Thinking of You (12 page)

The club was busy, which was a relief. The music didn't stop nor did an eerie saloon-bar silence fall as they walked in. But heads turned, they had definitely been noticed. Aware of dozens of pairs of eyes upon her, Ginny realized she was being subjected to the lightning appraisal afforded each newcomer. The other women were sizing up the competition, their collective gaze flicking over her hair, her face, and her clothes. Gavin may have praised these people to the skies, assuring her that everyone was wonderfully friendly, but they weren't looking that thrilled to see her right now.

A quick glance around revealed that the women outnumbered the men in the club by about two to one, so their lack of enthusiasm was perhaps understandable. Ginny longed to run up to them and blurt out that it was OK, she wasn't here to snaffle their men.

But with Laurel at her side she could hardly do that.

Laurel said ruefully, “Well? Seen anyone you like?”

Poor Laurel. She couldn't wait to be out of here. If she had her way, Ginny would pick her man, twirl a lasso above her head, and bring him crashing to the ground. The sooner she'd captured him, the sooner they could go home.

“I think it might take more than twenty seconds.” Ginny briefly scanned the males on display wondering if there were, in fact, any she did like the look of. There was a wide-ranging choice—fat men, tall men, ones with hair and some without, men in trendy clothes and others wearing the kind of outfits their mothers might have chosen for them. Some were blessed in the looks department, while some… well, you could only hope they had sparkling personalities on their side.

But none, at first glance, made her heart beat faster. None of them was Perry-shaped.

However, there was one who was Gavin-shaped. Having spotted them, he made his way over. Her eyes narrowing, Laurel muttered, “He'd better not be rude to me.”

Which was a bit like hoping that a man-eating tiger wasn't going to take a bite out of your leg.

“Girls, girls, you made it! Excellent.” Gavin clapped Laurel on the back, almost flooring her. “You're going to enjoy yourselves.”

“I won't. I'm only here because Ginny begged me to keep her company.” Tetchily, Laurel said, “And don't call us girls. That's sexist.”

“Oh God, are you starting already? Would you rather I called you a middle-aged misery?”

“Drinks,” Ginny cut in hastily before Gavin
did
start calling her a middle-aged misery and Laurel stormed out.
Be nice
, she mouthed at her ex-husband.

“I am being nice,” Gavin retorted. “She started it. I don't see what's so terrible about being called a girl. But anyway,” he added as Ginny shot him another fierce look, “let's not bicker. We're all here to have fun, aren't we? Laurel, why don't I introduce you to a few of my friends…”

Wasting no time, he whisked Laurel off. Ginny approached the bar and ordered their drinks—an orange juice for Laurel and a vodka tonic for herself. In the mirror above the bar she could see Gavin introducing a clearly reluctant Laurel to a mixed group of people. Craning her neck, Ginny wondered if one of them was Hamish but since none of the men was wearing a kilt or brandishing a set of bagpipes, it wasn't possible to tell. Although he couldn't be that chubby one, surely, the one who looked like a Weeble, nor the guy in the orange cardigan who had to be sixty if he was a day.

“Are you Gavin's ex-wife?”

Turning, Ginny saw an attractive, interested-looking brunette of her own age, wearing a cream trouser suit.

“That's right. I'm Ginny. Hi.” Shaking the proffered hand, Ginny said, “How did you know?”

“Gavin told us you'd be coming along tonight. He said you were very pretty, like a young Goldie Hawn. Which didn't go down too well with the female contingent, I can tell you.” The woman smiled. “I'm Bev, by the way.”

“Maybe I should have blacked out some of my teeth and stuck on a big wart.” Ginny pulled a face. “Gavin did say everyone was friendly, but…”

“That's because everyone loves Gavin. He's our star performer. All the women want him and all the men want to be like him. But it doesn't work that way for us. And I know how it feels, believe me. The women aren't wild about me either.”

“Because they want to keep all the men here to themselves?”

“Not
these
men. They just can't bear the thought that one night George Clooney might walk in and they won't get first go at him.”

Entertained, Ginny said, “And is that who you're waiting for too?”

“Well, I wouldn't say no. But I've actually got a bit of a crush on one of the men here.”

“Really?” Fascinated, Ginny scanned the room. Not that one, surely. Or him, or him. Definitely not him…

“It's Gavin,” said Bev.

“Blimey.”

“I know.” Bev tilted her head in rueful acknowledgement. “It's hopeless. I'm forty! Maybe if I was ten years younger I'd stand a fighting chance, but I'm not. So I don't.”

“He might come to his senses one day, sort himself out, and realize it's time to settle down with someone his own age. I wish he would,” Ginny said with feeling.

