Take a Chance on Me, page 23
Their eyes met for a prolonged moment. At last Maria tilted her head and said cheerfully, ‘Got there in the end, then.’
‘It was you!’ Cleo couldn’t believe she’d been so slow to catch on.
‘Dear old Lawrence. He didn’t suffer.’ Maria’s eyes danced. ‘Mind you, he gave me a bit of a fright.’
In the off license, Casey was now handing over his credit card at the till.
‘I thought you were a groupie!’
‘Casey Kruger’s biggest fan? Give me a break!’ Maria looked appalled. ‘The Kaiser Chiefs, now they’re my kind of music. Anyway, groupies don’t get paid.’
She had a point. Fascinated, Cleo longed to talk money. How much was Casey paying for the pleasure of her company tonight? A fair amount, presumably, if he was reduced to buying their alcohol from Threshers.
But no, that was a question she couldn’t ask. Instead she said tactlessly, ‘We wondered if you’d turn up for Lawrence’s funeral.’
Maria shook her head. ‘I was invited. I’d have liked to, really. Lawrence was a regular client of mine, and I was very fond of him. But it would’ve caused a stir.’
‘It would. Who invited you?’
‘Lawrence’s son, Johnny.’
‘You met him, then?’
‘No, but he phoned me. After my interview with the coroner. He sounded really nice.’ Interested, Maria said, ‘Is he nice?’
Cleo paused. OK, this was a potential scenario she definitely didn’t need to envisage. ‘He has his good moments. And his bad ones.’
‘Bit of a looker, is he? Like his dad?’
Cleo said casually, ‘He’s all right. Then again, lots of people think Casey Kruger’s gorgeous.’ Relieved, she saw that Casey was heading towards them, bulging plastic carriers in each hand.
‘Phew, sorry about that. Took longer than I thought.’ The carriers clanked as he climbed in. ‘Had to sign a load of autographs.’
‘No problem.’ Crikey, how much had he bought? There had to be a dozen bottles in there.
‘Thought I might as well stock up. Don’t you just hate it when you run out of stuff to drink?’ Settling himself into the back of the car and giving Maria’s knee a seductive squeeze, Casey said, ‘Well that’s not going to happen to us, is it? We’re going to have a grrrreat night, yes sirreee!’
He was already unscrewing the top of a bottle of Scotch and noisily glugging it back. Cleo restarted the engine. For a split second, her eyes met Maria’s in the mirror.
God, imagine having to submit to the sexual demands of someone who made your skin crawl.
It didn’t bear thinking about.
However much Maria was getting paid, it wasn’t enough.
Chapter 34
‘There you go. Enjoy!’ As Fia put the plate down on the table in front of him, Ash caught a waft of faint but delicious perfume. ‘And don’t forget, this is on me.’
It was a bowl of spaghetti Bolognese. Normally, a statement like that would provoke a joke from him, but he was too busy being tongue-tied and awkward in Fia’s presence. Just for a change. Not to mention thinking that his on-the-house spaghetti Bolognese had in fact cost him one hundred and twenty pounds.
It was Wednesday lunchtime. Last night Fia and her oh-so-deserving friend Aaron-the-do-gooder had gone to the Colston Hall on his tickets, and so far she had told him seventy-three times that it had been the best concert she’d ever seen in her life.
OK, maybe not seventy-three. But she was certainly rubbing it in.
‘You know, he was just so… fantastic.’ Fia shook her head, lost in admiration for Richard Mills’s talent, good looks, and captivating stage presence.
Ash wondered how it would feel to hear her say those words about him.
‘Even my hands are sore.’ She held them out to show him the palms. ‘They’re still burning from clapping so much.’
He forced a smile, willing himself not to imagine those warm hands roaming over his body… no, no, now he was just torturing himself, don’t even go there, she’d probably leap away in disgust and run a mile.
‘And Aaron’s still on cloud nine. He’s phoned me up three times today already!’
‘Good. That’s… good.’ Ash twirled a mound of spaghetti around his fork, raised it to his mouth, and leaned forward, managing to catch a single spaghetti strand between his teeth while the rest promptly unraveled and dropped back onto the plate. ‘Shit.’ He snatched up his paper napkin and rubbed at the orange splashes on the front of his shirt.
