Fast Friends (61 page)

‘Will you introduce me to Nico Coletto?’ said Natalie with
a smile that was both challenging and sly.

Roz’s eyes narrowed dangerously and
Camilla stepped into
the breach.

‘Stay here with me today,’ she said firmly, thinking that
Roz
would certainly have her hands full when
she took Natalie
down to her cottage
in the Cotswolds for a few days. Natalie
was testing her mother, seeing how far she could go and what
she could get away with. Roz would have to make
sure she
didn’t allow her guilt to overcome common sense.

At two o’clock
that afternoon, with all the desperate compulsion of an alcoholic, Loulou slid
surreptitiously into the Kendall
Fordyce gallery in Kensington. For days
she had been telling herself she wouldn’t come here. Last night she had even
thought she might have won. This morning, of course, she realized that she hadn’t
a hope in hell.

No self-control, she thought gloomily. The story of my
life. And taking care to adjust the charcoal grey fedora over her eyes
– every strand of her rippling blonde hair was
crammed beneath
it – she purchased a catalogue from the reception desk
by the entrance and made her way into the gallery itself where the exhibition
featuring Mac’s latest work was being held.

Loulou was able to look back and
marvel now at the cocoon
of serenity
which had eased her through pregnancy. At the time
she had been unable to recognize it – it had just felt so
wonderfully,
perfectly
right
that she hadn’t questioned the strangeness of it all.

But now she was back to quite her old self and very
frustrating
it was too.

Here I am, she thought with indignation bordering on
despair,
chasing after Mac again and knowing
full well that he’s only
keen on me when I’m
not
chasing
him.

And would he even
be
here today? She was terrified
that he would, yet the prospect of coming here and
not
seeing him was
equally appalling, just as she had been unwilling to come here, but unable to
stay away.

Which was why she had borrowed Camilla’s grey fedora and
Roz’s baggy white trenchcoat, donned a pair of very
black
glasses and was sporting unfamiliar pillar-box red lipstick.
Hopefully she looked like an Italian banker’s wife and not a bit like Loulou
Marks, idiot extraordinaire.

The gallery was more crowded than she had expected, which
was good. Holding her catalogue up to her face she squeezed between a couple of
portly, fragranced men and came abruptly face to face with Cecilia Drew.

Not the real Cecilia, although the
image still managed to
leave her
breathless.

Taking a step backwards Loulou stared at the enormous black-and-white
photograph of her rival, clad in shorts and a miniscule camisole top, curled up
in a wicker chair. Sunlight, streaming through a torn lace curtain, dappled her
long, slender
body with shadows and light.
Her long hair gleamed and her
eyes were
directed just above the camera, capturing yet more
light and an
exquisite sense of longing for whoever stood behind it.

Loulou didn’t see it as exquisite.
She found it nauseating.
And you could see her dark nipples through the thin camisole,
she thought with disgust. Why, it was practically
pornographic.

A young man with incredibly muddy training shoes paused
beside her, studied the picture and nudged his friend.

‘
Wouldn’t mind giving
her one,’ he said, grinning, and Loulou
sniffed loudly.

‘I doubt if she’d be interested,’ she said, tilting her
hat and turning away. ‘She’s a raving dyke.’

There was no sign of Mac anywhere,
when she finally dared
to look. Wandering around the well-lit gallery she began to
relax and enjoy herself, although
there were far too many
pictures of Cecilia around for her liking, and the sight of each
one pierced her with jealousy.

He’s only using her to advance his
career, she told herself,
but it was
disheartening all the same. No woman wants her man
to go off with an ugly girl, but Cecilia was right off the other
end
of the scale. Loulou, who had never considered herself unattractive or lacking
in physical attributes – although bigger
boobs
would have been nice – realized that each time she
surveyed a new photograph of Britain’s current
highest paid
model she felt as if she were shrinking. The cuts and
bruises,
legacy of her disastrous liaison
with Simon, had completely
cleared now – at least she had that to be
thankful for – but her
crazy, spiralling blonde
hair couldn’t compete with Cecilia’s
sleek
black mane, her wide grey eyes seemed merely childish next to Cecilia’s
exotically tilted topaz ones, and to add insult
to already considerable
injury she was several inches shorter.

No-one ever called me a jungle animal, she thought
gloomily
as she gazed at a photograph of
Cecilia in a skin-skimming
bodysuit lounging gracefully along a tree
branch and overheard someone say, ‘What a tiger.’

At that moment she heard a commotion behind her, a rising
swell of excitement amongst the knowledgeable crowd who had
attended this exhibition because it was undoubtedly
set to be
one of the most successful of the year.

Without moving, Loulou felt the back
of her neck prickle
and knew that Mac had
arrived. Instantly she wished she hadn’t come. It was a ridiculous disguise . .
. Mac would spot her
immediately . . . please
God don’t let him have Cecilia Drew
with him . . .

Cigar smoke attacked her throat and she
stifled a cough.
Turning
round – because it would look odd if she didn’t – she
saw through the black glasses that Cecilia was indeed with
him,
clinging elegantly to his arm while with
his other Mac shook
hands with a
variety of guests, admirers and journalists.
Everyone was congratulating
him. It was a magnificent show. Now Mac was truly being recognized as one of
Europe’s great photographers.

