Love Nest (7 page)

‘Maybe,’ Nick said, feeling like the most evil man in the world.

The following morning, Kylie was up early and out of the flat by eight. Nick rose an hour later and took the Tube to Farringdon, revelling in the stares of an office worker, a young woman, in a shiny grey suit. Brazenly he stared back at her. Immediately she looked away. Nick grinned. He could see her puzzling – is it him? No, it can’t be. That was the joy of being the lead guitarist/songwriter. You got all the perks of wealth and fame, but you could still travel more or less anonymously on the tube. As lead singer, Jack couldn’t step outside his front door without a volley of paparazzi bulbs exploding.

But without Nick, Jack would be nothing. Nick wrote the songs, and the songs – despite what Jack’s groupies might argue – were what made the Vertical Blinds so hot. They were also what brought in the money. All right, the other guys were doing fine, but Nick got the royalties every time their songs were played on the radio and a way bigger percentage than the rest of them every time a disc was sold or downloaded. Hence his ability to pay cash for that amazing flat and still have plenty left over to buy his mum a house.

Like last time, Lucinda was waiting by the front door. If anything, she was sexier than he’d remembered: in a dove grey trouser-suit, her hair tied back in a neat bun. Her cheekbones seemed almost to point through her skin, heralding her genetic superiority. She was so sleek and glossy, like a racehorse. Kylie – well, Kylie was like a pit pony in comparison: cute, amiable but uninspiring.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you again.’

Nick didn’t quite know how to respond to this. ‘Yeah,’ he muttered.

‘Shall we go in?’

Just like Lucinda, the flat was even better than he remembered. To own something like that would be the apex of his dreams. But one of Nick’s rules of life was always to play it cool. Show eagerness and Lucinda would be off spinning a line about how many buyers were after it, the stiff competition, blah-di-blah, maybe he should put in an offer straight away or risk losing the place by morning. He looked around in silence and – unlike last time – she kept her comments to a minimum. At the end, he said, ‘I’m going to have to have a think about this.’

‘Of course.’

‘Yeah,’ he said and then suddenly deciding it was time to change tack, he added, ‘I like your suit. Very Katharine Hepburn.’

‘You didn’t strike me as a Hepburn fan.’ She looked amused.

‘Why not?’ Snooty cow. Still, she had a point. One of the advantages of having a mother addicted to black and white movies, he guessed.

‘Well, you know. You’re in a band and…’

‘Have you ever seen us?’

‘What? Your band? No! I’m not that into music.’

Not that into music? Nick just couldn’t understand how anyone could say that – it was like saying I’m not that into eating to stay alive, I’m not that into washing (actually Nick hadn’t been that into washing for a big chunk of his teens, but whatever). Not that into breathing, into having a beating heart. Kylie loved music. It had been one of the things that had oiled their early years together, going to gigs, making up obscure playlists, tuning in to far-away radio stations. Some of her favourites were a bit dodgy, but she was always open to new stuff and had, in fact, introduced Nick to quite a few bands who’d become his greatest influences. But he banished such thoughts.

‘You should come and see us some time. Might convert you.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘We’re playing a Valentine’s Day gig next week. Shepherd’s Bush Empire.’

‘Where’s that?’

Er, hello! If Kylie had asked something like that, Nick’s reply would have been so scalding you could have boiled an egg in it. But because he had decided to target Lucinda, he politely answered, ‘Shepherd’s Bush.’

Lucinda flushed. ‘Oh! You must think I’m an idiot.’

He smiled non-committally. ‘I’ll put your name on the door.’ He paused a second and added, ‘And a plus one.’

‘Great. I’ll bring my brother.’

So no boyfriend. No ring on her finger. ‘You can come backstage afterwards if you like.’

‘That could be fun.’ They were in the corridor by now, waiting for the lift. As the door opened, their elbows brushed against each other. In the enclosed space he could feel her body heat.

Outside, he said, ‘I’ll see you around, then.’

‘Looking forward to hearing from you,’ she replied briskly, and tapped off.

Was she interested? Nick wasn’t sure. Which only spurred him on. Lucinda represented a challenge. Already he was planning how to handle their next meeting.

