Authors: Jill Mansell
It
, thought Orla with a pleasurable shiver. Crikey, I can barely remember how
it
goes. Let's hope he's less out of practice than I am.
Belatedly she realized that he was still waiting for her to reply to the question he had put to her several hours ago. Well, thirty seconds.
What had the question been? Oh yes…
‘Me? No vices left at all. I’m now one hundred percent flawless.’ Orla smiled as she spoke, basically because it was impossible not to smile. ‘A temple of perfection. And a very lovely person to boot.’
‘I can tell. In fact, I already knew that. It must be great,’ he added. ‘There aren’t all that many completely perfect people around.’
Orla had so many questions; she longed to know everything about him. She wanted to find out his name for a start, and how old he was, what he did, where he lived, and whether or not he was married.
But at the same time she was terrified of breaking the spell. What if he
was
happily married with five children? What if he turned out to be twenty-three and just over on a flying visit from Australia? What if he told her his name was Ernest?
To their right, a flashbulb went off. One of the photographers who had been circulating all evening called out, ‘Orla, could you turn this way?’
Orla turned and smiled automatically for the next picture, then realized that it was no good, she simply had to ask.
Out of the corner of her mouth she murmured, ‘Are you married?’
He didn’t flinch or hesitate.
‘No.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-seven.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Just bought a place in Wimbledon.’
‘
Lovely!
’ exclaimed the photographer. ‘Just move a bit closer together now, could you?’
My pleasure, thought Orla, doing as she was instructed and squirming with delight as, for the first time, their bodies brushed together. The sparks might not be visible but she could certainly feel them.
Anyway, next question.
‘Do you work in publishing?’
‘Me? I write a bit.’ His shrug was modest, his mouth twitching playfully at the corners. ‘Of course, I’m not in your league.’
‘Great.’ The photographer gave them an encouraging thumbs-up. ‘Just one more. I want you looking really happy now!’
Orla had no trouble looking happy. In fact, she was finding it ludicrously easy.
‘Would I have read any of your work?’
‘Oh, I think you have.’
‘Really?’ Delighted, she clutched his arm. ‘What's your name?’
Pause.
‘Actually, it's Carson.’
Carson. Carson. Orla racked her brains; there was a thriller writer called Carson Phillips, but he was a born and bred New Yorker.
Slowly, slowly, she made the connection.
The Irish connection.
No wonder he hadn’t introduced himself earlier.
‘Oh, I get it now. You’re related to Christie Carson.’ She drew back slightly, studying his face. ‘You don’t look like him, but you must be. Who are you, his son?’
At that moment a big arm was flung around Orla's shoulder.
‘Hello there, Christie,’ JD boomed in her ear. ‘Fancy bumping into you like this.’ Giving Orla a bone-crunching squeeze he went on in his loud voice, ‘And as for you, my darling, what
do
you think you’re doing, consorting with the enemy?’
‘… IT'S NO PICNIC, you know, being a millionaire. When you meet up with your old friends they expect you to buy every round.’ Noel was still droning on, relating a seemingly endless list of grievances. ‘They seem to think they’re doing you a favor, just by coming out with you for a drink or a meal. And the moment you’ve picked up the tab, they’re off. Jealousy, that's all it is. They resent the fact that I’m successful and they’re just a bunch of losers. Are you listening to me?’
‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Millie had been peering round in search of Orla who was—typically—nowhere in sight. ‘Why don’t you ditch your friends if you don’t like them? Make some new ones?’
Well,
try
.
Noel looked at her as if she was thick.
‘I am. That's why I’m talking to you.’
Oh God. Definitely time to escape.
‘We could meet up tomorrow,’ he went on. ‘Go out for lunch somewhere.’
Millie hesitated, wondering how best to convey the news that she would rather tip a bucket of live cockroaches over her head.
‘Thanks, but—’
‘I’d pay. Seeing as it’d be our first meal together.’
She broke into a light sweat. Where the bloody hell had Orla got to?
‘Look, it's really nice of you to offer, but I can’t.’
‘Okay.’ Noel shrugged. ‘We’ll go Dutch.’
Millie wished she was fifteen again; life had been so simple then. When you were pestered by a boy you didn’t fancy, you just screeched with laughter and howled, ‘Do I look desperate? Get lost, frogface, I’d rather die than go out with you! Just the thought of you makes me want to vomit!’
