Lessons in Laughing Out Loud (27 page)

W
illow woke with a start that freezing Thursday morning.
Holly is coming,
she thought.

A moment later her phone buzzed against the carpet and she rolled onto her side and fished around for wherever she had left it before wrapping herself up in her duvet and drinking two large glasses of wine in a bid to fall asleep quickly on her less than comfortable sofa.

Finally she found the phone, answering it with eyes closed. She didn’t need to look to see who was calling.

“When do you get here?” Willow asked her sister, sleepily. “And what bloody time is it anyway?”

“It’s a tiny bit after six,” Holly whispered. “I’ve arranged it all. Graham is coming up to town for some meeting or something, so I’ve cadged a lift for me and the girls. I thought maybe we could hang out? Do a bit of shopping, be ladies that lunch? You’ll get some twin strength and I’ll get to have a conversation that doesn’t involve puppies, ponies, bunnies or rainbows.”

“Did you say six in the
morning
?” Willow grumbled, rubbing her eyes, struggling to place these first few minutes of wakefulness in the general scheme of things. “Which morning?”

“Thursday,” Holly said. “I’d love to see Chloe and maybe Sam, and I was wondering if I might even get a glimpse of
India Torrance. That would be something to tell my book club! It’s been killing me not to tell anyone up until now, and just think how the Stepford Wives will hate me when I say I know her. Besides, I want to try on your magic shoes. There is a dearth of decent shoes in this town, and nowhere to wear them except for the Harbour Club, and you know me, I’ve never really been a huge fan of sailors’ wives and all their gold trim and horizontal stripes.”

“Holly.” Willow cut her sister off, pushing herself into a sitting position. It was still dark outside and freezing inside her apartment; the heating wouldn’t click on for another half hour. “Are you sure it’s okay to come?”

“I am,” Holly said with a certainty that Willow didn’t want to argue with. “Let me be there for you.”

“You always are.”

“Not always. Anyway, I’ve arranged everything now and the girls are so excited and . . .”

There was a silence. “And?”

“You need me,” Holly said. “I can feel it.”

“Can you?” Willow rubbed her eyes. “I think that all things considered I’m actually coping quite well.”

“And you are, but I can feel the butterflies in your tummy. Your life is suddenly full of choices and chances and I don’t want you to—”

“Screw it up again?” Willow sighed.

“Panic.” Holly sidestepped the question. “Besides, I want to see my sister. I miss you.”

“I want to see you too, but today might be tricky. Victoria called late last night—she’s done some deals, sacrificed a few lambs and done a spot of voodoo and now she is ready to re-launch India into the public eye. I’ve got to take India into the office in a couple of hours and then try to swing the afternoon off. Chloe’s appointment with the social worker is this afternoon,
and I really want to be here. And I’ve half promised to go to this comedy thing tonight. I don’t have to go to that, I suppose, it wasn’t set in stone.”

Willow was surprised to discover a tinge of disappointment at missing James’s big night. There was no good reason to want to go; it would just be a whole lot of weird after her and Daniel’s “moment” in his studio. Potentially love her, he might, but not enough—at least not yet—to end things with Kayla, who was still very much his girlfriend. Both of them would be there tonight, and Willow worried about seeing Daniel again and letting Kayla know by just the look on her face that something had happened. Barely anything at all, Willow told herself. Some caresses and a bit of a kiss weren’t exactly grounds for a grand romance; it was more the way that Daniel had looked at her and what he’d said that lingered in Willow’s mind. It had been exciting and passionate but also noncommittal, which was probably as much as anyone could ever hope for from Daniel. Even so, Willow liked Kayla, and she didn’t like the idea of going behind her back.

