Thinking of You (15 page)

“It doesn't mean anything. He's just being friendly.”

“Hmm. Very friendly.” Davy raised an eyebrow and when Jem glanced over again she saw with a jolt that they were kissing. Suze's head was tipped back and her arms were wrapped ecstatically round Rupert's neck.

Jem hurriedly looked away and took a gulp of wine. The next moment, Lucy shimmied over and grabbed her hand. “Let's dance,” she shouted happily above the blaring music. “Come on, Davy, you too.”

By four o'clock the party was on its last legs. People were crashed out on sofas and chairs; those not fast enough to bag them had to make do with the soggy floor.

“Bed,” Lucy yawned, switching off the CD player and almost tripping over a snoring body behind the door. “Night, Davy. Night, Jem. Night, all you drunken bums.”

Acting normally was almost killing her but Jem had spent the last few hours doing it and she wasn't about to give up now. Rupert had spent the evening flirting with and enthusiastically kissing Suze Carson. At two o'clock, Patty and her bowl-smashing rugby player had left the party. Shortly after that, Rupert and Suze had disappeared into Rupert's bedroom and she probably wasn't teaching him first aid. Jem had given her best impression of a single girl without a care in the world while her stomach had been busy tying itself up in one giant knot.

Now, utterly miserable, she looked over at Davy and said, “Want me to phone for a cab?”

Davy sounded hesitant. “Well, you did say I could crash out here if I ever needed to. And it is pretty late.”

It was. She had. It was just so hard to concentrate when all you wanted to do was run down the hallway and hammer on Rupert's locked bedroom door yelling, “Stop it, stop whatever you're doing, STOP IT!”

Jem nodded. “Of course you can. Sorry, I just thought you'd be going home.”

“I told my mum I'd be staying here. She was OK about it, considering. One small step for man.” Davy's smile was self-deprecating. “One giant step for me.”

“That's great, Davy.” Jem wished she could summon up more enthusiasm for his triumph, because it was a big deal. “Good for you.”

“Don't worry about where to put me.” He gestured to a space on the carpet in front of the sofa. “I'll be fine here.”

The carpet was squelching beneath his feet and Tommy Beresford-Smith was snoring like a walrus on the sofa; if he tried to turn over in his sleep, he'd roll off and squash Davy flat.

“You can't sleep there.” Rubbing her tired, smoke-reddened eyes, Jem said, “Better stay in my room. The carpet's dry and I don't snore.”

 

It felt like five minutes later when Jem woke up but a glance at the alarm clock revealed that it was eleven thirty. Davy's impromptu bed of cushions and blankets on the floor was empty and the sound of male voices drifted through from the kitchen.

Jem crawled slowly out of bed, dehydrated and dry-mouthed with apprehension, just as the door opened and Davy walked in carrying two mugs of tea.

“Hi. I made these.”

“Thanks.” She took the steaming mug he handed her. “Is everyone else up?”

“Only Rupert.”

“I need a glass of water. Back in a minute.” Running her fingers through her slept-in hair, Jem made her way past Davy.

Rupert was in the kitchen looking disgustingly healthy and unaffected by the amount of drink he'd put away last night. He was wearing jeans and a wicked grin, and piling sugar into two cups of coffee.

“Morning, gorgeous.” He winked at her. “Sleep well?”

Sick with jealousy, Jem closed the kitchen door so they couldn't be overheard and said, “Did you have sex with her?”

“With who?”

“Scarlet Johansson.” Jem shook her head vehemently. “Who d'you think? That girl!”

“Oh, you mean Suze.
That
girl.” Amused, Rupert said, “Of course I didn't.”

Jem seized a pint mug, swilled out the dregs of last night's lager, and shoved it under the tap, managing to spray ice-cold water all over the front of her nightie. “I don't believe you.”

He shrugged. “Well, I can't help that. But it's the truth. We just crashed out.”

“You were kissing her.” God, it was horrible sounding like a neurotic nagging shrew, but what else was she supposed to do? He'd been
kissing
her.

“I thought you'd be pleased,” said Rupert.

