Loulou,
straightfaced, said, ‘Oh, I’m quite sure we will be. Rosemary.’
Chapter 1
’I just want to know. How many lovers do you have?’
Roz turned her head away and gazed across at the amethyst
hills beyond the window. Outside the air was white
and cold;
inside the bed was warm and
Nico’s brown body warmer still.
His question, whispered with a touch of
despair, bothered her
slightly for she couldn’t
decide whether or not to lie and lying
was something she didn’t
particularly relish.
‘Wistfulness really doesn’t suit you,’ she told him
affectionately and he flung out a tanned arm in exasperation.
‘
But I
feel
wistful,
dammit! And I can’t stand it when you
won’t answer my questions.’
‘Oh, seventeen then,’ murmured Roz, running light fingers
along his spine and sensing their effect. If he persisted now, she
would have to tell him the truth and, hopefully,
three would
sound perfectly sedate by comparison.
‘
Tell me,’ he urged, his
slanting green eyes reflecting love,
only
half wanting to know. Roz’s mouth curved into a slow
smile.
‘If I didn’t
have
them, they wouldn’t be lovers,’
she reminded
him. ‘And do they really matter,
anyway? I’m here with you
now, after all. What could be nicer?’
Nico sighed, realizing that the answer to the question he
had dreaded asking was slipping away. Roz, as unreachable as ever,
was his only as long as he held her in his arms. He
just wasn’t
used to being treated like this.
‘
I want to marry you, you know that,’ he said
helplessly. Roz laughed. ‘Of course you do.’
‘
I’m wealthy, I’m so
damned good looking that hundreds of
girls
send me their phone numbers every week, I have a great future and I’m brilliant
in bed. Even you have to admit that I’m brilliant in bed.’
Solemnly, Roz nodded. She couldn’t
argue with that, and
any minute now Nico was about to prove it to her all over
again.
‘So why,
why
won’t you marry me?’ he exclaimed,
throwing himself on to his back and staring hopelessly up at the midnight-blue
ceiling.
Outside, she glimpsed the mist rolling
in like thunder,
encircling the hills
and the house in which they were cocooned. God, this was hard work. Not that
she wanted to hurt Nico, of course, but sometimes she simply couldn’t help it.
‘
I just can’t, darling. It wouldn’t be fair.’
‘
To me?’ Nico, the superstar, looked shocked and ready to
persuade her otherwise.
Roz reached for him, pulling him
against her slender body
and burying
her face against his neck to hide the uncontrollable, affectionate laughter
threatening to escape.
‘
No, sweetheart. I meant
it wouldn’t be fair to me. Make
love to me now, Nico. It’s getting foggy
outside and you have a long drive home tonight. You mustn’t leave it too late.’
‘
Bitch. Why on earth can’t I love a nice girl?’
‘
Probably,’ said Roz between kisses, ‘because they’re all
so extraordinarily dull.’
An hour later, Nico left. When she
had watched the sleek
black BMW
accelerate away from the house until it was swallowed into the mists, Roz ran a
hot bath and wandered back into
the bedroom
to choose what she would wear to dinner tonight
with Jack.
Jack, Nico and Sebastian. Did having three lovers,
wondered
Roz idly, make her a tramp? But
then they were all so nice and
in a
way she loved each of them, albeit an unpossessive,
distracted form of
love.
But it works, she reminded herself.
The more distracted I
am, the
more they think of me. Every time Nico appeared on
television he captured the undivided attention of literally
millions
of women, yet he came to Roz knowing that her own attention was divided.
Jack, married to a woman about whom
she knew nothing
except
that she clung to her husband like a burr, adored Roz
because she was uncomplicated and undemanding. She didn’t
make things difficult for him and she enjoyed sex.
And Sebastian . . . Well, he was
quite different, but the
same principle still applied; except that in his case it wasn’t
always easy. She had loved him for so
many years now,
knowing
all the time that if she dropped her guard even once he would disappear from
her life for ever. Sebastian admired her because she was a career woman,
because she worked as
hard as he
did. He had neither the time nor the patience for a
clinging woman and Roz had learnt to accept that. She adored
their occasional meetings. To lose them would be
to lose a
small but vital part of her
life. Some of Sebastian was better
than none, she reminded herself. And
during those long gaps
between Sebastian’s
visits there were always the others to
occupy and amuse her.
In a way she was controlling all their
lives and she adored
every
moment of it. Almost every moment, anyway.
* * *
One more sound out
of either of you and I swear to God I’ll
boil you both in oil,’ whispered Camilla under her breath
as the beginnings of another argument filtered through to the kitchen from the
sitting-room. Out loud she yelled, ‘Shut up!’
‘
Didn’t say a word,’
remonstrated Jack, appearing in the
kitchen
behind her and irritating her beyond belief by dumping
a pair of black
brogues on the table she had just finished setting
for dinner. ‘Can you give these a polish when you’ve got a
moment, Mill? I need them tonight and I’m running
late
already.’
Deeply aware that Jack, in his grey
city suit was looking
sleek and handsome, and feeling hideous in comparison,
Camilla pushed her fingers through
hair that badly needed a
wash.
