Thinking of You (32 page)

It was a flimsy excuse but the best he'd been able to come up with at short notice. Finn felt like a teenager as he drove to Ginny's house, and it wasn't a sensation he was comfortable with.

Well, it hadn't featured in his life until recently. Having to work alongside her in the restaurant wasn't helping; his feelings for Ginny were flatly refusing to go away. It was killing him, not knowing if she felt anything for him in return. And now he'd made up his mind; he
needed
to know if there was any chance at all of some kind of future for them.

He pulled up outside Ginny's house, aware that it was a risky thing to do. The situation he now found himself in with Tamsin was impossible; he knew he didn't love her. Except there was Mae, whom he
did
love, to consider as well.

Shit, what a nightmare. But he was here now and he was going to tell Ginny the truth. Just like spotting a rare antique in an auction, you could maintain a poker face and apparent indifference for so long, but once the bidding started, sooner or later it became necessary to declare an interest. After that it was up to her; she could laugh in his face and tell him to get lost. Or she could say yes.

Either way, at least the agony of not knowing would be over.

Right, here goes. Finn switched off the car's engine and reached for the cardigan on the passenger seat. His stomach was clenched, his mouth dry, and he was about to make the riskiest bid of his life.

He rang the bell and watched through the distorted glass as a blur of pink approached the door. Recognizing Ginny's dressing gown, he pictured her naked beneath it before hastily banishing the image from his mind.

Talk about tempting fate.

Then the door opened and—
Jesus
.

“Hey, Finn. Good to see you!”

Completely wrong-footed, Finn found himself succumbing to Gavin Holland's enthusiastic handshake. As if mistaking Gavin for Ginny wasn't terrifying enough, he was now forced to make conversation with a man wearing a lace-trimmed pink dressing gown that failed to conceal his hairy chest.

“Excuse the outfit. I've just had a shower.” Gavin, evidently unconcerned, said cheerfully, “So what brings you here?”

Thank God he had his flimsy excuse. Finn held up the pale green angora cardigan and tried not to look at Gavin's bare feet. “Er… Ginny left this behind this afternoon. I was just passing and thought she might need it. Is she, um, around?”

“Upstairs, having a bath. We're going out to dinner tonight.”

We? Hoping he'd misunderstood, Finn said casually, “With that girl you brought to the restaurant that time? What was her name? Cleo?”

“No, no. Long gone, that one. My bimbo days are over now. I've seen the error of my ways.”

“Oh.” Ginny was upstairs in the bath and the ex-husband with whom she'd always remained friendly was wearing her pink dressing gown and announcing that he'd seen the error of his ways. And they were on their way out to dinner together. Fuck it, what was there to misunderstand? Swallowing that kicked-in-the-teeth feeling and marveling that he could sound so normal, Finn said, “Ginny didn't mention any of this.”

“Typical woman, she's not sure it'll last. I've blotted my copy-book too many times before for her liking. But I'm working on proving her wrong. It's taken me a while to come to my senses but this time it's for good, I just know it is.” Gavin paused, his eyes sparkling. “This is my chance to do the decent thing at last and I'm not going to waste it. Those pretty young creatures are all very well, but sometimes the more mature woman just has… you know, that edge.” He broke into a grin. “And if she heard me calling her a more mature woman she'd rip my head off.”

“Right.” Finn was out of here. “That's great,” he lied. “I'm pleased for… both of you.”

And then he left before he ripped Gavin's undeserving head off himself.

***

Ginny emerged shivering from the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

“When I said you could use my shower, I didn't mean you could use all the hot water. That bath was
lukewarm
.”

“Sorry.” Gavin, whose boiler had broken down, appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Anyway, how do I look?”

She softened, because the change in Gavin in the last couple of weeks had been a revelation. Whether it would last was anybody's guess—personally, Ginny was giving it two months, max—but he was certainly making an effort for Bev. “Very handsome. In an overweight, thinning-on-top kind of way.”

“Charming. Sometimes I wonder why I divorced you. Then I remember.”

“I divorced you,” Ginny retorted. “Hot-water hogger. But I like your shirt.”

Pleased, Gavin adjusted the cuffs of the smart, dark blue shirt he'd bought specially for tonight. It was the most ungarish one he'd ever owned.

