A Wild Affair (3 page)

“You don't even need to have it colored,” Helen nodded enthusiastically. “He could just put it up. You know, and give it a trim …”

She took the ends of my hair in her hands, her eyes disapproving.

I moved away, quickly. I had nothing against glossy, groomed hair. Not really. It's just that I couldn't really handle the maintenance. It seemed vain somehow. And superficial. Actually, it wasn't that—it was that swooshy hair reminded me of the girl who'd been Anthony Milton's fiancée. The girl who was now almost unrecognizable to me. The girl who'd lied and deceived people and nearly lost the man she loved. Now that I had Max, I wasn't going to jeopardize anything. Although I guessed a haircut wasn't going to turn Max off completely. I guessed I was still allowed a bit of
basic
maintenance.

“Fine,” I relented. “He can cut one inch. No more.”

Helen made a little “yay” expression. “So what are we doing tonight?” she asked. “Painting the town red? Dancing until the wee hours? Or watching
CSI
reruns?”

She grinned as my eyes lit up at the last possibility. “We can go out,” I said, a bit reluctantly.

“It's okay,” she said, sighing and draping an arm around my shoulders. “I'm sure staying in is the new going out anyway.”

“It is?” I asked, interestedly.

Helen shook her head incredulously. “No, Jess. Going out is the new going out. But I've kind of reconciled myself to the fact that you are never going to be a party girl, no matter what I do. And you're my friend, so if you want to stay in and watch people get murdered, then that's absolutely fine by me.”

I laughed in spite of my attempt at indignation. “How about I pay for the takeout?” I proposed.

“Oh, that's okay, I can cook,” Helen said, then wrinkled her nose. “What am I saying? I keep forgetting you're rich. Yeah, let's order in curry. I've got some menus somewhere. And let's get champagne.”

“Champagne? With curry? Are you sure?” I giggled. I forgot that I was rich on a regular basis, too. I mean, to be honest, it never really seemed to come up that much. It wasn't like I was going to give up work or start buying ridiculously expensive shoes, however much Helen had encouraged me. The truth is I was still in slight denial about the money Grace had left me. I just had no idea how to begin spending it. So I'd given most of the money to Grace's lawyer to look after for me, and the rest was just sitting in the bank twiddling its thumbs, waiting for me to figure out what to do with it. A bit like Grace's house, in fact.

Helen nodded firmly. “We're celebrating,” she said. “And everything goes with champagne. In fact I know just the place to get some. It's about twenty minutes away.”

“Twenty minutes? There's a liquor store just around the corner,” I protested.

“Yes, but this place is better,” Helen said authoritatively.

She wasn't looking at me and I raised an eyebrow. “Better how? Helen, is there something you're not telling me?”

“No!” Helen exclaimed, her face a picture of innocence. “Not at all. I just, you know, think that if we're going to have champagne we should get the good stuff. Don't you agree?”

I shrugged. I was never any match for Helen when she got fixed on something. “Sure, why not?”

“Cool!” Helen grinned and we pulled on our coats, trudged our way down the stairs and out to the street, schlepping our way through various side streets until we were on the main road.

“Now, I hope you like this champagne, because I think you should have it at your wedding,” Helen said, linking her arm around mine as we walked. “It's pink, which is much better than the normal stuff. I mean, white champagne is just getting a bit … old hat, don't you think?”

“It is?” I asked, uncertainly.

“Definitely. Pink champagne on the other hand … can you remember the last time you had any?”

I shook my head. I didn't remember
ever
having any. “You don't think it's a bit … girly?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

I pulled a face. “I don't really know,” I said.

“Trust me,” Helen said, determinedly. “Pink champagne is the way to go.” We were at a wine shop; she opened the door and we walked inside. There was a guy standing at the counter who grinned at Helen, but she shot him a look and dragged me over to the champagne section. “See? Look.” She pulled down a bottle of pink champagne. “Isn't it pretty?”

I looked at the bottle. It had flowers embossed on it. I figured that now probably wasn't the time to tell her that the caterers were going to be taking care of the drinks—champagne included. But something told me that there was more to this than just champagne. And anyway, I owed Helen. Feigning excitement in a pink fizzy drink was the least I could do. “It's pretty,” I conceded. “But what does it taste like?”

