“Sorry. Sorry,” I mutter as I dash toward the door, my “I’m Every Woman” ringtone still playing loudly.
Several members of the class tut in my wake and Persephone looks at me as if to say, “You’ll never reach spiritual enlightenment.” But then I could have told her that.
Out in the corridor, I lean against the wall panting heavily and answer my phone. “Hi.”
“Hi, Lucy.” There’s a hesitation and then, “You called me?”
I did, and I’m already wondering whether I’ve made a huge mistake. My heart is pounding inside my chest and I know that it’s not entirely down to my exertions in the shoulder stand.
“Marcus,” I say. “Would you like to come to a party with me?”
Chapter Sixty-three
AUTUMN WAS LISTENING TO HER new CD featuring the pan pipes of Peru, bought primarily because a pound from every CD purchased went toward saving the indigenous peoples of South America from a life of abject poverty. She wasn’t actually sure if she liked pan pipes, but what was a little compromise in musical taste when it was all for a good cause? To take her mind off the slightly annoying, breathy noise, she hugged a cup of her favorite drinking chocolate to her chest and flicked through a useful guide to recycling that the local council had produced—unheeding of the extra paper and resources that the glossy leaflet used, of course.
The one good thing about the music was that it took her mind off how quiet the flat was, now that Richard had gone. In truth, she’d rather have her brother here being intrusive and obstreperous than have no idea where on earth he might be. He’d been missing for two weeks now, and her anxiety levels were increasing by the day. No matter what he did, Richard would always be her baby brother and she’d always feel protective toward him. Worryingly Autumn had heard nothing at all from him—not even one phone call. Now she was wondering how he was managing—whether he had money, whether someone was holding him against his will, or whether he was slumped in a heap somewhere in a back alley, unknown and unloved. If he didn’t turn up before long then she really would have to go to the police. He’d always been unreliable, but he’d never gone missing for this amount of time before without any contact whatsoever.
Autumn tried to turn her attention back to the sound of the Andes and the benefits of washing out tin cans, but her heart wasn’t really in it. Addison had been in the center today, but he hadn’t popped into the art room to see her. He’d given her a friendly enough wave as he’d passed by the door, and although he was accompanied by someone in a smart suit who looked important, he normally would have found time to say hello. Maybe she’d blown it there, but she couldn’t worry about that now; she already had enough to contend with. It was a shame though, as she thought she might really like him.
Before bedtime, she luxuriated in a long, hot bubble bath trying not to think of the people in drought-stricken countries who would never be able to enjoy this simple pleasure. Just as she was sinking into the lavender-scented foam for the last few minutes of bliss, Autumn heard a key rattle in her frontdoor lock. Her heart leaped into her mouth and she shot upright in the water, fumbling for a towel. No one had a spare key to her flat, as far as she knew. The hinges of the door creaked slowly open.
Climbing quietly out of the bath and wrapping herself in her bathrobe, she looked for something to arm herself with, but there was nothing much apparent. She could hardly loofah an intruder into submission or BIC-razor him to death. Autumn scanned the bathroom frantically. The only thing that came to hand was the loo brush and, with a wrinkling of her nose, she pulled it from its holder. She could hear someone stumbling around the living room—maybe more than one person—and she hoped that it wasn’t the same heavies that had ransacked her flat before, as they’d done a great job and she’d really only just got the place straight again. Now she was wishing that she’d changed the locks and put some more security devices on the door—chains, bolts, maybe a spy hole or two, that kind of thing. How much use was a loo brush going to be against people like that? It might not be environmentally friendly but, at this very moment, Autumn wished that she had one of those rapid-fire machine guns on hand.
She crept toward the sitting room, loo brush held high like a gladiator’s pugil stick and, flattening herself against the wall, risked a tentative look through the door. There, flopped into one corner of her sofa, was the familiar frame of her brother. She felt like sinking to the floor with relief. Richard was massaging his forehead with one hand, but halted when she stepped into the room.
“Hi, sis,” he said wearily. “What are you planning to do with that? Viciously scrub my U-bend?”
“Does it need it?” Autumn replied, feeling consoled and irritated in equal measures.
Her brother looked terrible. His face was gray and there was an unhealthy sheen of perspiration on his brow. He’d lost weight and his jacket hung on his wasted body. His once-bright eyes were now dulled, and the gaunt hollows that surrounded them were as dark as bruises.
“I was trying to sneak in without waking you,” he said.
“You go missing for weeks and then you try to sneak in without me knowing? I’ve hardly slept a wink since you left.” Though she didn’t look like she’d been the only one. “My God, Richard, I thought you could be dead! I didn’t even know you had a key.”
“I had one cut for myself,” he confessed.
“You could have told me. I thought you were an intruder,” she said. “You nearly scared me half to death. I suppose you know that some of your business colleagues took it upon themselves to rearrange my flat while I was out?”
Her brother hung his head. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Didn’t mean to drag you into this messy business.”
“Then stop dealing drugs from my flat.”
“Don’t lecture me now, sis.” His eyes met hers. “I’m not here to stay.”
Autumn sat down opposite him and dropped the loo brush onto the carpet next to the chair. “You’re still in trouble?”
