When She Was Bad... (38 page)

She got her stuff out, and bought her own small townhouse in the Village. There were tears, but she was too busy to cry much or to pay this fresh heartbreak much attention. Breaking up with Edward was bitter-sweet. It hurt, but Lita knew it was the right thing.

Maybe she was a ball-buster. But Lita wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. She had let Rupert tell her what to do, and he’d ruined her. If Edward couldn’t take her as she was, he had to go.

Harry Weiss was thrilled to have her back. He showed her their

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campaigns for Rich-Milk chocolates and Panda lemonade. The clients were delighted, the products had made impressive gains. Lita thought she could have done better, but she knew she couldn’t design every campaign herself.

Harry had always found good talent. If she wanted to become a major player, she had to let him continue to do that.

‘Alternatively, you can design every ad yourself, and we can take on twenty-five jobs a year,’ Harry said dryly when he saw the shadow of

doubt on her face.

‘You’re right.’

‘I know I’m right.’

‘I’ll be taking another three months in London, to hire staff, start with the Wilson account, feed blind items to the trade journals.’ Lita flipped through the stack of congratulatory notes from clients. ‘This is great,

Harry. You need a larger bonus. How about another five per cent?’ ‘I’d rather have stock options.’ ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m not stupid, Lita.’ Harry grinned at the younger girl. ‘I see where this is going.’

Lita had arranged to get her stuff out of Edward’s place when he was at work. She unpacked carefully and put everything personal in storage in her basement. Then she went to a rentals agency and put her place on the market for a corporate let for two months, furnished.

‘I can’t believe you bothered with that,’ ,Harry said as he drove her out to the airport.

‘Take care of the pennies, man.’

‘Whatever that means.’ Harry wrinkled his nose. ‘Are you gonna be

OK in London, Lita? You don’t know anyone there.’ ‘I know Jocelyn Wilson.’ ‘I meant like friends.’

‘I can make some. Besides, who has time for friends? I’m gonna be stuck to my desk.’

‘My wife has some London friends. She can call them for you.’ ‘That’s sweet, but—’

Harry waved aside her protests. ‘You’ve got to have some social life, or you’ll have a nervous breakdown.’

Lita tossed her glossy chestnut mane. ‘Nervous breakdown? You make me laugh.’

‘Don’t tell me. You don’t have time for one.’

Jocelyn Wilson was as good as his word. He kept Lita busy. There was the ferry company account. Lita managed to sell holidays on that like

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they were exotic Nordic cruises. There was corporate PI:k, and

fall-out

from the planned sales of Lancaster’s bones, with the vultures from various industries hovering around. She spent the mornings interviewing and hiring staff; young, hungry, talented kids that liked T-Rex and Bowie and the Who and weren’t getting on at the big PI and advertising agencies.

Lita expected them to know her name. If you were an ad guy, you had to know the pulse of the business. She was hot in New York, and New Age, with its core of Doheny refugees, was a corner. If they knew that, and they dressed hip, she’d hire them. She made the London branch of New Age in her own image, and it wasn’t long before they got their first non-Wilson client. It was a contractor that built identical tract houses, red-brick little boxy things, each the exact specifications of the next.

‘Hideous,’ Trisha Wood, her newly hired number two, a former unpromoted but brilliant copywriter from Y&R, pronounced, when flipping through the brochure.

‘Secure. Convenient. Modern,’ Lita corrected her.

‘But of course.’ Trisha winked.

Their campaign for that one was a great success. Now, as it had always done for Lita, the phone started ringing off the hook. Not only was she the hot new girl in town, she made it a policy to charge at least twenty per cent less than the big agencies.

The only problem was her personal life.

Lita couldn’t sleep. Often she didn’t get back to her flat until ten at night, and then, even if she had a quick bath and bolted her supper so that she was in bed by eleven, rest eluded her. Counting sheep didn’t work, neither did the non-prescription sleep aids with cutesy names like Nighty-Night that just made her feel ill. She ignored it, of course, but after a month she found herself spacing out in a planning meeting.

‘Wake up, boss.’ Charlie Wall, one of their account executives, was shaking her. Lita blinked and came to. Two young creative executives were standing by their presentation and looking despondent. ‘I thought this stuff was great, and it’s making you fall asleep?’