The guy from the counter had come over and was hovering behind us. “Hello,” he said.

“Hi,” Helen said, smiling warmly. “We're just … this is Jess. My friend. The one I told you about. The one who's going to buy the champagne.”

“I am?” I'd forgotten how bossy Helen could be when she got a bee in her bonnet. “Look,” I said. “I should probably check with Max. I don't need to make a decision now, do I?”

Helen folded her arms. “No, no of course not.” She thought for a moment. “So why don't you call him?”

“Now?” I frowned. “No, Max is busy. He's getting ready to have dinner with a client. I'll ask him tomorrow. There's no rush, is there?”

Helen squirmed slightly and my eyes narrowed. “What's going on, Helen?” I demanded. “Tell me.”

She looked at me for a moment, then she sighed. “Fine,” she relented. “Sam here …” She motioned to the guy, who smiled goofily at me. “He and I … well, anyway, the pink champagne's on a promotion. If he sells twenty-four bottles he gets a long weekend in the Champagne region as a bonus. With a plus one.”

I looked at her incredulously. “And you're the plus one?”

She smiled, coyly. “The champagne's really nice,” she said. “Perfect for weddings.”

I shook my head in disbelief, then opened my bag and took out my phone. “I'll ask him,” I said. “But if he says no, I'm not pushing it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Helen nodded gratefully.

I accessed my phone's address book, then stared at my phone in confusion. Who was Henry? And why did I have Stuart Wolf's number? He was Milton Advertising's head of finance. I'd barely ever spoken to the guy. My eyes narrowed. There was something wrong with my phone. It even looked different. And then I realized what the problem was.

“Shit. I took the wrong phone.”

“Wrong phone?” Helen asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this is Max's phone.”

“So you can't call him?” Helen looked crestfallen.

“I can try him on my phone,” I said quickly. I couldn't bear that look. Helen always got her way with me when she pulled it.

She nodded enthusiastically but before I could dial my number, the phone started to ring. Assuming it would probably be Max, I answered without even looking at the name flashing up.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. “Hello. Could I speak to Max please?”

It was a woman. “Oh,” I said, disappointed. “I'm afraid he isn't here. I mean, not with me. Can I … take a message?”

“A message?” the woman asked. “I don't know. To whom am I speaking please?”

She sounded rather strange.

“You're speaking to Jessica Wild,” I said. “Max's fiancée.”

“His fiancée? Oh my. Oh my goodness. You're his fiancée?” She sounded flustered, shocked even, and I found myself getting rather warm all of a sudden.

“Yes,” I said. “His fiancée. And who is this?”

“This? Oh. Oh.” There was another pause and then the line went dead. In shock, I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at the caller ID. Number withheld. Of course it was.

“What's wrong?” Helen asked, walking toward me. “You look awful. Who was that?”

I didn't know what to say. Didn't know what to think. “That?” I said uncertainly. “Oh, no one. Just someone for … Max.”

“So you haven't spoken to him yet?”

I shook my head. I felt hot and uncomfortable; felt like I'd just eaten something that didn't agree with me. “I'm just going to. Call him, I mean.” I turned away, telling myself not to get worked up. This was Max. Lovely, good, honest Max. That woman was probably
some mad old bat who had a crush on him. There was really nothing to get worried about. Quickly I searched back through his address book, looking for my name. Nothing. I stared at the phone indignantly. He had Stuart Wolf's number and not mine? He had Gillie, our receptionist's number and not mine? Crossly, I scrolled through the list, shaking my head as name after name appeared. And then I stopped. Because there it was. Darling. I was there under Darling.

Seconds later, Max picked up. “Hello?”

“Max!” I felt so relieved to hear his voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes! Yes, totally,” I said, immediately feeling better, immediately forgetting all the stupid doubts and worries that had clouded my head. “But I took your phone.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“I pressed redial and I got a very strange man who wanted to talk to me about flowers.”

“Ah, Giles,” I said, giggling. Giles was my florist and my new gay best friend. He cared about flower arrangements the way politicians cared about winning the next election. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem. So, having fun with Helen?”

“We're buying pink champagne,” I said. “She thinks we should have it for the wedding.”

“Pink? Really?” he asked, dubiously.

I smiled, feeling the usual warm glow that talking to Max gave me. “She says that normal champagne is old hat.”

