A Funny Thing About Love (16 page)

Leo was far too sophisticated to eat sweets. The only sweet ever to pass his lips was no doubt some wildly expensive piece of bitter dark chocolate. Carmen liked Leo on the rare occasion she did see him – he was always working – but he was very different from anyone she knew. He was so much more grown up – literally, being in his late forties, but also in his mindset. He had actually been married for seven years and had a
daughter, before coming out and falling for Marcus. He had a very high-powered career in finance working for a Japanese bank, but though he had explained more than once to Carmen what he actually did, she never understood it – a little like Daisy explaining the difference between goths and emos. Leo had told her she reminded him of Dory, the fish in the film
Finding Nemo
who keeps forgetting everything she is told. Carmen would like to think that he said it affectionately, but she wasn't entirely sure.

As soon as Carmen turned off Oxford Street, which was heaving with shoppers, and walked down New Bond Street, past the designer shops, it was like entering a different world. It was so posh that even the blades of grass in Berkeley Square and the trees seemed to be standing to attention, striving to be the best. Even the air smelt fresher: less McDonald's mixed with exhaust fumes, more the smell of money, which seemed to consist of wafts of expensive perfume and leather, with no hint of the sweat of the workers who had helped create that wealth – well, that was what her dad, a staunch socialist, would have said. Carmen reached Mount Street. Rich old ladies swanned about in Chanel suits; sleek black cars cruised by like designer sharks. She passed antique shops with unfeasibly grand items displayed in the window that wouldn't looked out of place at Versailles. She paused briefly outside Christian Louboutin. Even the memory of cruel Tiana couldn't dispel the magic of the red-soled wonders.

*  *  *

‘How do I look?' Marcus asked anxiously as soon as he opened the door to her, struggling to do up his cufflinks.

‘Beautiful,' Carmen was able to say truthfully, taking over and quickly fastening the silver and onyx cufflinks which had Marcus's and Leo's initials intertwined. Marcus was in a black tuxedo, and while he looked good in everything, he was especially stunning in his suit, as if he had stepped out of a lavish 1920s costume drama, with his timeless beauty and high cheekbones. But Carmen knew that beauty had its price: often in the past, people (for that read TV executives) had not taken him seriously, dismissing him as male-model-lite.

‘But intelligent as well,' she added hastily.

‘Leo hasn't phoned or texted. I thought he would have by now.'

‘He's probably tied up in one of those meetings that go on through the night and they order Chinese food in and eat it from cartons and wave their chopsticks around aggressively, and everyone is so macho they pretend they don't need sleep and say things like we work best under pressure and we're giving a hundred and fifty per cent.' Carmen had a horror of people who said they worked best under pressure. She herself wilted under pressure.

Marcus didn't look entirely reassured but changed the subject: ‘Come through, Cinders, and I'll show you your dresses.'

Carmen actually clapped her hands in delight – well, who wouldn't at the prospect of free designer clobber?
But she resisted giving a jig with glee – she knew where to draw the line. She followed Marcus into his bedroom, which looked as if it was straight out of the pages of a style magazine with its silver wallpaper with exotic metallic lilies, an exquisite chandelier and a four-poster bed with a white silk canopy. Laid out on the bed were two sumptuous dresses, glowing like precious jewels, one crimson, one emerald.

‘Oh Marcus, did I say what a lovely fairy godmother you made?' Carmen exclaimed, drinking in the rich colours and the exquisite cut of the garments.

‘I'll pour you a glass of fizz while you decide which one to wear,' Marcus said, discreetly leaving the room.

Carmen quickly pulled off her clothes and slid into the crimson dress, the cool silk swishing against her skin. She considered herself in the mirror. It was very sexy, maybe a little too sexy, with a plunging neckline that would have Carmen paranoid about possible wardrobe malfunctions. ‘It could be you,' she mused, ‘or it could be you,' she pointed at the emerald. In the event it was the emerald, which was strapless with a fitted bodice that said timeless chic to Carmen, whereas the crimson was a little too attention-grabbing, and she was most definitely not Liz Hurley to Marcus's Hugh Grant.

