Rumor Has It (17 page)

    Except he didn't seem to be. When she drew up outside the gates, his car was parked on the drive and there were plenty of lights on. The alternative scenario, of course, was that he had company.

    Tilly hesitated then switched off the ignition and climbed out of the car. All she was doing was knocking on the door and asking for her pashmina back. How long would she be there on the doorstep? Thirty seconds, tops. Whoever was inside the house with Jack would assume he was dispatching an unwanted Jehovah's Witness.

    'Hey, you. Quick, come in.' Jack opened the door wider, stood to one side. He was wearing a blue sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up and a pair of drastically faded jeans.

    Tilly hesitated. 'I just came to collect—'

    'I know, I know, but my sauce will stick if I don't get back to it. Bit of a crucial moment.'

    Tilly followed him through to the kitchen. There was no earthly reason to be impressed just because a man was cooking an actual proper meal rather than poking holes in cellophane, but somehow she couldn't help herself.

    And it did smell fantastic. Even if he was probably only doing it in order to show off to some woman.

    Who might even
be
here.

    'Do you have company?'

    'Hmm?' Jack was busy adjusting the flame on the gas ring and stirring the contents of the Le Creuset pan. 'Oh, no, all on my own. Hang on, let me just add something…'

    A teaspoon of confectioner's sugar, a glug of port, and a splash of lemon juice later, he tasted and gave a nod of satisfaction.

    'I didn't know you were into all this.' Tilly mentally compared him with Jean-Christophe Novelli; God, imagine if he were to adopt a sexy French accent, think of the chaos
that
could cause.

    'I can't cook many things,' Jack admitted, 'but I do a pretty good Bolognese sauce. It's my signature dish.' He paused. 'Actually, it's more or less my only dish.'

    'That just means you've had lots of practice at it.' She was longing to try the sauce, see how it tasted, but that wasn't why she was here. 'Thanks for picking up my pashmina, by the way. I thought it was gone forever.'

    'You'd dropped it on the floor of the taxi. I only spotted it as I was getting out.' Jack turned to look at her. 'How much of a hurry are you in?'

    'For what?'

    'The pashmina. Thing is, there were a couple of marks on it from where it had been on the floor. I think you'd had your shoes on it. So I just put it in the wash.' He indicated the half-open door to the utility room, through which Tilly could see a washing machine merrily churning away.

    'Oh no.'

    'What?'

    'My pashmina is one hundred per cent cashmere! It cost two hundred pounds from Harvey Nichols and it's dry clean only!'

    Jack had stopped stirring the sauce. 'Shit. Really?'

    Yee-ha, got him.

    Tilly put him out of his misery. 'No. Polyester, loves washing machines, six pounds fifty, Camden Market.'

    The relief was visible on his face. 'That's where I always buy my pashminas too.'

    Tilly grinned. 'I really got you.'

    'Déjà vu.' Reaching into a drawer, Jack pulled out a corkscrew. 'Managed to get myself into some major trouble once with a white lacy top thing and a load of filthy old rugby uniform.'

    'I wouldn't have had you down as the white lacy top type.'

    He took a bottle of red wine from the rack, expertly opened it and glugged a good couple of glassfuls into the pan. 'I thought Rose was going to explode when she saw what I'd done. It was the first time she'd worn it.' Dryly, he said, 'And the last. There was me, thinking I was being helpful. Until it came out of the machine.'

    Tilly winced. 'Grey.'

    'Grey and ruined,' Jack agreed.

    She looked worriedly through to the utility room. 'Um… what's in there with my pashmina?'

    'Don't worry, I learned my lesson the hard way. White wash, wool cycle. Can you pass me the pepper mill?'

    She handed it over, watched him put the finishing touches to the sauce he still hadn't asked her to taste. 'How long before the washing machine finishes?'

    'Thirty, thirty-five minutes.'

    'OK,' said Tilly. 'Well, why don't I go and order my takeaway? Then when I've got it, I'll pop back here and pick up the pashmina on my way home?'

    'Is that your plan for the evening?' Jack shrugged. 'You could stay here with me and try my signature dish instead.'

    Had he done it on purpose? Was this why he hadn't offered her a taste before now? Because the fact that he hadn't meant she now really
really
wanted to know what his pasta sauce was like.

    Plus it smelled fantastic.

    'I was going to have Chinese.'

    'But I've made loads. And hasn't Max taken Lou to Stratford? You'd be all on your own.'

    Amy and Lisa and Marianne would have said yes by now.

    'I wouldn't be on my own. I'd have Betty. She's waiting for me to get back with the prawn crackers.'

    'But she can't tell the time.'

    'I don't want to leave her on her own for too long.'

    'A couple of hours wouldn't hurt.' Jack's eyes glittered with amusement. 'You could give her a ring if you like,
yip-yip
. Let her know,
woof
, where you are.'

    'Don't make fun of me.'

    He broke into a smile. 'I actually thought that was a really sweet thing to do.'

    Tilly wasn't sure if she liked the sound of sweet. Was that a good thing to be?

    'And if you go home to Betty, I'll be the one left here on my own.' Jack gave her a soulful look. 'Just me and a big vat of Bolognese sauce.'

    Which smelled
fantastic.

    Anyone else would have said yes by now, wouldn't they?

    'You know you can trust me,' said Jack. 'I proved that last night.'

    'OK, OK. I'll stay for a bit.' Tilly put down the keys she'd been clutching; she
had
to know what that sauce tasted like.

    'Great.' He sounded genuinely pleased.

    'But I'm definitely going to be home by ten.'

YOU KNEW YOU'D REALLY made it when Jay Leno made jokes about you on his show. That was when it hit you that you were an actual household name.

    OK, laughing stock.

