Nadia Knows Best (27 page)

Annie gave up and kissed him back. Oh well, plenty of time later to be miserable. She was certainly overdue a bit of cheering up.

“Only if you want to,” he added. Dear James, so gentle and diffident, as considerate of her feelings as ever. He really had no idea how attractive he was.

“I want to,” Annie solemnly assured him. Taking his hand and leading him toward the stairs, she added with a mischievous smile, “In fact, I insist on it.”

“I don't know what's happened to Dad and Annie.” Nadia was puzzled. “One minute they were here, and the next they'd vanished. I hope nothing's wrong.”

“Probably just got bored.” Clare shrugged, her eyes narrowing as she watched another group of people drift out of the gallery. “Like them. God, what a bloody waste of an evening this has been.”

It was nine o'clock, and everyone was starting to leave.

“Don't say that. It hasn't.”

Truculently, Clare snapped, “Of course it has. Total disaster. I sold three paintings, that's all.
Three
, for crying out loud.” Jabbing an irritable finger in the direction of the other two exhibiting artists, she went on, “
He
sold six and
he
sold eight. God, humiliating or what? And your so-called friend was a fat lot of use.” Her gaze narrowed still further as Jay headed toward them.

“Just came to say goodbye, I'm off now,” he cheerfully announced. “Great show.”

“Thanks so much for coming,” said Clare. “I'm so glad you enjoyed yourself. Even if you didn't buy a single painting, after promising you would. Still, at least you got some free drinks out of it, that's the important thing.”

“I didn't promise,” Jay pointed out. “There were two paintings I really liked, but they both sold before I could get to them.”

“Handy, that.”

“Look, I'm not going to buy a picture I only
quite
like.” Refusing to rise to the bait, Jay said reasonably, “I'd rather wait. Maybe we could talk about a commission. Not now, obviously…” He indicated his watch and Clare's lip curled in disdain.

“Oh,
obviously
not now. We're all
far
too busy. In fact you'll have to excuse me, I think Thomas wants a word.” She turned and stalked off.

“Oh dear,” said Jay. “Not happy.”

Nadia pulled a face. “She only sold three.”

“Plenty of time yet. It's only the preview night.”

“The others sold more.”

“Lucky I didn't buy any of theirs, then. Look, I know she's upset. But I'm not buying something just because I feel sorry for her. That would be the ultimate insult.”

Nadia sighed. He was right. Hideous memories of the sunken scones she'd once made for the school summer fair came flooding back. The scones had come out like pancakes. When Miriam had overheard a group of her classmates sniggering at them and had promptly bought the lot, her classmates had only sniggered harder and her own shame had known no bounds.

Plus, to be fair, Clare was charging a lot more than five pence each for her creations.

“See you tomorrow.” Jay turned to leave. Over his shoulder he added, “At least Robbie's brother didn't turn up.”

Nadia watched him go, then made her way over to the desk where Thomas Harrington was talking to Clare. Lurking next to Thomas was the short plump man in the purple velvet suit.

The way Thomas greeted her with an extra jovial, “Nadia, join us!” told Nadia that he was struggling and in dire need of support. Poor Thomas. Owning an art gallery would be so much easier if only he wasn't forced to deal with temperamental artists.

“Great news, great news,” Thomas exclaimed, beaming at Nadia. “Clare's just sold two more paintings! We have a collector here with a truly discerning eye! Have you met Malcolm Carter, Nadia? Malcolm, this is Clare's sister.”

Nadia shook hands with the man and instantly wished she hadn't.

“How d'you do? Clare has a great talent. I'm just inviting her to dinner,” Malcolm told Nadia. “At my house.”

Clare's tightly clenched jaw said it all.

“I'd like to discuss her plans for the future,” Malcolm Carter went on.

Thomas said with enthusiasm, “I think that's an excellent idea! Don't you, Nadia?”