‘Why, Cinders, you shall go to the ball!' Marcus declared when Carmen strutted her stuff into the living room. He handed her a glass of champagne and looked at his watch. ‘In four hours' time it will all be over, thank God.'

‘I don't get you,' Carmen declared, sinking into Marcus's luxurious charcoal-grey leather sofa, soft as butter to the touch. ‘You might even win tonight.'

‘It's all that gruesome back-slapping and networking that goes on. You know me, I like to do my show and then slink off into the night. But thanks for coming, it makes it bearable. And you might even see Will.' He said this as if it was a good thing.

Carmen winced. ‘I really hope I don't. I still feel awful about what I said. But equally he was unfair about Matthew.'

‘Carmen, I know you're completely blinkered where Matthew is concerned, like an old faithful shire horse, but Matthew, in spite of his many virtues, was a crap administrator, and you just can't afford to be like that any more. Will is right on that score. If Fox hadn't taken him over when they did, Nicholson would have gone down and everyone would have lost their jobs.'

Carmen stuck her tongue out.

‘Now, now, don't get petulant with me. If you're very good you might be able to keep that frock.'

Carmen zipped the attitude.

She had been to some five Comedy Awards over the years, so it was no big deal seeing all the giants of comedy and all the TV stars in the flesh, here a Lee Evans, there an Eddie Izzard, here a Stephen Fry, there a Paul Merton, but walking up the red carpet with Marcus was a new experience. She had imagined following after him like the faithful shire horse he'd
called her, but instead Marcus wanted her arm-in-arm with him to face the barrage of cameras. The press had a double-edged relationship with Marcus. They couldn't deny that he was incredibly funny and talented, but he was ferocious in guarding his personal life which they bitterly resented. Nor was he a cosy, camp gay man whom they could pigeonhole, being more of a maverick. And as Marcus was always telling her, ‘The press love you so long as you don't remind them that you like having sex with men.'

‘Bloody hell,' Carmen exclaimed, intimidated by the press pack, ‘I'm not Liz Hurley, you know.'

‘Oh, shut up and think of the dress,' Marcus whispered to her as they paused to pose for a shot that Carmen just prayed would not turn up on
Heat
's ‘What Were You Thinking?' page. Except in this instance, because she wasn't a celeb it would be what was Marcus thinking having a shire horse dressed in green on his arm?

Thankfully, once they were in the studio they had to take their seats immediately at one of the many tables, which was fine by Carmen, even though they were sharing with, among others, Dexter, Marcus's terrifying agent, who was American and had the teeth to prove it, and his equally scary script editor wife Fi, so
über
thin that she made Twiglets look as if they were packing too much weight. The less time spent milling about and ‘oh darling'ing everybody, doing the double air kiss routine, the less chance she'd have of running into Will. Her cool, calm and sexy motto had deserted her
on the red carpet; she was nervous, and felt as awkward as a teenager. She quickly scanned the tables around her. They seemed to be Will-free, and she was both disappointed and relieved in equal measure.

Russell Brand, fresh from making yet another movie in LA, was compering. Carmen found herself staring at his Sass & Bide skinny jeans and open-to-the-waist shirt showing off his yoga-toned hairy chest. A couple of years ago she'd spent a torrid summer fantasising about him in the manner of a teenage crush, but no longer. It was a pity not to have the crush still as the night was very dull, big on people gushing onstage, and not enough clips of funny bits. It always looked so glam on TV, and so hilarious, but really the hardest part was trying not to yawn or laugh at inappropriate moments, just in case the camera was on you. Marcus was next to her, fidgeting incessantly with his cufflinks. He was up for the Best Comedy Entertainment Personality.

He gently nudged her in the Dolce & Gabbana-clad ribs during a round of applause, for the Best Newcomer in Comedy Award. ‘I've just seen Will over there.' He nodded in the direction of one of the tables to their far left.

‘Really?' Carmen tried to channel cool, calm, sexy, but could only come up with hot, jittery, jelly. ‘Has he seen me?'

‘I don't think so.'

Carmen tried to resist looking over. Russell was doing the preamble to the next award, which Marcus was up for; she should be giving it her full attention in case the
cameras were on the table. But she found herself looking away from Russell's yoga-toned bod and scanning the room for Will. She caught a glimpse of him in profile, but then the winner of the award was announced and it was Marcus!