“But you can't see it happening.”

“To be honest, no. More chance of George Clooney walking in here.”

“He'll just have to do, then. Poor old George, relegated to second prize. And you'll probably want him too.” Bev's eyes danced. “I'd have to fight you for him.”

If Ginny had her way, she'd never be coming here again after tonight. But she couldn't tell Bev she was only here because of Laurel.

“Speaking of George Clooney,” Bev added in an undertone, “here comes someone who looks… absolutely nothing like him.”

For the next ten minutes, Ginny chatted to Bev and an earnest bespectacled divorcé called Harold who was an accountant, forty-nine, and very keen on growing his own vegetables. He was even keener on explaining to her, step by step, how he grew them. After that they were joined by Timothy, a thirty-four-year-old butcher by day and would-be Elvis impersonator by night.

Elvis with a lisp.

“You might not think I look much like him now,” Timothy said eagerly, “but jutht wait till you thee me in my wig and makeup!”

And—not for the first time, Ginny suspected—he proceeded to demonstrate his moves. Since Timothy had wispy blond hair and a round pink face like a fat baby, it was as surreal as Princess Anne pretending to be Freddie Mercury. His white Lycra Elvis jumpsuit, Timothy told her with pride, had been made to measure and he'd thewn on every thequin himthelf by hand.

Jim was next, a math teacher whose wife had died three years ago. His interests were rock-climbing and playing badminton. “But not at the same time!” With an ear-splitting guffaw, Jim clutched his sides. “That would be dangerous!”

After hilarious Jim came David the cattle farmer, who was quite handsome in a ruddy, outdoorsy way and seemed absolutely charming but had an unfortunate saliva-spraying thing going on whenever he spoke.

“God, I'm so sorry, I've done it again.” Apologetically, David fished a large cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at Ginny's cheek. “It's because I'm nervous. I'm always doing it here, but when it's just me and the cows on the farm I'm fine.” It was a relief when Gavin came over and reclaimed her. He had his drawbacks, but at least he'd never sprayed spit in her face.

“How's Laurel getting on?”

“Great guns. Hopeless with the men,” said Gavin. “I warned her not to talk about Kevin but she couldn't help herself. Not the world's greatest chat-up line, telling men the reason you're not drinking is because you're on antidepressants because your boyfriend chucked you and you know you'll never get over him because he's the only man you ever loved. To be honest, they couldn't get away fast enough. Happily, I had the bright idea of introducing her to the three witches. Their husbands chucked them too,” he explained when Ginny looked blank. “Bitter doesn't begin to describe them. They spend all their time huddled together muttering about how all men should be drowned in a bucket at birth.”

“I thought this club was supposed to be friendly,” Ginny protested.

“Oh, come on, it's hilarious. And they're being friendly to Laurel. Look.” Gavin pointed them out, gathered around a table in the corner. Laurel was crying and talking and the three witches were nodding vehemently, evidently in agreement that Kevin was a bastard of the first order.

“So no joy with Hamish. Which one is he, by the way?” Ginny peered around hopefully.

“Not here. Hasn't turned up tonight.”

Typical. After all the effort she'd put into dragging Laurel along in the hope that she and Hamish might hit it off, he hadn't even had the decency to show his face. Oh well, it had been a ridiculous idea anyway, one of Gavin's mad notions. And since when had he shown an iota of talent for matchmaking?

Actually, speaking of matchmaking…

“Bev's nice, isn't she?”

“Bev's great.” Gavin shrugged then caught the look in Ginny's eye. “Oh no, don't go getting any ideas. She's not my type.”

Honestly, he drove her insane—was Gavin the most frustrating man in Cornwall?

“Because she doesn't wear skirts up to her knickers?”

He grinned. “That could have something to do with it.”

Ginny looked at her watch. “Do you think Hamish might still turn up? He could just be late.”

“He's always here by eight thirty.”

That was that, then. “Brilliant. What a waste of an evening.”

“Hey, don't get niggly. He'll be here next week.”

“But we won't be. I'm not doing this again.” Ginny couldn't face another evening here; people were starting to dance and some of them were people who should never be allowed to dance outside the privacy of their own bedrooms. This wasn't her kind of place. She could be out with Perry now, having a lovely time…

Except that wasn't quite true, sadly. She couldn't be out with Perry because he hadn't phoned her all week. And out of practice with dating though she might be, even Ginny knew it wasn't cool to ring the man and demand to know why he hadn't rung you.

“You know, you might not have to come back.” Gavin turned her in the direction of the corner table. “Look at Laurel.”

