Love Nest (26 page)

30

Eight days had passed; the weather was unusually warm for early May and the streets of Clerkenwell were filled with girls in tight vests that revealed their bra straps and streaky fake-tanned legs and men in shorts smelling slightly of sweat. In the mezzanine of Flat 15 Gemma was preparing herself for summer by painting her toenails, while talking to Bridget on speakerphone.

‘So how’s it going with the pills?’ Bridget asked.

‘Well, I can’t exactly say I love shoving tablets up my bottom every morning. And the hormones make me more flatulent than a cow that’s just eaten a manger full of lentils. The flat stinks. Alex keeps opening all the windows.’

‘Oh my God. And this is the woman who’s never even peed in front of her husband!’

‘That’s right.’ Over the years she and Bridget had had several arguments about whether bodily functions should be concealed from one’s other half. ‘Now I’m breaking wind all night long.’

Bridget roared.

‘And ironically, the hormones have also made all my tummy muscles relax so I look three months pregnant. The other morning, a woman even offered me her seat on the tube.’

More laughter. Gemma smiled to herself. She never used to have this kind of conversation with Bridget. On so many levels, this egg donation business was bringing them closer together. Who would have guessed it?

‘How about you, anyway? How are the hormone injections? And how’s it going with Massimo?’

‘Brilliantly. You know we’ve found a flat? One bedroom on Western Avenue. Bit of a tip but it’s home. And he’s treating me so well, Gems. Anyway, enough about me. How are you filling the weekend before egg-removal day?’

‘Wedding in Sussex, tomorrow. My old friend Lalage from primary school, remember her?’

‘I remember you two locking me out of your room and not letting me play with you. So she’s getting married. Send her my congratulations.’

‘I will. The whole thing’s a pain, though, I have to say. I’d so much rather have had a quiet weekend, to give Alex’s sperm maximum rest before its big day.’

‘A wedding could be a good distraction.’

‘Yeah.’ The only thing was, Gemma loathed weddings, as she did any family gathering. They were full of mothers, wannabe mothers, children and nosy parkers who – as sure as nobody touching the Rich Tea biscuit in the variety pack – would tap her on the shoulder and ask, ‘So, how long is it you’ve been married now? Three years! Well, can’t be long before we hear the patter of tiny feet.’ Although worse were the people who didn’t approach her. She’d seen pregnant women dodge into doorways as if she were the bogeyman, mothers of three cross the room to avoid her. Perhaps they thought her barrenness was contagious. Or more likely, they just didn’t know what to say.

‘We’re staying in a lovely hotel. Room service, spa. All my friends with kids talk about places like that as if they’re the meaning of life, so I’m going to make the most of it. Y’know, in case we’re lucky with the baby and never leave the house again.’

‘You
will
be lucky. Anyway, what are you talking about? Why can’t you leave the house with a baby? Kaia took hers to Glastonbury last year
and
the Big Chill.’

Gemma ignored this. She’d long decided Chudney would be a routine baby, with regular naps in a cot in a darkened room.

‘And what’s happening with the flat?’

‘That’s all good. Exchange day two weeks on Friday. Completion a month later. It means by the summer we should be in St Albans. We can have barbecues!’

‘That’s great,’ Bridget said, as the doorbell buzzed.

‘I’ve got to go, Bridge. Talk later.’

‘Enjoy the wedding.’

Gemma waddled down the spiral staircase, determined not to smudge her coral toes. ‘Who is it?’ she barked into the intercom.

‘Flowers.’

‘Oh! Come up.’ Alex had sent her flowers. How unlike him. But how lovely. She opened the front door. An enormous bunch of lilies and roses was shoved into her arms, with a barked ‘Delivery for Alex Meehan.’ Under its weight Gemma staggered backwards. It was one of the most lavish bouquets she’d ever seen. But who on earth would be sending Alex flowers? It must be a mistake. They must be from Alex to her. Unless he was having an affair. Panicked, she studied the card.

You saved my bacon. I’ll do anything for you mate. FH

There was the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door opened again to reveal Alex, his hair standing on end and waving a bottle of champagne.

‘Poochie. I won! I got Frankie Holmes off.’

‘Oh my goodness!’ FH. Frankie Holmes, notorious crime baron, was sending her husband lilies and violet roses.

‘Unanimous verdict. He was guilty as hell, but I had the jury wrapped round my little finger. I’m king of the world, baby.’

‘He just sent you these flowers.’

