Good at Games (5 page)

“Ummm, no. Although, hang on.” Suzy's heart soared for a nanosecond. “The agent from the Halifax is named Barry.” Donna's expression was innocent. “That's nearly the same, isn't it?”

“No, it is not. Barry Bagshaw has acne and BO and eyebrows like a murderer. He's about as gorgeous as a bucket of sick, and he has a
very
tedious one-track mind.”

“Sex?” said Donna.

“Worse. Structural subsidence.”

“Oh. So what makes you so sure this sexy policeman of yours is going to get in touch?”

Suzy looked smug.

“He will. I know he will. He has to—he's my next boyfriend.”

Rory, who had an appointment with a desperate would-be vendor on Julian Road, picked up his briefcase and car keys and said drily, “Poor devil, he just doesn't know it yet.”

* * *

By seven o'clock that evening Harry still hadn't phoned.

“I don't understand it,” she told Fee, hurt. “He knows he likes me. How could he not like me? What's the matter with him? Why doesn't he just call me up and ask me out?”

Fee had never gone back to banking. As a way of acknowledging all the hard work she'd put into the band, Jaz had insisted on continuing to support her financially while she did all the things she most wanted to do. And there were so many things Fee wanted to do, from charity work to part-time education, that she was always busy, making the most of her new life.

Fee was off to one of her beloved evening classes—archaeology, by the look of the books she was stuffing into her burlap haversack.

“Maybe he's working.”

“He could still
phone
.”

“Why don't you phone him?”

“Too forward. I wouldn't want him to think I was pushy.” Suzy frowned. “Besides, he didn't give me his number.”

“Slipping,” Fee observed, throwing her haversack over her shoulder. “So what are your plans for this evening?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Suzy thought for a moment, then brightened. “Maybe I'll give my new sister a call.”

“Hi, Lucille? It's me, Suzy! I wondered if you'd like to meet up tonight, maybe go out for something to eat, get to know each…?”

Leaning forward with the phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder, Suzy was carefully repainting her toenails a dazzling shade of violet. She paused and listened to Lucille's reply.

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, that's a shame but never mind. Another time. How about tomorrow? Oh, right, you're busy then as well, are you? Maybe over the weekend, then. Ummm…you wouldn't happen to know offhand what Harry's phone number is, I suppose? Only he wrote it down for me the other week, but I lost it.”

At the other end of the phone, Suzy detected barely concealed amusement.

“No, you didn't lose it,” said Lucille, “because he never gave it to you in the first place.” She hesitated for a second, clearly struggling with her loyalties. “Look, don't tell him I told you this, but Harry bet me a fiver you'd ask me for his phone number.”

“You're kidding! The nerve of the man,” Suzy exclaimed.

“Yes, well, that's kind of the way he is with girls. He's just so used to them hurling themselves at his feet…oh, you know how some men can get.”

Interestinger and interestinger.

“You mean he's a good-looking bastard who treats women like dirt.” Suzy's stomach did a quick, pleasurable squirm. Good-looking bastards had always been her big weakness, they were such a challenge.

Like Jaz, of course.

Well, who'd want a wimp?

“Harry can be a bit…arrogant, I suppose.” Lucille sounded apologetic. “I mean, he is lovely, but—”

“Ah, just give me the number.” Suzy smiled, touched by her concern. “And don't worry, I can look after myself.”

* * *

You couldn't blame the girls for hurling themselves at him, Suzy thought, opening the front door an hour later.

There was no getting away from it. He was gorgeous.

“I'm sorry,” she told Harry, “but I have to ask you this. Your eyes. Are they real?”

“They look it, don't they? But they actually aren't.” He opened them wide and rolled them from side to side. “They're made out of papier-mâché, PVA glue, and the tops from dishwashing liquid bottles. I saw it done on the Disney Channel.”

Suzy studied his eyes closely. He wasn't wearing colored contacts. Phew, thank goodness for that. She couldn't be with a man who'd stoop to colored contacts.

And—double hooray—he was looking a lot more cheerful now than he had last night.

“I hope Lucille didn't think I was only calling her for your number,” Suzy told him. “Do you think she thought that? I really did want to see her, you know. She said she was busy tonight
and
tomorrow night… D'you know if that's true?”

Suzy had her doubts about this. To be honest, Lucille had sounded evasive.

But Harry nodded. “Oh yes, she's working.”

“Well, that's a relief. And a coincidence,” Suzy exclaimed, “because I wanted to ask you what Lucille does. Hang on, working in the evenings, let me guess…she's a nurse?”

“Right, OK, bit of an awkward situation,” said Harry after a pause. He pushed his fingers through his dark, curly hair. “The thing is, Lucille didn't want to tell you what she does.”