“Bev said blue was my color.”

“Bev said this, Bev said that,” Ginny teased, because he was at that besotted stage where he liked to include her name in every conversation. “Who was that at the door earlier?”

Gavin was now busy admiring his smartened-up appearance in the hall mirror. “Hmm? Oh, just Finn. He dropped off the cardigan you left at work. Hadn't you better get ready? Bev's going to be here soon.”

Following a business meeting in Exeter, Bev was coming straight to the house before the three of them went out to dinner together. Ginny said, “Are you sure I won't feel like a third wheel?”

“Of course you won't. We'll have a great time.”

“No lovey-doveyness then. You have to promise.”

“My hands shall remain above the table at all times.” Gavin waggled them to illustrate. “Mind you, can't make any promises about other body parts.”

Ginny headed for her bedroom, combing her fingers through her wet hair, but not before flicking a playful rude hand gesture at Gavin in the hall below. He was in love—again—and it wasn't his fault she was jealous. She
would
enjoy the evening once she got her happy head on; it was just the mention of Finn that had knocked her off kilter. Sitting at a table for three was fine in its own way, but if her life could have been different, how much lovelier it would be to have someone of her own and be part of a table for four.

 

Ginny didn't know what she was missing. Carla, sipping ice-cold Moët, watched as Lawrence deftly worked his magic on her hair. Still desperate to make up for her previous transgressions, she had done her utmost to persuade Ginny to come along to Lawrence's for the cut of a lifetime, her treat.

But Ginny, blinking her bangs out of her eyes and too impatient—as ever—to wait for an appointment, had taken the kitchen scissors up to the bathroom and performed her usual snip-and-hack job. Annoyingly, her hair had looked fine afterward.

“See?” Ginny had executed a happy twirl, showing off her habitual no-style style. “Look how much money I've just saved you!”

Frustrated didn't begin to describe how Carla felt. “But think how much more fantastic it would have been if Lawrence had done it.”

Ginny had been unrepentant and Carla had given up. What Ginny didn't know—couldn't begin to understand—was that coming here to Lawrence's was about so much more than just perfect hair. His tiny one-man salon was possibly her favorite place in the world, rose-pink and womb-like, and Lawrence himself was a psychiatrist, therapist, and counselor rolled into one. You could tell him anything and he wouldn't be shocked. He loved to talk but never gossiped. Once upon a time he'd been married with children; now, in his early fifties, he was gay and happily ensconced with a policeman called Bob. Lawrence was funny and wise, adored by everyone, and a magical stylist; what more could you want from any man than that?

And
he served champagne. Oh yes, Ginny definitely didn't know what she was missing.

“You're better off without him, darling,” he said now. “Men like that? Professional heartbreakers, take it from me. And if you'd had a baby, what kind of a father would he have been?”

“I know that now. I was just so overwhelmed with the idea of it.” Carla took another sip of champagne. “I wanted a baby; it didn't occur to me that he wouldn't feel the same way.”

“Lots of men don't. After our first two, Linda wanted a third and I wasn't so keen.” Wagging his scissors at Carla in the mirror, Lawrence shook his head and said ruefully, “I tell you, never argue with a woman whose hormones are raging, because you'll never win.”

Carla knew he had three children, all grown up now, to whom he was extremely close. “So how did she get you to change your mind?”

“Fait accompli. She came off the pill without telling me. Oh darling, bless you for looking shocked!” Lawrence chuckled. “You're new to this game. It's what women do.”

“But how did she know you wouldn't leave her?” Until the Perry debacle, Carla had always prided herself on her honesty; it hadn't occurred to her not to tell him her plans.

“I loved my kids. Linda knew that once I was used to the idea I'd be fine. And of course she was right. Anyone ready for a top-up?” Lawrence added another inch to Carla's glass and refilled the one in front of the girl having her lowlights baked under the heat lamp.

Entertained, the girl said, “So it all worked out in the end?”

“Ask me what I'm doing tonight,” said Lawrence.

She glanced over at Carla in amusement. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Babysitting two of my grandchildren. The ones that belong to my youngest daughter.” His face suffused with pride, Lawrence said, “I have the best family in the world and I couldn't imagine life without them.”