Clare brought to mind a dog being dragged against its will toward the bath. Nadia guessed exactly what was going through her head. It was school discos all over again, being violently self-conscious and aware of the fact that the slow music had started and everyone was paired up but you. Then, lumbering toward you across the crowded dance floor with a determined glint in his eye, comes the ugliest boy in the school…

Actually, that was me, Nadia realized. She doubted it had ever happened to Clare.

“I've just bought two of your paintings,” Malcolm pointed out.

“You've sold five now,” wheedled Thomas.

“Five. Phil sold six and Jethro sold eight.” Clare's lip curled as she uttered Jethro's name. “He only calls himself Jethro to sound more arty, you know. His real name's Jason.”

“So how about Thursday?” Malcolm was nothing if not persistent.

“Thursday. Um…”

“Or Friday. Or Wednesday. Whichever night suits you best.”

“D'you know what I really hate?” Clare demanded. “I really hate it that those other two jerks sold more than me. If you bought another painting, I'd be level with Phil.” Perkily, she beamed at Malcolm. “So how about it? And we'll have dinner any night you like.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. Nadia squirmed; sometimes Clare was beyond belief. Puffing out his cheeks, Malcolm studied Clare for several seconds without speaking.

Then he smiled, and it occurred to Nadia that he was actually a lot shrewder than Clare was giving him credit for.

“You drive a hard bargain. I hope you're worth it.”

Clare inwardly shuddered, hoping he wasn't implying what he appeared to be implying.

“Of course I'm worth it.” Her expression was serene. “So, which painting?”

He turned and pointed. “The cinema queue.”

“I love that one. Great choice,” enthused Thomas Harrington, still scarcely able to believe that Clare's audacious demand had been met.

“Credit card?” said Clare.

Malcolm Carter handed his card over to Thomas. When the transaction had been concluded, he shook Clare's hand. “It's a pleasure doing business with you. I'll see you on Thursday. Eight o'clock at my house.”

Nadia said helpfully, “She'll need your address.”

“Clare has it. I gave her my card.” Malcolm paused, gauging the look on Clare's face, then reached into his jacket pocket. “Then again, maybe she'd like another. Just in case she accidentally screwed the last one up and dropped it into an ashtray.”

So he'd spotted that. Clare shrugged, unperturbed. “You hadn't bought anything then.”

“I've bought three now.”

“And I'll be there at your place on Thursday night, for dinner. Just dinner, by the way. Nothing else.”

Blinking in his slow, deceptively toad-like manner, Malcolm said, “Just dinner.”

Clare smiled. “And I'm sure you won't mind if I bring my sister along.”

Oh great, thought Nadia, drag me into it. Although there was a reassuring twinkle in Malcolm's eye that belied his outward appearance.

Malcolm inclined his head and said pleasantly, “I'd be delighted. Actually”—he turned to Nadia—“I believe you know my younger brother, Robbie.”

***

“Trust you to make things complicated,” murmured Annie, rolling over onto her side in bed. Her whole body was tingling and alive. The last hour had been, without question, the most perfect of her entire life.

“I'm not letting you go.” To prove it, James's arms tightened round her. “Nothing's going to come between us. I just won't let it happen.”

The Clare problem was still there. It wasn't going to go away. Annie knew they had to address it.

“We'll still see each other,” she told James. “But I don't want to see Clare. I'd rather just keep out of her way.”

“She's moving out.” Beneath the duvet, James ran his hand over the curve of her hip.

“Even so.” Privately, Annie wondered whether that would ever happen. If Clare didn't want to go, he surely wouldn't cast his pregnant daughter out into the metaphorical snow. “You can visit me here,” she said with a smile. “I'll be your mistress.”

“Married men have mistresses. I'm single. You're single. We shouldn't need to sneak around.”

“Come on. It'll be fun. Didn't seem to do Charles and Camilla any harm.” Playfully, Annie tweaked one of his dark chest hairs. “If you ask me, having to sneak around is what keeps affairs going. It's the excitement factor. You don't have a chance to get bored.”

“I'm never going to get bored with you.” James kissed her. “That's a promise. Will you still come to my house?”

“I don't know. Maybe. If I knew for sure that Clare wasn't going to be there.” And preferably in a different country.

