Nadia Knows Best (9 page)

Mortified, Tilly said again, “I'm
really
sorry.”

“I know.”

Her eyes filled with tears. No matter how cross James was with her, he never yelled or lost his temper.

“So who will you invite to the dinner party now?”

“Hmm?” James looked down at her in surprise. “Oh, I'm taking Annie.”

It was six thirty on Friday evening and the builders were long gone, but Nadia was still working. Taking advantage of the improved weather, she was preparing the ground for the paved terrace. Not glamorous, but necessary. On Monday she would order the paving slabs, hire a cement mixer, and—

The side gate clicked open and Jay appeared, wearing a dark gray T-shirt, black jeans, and dark glasses. He looked like Darth Vader, only less cheerful.

“Hi,” said Nadia, wiping soil from her hands. She wondered if he'd forgotten how to smile.

“I thought you'd have left by now.”

Like Darth Vader only
much
less cheerful.

“Just finishing off. Is that allowed?” She said it lightly, hinting that it would be fine to make some form of lighthearted comment in return. Jay didn't appear to notice.

“Of course it's allowed. I just dropped by to see how the work was progressing.”

He had his hands in his pockets and he was studying the repainted window frames at the back of the house. Irritated by his dark glasses, which meant she couldn't even tell when he was looking at her, Nadia said, “I'm sorry, have I done something wrong?”

“What?” The opaque lenses swung in her direction.

“Me. Done something wrong. I must have done.” She semi-shrugged. “You used to be… different.” Almost as if you
didn't
have a poker stuck up your bottom.

“Don't worry about it.” Heading back to the house, Jay impatiently jangled his keys. “Just need to check inside, then I'll be off. See you Monday.”

“Not if I see you first,” Nadia murmured under her breath.

Well, practically under it.

The dark glasses swiveled once more. “What?”

She looked surprised. “Nothing.”

Oh dear, turning into a five-year-old, never an attractive trait in a grown woman.

Then again, whose fault was it that she had?

Nadia packed up for the night fifteen minutes later, locking away her tools in the dilapidated garden shed and letting herself out through the side gate. Jay's car was still parked across the road, although she'd assumed he'd have left by now.

Making her way down the short drive, Nadia turned and glanced back at the house. There he was, standing at the living-room window, talking on his mobile phone.

So he did occasionally deign to switch it on. Nadia only hoped the recipient of the call appreciated how honored they were to be actually speaking to him in person. In fact she hoped they were on their knees with gratitude. When Jay looked up and saw her watching him, he didn't smile or wave; just turned a few degrees to the right and carried on talking into the phone.

It would have been nice to think that he was behaving like this because he'd resorted to the treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen strategy of courtship. Sadly, Nadia knew he wasn't.

Oh well, at least it was Friday. Her first week working for Jay Tiernan was over. Or the eerily lifelike cyborg currently passing himself off as Jay Tiernan. If she was still working for him in December, the staff Christmas party was sure to be a riot.

Nadia reached the end of Clarence Gardens before remembering that she was perilously low on petrol. Reversing into a driveway and turning the car round, she set off back up the road and prayed she'd reach the filling station before spluttering to a halt.

It happened completely without warning; they came out of nowhere like two speeding furry bullets zinging across the road. With no chance whatsoever of avoiding them, Nadia let out a shriek of horror and jammed her foot on the brake. A nightmare split second later came the ominous thud of body-on-bumper impact.

With a squeal of tires, the Renault slewed to a violent halt at the side of the road. Sickened and shocked, Nadia stumbled from the car and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. The cat, a short-haired ginger one, lay on its side in the gutter.

It was quite dead.

“Oh no, oh no,” Nadia sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she dropped to her knees. The cat's green eyes were half open. Death had clearly been instantaneous.

“It's OK,” said a reassuring voice in her ear. It was Jay crouching beside her, feeling beneath the cat's furry jaw for a pulse.

“It's not OK. I killed someone's cat.” Nadia heaved a sob, shaking her head in revulsion at what she'd done.

“Tommy.” Jay briefly examined the disc attached to the collar round its neck. “That was his name.”

“Is that meant to make me feel better?” Nadia scrabbled up her sleeve for a tissue; she was trembling all over.