“But that's just mad! I'm a real estate agent, for heaven's sake.” Suzy looked amazed. “There aren't many jobs more embarrassing than that.”

Wooop-wooop
, shrilled Harry's car as he aimed his key at it.

“What Lucille does isn't embarrassing. She's just terrified of you thinking she's only latching on to you for one reason.” Taking Suzy's hand, Harry led her across the road. “Look, she's not going to be thrilled with me, but why don't we pay her a visit? Doesn't it drive you crazy,” he went on, “not being able to park in front of your own house because jerks like this leave their
idiotic
cars blocking
your
drive?” As he spoke, he gestured with contempt toward the bright red Rolls carelessly parked across the entrance to the driveway. “I mean, talk about sad. What kind of poser would want to drive around in a car like that anyway?”

The Silver Shadow had been a present from Jaz on her nineteenth birthday—even though for the life of him he couldn't remember buying it.

Suzy, who loved her car like a baby, said, “I know, pathetic isn't it! Actually, it's mine.”

“Oh well, occupational hazard,” said Harry, his blue eyes twinkling as he gestured down at his shoes. “When your feet are this big, every now and again, they're bound to end up in your mouth.”

Big feet, eh? Suzy looked innocent. She'd heard all about men with big feet.

* * *

The Pineapple Bar, on the waterfront, wasn't one of Suzy's regular haunts. A drastically renovated old building of many levels, overlooking the Baltic Wharf, its ground-floor bar heaved with teenagers and reverberated to the sound of club music. Nightmare, thought Suzy, feeling incredibly ancient—at twenty-four—as she followed Harry up the staircase.

“Does Lucille work behind the bar? I don't understand why she didn't want me to know that. Nothing wrong with bar jobs.”

“Stop talking,” said Harry over his shoulder. “And keep up.”

The second floor was even busier, the smoky air filled with the shrieks of fifty or so overexcited girls out on a hen night mobbing a male stripper. A rhinestone-studded G-string went sailing through the air, to a roar of encouragement.

“Don't look,” Harry said bossily.

“I really hope Lucille isn't a male stripper in her spare time. How many more stairs?” complained Suzy as he led her toward the next flight.

“Sorry. This place used to be a warehouse.”

She was starting to pant like a Saint Bernard.

“Is Lucille really up there, or is this a cruel joke?”

“Oh, she's there. I can hear her.”

All Suzy could hear were the deafening screeches below them of the girls having a bachelorette party, yelling, “Get 'em
off off off
!” at the stripper. And he'd done that already, surely?

How many rhinestone G-strings could one man wear?

Onward and upward they went.
Heavens
, thought Suzy giddily.
I could do with crampons and oxygen. Not to mention a couple of Sherpas.

“There she is,” said Harry at last, pointing to a lone figure at the far end of the room. And he was right. There was Lucille, perched on a stool with a guitar, playing and singing some Sheryl Crow–type song.

She wasn't exactly causing a stir. Nobody else on the fourth floor of the Pineapple Bar was taking any notice. When Lucille reached the end of the song, Suzy and Harry were the only ones who clapped.

“It's my break now,” said Lucille, putting aside her guitar and eyeing Suzy defensively. “I suppose this was Harry's idea.”

She was wearing torn black jeans and a tiny scarlet cotton camisole. Her beaded hair—appropriately enough, given their location—was fastened up on top of her head pineapple fashion. Harry, returning from the bar with their drinks, said, “It's Malibu night. I got you both a Malibu and Coke.”

“Why? Because they were two for the price of one?” Suzy looked indignant. “I hope this doesn't mean you're a penny-pinching cheapskate.”

“It means this bar only sells Malibu,” Harry told her patiently. “If you want anything else you have to go downstairs.”

Oh. That was all right then. Suzy forgave him. Even though she couldn't stand Malibu.

“And yes,” Harry went on, addressing Lucille, “it was my idea to bring her here.”

“I don't know why you wanted to keep it such a secret,” Suzy exclaimed. Although she did, of course.

Well, it was pretty obvious.

“Look, it must be bad enough as it is, having me crawl out of the woodwork,” Lucille said frankly. “Going, ‘Hi, guess what, I'm your sister!' and claiming my share of your inheritance.” She gazed steadily at Suzy. “So it's hardly going to improve matters, is it, if the next thing I do is whip out my guitar and say, ‘Oh, and by the way, I'm a singer—hey, didn't you used to be married to Jaz Dreyfuss? Maybe you could introduce me to your ex!'”

“You wouldn't do that,” said Suzy, taken aback.

Oh God, would she?

Lucille looked faintly exasperated.

