What She Wants (70 page)

a real gent and he’ll be good for you. I just don’t want you rushing into anything. You’ve got your career to think about now, Nicole. You don’t want to be tied down to any man. Your mother and I want to see you making it before you start thinking about settling down. I’ve been watching that Top of the Pops programme and there’s nobody on it near as good a singer as you,’ she said loyally.

Nicole laughed. ‘Ah Gran, you’re biased.’ She kissed both her grandmother and her mother. ‘I’m just going upstairs to use the phone,’ she said. ‘I want to phone Darius.’

‘Are you going to be telling him about me?’ asked her grandmother suspiciously.

‘No, why would I? I just want to tell him that I am going to get a flat after all,’ Nicole replied. ‘I didn’t want to do it for sure until I felt it was the right decision, and now I’m sure it is.’

‘You have to move on,’ Sandra said matter-of-factly. ‘Will you be having your dinner here? I’m making a casserole.’

‘You bet,’ said Nicole. ‘Since I’ll be racketing around soon in my own place, I might as well get as much home cooking as I can here.’

‘Home cooking!’ said Reenie, raising her eyes to heaven. ‘I better check if I have my stomach pills. You know I can’t eat onions …’

‘Mum, you are a right pain, you know that,’ interrupted Sandra.

Grinning, Nicole danced upstairs to phone Darius. Everything in the Turner household was back to comforting normality.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sam tried on her drop-dead gorgeous shimmery dress. Against her olive skin and with her poker straight dark blonde hair hanging like a sleek fall of silk, the dress looked stunning. Tiny spaghetti straps, iridescent fabric that clung voluptuously to her figure and a low cut back that scooped down dangerously, made it the sort of thing Hollywood divas wore to the Oscars. Hanging on the wardrobe door was her other possible outfit for the Lemons: a black Prada suit that looked wickedly expensive and very classy. Chic but not overtly sexy, especially when she wore it with the white agnes b T-shirt which instantly transformed the suit into cool but casual. The dress, on the other hand, screamed blatant sexuality and might not be the wisest thing to wear to an awards ceremony where you were going with your boss: a boss who’d made it plain he fancied you. But Sam was fed up with looking coolly casual and she was sure she’d figured out how to deal with Steve. She could handle him, she knew it, and besides, she wanted Morgan to see her looking all glammed up for once. She might not be in his target age group, but she cleaned up pretty nicely, she felt, and before she went to the awards, she was going to drop in on Morgan to say hi. ‘Hi,’ she practised it in front of the mirror as she kohled her big hazel eyes. ‘I just dropped in for a moment to return your video,’ she tried. Sounded a bit lame, she knew.

Oh what the hell. Why couldn’t she just march in there and say, hello, just wanted to drop in and see you before I went out. What do you think of the dress?

She knew what she wanted him to think. She wanted those narrowed caramel eyes to lengthen with appreciation as he took in her glowing shoulders covered with a dusting of sparkling bronzer, then she wanted them to slide down to the exciting hollow of her cleavage, just about covered by the dress. She wanted him to be consumed with sheer lust.

That’s what she wanted. And when he saw her in this dress, it would happen.

Triumphantly, Sam looked at her dazzling reflection in the mirror. She was crazy about Morgan; she was sure he was crazy about her, although he’d never made a move. He was waiting for her to say something first, Sam had convinced herself. He knew she was a strong woman and didn’t like men presuming anything. He respected her. Now the time had come for Sam to let him know that love and respect could work very well together.

The limo was coming to pick her up at six, the kittens were fed and had had their daily ration of adoration, and Sam was ready by five, a time when she knew Morgan’s workmen began winding down for the day. Hopefully, she’d be able to slip in without meeting anyone but Morgan because in this dress, the builders would give her quite a ribbing.

Just in case, she wrapped herself in a big plum velvet evening coat before she went next door. The front door was open, as usual, and Sam could hear the inevitable hammering noises.