“No, I'm just telling you. And you didn't kill him. He ran into the road, chasing after the other cat. I saw it happen from the window.”

“He's still dead.”

“There was nothing you could do,” said Jay. “Come on, don't cry. It really wasn't your fault.”

Nadia wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, but the tears were still coming. Quite astonishingly, Jay's arm was round her shoulders and he was actually being concerned and caring.

Almost…
nice
.

“I've never killed anything b-before. Well, only worms and I even hate that. Oh God, it's really dead.” Lifting the animal gently onto her lap, Nadia began to stroke it, rocking to and fro as she did so. Poor thing, one minute it had been happily racing after another cat and the next… nothing.

Apart from Jay, nobody had emerged from the neighboring houses in the street. Maybe no one else had seen it happen. Nadia reluctantly turned over the disc bearing the cat's name and saw an address engraved on the other side.

“Felstead Avenue,” Jay read aloud. “That's the road behind this one.”

“Right.” Nadia nodded, feeling sick. She bowed her head and tried to imagine breaking the news to Tommy's owner. Oh, this was a nightmare, she couldn't do it. Right, think about this, think, just concentrate…

“I could say he was already dead when I found him.” She looked pleadingly at Jay. “They don't have to know I did it.”

Slowly Jay nodded. “You could. Is that what you want to do?”

Nadia's lip began to tremble. She stroked the cat's ears and shook her head. “No. I'll tell them the truth. Oh, look at his dear little face, I can't bear it. What number Felstead Avenue?”

“Fourteen, but you're not doing it now.” While she numbly stroked the cat, Jay's fingers were stroking her neck. His arm was still round her shoulders and it actually felt quite comforting, all the more so for being so unexpected.

“They could be wondering where he is.”

“A few more minutes won't make any difference. Come on.” Taking the cat from her, Jay led the way back to the house. There was no milk left, but he boiled the kettle and made Nadia a cup of black coffee to steady her shredded nerves.

“I can take the cat back if you like,” said Jay. “I'll tell them I was driving the car.”

Nadia wavered; this was hugely tempting. She kept picturing herself having to break the tragic news to a frail old widow without another friend in the world, or to a cluster of distraught saucer-eyed children who'd doted on Tommy since he was a kitten.

“No.” Nadia shook her head, she couldn't wimp out now. “Thanks, but I'll do it.”

“I'll come with you.”

“OK.” She managed a wobbly smile. “You're being really nice.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “Don't sound so surprised. I'm not an ogre.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that, actually, for the past week he certainly had been, but she kept this observation to herself. Clearly, Jay didn't even realize he'd been behaving in a weird and distant way.

“OK, I'm ready.” Draining her cup of black coffee, Nadia mentally girded her loins—whatever that actually meant. “Let's go.”

***

“Well,” she said ten minutes later. “That's… that.”

Jay brushed away a tear that was rolling down her cheek. “You don't have to cry. It's over now.”

“I'm not crying for me, I'm crying for the cat! That bloody man couldn't have cared less.”

The bloody man, the one who had opened the front door of 14 Felstead Avenue, had been balding, middle-aged, and brusque. Oh right, so the cat had lost a fight with a car, hardly surprising the way it carried on, daft thing had never had any road sense.

By the time Nadia had finished stammering her way through an explanation of what had happened, her heartfelt apologies and a promise to pay for both the funeral expenses and a new cat, the man's eyes had begun to gleam with interest.

“Right, well, I reckon a couple of hundred quid should cover it.”

Jay had said firmly, “A hundred.”

Hating the man but unable to back down now, Nadia had scribbled out a check. He'd promptly pocketed it, said cheerfully, “Thanks, love,” and closed the door on them.

She almost wished now that the cat's owner had been a tearful old lady—anything would have been easier to bear than the man's chilling indifference.

“I bet he won't even have it buried. He'll just chuck the cat in his wheelie bin. Honestly, some people shouldn't be allowed to keep animals.” Oh dear, she was getting all worked up again, thinking about reporting the horrible man to animal welfare, except she'd been the one who'd killed Tommy…

“Look, the pubs are open.” Jay checked his watch. “How about a brandy to calm you down?”

