Good at Games (19 page)

Oh, oh, this was monstrous! It had all been a scam, Suzy realized, her skin crawling with shame and outrage. Those mesmerizing looks Leo had been giving her had meant…absolutely nothing. All that guff about the magical
thing
between them, and how it killed him to see her with Harry…

He just made it up to trap me!

He wasn't really a fabulous kisser at all; he was nothing but a cheat.

A sneaky, despicable cheat, at that.

It was at moments like these that Suzy understood
exactly
why Harry was so desperate—for once in his life—to outdo his brother. How awful must it have felt to grow up in the shadow of someone with the answer to everything? Someone who never put a foot wrong, who had the Midas touch when it came to money and the James Bond touch when it came to the opposite sex?

Utterly galling, thought Suzy. That was how it must have felt.

Leo Fitzallan was going to despise her whatever she said. But if she told him she was only going along with the so-called wedding plans because Harry had begged her to, he would despise Harry as well.

The words
hanged
,
sheep
, and
lamb
sprang to mind.

Oh God, here goes.

“Look, I'm sorry, I don't know why I did it, but please please
please
don't tell Harry,” Suzy begged. “He'd never forgive me, and I do love him; truly I do! And I swear I'll never do anything like that again!”

It was a mortifying process, but under the circumstances, Suzy felt it was the least she could do. Red-faced with shame, she could scarcely bring herself to look Leo in the eye.

Worse still, her brain was still frantically replaying every second of that stupendous kiss. Her lips still tingled helplessly at the memory of his mouth on hers. They hadn't been able to quite take in the fact that none of it had meant what they'd thought it had meant.

See?
thought Suzy.
I'm not the only gullible one around here. You fell for it too.

Aloud, defiantly, she said, “Are you going to tell Harry?”

Leo hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I'm not. But you don't get any more chances, you have to understand that. From now on, you behave yourself. Because if I find out you've done
anything
to upset my brother—”

“OK, OK.” Suzy gestured in frustration for Leo to give it a rest. She was tempted to ask him how he thought Harry might react if he found out who'd been kissing his fiancée in the first place, but basically, there didn't seem much point. Leo would be bound to have the perfect razor-sharp answer. Arguing with him was like deciding to represent yourself in court because you couldn't afford a lawyer, then discovering at the last minute that you were up against the country's most rapier-tongued prosecutor.

“I mean it.” Leo's dark eyes were boring through her brain.

“And I have to get back to the office.” Since the request for coffee, clearly, had been nothing but a cheap ploy to get himself invited in, Suzy carried the cups through to the kitchen and tipped the contents down the sink. As she returned to the sitting room, a horrid thought struck her. “How long were you planning that?”

“Hmmm? Planning what?”

“That kiss thing.”

You bastard, you know perfectly well what I'm talking about.

“Oh, not long at all. Spur of the moment, really.”

He actually had the nerve to smile.

“Not before you came into the office?”

“Look,” Leo reasoned, “I didn't know you were going to sit on your Heath bar, did I? And I didn't know you wouldn't have your car with you. I'm good,” he added drily, “but I'm not that good. It only became a possibility when you begged me for a lift.”

Next time
, thought Suzy,
remind me to walk. Even if I'm covered in real dog poo. From head to foot. Just walk.

“So what about the house?”

“This house?” Leo sounded surprised. “It looks fine.”

“Sheldrake House,” said Suzy. “Are you still buying it, or was that part of the scam too?”

Leo raised a mocking eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“I think it was all part of the scam.”

“Such pessimism!” This time, he actually laughed. “Oh, come on, Suzy, cheer up. I'm still buying the house. I'm not that much of a bastard, you know.”

Tuh.
“That's a matter of opinion,” said Suzy.

* * *

“So that was Harry's brother.” Donna whistled appreciatively when Leo had dropped Suzy back at the office. “Ooh dear, I was right, wasn't I? Exactly your type.”

“He isn't,” said Suzy with feeling. “He's a ruthless, arrogant, devious shit.”

“And when has that ever put you off?” Donna gave her a knowing smirk. “You should have seen the way he was looking at you.”

That's nothing; you should have seen the way he was kissing me.

