Nadia Knows Best (3 page)

When James Kinsella had married Leonie, it had been possibly the first truly impetuous action of his life. At the age of twenty-one, halfway through his accountancy training, it had been while he was driving home from work one evening that he'd first spotted her walking across the Downs in Clifton, casually thumbing a lift. Appalled, James had stopped his car and informed her in serious tones that hitchhiking was both foolhardy and an incredibly dangerous thing to do.

Laughing at his earnest expression, Leonie had thrown back her long blonde hair and said, “Are you dangerous?”

Realizing that she was laughing at him, probably because he wore spectacles and drove a Morris Minor, James had replied, “Of course not, but the man in the next car to stop might be.”

Cheekily, she had yanked open the passenger door, climbed in, and said, “Better give me a lift then, before he turns up.”

Three months later, Leonie had announced that she was pregnant. Two months after that, they'd been married. James had never met anyone like Leonie before. He'd never known there were people like her in the world. She was fearless, a true free spirit, with a breathtaking zest for life. And James was utterly enthralled. He was also happier than he'd ever been in his life.

It didn't take long for James to discover that free spirits don't necessarily make great mothers. Nor great wives, come to that. When Nadia was born, Leonie launched into her earth-mother phase, but it didn't last. Shortly before Nadia's first birthday, James came home from work to be greeted by his wife thrusting their daughter into his arms, yelling, “Why did nobody ever tell me being a mother was going to be so bloody
boring
?”

It had taken all James's energy to calm her down and persuade her not to walk out on them. Somehow they managed to stagger on for another year and a half. Then, just as their marriage reached its lowest ebb and separation seemed inevitable, Leonie discovered to her horror that she was pregnant again. Clare was born and the situation went from bad to worse. Leonie felt as if she was trapped in an airless Lucite cube. She loved her children but was unable to cope with their incessant demands. She was twenty-three, married to—of all things—an accountant, and a mother of two. Reality had fallen woefully short of her idyllic pre-pregnancy fantasies of parenthood.

It was while she was in Canford Park one late spring morning that she met Kieran Brown. Having taken Nadia and Clare along to commune with the tadpoles and baby frogs in the pond, she had made the unhappy discovery that Nadia's only interest, at the age of three, was in trying to eat them. Then Kieran, who was there with his own four-year-old son, had engaged her in conversation. He was an out-of-work actor and utterly charming. Bewitched by his attentions, Leonie promptly forgot all about the task in hand—that of persuading Nadia not to cram her mouth with tiny frogs—and arranged to meet Kieran that evening for a drink. When James asked her where she was going, as she flounced past him at the front door, she replied, “To talk to someone who understands me.”

A fortnight later she packed her bags and ran off to Crete with Kieran Brown, whose own girlfriend was, frankly, glad to be shot of him.

Witnessing the extent of James's shock and desolation—and having inwardly predicted from the start that her son's marriage would come to a sticky end—Miriam had promptly taken charge and insisted that he and the children move in with her. Widowed but wealthy, her house was large enough and helping to look after Nadia and Clare would give her something to do. At forty-seven, Miriam had the energy of a twenty-year-old. And the children adored her. It was the obvious solution, Miriam had briskly informed her shell-shocked son, so he needn't even bother thinking of other ways he might manage.

Since James couldn't begin to imagine how else he might manage, he had accepted his mother's typically generous offer. The children adapted to the changes in their young lives with gratifying ease. It had, he decided with heartfelt relief, been the right thing to do. In a couple of years, maybe, the difficulties would ease and they would find a place of their own.

Twenty-three years on, it hadn't happened yet, and in the meantime, their unorthodox family setup had expanded to include Tilly, when Leonie had arrived at the house with a fatherless one-year-old and departed shortly afterwards without her.

***

Nadia felt like a suicide bomber with explosives strapped to her body and somebody else in charge of the detonator switch. She couldn't bear the suspense a minute longer.

“You're not eating,” said Laurie. “Come on, try the duck. It's fantastic.”

“I don't want to try the duck.” Nadia kept her voice low; this was Markwick's after all. “I want you to try telling me the truth.”

Laurie reached across the table, his fingers closing around hers. “Can't we just enjoy the meal?”