Max laughed. “An entire region dismissed. I love it. Well, pink champagne sounds lovely. At least I
think
it does,” he said.

“Great. I'll get some then. So, I'll see you later?”

“Can't wait. Oh, and Jess?”

“Yes?”

“It's no big deal or anything, but it's probably best if you turn my phone off.”

“Turn it off?”

“Yeah. It's just … you know, I get a lot of business calls. Probably easier if they go straight to voice mail. So you don't end up taking a whole load of boring messages.”

“Oh, right,” I said, uncertainly. “Well, okay then.”

There was a pause. “No one's called already, have they?”

“No!” I said, not sure why I was lying, why I wasn't telling him about the woman. “No, no one called.”

“Good. Well, see you later.”

“See you.”

“So?” Helen asked, rushing over.

“So what?” I snapped.

“The champagne,” Helen said, looking slightly taken aback. “The pink champagne.”

“Oh, right,” I said, shaking myself. Warm glow. Think warm glow. “He says it's fine.”

Helen clapped her hands together. “Oh fabulous. Sam, Jess is going to buy the champagne!”

She pulled Sam out from behind the counter and he shot a lopsided grin in my direction. “You won't regret it,” he said. “It's great stuff. I call it happy champagne. You can't not be happy when you drink it. So how much do you want?”

“Actually, I'd like to taste some first. If that's okay.” I felt very strange, like I'd slipped into an alternate reality where everything was the same … except it wasn't. Because in this reality, Max got weird phone calls, and told me to turn his phone off when in my world, he couldn't bear to miss a call.

“Taste some? Sure,” Sam said, agreeably. He opened up a bottle, the cork making a satisfactory low pop rather than shooting up to the ceiling. “Here.”

He handed me a plastic glass and I took a sip. “It's nice,” I agreed. And it was, too. I drank the rest of it very quickly.

“See? Bet you feel happy now, right?” Sam asked, taking a sip himself, his grin widening.

“Maybe,” I said. The warm glow was returning. Not quite the same as before, but a warm glow nonetheless. “Can I try some more?”

“I want some, too,” Helen said. “Let me try.”

Sam dutifully poured us both a glass. Helen took a sip and nodded. “See? I knew it would be good. Isn't it lovely?”

“Very lovely,” I agreed, as it made my head slightly soft, made that woman on the phone seem somehow less real. I saw Helen's face light up and it made me feel even better. Who cared if we didn't need champagne for the wedding? I could store this stuff in the apartment. We could have pink champagne aperitifs every evening when we got back from work. “I guess twenty-four bottles it is.”

“You're a diamond,” Sam winked. “It's for your wedding, right? Well, you're doing the right thing. Weddings are big things. You've got to know you've made the right choice, right?”

I looked at him for a moment, thinking of Max, of lovely Max who'd never lied to me or done anything to hurt me in any way. Then I nodded. “I know,” I said, smiling. “And I have. I've definitely made the right choice.”

Sam wrapped up one bottle for us to take home and agreed to deliver the rest. Then Helen gave him a little kiss on the cheek, which turned into something a bit more, and I turned around awkwardly, wondering whether I should wait outside or whether that might just encourage them further, and then the door opened and a familiar-looking man walked in. We made eye contact.

“Jessica Wild?”

I jumped slightly; I hadn't expected it to be someone I knew. I studied his face more carefully. “Hugh?”

“Well remembered. Gosh, how are you?”

It was Hugh Barter. Hugh “Thinks-He's-Smarter,” as we used to call him, rather pathetically, I'll admit—“we” being most people at Milton Advertising. He used to work there, ages ago, when I'd first started. Only he always acted like everything he did was beneath him, like he was far too big a fish for such a small firm. Max, naturally, had blamed Anthony because Anthony had hired him, and Anthony defended him constantly for the same reason. The problem was, he was really good—at his job, at least. Clients loved him. And he always delivered—mainly because he'd tread on anyone and anything to get what he wanted, but clients didn't care about that. Everyone was relieved when he finally left to join a bigger firm called Scene It, even though he stole all our client lists when he went.

I could see Helen pulling away from Sam to check Hugh out and moved slightly to block his view of her. I didn't want to encourage him, after all. He already thought he was the best thing that ever happened to the world.