    As jokes went, it hadn't even been particularly funny. Some sly patter about a rumor that Kaye McKenna was going to be starring as Cruella de Vil in the remake of
101 Dalmatians
… cue squealing car tires… oh, sorry, that's one hundred Dalmatians… more squealing car tires… whoops, ninety-nine…

    The studio audience had found that hilarious. They'd practically fallen off their chairs. The drummer had gone ba-boom
chinnggg
and Jay had done his impression of a smug nodding bulldog before moving on to the next victim whose reputation he was about to skewer on a stick.

    'Wake up, love. Is this the place?'

    Kaye, who hadn't been asleep, opened her eyes. Knowing her luck, she was in John o'Groats. But no, peering out of the taxi she saw that the sat nav had worked its magic and brought her home.

    Well, not
home
home. But it had been until three years ago. And she knew she was welcome, which meant a lot. Actually, it meant everything in the world just now. To be with people who believed her, to be back with her family…

    OK, don't cry, just pay the taxi driver and get your cases out of the trunk.

Not trunk. Boot. You're back in England now.

    Within ten seconds of ringing the doorbell, she began to regret sending the driver away. How stupid not to have checked first that someone was at home. Having assumed that the cars were parked in the double garage, she now realized they more than likely weren't. This was what jetlag and chronic lack of sleep did for you; it scram bled your brain. Bending down, she pushed open the letterbox and yelled, 'Max? Lou? Anybody there?'

    Her hopes soared as a door creaked inside the house, followed by the sound of someone approaching at a fast pace—

    'Woof!' Betty let out a volley of barks, bouncing up at the let terbox on the other side of the front door.

    'Betty!' Kaye dropped to her knees and felt her eyes fill with tears. 'Betsy-Boo, it's me! Oh sweetheart,
hello!'

    Every time Betty bounced off the floor, Kaye was able to catch a glimpse of her for a split second. It didn't seem to occur to Betty that if she moved back from the door they'd be able to gaze at each other uninterrupted. Then again, she'd never been the brightest of dogs, certainly not the practical kind like Lassie who might, with some encouragement and a bit of nifty paw work, be persuaded to somehow unlock the door from the inside.

    'Woof! Woof!'

    'Oh Betty, it's so lovely to see you again. I've missed you so much.' Stuffing her fingers through the letterbox, Kaye felt them being licked by the little dog's dear familiar tongue and almost burst into noisy sobs. Then she accidentally let go of the spring-loaded letterbox with her other hand and gave a yelp of pain instead. This was ridiculous; why on earth hadn't she hung on to her front door key as Max had sug gested? But no, at the time she hadn't felt comfortable about keeping a key to her ex-husband's home and had insisted on giving it back.

    She shivered; even more ridiculously, she'd forgotten just how cold it could still be in March, so-called
spring,
in this country. OK, what to do next? Phone Max, obviously. She sat down on the mat—less uncomfortable than the stone step but only just—and unearthed her mobile and called his number.

    Switched off.
So
typical of Max.
Where was he?

    Next she tried Lou's phone. Oh yes, and this time it was ringing, thank God.

    Shit, she could hear it chirruping away from the other end too. Opening the letterbox again, Kaye's heart sank as she recognized the jaunty ringtone. Lou might not be at home but her phone was.

    Which wasn't the most useful place for it, given the fact that her bum was going numb, her fingers were freezing and her nose was starting to run.

    Kaye McKenna, infamous Hollywood actress, unwitting star of the Jay Leno show, crouching on a darkened doorstep with a runny nose. Couldn't get more glamorous than that.

    OK, how about if she went round to the back of the house, smashed open a small window and climbed in? But Max would have set the burglar alarm before going out and she wasn't sure she could remember the code. Plus, it had probably been changed by now. Setting off the alarm and getting arrested for breaking and entering would just about put the tin lid on it.

    So much for a happy homecoming.

    Right, think. What other choice did she have? Stay here and hope someone came home before she died of hypothermia. Or leave her cases here and walk into Roxborough.

    Oh well; there was bound to be someone she knew in the pub.

    And she hadn't had to creep around the house or rummage fur tively through drawers in order to get her hands on it. This time Jack had said, 'Still curious to know what Rose looked like?'

    Just like that. And when she'd nodded, he'd said with amuse ment, 'You could have asked Max. He's got photos. Didn't you think of that?'

    Honestly, did he think she was completely clueless?

    'Thought of it. Decided not to do it.'
Because Max wouldn't have
been able to resist telling you if I had.

    Jack had left the living room at that point, returning a couple of minutes later with the photograph.

    Now he resumed his seat on the sofa, watching her. 'I have to say, I don't usually do this. I just keep thinking that if you two had ever met, you'd have really liked each other. You would've got on together really well.'

    Tilly carried on taking in every last detail; Max hadn't been exaggerating when he'd talked about Rose. She'd had conker-brown eyes and long, fantastically glossy dark hair. In the photo, she was wearing a Comic Relief T-shirt, muddy jeans, and wellies, and big silver hoops in her ears. She was standing in the middle of what looked like a building site, laughing into the camera. Love radiated from her eyes. Tilly knew without having to ask that the person taking the photo had been Jack.

    'I think we'd have got on well together too. She looks… fun.'

    'She was.' Jack nodded, his expression controlled. Giving nothing away.

    'And you took her to all the best places.' Tilly indicated the building site.

    'That was here. In the back garden while the extension was being built.'

    All those months of work to put together the house of their dreams. Then the dream had been shattered. Tilly wondered how you ever got over something like that. Perhaps by sleeping with hundreds of women and making a point of not getting emotionally involved with any of them.

    But did it work? Was that getting over it or getting through it? And was Jack still going to be doing the same thing when he was sixty?

    'Thanks.' She handed the photo back. 'She was beautiful.'