Ginny looked. Laurel was no longer crying. All four women were in hysterics, clutching each other and giggling like eighteen-year-olds.

“I didn't know she could laugh,” Ginny marveled.

“She's joined the coven. You mark my words; she'll be back every week from now on.” Modestly, Gavin said, “God, I'm brilliant.”

Was he? Could he actually have done something right? Deciding that he might have, Ginny gave him a grateful hug and was instantly aware of the waves of resentment being directed at her by all the single women in the room. Hastily she let go, stepping back and landing on somebody's foot.

“Ouch… thorry!” Wincing but putting on a brave face, Elvis Presley said, “I wondered if I could perthuade you to danthe?”

“Of course she will,” Gavin said heartily before Ginny could open her mouth.

The coven beadily watched as Timothy led her onto the dance floor. Ginny's heart sank as the music changed. Over in the corner the witches were sniggering.

Timothy, his mouth millimeters from her left ear as he steered her around, crooned happily along to “Thuthpiciouth Mindth.”

Thank goodness Jem wasn't here to see her now.

***

They drove home at eleven o'clock. Encouraged by the fact that the three witches appeared to have taken Laurel under their wing, Ginny said brightly, “Well? Not as terrible as you expected?”

Laurel looked shocked. “What makes you think that? It was
worse
.”

“But you made friends with the wi—um, with those women, didn't you? I thought you were getting on really well with them.”

Laurel said flatly, “They were awful.”

“I saw you laughing,” Ginny protested.

“It's called being polite. Sitting with them was awful, but marginally less awful than having to talk to the men. That's the only reason I stayed where I was.”

“So you didn't enjoy yourself.”

“Of course I didn't enjoy myself! Did
you
?”

“I thought it was… good.” Ginny gripped the steering wheel in order to lie with more conviction. “I mean, it's always a bit scary going somewhere new for the first time, but maybe if you tried it again next week you might find yourself—”

“Oh no.” Laurel shook her head with such determination that her long hair almost slapped Ginny across the face. “No, don't even
try
to persuade me.”

“But—”

“I've done it once and that was enough. To be honest, I didn't realize you were this desperate to meet a new man.” In the orange glow of the streetlamps, Laurel looked at Ginny as if she were a particularly slutty teenager and a severe disappointment to boot. “I'm sorry, but if you really want to go to that place again, you'll just have to go by yourself.”

 

“He still hasn't rung,” said Ginny.

Carla was on her living-room floor doing sit-ups, her flat stomach sheeny with perspiration but her ability to speak unimpeded. “Have you called him?”

“I can't.”

“So you're just going to wait?”

“What other choice do I have?”

Carla shrugged in mid-sit-up. “Call him.”

“No! The thing is, I don't understand it. He's so nice when I do see him. He really seems to like me. He said he'd be in touch and he said it as if he meant it. So I believed him.” Ginny heaved a sigh and glanced over at the TV, where a guilty-looking bearded character in an Aussie soap was being confronted by both his wife and his mistress. (“Noelene, ya don't understind, I kin explain ivrything…”)

Following the direction of her gaze, Carla said, “Maybe he's seeing someone else.”

This had already crossed Ginny's mind. “If he is, I wish he'd just tell me.”

Carla finished her two hundredth sit-up. Reaching for the phone on the coffee table, she said, “What's his number?”

“Why?”

“Because you're my best friend and he's treating you like dirt.”

“He doesn't,” Ginny protested. “That's the thing; when we're together, he treats me like a princess.”

“Are you working on Friday night?”

“No. Why?”

“Just give me the number.”

Ginny was torn between stuffing her fingers in her ears—her own ears, not Carla's—and listening to Carla giving Perry a hard time.

“Is that Perry? Hi, my name's Carla James, I'm a friend of Ginny's.” Carla was in brisk, don't-mess-with-me mode, pacing the living room as she spoke into the phone. “You remember Ginny; she's the one you haven't rung for the last week and a half.”

Ginny flinched and stuffed her fingers in her ears. Sadly it didn't block out what Carla was now saying.

“So I was wondering, do you have another girlfriend taking up all your free time? Or a wife perhaps?” Pause. “Sure about that? OK, in that case, have you decided you don't want to see Ginny anymore?” Pause. “Well good, I'm glad to hear that, although I have to say I'm not sure you deserve her. If you were my boyfriend, I'd have chucked you by now.” Pause. “Oh, don't give me that. We're all
busy
. If you want to see someone you just have to make time. So how about tomorrow night?”

By this time squirming for England, Ginny was amazed she hadn't disappeared down
inside
the sofa. Jumping to her feet she escaped through to the kitchen with the sound of an irate Aussie wife yelling, “Bruce, you're nothin' but a no-good lyin'
cheat
,” echoing in her ears.

