My Book Page 10

  Already checked that somewhat off my list. By some bloke who was probably yucking it up with his plummy mates about that time he banged the pet-sitter.

  ‘It’s just for shits and giggles. That’s all.’

  ‘We’re not in business for shits and giggles, though, are we?’

  ‘You’re just feeling the pressure. First, the article in Hiya magazine and now the Evening News. But that’s what happens when you become half of the hottest power couple in London.’ She groans as though in pain. ‘Bolivia.’ Heavy emphasis on the B because she loves it so much. Beckett + Olivia = Bolivia.

  ‘Wipe that grin off your face. It’s such a terrible portmanteau.’

  ‘Port man what?’

  ‘Bolivia is a portmanteau of Beckett and Olivia, don’t you know?’

  ‘You mean like a name mashup?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She sighs. ‘Exactly like that.’

  So say that then!

  ‘Bolivia isn’t that bad,’ I counter. ‘After all, it might’ve been Olecket.’

  ‘All done,’ Heather announces, coming to stand by my side with a big smile on her face. ‘Name badges are by the door, profiles and pencils are on the table, and ice breakers are in the buckets. What’s next?’

  ‘I know,’ I answer. ‘Let’s make an early start on that prosecco.’

  * * *

  I only intended to have one glass; I am working, after all. After greeting the three Lust Island guys, who all seem very nice, polite Home Counties boys and not the loud, boorish lads Olivia had feared they would be, I facilitate introductions all around.

  Olivia, Our Lady of Romance.

  Reality TV totty.

  The Evening News crew.

  I offer drinks, show the latter where they could set up, then head off to help Heather with her duties as door bitch when my phone rings.

  ‘Give me two minutes,’ I tell her, making my way to the back of the bar where it’s a little quieter. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Miss Jennings?’ The voice on the other end of the line is one I don’t know. Male and, judging by the slightly reedy tone, quite elderly. ‘I’m calling about the ring you left with my colleague earlier today.’

  ‘Yes. The diamond solitaire. Is it ready to be picked up?’ Would it be bad to ask what it’s worth over the phone?

  ‘Yes.’ He draws the word out over several syllables with a hesitation that’s worrying.

  ‘Is there something wrong? You haven’t been robbed, have you?’ You hear about this sometimes—jewel heists or smash and grab robberies. The store didn’t seem to have a lot of security. Plus, the sales assistant said it might need to go to the branch in the city to be valued, because—

  ‘No, nothing like that. It’s just, well, I’m afraid this ring doesn’t possess a diamond.’

  ‘Have you lost it?’ I squeak.

  ‘No, the ring is in the same condition as when you left it.’

  ‘Then I’m not sure what you mean. There must be some kind of mistake.’ Maybe there were two customers named Jennings today?

  ‘This is the antique solitaire left under the name of Miranda Jennings, and this is the correct phone number left as the point of contact, yes?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. It’s an antique ring, right? A family heirloom.’

  ‘The ring itself is around seventy years old, but I’m afraid it looks like whatever stone was in the mount was replaced with moissanite. Probably quite recently.’

  The noise from the speed dating room suddenly makes it a little difficult to hear. I turn, holding my phone closer to the wall as I push my index finger into my other ear before asking him to repeat himself.

  ‘My dear, this ring isn’t a diamond. As I said, it’s moissanite.’

  No. That can’t be. Is this some kind of scam? I take in a diamond, and they try to palm me off with lies, or worse, I get something different back?

  ‘I’m not sure what that is, or what it is you’re trying to tell me.’ Only, I think I probably do. What is it they say? Something about denial and rivers in Egypt.

  ‘We can offer you money for the weight of the gold, but—’

  ‘I’m not interested in what the gold is worth,’ I almost shriek. ‘What the bloody hell is moissanite?’

  There’s a pause, which suddenly makes me worry that he’ll hang up, but before I can apologise for my tone, the old man speaks again.

  ‘Diamonds are found naturally, formed of the hardest material, and they possess such extraordinary beauty and worth. Moissanites are almost always manufactured in a lab, formed from silicon carbide. To the untrained eye, moissanites may look like diamonds, but they are not.’