“I love you. Did I mention that?”

“May have done. I wasn't really paying attention.” Annie cupped his dear face in her hands; how could she have thought, even for a second, that giving up James was an option? “It's almost ten o'clock. They'll be wondering where you are.”

“Let them.” Gathering her into his arms and realizing that he felt miraculously twenty years younger, James said, “I'm staying here with you.”

Malcolm Carter lived in a modern apartment in Capricorn Quay on Bristol's waterfront. The apartment, which was on the third floor, overlooked the harbor. Having welcomed them into his home, Malcolm had left Nadia and Clare out on the balcony with drinks while he put the finishing touches to dinner in the kitchen.

Clare wasn't Nadia's favorite person at the moment. Her continuing refusal to accept Annie meant she wasn't James's favorite person either. The atmosphere at home had been tricky. Nadia, who had been invited along to the Comedy Club by Janey and the old crowd from the garden center, felt that Clare could at least be grateful she was here instead.

“Just be nice to him,” Nadia warned now, because Clare was shifting irritably in her seat.

“He gives me the creeps. And I'm not even hungry. We don't need to be here.” Clare was truculent. “He's bought the paintings. It's done now. Too late to cancel the check.”

Being nice was clearly out of the question.

“At least be polite. He's a collector. He might buy more if you don't antagonize him.”

“He looks like a toad. And he fancies me. Ugh,” said Clare with a shudder of disgust.

“Dinner's ready, girls.” Malcolm appeared on the balcony and Nadia prayed he hadn't overheard. “If you'd like to come on through.”

The glass dining table was laden with food. Around the walls, Malcolm's art collection was displayed. No expert, Nadia was nevertheless impressed by the couple of big names she recognized.

“This salmon mousse is fantastic.” Nadia ate with enthusiasm to make up for the fact that Clare was picking at hers as if it were sheep's eyeballs. “And I
love
that painting.”

“Beryl Cook original. I started buying her stuff fifteen years ago. Cost twenty times that now.” Malcolm was wearing a shiny lime-green shirt today and tight magenta trousers. “And the Andy Buchanan oils? I discovered him when he was still at college. Paid two hundred each for five of his paintings. Sold one of them last year for thirty thousand.” Proudly, Malcolm added, “I have an eye.”

For art, maybe. Nadia thought it was a shame it didn't extend to his wardrobe. Nevertheless, she was impressed. Malcolm clearly knew his stuff.

“And you think Clare could sell like that?” Crikey, this was exciting. Even if Clare didn't seem to think so.

“Possibly. We'll have to see how she goes. It doesn't happen overnight. Some of that work she did for the exhibition was dashed off in too much of a rush. You can't fob the public off with second-rate goods. You were churning them out, not giving them enough thought.” Malcolm turned his attention to Clare, who was toying disinterestedly with the dill sauce on her plate. “That's why they didn't sell.”

“How kind of you to point that out,” Clare drawled.

Under the table, Nadia kicked her. “It's true. You
were
churning them out,” she told Clare.

“Everyone finished? Let me have your plates.” Malcolm rose to his feet. Patiently he said, “There's no need to sulk. I know what I'm talking about. Look, a friend of mine sells work for clients over the Internet. I'll show you the website later. It can be a great way to launch yourself.”

“Patronizing git,” Clare muttered while he was out in the kitchen.

“He's trying to help you,” Nadia hissed back.

“Trying to get me into bed, more like. I don't want to
be
here.”

“You're
lucky
to be here,” Nadia whispered furiously, offended on Malcolm's behalf. “Trust me, you need someone like him to advise you. Just because he doesn't look like—”

“Here we go, I hope you like lamb!” Emerging from the kitchen with a steaming casserole dish held between reindeer-shaped oven gloves, Malcolm announced, “It's a tagine. Speciality of the house.”

Clare clutched her stomach. She shook her head and said, “Oh God.”

Malcolm looked concerned. “Are you OK?”

“No, I'm not. I really don't feel well. Malcolm, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to leave. I just want to go home.”

