Nadia Knows Best (26 page)

The garden was really taking shape now. Wiping her hands on her jeans and straightening up, Nadia surveyed the border she had just planted with mahonia, nicotiana, and mignonette. (How she loved those names; they sounded like a troupe of can-can dancers at the Moulin Rouge.) Behind them, Himalayan honeysuckle covered the stone wall. She still had boxes of Hidcote lavender waiting to go in, then a serious amount of watering to do if the plants weren't about to keel over and die in the current heat wave.

Speaking of keeling over and dying, she could do with a drink herself.

“Looking good.” Jay, who had just rolled up, greeted her in the kitchen.

Aware that she was hot and sweaty and streaked with soil, Nadia said, “Hardly, I'm a mess.”

“I meant the garden.”

Oops. Serves me right.

“Tea?” Jay grinned to soften the blow. He filled the kettle and switched it on, then watched Nadia scrub her hands in the sink.

“Actually, I've got something for you.” When she'd finished, Nadia dried her hands on a grubby towel and dug into her jeans pocket. “It's a bit embarrassing, but Clare made me promise. Here.” Retrieving the glossy invite with difficulty, she passed it over. “Sorry it's crumpled. You don't have to go if you don't want to. She just said it would be really nice if you could come along.”

Jay studied the invitation.

“And buy a painting, I imagine.” Drily he added, “Preferably something of hers this time.”

“That's up to you. Anyway, it should be a good show. Hi, Robbie.” Nadia broke off, realizing that Robbie was hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “I'm just making tea. Want some?”

Robbie nodded. Still as shy and awkward as ever, he far preferred to communicate nonverbally. He waited. Nadia, who knew the score by now, said, “Shall I make three cups?”

Another nod.

“Thursday,” said Jay. “I think I can manage that.”

“Look, don't feel obliged to buy anything. And don't let Clare bully you.” Nadia busied herself flinging tea bags into not terribly clean mugs. “She can get a bit carried away sometimes.”

“Can't we all?” Jay grinned. “Anyway, don't worry. I can look after myself. I'm not scared of your sister.”

You haven't seen her since she got pregnant, thought Nadia. In the last week Clare had turned into a human tornado, having convinced herself that the only way forward was work. If she painted more pictures and sold enough of them in the show, she would be able to support her child.

“Besides,” Jay went on easily, “you never know, I may want to buy something. She's a talented artist. I like her work.”

“Robbie, here you are.” Nadia had made the teas, piled in the sugar and milk, and mashed the tea bags repeatedly against the sides of the mugs in true builder's fashion before flicking them into the bin. Tea the color of Idris Elba, that was how they liked it.

His thin cheeks aflame, Robbie ventured into the kitchen. Jay's invitation lay on the worktop next to the assorted mugs. Gazing intently at it, then turning to Nadia—but managing not to actually catch her eye—Robbie said awkwardly, “Um… could I have one of those?”

It was like Hillary Clinton sidling into a sex shop and asking for a leather G-string.

Jay, glancing at Nadia, clearly thought so too.

“You mean an invite to the private view? Well, it's my… um, sister's show,” Nadia prevaricated. This was awkward. When Clare had given her the invitations she had specified that only wealthy, glamorous, and preferably highly photogenic people should receive them. No freeloaders, no time-wasters, Clare had bossily instructed. And absolutely
no
tongue-tied, socially inept builder's laborers even if they had—somewhat astoundingly—managed to gain a degree in physics.

“The thing is,” Nadia said apologetically, “I don't have any more invitations.”

“Yes you do.” Robbie pointed. “There's one sticking out of your pocket.”

“Oh!” It was Nadia's turn to blush. Stalling for time, and realizing that Jay had no intention of helping her out—he was laughing, the bastard—she stammered, “I d-didn't know you were interested in art, Robbie.”

Oh God, if she ended up being forced to give him an invite, would he turn up in his disreputable work clothes and steel-capped boots?

“I'm not. Art's boring. But my brother likes it. He's always going round art galleries.”

Robbie's brother. Nadia pictured him, as painfully shy as his sibling, slipping through the glittering crowd, hoovering up all the canapés and free drinks. Then, mercifully, melting away again. No harm done.

Bugger it, how could she refuse Robbie? Especially when he was still standing there gazing fixedly at the invitation protruding from her jeans pocket.

“OK. Of course he can have one.” Overcompensating for her guilt with a bright smile, Nadia handed him the invite with a flourish. Luckily she wasn't expecting a thank you.

“Right.” Reaching past her for the three steaming mugs, Robbie reverted to monosyllables. “I'll take the tea.”

“Well,” said Jay, when Robbie had shuffled out of the kitchen, “I thought that went very well.”

He was still laughing at her.

“Clare's going to kill me,” Nadia groaned. “It's supposed to be a glittering occasion, packed with beautiful people.”

Jay raised a dark eyebrow. “Was that a compliment?”

“Actually, Clare said beautiful if possible.” Nadia smiled sunnily at him. “Failing that, filthy rich.”

***

Being pregnant and single had a way of making you feel horribly alone. It didn't help, Clare discovered, that the rest of the world seemed to be going around in pairs. Like socks, she thought with irritation. And guess who was the odd sock out?

Checking through the invitation list, she counted the couples. Even her own family were at it. Miriam was coming along with Edward. Nadia with Laurie. James was insisting on bringing Annie, which was annoying, but when she'd tried to persuade her father that it might not be Annie's thing, he'd got quite cross.

When Tilly had tried the same trick, however, Clare had put her foot down.

“No, you cannot bring Cal,” she'd told Tilly bluntly. “It's an art gallery, not a school dance. He's fifteen years old. He's not going to be buying anything, is he? It's just a waste of a ticket.”