He was
still
being nice. Grateful to him for understanding how awful she felt, Nadia wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her T-shirt and began to nod. A drink would be lovely, just what she needed—

Jay's phone began to ring. In his hurry to answer it, he missed the nod. With a knot of foreboding in her stomach, Nadia watched his expression change. After several curt whens, yeses, and rights, he hung up.

“Sorry, I have to go. Are you all right to drive home?”

Nadia nodded. Just as well, really.

“OK. Bye.”

And that was it, he was gone. Into his car, over the hill, and out of sight.

So was he nice or wasn't he? She still didn't know.

Clare was in her studio, painting and wishing she could stop thinking about Piers. Not permanently, of course. It was just annoying, not being able to concentrate on the canvas in front of you because you kept wondering where he was now, what he might be doing, and when you were next going to see him.

It was Saturday lunchtime and sunlight streamed in through the sloping windows on the top floor of the house. Outside on the drive, Tilly was helping James wash his car. Nadia was still asleep in bed, lazy mare. Miriam was in the bathroom putting the finishing touches to her makeup before Edward arrived to whisk her off to the Painswick Hotel in Stroud for lunch.

Clare sat back on her stool and surveyed the painting so far. The scene was of a gaggle of overexcited women in hugely ornate hats, enjoying a day at the races. She was going to call it “All Of A Flutter.” There were no horses in the painting because she couldn't draw horses—they always ended up looking as if their legs were on backward. But in the foreground she had a gloriously seedy-looking bookie leering as he eyed up the ladies in their skimpy skirts.

When Clare was in the mood to paint, she could keep going for hours. But today it just wasn't happening. She was too distracted to enjoy it. Yesterday Piers had been away at a conference in London, and now it was midday and he still hadn't rung her.

Clare gazed moodily out of the window; this wasn't what she was used to. She'd never been the type to wimpishly phone a boyfriend—in fact she'd positively enjoyed
not
phoning them—because she'd always known they'd phone her.

And she really didn't want to call Piers, but it was starting to look as if she might have to, because he didn't appear to be ringing her and how else could she get to see him? He wasn't leaving her any choice.

She wiped her paintbrush on a piece of old tea towel, swirled it in a jar of turps, and slid off the stool. Just the thought of calling Piers and hearing his voice was enough to get her stomach trampolining with anticipation. She'd never actually experienced these kinds of feelings before.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, it's me.”
Boing, boinngg
went Clare's intestines as she gripped the phone. “Just wondered what you were up to.”

She'd practiced this line. It was nice and casual, free of whininess, and suitably laid back. Not for her the fretful “you-said-you'd-call-me” accusations, oh no. Instant turnoff.

“Hi, you.” Piers sounded as if he was lying in bed, smiling. She could just picture him with one arm tucked under his head, his chest tanned and bare. “I was just thinking about you.”

Don't sound flattered, don't simper.

“How was London?”

“Oh, not so bad. Pretty knackering really. How about you?”

“Oh, we were out and about last night. Ended up at a
wild
party in Failand.” Clare was buggered if she'd tell him she'd stayed in and watched
Frasier
. “I'm fairly shattered myself, don't feel like doing anything too energetic this afternoon…” She paused, giving him the opportunity to pick up on the double entendre.

Piers yawned. “Me neither. There's rugby on the telly—that's enough exercise for me.”

“Rugby?” Clare loathed rugby with a passion. “I love rugby! Tell you what, I could bring over a bottle of wine if you fancy some company.”

Was that pushy, over-keen, pathetically eager? No, of course it wasn't. She was making a relaxed, spur-of-the-moment suggestion, that was all. Watching sports on TV was always more fun when you had company… God, only complete nerds sat at home watching rugby on their own.

“OK. If you like.” Piers sounded surprised but not displeased. “Yeah, great, come on over. But don't bother with wine. Pick up some beers instead.” He definitely wanted her to be there with him, Clare told herself. He'd said “if you like,” not, “if you must.” Reassured, she said, “Want to come and collect me?”

“No.” Piers chuckled, clearly amused by this suggestion. “I wasn't actually planning on getting dressed today. I'm sure you can manage to make your own way over. Just grab a cab.”

Clare switched off the phone with a flourish. There, that hadn't been so hard, had it? She'd called Piers and he'd been delighted to hear from her, and now she was going to spend the rest of Saturday with him. Whereas if she
hadn't
rung him, she'd still be fretting and wondering what he was up to. Which, let's face it, would have been absolutely pathetic.