Holly’s arriving was a perfect excuse not to go to Battersea, but, Willow realized rather unexpectedly, she would be sorry not to see James. There was something about him that was . . . effortless. Yes, that’s what she liked about him. When she was with him she didn’t think about what she looked like or what she was wearing or saying, because she was just herself. In many ways it was a wonderful relief. Willow thought about what Sam had said to her before, that she wasn’t really the woman he’d thought he’d fallen in love with. It wasn’t like that for James, she could tell by the way he looked at her, the way he talked to her—they had something, some sort of haphazard survival experience in common. Willow wasn’t sure what that was yet, but she did believe that he knew her, he recognized the real her. A little part of the real her, anyway. And he hadn’t
recoiled or run away, he was still there. If nothing else, his consistency, at least, made him sort appealing to be around.

“Oh no, don’t change anything for me. I know exactly what to do!” Holly sounded excited, like she used to when they were girls planning an adventure that would invariably get them into trouble with their mother. “The girls and I will get to London about ten. Gray says he can drop us off somewhere behind Oxford Street, and then we can meet you for lunch and see Chloe. You can go off to see the social worker while I take the kids to a flick or something, Gray can take them home and I can stay in London with you and get the train back in the morning. That we can
both
do the comedy night! Please say yes, Willow. I haven’t had a fun night out since . . . since we crept out that night when we were about fourteen to go and see that band you liked in the pub up the road.”

“That’s not true,” Willow said, smiling at Holly’s enthusiasm despite the early hour.

“It feels like it is! I need a laugh, Willow, and Gray owes me about a year’s worth of nights out. Please say I can come.”

“Of course you can come, you can always come, you nutter.” Holly’s excitement was infectious. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Finally there’s the twin affinity thing.” Holly chuckled. “So I’ll see you at Liberty’s at midday, and then if there’s time we’ll take the girls to Hamleys and whip them into a frenzy of hysteria just in time for Gray to drive them home.”

“Perfection,” the sisters said in unison, and when Willow put down the phone she felt that unique sense of contentment that came from being close to Holly, a liquid warmth that spread through her bones. Having Holly close was like home returning to her.

Victoria had sent a car for India—her own car, a beautiful old Bentley, complete with her informal bodyguard, David
Vickers, who was well into his fifties but looked like he could still take someone down if he had to, mainly because he had a thick mustache and the word
hate
tattooed on both sets of knuckles.

“It’s Victoria’s idea of a gesture,” Willow said as she and India peered out the window, looking down at the £150,000 car sitting on a double yellow line, its hazard lights blinking elegantly, more than a little incongruous on the dirty, cut-price street. Willow was fairly certain that Victoria had never been to Wood Green; if she thought of it at all it was probably as a lovely, villagey part of London, with an actual green, not the tangle of congested roads and concrete, swarming with “the public,” as Victoria referred to anyone who was not her.

“Some gesture.” India peered at the car, her profile perfectly lit by the cold, stark light of the white morning sky. Her face looked a little gaunt, Willow thought, her famous cheekbones even more pronounced than usual. It was clear her brief sojourn in the world of the less worthy hadn’t done her any favors in terms of restoring that inner glow the critics raved about. Willow had always thought that the whole “my body is a temple” thing was a load of nonsense, but judging from the way India looked, it turned out that a diet of fast food and alcohol wasn’t very good for you after all.

“It’s her way of welcoming you back into your life,” Willow explained. “The deal for your exclusive interview and photo shoot has been made with
True Glitz,
and not only will you be one hundred thousand pounds better off, you are also now released back into the world as a wronged woman, a poor naïve girl led astray by an older, manipulating predator. Hugh is off the New Year’s honors list and it looks like he probably won’t be expecting a phone call from Richard Curtis anytime soon. After all those exposés he is officially disgraced.” India’s face remained impassive as she listened, gazing sightlessly at the car.

“It also means there will be press outside the office, whom you must not talk to. But you can let them photograph you,” Willow said, repeating Victoria’s orders. “Wear gray or black, sunglasses, head scarf, and somber face and sad, regretful mouth.”

