Jill Mansell - Chapter 1

Yeek! Cautiously — because he’d caught her out last time — Lola ventured, ‘I might.’

‘Shall we do that, then?’

It was like, Are you dancing? Are you asking?

‘If you want to,’ said Lola.

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Do you really want to see me?’

‘Sorry, I’m playing it cool. Deep down I’d really like to see you.’

‘Progress at last. Do you play snooker?’

‘Er ... crikey, not very well.’

‘Great, more chance of me winning. Can I ask you something else?’

‘Fire away.’

‘If I looked like me and dressed like me but my job was collecting trolleys in a supermarket, would you still be agreeing to see me?’

Lola thought about it. Finally she said, ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

He laughed. ‘Good for you. A bit of old-fashioned honesty does it for me every time. When shall I pick you up?’

‘Um, eightish?’ How long did it take to play a game of snooker? ‘I live at—’

‘Don’t worry,’ EJ cut in, sounding amused. ‘I know where you live.’

When Lola had put the phone down, Cheryl let out a parrotlike shriek of excitement. ‘He actually rang! You’re going out on a date with EJ Mack! What was it he asked you when you said no you wouldn’t?’

‘Oh, nothing much.’ Lola shrugged and studied the computer screen. ‘He just wanted to know if I’d sleep with him while he was wearing his geeky anorak.’

‘My leg looks as if it’s gone fifty rounds with Mike Tyson,’ Sally complained. ‘The sight of it’s starting to make me feel sick.’

She had a point. In the ten days that had passed since the accident, her leg from the knee down had morphed into something grotesquely discoloured — it was literally black and blue — and so swollen it looked ready to burst. Lola, feeling faintly queasy herself, finished gingerly unstrapping the bright blue gel pack from Sally’s overheated calf and said as the doorbell rang,

‘It’s defrosted, I’ll get the other one out of the freezer. Who’s that?’

‘Oh,’ Sally looked at her watch, ‘is it seven already? Mum and Philip said they’d pop over.

Could you buzz them in?’

Adele, super-svelte in a pale grey wool suit and a cloud of Arpège, acknowledged Lola with the kind of distant smile one might bestow on a friend’s uninteresting five-year-old grandchild.

Crossing to the sofa, she gave Sally a kiss and said,’Darling, how horrendous! Did you get our card?’

‘Hello there, Lola: Philip, far more friendly, nodded at the defrosted gel pack in her hand. ‘Got you working overtime, has she?’

Lola grinned. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll get a shock when she sees the bill.’ Oops, possibly not the most diplomatic thing to say, given the circumstances.

Timm.’ Her tone dry, Adele addressed her daughter. ‘Well, just don’t let her haggle the price up.

Anyway, darling, now that we’re back we can have you at home with us.’

‘Thanks, Mum, but I’m fine here. Everyone’s been great, Lola and Gabe are looking after me really well. And Doug and Isabel have been helping out too.’

Adele beamed and said serenely, ‘Oh, isn’t Isabel an absolute angel? I’m so glad Doug’s found someone wonderful at last! We couldn’t be happier for him, could we, Philip?’

For a split second Philip and Lola exchanged glances. Lola struggled to keep a straight face because Adele was definitely doing it on purpose. Philip cleared his throat. ‘Whatever makes Doug happy, dear. That’s good enough for me.’

‘And she’s from such a good family,’ Adele exclaimed. ‘Her father’s a cardiac surgeon, you know.’

Wouldn’t it be nice, thought Lola, if he could whip out the old, mean, unforgiving heart in Adele’s chest and replace it with a lovely warm new one.

But no matter how much she knew Doug’s mother wasn’t going to change her mind about her, a small, ever-hopeful part of Lola couldn’t bear to give up trying. Returning from the kitchen with the frozen gel pack for Sally’s leg, she said, ‘I like your necklace, Mrs Nicholson. It’s beautiful.’

‘Why thank you.’ Delighted with the compliment, Adele reached up and stroked the silver and onyx necklace. ‘It was a present from Isabel. She has the most exquisite taste.’

The Groucho Club, that was where they’d be playing snooker. Lola had now read EJ’s book —

not an autobiography as such, but the story of his experiences in the music industry — and there had been a couple of mentions of playing snooker at the Groucho, where he was a member, so she was pretty sure this was where he’d be taking her. Which was unimaginably exciting because everyone knew the Groucho was stuffed with celebs. Imagine being able to boast to everyone at work that you’d spent last night potting pinks with Damien Hirst and Will Self and ... ooh, Madonna and Guy, Stephen Fry, the boys from Blur ... and she’d be witty and wonderful and make them all love her, then— ooh, doorbell.

The car was, frankly, a bit of a disappointment.

‘Is this yours?’ Lola hesitated as EJ opened the passenger door for her.

‘Yes, that’s why we’re driving off in it. Otherwise it would be called stealing.’

Oh well, maybe the car only looked like a grubby cherry-red Fiesta. Maybe it was actually a gleaming scarlet Ferrari Marinello in disguise.

‘Where are we going?’ Please say the Groucho, please say the Groucho, please don’t say some grotty dive in the back-streets of Bermondsey.

EJ’s mouth was twitching; had he read her mind? ‘Wait and see.’

’Well?’ said EJ forty minutes later. ‘What d’you think?’

‘I think blimey.’ The house was lit up from the outside like Buckingham Palace. In fact it looked a bit like Buckingham Palace. They were in Hertfordshire, out in the depths of the countryside but only a few miles from Hemel Hempstead.

‘I think blimey too,’ EJ said cheerfully. ‘Every time I see it. I grew up in a council flat in Chingford. Now I live here. Pretty cool, eh?’

So this was what he spent his money on. ‘Better not let the Beckhams see this place,’ said Lola.

‘They’ll be jealous.’

‘Come on, we’ve got a snooker match to play.’

Security lights zapped on as they crunched across the gravel. In the distance a couple of dogs began to bark. The front door, black and solid, looked as if it would keep out an army of marauders.

Did your anorak really come from Jean Paul Gaultier?’ Lola eyed its nylon sheen.

EJ grinned. ‘Nah, Millets.’

As evenings went, it was an experience. The house was vast and Lola got the full guided tour. EJ

beat her at snooker on the purple baize-covered table and she managed to shoot the yellow ball clear across the room, narrowly missing a mullioned window There were nine bedrooms, each one with an en-suite. He showed her his offices and recording studio, and the gold and platinum discs lining the bottle-green walls. There was also a home cinema complete with plush plum-velvet seats, a fully equipped gym, a stadium-sized living room and a kitchen bigger than Belgium.

‘Are you hungry?’ said EJ, reaching for his phone. ‘I can give Myra a call and she’ll make us something.’

Myra was the cook/housekeeper who lived with her husband Ted the handyman/gardener in a cottage in the grounds.

‘I’m starving. No, don’t drag her over here.’ Having nosily inspected the fridge, so packed with food it resembled a Tesco Metro, Lola stopped him dialling the number. ‘I’ll do us both a frittata.’

At one o’clock in the morning EJ drove Lola back to Notting Hill and said, ‘Thanks, I really enjoyed this evening.’

‘Me too.’ In the dim orange light from the street lamps overhead, Lola could see the lines and shaded angles of his thin, clever face. He still wasn’t conventionally good-looking but it was definitely the kind of face that the longer you studied it, the better it got.