But Suzy couldn't bring herself to say it, not even to Donna. The kiss had been Leo's way of testing her and she had failed with flying colors, hurling herself at him with all the abandon of a large, affection-starved puppy.

Heavens, she had all but wrapped her legs around his waist.

Shameful or what?

“Oh, and Harry phoned while you were out,” Donna went on. “He said to clear your schedule on Monday because the people from
Hi!
are coming to take the first round of photos.”

“God,” said Suzy. “I can just see it: Harry Fitzallan welcomes us into his lovely hospital room.”

“He said not to worry about getting your hair done beforehand, because
Hi!
is bringing someone down from London to do it.” Donna consulted the shorthand squiggles in her notebook. “And a makeup artist. And a stylist. And a selection of clothes.”

“But I don't want to look like Ivana Trump,” wailed Suzy.

It all sounded horribly over-the-top. Her mind conjured up a worrying picture of herself wearing a rhinestone-encrusted dress and ultra-bouffant hair. Not to mention ultra-bouffant lips.

“Ivana Trump? You should be so lucky,” Donna retorted. “You'd have to lose a few pounds first.”

Suzy rolled her eyes. Donna was starting to sound nerve rackingly like Celeste.

* * *

The photographer, the hairdresser, the stylist, the makeup artist, and the photographer's assistant weren't the only people to travel down to Bristol on Monday morning.

The man from Tiffany & Co. came too.

“Lucille checked out the rings in your jewelry case to find out the size you'd need,” Harry explained with pride.

“Yes, but it's only on loan, for the photo shoot,” said Suzy, to reassure herself. The rings the man from Tiffany's was producing from his heavy-duty briefcase were pretty heavy-duty themselves. There were some serious rocks winking out at her from among the folds of black velvet.

“Not only for the photo shoot.” Harry shook his head. “For life.”

Alarmed, Suzy said, “You're not serious!”

“Nothing but the best for my future wife.” Harry sounded pleased with himself. “Any one of these. It's your choice. Although I must say, I like the look of the heart-shaped one best.”

Suzy, her mouth dry, glanced fearfully across at the man from Tiffany's. “How much is it?”

“Don't worry about that!” Harry gestured expansively toward the briefcase. “I want you to choose the one you want. Money is no object!”

The stylist from
Hi!
sighed. “Ooh, I wish someone would say that to me.”

Suzy wished Harry wasn't saying it to her. She swallowed and looked at the ring he was sliding onto her finger. She wasn't completely ignorant when it came to good quality jewelry. This ring probably cost twenty thousand pounds. Even assuming that Tiffany & Co. were giving Harry a hefty discount in exchange for the publicity, he was still keen to spend a minimum of ten grand.

On a ring she didn't even want.

The other thing Suzy knew was that it didn't matter how beautiful the ring might be; if you tried to sell the thing back to the shop a week after you'd bought it from them, you'd be lucky to get a tenth of what you'd paid for it.

The heart-shaped diamond was stunning. Harry held her hand up and kissed the tips of her fingers.

“What d'you think?” he said lovingly.

Before Suzy could open her mouth to speak, the photographer and the stylist were nodding in agreement, joining in.

“Perfect, Harry!”

“Yeah, Harry, great.”

“Harry?” The receptionist eased herself into the crowded room, carrying a tray of tea and lurid yellow cookies. “Lemon crunch creams all right, love? Ooh, and the physical therapist came around, but I sent her away, told her you were too busy for all that now.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Actually, Doreen, we're a bit cramped in here. Any chance of an empty room where the girls could make a start on Suzy?”

“Don't worry, love. I've already thought of that!” The receptionist planked the tray down next to the briefcase from Tiffany's, slopping tea over the velvet lining and beaming uncontrollably at Harry. “The sluice room's lovely and quiet—she can get herself all gussied up in there.”

The gussying up, to Suzy's dismay, took over two hours. First the hairdresser snipped off a few split ends, then went through the heated rollers routine before going completely berserk with the styling spray. Suzy's hair ended up absolutely huge, like a gigantic Dairy Queen ice cream, but—sadly—with the texture of four-day-old Yorkshire pudding.

Next, the makeup artist troweled on more makeup than Suzy had ever had on her face before. Which was saying something.