“
Pleased!
”

“Lucy was suspicious about us. By taking Suze back to my room, I've put a stop to that. Stroke of genius.”

Jem swallowed. “Is that why you did it?”

“Yep. Well, that was one of the reasons.” Breaking into a grin, Rupert drawled, “The other one being to get her away from your pal Davy.”

“Why?”

“Why d'you think? To piss him off.”

“I still think you slept with her.”

“Well, I didn't. But fine, think what you like. Anyway,” said Rupert, “you can talk. What happened between you and Davy?”

“Nothing!”

He tilted his head. “So you say. But let's face it; he spent last night in your room, which has to be the first time he's ever stayed out overnight. What better way to celebrate?” There was a glint in his eye as he went on, “Bloody hell, what's his mother going to be doing now? She's probably spent the last six hours dialing 999. There'll be helicopters circling overhead, police divers searching the river.”

“He told her he was staying here. And he slept on the floor. You
know
we didn't do anything,” said Jem. “I
wouldn't
.”

“You mean I just have to trust you? Well, snap.” Dropping a lazy kiss on her bare shoulder, Rupert carried the mugs past her. “But remember, it's thanks to me that you've got Lucy off your back.”

She weakened. Even a passing shoulder kiss had the power to make her go weak at the knees. Watching him leave, Jem experienced a violent rush of longing. You knew you were a lost cause when you found yourself embroiled with someone who actually was sexier than Johnny Depp.

Back in the bedroom she drank her cooling tea and listened to Davy's brief telephone conversation with his mother.

“Yes, Mum, I'm still alive. No, I didn't take any drugs. No, the police weren't called. Mum, everything's fine. I'll see you later, OK? Yes, me too.”

Jem sat down on the bed. How awful to have such a clingy, neurotic mother. She watched as Davy ended the call then keyed in another number.

“Hi, it's me. Where are we and what time do we start?” He listened, nodding, then reached for a purple felt-tip pen on Jem's dresser and began scribbling down an address.

He didn't get very far.

“Right,” Davy said evenly. “I'll see you there.”

When he'd switched off his phone, Jem said, “Going somewhere nice?”

He shrugged and held out the scrap of paper upon which he'd written down the first line of the address. Jem frowned. “But… that's
here
.”

“Just my luck.”

“I don't understand. Who are you meeting up with?”

Davy puffed out his cheeks and rubbed the back of his hair. Finally, he said, “The rest of the team from Spit and Polish.”

Spit and Polish. The contract cleaning company hired by Rupert to come and restore the flat to some semblance of normality. More than a semblance, actually, given the prices they charged.

“I didn't know you worked for them,” said Jem.

“I only started a couple of weeks ago. A few hours on a Saturday, and again on Sunday. The money's not bad and it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Heaving a sigh, Davy said, “Rupert's going to have a field day when he finds out.”

***

Jem had done her best to chivvy everyone awake and get them out of the flat but it was like trying to shovel mud in a swamp. At twelve o'clock on the dot a bright orange van with Spit and Polish emblazoned in turquoise along each side pulled up outside the flat. Out jumped five ready-to-go cleaners in neon orange and turquoise boilersuits.

“Here they are then.” Turning away from the bedroom window, Davy said, “And brace yourself. The one in the headscarf is Rhonda.”

“Hello, my love, Spit and Polish at your service.” When Rupert opened the door he was almost knocked sideways by a mini whirlwind in a fluorescent orange headscarf. “Ooh, my Lord, cracking party by the looks of things, what a state, these walls are going to need some elbow grease.” Barreling past him and beadily surveying the scene of post-party chaos with her head on one side, Rhonda patted Rupert's hand and said, “Never mind, love, we're here now to do all your dirty work for you, we'll have this mucky old flat spick and span again in no time. My word, you're a handsome lad, aren't you? Now what we really need is for everyone to clear out of here and leave us to get on, then when you come back at three o'clock you won't recognize the place, that's a promise!”

“We'll go and grab some lunch.” Rupert counted the boiler-suited individuals piling into the flat armed with buckets and cleaning paraphernalia. “I thought there were meant to be six of you.”