Nadia stared at her. This was Clare all over, it epitomized her total selfishness. If she wasn't happy with a situation, any excuse would do to get her out of it. That she was inconveniencing anyone else wouldn't even occur to her. The fact that Malcolm must have slaved in his kitchen for hours to produce dinner simply wasn't relevant.

“You can't go,” said Nadia.

“I need to. I feel really ill. Sorry.” Clare was already pushing back her chair, getting to her feet. “I couldn't eat a thing. I feel sick. Nadia, you have to drive me home now.”

Nadia fought back the urge to dump the tagine of lamb over Clare's head.

“It's fine.” Malcolm nodded at Nadia. “Take her home. It's not her fault if she's ill.”

If
being the operative word, Nadia thought savagely. It was blatantly obvious that she wasn't.

“Your lovely food,” Nadia apologized. “After all the trouble you went to.”

“I didn't. The caterers delivered it. Hope you feel better soon,” Malcolm called after Clare as she rushed from the flat.

She won't by the time I've finished with her, thought Nadia.

“I'm really sorry,” she told Malcolm.

“It's OK. Not the first time I've been walked out on.” His face creased into a rueful toad-like smile. “By the way, your sister was wrong about one thing.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“I don't fancy her. And I'm certainly not trying to get her into bed,” said Malcolm. “I'm gay.”

***

“Blast,” said James, putting down the phone and coming into the kitchen. “That was New York. They need some papers faxed through urgently.”

Annie was making the sauce to go with their steaks. She added the chopped garlic to the sizzling onions. “Do you have them?”

“They're at the office. Damn, I'm going to have to go in. It won't take long.” James paused. “What d'you want to do?”

Breaking into a smile, Annie realized that this was why she loved him. One of the many reasons, anyway. He was so considerate.

“I'm fine. I'll stay here and carry on getting dinner ready. How long will you be?”

“Thirty minutes. Shouldn't take more than that. Are you sure?”

Annie kissed him lingeringly on the mouth. With everyone else out for the evening, she'd been persuaded to come to the house tonight to watch the latest Bond film just out on DVD. They were quite safe, James had assured her. No Clare.

Annie, who had no DVD player at home and adored Bond movies, had happily agreed. And she'd been right about the thrill of coming to James's house; it actually felt deliciously illicit.

“Absolutely sure. You go and do your fax thing. Send my love to New York. By the time you get back I'll have dinner ready.”

James gave her a quick hug. “Don't you dare start watching the Bond film without me.”

***

“You're unbelievable,” Nadia said furiously. “That poor man. Sometimes you are
such
a cow.”

“Oh, stop going on. Nag nag nag. Anyway, I
do
feel ill. And I've got a stomachache.”

“Bullshit.” Nadia gripped the steering wheel. Clare had always been the same, the world's biggest hypochondriac. At school she had forged sick notes from Miriam practically on a weekly basis.

“I have. It really hurts!”

“Probably because you ate a pound of grapes last night. Right, we're home.” Screeching to a halt at the gate, Nadia pointedly left the engine running. “Bye.”

Clare looked at her. “Where are you going?”

“Why? What's it to do with you? You're sick, remember. I'm going to catch up with Janey and the rest of them at the Comedy Club.”

The way Clare hesitated meant that Nadia knew, just
knew
, she was about to ask if she could come along too.

“And no,” Nadia said bluntly, before Clare had a chance to open her mouth, “you're not coming with me. Forget it. You can stay at home and go to bed. That's what sick people do.”

Clare stood at the bottom of the driveway and watched the car disappear in a cloud of dust. She'd been about to ask Nadia to stay with her, but since Nadia would only have refused outright, there hadn't been much point.

Which was unfair, because she did actually feel unwell, despite having exaggerated the symptoms in order to get out of creepy Malcolm's flat. The nausea had begun when she'd gazed at the food and imagined it being lovingly prepared by Malcolm's fat sweaty fingers. After that, eating anything at all had been out of the question.