Rich nodded. “It’s bad.”
“Where have you been?”
“It’s best that you don’t know.”
“Were these people holding you against your will?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Rich said. “Let’s just say that they won’t yet realize that I’m not still enjoying their hospitality.”
Autumn had suspected as much. “So you’ve managed to give them the slip?”
Rich shrugged his shoulders wearily and she took that as a yes.
“Where are you going this time?”
“As far away as I can,” her brother said. “I have to get out of the country and I have to do it sooner rather than later. I leave tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“I’ve booked a place at a rehab clinic in Arizona. I’m in a mess. I need to get my shit together, Autumn.”
“Are you going to the Cloisters?” It was the place where all the celebrity junkies went. Her brother’s silence told her that she was right. “How exactly are you funding that?”
Rich looked at her sheepishly. “I popped along to see Mater and Pater before I came here.”
As always, their parents would have been only too anxious to pay for yet another period of cold turkey for their son. Autumn sighed. She could just picture her father handing over his credit card while Rich made the booking. They’d both gotten everything they ever wanted from their parents, except their precious time. She wondered how different their lives might have been if they hadn’t had parents who were phenomenally wealthy but were never around to nurture them.
“Will going abroad stop these people from hounding you?”
“I don’t know,” Richard said. “I owe them a lot of money, Autumn, and I have some of their merchandise.”
“Is it here?” she asked. “Is that why they ransacked my home? Am I safe staying here?”
“You’ll be fine,” he said. But she didn’t like the way he kept his face turned away from hers. “They were looking for the stuff, but I
don’t have it anymore.”
“Then can’t you tell them that?”
His voice hardened. “They’re not the sort of people that you can reason with.”
“Then where did the money go? With Mummy and Daddy’s vast wealth, can’t you get them to settle your debts?” It wouldn’t be the first time, or probably the last, that they’d bailed Richard out for one reason or another.
“I don’t think even they would give me that much,” he said with a sigh.
“Isn’t it worth a try?”
“It’s very complicated,” he said, but he still wouldn’t look up at her.
“It must be if you have to skip the country.” And, even though she wanted to believe differently Autumn knew that the rehab clinic was merely an excuse to get away.
“I just came to collect a few things and to say good-bye.” His voice caught in his throat.
She went and sat next to him, wrapping her arms round him as tears welled in her eyes. “I wish I could protect you,” she said.
“You’ve done all you could for me,” her brother said. “And, for that, I’m truly grateful, sis. I know that I’m a pretty useless brother, but I do love you.”
“You will be able to come back?” she wanted to know. “You won’t have to stay away for long?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It could be some time before the heat is off I should probably try to make a new life for myself elsewhere.”
“One that doesn’t involve drugs.”
“It goes without saying,” Richard agreed and, for a moment, she thought that he sounded sincere.
“Then we’d better get your things together,” Autumn said as she took a deep, steadying breath and stood up. Even though the last thing in the world she wanted was to watch her brother walk away from her.
Chapter Sixty-four
MARCUS HAS PERSUADED ME THAT we should spend the afternoon together. He said we should take time to “get to know each other again” before the Targa party and, to be honest, when he suggested going up onto Hamp-stead Heath this Sunday, I couldn’t think of a reason not to. The only other pressing engagement I had is one to leap around with Davina McCall—who has been sorely neglected of late. My theory for this lack of exercise is that I’m coming out in sympathy with Crush who, of course, is having to forgo all manner of physical pursuits at the moment as he’s still on crutches for the next few weeks. I wonder, darkly, whether he’s still managing to have sex with Charlotte the Harlot—or is that off the menu too? That, I think, would be one positive benefit of my overexuberant driving style. For me, at least.
Before I have time to dwell on this any further, the doorbell rings and when I open the door, Marcus is standing there. I haven’t seen him for ages now, but he still has the ability to turn my knees to jelly.
“Hey,” he says and his sexy smile widens.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Ready?”
“I’ll just get my sun hat.” Not that I’m in danger of getting sunstroke, but the weather has been unseasonably warm for the last few days and it shows no sign of letting up. Hurrah!
I follow Marcus down to his car where, in an unusually chivalrous move, he opens the door for me while I lower myself inside. I catch him looking at my legs and pull my dress down to cover my knees.
“You look great,” he says sincerely.
“Thanks.”
There are two bikes strapped to the back of the car and we set off for the short drive up Rosslyn Hill toward Hampstead. The Heath is busy as always, when we arrive. Sunday afternoons, particularly, are rammed. We should have left the car behind and cycled up here—which probably would have killed me—as parking is a bitch. But, somehow, we manage to bag one of the coveted spaces and, instantly, Marcus sets about unloading the bikes from the back of the car, while I stand around and try to look useful.
The bikes are ready and leaning against the car when Marcus pulls a kite out of the boot. It’s a big, traditional-shaped diamond one and it’s white with I LOVE YOU written in big black letters with a red heart. Underneath in black marker pen, in Marcus’s hand, he’s added LUCY and two kisses. He gives me an uncertain smile as he says, “For you.”
