Authors: Jill Mansell
Kiss (28 page)
Unable to contain her fury any longer, Izzy picked up the nearest object to hand and hurled it at him. The Victorian china ginger pot, missing him by several feet, crashed in spectacular fashion against the far wall and shattered into a million pieces.
Sam, who hadn’t even flinched, sneered derisively. ‘Oh, well done. Gina
will
be pleased.’
will
be pleased.’
‘I’ll replace it,’ shouted Izzy.
‘Of course you will,’ he replied, his tone icy. ‘Just as soon as you’ve managed to persuade her to lend you the money.’
‘Stop it,’ said Gina quietly, from the doorway. ‘Both of you.’
Izzy’s eyes promptly filled with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Gina, stunned by her reaction - Izzy
never
cried - shook her head. ‘Andrew bought it for me last Christmas. I never liked it.’
never
cried - shook her head. ‘Andrew bought it for me last Christmas. I never liked it.’
‘I meant . . . Ralph,’ sniffed Izzy. ‘I wasn’t trying to deceive you, although I know I did . . . but you just seemed so happy . . .’
‘I know,’ said Gina soothingly. ‘It wasn’t your fault. I was a bit shocked when I realised who he was, but it’s hardly the end of the world, is it?’
Sam, outraged by the fact that she was siding with Izzy against him and making such light of the matter, said, ‘But you told me how much you liked him. You said—’
‘Maybe I did,’ Gina intercepted, without looking at him. ‘But how upset do you honestly expect me to be? I was married to Andrew for fifteen years. For heaven’s sake, I only met Ralph a few days ago.’
Izzy, rummaging blindly in her bag for a tissue and still desperate to make some kind of amends, encountered her purse. The first thing she’d done after leaving MBT’s offices had been to rush to the bank and cash a good proportion of her advance cheque. Now, stung by Sam’s earlier jibe, she pulled out a fat wad of notes.
‘Here’s the money I borrowed the other day,’ she said rapidly, stuffing them into Gina’s startled hands. ‘And here’s something to replace the pot.’ Then, because she didn’t have enough cash in her purse to be able to make the ultimate grand gesture and hurl it in Sam’s horrible face, she withdrew her cheque book instead and scribbled out a cheque for £1300. Pushing it across the kitchen table towards him, she said, ‘That’s for Vivienne. Don’t worry, it won’t bounce.’
As he rose to leave, Sam cast a single, derisive glance in her direction. ‘She was right, then,’ he said evenly. ‘You
do
charge.’
do
charge.’
‘I don’t know why he should have turned on you like that,’ said Gina later, while Izzy prepared to go out. ‘It’s not like Sam at all.’
‘Don’t apologise on his behalf.’ Izzy, concentrating on her mascara, dismissed him with a shrug. ‘He’s a moody pig and I couldn’t care less what he thinks of me. Look, are you quite sure you’ll be OK here on your own this evening? Because you can always come along with me.’
Gina laughed. ‘I’m sure Tash Janssen would enjoy that. What’s the problem - do you think you might need a chaperone?’
‘According to Sam,’ replied Izzy, glossing her lips and pulling a fearsome face, ‘I’ll need six.’
When Katerina poked her head around the sitting-room door five minutes later, Izzy was saying, ‘. . . really am sorry about Ralph, you know.’
‘Of course I know,’ Gina replied in reassuring tones. ‘It was only Sam getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. I know you’d never do anything deliberately to hurt me.’
Katerina, who had been about to announce that she was going over to Simon’s house, felt her heart skip a couple of beats. How would Gina feel if she knew that in less than an hour she would be meeting Andrew? Could there be any more deliberately hurtful gesture? Was she really the world’s worst bitch, or simply a helpless victim of circumstance?
Abruptly, avoiding Gina’s eyes, she said, ‘I’m off now.’
‘Don’t be late home.’ Turning, Izzy smiled at her. ‘And cheer up, sweetheart. Just think, one more paper tomorrow morning, then that’ll be it. Oh, and tell Simon I’m taking the two of you out to dinner tomorrow night, to celebrate. We’ll go somewhere splendid!’