“There are, love. The last one hasn't arrived quite yet but don't you worry, he'll be here in two shakes of a lamb's—oh my word, speak of the devil. Davy, love, you beat us to it after all! Janice, give the lad his overalls and we can get cracking.”

Rupert struggled to keep a straight face as Janice threw the orange jumpsuit at Davy, standing in the doorway. Davy climbed into it and zipped it up to his neck.

“You work for this company?” said Rupert.

“Yes, I do.”

“So you'll be cleaning my flat.”

“Looks like it.”

“Nice one. Don't forget to scrub the toilet, will you?”

“It'll be done,” Davy said evenly.

“But I'd really like you to be the one who does it. That'd make my day.”

From the kitchen, Rhonda yelled, “Goodness me, what a state! Davy, love, come and help me make a start in here.”

Rupert smirked. “Better get a move on, Davy, love. The kitchen, eh? In that case let's hope for less of the spit and more of the polish.”

***

Still on a high from last night, Ginny couldn't wait to ring Jem and find out how the party had gone. At one o'clock—surely it was safe to do it now; they couldn't still be asleep—she made the phone call.

It was picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

Not Rupert.
Good.
Ginny said brightly, “Hi, is Jem there?”

“Sorry, no. Everyone's out.”

“Oh. Right.” Did the male voice sound faintly familiar? “But you're there.”

“Yes.” There was a moment's hesitation. “Is that Jem's mum?”

“It is.” Caught off guard, Ginny said, “And who are you?”

“Davy Stokes. You probably won't remember, but you gave me a lift home to—”

“Davy! Of course I remember! How lovely to speak to you again. How
are
you?”

“Fine thanks.”

“So you must have gone to the party last night. I was just calling to find out how it went.” A thought popped into Ginny's head. “Oh my goodness, Jem isn't there but you are. Does this mean you and Lucy are an item?”

He sounded amused. “Wouldn't that have been good? Sorry to disappoint you. I reckon I'd have more chance with Claudia Schiffer.”

“So what are you…?”

“Doing here? Rupert hired a cleaning team. I'm one of the team.” Drily Davy added, “Which, it goes without saying, made Rupert's day.”

“I can imagine.” Ginny paused because she and Davy shared the same low opinion of Rupert; it was their guilty secret. On impulse, she said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away. Something about Jem?”

“And Rupert.” She chose her words with care. “Is there anything… well, going on between them?”

Davy sounded surprised. “You mean are they a couple? I don't think so. She hasn't said anything to me.”

“No?” Ginny wished she felt more reassured. “But would she tell you?”

“Look, I'm sure there's nothing going on. I slept on her bedroom floor last night. Rupert was with someone else.”

“Oh. Right.” This was more like it; this was far more encouraging.

“Have you asked her?”

“I haven't dared, in case she says yes. Anyway, you must be right if Rupert hooked up with another girl.” Ginny breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I'd better let you get back to work. Tell Jem I'll give her a ring later. And good luck with Claudia Schiffer!”

They said their good-byes—
such
a nice boy—and Ginny tried next to ring Carla, to see if she wanted to meet up for a spot of lunch. But Carla's mobile was switched off, which probably meant she was working, following up on all the leads she'd so assiduously collected last night.

Oh, well, never mind. Maybe head into town and go shopping for a new dress instead.

Or sit listening to Laurel relate the latest installment in the ongoing Saga of Kevin.

Ginny reached for her bag. Definitely go shopping instead.

 

Rupert had brought them to Pink, the latest trendy restaurant to open on Whiteladies Road, and the weather was warm and sunny enough to sit outside. There were ten of them altogether, and the champagne was flowing, easing the pain of last night's hangovers. Jem was feeling more relaxed now although she'd feel better still if Suze would give up, accept defeat, and go back to her sister's flat, leaving the rest of them to carry on without her. It was painfully obvious that she was crazy about Rupert, sitting next to him with a besotted smile on her face, clearly fancying her chances with him later if she just hung around long enough.