6

Lucinda strolled confidently back to the office, enjoying the unusually balmy February air on her face. The sale was in the bag. She could tell by Nick Crex’s body language. And having done her research and knowing he was the songwriter for the Vertical Blinds, she was confident he wasn’t a time-waster, that there was money in the bank he was eager to spend.

He was quite attractive, she realized, with his snakelike hips and blond hair. Lucinda was so focused on work that usually her clients barely registered. But Nick Crex was a bit more glamorous than her usual City-boy clients. After all, even
she
had heard of the Vertical Blinds, and her idea of good music was more in the Michael Bublé range. But it was hard to miss this lot. They were always falling out of nightclubs, high on drugs, and having affairs with models and winning awards. Quite exciting to be connected to them, however vicariously, though she wouldn’t mention them to Daddy. He’d be horrified.

She pushed open Dunraven Mackie’s plate-glass door. Niall, the residential manager, was on the phone explaining to an American buyer about the differences between leasehold and freehold. As usual he looked ashen. Niall had one-year-old twins who never slept and a very cross wife who rang at least three times a day to tell him how lucky he was to be at work.

Gareth, the lettings manager, was talking too, explaining that it really was very bad form to remove all the lightbulbs at the end of a tenancy (though plenty of people did. As well as door handles. Never loo brushes, though – no one had
ever
stooped so low as to take the loo brush).

‘All right, Marsha,’ Lucinda smiled at the secretary. ‘Got you a frappuccino.’

Marsha’s skinny face lit up as Lucinda plonked the paper cup in front of her.

‘You’re a darling.’

It had taken Lucinda fifteen seconds to realize that if she didn’t butter up Marsha her future at Dunraven Mackie would last about as long as an ice cream on a sun lounger. Nobody except Niall knew who Lucinda really was, but she was acutely conscious it was going to come out sooner or later. And when it did she had to have everyone in the office on side. They were already a bit suspicious of her accent, which – she recognized – was like a 1950s duchess, but she’d been brought up in this weird multilingual environment where everyone spoke like that, and she couldn’t start dropping aitches just to try to fit in with the gang.

And then there was the question of where she lived. She’d had to give Marsha an address. Joanne – who lived in South Norwood – had overheard.

‘South Kensington.
Very
naice.’

‘My brother’s a student at Imperial and the campus is nearby,’ Lucinda said, which was true after all. Then she added a huge porkie pie. ‘We managed to find a uni place at student rates.’

‘You
were
lucky,’ Joanne said and Lucinda had cheerfully agreed, while wanting to punch her lights out.

‘No problem.’ Lucinda smiled now. ‘Hi, Gareth. How are you?’

‘Simply spiffing,’ Gareth grinned. Lucinda grinned back. She loved Gareth – not in
that
way, obviously, but she loved his round face, his white-blond hair, his near-permanent smile and his local yokel west-cunnrrrry accent, which made him sound as if he should be chewing a piece of straw and sitting on a tractor, not showing wideboys round penthouses. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I did a second viewing of Flat 15 with the chap from the Vertical Blinds. I think he’s going to bite.’

‘I hope he’s got a bladder of steel, sleeping up that ladder.’

‘Not our problem.’

‘The neighbours’ll be thrilled when they hear Britain’s most notorious junkie’s moving in,’ sniped Joanne from her desk. She was wearing a bright blue minidress over leggings, and a chunky necklace that looked as if it were made out of boiled sweets. As usual, Lucinda felt wanting. She was a classic dresser, favouring shift dresses, chinos, white shirts, little scarves round the neck and loafers. In the circles she’d grown up in everyone dressed like that. But English girls had a much bolder style. Lucinda felt like a maiden aunt around them, especially when they boasted about getting ratarsed and puking in their handbags. In Geneva, you had a glass of wine with your meal, two max, and you vomited if you had food poisoning, not six vodkas and Red Bulls. London was a different world and sometimes she struggled to feel at home in it.

‘He’s not a junkie. I think that’s the lead singer,’ she replied, with as pleasant a smile as she could muster.

‘I’m amazed you recognized him. I mean, you’re the one who didn’t know who Sharon Osbourne was.’

‘That’s not a crime,’ said Gareth. ‘In fact, Lucinda deserves a medal for not recognizing the old hag.’

‘It’s because I haven’t lived here for long,’ Lucinda apologized. They were always teasing her for not knowing Cheryl Cole, Jordan and Kerry Katona, to name just a few.