By the time she'd finished noisily unloading the dishwasher, Carla came through to the kitchen looking pleased with herself.

“All sorted.”

“You bullied him into it,” Ginny wailed. “That makes me feel so wanted and desirable.”

“Hey, you gave me his number. You wanted to see him again and now you're seeing him. More to the point,” Carla said crispily, “so will I.”

“Why?”

“So I can check him out and give you my verdict. If I think he's giving you the runaround, I'll tell you. If I don't like him, you'll be the first to know. If I don't think he's trustworthy, I'll give it to you straight. Because you deserve better than to be mucked about by some smooth-talking bastard and I won't stand by and see you hurt.”

This was Carla all over, in-control and no-nonsense. She had never had a dithery moment in her life.

“You'll like him. You couldn't not like him,” said Ginny.

“Don't be so sure. So far he hasn't made the greatest impression. Anyway”—Carla took a bottle of Evian from the fridge and gulped half of it down in one go—“you're both coming along to the Carson Hotel tomorrow night.”

The Carson was Portsilver's biggest hotel, reopening in grand style following a refurbishment that had taken eight months and cost many millions. It had been a coup for Carla, who had sold them the biggest conservatory her company had ever built. Ginny already knew no expense had been spared for tomorrow's bash. Hundreds of people had been invited. On the one hand, she didn't want Perry to be seeing her because Carla had forced him into it. Then again, it would be a spectacular night out.

***

Ginny had never been inside Perry's shop before. Every wall was covered with printed T-shirts. Behind the counter sat a gum-chewing girl with surfer's hair and a lip ring, wearing a T-shirt that said I'M CLEVERER THAN I LOOK. To prove it, a copy of Tolstoy's
War
and
Peace
lay open next to the till.

“Hi, is Perry around?”

“He's in the back.”

After waiting for a couple of seconds, Ginny said, “So could I see him?”

“I expect so.” The gum-chewing didn't falter. “What's your name?”

“Ginny Holland.”

There was no flicker of recognition; clearly, Perry hadn't mentioned her to his assistant. Oh well.

“Just go on through.” The girl tilted her head in the general direction of the door and yawned widely.

Maybe the copy of
War
and
Peace
belonged to someone else.

Perry was in the back room unpacking boxes of T-shirts in every color. He jumped to his feet when he saw Ginny standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, I know you're busy.” Having rehearsed what to say, Ginny blurted the words out. “I just wanted to apologize for Carla; she gets carried away. And forget about tomorrow night, that's off too. So don't worry about it. Right, I've got to get to work and—”

“Whoa, hey, stop.” Perry reached out and grabbed her arm as she turned to leave. “What's wrong?”

Only a man could ask that question.

“Nothing's wrong. I just don't need other people making arrangements for me. And neither do you,” said Ginny. “So let's just leave it there, OK? I'm sorry Carla phoned you.”

“Stop saying sorry. That's my job.” Pausing, Perry studied her face. “I really have been busy, you know, getting ready for the start of the tourist season. But I should have phoned you. Your friend Carla was right to give me a hard time. And I would like us to go to the Carson tomorrow. Very much indeed.”

Oh God, more confusion. When he was looking at her like this and sounding so genuinely regretful, Ginny no longer knew what to do or say. She'd come here to be strong and now she was weakening again, because she so badly wanted to believe him.

“Please?” prompted Perry, drawing her closer and smiling his twinkly irresistible smile. “Give me the chance to make it up to you. We'll have a fantastic evening, I promise. And I'll do my best to prove to Carla that I'm not the heartless bastard she thinks I am. Is she as scary as she sounds, by the way?”

“Scarier,” said Ginny. It was no good; she couldn't hide her relief that he was saying all the things she'd hoped he'd say. “OK, I'll see you there tomorrow night.”

“Hooray.” He kissed her. “You're gorgeous.”

Oh, the bliss of his mouth on hers. “And I want you to win Carla over.”

“You're the important one. As long as I've won you over, I'm happy.” Perry's eyes danced. “Besides, what can Carla do to me?”

“Put it this way,” said Ginny. “You might want to wear a bullet-proof vest.”

***

It took Ginny, emerging from the restaurant kitchen, a couple of seconds to place the three women who had just arrived for lunch. Then it clicked. Eeurgh, the coven.

Worse still, Finn was greeting them and taking their coats because it was Evie's day off.

“I'm the duck, love. He's the crab.”

“Oops, sorry.” Ginny hastily switched the plates she'd just put down. Behind her, she could feel the witches turning their attention in her direction.

