Fast Friends (30 page)

‘We were such good
friends,’
she had said
helplessly, attempt
ing to explain to Zoë what
had happened. ‘And out of pure
spite, I wrecked everything.’

‘
Well, it’s a shame,’
said Zoë, attempting to console her. ‘But
it isn’t the end of the world, is it? He’ll get over it. Cheer up,
Cami
– worse things have happened at sea.’

And Camilla’s own sense of pride had
prevented her from
going
on to explain why else she found the situation so
upsetting. It would sound simply too juvenile for words to
say
that she had discovered – too late – that
she had fallen in love
with Nico.

She could just imagine the expression
on Zoë’s face. ‘I see.
So you
slept with him once, made him think he was completely useless in bed, left him
– and
then
decided,
weeks
later, that you
loved him? Isn’t that rather an odd way to go about things,
darling?’

So Camilla had suffered in silence, trying to tell herself
that
she didn’t really love Nico, that it was
all part of the guilt-
pattern, and
that she should simply chalk it up to experience.
Her relationship with
him had been a freak of nature anyway –why on earth should someone like him
wish to be involved with her? They were on entirely different planets. That
night would only ever have been a one-off anyway...

Leaving the claustrophobic confines of the Hotel Balfour –
although heaven knew how such a vast monstrosity could
possibly
make him feel claustrophobic – Nico sauntered lazily along the dusty sidewalk,
relieved to be out in the fresh air even
if
it was at least 100° C in the shade, with practically no
humidity
whatsoever. The sun blazed down, scorching the sandblasted streets, and it was
only now that he fully appreciated the efficiency of the air-conditioning
system in the hotel.

But he wasn’t going to let the fierce
desert heat drive him
back into that Spanish-styled monument to bad taste, nor into
one of the endless lines of gambling
establishments for which
Las Vegas was famed. Gaudily lit, brash and noisy with the
clatter of money and the electronic machines which paid
out a
precisely calculated percentage of that
which went in, he felt
only
discontent and derision for those who mindlessly played
for hours,
sometimes days, on end.

Adjusting his dark glasses and pushing his hands into the
pockets of his black cotton Levis, Nico ignored
the heat and
turned off the main street in search of normality.
Somewhere,
somewhere
in this brash, unreal town there had to be some
small
signs that it was real; a supermarket, a hairdressers, a
dry-cleaning store, a normal shop that sold
Marmite, and
Branston pickle and proper sausages . . .

For twenty minutes, during which time
his beige shirt
grew
darker with perspiration and he grew increasingly
homesick, Nico strode grimly on.
Eventually he found a
narrow street not entirely populated with casinos and amuse
ment arcades.

Stopping first at a slightly tatty
supermarket, he emerged
with a
sturdy brown-paper carrier containing crusty bread rolls, smoked ham, ripe
Camembert and several cans of beer. Plain,
normal
food, if not exactly English. When he had asked the
bored assistant if she had any Marmite she had
responded with
a blank stare compatible with brain-death.

In this blistering heat he wasn’t even
hungry, but just
clutching the bag of
food was reassuring. Nico paused on the
sidewalk,
wondering which way to turn. To his left stood
a hairdressing salon from which a vast middle-aged woman
with bouffant hair was emerging. Across the road
was a
McDonald’s, next to it a clothing
store with its windows full
of
screamingly loud Hawaiian shirts and over-embellished
cowboy boots.

He turned right, simply because there
seemed no other
choice.

‘Oh shit, shit, bugger and shit!’ wailed a voice and his
heart leapt. The despairing tones, and the particular choice of words, reminded
him acutely of Loulou. It wasn’t, of course. But itwas an English voice, and
the first he had heard for days – since
even
his manager adopted a sliding mid-Atlantic drawl the
moment he stepped
on to foreign soil. Slowly, praying that the
voice
wouldn’t turn out to belong to something horrific, Nico
made his way
towards it.

He ducked just in time as a carton of soap powder hurtled
towards his head, spraying blue-white powder like
artificial
snow in all directions. But
if the box missed him, bouncing on
the sidewalk and landing in the dusty
road, the powder did not.
He halted
dramatically, his spirits rising. She might not be
Loulou, he thought triumphantly, but she was
giving a damn
good impersonation of her. Whoever would have guessed that
there could be two of them?

‘I’m so sorry!’ exclaimed the girl, clutching his arm and
attempting to brush away the soap powder which had
settled
on it. Nico’s skin was so warm
that it actually seemed to be
melting.

‘
Can you forgive me?’
she continued frenziedly. ‘I couldn’t
help it – I’m English. We have no
control over our actions, you see.’

‘
Oh, I don’t know,’
replied Nico, shaking his head and
watching
the powder fly like dandruff. ‘I thought it was an
extremely controlled
action. Out of interest, was it kicked or thrown?’

She looked remorseful. ‘I kicked it. Are you dreadfully
angry with me?’

‘Dreadfully,’ he told her, straightfaced, and she looked
even more appalled.

‘You could take off your shirt and throw it into one of
the
machines . . . oh, you’re joking! You
naughty thing! As if I
didn’t feel bad enough.’