Katerina hesitated, then said unhappily, ‘I don’t know whether Simon . . .’
‘I’m taking you
both
out,’ repeated Izzy, in firm tones. ‘Because you damn well deserve it. And this way I can thank Simon for all the help and hospitality he’s given you over the past few weeks. Ask him if there’s anywhere in particular he’d like to go, will you, so that I can book the table in advance.’
both
out,’ repeated Izzy, in firm tones. ‘Because you damn well deserve it. And this way I can thank Simon for all the help and hospitality he’s given you over the past few weeks. Ask him if there’s anywhere in particular he’d like to go, will you, so that I can book the table in advance.’
Chapter 29
Izzy, twisting round in the passenger seat of the dark grey Bentley and watching the electronically controlled gates swing shut behind her, felt a sudden affinity with Little Red Riding Hood. Ahead, just visible through the trees which lined the curving driveway, Stanford Manor loomed multi-turreted and magnificent. Izzy swallowed and tried hard not to look too impressed. Jericho poked his head between the front seats and whimpered. When the car slowed to a halt at the top of the drive, Izzy wrapped his lead around her wrist three times in case Tash kept guard dogs.
There were none in sight, however, when he came out to greet her. Jericho, shamelessly fickle, leapt at once towards him and investigated him with evident delight.
‘Your greatest fan, I take it,’ Tash observed, patting him. Izzy, realizing how desperately Jericho was moulting, prayed that the car’s upholstery wasn’t too covered with hairs.
‘My chaperone,’ she corrected him, shivering suddenly despite the fact that it was still warm. When Tash transferred his attention back to her, she felt her legs begin to tremble of their own accord.
Last night, persuading him to listen to her music and take her seriously had been all-important, and she hadn’t allowed herself to even consider how seriously attractive he really was. Now, however, it hit her like a brick. He was stunning. It was official. Several million females, she thought with a brief half-smile, couldn’t be wrong.
The driver who had picked her up and brought her to Stanford Manor had, by this time, disappeared. Following Tash and Jericho into the vast, high-ceilinged entrance hall, Izzy admired Tash’s tall, athletically proportioned body. This evening, dressed in a pale pink shirt, faded denims and no shoes, and smelling cleanly of Calvin Klein aftershave, he seemed altogether more normal than he had done last night. It was bizarre to think that he owned this great house, not to mention two other
pieds-à-terre
in Paris and New York. It was mind-boggling to think how much money that gravelly, sexy voice had earned him . . .
pieds-à-terre
in Paris and New York. It was mind-boggling to think how much money that gravelly, sexy voice had earned him . . .
‘How old are you?’ she asked, gazing up at the stained-glass windows and at the minstrel’s gallery running along three sides of the hall.
Tash cast a sideways glance in her direction. ‘Old enough to be your son, according to you.’
‘Seriously, I’m interested.’
‘Thirty-three.’
Three years younger than me, thought Izzy. ‘And you’ve been married how many times?’
Looking amused, he replied, ‘Only twice. Although I do have a tendency to find myself engaged. Every time I buy a pretty girl a ring it turns out she expects me to marry her.’
If anything about Tash Janssen was more famous than his voice, it was his predilection for blondes. Startlingly beautiful,
always
tall, these blondes were famous in turn for their less-than-dazzling intellect. One or two had even been suspected of not yet having come to terms with the complexities of joined-up writing. Izzy couldn’t help wondering why someone like Tash, evidently no intellectual slouch himself, should confine himself to bimbos when he could have anyone he chose. ‘Maybe you should stick to signed photographs in future,’ she suggested absently.
always
tall, these blondes were famous in turn for their less-than-dazzling intellect. One or two had even been suspected of not yet having come to terms with the complexities of joined-up writing. Izzy couldn’t help wondering why someone like Tash, evidently no intellectual slouch himself, should confine himself to bimbos when he could have anyone he chose. ‘Maybe you should stick to signed photographs in future,’ she suggested absently.
He smiled. ‘Maybe. How about you?’
‘Heavens, how kind.’ Izzy feigned surprise. ‘I’d like a motor bike.’