“Oh God,” Carla wailed, “now you're making me want to have a baby again.”

“But pick a better bloke next time.” Lawrence shook a finger at her. “Find one who doesn't hate kids for a start.”

“Then what? Just go for it?”

“Darling, exactly. But in a subtle way.”

Pleasantly relaxed by the champagne, Carla grinned across at Lawrence's other client. “So announcing that I'd made an appointment to have my IUD whipped out probably wasn't my cleverest move.”

The other girl and Lawrence looked at each other in horror and gasped, then burst out laughing.

“But I thought he'd be pleased!” said Carla.

“Such a novice.” Lawrence patted her shoulder fondly. “Next time, subterfuge. Remember, you're the woman. You call the shots.”

“Unless it's condoms.” Carla pulled a face. “Not much you can do about them.”

“Yes there is.” The other girl winked. “That's easy. You just have to be discreet.”

Carla snorted into her glass; this was why she
loved
coming here. “Come on! You mean slip it off halfway through and hope he won't notice?”

“When I wanted another baby, my fiancé said it was too soon. Same as you did.” The girl pointed at Lawrence. “But my hormones were all over the place, and I
knew
I wanted another one. So I took this really fine needle and stuck it through every condom in the box.” She grinned. “All twenty-four of them.”

Carla clapped her hands in delight; she'd never have thought of that. “And he couldn't tell?”

“I didn't use a knitting needle. Just a teeny weeny one from a hotel sewing kit. And then you smooth over the hole in the wrapper with your finger so it's hardly visible.” Warming to her theme, the girl said, “Trust me: by the time you've got a man reaching for a condom, he's not going to be stopping to examine it under a microscope.”

“Did it work?” Carla was enthralled.

The girl waved her free hand and said airily, “Well, things changed. You know how it is. But hey, it could have worked.”

It could. Carla marveled at such subterfuge; it was reassuring to know she wasn't the only one seized by that desperate, primeval urge to procreate. And this girl had a child but hadn't let herself go, which she also definitely approved of. Her figure was fantastic and she was wearing casual but definitely expensive clothes.

“Right, that's you done.” Lawrence finished cutting and laid down his scissors with a flourish. “Now just give me ten minutes to deal with these lowlights and I'll be back to do the blow dry. There's a piece in here you'll love,” he went on, handing Carla a glossy magazine. “Irish woman gives up her baby for adoption, twenty years later the daughter traces her but the mother's only got days left to live—it'll break your heart.”

Carla took the tissues he was offering her. Unlike most hair-dressers who just dumped a mountain of magazines in your lap, Lawrence scoured them himself and singled out all the best articles for his clientele. He loved—and knew that they all loved—a good old tearjerker.

Lawrence led his other client over to the sink and began removing the dozens of foil wrappings from her head while Carla buried herself in the story. It was a tearjerker, so much so that she barely noticed the ringing of the girl's mobile phone. God, imagine realizing you were dying of cancer and not knowing if you'd get the chance to meet your long-lost daughter again before you kicked the bucket, then hearing the doorbell go one day and looking up from your sickbed to see—

“Oh,
hi
, so you got my text! How have
you
been?” The girl's tone was flirtatious; she wasn't speaking to her maiden aunt. Carla attempted to shut out the sound of her voice in order to concentrate on the magazine article. She was just getting to the really good bit.

“Of course I'm fine; why wouldn't I be? Everything's great. I just thought we could meet up, seeing as I'll be in London for the weekend anyway.”

This was someone she was definitely keen on. Carla carried on reading, tissues at the ready.

“Absolutely. It's a date.” The girl was triumphant. “I knew you'd want to. Now, shall I bring Mae? Ha, thought not! No, no problem, I'll leave her here. God knows I deserve a couple of days off. What would you like me to wear?” She paused then gurgled with laughter at his reply. “Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?”

Carla frowned. She'd been doing her damnedest to concentrate on the magazine article but a part of her brain hadn't been able to help semi-listening to the one-sided phone conversation going on behind her.

Had the girl just said Mae? And if she had, why did the name ring a faint but somehow significant bell?

Mae, Mae…

Carla froze, placing it at last. Bloody hell.
Mae.