‘Calm down,’ he said sharply, because Izzy forever seemed to be getting herself embroiled in some fracas or other and it couldn’t always be the other person’s fault.
‘That oily bastard!’ Izzy had no intention of calming down. Her dark eyes flashed as she glared at the thin, equally furious Argentinian, now gabbling frantically in his own language. ‘He shoved his revolting hand down the front of my dress.’
‘What dress?’ countered Sam, glancing down at the skimpy apricot-pink creation which clung to every curve and ended at mid-thigh. It seemed to him that the more money Izzy spent on clothes, the less of them there became.
‘Oh, so that gives him the right to
grope
me?’ she demanded furiously, colour mounting in her cheeks as she realised that he was landing the blame on her. ‘Come
on
, Sam! Whose side are you on?’
Sam was so tired he could hardly think straight. The reason he’d had to fly over to New York was because his supposedly dependable manager there had been busted for possession of cocaine. Now, back in London and suffering more badly than usual from jet lag, he had this to contend with. Izzy might not realise it at the moment but she was in danger of jeopardizing the good reputation of The Chelsea Steps.
‘I’m on the side of keeping your voice down and letting the other guests enjoy their evening,’ he replied evenly, steering her towards a small table and pressing her rigid body into one of the chairs.
‘But he
assaulted
me . . .’
‘And you are in my club, not a wrestling arena. For heaven’s sake, Izzy, if you wanted to make a complaint all you had to do was come and tell me about it, then I could have dealt with the matter quietly.’
Sam could be such a disappointment sometimes. Izzy, who had been so looking forward to seeing him, felt her eyes fill with angry tears. ‘You mean I should have
quietly
let them gang rape me—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped back. ‘I’m just saying that it always seems to happen to you, doesn’t it? And what do you honestly expect, coming out on your own dressed like some kind of high-class hooker? Anyone’s going to think you’re looking for attention . . . God knows, all you’ve ever
wanted
is attention . . . and now that you’re becoming well known you’re going to have to learn to handle it in the proper manner.’
‘Stop it!’ shrieked Izzy, unable to bear the unfairness of it all a moment longer. Now, her heart really racing, she wrenched her hand from Sam’s patronizing grasp and rose jerkily to her feet. ‘I’d rather be groped by greasy perverts than lectured to by a bastard who cares more about his precious club than his friends. And some friend
you
turned out to be,’ she added through gritted teeth. ‘When I think of all the nice things I told Vivienne about you . . .’
Vivienne. Another problem Sam didn’t need right now. Vivienne had been behaving decidedly oddly during the past few weeks. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ he said in abrupt tones as Izzy turned to leave.
‘You’re telling me,’ she hissed with as much sarcasm as she could muster. ‘But don’t worry, it was all lies. And she didn’t believe me anyway.’
Chapter 44
‘I’m miserable,’ announced Vivienne when Izzy answered the phone the following morning. ‘Come shopping with me.’
‘What’s Sam been telling you?’ Izzy demanded suspiciously, and a noise like a snort greeted her ears.
‘Sam who?’
They set out to do some serious damage in and around Bond Street, Vivienne the acknowledged expert and Izzy an enthusiastic newcomer to the art of real spending. South Molton Street was a particularly good starting-point; after twenty minutes in Browns, Izzy realised that she had blown more money on a pink suede skirt and a white cashmere sweater than she used to earn in an entire month. Vivienne, who had been weaned on designer labels and who never wasted any time glancing at price tags, kissed her gold card and became the proud new owner of a coffee-coloured silk dress and matching jacket, three pairs of trousers and a spectacular black-and-bronze sequinned top by a young Japanese designer with an awful lot of ‘Ys’ in his name.
‘Better?’ said Izzy two hours later when they stopped at a crowded bistro for a cappuccino and several slices of Amaretto-soaked chocolate-fudge cake. Glancing down at the slippery pile of carrier bags propped against the table legs, she estimated that they must have spent enough money to cover the cost of a holiday in Barbados.
Vivienne lit a cigarette. ‘It helps, I suppose. It always helps.’ Then she leaned closer. ‘But I still haven’t told you yet why I was miserable in the first place.’
‘That’s easy.’ Izzy pulled a fearsome face, startling several nearby customers. ‘You live with an unspeakable bastard. It’d be enough to make anyone miserable.’
‘I love him so much.’
‘Oh, Vee.’ Izzy’s expression softened. ‘Do you still? I really thought you were getting over him.’
Vivienne, who had been idly scooping the froth off her cappuccino with a teaspoon, frowned. ‘Not Sam, dumbo. I’m talking about Terry.’
‘What!’ Izzy, jack-knifing forwards, didn’t even notice that she’d landed her left breast in the chocolate-fudge cake. ‘Who? You haven’t told me anything about this!’
Vivienne hadn’t told anyone, so afraid had she been of breaking the spell. But now she simply couldn’t help it.
‘The man I met at Tash’s party,’ she explained, stubbing out her cigarette and immediately lighting another, even though Terry passionately disapproved of smoking. ‘Oh Izzy, he’s wonderful. I love him to pieces . . . he’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man.’
Reluctant though she was to spoil the fairy-tale, Izzy said cautiously, ‘You said that about Sam.’
‘Yes, but Sam’s never loved me back.’ Vivienne shook her head, then half-smiled. ‘And Terry does.’
‘In that case, I don’t understand why you aren’t deliriously happy. You love this guy, he loves you . . . so the two of you are crazy about each other . . . and you’re miserable!’ Izzy was seriously confused. Then she said, ‘Uh oh, don’t tell me - the dreaded M-word.’