Clothes, Clare thought joyfully, wiping her hands on her oversized paint-encrusted combats and bounding over to her wardrobe. Clothes for a relaxing afternoon
à deux
in front of the TV. Something casual, of course. But sexy. Jeans? No. Skirt and strappy top? Definitely not. T-shirt and trousers? Boring, boring. What could she wear that would make a real impression on Piers? What did she have that he hadn't already seen her in?

Apart from her dressing gown and slippers.

And her trench coat.

Emerging from the shower, Clare roughly blow-dried her hair, fastened it back with a hair tie, made up her face, and slipped her feet into high-heeled pink leather mules.

Then, letting the towel in which she was wrapped drop to the floor, she sprayed herself with Dior's Eau Svelte and reached into the wardrobe for her trench coat.

Striking a pose in front of the full-length mirror, Clare surveyed herself with satisfaction. Oh yes. Perfect. Saucy but innocent, sexy but fun. She'd never worn it before, but this was actually a great trench coat. Pale pink PVC on the outside, lined with fake fur on the inside, it came to just above the knee. With the buttons done up and the belt tightly tied at the waist, nobody would ever know you weren't wearing anything underneath.

Her mouth turned up at the corners as she pictured Piers's face when the belt and buttons were unfastened. He'd love it. It would become one of those never-to-be-forgotten anecdotes. Twenty years from now, when the kids were driving them up the wall, they'd still be able to look at each other and smile, and Piers would say, “Remember the time you turned up wearing nothing but a trench coat? That was the day I knew you were the girl for me.”

OK, fantasizing. But it could happen. That was the thing about men, you never knew what was going through their man-shaped minds.

***

“There you are, love, that'll be eight pounds sixty.” The taxi driver spoke with the satisfied air of one who knows he's going to get a tenner.

“Keep the change,” muttered Clare. Honestly, ten pounds, talk about daylight robbery.

But she couldn't really get too worked up about it. She was here now, outside Piers's flat, and that was all that mattered. Hefting the Thresher's bag into her arms—lager for Piers, wine for herself—she climbed the steps and pressed the buzzer.

“Yup?” Piers's disembodied voice came through the speaker on the entryphone.

“It's me.”

“Hello, you.” His voice softened. “Got the lagers?”

I've got better than lagers, Clare thought happily. Aloud she said, “Oh yes.”

“So what're you waiting for? Come on up.”

The first hint that something was not quite right hit her as she climbed the stairs to his second-floor flat. There was an odd smell, very faint, that she couldn't place.

It wasn't until Piers opened his front door and the full force of the smell rushed out to greet her that Clare recognized it. And if she hadn't, the sound of excitable male voices coming from the living room gave it away.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of alcohol-fueled bodies. Through the open living-room door Clare could see them draped across furniture and stretched out on the floor.

“What's going on? When did they get here?” Horrified, she took a step back.

“Last night. Well, this morning,” Piers amended with a boyish grin. “I got back from London around midnight and they persuaded me to meet them at the club. Then we all came back here and crashed out. Here, let me take these.” He seized the Thresher's shopping bag and pulled out the lagers. “Just what we need, hair of the dog.”

“I thought it was just going to be us.” Clare wanted to cry, or stamp her feet in frustration. This was the polar opposite of what she'd been looking forward to. Unless… “Are they going home now?”

“You must be joking. The rugby starts in ten minutes. It's what we've been waiting for.”

“OK. Well, why don't I come back later?”

“Don't be daft, you're here now. You're allowed to stay.” As he said it, Piers began to nuzzle her neck. “God, you smell gorgeous.”

Unlike the rest of your guests, Clare thought sourly. Oh hell, why did this have to happen? She wanted to stay, more than anything. But only with Piers. Why couldn't all his hideously noisy, hard-drinking wanker-banker friends just
go
?

“Come on. You're staying and that's that.” Piers pushed her through to the living room and held the Thresher's bag aloft like a football trophy.

“Look what we've got! Lager and… ugh, wine.” He turned to Clare, his expression pained. “I said no wine. We're lads, we don't drink wine.”