But she wasn’t fifteen, she was a grown-up. It wasn’t so easy now.
‘I mean I can’t meet you.’ Inside her shoes, her toes were curling up with embarrassment; the fact that Noel Blackwall was so awful only made her feel more guilty. ‘I have other plans.’
Noel said stolidly, ‘Dinner, then.’
‘I’ll still be busy.’
For crying out loud! Take a
hint
, can’t you?
‘Are you sure?’ Noel frowned, his eyebrows drawing together like curtains. ‘Because—’
‘She's sure,’ a male voice announced behind Millie. ‘She's absolutely sure. In fact, she's spending tomorrow and the rest of the weekend with me.’
‘Con!’ Millie let out a shriek of delight as he picked her up and whirled her around. Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, she whispered into his ear, ‘
Keep whirling.
’
Finally, when they were twenty feet away from droning Noel, Con Deveraux put her down.
Millie kissed him, noisily, on both cheeks.
‘You have
no
idea how glad I am to see you. I thought I was going to be trapped with that boring man all night.’
‘I know. I was listening.’ Mischievously Con added, ‘I didn’t like to interrupt at first, in case you were crazy about him.’
‘As if. Orla made me talk to him. But what are
you
doing here? Oh my God!’ Millie exclaimed, as realization dawned. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re my surprise!’
Con broke into a grin.
‘Got it in one. Good old Orla, up to her matchmaking tricks
again. She rang and persuaded me that all we needed was another chance. As it happened, I wasn’t doing anything else, so I thought I may as well come along. Just as long as you aren’t expecting rampant sex,’ he added with a straight face.
‘Poor Orla, you can’t say she doesn’t try. Still, never mind.’ Thinking how handsome he looked in black tie, Millie gave him another ecstatic hug. ‘It's lovely to see you again. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer surprise.’
Well, maybe just one…
‘Unlike Orla.’ As he spoke, Con deftly spun her round and pointed across the room.
‘Where is she? I can’t even see her.’
‘Left a bit, left a bit, behind the woman in purple with the huge backside.’ Guiding Millie like a periscope, he whispered gleefully, ‘There she is. Getting the biggest shock of her life.’
Millie saw. Orla was indeed looking dumbstruck. Her eyes were like saucers, her mouth a perfect O as she gazed at a good-looking man with something approaching horror.
‘Why? What's he saying to her?’ Millie couldn’t work it out at all. JD was there, roaring with laughter, with his arm around Orla. A photographer was busy capturing her comical reaction for posterity.
‘I think he's just told her who he is.’ Admiringly, Con added, ‘Brave chap.’
‘Well, I’ve never seen him before. He's certainly not famous. How do you know him?’
‘I don’t. Dad was introduced to him as we arrived. This should be good.’ Con looked amused. ‘He could be about to experience a close encounter with Orla's glass of wine.’
‘Crikey. Should we go over?’
‘Absolutely not. I’d hate to get wet.’
‘But who
is
he?’
‘Christie Carson. The one who gave Orla that stinking review, remember?’
Millie remembered only too well; it was the review that had changed
her
life.
She also remembered the photograph of the author adorning the proof copy of his own book.
Shaking her head pityingly at Con, Millie said, ‘No it isn’t.’
Across the room, Orla declared, ‘You can’t be Christie Carson. You don’t look anything like him.’
His eyes were twinkling but he was clearly on edge, ready to leap out of the way should any wine come hurtling in his direction.
‘Actually, I do. We’re astonishingly alike.’
Orla frowned.
‘I saw your photo. Was that not you?’
‘Oh yes, it was me.’
‘You looked like the wild man of Borneo.’
‘Ah well, that was taken while I was going through my wild man of Borneo phase,’ he replied gravely. ‘Long hair, beard, fierce expression, the works.’
‘We thought you were about fifty.’
‘I know. All that facial hair. Terribly aging.’ Lightly, he added, ‘Promise me you’ll never grow a beard.’
‘But why would you
want
people to think you look like that?’
‘Okay. Your publicity photos.’ Christie Carson fixed her with a steady gaze. ‘You have a hairdresser in attendance, am I right? A make-up artist, maybe even a stylist. And a photographer angling his lights to capture you at your absolute best.’
