Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (2 page)

What with the yellow skin, deep seated sense of guilt, and impending book launch, today promises to be something of a nightmare.

But first, there's Jamie's mother to deal with.

Since our upturn in fortune, Jane Newman has changed somewhat. A self-absorbed woman who values material possessions, you can only imagine what her reaction was to learning that her son and daughter-in-law had become more well off than she.

Every time we see her now, there is a barely suppressed twitch in one corner of her eye, and her lips pinch together as if
she’s having
to swallow something extremely sour. Which, I suppose, from her point of view, is exactly what she's doing.

My relationship with Jane has always been fairly fractious over the years - not least because I once caught her shagging a fitness instructor. That fractious quality has certainly not diminished with my newly fledged publishing career.

It has
changed
though. She can no longer look down her nose at me, much to her dismay. When I was a struggling chocolate shop owner, I'm sure it was very easy for Jane to convince herself I was beneath her. She can't think that anymore, thankfully. Instead, she has embarked on a campaign of pointing out each and every physical flaw I have, in order to bring me down a peg or two. In Jane's mind, I've gone from a poor, working class scumbag who isn't good enough for her son - to a rich over-achieving megalomaniac, who inexplicably is
still not good enough for her son.
 

I don't know whether it's a change I'm particularly happy with, but at least it's something different.

'Oh, you look tired Laura,' is the first thing out of her mouth as she opens the front door.

I heave a familiar sigh. Thanks to the strategically applied foundation, at least she doesn't know that I am in fact a tired looking banana.

'Afternoon Jane,' I say wearily, and look down at Poppy, expecting her to follow suit.

This doesn't happen. Poppy is instead glaring at her feet in no uncertain terms.

I heave another sigh. Pops is not happy about being left behind while I swan up to London to join Jamie at the party, and intends to show the world her displeasure with this silent demonstration. 'Say hello to Grandma, Poppy,' I tell her, noticing with some satisfaction the look on Jane's face as I do so. This is not a woman who enjoys the concept of being called 'Grandma'. Not in the slightest.

'I said, say hello to your
Grandma
, Poppy,' I repeat, emphasising the word just enough to start the twitch going in Jane's eye.

''
ello
, '
randma
,' Poppy eventually mumbles.

'Hello Poppy!' Jane replies with mock enthusiasm. 'We're going to have a lovely time!' She bends down and takes Poppy's hand. 'We're going to order a pizza, and watch all your favourite Disney cartoons!'

Poppy perks up a bit at this. 'Okay Grandma!' The opportunity to guzzle down a slice of Texas BBQ and watch
Frozen
for the eightieth time has apparently stirred her from her malaise. Jane and I might not get on, but I can't fault her dedication to my daughter. This earns her a pass every time as far as I'm concerned, no matter how much she comments on my stubborn chin spot, which keeps cropping up every few months.

Jamie's mother looks over my shoulder to the car waiting in the driveway. She spots the driver, a twenty something lad called Kyle, who is currently playing on his iPhone and is therefore oblivious to the world around him.

'Do you have time to come in?' Jane asks.

'No,' I say, shaking my head. 'I have to get going if we're going to beat the London traffic and get to the hotel in good time.' We were originally leaving an hour later, but I moved the departure time up when I realised I'd have to spend a good half an hour in the hotel just reapplying the ruddy foundation.

Jane sniffs. 'Nice hotel, is it?'

'Yes,' I reply, not offering any further information.

'And why isn't Jamie with you?'

'He had to go up yesterday for a meeting with our agent, Jane. We told you that.' About four times, as I recall. Jane is well aware of why my husband isn't with me today, but if she admitted it, she wouldn't be able to say the following:

'Ah, I see. It's such a shame he couldn't be with you. I almost feel like he's being kept away from me, because of all this book stuff.'

She says
book stuff
but she means
me
, of course. As far as Jane is concerned I am directly responsible for everything that denies her the chance to fuss over her successful child.

I try my hardest to smile without cracking my make-up. 'Well, the book business keeps us busy,' I say.

'Yes. It does seem to.'

Jane pauses, and squints at my face. Here it comes.

'I see you're still having trouble with that spot. Did you try the cleanser I recommended?'

Sometimes, I wish I'd never met Jamie Newman.

'I did Jane yes. It has helped.' With the spot that is, not with the removal of fake tan, unfortunately.

'Well, keep going with it. I'm sure it'll clear up soon.'

'Thank you.' I'm trying very hard not to grit my teeth. I am resolutely failing.

'Bye bye, Mum!' Poppy says from below. I can't be sure if she's deliberately trying to break the tense atmosphere, but I wouldn't put it past her.

I bend down and administer a kiss to her forehead. I really do hate to leave her behind like this, but these idiotic book launches leave no room for a hyperactive seven-year-old girl. 'Be good for Grandma,' I tell her. 'Dad and I will be back tomorrow afternoon.'

Her eyes widen. 'Can we go for KFC!?'

'That stuff isn't good for you, Pops.'

Her little face crinkles up. 'But I love it.'