“It's for me,” said Clare.

“I'm a woman trapped in a lad's body,” announced Eddie, one of Piers's closest friends. Pursing his lips, he blew a kiss at Piers. “Don't fret, petal, I'll have a glass of wine. Clare, come over here and sit by me.” He patted the cream sofa across which he was sprawled, still in last night's crumpled clothes. “We'll let the boys watch their nasty rough game on TV, shall we? You and I can have a lovely girlie chat about… ooh, nail varnish.”

Eddie was a big groping lech whose hands wandered at the slightest opportunity. Clare may as well have announced brightly, “OK, great, and by the way, everyone, I'm naked under this trench coat,” because it would take Eddie less than ten seconds to discover this and declare it to the room at large.

“I'm fine over here.” She picked an uncomfortable chair next to the window, well away from Fast Eddie.

“Take off your coat,” said Piers, snapping open a lager. “Aren't you hot?”

“Of course she's
hot
.” The way Eddie leered made Clare itch to slap him.

“I'm not, actually. I'm cold. I'll keep my coat on, thanks.”

The next ninety minutes became a personal battle. Telling herself that as soon as the stupid rugby game was over, everyone would leave, Clare vowed to sit it out. Or, more accurately, sweat it out. The sun poured through the south-facing second-floor window and perspiration trickled down her back. The window couldn't be opened because someone—none of them could remember who—had swallowed the key last night for a bet. The fake fur lining of the trench coat was sticking to her skin. All around her, men were roaring encouragement at the TV screen, knocking back the beers, and calling the referee a pansy every time he granted a throw-in to the other side.

When the match finally ended, Eddie rose to his feet.

“Right, everyone pitch in a tenner and I'll go and pick up some more booze.”

No, no,
no
. Scarlet-cheeked with heat and indignation, Clare cornered Piers in the kitchen.

“Can't you make them go?” Her teeth were so clenched she could barely get the words out.

“What, kick them out onto the streets?” Piers looked surprised. “I can't do that.”

“I want you to.”

“Now you're being unreasonable. Angel, these are my friends. They don't mind you being here.”

“They're all drunk. I thought we were going to relax and have some time alone together.”

Piers appeared genuinely mystified. “You should have said.”

Now she really wanted to cry. “I had a special surprise for you too.”

“You did? What is it?”

Clare gave him an are-you-mad? look. “You're not getting it now.”

“Ooh, touchy.” He grinned. “Never mind, I've got loads of ties.”

“It wasn't a tie. Anyway, I'm going now.”

Piers shrugged. “OK.”

She should hate him. Why didn't she hate him for treating her like this? Even now, if he begged her to stay, she probably would.

Except that was the thing about Piers, he never did beg.

“Hey hey, what's going on out here? Am I interrupting something sleazy?” Eddie barged into the kitchen, waving a fistful of tenners.

“No,” Claire said coldly. “I'm just leaving.”

“Leaving?” He mimed horror, clasping his big hands to his chest. “But you can't leave, I won't let you!”

Eddie was such a dickhead. To let Piers know how fed up she was, Clare rolled her eyes and said briskly, “Bye,” then turned and made for the kitchen door.

“Nooo! I can't bear it,
stay
with
me
,” Eddie wailed melodramatically. His hand, shooting out, grabbed the back of her trench coat. As he yanked her toward him, Clare let out a squawk of fear and tugged the hem of the trench coat back down to her knees.

She was a split second too late. A slow, idiotic grin spread over Eddie's face.

“Oh, wow. Hello, baby!” He leered at her, Austin Powers-style. “Or should I call you Sharon? Tell me, did I really just see what I thought I saw?”

Piers, whose view had been blocked by Eddie, said, “Saw what? And who's Sharon?”

“Sharon Stone.” Eddie gave his friend a hefty nudge. “You remember, in
Basic
Instinct
.” His grin broadening, he turned back to Clare. “So that's why you kept your coat on.”

Their laughter followed her all the way down the staircase. Hot tears of humiliation were scalding her eyes by the time she reached the street. A taxi came along and she flagged it down. It was, officially, a disastrous day and the bloody sun was shining more brightly than ever. To add insult to injury, the inside of the cab smelled overwhelmingly of chicken madras and vile dangly air freshener.