‘You’ve got a bit on your chin too,’ Fia said helpfully.
‘Oh. Thanks.’
She pointed. ‘And your ear.’
‘Right.’ Fucking uncontrollable spaghetti.
‘Well, I’d better get back to work.’ Gaily, Fia turned and swung into the kitchen, singing a line from one of the arias Richard Mills had performed last night.
Ash exhaled and put down his sauce-spattered napkin. Was this rock bottom? Had he finally hit it?
Because if he had, maybe it was time to take that step and call Losers Anonymous.
Hi, my name is Ash Parry-Jones and when I’m at work I’m funny, smart, and super-articulate without even trying… I have thousands upon thousands of fans who tune in to my show every morning because they know I’ll entertain them and brighten their day.
And outside work, I’m a complete dick.
***
The trouble with having a bit of a clear-out downstairs and hauling three bin bags of assorted clutter up into the loft, was that you never actually dumped them and came straight back down again. While you were there, you always somehow managed to spot something you hadn’t seen for years and get sidetracked.
Cleo, sitting cross-legged with her back to a bundle of blankets, had been up in the loft for the past two hours. She’d looked through a suitcase of her dad’s favorite clothes. Losing her mum at eleven had been devastating, but she knew how lucky she’d been to have her loving, gentle father, who had become two parents rolled into one and done such a good job—along with Abbie—of bringing her up. One day she’d feel able to donate his old woolly sweaters and faded checked shirts to the charity shop, but not quite yet.
She had then examined a cardboard box containing all the books she had adored as a child; OK, the charity shop definitely couldn’t have these because one day she planned on reading them to her own children, whether they wanted to hear them or not.
And there was another box filled with jigsaws, which she really should chuck out; God knows, no twenty-first-century child would be seen dead doing a jigsaw.
She’d also been through a tin of her mother’s costume jewelry, a shoebox filled with old postcards, and a box-file of graffiti-strewn school exercise books and end-of-year reports. Reading them had brought the memories—not all of them great—flooding back. Mr Elliott had written, ‘If Cleo were to pay more attention to History and less to Boyzone, progress might be achieved’. Miss Barlow had put, ‘On the tennis court, Cleo is enthusiastic.’ Which was a polite way of saying unable to hit the ball over the net, but good at picking it up again. And Mr Haines, her Maths teacher, had described her as ‘Easily distracted during lessons, usually by herself.’
Which was just snarky. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t been able to get to grips with quadratic equations.
Anyway, karma had come good in the end. Two years later, Mr Haines had been stopped in his car by the police and charged with driving without due care and attention. Whilst wearing nothing but a satin corset, stockings, and lacy garters.
Ouch, her foot had gone numb. Cleo shifted position, bent forward, and reached for the next packet of photos in the trunk in front of her.
This was what had kept her up here for the last hour. Her father had never gone anywhere without a camera. He’d taken endless photographs throughout her childhood, and at the time, she’d quite often wished he wouldn’t. Back then, it had been a source of embarrassment and shame.
But almost two decades later, the embarrassment factor had faded and she was glad he’d done it. Village life had been captured to a tee and it was brilliant to see everyone looking as they’d looked all those years ago. Sorting through the snaps, she came to one of herself with an ill-advised baby bangs, showing off her new lemon yellow dungarees in the back garden. And here were a whole load taken at the village summer fête… there was Welsh Mac when he still had hair… and Glynis from the shop, wearing a white polyester trouser suit and high heels that were sinking into the grass as she manned the hoopla stall. Flipping on through, she came to one featuring Abbie and Tom looking young and in love, and another of Glynis’s husband Huw looking hot and half-cut outside the beer tent. And—ha!—there was Johnny in the background, in jeans and a dodgy striped T-shirt, fooling around with a couple of friends in front of the coconut shy. Next was one of herself—oh good grief—wearing a homemade hula skirt and crepe flowers in her hair for the fancy dress competition. Then another of Johnny stretched out on the grass, feeding crisps to the vicar’s yappy Jack Russell terrier. And here was one of Huw sprawled in a chair and fast asleep now, oblivious to the fact that, behind him, his young nieces were gleefully sprinkling daisies and bits of grass on his head.