‘Really?’ Alex laughed as he regarded the bouquet in his wife’s arms. ‘They’re not very Frankie.’

‘Are you
sure
all you did was fight a court case?’ Gemma wiggled her eyebrows suggestively from behind a frond, just as she emitted a small fart. The whiff of lilies blotted it out.

‘Well, there were the blow jobs in the robing room. After all, he said he’d do anything for me if I got him off. I guess this is just a start. Funny, I didn’t think of Frankie as being a purple flowers kind of guy. But that must have been how he thought of me.’ The phone started ringing. Alex grabbed it. ‘Alex Meehan,’ he trumpeted, then his face changed.

‘Hi, Lucinda… Yes… Yes. Well, fuck him!’ There was a long pause.

‘What?’ Gemma mouthed. Alex held up a hand to silence her.

‘How fucking dare he! No. Well, tell him the sale’s off then. Goodbye.’ He turned to Gemma. ‘Well, that’s how to ruin a good mood. Nick Crex has dropped his offer again by fifty grand. We can’t accept it. We’re totally screwed.’

*

Lucinda was sitting at her desk, twisting her bracelet round her wrist. This week was proving a disaster. Dinner at Moro had been horrible; breaking the news to the Meehans had been even worse.

In the meantime, she had to deal with Anton. Since she’d run out of Sheekey’s, he’d been calling the office about six times a day and sending emails by the dozen. Marsha was getting annoyed at having to field him.

Lucinda bought her a bunch of flowers. ‘I’m sorry, Marsha, but it’ll only be a couple of days and then he’ll get the message.’

‘You could just tell him to fuck off yourself and save me the grief,’ Marsha grumbled. ‘I’ve got enough on my mind already trying to work out how to pay Duwayne’s bail.’ She wasn’t really that cross. Lucinda could see she was enjoying a bit of intrigue.

Now she chewed her pencil, trying to see a way to make things better. She had to find the nerve and energy to call Anton and once and for all explain that it was over – except there was no ‘it’ to begin with. Why couldn’t he just get the message? Lucinda felt exhausted. She needed a break. A holiday. She hadn’t had one since she’d started at Dunraven Mackie. Perhaps Mauritius, she thought. She wondered if Nick would come with her? But she wasn’t sure he’d feel comfortable at the St Géran. Moro had made him tetchy enough, how would he cope with flunkeys offering him scented hand towels on the beach and scattering rose petals on the bed? And then she had another idea.

Tobago.

Of course. Their own home. And who couldn’t love it there?

Fired up again, she seized her mouse to start checking flights. They’d go first class. A bit of an indulgence – Daddy always insisted his children flew cattle, unless he was travelling too, in which case they all went in his jet. But Lucinda could afford it.

‘Lucinda,’ said a harsh voice behind her.

She felt as if a cold hand had grasped her innards. Slowly she turned round, a smile frozen on her face.

‘Hello, Anton.’

The room was silent. Everyone was pretending not to look or listen.

‘Why the hell haven’t you returned my calls? My emails? Last time I saw you, you were sick. I was worried.’

‘I’m sorry, Anton, I’ve just been so busy.’

‘Don’t give me busy,’ he snapped. ‘
I’m
busy. I would never be so discourteous as not to pick up the phone and tell somebody that I was feeling better, thank you. I thought you were a well-brought-up young woman. Obviously not.’

‘Shall we go outside?’ she hissed. ‘Discuss it there?’

She led him out of the office and round the corner.

‘I just want to know what’s going on,’ Anton said. ‘I thought we had something here, but suddenly you’re ignoring my calls and my emails. I don’t understand it.’

‘Anton, I’m really sorry. There was nothing going on. We were just friends. And… I’ve been busy and… I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t even noticed you before you sent me that Valentine. Why did you do that if you didn’t want me to notice you? It said “Marry Me”, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I was just being stupid.’ Lucinda wished an alien would vaporize her. Why had she behaved so childishly? ‘Messing around.’

‘Messing around?’ He was very pale. ‘Jesus, Lucinda. I was about to ask you to marry
me
.’

Christ, the man was insane! ‘Marry you? We barely know each other.’

‘There’s someone else, isn’t there?’

‘No!’

‘I know there is. Well, I only hope he doesn’t treat you like you treated me. You use people, Lucinda. I can see that now.’

‘I was just…’

But he’d turned on his heel and was marching off up the road, a slim, elegant, angry figure.