‘Clean your own bloody shoes,’ she murmured through her
teeth. A bad move; she saw the look of irritation
in his eyes.
‘And don’t ever call me
Mill again,’ she added, only managing
to sound sulky. ‘I’m going to have
a bath.’
‘Oh no,’ Jack grabbed her arm as she attempted to slide
past him. "There’s only enough water for one bath and I’m having it. You
can have yours later.’
Tears welled up in Camilla’s eyes and for a moment she
remembered when she had always fought them back, purely in order to save her
make-up. It had been months now since she’d
even
worn any so she let them fall – and instantly hated herself
for it.
‘You had a shower this morning,’ she argued.
‘
And now I’m having a
bath,’ insisted Jack, knowing that
since he didn’t feel sorry for his
wife, he would win. God, she’d been so pretty when he’d married her.
‘
For your mistress?’ gasped Camilla recklessly,
then held her breath. There, she’d said it. For weeks it had stuck in her
throat
like a golf ball and suddenly it had
been said, popping out
almost of its
own accord. All she needed now was the courage
to hear Jack’s reply.
‘
No, for the window
cleaner,’ he said coldly, without a trace of guilt. Damn him, he was an
insurance broker, she thought as
he released his grip on her arm. He was used to
looking people
in the eye and lying
to them.
‘And I’ll be late for the meeting if I don’t get washed
and
changed now, so be a good girl and stop
behaving like a neurotic
housewife. We need this contract if we’re going
to have a decent holiday this year.’
Camilla blinked and turned away from his clever, lying
eyes,
picking up a saucepan of boiled
potatoes and tipping them into
a
colander. But if he really did have a mistress, why would he
keep talking about a month in the States, dangling
it like a
carrot in front of her?
‘
Whatever happened to
shared baths?’ she said wistfully,
and felt Jack’s irritated sigh like a
slap in the face – a reaction
either to the
suggestion or to the nauseating little-girl voice
with which it had been made. He hated it when she
spoke like
that, but she really couldn’t help it.
Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder. ‘Not
such a good idea
when I’m in a hurry,
old thing.’ The lame excuse was a peace
offering
so that she could pretend their marriage was happy,
and Camilla felt the tears burning at the back of
her eyelids
once more. What was the
point of having a beautiful house and
a
beautiful husband, when all she ever did was feel ugly and
cry? She
sniffed, and turned away.
‘And don’t call me old thing, either.’
* * *
Lying back amidst
the silk cushions of the
chaise-longue
–
which sounded romantic but was
incredibly uncomfortable
unless
there
were
piles of cushions – Roz twisted on to her side and flipped
channels on the TV with the remote control. It was
pretty uncool, she knew, to watch oneself on television – ‘Oh
my
dear, I can’t
bear
to!’ – but she loved it. It was no worse than looking
in the mirror and talking to yourself, after all – and it
wasn’t as if the interviewer had made mincemeat
out of her.
She hadn’t had any trouble with him at all.
Roz ran her hand absent-mindedly along
the slim curve of
her
thigh, naked beneath the silk wrap, and watched a com
mercial for cat food that sent shivers
of revulsion along her
spine. Cats were fine, but the advert was so appalling that if
she’d owned a cat she would be forced
to buy some other brand
of food,
purely on principle.
And she was feeling rather cat-like herself now, she
realized,
stretching lazily and admiring the
smooth brown lines of her
arms. Jack,
married Jack, would have told his wife by now that
he had a business
meeting tonight and that she shouldn’t expect
him
home before midnight. It was only thanks to Roz that he
ever returned
when he said he would; Jack was always ready to spend the night with her.
Going to bed with a man, she thought,
was one thing.
Sleeping
with him was another matter entirely. Besides, she
didn’t want Jack to stop feeling
unsure of himself and to start
taking his
good fortune for granted.
The chat show was starting and Roz put Jack instantly from
her mind, a convenient habit she had learnt
as a child. The
television host showed a lot of teeth and launched into
his
introductory monologue, pitted with
excruciating
bons mots
which
made Roz shiver out of sympathy. Though why she should
feel sympathetic
towards a man who earnt so much, so undeservedly, she couldn’t for the life of
her understand.
‘And tonight we have with us the beautiful and talented
Roz Vallender,’ he lied, for the programme had been made two days ago. Roz
watched herself and smiled with satisfaction.
Camilla, immersed in the programme, watched intently with
almost vicarious pride as Roz dealt with the interviewer’s
clumsy attempts at flirtation. Roz answered his questions with
that famous
razor-sharp wit yet at the same time managed to
convey the impression that he was clever too, a trick which
Camilla
remembered she could just as easily reverse.
Fifteen years, she realized. It was
almost exactly fifteen
years since
she had last seen Roz when, at seventeen, they had both left Elm House and had
vowed fervently to keep in touch.
She had
written to Roz once, the letter returning unopened,
with ‘Gone away’ scrawled across it and she had
never received
a single letter or even a postcard. So much for keeping
in touch. Roz was my best friend, she thought with a trace of bitterness. And I
was Roz’s . . . room-mate.