But it was just as apparent that Rupert wasn't remotely interested in her. The banter being batted back and forth across the table excluded Suze. Rupert and his smart friends down from London were on top form and Jem and Lucy were joining in, part of the team.

“Uh-oh, here comes the big boss.” Rupert grinned as the manager threaded his way between tables toward them. “Maybe he's going to kick us out.”

Jem hoped not. “Are we being too noisy?”

Rupert, his eyes glittering, said, “I can be loads noisier than this.”

“Me too.” Suze smirked and wriggled her chair closer to his. Jem rolled her eyes at Lucy. Inwardly, she felt like pushing Suze off her chair.

But the manager hadn't come over to ask them to leave. He explained to Rupert that a photographer from a glossy lifestyle magazine was here to take pictures to accompany a feature on upmarket restaurants in the southwest.

“Your table epitomizes our target clientele,” said the manager. “OK with you if we have some photos taken?”

“Oh wow!” Suze looked excited and began fluffing up her hair. “Cool!”

Which just went to show how completely uncool she was.

“Fine by me.” Rupert shrugged, glancing around the table. “Everyone else all right with that?”

The photographer joined them and Suze trilled, “Wait until my friends hear about this. I've never been in a magazine before! Ooh, I'd better go and re-do my makeup!”

How completely pathetic. Jem couldn't bear the possessive way Suze was clutching at Rupert's arm, emphasizing their togetherness. Everybody was probably a little bit excited about being featured in a glossy magazine but only Suze was making a show of herself by admitting it.

“Actually, could we move things around a bit?” The photographer swung into action, studying angles and indicating that a couple of chairs should be moved out of shot. Addressing Rupert, he said, “You stay there, I want you in the center of the shot. Now, I need a girl either side of you…”

“I fit that job description.” Simpering, Suze stayed put.

“You and you, could you two move closer together?” The photographer indicated Lucy and one of Rupert's raffishly handsome London friends, then looked from Jem to Suze. “And could you two girls swap places?”

Yes, yes, yes! Jem could have kissed him. The smile slid off Suze's face like an iced bun melting in the rain. And now the photographer was getting himself into position, concentrating his camera on Rupert's side of the table. As Jem slid into the seat sulkily vacated by Suze, Rupert draped an arm casually over her shoulder and murmured in her ear, “Welcome to the world of the beautiful people.”

“Could we just move the ashtrays out of shot?” The photographer made vigorous clearing gestures with his hands. “And cover up that wine stain on the tablecloth?”

“Where's Davy when you need him?” Rupert mockingly clicked his fingers. “Dammit, you can't get the staff these days. Still, just as well he isn't here—who'd want to bother taking our photos when they could take Davy's?”

“Don't be mean.” Jem said it automatically.

“I'm not mean. I'm just being honest. The guy's a loser.” Rupert lifted a bottle from the ice bucket and refilled their glasses. “I mean, be fair. Life is for living. Which would you rather do? Sit out here in the sun, drinking champagne, eating amazing food, and having your photo taken for a feature in a glossy magazine, or dress up in an orange nylon jumpsuit that frankly doesn't suit you and scrub out someone else's toilet?”

Lucy said easily, “You're such an obnoxious git, Rupert.”

He winked at her. “I know, but I'm a bloody good-looking obnoxious git. And I know how to have fun.”

The photographer was busily snapping away now. Everyone else outside the restaurant was watching them. Feeling special and glamorous and reveling in the attention, Jem shook back her hair—snap snap—and took a sip of ice-cold champagne.

There was no getting away from it, Rupert had a point.

***

Penhaligon's had been taken over for the evening by a work party celebrating their boss's fortieth birthday. Before they arrived, Finn and Ginny put the finishing touches to the dining room, as specified, including tying a bobbing silver helium balloon to the back of each chair.

Ginny tied the last one and stepped back to survey the effect. “It looks like a children's party.”

“This is what they wanted.” Finn shrugged. “And they're paying for it. Apparently it's a work tradition—they all unfasten the ends of the balloons after the meal, suck in lungfuls of helium, and sing ‘Happy Birthday' in Mickey Mouse voices.”