“Obviously not, if I can't even swallow a mouthful of it.” The time had come, clearly, to detonate the bomb herself. “Laurie, either you tell me what's wrong or I stand up on this chair, scream at the top of my voice, and start throwing things.”

Laurie smiled. “Go on then.”

He didn't believe her. Causing scenes and throwing things wasn't what people did when they came to Markwick's. Sliding her hand from his, Nadia grabbed the basket of bread rolls from the table, pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet.

The look on her face told Laurie all he needed to know.

“OK, stop it, sit down.” He blurted the words out as Nadia's left arm—the one clutching the bread basket—began to swing back. “I'll tell you.”

The polar opposite of temperamental, Laurie abhorred public scenes.

Nadia froze. Did she really want to hear this? But then, how could she stand not knowing? Jerkily, aware of curious eyes upon her, she sat down.

God, it couldn't be normal for a heart to beat this fast.

“Fire away.”

Laurie hesitated, pushing his fingers through his hair. But this time there was no Miriam around to fling open the car door and swoop, like Wonder Woman, to the rescue.

“OK.” Another pause. “I think we should call it a day. We hardly ever see each other. It's not fair on you.”

It was like plunging into an ice-cold swimming pool that you'd expected to be warm. There was a high-pitched ringing in Nadia's ears. Sadly, not quite loud enough to drown out the words Laurie had just uttered.

Then again, what had she expected? This was what happened when you pressed the detonator.

“Not fair on me or not fair on you?” Nadia couldn't believe she was managing to get the words out.

“Neither of us.” Laurie shrugged miserably. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I really don't want to do this.”

Don't then.

Aloud, Nadia said, “But you're going to do it anyway.”

“It's for the best. Everything's different now. Our lives have changed… You haven't done anything
wrong
,” Laurie said helplessly. “It's just… oh Nad, you must know what I mean. This isn't anything to do with you.”

Nadia was glad she hadn't thrown the basket of bread rolls at him now. Bread rolls weren't nearly vicious enough. Heavy china plates, that was what was called for. Plates that would crash with a satisfying amount of noise, preferably inflicting pain on Laurie and splattering meticulously-put-together sauces en route.

But would it help?

Struggling to get her bearings, she said, “Why didn't you tell me this afternoon?”

Laurie heaved a sigh. “Basically, I wanted our last weekend to be a good one. What was I supposed to do, call you from Barcelona and tell you over the phone? Get off the plane and just announce it? God, I'm not that much of a shit.”

“But you couldn't seriously expect to pretend everything was fine!”

A muscle was twitching in Laurie's jaw. “I wanted to try. I thought we could at least have this last couple of days together. Well, a day and a bit,” he amended.

“So when were you planning on actually breaking the news? Tomorrow afternoon, on the way back to the airport? My God, I can't believe we're here having this conversation. I thought we were happy and all this time you've been gearing yourself up to do this.” Nadia shook her head in disbelief. “How long ago did you decide?”

“Nad, please, I feel bad enough as it is. Over the last few weeks, I suppose.” Laurie was looking thoroughly miserable.

“A few
weeks
? Oh, great. So when I was stranded in the snow a fortnight ago telling that bloke how fantastically happy we were together, you were already planning the best way to dump me! Do you have any idea how stupid that makes me feel? Just think,” Nadia rattled on, “if you'd told me in an email, I could have shagged him after all. And I would have, you know, I would have.”

“Look, I'm sorry, I thought this was the best way.”

“Oh yes, it's perfect, perfect! I'm ecstatic that you chose this way, I'm loving every minute! My boyfriend's very thoughtfully dumping me in my favorite restaurant. I'm fairly sure he's seeing someone else, although he doesn't have the guts to admit it—”

“No one else,” said Laurie.

“And best of all, he tells me I haven't even done anything wrong! Which makes me feel
so
much better. Really.” Nadia swallowed, she was trembling and her eyes were feeling dangerously hot. “It's just fabulous.”