  ‘You’re telling me the ring is worthless.’ My heart feels like it’s been dropped from a great height. I don’t know why I’m even asking when I know what the answer is. And I know why Cameron has been so desperate to get the fucking thing back.

  ‘Not worthless exactly. Just the price of gold, you understand.’

  ‘But there isn’t a market for used moissanites.’

  ‘No, not like there is for diamonds. I’m sorry,’ he adds kindly. ‘This has obviously come as a great shock to you.’

  ‘You might say that, but it probably shouldn’t.’ Not after what he did to me. ‘Thank you for your call. And your explanation. I-I’ll be in to pick it up tomorrow.’

  ‘Take care, my dear.’

  My hands drop to my sides, and I find I have to press my back up against the wall because it feels like my knees are about to give out.

  That bastard. That absolute fucking toad. But why am I surprised? He loved me so much he slept with my best friend, so of course he’s not going to think twice about giving me a dud ring. I meant nothing to him—I couldn’t have—because you don’t treat your enemies this way, never mind the people you profess to love.

  But then a little voice at the back of my head pipes up. It’s a tiny voice, weak and one that I could do without.

  You’re not shaking because the dickwad screwed you over. You’re shaking because he just took away your survival plan.

  I am over this week, this month—hell, this year! And as one of the bar staff breezes by with a tray of the E-Volve signature cocktails, I find myself whipping a glass from his tray.

  ‘Cheers.’ But he’s already gone as I throw the contents down my throat without even tasting it. Then I go looking for another.

  * * *

  ‘If at first you don’t succeed, get another drink and try another table. You’ll be amazed how much less you care.’ Glass in one hand, I snatch the note from the woman in front of me, twirling it high above my head. ‘Off you trot.’ I make a shooing motion with the fingers still wrapped around the glass, almost dropping it in the process.

  ‘The men are the ones who move tables,’ Olivia grumbles. ‘How much prosecco have you had?’

  ‘Just a couple.’ A couple of prosecco and more than a couple of cocktails. Along with my answer, I shrug, undeterred and unconcerned. It’s all right for her to be living in her big house with her handsome husband. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be shat on from a great height by the man who professed to love you—shat on twice—and she doesn’t know what it feels like to have your life slipping through your fingertips and not be able to do a thing about it.

  ‘Give it to me,’ she demands, taking the note from my hand.

  ‘Where’s your favourite place to have sex?’ Heather reads over my shoulder.

  ‘That would be telling,’ I think I say. Or think I think? It’s hard to tell as I find myself squinting to make the two Heathers merge into one.

  ‘It’s not as bad as the last one,’ she says to the boss babe.

  ‘Except she said his answer was in the bum.’ I snigger, rolling my lips together to mute the sound. ‘His favourite place to have sex is up the bum! Geddit?’

  Olivia glares, and Heather looks like she wants to shake me.

  Fuck it, I don’t care and display my lack of concern with another careless shrug. And po
ssibly a little stumble.

  ‘I bet it was one of the Lust Island guys,’ Ols says.

  ‘They did seem to have the sense of humour of fourteen-year-olds,’ Heather adds.

  Ah, Heather-feather. Don’t you know men don’t evolve? They get older, but they don’t grow up. They get crueller, but they never really . . . fuck, I can’t remember the word I was looking for. Not that it matters because neither of the pair is paying me any attention.

  Little boys. The little big little Lust Island boys. ‘They’re hot.’

  ‘Ew, Mir! One of them is wearing a pair of pink pants that don’t touch his ankles. ‘And white shoes. He looks like a Club Tropicana reject.’

  ‘Pssht!’ I wave a hand and accidentally slap Olivia’s shoulder. ‘They’re fashionable.’

  For some reason, Heather bleats at me like a sheep.

  ‘Miranda, go and sit down, please.’ Olivia’s expression is firm and just a teensy-weensy pissed off as she points to an empty booth at the other end of the room.