India laughed once, turning her back on the window and looking around Willow’s humble living room, with its two elderly leather sofas, the rickety coffee table piled high with yesterday’s plates and glasses, and the prints on the walls that Willow had not looked at since she’d bought them in bulk at IKEA. It was about a million miles away from a suite at Blakes. Shrugging, India turned briefly back to the window and wrote something in the condensation. Then, pausing to kiss Willow on the cheek, India retired to her room and began to prepare for relaunch.

Willow looked at the window. The words that India had inscribed were already beginning to run and disappear:
Thank you.

David did not even turn to look when Willow bundled Chloe into the back of the car. As Victoria’s driver-slash-bodyguard, he had probably seen a lot more shocking sights in his time than a pregnant girl who had determinedly squeezed herself into a nonpregnant girl’s leopard-print dress, the spots stretched into stripes across the mound of her belly.

Willow had been careful not to mention Chloe to Victoria, but she didn’t want to leave her alone in the flat today, not with the visit from the adoption social worker hanging over their heads. Chloe hadn’t said anything since they’d called to arrange the appointment, but her young features had tightened almost to the breaking point. As Willow had helped her get her coat on a few minutes earlier, Chloe had sucked in a sudden breath and pressed her hand to her tummy, presumably
feeling the baby moving, but her expression didn’t alter. Willow could see quite clearly that the girl was doing her best not to think about her pregnancy at all, something that must be harder to do after the scan and seeing her little boy’s face. Now, with the prospect of having to discuss the details of adoption only hours away, she had become quiet, withdrawn.

Chloe hadn’t brought up the idea of Willow’s adopting the baby since that day at the clinic, but to Willow the prospect seemed constantly present, like a dark cloud insinuating its way between every word she spoke, every breath she took. Willow worried that, despite Chloe’s persistent silence, the enormity of her situation was building just below the surface, waiting to explode.

For the first time since her marriage to Sam had fallen apart so spectacularly, work had become an inconvenience instead of a distraction, and being at Victoria’s disposal had become a chore. Having India to stay hadn’t been ideal, but at least it had given her what she would never normally be granted, time off to be with Chloe. In any case, Willow did not want to leave Chloe on her own to dwell, so she decided to take the risk of Victoria’s discovering her and sit Chloe in reception with a few magazines for a while, gambling on nobody noticing her—unlikely in the leopard-print dress, to be honest.

Willow waited for India, who was wearing a light gray cashmere jumper-dress over distressed jeans, a white head scarf covering her hair, and huge Chanel sunglasses that obliterated most of her face. She had followed Victoria’s direction to the letter, even accentuating her sad, regretful mouth with a touch of clear gloss. Shutting the back passenger door on India, who leaned her head against the glass of the window, Willow climbed into the cream leather and real walnut luxury of the front passenger seat, discreetly sweeping off a magazine featuring naked busty ladies onto the floor and under the foot
mat, where she happened to know that David Vickers kept his light entertainment.

“Miss Briars,” said David, greeting Willow formally as always.

“Mr. Vickers,” replied Willow with equal civility. After all, they were Victoria’s two longest-serving staff members and between them had either taken Victoria to, rescued her from, or seen with their very own eyes more awfulness in the back of that beautiful Bentley than any living person ever should. Victoria had once implied that David Vickers was ex-SAS and Willow believed her. He had the look of a man who would never be surprised by anything ever again, which was almost the only qualification you needed to work for Victoria.

“And how is our esteemed boss today?” Willow asked as David pulled the Bentley out into traffic, stopping a London bus in its tracks without turning a hair.

“Very pleased with herself, Willow.” David raised a weary brow. “Very pleased with herself indeed.”

“She has rather outdone herself,” Willow conceded. “David, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my precious cargo in the back there to Victoria. It’s a personal matter, and I don’t want to bother her with it.”

“You know me, Willow,” said David, never taking his eyes off the road. “I never see nothing unless I have to.”