‘
And I’m from England, too,’ he observed with a
faint smile, holding out his hand. ‘My name’s Nico. How do you do?’

As she smiled and shook his hand, he
waited for recognition
to dawn.

And in that same split-second she
both recognized him .. .
and
realized with absolute certainty that recognition was exactly what he didn’t
need right now.

Maybe it was female intuition, maybe the expression in
Nico Coletto’s fabulous eyes . . . that scarcely discernible hesitation
before he had spoken his name . . . that wary
smile . . . but
somehow she just knew
that this was her chance of a lifetime
and
that recognizing him now would not be the smart thing to
do.

Nico, awaiting her reaction, realized that he was holding
his breath.

It didn’t
happen.

‘
Caroline Marriott,’
she said, her tones pure Kensington, her
grip
surprisingly firm. ‘How lovely to meet a fellow foreigner.
But I really do feel you ought to let me wash your
shirt. I
promise not to do with it what I did with my own.’

Stripped to the waist and feeling like a Levi’s advert,
Nico
watched Caroline set the washing-machine
in motion and
attempted to analyse his feelings.

Was it simply his acute homesickness that was bringing
back
so many memories today? First of all,
this girl’s fluid cursing
had reminded him of Loulou. Now, the smell of
the Supawash Laundromat was taking him home; it was almost as if he were
sitting in his own kitchen once more, gossiping
with Camilla
while she sorted through mountains of washing and cleaning
all
in one efficient go. He had
loved
being
there, keeping her
company while she worked and teasing her.

So the clean, soapy atmosphere of this Las Vegas
laundromat reminded him – almost painfully – of Camilla, the girl who was now
washing his shirt reminded him of Loulou, and her very
Englishness reminded him of . . . England. But was the
attraction he felt for her simply a result, a
natural progression,
of those memories – or did it exist in its own
right?

While Caroline was engrossed in the
business of sorting
through her own
pink-streaked washing, searching for anything
which
might possibly have escaped the ravages of the crimson
silk shirt, he
leant back against a dryer and covertly studied her, searching for clues.

She was beautiful, with her dark blue
eyes, pert nose and
wide mouth. Tawny
brown hair, sleek and shiny, swung to her shoulders and perfectly complemented
her deep tan. Small in
stature, maybe five
foot two or three, she possessed voluptuously
curving breasts and hips,
but her waist, clinched by a wide tan-leather belt, was tiny. Also, he
concluded thoughtfully, Caroline Marriott had an extremely good pair of legs.

But were all these attributes really
enough to explain this rising attraction he felt for her, he wondered – or did
it have
more to do with the
fact that her eyes reminded him slightly of
Camilla’s?
That her curving hips reminded him of Camilla’s
curvy hips? And that at this moment she was sorting through
her
laundered clothes with precisely the same expression of concentration that
Camilla had always adopted?

‘How about some lunch?’ he suggested. After all, if he got
to
know her better he might be able to sort
this strange situation
out. Instant attractions weren’t his line of
business, at all.

‘It’s gone four o’clock,’ Caroline reminded him,
straightening up and tossing a marbled pink and white skirt into the bin. ‘And
you,’ she added with a lop-sided grin, ‘are practically naked.’

‘
Come and sit down,’ said Nico, patting the
wooden bench beside him. ‘I have a picnic. And dress is purely optional.’

She really was from Kensington, he
learnt during the course of
the
impromptu picnic. Having fled from London following the
break-up of a tortuous relationship with a Lloyds underwriter,
she had taken up a post as nanny to a New York
family who
were ‘friends of Mummy’s’. Six months later, realizing that six
nights-a-week babysitting was not conducive to the
formation
of a new and exciting social life - – and by now emotionally
recovered enough to want one – Caroline had moved
to Las
Vegas and obtained work as a
croupier at the Happy Larry
Casino. Here, the hours were punishing, but
at least they were
varied. She learnt to
work from two in the afternoon until
midnight, and go night-clubbing
afterwards until dawn. Another
week she would
dance until dawn, go home to shower and
change, and then work on the
blackjack tables from eight in the morning to six in the evening.

‘
I’m impressed,’ said
Nico, finishing his third can of beer
and tossing it in the direction of
the bin. ‘When do you sleep?’

‘
Oh, we Marriotts are a
hardy breed,’ Caroline confided,
tucking her slender brown legs beneath
her and breaking open
another roll with
capable hands. ‘We don’t need much sleep.
Waste of time. I don’t like
wasting time.’

As she leant forward he caught her scent, warm, spicy and
alluring. She was hypnotizing him with her low, English voice. Her skin, smooth
and velvety, intrigued him; she was like a soft fruit, rounded and ripe. And
what did she
mean,
saying that she
didn’t
like to waste time? Nico wasn’t normally slow on the
uptake but today
was different – he felt different. He wanted another drink; maybe it would
sharpen his senses.

‘
Tell me about you,’
said Caroline. Her dark blue eyes
softened and for a second looked
astonishingly like Camilla’s. Nico watched, mesmerized.

‘
I can’t stand it here
in Vegas,’ he said, ‘but there are problems
back in London so being over
here for a few weeks is a smart move.’