  Fine. These shoes are killing me anyway.

  I weave my way in and out of the tables, stopping to peek now and again at the things the attendees have written on their little scoring cards even though the words are mostly blurry.

  ‘Oh, dear.’ I pause at a table, a girl with blue hair and her four-minute date who’s wearing a lumberjack shirt with a big sticker on one side which reads “Chris”.

  ‘Hey, Chris. Four minutes are nearly up.’ I pluck the card from in front of him and close one eye to read it. ‘That’s cool. He likes you.’ I point my finger at the blue-haired woman on the other side of the table before bending and bringing my mouth level with Chris’s ear. ‘Sorry, mate. It doesn’t look like you’re scoring tonight,’ I might whisper. Or possibly hiss at regular volume. ‘Not after what she’s written on her card.’ Along with this, I hitch a thumb at his tablemate. ‘Never mind. She looks like a raspberry Slurpee, anyway.’ I snigger as I straighten before pressing a lipstick-y kiss to the top of his head. ‘And I don’t think you look like a boiled egg. Oops!’ I stagger a little, one shoe tripping over the other. Chairs scrape, and hands reach out to prevent my fall, but strangely, I don’t meet their pals, lurching backwards as arms bring my back into contact with a very firm something that feels a bit like a chest.

  I twist my head, bringing my ear in contact with a soft pair of lips.

  ‘Hello, Batgirl. Fancy meeting you here.’

  10

  James

  The stars have aligned!

  No need to buy a hamster or goldfish as a ruse, or risk a charge of stalking, because she’s here! And drunk. Somewhere between I’ve had one too many glasses of champagne tipsy and I’m off my face thanks to a bottle of Belvedere. But I don’t really care. Drunkenness is temporary. And because she’s here. The girl who’s been taunting me in my dreams.

  The lovely Miranda.

  ‘James!’

  From across the room, her sleeveless and mostly demure blue dress shimmers in the light like an aura, the hem fluttering flirtatiously around her knees. Up close, the fabric is slippery under my fingertips as she wraps her wrists at the back of my neck. How idiotic would it be to say my body seems to remember the shape of hers? Fuck it, I don’t care because it does.

  ‘Hello, Miranda.’ I’d forgotten how lovely she is, how wide those bee-stung lips stretched as she smiled. How heavenly they’d felt wrapped around my cock.

  ‘Why are you so pretty?’ she asks with a contented sigh. ‘Your eyes are the same colour as those disco chickens.’ Her nose scrunches as she frowns. ‘I forget the name of those things.’

  Disco chickens? I find myself chuckling even though it’s now apparent she’s nearer to Belvedere smashed than a little tipsy.

  ‘You mean peacocks?’

  ‘You’re so clever. Come here. I need to tell you something.’ She presses my head closer to hers, her lush lips now at my ear. ‘Guess what? I’ve seen your peacock-cock-cock.’ Her words are part song, part gurgling giggle. ‘I’ve seen it.’

  ‘You have, have you?’ So she’s one of those cute, entertaining drunks, rather than the crying or belligerent kind. Excellent.

  She nods. ‘And it was the biggest I’ve seen.’ Her eyes widen to roughly the size of dinnerplates. ‘So big.’

  ‘If you’re a very good girl, I might show it to you again.’

  ‘Nope. No repeats. It’s not allowed.’ We’ll see. I just need to sober her up a little first. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘Magic,’ I reply reasonably. But then her smile falls as she huffs, her hands sliding from my neck only to push against my chest. It’s as though my presence suddenly offends her.

  ‘Now I remember why no repeats. I’m not happy with you.’

  ‘Oh? I’m sure we can fix that,’ I answer suggestively and without thought. Not that it matters. She doesn’t rise to the bait. But even with her happy expression turned to disgust, she’s still utterly enchanting.

  ‘You left me in bed without saying goodbye.’

  Ah.

  ‘That’s not exactly what happened.’

  ‘Pfft! I’m not that drunk.’ She pokes me in the chest with one pale pink fingernail. ‘Pumped and dumped.’ Three more punctuating pokes. ‘Hit and split. That’s what you lot call it, right?’