Now she resembled a drag queen with hair the texture of four-day-old Yorkshire pudding.

“You need a manicure,” tut-tutted the stylist.

“My nails are fine.” Suzy held them up in protest.

“They might be fine for you,” the stylist told her pityingly, “but this is for
Hi!
”

* * *

By the time Suzy was ready, the room was even more cramped. The lighting had been set up, silver reflective boards were being arranged at odd angles, and Dr. Hubble, with her sleek dark hair in a new style and her feet in never-seen-before high heels, was busy taking Harry's pulse.

The only thing that cheered Suzy up was the realization that Harry was wearing makeup too.

“Don't say it.” He grinned at her. “I look completely ridiculous.”

“Not so much as me.” Suzy twirled, showing off the hideous, porridge-colored, knee-length linen dress the stylist had insisted on. When Suzy had begged to be allowed to wear her own marigold-orange shirt and short black skirt, the stylist had replied pleasantly, “I think that might look a bit tarty, don't you?”

“Give us a kiss,” said Harry, catching her arm as she twirled.

“No kissing!” barked the stylist as the photographer's assistant homed in on them with his light meter. “You'll ruin the lipstick.”

“Whose?” Suzy asked innocently. “Harry's or mine?”

It was just starting to rain as Jaz climbed into his car. Next door, he saw Lucille emerge from the house steering her bike with one hand and carrying a guitar case in the other.

He watched her, hatless and coatless, gaze up at the sky in dismay.

Jaz tooted his horn and beckoned Lucille over. “Where are you heading?”

“Just some pub. I sing there sometimes on Monday nights.” Lucille looked embarrassed.

“Well, I guessed that much.” Grinning, Jaz glanced at the battered guitar case. “Whereabouts exactly?”

Oh well, no big deal. It was no longer a secret, after all,
Lucille reminded herself. “Bedminster.”

“That's amazing,” lied Jaz. “I'm on my way to an AA meeting in Bedminster now. Come on, leave your bike. I'll give you a lift.”

The Indian summer had screeched to a halt, hot sun having abruptly given way to cold winds and driving rain. Lucille, shivering in a thin denim shirt and jeans, said, “Are you sure your AA meeting's in Bedminster?”

“Wouldn't say it was if it wasn't.” Jaz shrugged and looked amused. “What would be the point of that?”

Lucille was still hesitating. “I'd be stuck for a lift home.”

“What time do you finish?”

“Eleven.”

“No problem. After our meetings we go out for coffee and a chat. I can pick you up at eleven.”

The rain was coming down harder now, dripping from Lucille's eyelashes and darkening her denim shirt.

“Look, it's a pretty rough pub.” She paused, wondering how to phrase it delicately. “Sometimes the customers get a bit…”

“You mean you'd rather I waited outside for you, in the car. Fine,” said Jaz, guessing at once what she was trying to say. “Now please, will you take the bike back into the house and let me give you a lift before you drown?”

The Marshall Arms in the heart of Bedminster wasn't what you'd call classy. Most of the regulars hated her kind of music, Lucille explained, but the landlord—for some reason—was a fan. It was his way, she suspected, of testing his customers' loyalty. Pleasure versus pain. If they wanted to drink in his pub, they had to put up with her songs.

“I used to play in places like that.” Jaz was touched by her concern.

“Maybe,” said Lucille, “but still promise me you won't come in.”

He dropped her off outside the dank, grimy-looking building, then set off across the city to Winterbourne, which was where his AA meeting actually was.

Well, what was a round trip of sixteen miles between friends?

* * *

During the course of the evening, several of Jaz's friends asked him how he felt about his ex-wife's involvement with Harry Fitzallan. In their eyes, he saw avid curiosity mingled with concern as they wondered if this might trigger a relapse.

Jaz realized that if he told them the truth—that in his opinion Harry Fitzallan was an idiot and not good enough for Suzy—they would automatically assume he was jealous.

To his intense irritation, therefore, he was forced to smile and crack jokes and tell everyone what a great guy Harry was, and what a perfect couple he and Suzy made.

“She's moving on,” said Jeff, who could never resist the temptation to stir things up. “Doesn't that make you feel a bit…you know?”

“I couldn't be happier,” Jaz insisted. “What my ex-wives get up to doesn't bother me.”