‘Damn it.’ She passed one slender hand through her dark hair. ‘No, I’m sorry. The material was great. I’ve been sick. I have insomnia. Can we do it tomorrow? I’ll go home and take a nap.’

‘Here.’ Charlie scribbled a name and number on his yellow legal pad and shot it across the table to her. ‘This guy’s supposed to be fantastic. My sister went to him last month and he cured her.’

‘Thanks,’ Lita said. She excused herself and had her secretary make an

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appointment. His name was Dr Mark Conran, and he’d had a cancellation that morning. Could she come round right away?

Lita could. Despite her tiredness and her aching eyes, she really didn’t want to take a nap. Trying to sleep filled her with dread.

Dr Conran had offices in one of the old, elegant Victorian buildings in Queen Anne Street. Lita took an old, impossibly elegant elevator made of wrought iron twisted into interlocking fleur-de-lis that was hauled smoothly up an open stairwell by its thick cables, to a third-floor suite with a discreet-looking brass nameplate outside. His reception room was decorated with Colefax and Fowler wall fabrics in deep, luxurious red. The magazines were ranged neatly in a mahogany rack, and the couches looked antique.

Yeah, Lita thought. This is going to be expensive.

‘Miss Morales?’ A middle-aged receptionist in a stout tweed suit opened the door for her. ‘The doctor will see you now. Please, come

‘Thank you,’ Lita said. She walked into his offices, and the woman closed the door quietly behind her.

The inner office was decorated with similar masculine taste, all dark burgundy leather chairs, an examining bench and medical equipment hidden in dark mahogany cabinets. The doctor was sitting behind a walnut desk. He rose as she entered.

‘Miss Morales, isn’t it? I’m Dr Conran.’ ,

Lita placed him at about thirty-six. He had light brown hair, green eyes and under his starched white coat she detected an immaculate dark suit. He had a small gold signet ring and plain gold cufflinks. He was an imposing man, tall but not lanky, perhaps six feet two, and he had an aquiline nose and square jaw, aristocratic and h.ighly attractive.

Suddenly she wished she didn’t look quite so much of a wreck. It was a mild September day, and she had pulled on a light and simple pink wool dress and matched it with a sleek pair of heels, but that wasn’t going to change anything. Not with her skin sallow and her eyes reddened from lack of sleep. The circles underneath them were so dark

she looked as though somebody had given her a couple of black eyes. ‘Hi, Doctor.’

‘So you’ve been having trouble sleeping. Take a seat, please.’ He indicated the cavernous leather armchair in front of him. ‘Is this normal for you?’

‘No. It’s only been for the last month.’

‘Open the buttons on your dress, please.’ His cool eyes swept over

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her she obediently peeled the ivory buttons apart, and he placed a

as

cold stethoscope on her skin. Lita winced.

‘I’m sorry. Just a second.’ He listened for a few moments, then took it away. ‘When was the last time you had a full medical check-up, Miss Morales?’

‘Uh.’ She blushed. ‘Actually, I’ve never had one. I’ve been too busy.’ ‘For what?’ He looked her over. ‘Twenty-six years?’

‘Well, I was a model and then an advertising executive. It’s very busy work,’ she said sheepishly.

‘I see.’ He frowned. ‘And so, as a child, when were you last checked out?’

‘I wasn’t. We didn’t have health insurance,’ Lita explained, and her blush deepened on her smooth olive cheek. She hated telling this man with his obvious wealth that she had been poor.

He shook his head and wrapped a tube around her arm. ‘Make a fist, please.’

‘You’re taking my blood pressure.’

‘Correct,’ he agreed.

‘What does this have to do with my sleep problem?’

‘You need a full medical check-up, Miss Morales. Blood work, everything. Now,’ he added in a voice that did not brook argument, ‘please tell me about your work habits. Have you recently changed your routine?

‘Well, I’m setting up an office in England.’ Lita shrugged. ‘It takes work. I guess I’m working late. But I get into bed by eleven whenever I can.

‘And when do you get horn’e?’ he asked perceptively.

‘Ten,’ Lita admitted.

Dr Conran looked at her sternly. ‘Do you try to catch up with your sleep on the weekends?’

He unhooked his blood-pressure gauge. ‘One-twenty over eighty. Excellent. I’m going to draw some blood now. Make a fist, please.’ He

swabbed her vein with alcohol, and the green eyes bored into hers. ‘Not really. I guess I try and cat-nap. But I work weekends.’ ‘Saturday and Sunday?’