“Ginny, over here.” Finn beckoned her over to the bar where they had congregated to order drinks. “These ladies are saying they recognize you from somewhere.”

“It's Gavin's ex-wife, isn't it?” Up close, the head witch was heavily made up with lots of lime-green frosted eye shadow and an unpleasant gleam in her eye. “You came along to our club last night, dumped your friend on us. We didn't get a chance to speak to you, which was a shame.” Turning to Finn, she explained, “It's a singles club; we're very friendly. But some people don't like to waste time socializing with members of their own sex. Ginny here seemed far more interested in meeting the men. In fact I think you spent pretty much all evening talking to our men, didn't you? Nobody else got a look-in.”

Ginny squirmed. On the other side of the bar, Finn's face was a picture. Of course it was; only last week she had been outraged by Gavin's suggestion that she might like to go along to the club.

Finn, the corners of his mouth twitching, said, “You didn't tell us you were going. What changed your mind?”

Blood pulsated through Ginny's face; she didn't need to look in the mirror behind the bar to know she was the color of Campari. “I wanted Laurel to meet someone. I only went along to keep her company.”

The second witch smirked. “You didn't though, did you? You abandoned her. And she told us you were desperate to meet a new man, that's the only reason
she
agreed to go with
you
.” She paused to light a cigarette, blew out a plume of smoke. “Well, you certainly met plenty, by the looks of things. Timothy seemed pretty smitten when you were smooching together on the dance floor.”

Finn raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you had a good night.”

“He asked me to dance. It would have been rude to say no. And I didn't only meet men,” said Ginny. “I talked to Bev.”

“Oh well,
her
. She thinks she's a cut above the rest of us.” The third witch shook back her oversprayed, overstraightened hair. “She's man-mad too. Nothing but a slut. Nobody likes her.”

“I did.” Ginny reached for the leather-bound menus and handed one to each of the witches. “But I won't be going back to the club.”

“Shame,” Finn drawled. “Sounds like fun.”

“He's single, you know.” Ginny eyed the coven who immediately perked up. “If he thinks it's fun, why don't you persuade him to go along?”

Bingo. The first witch's eyes gleamed beneath layers of caked-on mascara. Clutching Finn's sleeve, she exclaimed, “Now that is an
excellent
idea.”

“And you wouldn't have to worry about being on your own,” Ginny told him breezily. “I'm sure these ladies would look after you.”

***

“Thanks for that.” Finn had waited until the restaurant was empty, the three witches having been the last to leave.

Revenge was sweet. Energetically clearing the tables, Ginny beamed at him. “My pleasure. You'll have a lovely time.”

“I'd rather throw myself off a cliff. Not that there's anything wrong with singles clubs
per
se
,” Finn said quickly. “I just couldn't handle those three being there, following me around. But there's no shame in being on your own and wanting to change that.”

Ginny contemplated explaining all over again then decided against it. The more she protested, the more of a desperate Doris she sounded. Instead she nodded and said, “I know.”

“Now, this isn't a date,” Finn announced when she returned from the kitchen to collect the tablecloths, “it's a straight offer. I've been invited to the reopening of the Carson Hotel tomorrow evening and I can bring a guest. If you want to come along with me, you can.”

Talk about a turn-up for the books. Clutching the mound of tablecloths to her chest, Ginny said, “You want me to go with you to a hotel? Aren't you worried I might steal a few bathrobes?”

Finn smiled. “I'll just have to trust you to behave.”

“I might not be able to. Will there be lots of single men there?”

“I'd say it's a possibility. That's why I thought you might enjoy it. And while you're talking to them, you can put in a good word for Penhaligon's.”

Ginny considered this. “So I'd be allowed to plug your restaurant and chat up men at the same time?”

“Absolutely. As many as you like.”

Maybe he meant to be helpful but she couldn't help feeling slightly patronized. Beaming at him, Ginny said, “That's really kind of you. But no thanks.”

“No?” Finn looked taken aback, rather like a do-gooder whose offer to have a lonely pensioner round for Christmas has been rejected.

“Actually, I'm already going along to the Carson do tomorrow night. With my boyfriend.” Was it yucky to call someone your boyfriend when you were thirty-eight? Oh well. “So I'll see you there.”

“Fine.” He looked amused. “Good for you. I just thought I'd offer.”

“See? I'm not as much of a charity case as you thought.”

“I didn't think you were a charity case,” said Finn. “Anyway, you can still plug the restaurant while you're there.”

“Of course I will.” As she swept past him with her armful of tablecloths, Ginny flashed him a jaunty smile. “If I'm not too busy having fun.”