Reluctant to let go of the idea, Jeff said, “We haven't seen Celeste for a few weeks. Everything OK between you two?”

“Fine.” Jaz stretched and yawned, bored to tears with this interrogation. He glanced at his watch.

“People who think they don't need to come to meetings anymore are playing with fire,” said Jeff with a self-righteous air. It had certainly been his downfall in the past.

“She hasn't stopped. She's joined another group closer to home.”

This was a lie, but Jaz couldn't be bothered to argue. And since there were dozens of AA meetings being held in the city every single night, Jeff would never know he wasn't telling the truth.

Jeff, an avid gleam in his piggy little eyes, said, “Separate groups, eh? What's brought this on? It'll be separate bedrooms next!”

One of the great things about getting roaring drunk, Jaz remembered, was the way you could say whatever was on your mind. If some idiot was being annoying, you just told them to fuck off, simple as that.

And there was no getting away from it—Jeff
was
an annoying idiot.

But Jaz, being sober, couldn't bring himself to say it. Which was a shame and one of the major disadvantages of giving up the drink.

Instead, he said patiently, “Celeste's fine, I'm fine. We're both fine, I promise.”

The meeting was over. Everyone else was putting their raincoats on, getting ready to leave.

“Coming for coffee?” said Jeff, buttoning up his anorak.

“Not tonight.” Jaz checked his watch: nine thirty. “There's someone I have to meet.”

“Hold up!” snickered Jeff. “Not a female someone, I hope!”

Sometimes, Jaz discovered, you really
didn't
need alcohol.

“Screw you, Jeff,” he said pleasantly. “Don't be a jerk all your life.”

* * *

The Marshall Arms was heaving with bodies when Jaz reached it at ten o'clock, but none of them appeared to be listening to Lucille.

Having slipped unnoticed through the door, Jaz moved to the end of the bar farthest from the makeshift stage, ordered a Coke and sat down in a darkened corner where he could hear Lucille without being seen. The last thing he wanted to do was put her off.

Although anyone who could carry on singing while a group of lagered-up Bristol Rovers' supporters were chanting and hammering their empty glasses on the bar had to be pretty strong-willed.

“Oy, you lot, shut up and give the girl a chance,” the landlord bellowed above the noise.

“It's crap!” howled one of the Rovers' supporters with a barbed-wire tattoo circling his fat neck. “Tell her to sing summat we know.”

“Like Cher,” yelled his sidekick. “Or Madonna, phwooarr!”

“And get your tits out while you're at it.” The tattooed one began banging his huge fist on the bar for emphasis. “Yeah, go on! Tits! Tits! Tits!”

Jaz smiled to himself, instantly transported back to the old days of hecklers in filthy backstreet pubs. It was something he missed almost more than the later years of adulation and hero worship. He wondered how Lucille would handle this.

The next moment, he instinctively ducked down as Lucille strode into view—but there was no need to hide; her attention was fixed unswervingly on Barbed Wire.

Swiftly removing the empty glass from his hand, she hauled him away from the bar and led him up onto the stage.

“Tell you what,” said Lucille, into the mike. “Why don't you get
your
tits out?”

And she launched without hesitation into “You Sexy Thing,” the Hot Chocolate number so memorably featured in
The Full Monty
.

Everyone in the pub let out a great roar of approval. Barbed Wire, thrilled to be the center of attention and grinning like an idiot, gyrated his vast stomach and danced clumsily along to the music. When he finished unfastening his beer-stained shirt and threw it into the audience now gathered around the stage, laughter and wolf whistles rang out, and Lucille murmured into the microphone, “Crikey, they're bigger than mine.”

Someone brought a hat around as Lucille was finishing her set. Jaz dropped a ten-pound note in. Barbed Wire, whom he'd observed a couple of minutes earlier throwing in a couple of pound coins, was now leading the singing and clearly yearning to get back on stage. An hour ago he'd been a pain in the neck. Now he was Lucille's greatest fan.

Jaz shook his head in silent admiration. That was the way to deal with hecklers. Lucille definitely had the knack.

* * *

She spotted him as she made her way over to the bar for a drink.

“How long have you been here?”