And she did have a kind of stomachache, more of a rumbling gripey sensation than actual pain. Experiencing it again now, Clare turned toward the house. So what if she had eaten a lot of grapes yesterday? And a whole Charentais melon? The
You
And
Your
Baby
book she'd been secretly reading had said that food cravings began at around six weeks' gestation. Having been looking forward to indulging sudden yearnings for strange foods, she felt inordinately proud. Imagine, yesterday she'd experienced her first proper pregnancy craving. If her body was urging her to guzzle far too many grapes, it wasn't her fault.

Honestly, Clare thought, a quick visit to the loo and she'd be fine. Which would mean she could have gone along with Nadia to the Comedy Club after all. Why did she have to be stuck with a sister who was so irritable and selfish?

Letting herself into the house, Clare was expecting it to be empty. Miriam and Edward had gone to the theater in Bath. Tilly was out with Cal, her friend from school. And James's dark blue Jaguar was missing from the driveway. But there was a smell of cooking in the air, and sounds of activity coming from the kitchen.

Ouch, stomach. That
did
hurt.

“Did you forget the office keys?
Oh
.” Annie stopped abruptly in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a green-and-white-striped apron and clutching a whisk.

Brilliant, thought Clare. Just what I need. She surveyed Annie with contempt.

“Cooking dinner. How cozy,” she drawled. “Have you moved in and nobody remembered to tell me?”

Recovering from her initial shock, Annie stood her ground. “I only came here this evening because your father told me you were out.”

“Really? Well, now I'm back.” Doggedly ignoring the uncomfortable sensation in her stomach, as if her intestines were being slowly squeezed, Clare stalked past her into the kitchen. “Sorry if that's an inconvenience, but I do still live here. I know what Dad said the other day, and I'm looking for another place just as fast as I can. Bet you can't wait,” she added, pouring herself a glass of water from the bottle in the fridge. “The moment I'm gone, you'll be able to start dropping hints about moving in here yourself.”

Annie watched James's younger daughter lounge against the fridge, slim and elegant in a sleeveless navy top and pale yellow trousers. Oozing confidence and disdain. Tapping her fingers against the side of her glass tumbler. Why did she have to come back now?
Why?

“I won't be dropping hints. And your father just had to call in to the office. He'll be back soon.”
I
hope.

“Marvelous. Could you open the window?” Ostentatiously, Clare raised a hand to her throat. “The smell of that raw meat is just repulsive.”

She's pregnant, she's pregnant, Annie grimly reminded herself. She can't help having a sensitive stomach.

“Would you like me to cook you some dinner?”

There, couldn't say she hadn't tried.

Clare's upper lip curled in derision. “Oh, please. Are you
trying
to make me throw up?”

Right, that was enough. Annie deliberately turned her back on James's nightmare daughter and began to stir the pan of sauce on the stove. Clare took the hint, thank God, and stalked out of the kitchen. Shaking slightly, Annie heard her stomp up the stairs. Then the bathroom door slammed shut.

Good.

Annie stopped stirring the sauce. Damn. Now the whole evening was spoiled.

Moments later the hairs on the back of her neck rose as a high-pitched shriek rang out upstairs.

Annie froze. God, what now?

Then she heard another noise, less of a shriek, more of a groan. Alarmed, she rushed out to the hall and gazed up the staircase.

Silence.

Cautiously Annie advanced as far as the bottom step. She cleared her throat and called out, “Are you OK?”

No reply. Did that mean Clare was lying slumped on the bathroom floor, or that she simply couldn't be bothered to reply to her father's beneath-contempt girlfriend?

Then Annie head a low-pitched moan, like the sound of an animal in pain. Racing up the stairs, she hammered on the bathroom door.

“Clare? What's wrong?”

Still nothing. By this time truly terrified, Annie beat the door again. “Clare, please. Can you hear me?”

Moments later, to her intense relief, came the rattle of the toilet-roll holder. Then the loo was flushed. Backing away from the door as she heard the taps running full pelt in the washbasin, Annie nevertheless jumped as the door was finally unlocked.

The moment she saw Clare's ghostly pallor and distraught expression, she knew what had happened.