Shaking, Lucinda returned to the office. As the door closed behind her, Joanne started to giggle.

Marsha shrugged. ‘I told you, Luce. You should have called him.’

Niall stood up. His face was the colour of uncooked pastry; it had obviously been another bad night with the babies.

‘Lucinda, could we have a word in my office?’

‘Now, look,’ he said as soon as the door was shut. ‘You know I’m a bit of a softie, but what’s up with you? What goes on with you and Anton is your own business, I understand, but if he comes into the office we all get involved. Keep it private, please. And try to pull your finger out a bit. Your targets have slumped in the past weeks. Fewer viewings. No sales. I don’t know. I took you on trust and it all seemed to be working out, but…’

‘I’m really sorry, Niall,’ said Lucinda. And she was. The next bit was bullshit, though. ‘I think I’m just a bit tired. I haven’t had a holiday since I started and I just need to recharge.’

‘You’re asking for a holiday?’

Lucinda knew she was pushing it. But suddenly she needed to be in Tobago more than anywhere else in the world.

‘I’m owed some leave. I’m very run down. When I get back I promise to give you my all, Niall. And I’m sorry about Anton. You know there’s never been anything between us, he just… misunderstood.’

‘Well, no more misunderstandings.’ Niall was clearly hating doing this. No wonder his wife ran rings around him. ‘He’s a valuable agency contact. Now we’ll say no more about this. Go and sell some houses.’

‘I will,’ she said, gratefully. And she meant it. Lucinda might be dazzled by Nick at the moment, but her career was still important. Suddenly she wanted to shine in her job more than ever, to prove to Nick she wasn’t a spoilt brat, let alone a leech like Kylie. She’d call everyone on her contacts list and drum up some spectacular business. Although first she’d call Nick and suggest a meeting tonight at Flat 15. Gemma and Alex were going away to a wedding. They could even stay the night.

So much for a relaxing weekend. Gemma and Alex argued all Friday evening on the drive down to Sussex, over dinner in the Michelin-starred restaurant, over Saturday’s room service breakfast, and all the way to the wedding in a hamlet six miles away.

‘Alex, we have to accept the offer, otherwise we really will lose Coverley Drive,’ Gemma pleaded, as they drove round and round the village, looking for a parking spot. ‘We must be able to find the extra cash from somewhere.’

‘We can’t. We’re screwed. We don’t have a spare penny. Especially not with the bill from Parenthope to pay. Let’s only hope…’

‘What?’

‘Let’s hope that works,’ he said quietly.

‘What, because you’d resent having to fork out for another go! God, Alex!’

‘I didn’t say that,’ he protested, reversing into a spot behind a people carrier. ‘It’s just… well, it is so expensive.’

‘Can you put a price on a child?’

‘Of course you can’t. But you’re not meant to buy babies anyway. Look at that for genius parking.’

Gemma didn’t care that her husband had reversed into a space the size of a matchbox. ‘Are you saying this is a bad idea?’

‘Stop putting words in my mouth, Poochie. You’re all hormonal.’

‘How dare you call me that,’ she snarled, stepping out of the car. A woman with what looked like a cushion up her Diane von Furstenberg dress cried, ‘Hey, Gems!’

‘Oh! Hey! Christina.’ Gemma held out her arms to her old school friend, feeling sick as she registered that wasn’t a cushion.

‘How are you?’ Hug. Kiss. Kiss. ‘I was hoping you’d be here.’ Introductions of husbands. ‘You must sit with us. Oh,’ Christina added a little self-consciously, patting the bump as they hurried up the picturesque church pathway. ‘Don’t think I’ve got fat. I’m expecting. In July.’

‘Oh yes!’ cried Gemma, pretending to have just noticed. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Bit of a shock,’ Christina confided under her breath. ‘We’d only just started trying. I thought I’d have at least a clear year of being able to enjoy myself, but no. Wham bam, bun in the oven, mam. No more booze and ciggies for moi. I can’t tell you how much I miss sushi.’

A behatted head in the pew in front turned round. ‘Christina? Oh my God. I couldn’t help overhearing. Look!’

There was much screaming as Christina and Nicola, another girl from their year, whom Gemma had never much liked, compared bumps. Suddenly the conversation was all due dates and forbidden foods and pregnancy yoga. Where the hell was Lalage? Alex squeezed her hand tightly.

‘Sod ‘em,’ he whispered. ‘I bet your stretchmarks will be much uglier than theirs and you won’t be able even to keep toast down.’