“But we can't carry on like this, never seeing each other. My booker at the agency's got me working nonstop for the next eight months.” Laurie struggled to explain. “All over Europe, Australia, Japan, the States…”

“Fine. You don't have to explain. I'm not going to beg, if that's what you're worried about.” Nadia had had enough. She felt sick. Then a thought occurred to her that made her feel sicker still. “And you weren't going to tell me until tomorrow.” She marveled at Laurie's selfishness. “But we were going to spend the night together. We'd have made…” no, not made love, “…we'd have had sex, and you'd have known it was for the last time, but
I
wouldn't have known that, because
you
wouldn't have told me. Well, that's a really thoughtful finishing touch. What a shame it isn't going to happen now. We're both going to miss out on The Last Time.”

It would have been nice, at this point, to have stalked out of the restaurant and disappeared into the black night. If she'd been in a film she would have done it.

But it wasn't a film, this was real life and it was raining outside. Quite honestly, she didn't see why she should be expected to fork out for a taxi.

Damn
, she had a git of a boyfriend.

Ex-boyfriend.

Oh hell, this was going to be weird.

“I want to leave. I need a taxi. Give me twenty pounds,” Nadia demanded.

“No.”

“Bastard.”

Laurie shook his head. “I really want us to stay friends.”

“Well, I don't. Sod off.”

“Nadia, this hasn't been easy. I'm only doing it because it's for the best.”

That old line again.

“Oh, do me a favor,” Nadia hissed across the table. “You're dumping me because you want to spend the next eight months shagging your way around Paris and Milan and New York and Sydney and Tokyo, because you're a jet-setter now and jet-setters only have sex with It-girls and supermodels.”

“It's not that,” said Laurie.

“Isn't it? I don't really care anyway.” Of course, this was a massive lie, but it was still going to happen whether she cared or not. Her happy life was crumbling before her eyes like sugar lumps dropped in hot coffee and she had no one to blame but herself.

That stupid,
stupid
modeling competition.

Nadia dropped her head. She badly wanted to cry now. Noisily and nose-runningly. Furiously and violently. But she was buggered if she'd give Laurie the satisfaction.

He might look miserable, but he had absolutely no idea how truly awful she felt.

No more Laurie. It was just an unfathomable concept.

Raising her head, Nadia looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. All that mascara, what a waste.

“OK, it's over. But you were still going to sleep with me tonight.” Nadia waited, holding his gaze. “For the last time.” Another pause, followed by a tiny playful smile. “Well? Do you still want to?”

It was as easy as asking a five-year-old if he wanted to open his Christmas presents a week early. She saw the spark of relief in his eyes as he reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Of course I still want to,” said Laurie.

When in the history of the world had any man ever said no?

Feeling powerful for the first time that evening and deciding that sometimes it was worth forking out for a taxi, Nadia rose to her feet and said icily, “Well, that's a real shame, because you
can't
.”

How people's lives could change in the space of fifteen months. Well, some people's lives certainly changed, thought Nadia as she queued up at the supermarket checkout with a basket containing a bottle of hair detangler—yes, it was still uncontrollably curly, no change there—a tube of depilatory cream, and a box of Tampax. This was her precious day off and how was she spending it? Detangling her hair, defuzzing her legs, and watching the woman ahead of her in the queue idly leaf through a copy of this week's
OK!
magazine.

Thanks to her caring sharing sister, Nadia already knew that there was a photograph on page twenty-seven of Laurie in a dinner jacket, arriving at the Oscars hand in hand with one of the nominees for Best Supporting Actress. Clare, who read every glossy magazine going, had spotted the picture yesterday and had thoughtfully rushed downstairs to show Nadia just how much Laurie's life had changed.

“Imagine! The Oscars! At the Oscars with a girl like that! Bet she didn't get that dress in Top Shop. And they describe him as a model-turned-actor. Nadia, I'm trying to show you and you're not even looking.”

Nadia had briefly been tempted to batter her sister to death with the iron in her hand. But Clare wasn't being deliberately cruel, she just possessed all the natural sensitivity of a velociraptor. It wouldn't occur to her that Nadia might not want to see her ex-boyfriend pictured in a magazine with some sensational-looking new girl.

Some Oscar nominee, at that.

Oh yes, Laurie was living a whole new charmed life now. Thanks to his hectic schedule, he hadn't been home for months. He had even fallen into acting as flukishly as he'd got involved with modeling, when his agency had sent him to appear in a pop video. At a party several weeks later, he'd met a director who recognized him from the video and promptly declared that he was casting Laurie in his new movie. Hollywood parties are stuffed to the gills with aspiring actors desperate for their big break. Laurie, who didn't even want one, got his. The movie part had been small, but Laurie's English charm and gift for comic timing meant he acquitted himself with honors. People had instantly sat up and begun to take notice. Knowing his luck, Nadia thought drily, by this time next year he'd be the one nominated for an Oscar.