Carmen threw her arms round Marcus, applauded wildly and then wolf-whistled as he made his way to the stage. And it was just as she had removed her fingers from their wolf-whistling position that she saw Will staring directly at her. Great, so he had seen her with her cheeks inflated like one of those fish that puff up when they're under attack! Of course he'd also seen her passed out and possibly drooling in his bed, but hey, that didn't count as she couldn't remember it. She instantly sucked her cheeks back in to remind him that actually she did have cheekbones and nodded as he smiled back. Then she directed all her attention to the stage, where Marcus was receiving the award from Jimmy Carr. Did that man ever sleep? He seemed to be on TV
all
the time.

Marcus was very self-deprecating as he accepted the award, but Carmen knew he was thrilled and she was thrilled for him. She had seen him go from doing stand-up at some real dives to being one of the hottest talents on TV. ‘Not bad for a bender from Balham,' he was always saying, though thankfully he did not say that now.

Marcus's award was the last to be announced, which meant the audience could commence their milling and oh-darling-kiss-kiss rituals. At first Carmen clung
to Marcus's side like a designer-dressed burr, but eventually she conceded defeat: she was going to have to do some milling of her own.

She had just finished catching up with Lottie and Dirty Sam, when she turned round and there was Will. Immediately Carmen felt as skittish as a pony on speed and she couldn't help but notice how Lottie practically got Dirty Sam in a headlock and marched him away.

‘Miller, I thought you had forsworn such superficial and trivial events for the discipline and rigour of a writer's life.' Will looked damn fine in his black tie, but knackered too; there were dark shadows under his eyes and his pale skin was paler than usual. In fact, he could probably have given Robert Pattinson from
Twilight
a run for his money in the paleness stakes – and in the looks stakes, it had to be said. Although stakes was maybe not the word you would use to a hot vampire if you wanted to be a fangbanger.

Carmen was secretly thrilled to note that, one, Will had deliberately sought her out, and two, there was a definite dash of flirtation in his tone. Maybe he had forgiven her for her outrageous comments. Maybe they could pick up where they had left off. And as soon as she thought that, she felt a great lifting of her spirits. ‘I did it for Marcus,' she replied, ‘And I can't say that I've missed these events. The white wine was as acidic as ever, I swear it's been stripping the enamel from my teeth. And Fi, the wife of Marcus's agent, only ate one edamame bean all night and sipped mineral water. I felt like a bloody great porker next to her.'

Will smiled, a smile which instantly turned him from knackered to sexy.

‘But you're looking good. I can't fault the dress. I declare you a mutton-free zone.'

‘So how are you?' she gabbled, fiddling self-consciously with her charm bracelet.

‘Okay, full-on busy but surviving.' He frowned. ‘Actually, let's not talk about work. Trish told me you've moved down to Brighton.'

And why haven't you been in touch? Do you hate me?
There were so many questions Carmen wanted to ask.

Instead she went for, ‘Yep, it's been really good for me to have a change of scene and make progress with my writing. I find being by the sea very inspiring.' Oh no! She sounded so stilted and pompous! This would not do. She took a deep breath and rallied. ‘Will, I'm really sorry about that night when I was rude to you and to your friends. It was unforgivable. I can only say that I had a lot of stuff going on.'

Will's smile faded. ‘It was quite an evening. I had no idea you had such a low opinion of what I do – nothing about talent and integrity, only caring about money, and you wouldn't trust your work with me. Remind me never to ask you for a reference.'

Carmen's cheeks burned with embarrassment. ‘I don't have a low opinion of you and I didn't mean what I said about your work.'

Will lowered his voice. ‘It's okay, I guessed there must be other stuff going on. It's forgiven and forgotten.'
He paused. ‘But did you mean the other thing you said?'

A lot had happened since they'd met, but Carmen just knew he was referring to the shag comment and her cheeks burned redder still. ‘What other thing?' she asked, feigning ignorance.

‘Miller, you know exactly what I'm talking about.' Will's tone took a definite flirtatious edge. ‘You said I was a good kisser and that you could probably shag me.'