“Two minutes?” Jaz shrugged, reaching into his jeans pocket for loose change. “Just arrived. Let me get you a drink.”

“Liar.” Lucille broke into a grin. “I saw you being served at the bar an hour ago.”

“God.” Jaz sighed. “I'd make a useless international spy.”

“You would. But you can still buy me a drink. I'll have a Guinness please.”

Jaz ordered a Guinness and another Coke for himself.

Watching him, Lucille said, “Is it hard, coming into a pub and not having a drink?”

“Not hard. Just boring. It helps if there's live music.” He smiled. “You coped well. Won yourself an admirer into the bargain.”

Lucille acknowledged the compliment with a rueful shake of the head. “I coped, but they won. I ended up playing the music they wanted me to play.”

“This kind of venue, it's all you can do,” said Jaz. “Believe me.”

“I know you're right.” Lucille took a gulp of Guinness. “It's just…singing other people's songs is never going to get me anywhere. But nobody wants to listen to anything I've written myself. I feel like one of those people who stand in the middle of Broadmead shouting about Jesus and the love he can bring into our lives… Everyone scuttles away faster than you can say ‘nutcase.'”

“The song you were playing when I came in,” said Jaz. “That was one of yours.”

“Exactly. Nobody was listening to it.”

“I listened to it.”

“And it wasn't very good.” Lucille looked at him. “Was it?”

“You have a fantastic voice. Seriously. Great range, perfect pitch, real depth.”

“But the song was still garbage,” Lucille prompted. “It's OK, you can say it. I promise not to throw myself off the Suspension Bridge.”

“OK,” said Jaz. “It wasn't fantastic, no.”

“The truth.” Lucille's expression was serious. “It was garbage.”

Reluctantly, Jaz admitted, “Well, pretty much.”

God, being truthful was no picnic. Then again, was there anything worse than being a hypocrite and a liar?

“Thanks a lot.”

Appalled, Jaz realized there were tears glistening in Lucille's luminous brown eyes.

He instantly felt terrible. “Oh God, now you're upset—”

“I meant thanks a lot in the grateful sense, not the pissy one.” Lucille broke into a watery smile. “It's like going along to a modeling agency and being told there's no way you can be a model because you're only four feet ten. Don't you see?” Reaching across to reassure him, she touched Jaz's wrist. “If anything it's a relief. Now, at last, I can stop trying.”

This only made Jaz feel a million times worse. Being honest definitely wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He had trampled on Lucille's dreams and that was unforgivable. Opening his mouth to tell her that when he had been starting out he'd been told he was garbage practically on a daily basis, he was beaten to the tape by Barbed Wire.

“Great stuff, love. That was ace! Clever little girl you got 'ere.” Blasting them both sideways with his beery breath, he gave Jaz a congratulatory thump on the shoulder. “Pretty too. You're a lucky bloke.”

“Actually—” began Lucille.

“Let me get you both a drink! Pint, mate?”

“Thanks, but I'm fine.” Jaz nodded at his pint glass, still two-thirds full.

Barbed Wire gazed at it in horror. “What's that? Coke? Bloody hell, mate, 'ave a proper drink. Oy, Don, get us a couple of pints of Stella!”

“Really, no,” said Jaz. “I don't drink.”

Barbed Wire, clearly confused, said, “Eh? Why not?”

“I'm an alcoholic.”

This was way beyond Barbed Wire's comprehension. He shook his shaven head. “Yeah, but you can have just the one, can't you?”

This, of course, was precisely what Jaz couldn't do. Before you could say “relapse,” just-the-one would have turned into just-the-fifty.

“Look,” Jaz said easily, “why don't you let me buy you a drink? We've got to leave in five minutes anyway.” He swiftly ordered and paid for a pint of Stella.

“Cheers, mate.” Relieved to have the situation sorted out, Barbed Wire said, “Bloody good little singer, isn't she?” Giving Lucille a hefty nudge, he went on, “We all thought you was gonna be crap, but you turned out orright in the end. Hey, better give us your autograph, love, case you ever get famous.”

The momentary flicker of grief in Lucille's eyes was almost more than Jaz could bear. He turned away, hating himself, as Lucille shook her head at Barbed Wire and said lightly, “Don't worry, no danger of that ever happening to me.”