“
I
know I wouldn't. But you don't know me at all, do you? You might think I'm building up to it, angling for an introduction…you know how it is, some people will do anything for the chance of that big break. Well, anyway,” she went on, “I just want you to know that I'm not that kind of person. In fact, I'd rather you didn't tell Jaz what I do. Less awkward all around.”

Suzy shrugged. “OK, if that's what you want.”

It made a change, certainly. In her experience, getting to meet Jaz was most struggling musicians' mission in life. Amazingly—in Suzy's view—they didn't regard him as a has-been, a washed-up old alcoholic. To them, Jaz was still the genius who had written one of the bestselling rock albums of all time. It was quite touching really. Even now, a day seldom passed without at least a couple of demo tapes from eager wannabes either arriving in the mail or being pushed hopefully through his door.

Total waste of time, of course, because Jaz never listened to them. His life these days was a music-free zone.

“She doesn't push herself,” Harry announced, “that's her trouble. She's a bloody good singer.”

“So bloody good that I get ignored in pubs all over the city.” Lucille's tone was dry. The next moment a balding manager-type appeared at their table, bossily tapping his watch.

“We don't pay you to sit around gossiping.”

Breaks around here evidently weren't allowed to last longer than three minutes.
What a dump
, thought Suzy.

Lucille drained her glass and stood up. When she saw Suzy removing her jacket and settling back to watch, she said, “Oh God, you don't have to be polite.”

“I'm never polite,” Suzy said happily. “I wouldn't stay if I didn't want to, I can promise you that. I just can't imagine where you get it from, this being all musical—none of our family can sing for toffee. Well,
I
think I can, but everyone else assures me I can't. Jaz says I sound like Edna Everage being garroted with her own tights.”

Lucille reached down for her guitar. “My dad was a singer.”

“Oh, wow!” Suzy was impressed. “You mean he was famous?”

Lucille smiled.

“No, it wasn't his job. He just sang for fun. Actually, he drove a taxi for a living.”

A taxi driver. Gosh. Try as she might, Suzy couldn't imagine the double life her mother had led over the years, flitting between the wealthy, serious-minded scientist and the—less wealthy, presumably—singing taxi driver.

* * *

It took Suzy less than fifteen minutes to clear the entire fourth floor of the Pineapple. Each time Lucille reached the end of a song, Suzy clapped and cheered with noisy enthusiasm and stared so meaningfully at the rest of the customers, daring them not to join in the applause, that in no time at all they were nudging each other, knocking back their drinks, and sloping off downstairs.

By ten o'clock Lucille's audience had shrunk to Harry, Suzy, and two mildly bemused bartenders.

“Isn't she brilliant?” Suzy stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly with appreciation as Lucille finished with a dreary-sounding song by PJ Harvey. Not catchy enough for Suzy's taste, but now clearly wasn't the time to be critical. “She's my sister, you know! Fancy me having a sister who can sing like that!”

“Fancy
her
having a sister who can turn off an audience like that,” observed the taller of the two bartenders. “Especially before she's even had a chance to take the hat around.”

“Is that what happens?” Appalled, Suzy clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh God, oh God, I didn't think! Quick, where's the hat? Let me put something in… How much does she usually get?”

“Don't worry.” Lucille materialized at her side as she searched frantically for her purse. “They're teasing you. I get paid.”

Suzy looked unconvinced. “Much?”

“Not much. Actually, a pittance. But I get by. And next week I start at the Bar HoopLa on Whiteladies Road.”

“You get by,” Suzy echoed doubtfully. Honestly, there were still so many questions she wanted to ask. She was tempted to draw up a ten-page questionnaire, a bit like a tax return, listing every single thing she was bursting to know. “Do you do anything else, apart from the singing?”

“I do some dog walking,” said Lucille. “It's good. Flexible.”

“She walks my brother's dog,” Harry added. The phone in his jacket pocket began to ring. “Damn, I hope that isn't work.”

“Dog walking,” said Suzy, shaking her head. “Do you know, that's something I've never understood. How can people own dogs and call themselves dog lovers when they can't even be bothered to take their animals for a walk? I mean, how hypocritical can you get?” She ranted on, beginning to get carried away. “What's wrong with these people? If they loved their dogs they'd
want
to walk them, wouldn't they? But oh no, that would be too much like hard work! Why bother to take your dog for a walk when you can sit on your fat backside and pay someone else to do the dirty work for you? Talk about
bone idle
…”

“Right. Right,” said Harry, nodding into his phone. He held it out to Suzy. “For you.”

Suzy looked at it. “How can your phone be for me?”

He wasn't smiling. “Trust me, it is.”

Warily, she took the phone from him. “Hello?”

“Name?” demanded a peremptory male voice.