Praying that in her agitation she’d got the wrong number, Izzy cleared her throat and said, ‘Er . . . is Sam there?’
But the fickle dialling-finger of fate wasn’t that kind. The sleepy, sexy voice, sounding unperturbed, replied, ‘I’m afraid he isn’t, right now. I’m expecting him home in a couple of hours, though. Can I ask him to call you back?’
Oh shit, thought Izzy, feeling sicker than ever. That something like this might happen hadn’t even occurred to her.Whoever she was speaking to certainly didn’t sound like any kind of domestic hired-help.
‘Um. OK.’ It was no good, she couldn’t chicken out now. Not leaving a message would be downright immature, and maybe there
was
some perfectly innocent explanation for the girl’s presence in Sam’s apartment.
‘Right, I’ve found a pen,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘Fire away.’
‘Could you tell him that Izzy Van Asch called.’ Giving her full name, Izzy felt, made it sound more businesslike. ‘I’m in New York, staying at the Waldorf-Astoria in Room 317. If he could phone me as soon as he gets in . . .’
‘Room 317, the Waldorf,’ repeated the girl. ‘Right, got that. I’ll pass the message on.’
‘Thank you.’ Taking the deep breath she hadn’t been planning on using so soon, Izzy added, ‘I’m sorry if I woke you up.’
‘Oh, no problem,’ came the good-natured reply. ‘It’s about time for my bath anyway. Bye.’
The next two hours crawled past. Izzy, who had never felt more alone in her life, alternately flicked through fifty odd channels of atrocious cable television and paced the luxurious hotel room coming up with reason after plausible reason why Sam might have a female staying in his apartment. The only trouble was she didn’t believe any of them for more than a single moment.
Gazing out of her fifth-floor window only served to increase the gnawing sense of loneliness. The snow was falling heavily now, white flakes hurling themselves against the glass and sliding down like tears. Below her, Park Avenue glittered with lights and life as Manhattanites bent on celebrating Christmas thronged the street on their way home from work and out to parties.
Any minute now, thought Izzy as ten o’clock came and went, the phone would ring and she would hear Sam’s blissfully familiar voice. Without even needing to be prompted, he would volunteer the information that his secretary - or maybe the sister she’d never known he possessed - had passed on her message, and that he hoped she was dressed and ready to go because he’d booked a table for the two of them at Spago . . .
Except Spago, she belatedly recalled, was in Hollywood and the phone wasn’t ringing anyway.
By eleven-thirty it still hadn’t rung and jet lag was beginning to set in. Not having slept at all the night before, Izzy fought the urge to do so now, terrified that she might go out like a light and not hear the phone when it did finally ring.
But at the same time, the prospect of escaping into unconsciousness was an enticing one. Exhausted as she was, prolonging both the mental and physical agony wasn’t doing her poor fraught body any favours. It had certainly played havoc with her fingernails . . .
‘Honey, it’s getting late and you still haven’t returned those calls,’ chided Rosalie Hirsch. The front of her dove-grey silk wrap fell open as she reached across the bed to refill Sam’s wineglass. ‘Tom wants to know if you can meet him for lunch tomorrow. And Izzy Van-somebody asked you to ring her at the Waldorf as soon as you got in. You really should phone, Sam. It might be important.’
‘Hmm.’ Sam, admiring the view of Rosalie’s cleavage, trailed his hand across her equally exposed thigh. ‘I doubt it.’
‘You have no conscience,’ she protested mildly, holding her breath as the hand moved higher.
‘On the contrary.’ Pushing her gently back against the pillows, smiling and unrepentant, he said, ‘I feel just terrible about not returning those calls. But some things in life are simply more important. Don’t you agree . . . ?’
Rosalie genuinely hadn’t minded being woken up by the phone four hours earlier.This time, however, the intrusion came at a particularly crucial moment.
But whereas Sam would have let the damn thing carry on ringing, she couldn’t ignore it. Grabbing the receiver, intent only upon getting rid of the caller, she gasped, ‘Yes?’
‘Oh. Is Sam back yet?’
The woman from the Waldorf, thought Rosalie, closing her eyes. With a breathy laugh, she said, ‘Uh . . . well . . . he’s pretty busy at the moment. Look, I’m sorry . . . oh! . . . but he’ll speak to you later . . . OK?’
Disconnecting the call, leaving the phone off the hook this time, she returned her attention to Sam.
‘Who was it?’ he murmured with some amusement.
‘Nobody important,’ sighed Rosalie, her toes curling in ecstasy as she arched against him. ‘Don’t stop, honey . . . oh my God, whatever you do, don’t stop now . . . !’
Chapter 60
Doug was up to his ears in paperwork when Gina entered the office.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ he said, carefully concealing his delight.
Gina, unaccountably nervous, removed her olive-green beret so that if he wanted to kiss her, he could. But it didn’t happen. Instead, perching awkwardly on the chair opposite, she placed a large gift-wrapped parcel on the desk.
‘I haven’t seen or heard from you for over a week,’ she said brightly.
Doug nodded his head in agreement. ‘I know.’
‘So . . . I thought I’d pop in and see you. See how you were getting on.’
‘Fine,’ he replied, glancing at his watch and deliberately ignoring the parcel on the desk.
Abruptly, Gina’s fragile defences crumbled. She had rehearsed this meeting a dozen times over the last day or so, but Doug evidently hadn’t learned his lines. He didn’t even seem pleased to see her.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I was rude to you the other day,’ she blurted out, twisting her fingers together in her lap. ‘It was wrong of me, but I just didn’t expect you to walk out like that.’