The builders would be gone soon, they’d been renovating the house for months and it must have cost a fortune. Morgan hadn’t talked about selling it for ages. In her dreams, Sam sometimes had a delicious fantasy where she and Morgan lived there together. She imagined telling guests how she’d helped with the patio, imagined Morgan smiling, putting his arms round her and telling everyone how he’d fallen

in love with her independent streak when she’d insisted on laying part of it herself after watching him for only half an hour. ‘Hello?’ she called lightly, peering into the big airy drawing room. No sign of him. The builders were in the kitchen having the last cigarette of the working day. ‘Hiya Sam,’ they said, eyeing up the big coat and the dainty ankles in pink strappy evening sandals appearing underneath. ‘Hi guys,’ she replied. ‘Any sign of the boss man?’ ‘In the conservatory,’ said one. Sam walked quickly through to the conservatory, which had been almost totally rebuilt. It looked great now and she could picture it beautifully decorated. Cane furniture maybe, she liked cane furniture. It signified holidays in the sun and would look lovely with plenty of plants and perhaps paintings like her watercolour orchid one. Deep in these happy thoughts, she said ‘Hello,’ in a breezy, I’ve-just-dropped-in-for-a-moment voice. Her next words died on her lips. There, with Morgan’s arms wrapped around her as if she was precious china, was the young girl with the big doe eyes. The same girl that Sam had first seen leaving Morgan’s house after the party, having stayed the night. The girl who’d come out another morning clad in his jeans, her pert little twenty-something body cuddled up in one of his sweatshirts, looking for all the world as if she’d just been cuddling Morgan himself. Sam had fondly hoped that this nymphet was a fling of the past. Recently, there had been no sign of women drifting in and out of Morgan’s house with their lips glossed up ready to have the lipstick kissed off by him. Sam had been so very sure that this was no coincidence and that, once Morgan had fallen for her, he’d dropped the bimbos. But from the way Little Miss Muffet was clinging to Morgan like a limpet, nestled against his old white Tshirt as if she belonged there, it was obvious their affair was very much in the present.

Sam felt like someone had struck her in the chest. The breath seemed to leave her body and she stepped backwards in shock. All of this took just a few seconds: from recognition to realization, only a moment had passed. Morgan stared at her dumbly, but without waiting for him to offer lame explanations, Sam whirled around at high speed and ran out of the conservatory.

‘Love the dress,’ roared one of the builders as she ran past him in the hall, velvet coat flying out open behind her.

Once inside her own apartment, she sat down on her window seat, still wearing the coat, too stunned to think of taking it off. Morgan didn’t love her at all, she’d been stupid to think he did. He hadn’t cared; she’d been fooling herself or had he been fooling her? Who knew. All she knew was that she’d run to see him with childlike enthusiasm and had made an enormous fool of herself. It had all been in her mind. How pathetic she must have seemed.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, immobile and stunned. One half of her wanted Morgan to storm into the apartment and apologize, to tell her it was all a huge mistake and she’d got the wrong idea. That he loved her.

But the other half of her raged at her own stupidity at ever believing in a man. There was nothing for it but to cut Morgan Benson completely out of her life, because she couldn’t stand the strain any more. He was gone, in the past, like some band whose next option she’d refused to exercise. People often wondered how it felt to work in an industry where tough decisions had to be made but Sam always explained simply that it was business. There was nothing personal in it, but no record company could carry passengers. Everybody knew that. You walked away and tried to remember that.

Now all she had to do was adopt a similar attitude in her own life. Morgan was like a band she’d invested so much time and money in, and now he’d failed her. Time to dice and slice. He was gone, history, finito. If she said it often enough, maybe she’d believe it.

In the limo on the way to Earl’s Court, Sam didn’t bother checking her make up. What was the point, she thought, staring blindly out the darkened windows at the streets whizzing by. Thousands of fans, gathered outside the main entrance, screamed delightedly when Sam’s car pulled up, thinking she was someone famous. When she got out, fiercely glamorous in her shimmering designer gown, they screamed some more. ‘Probably think you’re Jennifer Lopez,’ smirked the limo driver. ‘Give or take ten years, six inches of leg, and ten million bucks,’ said Sam sourly. She marched past the screaming kids and the frantically snapping paparazzi, knowing that the photographers were wasting film taking her picture just in case she was someone they should have recognized. ‘Oo are you, luv?’ yelled one guy with a telephoto lens like an elephant’s trunk. ‘Nobody,’ hissed Sam menacingly. The photographers got the hint. Inside was organized chaos as thousands of dressed up to the nines people surged around, trying to figure out where the hell they were supposed to meet up with their friends and jealously checking to see if their table was in a less advantageous position than their rivals. Table positioning was almost a professional sport at these bashes, with lots of internal company anger when one group were right at the stage and another of their fellow execs were in the Siberia of the back of the room. Karen Storin joked that she could tell whose career was on the up and whose was going down purely by where they ended up sitting at award ceremonies. Sam had laughed at the time and said that the two of them were going to have great fun at the Lemons betting on career prospects. Now, Sam didn’t think she’d ever have fun again. She couldn’t imagine even smiling again, and the thought of putting on a brave face nearly killed her. But she had to for her career’s sake. And let’s face it, she reflected