“She used to go out with Johnny Depp.” Clare was drooling over the accompanying article. “Hey, how cool is that? You've slept with someone who slept with someone who slept with Johnny Depp.”

“I could always singe your ears,” Nadia offered, holding up the iron.

“Ooh,
touchy
.” Clare turned her attention to Harpo in his cage. “You'd think she'd be flattered, wouldn't you, Harpo? What's Nadia got, eh? What's Nadia got?”

It had taken her hours to teach him this one.

“Brrrkkk,” Harpo squawked manically in return. “Nadia's got a fat arse.”

***

Leaving the supermarket, Nadia made her way along Princess Victoria Street past the jewelers, the art gallery, and the scarily expensive shoe shop whose gleaming windows she didn't even dare to look in. Charlotte's Patisserie loomed ahead, their white chocolate éclairs whispering to her, luring her toward them. Of course they were expensive too, but compared with Italian sandals they were a complete bargain.

“Nadia!”

So wrapped up in the heavenly prospect of biting into a squishy, silky-smooth éclair that she barely registered her name being called behind her, Nadia yelped in alarm as a hand came to rest on her shoulder.

Oh God, had she accidentally shoplifted something from the supermarket? Had a burly store detective chased her down the street to inform her that she was about to be frog-marched back to the shop, arrested, and charged with—

“Oh, it's you!” Relief broke over her like a wave. Not that she'd ever actually shoplifted in her life (candy didn't count) but all it took was one moment of carelessness. And when you were as absentminded as she was, it was always a worry.

Jay Tiernan was shaking his head with amusement. “I saw you walking past the art gallery. Well, I was almost sure it was you. This is amazing, I was just thinking about you the other day.”

“Really? Why?” Flattered, Nadia pulled her stomach muscles in.

“My sister-in-law pranged her car. Smashed the front wing, just like you did. She was putting her lipstick on, looking in the mirror, when some wall spitefully jumped out and ran into her. Your face,” he went on cheerfully, “when I put my hand on your shoulder. You jumped a mile.”

“Yes, well. I thought you were a store detective.” Apologetically, she held up her supermarket carrier.

Jay raised his eyebrows. “You've been
stealing
?”

“No! I just—”

“Something decent, I hope. Lobster and caviar at the very least, not economy baked beans and a couple of tins of cat food. If you're going to shoplift you might as well go for the good stuff—
oh
.” Having whisked the carrier from her grasp and briskly surveyed the less than glamorous contents, he shook his head sorrowfully at Nadia. “You really don't have any idea how to shoplift, do you? This is hopeless, hopeless. Why would you even
want
to steal stuff like this?”

“Very funny.” Taking the bag back from him—oh well, could've been worse, she could have bought hemorrhoid cream—Nadia said, “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Here in Bristol, or here right-at-this-minute in Clifton?”

“Both.”

“OK. Living in Bristol now. Moved down from Oxford a few months ago. And right at this minute—well, up until thirty seconds ago, I was standing in front of two paintings like
this
”—he struck a pose of chin-rubbing indecision—“trying to choose which one to buy.”

“In the Harrington Gallery?” Nadia realized that this was where he must have been when he'd spotted her going past the window. “Couldn't you just have paid for the cheaper one and slipped the other one out under your jacket?”

His light brown eyes sparkled with approval. “Nice idea. You're a fast learner. Sadly, the owner of the gallery was
this
far away from me, making sure I wasn't about to try anything rash. Then again, if I had an accomplice we might stand a chance. You could divert his attention, go into labor or something, and all I'd have to do is grab both paintings, stuff them under my jacket, and leg it.”

“Both paintings. Now you're getting greedy. Besides,” Nadia smugly patted her flat—well, flattish—stomach, “I'm not nearly pregnant enough to be going into labor.”

The expression on Jay's face altered by just a fraction. “How pregnant are you?”

“Not at all.” She grinned. “Got you.”

