Jill Mansell - Falling for you

‘ Actually,’ Nuala said brightly when they were seated outside, ‘I prefer Diet Coke. Once you get used to the taste, it’s—’

‘No you don’t,’ Maddy interrupted, ‘you’ve just brainwashed yourself into thinking you prefer it because Dexter won’t let you drink the normal kind.’ A lot of their conversations ran along these lines, with Nuala defending Dexter and Maddy vainly attempting to make her see sense.

‘But—’

‘Anyway, enough about you, we’re here to talk about me. If I don’t tell you my stuff, I may have to explode.’

‘And Dexter would make me clear up all the mess.’ Instantly diverted, Nuala leaned her elbows on the table and said eagerly, ‘Go on then, tell me. Is this to do with the bloke you met last week at the party?’

‘Yes.’

‘I knew it! Is he completely gorgeous?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And you really really fancy him?’

‘ Yes—’

‘ And he really really fancies you? Oh wow, that’s so brilliant, when did all this happen and why didn’t you tell me bef— Ow!’

‘ Sorry,’ sighed Maddy, because the only way to stop Nuala when she got this carried away was to pinch her wrist hard. She hadn’t meant to grind the bones like that, though.

‘That hurt!’

‘I know, sorry sorry, but we don’t have time to play twenty questions, and the thing is, it isn’t brilliant because—’

‘God, he’s married, what a bas— oh no you don’t.’ Nuala snatched her wrist away just in time. ‘OK, sorry, I’ll shut up.’ Pause. ‘But I’m right, aren’t I? He’s married.’

‘ He isn’t.’ Shaking her head, Maddy explained the whole sorry McKinnon saga in four minutes flat.

This time Nuala listened intently and didn’t interrupt once.

‘Shit,’ she said flatly when Maddy had finished. ‘I know.’

‘This isn’t good.’

‘Tell me about it,’ agreed Maddy, draining her Coke and feeling pretty drained herself. At least, her brain felt drained, but underneath the wooden trellis table her hopelessly overexcited knees were jiggling away like mini Michael Flatleys. Taking an envelope from her jeans pocket and placing it in front of Nuala, she added, ‘And now this.’

Nuala whisked the enclosed sheet of paper from the battered envelope and read the brief handwritten note.

‘He wants to meet you tomorrow! God, this is so romantic! I mean, I’ve had phone calls and text messages in my time, but nobody’s ever written me a letter.’

‘It’s not romantic when he’s only doing it because a phone call would be too risky.’ Fraught, Maddy raked her fingers through her already drastically-raked hair. ‘He’s in London today. He left the envelope with his receptionist to hand over to me.’

‘But don’t you see? That’s even more romantic! "I need to see you, properly."‘ Nuala swooned as she read aloud. —Saturday night, seven o’clock, my flat. Let me know if you can’t make it.

Hope you can. Kerr." Ooh, nice flat,’ she added with approval, noting the address. ‘And lovely masterful handwriting. If you aren’t up for it, can I go instead?’

‘I want to go, more than anything.’ Maddy watched a ladybird inch its way along the edge of the table, then spread its wings and take off like a Harrier jump jet. ‘But how can I?’

‘What d’you mean, how can you? Are you mad?’ squeaked Nuala. ‘You have to go!’

‘Marcella would kill me.’

‘What Marcella doesn’t know won’t hurt her,’ Nuala blithely retorted. ‘How’s she ever going to find out? My mum’s next-door neighbours got divorced last summer, it turned out that the husband had been having an affair for the last fifteen years and his wife hadn’t had any idea!’

As if that made it all right, thought Maddy. ‘But—’

‘Anyway, you already know you’ll go.’

‘What?’ Maddy stared at her. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Oh, come on. Why else would you show me the letter? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

Looking pleased with herself, Nuala said, ‘Because you knew I’d say you had to meet him. Face it, you know me. I’m hardly likely to tell you never to see him again, am I? You want me to persuade you to go to his flat tomorrow night, so it’s my decision and not yours.’ Squishing an ant with her thumb, she beamed across at Maddy. ‘Plus, of course, it’ll be my fault if anything goes wrong.’

Maddy couldn’t speak.

‘See?’ Nuala said happily. ‘I’m not as daft as I look, am I?’

‘God, I didn’t even realise what I was doing.’ Maddy let out a wail, snatching the letter and shoving it back into her pocket. ‘I hate it when you’re right!’

‘So there you go, you have my permission to see him. And wear something sexy.’

‘We’re only going to talk.’

‘ Good grief, are you mad? If he’s as gorgeous as you say he is, and meeting him is this risky, what on earth’s the point of just talking?’ Nuala raised her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘I mean, if Marcella’s going to go ballistic anyway — not that she will find out, of course, but if she did — you may as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.’ Pausing, she frowned.

‘You know, I don’t actually understand what that means. I mean, why would anyone want to hang a sheep or a—’

‘ Time’s up,’ bellowed Dexter like a sergeant major from the back door of the pub.

‘Honestly, he’s such a bossy-boots,’ Nuala grumbled, but she was already on her feet, gathering up their empty glasses.

Maddy, wondering why on earth she was asking advice from someone whose idea of a perfect partner was Dexter Nevin, said, Will you two end up getting married, d’you think?’

‘Good grief, no.’ Vigorously, Nuala shook her head. ‘Not a chance.’

Oh well, that was something to be grateful for.

‘I’ve already asked him,’ Nuala went on, blowing her fringe out of her eyes. ‘He turned me down flat.’

‘What are you, a three-toed sloth?’ bawled Dexter. ‘Get a bloody move on, woman, there’s customers dying of thirst in here!’

Wishing she’d thought to bring Sophie’s potato gun along with her, Maddy shook her head and said, ‘Wouldn’t it be nicer to have a boyfriend who isn’t horrible to you the whole time?’

‘Dexter isn’t horrible,’ Nuala said fondly. ‘That’s just his way. It’s only a bit of fun.’

Chapter 12

‘Lunch? We stop serving lunch at two.’ Dexter jerked a finger in the direction of the clock on the wall. ‘It’s five past.’ Bolshy pub landlords didn’t faze Oliver Taylor-Trent. ‘Tell me about it,’ he said jovially. ‘My wife burned ours to a cinder. We’re starving. My invited guest here is starving. I’ve told him all about your miraculous bouillabaisse – he’s a documentary maker, by the way. Will, meet Dexter Nevin. Dexter, this is Will Gifford.’

‘Blimey, you must be really hungry.’ Dexter’s dark eyes glinted with sardonic humour.

‘More than you can imagine. Cooking’s never been my wife’s strong point. We’ll have a bottle of Laurent Perrier, by the way. Oh, and would you have any objections to Will doing a spot of filming here in the pub?’

‘For TV? What, now?’ Dexter looked taken aback.

‘Not now.’ Will spread his arms reassuringly. ‘See? No camera. But within the next few days.

The thing is, I’m making a film about Oliver,’ he explained. ‘And Ashcombe’s such a great place. I wouldn’t want to leave the pub out of it. Could be good publicity for you,’ he added with a winning smile, ‘but don’t worry, feel free to say no if you’d rather not.’