She smiled at the pictures. The next one showed Wayne Carter, who had always been the wild boy of the village, snarling at the camera and brandishing a can of lager. His hair was dyed black and gelled into aggressive spikes and he was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt, strategically ripped to reveal a nipple ring that, back then, had sent shockwaves through the community.
He was a chartered accountant now.
Her mobile burst into life and she answered it.
‘Hi, it’s me.’ Her pulse quickened; there was no mistaking Johnny’s playful drawl.
‘This is a coincidence. I’ve just been looking at old photos of you!’ Hastily Cleo added, ‘Not in a stalkery way.’
‘How did I look?’
‘You’ve had better hairstyles.’
‘And how did you look?’
‘Stunning, of course.’
He laughed. ‘Listen, remember you liked my new dining room?’
‘Um… yes.’ When he’d shown her over his house the other week, she’d fallen in love with the shade of paint he’d chosen for the walls, a rich velvety topaz yellow.
‘Well I’ve just been sorting through junk in the garage and I’ve found another ten-liter tin of the stuff. I knew we’d ordered too much, I just didn’t realize how much. And you said you were thinking of redoing your living room, so I wondered if you wanted it.’
‘Great, thanks!’ Ten liters of good quality paint, for free? Brilliant.
‘If you’re at home, I can bring it on over.’
‘I’m in the attic. It’s easier to get into than it is to climb out of,’ said Cleo, ‘so you’ll have to give me five minutes. But the door’s on the latch.’
Johnny didn’t hesitate. ‘In that case, just stay where you are. I’m on my way.’
Chapter 35
Three minutes later Cleo heard the front door open and close, then footsteps on the stairs. Peering over the edge of the hatch, she said, ‘Where’s the paint?’
‘I left it in the hall. What are you doing up there?’
‘Looking at old stuff.’ Cleo let go of the photo in her hand and watched it twirl down towards him like a leaf. Catching it, Johnny studied the snap of himself in front of the coconut shy and shook his head.
‘I was fourteen. God, look at the state of me.’ He grinned and climbed onto the chair beneath the hatch, then expertly—impressively—hauled himself up into the loft and gazed around. ‘You’ve got a lot of stuff to look at.’
‘I’ve been here for ages.’
‘I can see why. It’s nice up here. Cozy.’
‘I think I have abandonment issues. I can’t bring myself to throw anything away.’ Bending her head to avoid the slanted beams and the forty-watt light bulb, Cleo made her way back to where she’d been sitting before. She patted the rolled-up blanket next to her. ‘Come and have a look at the photos. I daren’t take this lot downstairs; they’ll never get back up here again.’
‘Bloody hell, I don’t believe it. Welsh Mac with hair!’
Cleo loved it that he was as entertained by the photographs as she was. The last thirty minutes had flown by. She and Johnny may not have been friends during their teenage years, but they’d known all the same people. He exclaimed with delight as he recognized places and events from their shared-but-separate pasts. There were assorted Christmases, bonfire night parties, school sports days, Badminton Horse Trials…
‘There’s your Auntie Jean.’ Next to her, Johnny picked up a photo that had slipped out of its pocket. Older than the ones they’d been looking at, it showed a young Jean, in her mid-twenties and still healthy, glowing with joie de vivre. In this picture she was wearing a pink and green dress and flowers in her long dark hair. She was sitting on a gate, holding a small lop-eared mongrel and laughing into the camera. Cleo felt her stomach contract with longing for the happy auntie she’d lost.
‘Look at her,’ Johnny marveled. ‘Pretty stunning, wasn’t she? In her day.’
Cleo nodded.
‘Those eyes.’ He held the photo at arm’s length, then turned to survey her. ‘She looks just like you.’
‘I know.’
‘Hey, stop it, don’t cry.’ Johnny’s hand covered hers. ‘What’s wrong?’
