Just Say Yes (8 page)

“She won’t change her mind, will you, Lucy?”

“Nick. Let’s talk about this but, please, not in front of strangers.”

“Over here,” he said roughly, grabbing her arm and yanking her toward some curtains. It was hardly private but the curtains hid them from most of the technicians’ prying eyes.

“What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “I get a once-in-a-lifetime deal, I propose to you in front of millions, and you blow me off! What more do you want?”

Not more, but less, she wanted to tell him, but it was hopeless. He’d never understand that all she wanted was normality. She didn’t understand it herself. Maybe she was a selfish cow. Or maybe it just wasn’t
right
. At no time had he ever got within a million miles of mentioning marriage, or, come to think of it, commitment. And she hadn’t expected it. What had just happened was so totally out of the blue.

“For God’s sake, all you had to do was say yes!” he hissed.

Anger rose within her. “Don’t speak to me like that. It’s not that simple, Nick. You’ve just put me in an impossible position! How did you expect me to react?”

Heads craned to look at them.

“Keep your voice down,” snarled Nick.

“I’m not ready for this,” said Lucy, trying to keep her voice calm, yet shaking inside. “Not to be put on the spot in front of the whole world.”

“Just the UK, don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t deserve that.”

“And I don’t deserve to be humiliated on national TV, Lucy. I thought you loved me.”

Her heart almost stopped. He’d never said that word. He’d never come close. She didn’t know how to reply. Did it make a difference, the
L
word? It was supposed to make all the difference, wasn’t it?

“Nick, I don’t feel that I
know
you. Not really, not nearly enough.”

He curled his lip in contempt. “Our lack of acquaintance has never stopped you before, has it? I don’t recall you saying that when you’re moaning in ecstasy and begging me for more. You couldn’t wait to get your knickers off, could you? And now, when I’m offering you a chance that, let’s face it, Lucy, you’ll never get again, you say you don’t know me well enough.”

Lucy’s heart was pounding. A cocktail of indignation and hurt was pulsing through her veins. She was sorry for the hurt she’d caused Nick but his fury at her refusal was beyond fair. “We can’t talk about something this important here. It’s not the right place or time to make a decision that’s going to last a lifetime. Not in front of millions of strangers. Getting married isn’t part of the
Hot
Shots
game plan, Nick, no matter how much you think you need to give the people a perfect ending.”

As soon as the words left her lips, she knew she’d made the situation even worse. Nick almost spat out his reply. “A game? Is that what you think this is? Maybe you’re afraid of commitment, Lucy? Scared you can’t cope? Maybe it’s you that’s the player.”

“I didn’t mean that you were a player!”

“Really? That’s what it sounded like to me.”

He was right. It did sound like that and worse, she realized; what if she did think that he was playing a game? Using this occasion to maximize his moment?

“This is going nowhere. I’m leaving now.”

Nick’s face was dark with fury as Lucy felt her adrenaline ebbing away. Then an orange hand ripped the curtain aside.

“Here are the lovebirds!” shrieked Gerry. “Have you made up, then, or were you having a bit of a quickie behind the curtains?”

Nick’s face suddenly crumpled and Lucy saw mascara running down his cheeks. Oh my God, she had made a grown man cry. What kind of an evil witch did that make her? Did he
really
want to marry her?

“Oh dear. Looks like the lady’s not for turning,” said Gerry as a sob wracked Nick’s body.

“Oh, just piss off, you ghoul!” cried Lucy, forgetting that Gerry had his microphone in his hand. She was sure she could still hear the boos of the audience as she raced out of the studio, through the foyer, and into the nearest taxi.

And that was why, a week later, Lucy was still unable to go anywhere or do anything without a pack of newshounds chasing her. She was public enemy number one: the Wicked Stepmother crossed with Cruella de Vil. One tabloid dug up an old flame from college who claimed Lucy had broken his heart and caused him to seek refuge in junk food, which was why he now weighed 350 pounds. A weekly magazine ran a poll asking if Nick was better off without her and ninety-three percent of the readers had said yes.