  ‘My lot?’

  ‘Men,’ she spits.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve been hanging out with the wrong kind of men.’ I wrap her index finger in mine, lowering it to her side as I glance back at Beckett as I contemplate just how much he can hear from where he and Olivia stand. Beckett and his opinions can get fucked, but overhearing this conversation wouldn’t be the finest of first impressions to leave his new wife with. Defiling her employee before we’ve even had time to chat. Thankfully, both parties seem far too engrossed in each other to notice what’s going on around them. I find myself smiling. Marriage and Beckett were two words I’d never have put together before now.

  ‘It’s not funny.’ Did she just stomp her foot? ‘It was a total dick move.’

  ‘I’m sorry, lovely Miranda.’

  ‘You should be. You really, really should be because it was totally your loss.’ Pulling away, she shakes her head like a flighty thoroughbred.

  ‘And one I felt deeply.’

  While we might not have drawn the attention of our friends with our somewhat lively conversation, we do seem to have caught the attention of those around us. The speed dating attendees watch avidly for the next instalment.

  ‘Come and sit down.’ I slide my hand around her hip when her hands rise above her head as she begins flailing like a caught fish.

  ‘Get off me. You’re too late,’ she retorts, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing to the cheap seats. ‘You’ll have to find your kicks someplace else.’

  ‘I’m not here for speed dating, Miranda. I’m here for you.’ So she might not be the root cause, but she’s certainly the focus right now as I try to take her hand. ‘Let’s go and sit down.’

  ‘I can get there without your help.’ Chin tilted high, she pivots on her toes, then does a sort of drunken glide to a booth on the other side of the room. I stop a passing waiter and place an order. Then, a few moments later, I slip into the booth opposite where Miranda sits with her forehead resting against the back of her hands. Elbows wide across the tabletop, she doesn’t raise her head.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘I’m ignoring you,’ comes her muffled response.

  ‘There really is no need. It was all just a rather unfortunate accident.’

  Her shoulders shake with a bout of laughter that doesn’t sound very joyous. ‘Great. Just fab. A mistake . . . I’m a mistake.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I find myself snapping. ‘And sit up. I refuse to talk to your ponytail.’

  ‘It’s a bun.’

  ‘It’s a mess.’ A mess that spilled like sunshine across the pillows. A mess I want to wrap my hands in still.

  ‘It’s suppose
d to be.’ She draws herself upright with a scowl, her hands dropping from the table to her lap in the manner of a truculent teen. ‘It’s called a messy bun.’

  ‘That’s much better,’ I murmur, straightening my cuffs. ‘And stop looking at me like I ran over your dog.’ I might’ve killed her pussy that night, but I sense now is not the time for that conversation.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Before I can answer, a waiter dressed like a nineteen twenties era barrow boy sidles up to the booth with a laden tray.

  ‘You ordered coffee?’ It’s not really a question as he begins to lift the coffeepot from the tray.

  ‘God no,’ Miranda utters with a voluble shiver. ‘I’ll have an E-Volve cocktail if there are any more.’ She waves a languid hand in the direction of the bar. ‘Or a—’

  The waiter pauses in his actions, his gaze flicking back and forth between hers and mine.

  ‘Coffee will be just fine.’

  Her scowl turns to a glower as the waiter places the large, flowery pot onto the table, followed by the accoutrements of cups, cream, and sugar

  ‘And was the panini for you?’

  A rectangle of pallid bread sits on an equally flowery plate. I asked for toast, but this is near enough, I suppose. I nod but don’t look at him as I answer because as my gaze lifts to Miranda’s, she appears to engage me in some kind of staring competition.

  ‘And a bottle of water.’ The waiter straightens, tray clasped to his side like a shield.

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘Have you got the munchies?’ Her mutinous words run together, and she hiccups as he withdraws. ‘Coming down?’

  ‘Only one of us is intoxicated. Do you make a habit of it?’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with you,’ she replies, her words dripping with asperity.