Did he look relieved? Actually, it was hard to tell.

Jay took her arm. “Come on. I've bumped into you now, this has to be fate. It's your job to help me decide.” He paused. “Unless you're in a desperate hurry to get home.”

All of a sudden he was sounding concerned. Nadia shrugged and shook her head in a free and easy manner.

“No hurry.”

“Quite sure about that? Promise me you're not growing werewolf legs as we speak?” Raising his eyebrows, Jay glanced at the shopping bag containing the offending tube of depilatory cream.

Nadia shot him a sunny smile. “Oh, that's not for me. Whenever I meet a man who thinks he's really hilarious, I like to sneak into his house at night and squeeze depilatory cream into his bottle of shampoo.”

She could have told Jay just how well she knew the Harrington Gallery. Not well as in sleeping-with-the-owner, but she'd been dragged along to a fair few preview nights in her time.

Nadia chose not to mention this as he pulled her inside. Werewolf legs indeed.

“This one,” Jay announced, stepping in front of the first painting. Moments later she found herself being swiveled by the elbows to her left and planted before a second canvas. “Or this one?”

Nadia opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again.

It just had to be, didn't it?

The painting on the right was the larger of the two, a towering dramatic mountainscape featuring a lot of grape-colored sky with the occasional shaft of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Very moody. Almost biblical. That is, until your gaze was gradually drawn to the bottom left-hand corner of the picture, where a couple were kissing in an old-fashioned red telephone box.

Nadia smiled to herself. Nice touch. The painting, on sale for seven hundred and fifty pounds, was by an artist she hadn't heard of.

The second one, priced at five hundred and twenty pounds, had been painted by Clare, her sister.

If these were the two Jay had been tempted by, he clearly had a sense of humor. Clare's style was quirky, offbeat, and character-led, like Beryl Cook without the acres of fat. This particular work, executed in bold watercolors overlaid with ink, depicted a wedding reception complete with naughty pageboys, lecherous bridegroom, gossiping guests, and the bride's mother passed out with one hand clutching a bottle of Pomagne and her head on the table. The bride, meanwhile, was at the door legging it with one of the waiters.

The painting was titled “Happy Ever After.”

Typical Clare.

Not that Clare was especially cynical. She simply delighted in depicting the misfortunes of others.

“Well?” said Jay, at her side.

“Hmm.” Thoughtfully, Nadia studied her sister's painting from all angles. Behind his desk at the far end of the gallery, Thomas Harrington put down the phone and spotted her. Catching his eye, Nadia indicated with a faint shake of her head that she'd prefer him not to come over and greet her like an old friend. Or, for that matter, like the sister of one of his exhibiting artists.

Clare had spent her years at art college in typically riotous fashion; it had seemed almost unfair when she had emerged at the end of the course in the upper division, when other students had worked far more diligently and come away with so much less. When Clare had begun selling her paintings—not many, but enough—it had seemed even more unfair. How many graduates from art school, after all, managed to attain such dizzy heights? Ten percent, thought Nadia, if that. This was Clare all over; she had never done a proper day's work in her life.

Still, mustn't be bitter.

“Which one?” Jay prompted in her ear.

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Nadia, who was great at being honest, said, “If I had that much money to spend, I'd be in the shoe shop three doors down, buying Italian leather shoes with four-inch diamond-encrusted heels.”

Gravely Jay said, “But I'd look stupid in four-inch heels.”

“And they can be tricky if you're not used to them.” Nadia glanced sympathetically at his feet. “Maybe you're best sticking to paintings.”

“I think so too.” He paused. “And?”

“It's your money. You should be the one to decide.” She recalled Clare's remarks earlier as she'd ogled the photos of Laurie in the magazine. “But since you ask, I prefer the one with the phone box.”

“Really?”

“It's unexpected. You don't see it at first. The other one's more all-over funny, a bit slapstick.” As guilt belatedly kicked in, Nadia amended, “Then again, it's still good. And cheaper.”

“Oh well, that's it then. If I choose it now I'd look like a lousy cheapskate.” Turning to Thomas Harrington, Jay said cheerfully, “I'll just have to take the one with the phone box.”

Leaving Nadia to wonder if he would have bought Clare's painting if it had carried a price tag of nine hundred pounds.