All the old memories had been stirred up like mud in a bucket. Cleo recalled the hideous afternoon when Auntie Jean, off her head and barely able to stand, had said, ‘Hey baby, look at us, don’t we look the same, eh? You an’ me?’ She’d flung an arm around Cleo before she had a chance to escape, and had planted a wet kiss on her face. ‘You’re goin’ to be just like me when you grow up!’
Which, when you were twelve, wasn’t the cheeriest of thoughts. And stupidly, Cleo hadn’t been able to dismiss it from her mind. Maybe it was ridiculous, but for years after that, she’d been haunted by the fear that she would one day turn into Auntie Jean.
‘Here.’ Johnny wiped her wet cheeks with his thumb. ‘Don’t cry. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK, I’m fine.’ She must be hormonal. Cleo exhaled, steadied herself. He must think she was a complete wuss.
‘I don’t suppose it was easy, growing up with Jean as your aunt.’ As he said it, he gave her a reassuring pat on the back. He wasn’t wearing aftershave today, but the clean, natural smell of him was, if anything, even more hypnotic.
‘There was no need to feel ashamed of her, you know.’
Cleo nodded. ‘She was embarrassing though. You never knew what she’d do next.’ Her shoulders began to unbunch as he rubbed the flat of his hand in soothing circles over her back. ‘I was ashamed of being ashamed. Does that make sense? She was showing us all up and I wished she’d go away.’
And she scared the living daylights out of me, because if it could happen to Auntie Jean, who was to say it couldn’t happen to me too?
‘Nobody would blame you for feeling like that.’ Johnny’s voice was consoling; it was still weird, him being this nice to her.
‘Anyway.’ Reaching for another packet of photographs, Cleo said, ‘I ended up getting my wish, didn’t I? She went away for good.’
He nodded. There was no need to say any more. Auntie Jean’s liver had held out, heroically, for a few more years. She’d stumbled from crisis to drink-fueled, chaotic crisis before finally succumbing to hepatic cirrhosis. She was forty when she died, and Cleo had been eighteen.
‘Now that’s what I call style,’ said Johnny, changing the subject.
Cleo looked at the photograph of herself on her thirteenth birthday, proudly cutting a star-shaped, Smartie-studded cake and evidently delighted by her choice of puff-sleeved purple blouse and green-and-purple checked waistcoat.
‘I dread to think what I had on the bottom half.’ In the photo she was standing behind a table, but Cleo had a distinct memory of orangey-brown cotton trousers from C & A. Oh well, he didn’t need to know that.
‘Ha!’ Johnny spluttered with laughter as the damn things were revealed in the next photo.
‘Fine, you weren’t always so sartorial yourself.’ Retaliating, she flipped through an earlier batch until she found the one of him leading the fancy dress parade at the summer fête. Aged ten or eleven, he was wearing dark brown tights, a brown turtleneck sweater, and a hat decorated with huge branches and swathes of greenery.
Pointing to them, Cleo said, ‘Tights.’
‘I was a tree.’
‘With transvestite tendencies.’
‘I try to keep those under control these days.’
‘You looked ridiculous.’
‘But I came third. I won a book token.’ Pause. ‘And I got to keep the tights.’
She groaned aloud at the next photo of herself eating candyfloss, with pink gunk around her mouth and bits of it attractively stuck in her hair. ‘Look at the state of me there.’
‘Ah, but you’ve improved with age.’ Johnny was half-smiling. ‘In fact, you’ve scrubbed up pretty well.’
‘Shut up.’ Cleo squirmed; for some reason he still had his hand on her back.
‘You don’t take compliments very easily, do you? But it’s true.’
And she’d been doing so well up until now. Hopefully he couldn’t tell how fast her heart was beating. Casually she said, ‘Maybe it depends on who’s giving them.’
‘You’re a beautiful girl. That’s a fact. Trust me.’ His green eyes glittered with amusement. ‘I’m an artist.’
Ha, a smarty-pants con artist, more like. But even as she was thinking this, her body was reacting to his voice, his physical proximity, the warm hand on her back. And she wasn’t moving away.
She wasn’t moving at all.
‘Listen to me.’ Johnny’s voice softened. ‘I mean it. I don’t think you have any idea how attractive you are.’