‘I’ll make a note of it in my diary. Through here.’ Opening a carved oak door, he waved her through to the dining room. ‘I meant how old are you and how many times have you been married?’
‘Thirty-six,’ said Izzy. ‘And never. I’m not the marrying kind.’
‘ “Never, Never”,’ Tash observed drily, pulling a dining chair out for her and ensuring that she was comfortable before seating himself opposite. The table, which would easily have accommodated a rugby team, was covered with a dark blue linen cloth and laid for two people with heavy silver cutlery, glittering crystal goblets and a bottle of Chablis in an ice bucket. Lighted candles, spilling snaky trails of beeswax down their sides, cast an apricot glow over the proceedings.
Izzy placed her forefinger momentarily over the flame of the nearest candle then held it up, blackened, and said, ‘Isn’t this what happens when you get married?’
He grinned and poured the wine. ‘Financially, you mean? Of course it is, if you’re me.’
The divorce settlements obtained by his ex-wives were legendary, yet he didn’t seem perturbed.
‘Don’t you mind?’ said Izzy, genuinely interested.
Tash shrugged and replied lazily, ‘What the hell, it’s only money. And it seems to keep the girls happy.’
‘I want to be rich,’ said Izzy, with longing.
Deadpan, he replied, ‘That’s easily achieved. All you need to do is marry and divorce me.’
At that moment another door opened and their dinner was served to them by a brisk, plain, middle-aged woman with the air of a schoolmistress. Izzy, half-expecting to be reminded to eat up all her vegetables, smiled at the woman as the dishes were laid out and received a blank stare in return.
‘Mrs Bishop makes it a strict rule to disapprove of my female friends,’ Tash explained, when they were alone once more.
‘I didn’t expect you to live like this.’ Izzy shook her head, bemused by the formality of it all. Having imagined wall-to-wall groupies, non-stop music, cans of lager and pinball machines, all this silence and
House & Garden
perfection was unnerving. ‘Do you have fun here? Are you
happy
?’
House & Garden
perfection was unnerving. ‘Do you have fun here? Are you
happy
?’
Tash’s dark eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘You mean has becoming a multi-millionaire ruined my life? Sweetheart, I grew up on a council estate in Neasden with three brothers and two sisters. This is how I can afford to live now. Would
you
be unhappy?’
you
be unhappy?’
Izzy, however, still wasn’t convinced. Despite the excellence of the food she had lost her appetite. ‘I might be,’ she replied, pushing her plate to one side. ‘Of course, that’s something you never find out until it’s happened, but I’ve always been poor and I’m curious. I have fun spending money on things I know I can’t afford, like going out for a wonderful meal when I really should be saving the money to pay the gas bill.’ She paused, then added helplessly, ‘But what do
you
do, when you want to have fun?’
you
do, when you want to have fun?’
‘I can’t believe you asked that question,’ drawled Tash, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. All pretence at dinner abandoned now, he rose slowly to his feet and held his hand out towards her. ‘Come on.’
‘What?’ Izzy gulped, her stomach leaping helplessly as his fingers curled around hers. ‘Where . . . ?’
‘You wanted to know what I do when I want to have fun,’ he reminded her. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’
The recording studio, situated in what had once been a wine cellar, was a revelation - as far as Izzy was concerned - in every respect. Making the demo tape at the prestigious Glass Studios on the Chelsea Embankment had been exciting, but then she had been the performer, singing when she was instructed to sing and generally doing as she was told, while the producer and sound engineers worked their inscrutable magic in the control room next door.
Now, sitting at the amazingly intricate thirty-two track console and actually being allowed to experiment with the wondrous effects of the midi-synthesiser, a whole new world was opening up to her. Who needed to be able to write music when any notes played on the keyboard were instantly displayed on a computer screen and stored on disc? Who needed to be able to play the drums when at the touch of a button the same keyboard could transform any note into that produced by a snare, a kick-drum, a crash cymbal or a hi-hat? Who
needed
to struggle to emulate the exact degree of reverberation required at the end of a verse, when they had a machine like this, capable of doing it for them?
needed
to struggle to emulate the exact degree of reverberation required at the end of a verse, when they had a machine like this, capable of doing it for them?
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