“Some companies have strange traditions.”

“And this is a firm of chartered accountants. There, all done.” Finn straightened a couple of chairs. “Let's hope they charged the balloons to expenses.”

From where she was standing, Ginny had a clear view of the courtyard. A small van had just rolled up and a man now emerged carrying a vast cellophane-wrapped bouquet.

“Did the accountants say they'd arranged for flowers to be delivered?”

“No.” Finn looked out of the window. “Could be for you, from that chap of yours.”

There was something ever so slightly offhand about the way he said it. Niggled, Ginny replied, “His name's Perry. And if he were sending me flowers he'd have them delivered to my house.” She managed to make it sound as though Perry sent her flowers at least three times a week, if not on a daily basis. Ooh, though, what if these were from him and he just didn't want to risk Laurel reading the accompanying slushy card?

“Hello, love.” The delivery man addressed Ginny cheerily when she pulled open the door. “Sorry, we've been rushed off our feet today, but better late than never, eh? Could you sign for these?”

She scribbled her signature and took the flowers, an excitingly exotic arrangement of striking blues and oranges. Then turned over the accompanying envelope and saw the name on the front. Bum.

“They're for you.” Ginny held them out to Finn, who raised an eyebrow.

“Why, thank you so much, how kind of you and how unexpected. Is this to thank me for being such a great boss?”

“Absolutely. Best ever. And these cost me a fortune, so a pay rise wouldn't go amiss.” Ginny watched him open the envelope, skim the card. “Who's it really from?”

“Catherine.”

“Zeta Jones? Now I'm impressed.”

Finn's mouth twitched.

“So? Catherine
who
?”

“Nosy.”

“Not nosy. Interested,” said Ginny. “You can't say her name then not tell me who she is.”

“You saw her. She was at the Carson last night. I just gave her a lift home, that's all.”

The curvy, sexy-looking brunette. Picturing her, Ginny said, “Dark hair, white dress?”

“That's the one.”

“And now she's sent you flowers? Must have been a hell of a lift.”

“We aim to please.”

Ginny knew she was being juvenile—he was single and presumably Catherine was too—but the faintly derogatory way he had referred to Perry had brought out her competitive side. “I'd say you succeeded. Will you be seeing her again?”

“Might do, might not. I haven't really thought about it. Actually, probably not.” Pulling a face, Finn said, “It feels a bit odd, being sent flowers by a woman. That's never happened to me before. You can have them if you like.” He was holding out the bouquet, offering it to her. It must have cost at least fifty pounds.

“No thanks. I don't want your cast-off flowers. Poor Catherine,” said Ginny. “She must really like you. You'll have to phone and thank her.”

He gave her a look. “Nosy
and
bossy.”

“I'm serious. Honestly, single men can be horrible sometimes.”

“Not speaking from experience, I hope.” Finn's tone was light but she was almost sure he was having another dig.

“Not personal experience, no. And I'm very happy with Perry. We had a great time last night.”

“Glad to hear it. Good for you. Well, looks like our party's arriving.” As Finn spoke, a convoy of taxis streamed into the yard. “I don't know which one's the birthday girl.”

Out of the second cab jumped a lively-looking blond in a bright red dress, wearing big plastic Mickey Mouse ears and a battery-operated flashing necklace proclaiming 40 TODAY!

“Call it female intuition,” said Ginny, “but possibly that one.”

“And she's their chief accountant,” Finn marveled.

Ginny tut-tutted. “Making snap judgments again. You think accountants don't know how to have fun. That's such a job-ist attitude.”

“You're right. I'll make it up to her.” Finn went to greet the party at the door, kissing the chief accountant on both cheeks before presenting her with the bouquet.

“Oh, that's so kind of you. Really, these are beautiful.” Delightedly the blond buried her nose in the exotic blue and orange blooms and came back up dusted with pollen. “So thoughtful! And you'll never guess what; my sister rang this morning and told me she'd met you last night! You gave her a lift home from the Carson, isn't that a coincidence?” Beaming, she went on, “Catherine said you were one of the nicest men she'd ever met!”