One story (in a tabloid) had a picture of her with a caption saying: “A haggard-looking Lucy Gibson, 28, emerges from her London pied-à-terre with a mystery man just days after rejecting her devastated boyfriend live on TV.”

In fact, she’d been emerging from her flat with Charlie en route for the Thai takeout at the corner of the street. Unfortunately, notoriety had gone to his head and he’d suddenly morphed into Pete Doherty and aimed a finger in the direction of the cameras. And, actually, she was only twenty-seven-and-a-half but, admittedly, the past few weeks might have made her look older.

It was bad enough that the press had intruded into her home life but they’d also turned up at Able & Lawson, the world’s stuffiest law firm. They hadn’t dared get inside, although she’d been bombarded with emails and the receptionist had had to screen every call so she’d hardly got any work done all week. Letitia, back at work after the birth of baby Crispin, had been sympathetic and even ambled down to the shop to fetch Lucy a ginseng tea. However, Lucy knew she couldn’t go on like this; sooner or later she was bound to be summoned to the upper echelons to explain herself.

Toward the end of the week, things seemed to have been dying down a little and she’d breathed a sigh of relief—until that story of Nick and the rehab center which had brought the paparazzi buzzing round her door like a pack of flies.

Worst of all, there was the guilt, the worry, not about herself, but about Nick. His words, spat out in anger and hurt, had lodged deep in her heart.

“A game? Is that what you think this is? Maybe you’re afraid of commitment, Lucy? Scared you can’t cope? Maybe it’s you that’s the player.”

Maybe he was right. She’d only had two serious boyfriends since university. One had lasted three years and was now saving turtles in Mexico; the other had emigrated to Australia. The 350-pound ex didn’t count.

She’d tried to contact Nick every day since she’d run away from the studio but he’d ignored every call. The answering machine at his flat was permanently on and she gave up leaving messages after day five. The previous night, after she’d fallen over on her doorstep and crawled inside, fighting back the tears, she’d found the courage to phone Nick’s parents, hoping he was there. She’d only got Hattie who, as Lucy might have expected, was furious.

“How could you do that to him?” she shrieked.

Lucy tried to stay calm. As Nick’s sister, Hattie was bound to be upset but Lucy refused to shoulder the blame for something she hadn’t caused. She took a deep breath.

“Hattie, I’m sure you must know that whatever happened is between me and Nick. Is he there? Can I speak to him?”

“Yes, he’s here, and no, I’m afraid he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Can you ask him? Please, Harriet?”

“He’s already told us he won’t speak to you,” squeaked Harriet.

“Well, can you at least let me know if he’s OK? This story about the rehab center… is it true?”

“No, it’s not—but that’s no thanks to you. He’s in pieces because of what you’ve done.” Harriet slammed down the phone, leaving Lucy feeling angry and hurt. “I won’t be made to feel guilty!” she cried aloud to the empty room, but inside, a tiny voice was niggling at her that she was angry with Nick precisely because she
did
feel guilty.

***

Later that night Fiona turned up. Lucy had already indulged in generous helpings of Baileys and then she and Fiona hit a bottle of gin while Hengist hit a king-size bag of dog biscuits. Lucy had rolled into bed around two in the morning. Fiona was in the spare room where Lucy had managed to wedge a foldaway bed between the computer and the end of the wall. There was just about room for Fiona, but as for Hengist, he’d just have to sleep on Fiona’s feet. And her legs—and probably her stomach.

In the morning, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, Lucy headed for the kitchen. Hengist’s chain was rattling against the china dish he was using as a dog bowl as she walked in. His tail thudded against the bin, slobber spraying from his mouth onto the fridge door. Hengist was a kitchen-sized dog, thought Lucy. Or more likely, she had a dog-sized kitchen. Fiona was sitting at the tiny café table at one end of the galley kitchen. Crunching on a piece of toast, she scanned a newspaper, frowning.