~~

bitterly as she looked over the wasteland of her life, her damn career was the only thing she had left. ‘Love the dress,’ Steve Parris said enthusiastically as Sam arrived at the Titus table - right at the front, naturally, because Steve wouldn’t have stood for anything else. Everybody was there; twelve people crammed into a round table built for ten. The next table held international Titus head honchos, and Karen Storin, who, resplendent in a red leather trouser suit, was holding court. She waved across at Sam. ‘You look fantastic!’ she called. Sam did her best to smile back. The one person she’d wanted to admire the dress hadn’t. Sam sat down three places away from Steve,, who was already well stuck into neat vodkas. He should have been sitting with the international people but he’d obviously made a conscious decision to get drunk instead. ‘You should wear clothes like this more often,’ he said loudly, eyes darting over her outfit. ‘Yeah,’ said Sam, not really caring either way. The meal was the type of thing where bowls were placed in the centre of each table and people could help themselves, which was a mistake as everybody was affecting to be far too cool to eat. Sam couldn’t really be bothered with leaning in to take spoonfuls of Caesar salad or slivers of chicken breast, so she nibbled her bread roll and didn’t argue when Steve leaned perilously across the table to fill up her wine glass. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, her mind elsewhere; in the conservatory of Morgan Benson’s home to be exact. ‘My pleasure,’ Steve said, admiring her with hot eyes. It was a relief when the show started and the small talk could stop. Sam was fed up with listening to everyone at the table bitching about other record companies. First to perform was an artist who’d been signed to the record company Sam had worked with until she’d joined Titus. TulaFaye, a crossover country and western artist who had sold millions of records and got scores of record company

people’s backs up in the process because she was such a demanding diva, swayed onstage in a few strategically placed bits of chiffon. ‘I thank the Lord for the chance to be here with you good people tonight,’ she drawled. Sam raised her eyes to heaven. She admired people with genuine religious sentiment but she knew damn well that the only God TulaFaye worshipped was the one who looked after her dollars - all of which were tied up in investment funds that no hopeful future husband could ever hope to infiltrate unless he had one hell of a lawyer. Anyway, surely God preferred his chosen ones to wear more clothes? One good breeze and TulaFaye’s outfit would fall to the floor. TulaFaye was followed by the winner of the Best Female Act category, and then, after another litany of awards, a hip young boy band came on, gyrating around six limber female dancers as they lip-synched their new song. The fans who were let in to create some atmosphere screamed themselves hoarse. A Titus act won Best Album, and Steve went demented, yelling loudly in triumph. Not that it was a surprise to him, Sam knew. The record companies all knew exactly which band was going to win which award in advance. Otherwise, they’d never be able to coax their performers into turning up in the first place. Sam couldn’t imagine the hell of getting a top act to an awards ceremony where they had to endure the humiliation of not winning the award they’d been nominated for. Titus’s fiercest rival record company won the next two awards and from the corner of her eye, Sam watched Steve sink another straight vodka. Trouble ahead, she thought idly. Next came the nominations for Best Newcomer. Everyone at the Titus table perked up. Density were up for this award. Unlike the other awards, the winner of this was a fiercely guarded secret because it was decided by the television company which broadcast the awards.

Sam watched Steve Parris sit up stiffly in his seat and shove away his empty vodka glass. He had a lot riding on this. Massive sums of money had been spent on the band and their first album had sold a disappointingly low number of units. The critics had loved it, which augured well for the future, implying that a band as talented as Density needed a couple of albums to hit the mega time with the fickle public. But if they failed to win such an important award as Best Newcomer, it would look very bad. And looking bad in the music industry was to be avoided at all costs.