‘Oh yeah, I forgot. You went to college in
America
. Sharon’s big there too, you know. Or are you telling me you were so poor as a student you couldn’t afford a television?’

‘Excuse me,’ said Lucinda. Smiling fixedly, she got up and headed towards the loo. The door shut behind her, she stared at her reflection in the fluorescent light. Why couldn’t Joanne be nice to her? She was trying so hard. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t grown up here and didn’t get the references to cheap English chocolate and children’s TV programmes that seemed to send the rest of the office into raptures.

She jumped as the door opened, flicking a tap and pretending to wash her hands. But it was only Marsha.

‘All right, Luce?’ At least she had a big smile for her.

‘Fine,’ Lucinda said, trying to sound as chipper as she could. ‘How about you, Marsha? How’s Dionne’s appeal going? Did she manage to find something to keep the bailiffs at arm’s length?’

‘Yeah, she offered to shag ‘em both. That did the trick.’ Marsha stopped at the cubicle door. ‘Don’t worry about Joanne. She’s just insecure. It takes at least a year before she accepts you into the team.’

‘A year?’ Oh, great! Only six more months to endure.

‘She’s just jealous because you’re so pretty. And posh.’ Marsha winked at her in the mirror. ‘Don’t let it get to you. The rest of us love you. If it’s any consolation Gareth was asking about you yesterday.’

‘What do you mean asking about me?’

‘Wanting to know if you had a boyfriend.’

‘Really?’ Lucinda dwelt upon this for just a moment. Just the faintest flicker of a smile crossed her lips. Not that she was interested in Gareth
at all –
but still. Somebody liked her. ‘And what did you say?’

‘I had to break the news to him that you did. He took it on the chin, said he wasn’t surprised.’

‘But why did you say that?’ Lucinda was confused. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’

‘Yes, you do! Who’s that Benjie you live with?’

‘He’s not my boyfriend! He’s my brother! God, does everyone think I’m going out with him?’ Lucinda laughed as she thought of Benjie, aged nineteen, zoology student, inveterate dope smoker, not to mention being gayer than all five of the Village People at a Liza Minnelli concert, being her boyfriend.

‘That’s more like it. Keep smiling. Coming to the Fox later?’

‘Of course.’ Everyone went to the Fox & Anchor on Friday night. There was no way Lucinda was going to miss it.

She returned to her desk, reinvigorated, like one of Henry V’s soldiers on the eve of Agincourt. It was nearly the end of the day, and one by one the others shut down their computers and donned their coats. Lucinda was going to join them, show she was part of the team, but before she left she tied up various loose ends, sending emails, calling anxious clients, checking her diary for Monday’s viewings. Before long, it was just her and Gareth left. Surreptitiously, she peeked at him over the top of her computer.

So he fancied her. She’d known it anyway, but it was good to have it confirmed. She looked at him again. No. Sorry. Those rosy cheeks were just too wholesome and there was that silly accent. Nice guy. Make someone a very good boyfriend. But not Lucinda. Her best friend Cass always teased her about being fussy, and it was fair to say she was picky about men.

At twenty-four, Lucinda was proud to say she’d never been in love and she was very happy with that situation. Obviously she wasn’t a virgin and she certainly enjoyed flirting. But as soon as she’d reeled the guy in, she lost interest.

The fun was all in the chase, she’d realized. Who wanted all the grief of a relationship? What was the point? Either you ended up heartbroken like Cass or married like her mother, going for endless facelifts in the hope of keeping your husband happy. A forlorn hope, as Daddy had had mistresses for as long as Lucinda could remember. Or you were like Ginevra, shopping all day long and forever talking about setting up a business selling children’s clothes with her friend Stacey but never actually getting round to it, because her haircare took up so much time.

It was all so pointless and old-fashioned. This was the twenty-first century for heaven’s sake, you didn’t need a man for anything apart from breeding, and now they were manufacturing sperm, so even that would be unnecessary. Lucinda did want kids in an abstract sort of way. But she wanted to take over her father’s empire much more. She was so proud of how well she was doing, given how easy it would have been to have ended up as just another spoilt trust-fund brat. Men would only distract her.

Gareth looked up and caught her eye as she brooded on her plans for world domination. ‘Coming to the pub?’ he smiled.