This was true. Defensively, Orla said, ‘So?’
‘So, that's fine. Practically de rigueur for the kind of books you write. It's what your readers expect.’ He shrugged. ‘It's different for me. My style of writing is more—’
‘Intellectual?’ bristled Orla.
‘Masculine. Anyway, if it's any comfort to you, my mother had an absolute fit when she saw that photo. She told me I looked a sight and ordered me to spruce myself up. So here I am.’ He ran a hand briefly over his cropped curly hair and clean-shaven chin. ‘Well and truly spruced.’
Orla was lost for words.
But not for long.
‘You’re supposed to be a recluse.’ Her tone was accusing, her fingers tightly laced around her wine glass. ‘You’ve never given an interview. So what are you doing here tonight?’
Orla had long ago convinced herself that Christie Carson lived the life of a hermit in an unheated, crumbling stone cottage in the wilds of Ireland. Any journalists daring to approach his hovel of a home would be met with a barrage of abuse and the business-end of a double-barrelled shotgun.
She couldn’t help it. She was a novelist.
‘I don’t like giving interviews,’ Christie Carson agreed, the laughter lines deepening around his eyes. ‘But that doesn’t make me a recluse. So anyhow, now we have the misunderstandings cleared up and the introductions out of the way. Maybe we could get down to the serious business of the evening.’ Nodding at Orla's almost-full glass, he drawled, ‘Are you going to throw that over me or not?’
Orla hesitated. The shock of discovering who he was had begun to wear off. The butterflies in her stomach were starting up again.
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
Oh, that smile! She was at a serious disadvantage here. Flinging wine into the horrid bearded face of the wild man of Borneo would have been easy—a positive
delight
, in fact—but this was a different matter altogether.
Somehow she knew her heart would no longer be in it.
Besides, the dinner jacket he was wearing was well cut and clearly expensive.
Watching her weigh up the options, he raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes? No?’
‘I’ll keep you in suspense.’
The hovering photographer looked disappointed.
‘They’re going through to dinner,’ JD announced, having heroically kept quiet throughout this exchange. ‘Come along, darling, you’re on my table.’
Orla felt like a two-year-old having her birthday present abruptly snatched away. Practically before she’d had a chance to unwrap it.
Everyone was moving away from the Lounge Bar, drifting towards the double doors at the far end of the corridor. Ahead, in the Nine Kings’ Suite lay two hours—minimum—of eating and making polite conversation with your fellow diners, listening to a daunting number of speeches (some funny, some not), and watching the dozen or so awards being presented. Which, if you hadn’t been nominated yourself, was frankly boring.
Plus, you were expected to applaud until your hands were sore.
Orla, who usually adored every minute, realized that she would only enjoy it this time if Christie Carson was on their table.
‘Ready, darling?’ Jovially, JD held out his arm. ‘Let's go and find the rest of our gang.’
Of course, they weren’t on the same table. Not even close. From her position at the back of the vast room, Orla saw that Christie Carson was occupying one of the tables close to the stage at the front. If she tilted her chair slightly, she had a clear view of him chatting easily to the woman on his left, a flirtatious actress who had just published her autobiography.
Wishing he could be chatting easily to
her
, Orla flushed as he glanced over at that moment and caught her looking at him. Hastily filling her glass, she beamed as Millie and Con joined them. Laughing
and teasing each other, they really did make a perfect couple.
Pleased with herself, Orla said, ‘How d’you like your surprise?’
‘Brilliant. How do you like yours?’ Millie beamed across at her. ‘I couldn’t believe it was actually him!’
‘Me neither.’ It was the kind of face a fifteen-year-old might pull, but Orla pulled it anyway. It was a yeeuch face, designed to prove that you loathed someone and definitely didn’t secretly fancy them rotten.
‘I thought they’d have to call security to drag you off him.’ Con winked. ‘Maybe even an ambulance.’
Modestly, Orla fluttered her hands. ‘Oh, all in good time.’
‘But how did he react when you had a go at him?’ Millie was dying to hear all about it; to her frustration, Con hadn’t allowed her within eavesdropping distance. ‘What made him write that horrible review?’
‘Haven’t asked him yet.’ Orla leaned back, allowing the waiter to serve their first course.