believe me, my heart hasn't been anywhere near Luke Best for a number of years.' Sixteen to be precise.

‘OK, well, let me spell it out, then,' Jamie said sharply, obviously miffed that he couldn't out-patronise her. ‘We haven't got grounds for an injunction until the book's actually under contract. All that flexing our legal muscles now would achieve—apart from costing you five hundred pounds an hour for my services—is to alert the press to the impending deal and make the advance publishers are willing to offer Best go through the roof. That's what I meant by counterproductive.'