‘Yes.’ She turned off her computer. ‘We’ll just lock up, shall we?’

They switched off the lights, checked the windows, activated the burglar alarms. Lucinda liked the methodical way Gareth went about it all. He was a good worker. Not one of life’s leaders but definitely someone you’d want on your team. Her phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. It’s Nick Crex.’

Yes! Just in time for close of play.

‘I want to make an offer.’

The figure he named was a hundred grand below the asking price. Alex Meehan wasn’t going to like it. But a first offer was just a first offer. A calling card.

‘I think that’s a bit lower than my client will entertain. But I’ll certainly put it to him and get back to you.’

‘OK,’ he said, sounding taken aback by her frosty tone. Good. She wanted to unnerve him. ‘Um, look forward to hearing from you, then. Don’t forget my gig.’

‘I’ll have to see if I can make it. Goodbye, Mr Crex.’

She hung up, smiling. One nil to Lucinda. Now time to call the Meehans. She’d dial their landline, then with any luck she’d get Gemma. Lucinda always communicated with her if she could, because she was the nervy one who would jump at any straw. Alex, on the other hand, would have none of it. He was logical and nitpicking. She pitied the agent who was dealing with him when it came to the house they wanted to buy. He was exactly the sort who’d pick up on the tiniest thing in a survey and run with it for months.

‘Hello?’

Shit. What was he doing home so early? But, of course, it was Friday. No court tomorrow.

‘Mr Meehan, hello. Lucinda Gresham here. I’ve some good news. The viewer’s put in an offer.’

‘But is it good enough?’ he snapped back.

Lucinda named the price.

‘That’s too low.’

‘Well, in today’s economic climate…’

‘It’s too low. It’s a no.’

‘Okaaay. I’ll tell the client that.’

‘If you would. Thanks very much.’

‘Goodb…’ But he’d gone already. Lucinda rolled her eyes, imagining the furore at Flat 15. She was sure Gemma would be desperate to accept.

‘Enjoy your weekend, guys,’ she said into the silent handset.

‘Ready?’ Gareth asked.

‘Just one final call.’ She dialled Nick’s number.

‘Hello?’ Loud music playing in the background. Well, he was hardly going to be listening to a bit of light Chopin. Lucinda told him the response. He laughed.

‘We knew that was going to happen. OK, I’ll up it another fifty. But that is my final offer.’

‘Best and final?’ Lucinda smiled, keeping the tone as friendly as possible.

‘Best and final,’ he said brusquely, and he was gone. She called back Alex Meehan.

‘OK. We’ll think about it over the weekend. Get back to you on Monday.’

‘Done and dusted!’ Lucinda exclaimed, hanging up. She took her trenchcoat from its peg and tied her Hermès scarf around her neck. ‘Shall we?’ she said to Gareth, who had put on a nerdy grey anorak.

‘Absolutely.’ He locked the main door. ‘So what are you up to this weekend?’

‘Going to hole up at my friend Cassandra’s. She’s been dumped. Needs cheering up.’

‘Oh? Sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t be. He wasn’t worth it. I knew that from the time I overheard him at a party describing Cass to someone as “my current girlfriend”.’

Gareth sucked his teeth. ‘Nice.’

‘I know. Anyway, I’m going to get in all the clichés.
Bridget Jones
DVD,
Sex and the City
box set. Tubs of ice cream.’

‘Bottles of Chardonnay. Tissue multipacks.’

‘You’ve got it,’ she laughed. She didn’t know what came over her, because the next thing she said was, ‘I don’t have a boyfriend, you know.’

‘Sorry?’ Gareth stopped and stared at her.

‘I don’t have a boyfriend. I know you asked Marsha if I did and she said yes, but I’m single. I live with my brother.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Gareth walked on, head bent against the winter wind.

‘Yes…’ Lucinda continued a bit more shakily. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d felt the need to start this conversation. She’d wanted to set the record straight, she supposed. Just a tiny voice at the back of her head told her that perhaps she’d also wanted some kind of further confirmation that Gareth was interested. That she’d been showing off, pandering to her own vanity. Basically, being a pricktease. ‘Just wanted you to know.’

‘OK.’ They had stopped on the kerb of Farringdon Road, looking right, left, right for traffic. But Gareth then looked directly at her.

‘So… um. Would you like to go for a drink?’