“I don’t know what to say.” And I don’t, as I really hadn’t seen this coming. I thought we would simply be friends again and hadn’t planned for the possibility of a romantic reunion. Really, I hadn’t.
“Then don’t say anything,” he tells me. “Let’s just have some fun together today. Like we used to.”
Marcus straps the kite to his back and we set off, me hitching my skirt to get onto the bike. I could do with tucking it up into my knickers really, but decorum prevents me. It’s ages since I’ve cycled and I’m a bit wobbly as we head off onto the Heath. Marcus puts a steadying hand on my saddle and we make our way through the tracks out onto the grassy, wide open spaces. Puffing loudly, we reach the summit of the Heath and then, howling with laughter, we career back down the hill, feet out, letting the pedals spin freely, bumping along on the grass. I feel I should be singing “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” à la Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Halfway down, when I can stand the hilarity no longer and am in mortal danger of losing control of my bike and crashing, we stop to get our breath back as we admire the magnificent view with the whole of London spread out before us. The warm wind is whipping about our ears and I think it was a good idea for Marcus to bring the kite. We lock our bikes to the nearest bench and then Marcus sets up the kite, unwinding the string and laying it on the ground. Then he takes my hand and says, “Ready?”
I nod, and then hand in hand, we run like mad things across the hill, trailing the kite behind us.
“Faster,” Marcus urges. “Faster.”
But I’m still giggling like a loon and, unaccustomed as I am to running, can hardly keep my footing, let alone go any quicker. The kite lifts in the air, soaring up to the cloudless sky, its tail of red ribbons fluttering beneath it.
“Fantastic,” Marcus says and watches it in awe.
“You are a top kite flyer,” I tell him.
He puts his arm round my waist and pulls me close to him. “Take it,” he instructs.
“I’ve never flown a kite,” I say.
“Then it’s about time we remedied this terrible deficiency in your social development. You’re never too old to learn to fly a kite.” He puts the reel into my hands and cuddles in close behind me as he guides my fingers to feed out the string, letting the kite go higher and higher until it’s so far away I can hardly read the words I LOVE YOU, LUCY. I feel a tug on the string and, as Marcus lets his arms linger around me, I also feel a far too familiar tug there.
“Keep tight hold of it,” Marcus says. “I have to make a quick phone call.” And he steps away from me while he speaks in a lowered tone into the phone. I wonder who he’s calling and, I hate to admit this, but I feel a pang of jealousy. Whatever it is that attracts me to Marcus, it just never seems to want to go away, and yet this time I really thought that I was over him.
When Marcus comes back to me he’s wearing a smug grin. “Feeling hungry?”
My stomach rumbles. Food is never far away from its mind. “A bit peckish,” I admit.
“Good,” he says, and turns me to face the other way. Over the hill, there is a line of three booted and suited butlers marching steadily toward us. Wearing pin-striped trousers and morning coats in true Jeeves mode, one of them is carrying a hamper, one bears a picnic rug and one follows up with a champagne bucket complete with a bottle.
“Oh, Marcus,” I say with a tearful laugh. My ex-boyfriend does like to do things in style.
“I thought we’d have a picnic.” So he reels in the kite, while the trio of butlers set up our picnic on the Heath. When they’re finished, they bow lightly to us and then march away again into the woods.
Marcus throws himself onto the tartan blanket that they’ve spread on the ground, then holds out his hand for me to join him. He pours me a glass of champagne and toasts me
with his own. “To us.”
And even though I’m not sure that there is an “us,” I echo his sentiments. “To us.”
Marcus starts to undo the leather straps of the hamper.
“This is a lovely idea,” I say. “Thank you.”
He stops and sighs at me. “You’re worth it,” he says. “I just wish we could be like this all the time.”
“We could,” I tell him. “This may not be the time to mention it, but it was always you that messed it up.”
“I’m determined to put an end to that,” he says sincerely. “You have to trust me. I’ve changed. I’ve had time on my own to think about things.” He fixes me with an earnest gaze. “I didn’t even dare to phone you, Lucy. You wouldn’t believe how elated I was when you called. Believe me, I’m not going to blow this last chance.”
I don’t point out that I hadn’t actually planned to give him a last chance. All I wanted was a date for the Targa party so that I didn’t look lame.
“This is what I want,” he continues. “You’re what I want.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
He puts a finger to my lips. “Don’t say anything now,” he says. “Let’s just enjoy this picnic, enjoy today.” And he starts pulling out plates and napkins and cutlery.
You might expect such a grand hamper to be filled with smoked salmon, a cocktail of olives—ciabatta bread, perhaps. But no. Marcus knows that my taste in food runs to the far side of Philistine. Instead, the hamper is packed with pork pies, hot pizza wrapped in foil, Walkers crisps, Pringles, my very favorite muffins from Chocolate Heaven and, in its own little cooler, a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream. He holds up the tub and I duly give an appreciative little gasp. “Oh, Marcus!”
Marcus’s smile is confident now and he knows that he has me, once again, in his thrall. And I realize that I’m powerless to resist him. There’s nothing I can do; this man has a GPS navigation system that takes him straight to the center of my heart.