Doug hadn’t expected himself to walk out either, but it appeared to have had the desired effect. Encouraged by her conciliatory tone, he replied evenly, ‘There didn’t seem much point in staying.’
‘I know. I behaved like a spoilt bitch.’ Gina looked unhappier than ever. Smoothing her dark green skirt over her knees, she inclined her head in the direction of the parcel. ‘And I really am sorry. I didn’t know if I’d be seeing you at all over Christmas, so I thought I’d better give you your present now.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he replied gravely. ‘Thanks.’
‘So, what are your plans for Christmas?’ Gina had been biting her tongue, willing herself to remain calm, but the words tumbled out anyway. ‘Will you be staying in London, do you think, or going away?’
He shrugged. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet, although I’ll probably stay here. See some friends, you know the kind of thing.’
It was extraordinary, but she’d never noticed before the slight but definite resemblance between Doug and Anthony Hopkins.The eyes were the same, Gina now realised, gazing at him for what seemed like the very first time. And the shape of their mouths was virtually identical . . .
Pulling herself together and struggling to conceal her jealousy, she said, ‘I expect you’ll be seeing Lucille.’
‘I expect so.’ Relaxing in his chair, inwardly amazed by the success of his campaign, Doug felt he could afford to be magnanimous. With a brief smile he said, ‘And what will you be doing?’
It’s my own fault, thought Gina miserably. All he’s ever been to me is kind and in return I’ve treated him like dirt. I deserve this.
‘Oh, I’ll be fine.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally high. ‘I’m not quite up to wild parties at the moment, of course . . .’
‘What about Christmas Day?’
She didn’t even want to
think
about Christmas Day. If she did, she might cry. ‘Oh,’ she murmured, flapping her hands in a vague gesture of dismissal. ‘I’ll be fine, really . . .’
Doug, who had never deliberately hurt anyone in his life, found her stoical sadness almost unbearably poignant.
‘If you don’t have any other plans,’ he ventured, clearing his throat, ‘maybe we could spend it together. There are plenty of restaurants open on Christmas Day, and we wouldn’t have to go anywhere too . . . wild.’
‘Really?’ Colour flooded Gina’s pale cheeks. ‘On Christmas Day? You’d have lunch with
me
?’
‘Only if you’d like to.’ Doug broke into a grin. There, he’d done it. And it hadn’t been so difficult after all.
‘I’d
love
to,’ cried Gina, her eyes glistening and her body sagging with relief. ‘I can’t think of anything nicer. But you don’t need to book a restaurant, I can do all the food and we can spend the day at my house.’
Doug pretended to hesitate. ‘Only if you promise not to ask me to decorate your tree.’
‘I won’t ask you to do anything,’ declared Gina joyfully. ‘Except be there. That’s all that matters, after all.’
‘So, you’re back,’ Lucille observed, having heard the taxi pull up outside and rushed to open the front door. Giving Izzy a shrewd up-and-down, she added, ‘And you’re lookin’ a bit peaky. That jet lag’s gone to yer eyes . . . what you need, my girl, is a bowl of hot soup and a good piece of soda bread to mop it up with.’
What Izzy needed was Sam, but she managed a feeble smile and allowed herself to be ushered into the kitchen, where a vat of Lucille’s famous soup simmered on the stove.
‘There ye go,’ exhorted her housekeeper, plonking a brimming bowl in front of her. ‘Get that down into yer stomach and you’ll start feelin’ better in no time at all.’
If only, thought Izzy. Her appetite had deserted her on the other side of the Atlantic, but with Lucille standing guard she had little choice other than at least to try a spoonful of the soup.
‘How’s Jericho?’ she said, glancing in the direction of his empty basket.
Lucille rolled her eyes. ‘Love’s young dream! He howls outside Bettina’s window until he catches a glimpse of her. It’s like Romeo and Juliet all over again and it’s drivin’ the major demented. But I’m more interested in findin’ out how
you
are,’ she continued, folding her plump arms across her chest and fixing Izzy once more with that unnervingly direct gaze. ‘From the desperate look of you, I’m thinkin’ that things in New York didn’t turn out quite as you’d planned.’
‘What?’ hedged Izzy, disconcerted by the note of sympathy in her voice. ‘It was a business meeting, that’s all. It went OK.’
But Lucille wasn’t about to be fobbed off. Her eyes softened as she glanced momentarily in the direction of Izzy’s stomach. ‘Bless you, girl,’ she said gently. ‘Ye might be able to get away with foolin’ some people, but this is an Irish Catholic ye’re talkin’ to, now. We can spot a pregnant woman at fifty paces.’
‘
What?
’ Izzy gasped, appalled. Inadvertently gazing down at her still-flat stomach, she cried, ‘How? How can you
possibly
tell?’
‘Easy,’ said Lucille with a modest shrug. ‘I found a crumpled-up letter to the fellow himself, when I hoovered under yer bed.’
Having sworn Lucille to secrecy, and so that Christmas at least could be spent in relative peace, Izzy waited until the day after Boxing Day before breaking the news to Kat.
But it had to be done, and although she still leapt a mile each time the phone rang or the doorbell went, there had been no word at all from Sam, not even so much as a Christmas card.
He had, it seemed, made his own decision to put their ill-fated relationship behind him and involve himself with a sensual American girl instead.
She was probably a blonde, Izzy had mournfully concluded, trying hard not to feel jealous. A beautiful, nubile blonde with great teeth, who was utterly devoted to Sam Sheridan and undoubtedly a good ten years younger than herself.
Katerina was stretched out across the sofa watching
The Wizard of Oz
and working her way methodically through a Terry’s Chocolate Orange when Izzy sidled into the sitting room.