Silent and
still, Loulou watched from her position at the
back of the crowd,
remembering how different it had once
been. The
years of struggling when Mac had bought films rather
than food, the terrible little bedsitters they had shared with mice and
cockroaches, the furious rows when Mac was too
proud to let her support him, the happy,
happy
times when a
small cash prize in a photographic competition had
meant a night out celebrating, the way Mac had always been able to
make
her laugh . . . the wonderful sex they had shared . . .

Without warning two helpless tears
rolled down her cheeks
and she pushed them fiercely away, taking a deep breath in
order to calm herself.

The man standing in front of her puffed energetically on
his
King Edward cigar and clouds of smoke
billowed past him, catching in Loulou’s lungs once more. She coughed loudly,
tried
to quell the irritation and coughed again, tears streaming
down her face now as she gasped for breath.
People were turning
to look at her, she realized, and doubled over as
another choking fit seized her by the throat. This was terrible .. .

Suddenly the young man with the dirty training shoes was
beside her, slapping her on the back. She tried to knock his arm
away – Christ, a slap on the back was the last
thing she needed
– and staggered forward as he hit her again.

Then her hat flew off and she felt her
hair tumbling down over her shoulders. The famous, silver-gilt, waist-length
hair
which was so
unmistakable.

And so
impossible to miss.

Mac watched the fedora cartwheel along the black, polished
floor and felt his insides contract. For a second the old familiar longing for
Loulou had engulfed him, mingling with other, conflicting emotions whose nature
he didn’t dare pin down. She had hurt him, caused him more pain than any other
woman he
had ever known and he had too much pride to allow himself
to forgive her for that.

But she was
his
Loulou, he realized. She was his
ex-wife and she had as many good points as faults; it just wasn’t always easy
coping with either of them.

‘
Isn’t that your
ex-wife?’ asked Cecilia in a low voice as
Loulou, pink with humiliation,
crammed her hat back on to her head and turned deliberately away from them.

Mac nodded, his jaw tense as he
watched her march off
towards the
opposite end of the gallery, a youngish man with indescribably filthy trainers
and a navy blue T-shirt at her heels.

She was looking bloody good, anyway, he thought. It was
eighteen months now since he had last seen her – at Matt and
Camilla’s wedding reception – and all he knew
about her was
what he had managed to glean from Nico without appearing
too interested.

Glancing down at Cecilia’s exquisitely manicured, vaguely
predatory fingernails upon the sleeve of his
leather jacket, and
at the figure-skimming yellow skirt she was wearing,
he felt a moment’s dissatisfaction.

One of the things he had always
admired about Loulou was
her style.
She had a careless, slapdash elegance and never took longer than two minutes to
put together any outfit. She always
looked
good,
effortlessly
good, and never wasted any time in
doing so,
which Mac appreciated.

Even now, he thought, in that ridiculous oversized white
trenchcoat reaching practically to her ankles, a white vest and leather
trousers, she looked . . . perfect.

Of course, Cecilia looked perfect too,
but only now was he
able
to truly appreciate Loulou’s economy with time, if not
money. Cecilia, to his knowledge, had never spent less
than two hours preparing to greet the outside world, agonizing over which
clothes she should wear and which of a million
accessories
would most enhance them.

He was fond of Cecilia, and despite
her hugely successful career she badly needed looking after, which he liked,
but he
didn’t
love her. When the initial dizzying lust had worn off he
had gradually realized how very little
they actually had in
common. Unwillingly, he had found himself comparing her
with Loulou. Cecilia was probably more
classically beautiful,
but she wasn’t an adventurous person. Everything she said or
did was planned. She hardly ever made him laugh.

The trouble with Loulou, on the other hand, was her over-
adventurous spirit. She had scarcely ever allowed
him to look
after
her.
He never
knew what she would do or say next, and
while sometimes that had amused
him, her wild unpredictability also drove him to distraction.

Life with Loulou had been like flying in a monoplane with
a
circus pilot, up and down, looping crazily
in all directions.
Being with Cecilia,
by contrast, was sailing on an ocean liner,
as straight and calm as a
spirit level.

She was the most unspontaneous person he had ever known,
and he spent a great deal of time persuading
himself that she
was the antidote to
Loulou he so badly needed. No surprises.
No risks. No threat to his masculinity. And absolutely no fun.
But then, Cecilia, he reminded himself for the
thousandth time
as she smiled
professionally for a photographer, would never
arrive home with another man’s baby . . . and expect him to
fucking
well adore it.

Another flashbulb exploded and Mac realized that a woman
wearing hideous mock-sapphire earrings and carrying a notepad was trying to
attract his attention. Pretending not to notice, he
watched Loulou covertly. He could almost feel the waves of
shame and frustration emanating from her as she
studiously
avoided the attentions of the man next to her and rammed her
rolled-up copy of the exhibition catalogue into one of the deep pockets of her
trenchcoat.