Lita nodded. ‘Nobody’s in charge but me, Doctor.’

Dr Conran pulled the needle out of her arm, filled with rich, dark blood. Lita glanced down and saw he had done it so precis.ely there was barely a visible puncture mark.

‘Miss Morales.’ He sounded severe. ‘You can’t sleep because you’re working yourself into the ground. You can’t return home at ten and hope to have unwound by eleven. You need to digest your food and

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have a little relaxation. Moreover, you can’t work seven days a week and hope to maintain mental and physical health. I want you to take a holiday at once, and in the future, structure your working day so that

you’re back home no later than seven p.m.’

Lita blinked, then laughed aloud.

Dr Conran looked at her levelly. ‘Something amusing?’

‘Sure, very amusing.’ She waved one hand dismissively. ‘It might be

news to you, Doc, but I can’t work that way. My company isn’t going to establish itself, and you have no idea of the time pressures I’m under. Please, just prescribe me some drugs and let’s be done with it, OK?’

In response, Dr Conran pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Mrs

Rogers, Miss Morales is just leaving. Please, get her address so we can

send the results of her blood tests to her.’

‘You’re kicking me out?’ Lita demanded furiously.

His expression was tight and unrelenting. ‘Yes, Miss Morales. I don’t prescribe drugs where none are needed. If you haven’t got time for your health, I haven’t got time to waste treating you.’

The door opened a crack and the secretary came in, holding a form. ‘Please, give us a minute,’ Lita said. ‘Certainly, madam,’ she said, and withdrew.

Lira wasn’t used to being spoken to in that manner. The doctor’s gruffness was a wake-up call. He was sincere enough to lose a rich patient over this.

Tm sorry, Doctor. I’ll try and do what you suggest. If you’ll treat

1Tie. ‘

He nodded slowly. ‘Very well. Now …’ He consulted his watch.

‘It’s already past two. I want you to take the rest of the day off.’

Lira wanted to say, But. She stopped herself.

‘Go to the Dorchester that’s my suggestion. They have a spa there.

You should get a massage. It’s ideal for stress relief. And consider taking

up exercise.’

Lita shivered. ‘Aerobics? Jumping around with Jane Fonda? It’s really

not me.’

‘I swim. You might want to consider that.’ He shook her hand in a

firm, dry grip. ‘Come back and see me next week.’

Lita took Dr Conran’s advice. It was hard not to. He was so sure of himself, she felt she’d be taking her life in her hands by doing otherwise. She had a massage, and while the masseuse gently kneaded her flesh she found herself thinking about him. She half drifted off, and in her unwary state, thoughts that would usually never surface bobbed up unchallenged. Like how tall and aristocratic-looking he was, how piercing

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those green eyes were. She loved the unusual striking good looks, the noble Roman nose and the air of command …

Stop that, she finally admonished herself. A crush on your doctor. That’s ridiculous.

But she found herself looking forward immensely to the next week’s appointment.

‘Welcome back.’ Dr Conran looked her over critically. ‘Let me see.

Yes, the circles have gone. You’ve been following my instructions?’ ‘Yes, Doctor,’ Lita said meekly.

She’d gone the full hog this time. She was wearing a skin-tight black leather catsuit, perfect now the weather had acquired a sudden chill. She’d added a little blush to her cheeks, had had her eyebrows freshly waxed, a manicure and a blow-dry at Vidal Sassoon. Her long, luxuriantly thick brown hair rippled over her shoulders.

‘Can you tug down your lower eyelid for me, please?’ he said, apparently unfazed by her wild lavender-and-emerald eyeshadow.

‘But I’ll smudge my mascara,’ Lita protested, then kicked herself. What kind of a bimbo would he think her?

‘Nevertheless, I need to see your lower eyelid. Yes, very good. You aren’t anaemic. I like to confirm first-hand what my blood work says.’ He went to sit back behind his desk, cool and impersonal. ‘Here’s your report.’ He handed her the test results.

Goddamn him, Lita thought. He could at least notice my outfit. I spent two hours on this.

‘Oh, and about your outfit, Miss Morales.’

‘Please, call me Lita, Doctor7

‘Very well. Lita.’ He smiled at her, and it was like his whole face lit up. ‘That outfit isn’t good for the circulation. It’s too tight, and it might disrupt your blood flow. That’s all.’