“And how are you today, Britain’s Most Wanted?” asked Fiona as Lucy slunk over to the sink. The French press was still half full, still hot to the touch. Grabbing a mug from the drainer, Lucy filled it to the top with coffee. “OK-ish. No, fine, considering. How did you and Hengist sleep?”

Fiona wrinkled her nose. “OK, but I should have brought his charcoal tablets. Tikka masala has never agreed with him.”

“Good job we didn’t order the vindaloo, then,” said Lucy, sipping her coffee. It was strong enough to wake a mummy from the tomb. Emptying the last few drops of milk, she threw the carton in the bin. Inside, she could see the
Mirror
and the
Daily
Mail
, crumpled up on top of an empty bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a couple of cans of slimline tonic, and a takeout tray.

She knew then that she’d made the papers again. She’d nurtured a tiny flame of hope, for a brief moment, that Johnny Depp was running for president or Victoria Beckham had gone Goth. At least that would have kept her off the front pages.

“Hope we didn’t disturb your beauty sleep, but Hengist was a bit restless in the night,” said Fiona through a mouthful of toast. “I had to take him out for his constitutional, first thing.”

“You mean you actually went
outside
?” said Lucy.

“Yeah. Why not?”

“I just thought they might have been waiting.”

“Not for me,” said Fiona. “It’s you they want, and if they had dared to come near me, I’d have had no hesitation in letting Hengist have ’em.”

“And he’d have licked them to death?”

“One word from me and he turns into the Hound of the Baskervilles.” On cue, Hengist flopped down on his rug, laid his head on his oversized paws, and let out a sigh like a small earth tremor.

“Truly terrifying,” said Lucy, pulling out a chair opposite Fiona. Lucy knew it couldn’t be put off any longer.

“Sorry,” said Fiona when her mouth was empty. Pushing the newspaper toward Lucy, she smiled ruefully. “It’s not that bad, really, you know. I mean, it’s only an inside spread.”

“What do you mean, Fi?” said Lucy, turning the newspaper the right way up with trembling fingers.

“Well, it’s only your bum. Not the…”

Lucy felt slightly sick.

“I mean, you’re not on the front this time and they haven’t shown your face,” said Fiona cheerily.

Slowly, Lucy turned back the pages of the newspaper. Relief at the story about David Beckham on page two and the editorial about educational standards slipping on page three was followed by shock on page four and horror on five. Fi was right. They hadn’t shown her face.

She read the headline again, which wasn’t difficult because it was a screamer, with letters two inches high:

NICK-ERLESS!

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

“I’ll get the Rescue Remedy,” said Fiona.

“No. No, it’s OK. Actually, it’s not OK, but I’ll be OK.”

Fiona patted her hand. “It could have been worse. You might have been wearing granny panties.”

“Fiona, it couldn’t be worse. I wish I had worn granny panties. I could have. I only had two clean pairs left and I chose… that thing.”

“Frost French Floozies, are they?” said Fiona. “Looks like the current range.”

“Elle Macpherson, if you must know, Fi. I bought them for—”

“Nick?”

Lucy nodded then risked another peek at the newspaper. Looking at the picture of her bottom spread across the crease of the page was like watching one of those cosmetic surgery shows on TV. You didn’t want to open your eyes as the surgeon was stretching some poor woman’s skin over her eyeball, but somehow, you just had to know the full horror. Lucy squinted at the photograph again and her stomach lurched.

Yes, it was just as horrific as the first time.

“Hmm, you know something,” said Fiona, “it may say ‘nickerless’ but that’s not strictly
accurate
, is it? Maybe you could sue, because you did have knickers on, just not very big ones.” She wrinkled her nose. “Then again, I suppose that doesn’t matter to them. I suppose the pun was just too good to resist. I must admit, if I’d been the copy editor, I’d have found it hard to resist myself.”