‘No, he’s not married. He’s a widower, with two grown-up children. I’ve met them, I get on well with them, they like me. Hell, even his bloody cat likes me . . .’
By this time almost bursting with frustration, Izzy screeched, ‘Then
what
?’
‘He won’t take me seriously.’ For a moment Vivienne looked as if she was about to burst into tears. ‘Oh Izzy, it’s ridiculous. He says I’m too young, too beautiful and far, far too rich to be interested in someone like him. I’ve tried telling him until I’m blue in the face that none of those things matter, but he simply refuses to believe me. And what can I do?’ She spread her hands in despair, her cigarette almost setting fire to the trousers of a passing waiter. ‘I can’t make myself
older
.’
Despite Vivienne’s tragic expression, Izzy had to smile. She was envisaging the world’s first face-lift-in-reverse.
‘Maybe if you stopped wearing make-up?’ she suggested hopefully.
‘I tried that last week. All I did was look ill.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘Took my blood pressure.’
‘My God! Is he a pervert?’
This time, even Vivienne laughed. ‘No, a doctor.’
Izzy, relieved to see that she was at last beginning to cheer up, was absolutely fascinated. ‘So, what’s he like to sleep with?’ she said avidly. ‘I’ve always thought the medical profession must be spectacular in bed because they know exactly where everything is . . .’
To her amazement, Vivienne actually blushed. ‘He is spectacular,’ she admitted, lowering her voice in order to frustrate the middle-aged couple at the next table who had been frantically eavesdropping for the last ten minutes. ‘Although we’ve only done it twice, so far. He wouldn’t for ages, because he said he was afraid of getting too deeply involved, so in the end I had to seduce him.’
This was all too romantic for words. Izzy, breathless with anticipation, said, ‘And?’
Vivienne’s green eyes sparkled. The blush and the Texan drawl both deepened. ‘OK, you guessed right. He knows
exactly
where everything is.’
They were interrupted several minutes later by the arrival of a waiter bearing a bottle of rather good Beaujolais.
‘With the compliments of the couple at the next table,’ he murmured with a discreet nod in the direction of their neighbours.
‘Good heavens.’ Izzy swivelled in her chair to take a proper look, and saw that they were about to leave. ‘How very kind, but I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve it.’
‘You’re Izzy Van Asch,’ said the woman shyly. ‘Our son Giles is absolutely crazy about you. All he ever does is sing “Never, Never”, and fill his scrapbook with photos of you from the papers.’
‘Gosh.’ Absurdly flattered by the compliment and not yet accustomed to the attentions of total strangers, Izzy went even pinker than Vivienne had done earlier. ‘I’m so pleased he likes me. How old is your son?’
‘Seven.’
When she had scribbled a greeting and a rather ornate autograph on the back of the menu, the middle-aged man took it, hesitated for a second, then slid a business card on to the table next to the wine. ‘Actually,’ he said with a diffident smile, ‘I hope you won’t think us impertinent, but the wine is for your friend as much as you. We’d so much like to know whether everything turns out all right,’ he explained, meeting Vivienne’s astonished gaze, ‘between you and this nice doctor of yours.’
Izzy thought it all terribly funny. ‘I know,’ she said with a mischievous grin. ‘Wouldn’t we all!’
‘Well, you can’t disappoint that nice couple,’ she admonished when they were alone once more. Pouring the wine, she added, ‘And it isn’t really that surprising, the good doctor’s reluctance to take you seriously.You are still living with another man, after all.’
‘Sam isn’t a man, he’s a machine.’ Vivienne flicked back her blonde hair with new determination. ‘And you’re right, of course. The time has come to act. I tried my best, but I guess I simply wasn’t his kind of woman. He always complained that my only hobby was shopping; I think he needs someone with interests of her own, either a brilliant career or an obsession with mountaineering . . .’ She paused, took a sip of Beaujolais, then said a trifle shamefacedly, ‘. . . something that keeps her too busy to chase after him like a lost puppy. All I ever did was chase Sam, but what he really needs is an independent woman. Somebody he admires enough to chase for himself.’
Chapter 45
After the merry-go-round comings and goings of the past few weeks, Gina found it almost a relief to have the house to herself once more. Arriving home from work to peace and quiet - apart from Jericho’s initial volley of welcoming barks - definitely had its advantages.
An even greater luxury was the fact that the bathroom was always empty and the water hot. This evening, having invited Doug round for supper at eight-thirty, she decided to shower first and cook later; that way she wouldn’t miss the first showing of Izzy’s new video, ‘Kiss’, on
Top of the Pops
at seven-thirty.
Gina had a terrible singing voice, but since she was alone in the house it didn’t matter. ‘
I want you to kiss me, To know that you’ve missed me, Like I’ve missed you and your smile
. . .’ she warbled tunelessly, closing her eyes and letting the needles of blissfully hot water bombard her face. Shampoo, cascading down her body, had completely blocked her ears which improved the sound of her singing no end.
It was minutes later before she realised that downstairs the doorbell was ringing and Jericho was going absolutely frantic in his attempt to answer it and discover who was there.
Definitely not Doug, thought Gina, leaping out of the shower and hurriedly half-drying herself before tying her old towelling dressing-gown securely around her waist and running downstairs.
‘Who is it?’ She had to raise her voice to make herself heard above the noise of Jericho’s barking.
‘Me.’
Gina froze. For several seconds she was unable to move. Finally, reaching down and grabbing Jericho’s collar, she dragged him - whining in outraged protest - into the sitting room and locked him inside.