I hesitate, then smile and nod. 'Yes, of course we can honey.'

This is another prime example of parental guilt leading to an over-indulged child, but I just don't have the time right now to argue with her - damn me and my stupid highfalutin' job.

I kiss Poppy again and stand up. 'Thank you for taking care of her, Jane.'

'My pleasure, Laura.
It's the least I can do as a good and caring Grandmother.'

There's a veiled insult there, I just know it, but my watch says three o'clock, and I have to get going. I issue another goodbye to them both and walk back to the car. Kyle sees me coming, stops playing Angry Birds, and fires up the Audi's engine.

As the car pulls away, I wave at my little daughter, who waves back at me from the doorway. Right now I would cheerfully trade a night dressed in an evening gown for an evening in
pyjamas
with my little girl in front of the TV. Even if it did mean that Jane was also there, pointing out how many blackheads I've got.

I didn't tell Jane the name of the hotel we would be staying at this evening. It might have sent her into apoplexy.

The Dorchester is the type of hotel I would never stay at if I had the choice, because I am not insane. This is not necessarily an opinion I hold due to how expensive it is, but simply because its levels of
poshness
are so beyond my sphere of experience that I can't possibly have a nice time staying in it, for the constant fear of looking completely out of place.

'Nice hotel you're staying at, Mrs Newman,' Kyle the driver remarks as we pull up to the expansive front entrance.

'Yes!' I say, rather too quickly. 'It was the publisher’s idea, not mine!' I add just as fast, making sure to let Kyle know that I am not a complete arsehole.

The car door is opened by a middle-aged man, dressed like an extra from My Fair Lady. He offers me a million pound smile from under his large peaked green cap, as he beckons me out of the vehicle. 'Good afternoon, madam,' he says, trying his best to get into my good books, but failing miserably for the use of the word 'madam'.

'Afternoon,' I reply and get out of the car in as demure a fashion as I am able to. Being demure is not entirely possible in a pair of faded jeans, hooded duffle coat and high heels, but I give it my best shot anyway.

Kyle has got my suitcase out of the boot, and he places it next to my feet with a flourish. I go to take the handle at exactly the same time as the My Fair Lady reject. We're both so swift and determined to be the one to get purchase on the suitcase that his hand inadvertently covers mine, and for one fleeting and excruciatingly awkward moment, I'm holding hands with a tall grey haired doorman in a jacket with more buttons down the front than is strictly necessary. 'Sorry!' I tell him, and whisk my hand away. I just can't get used to this level of personal service. The last time someone took my suitcase on the way into a building I was about to give birth.

'Not at all, madam,' Peaky says with that same ingratiating smile.

'Goodbye Mrs Newman,' Kyle says. 'Have a good time at the party.'

'Thanks Kyle!' I blurt, grateful for the distraction from the embarrassment of unintentional handholding. 'Bye!'

Kyle gives me a smile and makes his way back to the driver's seat. Peaky takes a firmer grip on my suitcase and holds out a hand towards the hotel lobby.

I try my best to return the million pound smile, acutely aware that mine is probably more like three items for a quid in
Poundland
, and make my way towards the entrance.

The Dorchester's lobby couldn't be more opulent if you fired the Queen into it with a bazooka, and I spend a few minutes idly gazing round at the marble columns and chandeliers, as the concierge sorts out my reservation on his computer. Peaky has thankfully been replaced with a much less terrifying young Indian man called Muresh. His grey porter's outfit is far easier to deal with than
Peaky's
enormous green buttoned down jacket and rigidly pressed trousers. I don't need
Muresh's
help of course, I can yank the suitcase along quite happily myself; but this is a swanky London hotel, and by Christ, in swanky London hotels you
will
obey the rules - and allow another human being to carry your suitcase, no matter how perfectly healthy and able you are to do it yourself.

'You're in room 216, Mrs Newman. Your husband's been enjoying the room since yesterday. He went out a bit earlier, but told me to tell you that he'd be back around the time you checked in,' the whip thin concierge says, handing me the electronic room key. 'Muresh will show you the way.'

'Thanks very much,' I tell him. The concept of Jamie 'enjoying' a hotel room conjures up all sorts of disturbing imagery, but I push it to the back of my mind as I feel my suitcase whisked away from my side.

Muresh, a man so practiced at this stuff he can probably do it unconscious, is already beetling off down a long corridor so ostentatious you'd have to reload the bazooka and shoot the rest of the royal family down it.

I take off in hot pursuit.

Muresh calls the lift, and in no time at all, I'm being whisked upwards. The little Indian man has obviously gone to the same institute of smiling technology as Peaky, as he also gives me a million pound grin while classical music wafts out of the hidden elevator speakers.

I try to smile back, but it dawns on me that I don't know if I have any cash in my purse, and the smile dies on my lips.

This is a
disaster
.

Poor old Muresh will quite rightly be expecting a tip for his services, and I don't know if I have any bloody money on me with which to supply him with one. I can't exactly start rummaging round in my handbag right now; it would look tacky as hell. I'll just have to wait until we reach the room and hope I've got an adequate amount to satisfy him.