Tilly had gone off in a fit. Later, when Leonie had phoned, Clare had heard Tilly huff to her mother about how unfair it was. Since Leonie wasn't likely to shell out for a painting, Clare hadn't bothered to invite her either.

Returning to the kitchen some minutes later, Tilly had announced, “Mum's asked me down to Brighton for the weekend. School finishes on Thursday so I'm going on Thursday afternoon.”

“Fine.” Was she meant to be distraught? Clare picked up her pen and said, “So you won't be coming to the exhibition.”

“No, you can cross me off your list.” Tilly sounded pleased with herself.

Great. Clare happily ran a line through Tilly's name. She'd only invited her in the first place because she was family.

Stung by Clare's relief, Tilly couldn't resist having a dig. “So what happens if nobody wants to buy your stuff? If you don't sell a single painting, what then?”

The other thing about being pregnant was that it didn't automatically turn you into a lovely saintly person. The urge to give Tilly a slap when she provoked her was as strong as ever.

“That's not going to happen. I'm going to sell loads.” Sarcastically, Clare added, “But thanks for the support.”

***

Thursday night. Seven o'clock. The Harrington Gallery was lit up and bursting with guests. Clare and the two other exhibiting artists were being photographed for the local paper and interviewed by various journalists.

With her glossy dark hair swinging loose around her shoulders and her high-necked, sleeveless pink dress skimming her tanned body, Clare was easily the most photogenic of the three. As she carelessly flicked back her hair and flashed a dazzling smile for the camera, anyone could be forgiven for envying and admiring her talent and stunning looks. Nadia, watching from a distance, marveled at the facade Clare was able to present. The last week at home hadn't been what you'd call plain sailing. Clare had been working punishing hours upstairs. She had also been alternately grumpy, tearful, sharp-tongued, and at times downright irrational. She'd even shouted at Laurie, yelling that it was all his fault Piers hadn't been in touch and that everything would have been sorted out by now if only he hadn't broken Piers's nose.

Now, leaning against a white pillar at the far end of the gallery, Nadia sipped her drink and checked out the throng of guests. As instructed, they had dressed for the occasion. Everyone seemed to be chatting animatedly, exchanging greetings and helping themselves to canapés. Some of them were even bothering to glance at the paintings on view.

Taking advantage of the distance between them, Nadia used the opportunity to study Laurie. There he was, looking scruffily gorgeous as usual in his dark suit, conversing easily with a stern, rather plain, middle-aged woman who was examining one of Clare's works. As he said something else and gestured toward the picture, the woman looked at him and broke into a delighted smile. No one was capable of resisting Laurie's charms.

Except me, thought Nadia. So far, at least. Seeing him still had that overwhelming effect on her, the disappearing-stomach sensation coupled with the familiar rush of adrenaline. But how much longer could she hold out, keeping him at arm's length like this? As Clare had already pointed out, he wasn't going to wait forever. And when she did finally give in, would it change things? Would the thrill of the chase be over for Laurie? How long might it be before he began to lose interest?

Never, according to him. But how could she know that for sure? What if he—

“Spotted him yet?” murmured a voice in her ear, and Nadia jumped, almost spilling her drink.

It was Jay. She'd been so busy observing Laurie, she hadn't even seen him arrive.

“Spotted who?” Heavens, it was hard to sound casual when you didn't feel it. The thing that had almost happened between them still hung in the air, unspoken but as tangible as ever. If Laurie hadn't burst back into her life with typically careless lack of timing, where would she and Jay be now? Together and serious? Together and casual? Would it have turned out to be nothing more than a brief fling? God, it was frustrating, not knowing the answer.

“Robbie's brother. I thought you'd have been on the lookout for him.”

“Oh, right. Well, I am. No sign so far.” Nadia pulled a wry face. “I had to tell Clare in the end. She said if he's even remotely embarrassing, it's my job to kick him out. Basically, I'm tonight's bouncer.”

“He might not be embarrassing. See that chap over there? It could be him.”

Jay was pointing to a handsome, extremely smartly dressed man in his mid-forties.

“Nice try. Except that's Marcus Guillory, he's an antiques dealer.”

“OK. Him, then.”

“HTV newsreader.” Honestly, didn't Jay ever watch television?

“Right, what about that one?”

“God, you're hopeless at this.” Nadia gave him a sympathetic look. “I'm telling you now, Robbie doesn't have a brother who wears a purple velvet suit and a gold lamé waistcoat.”

Undaunted, Jay said, “How about the one talking to Miriam?”

“That's a woman.”

“How do you know? Could be Robbie's brother in drag.”

“It's the antique dealer's mother.” Her attention diverted by a glamorous brunette sporting a football-sized bump under her lilac shirt, Nadia said, “Speaking of mothers, how's Belinda?”

“Not too bad. Looking forward to being able to see her feet again.” Jay paused. “Missing Anthony, of course.”

“You must miss him too.”

He nodded. “Sometimes I forget. When Anthony's soccer team got beaten three nil on Saturday, I actually picked up the phone to ring and tell him what a bunch of pansies they were.” With a wry smile, Jay added, “Actually, he'd probably be glad he didn't live to see their pitiful performance.”

“Come on,” said Nadia, “let's get you another drink.”

Jay stayed where he was. “One more thing. Why are you over here and Laurie's over there? Have you finished with him?”

B-bump b-bump went Nadia's heart. She breathed in Jay's aftershave, fresh and tinged with lime.

“You have to be a couple in the first place before you can finish with someone.”

Jay's gaze didn't waver. “And? What are you going to do?”

“I don't know.” Nadia shook her head. God, this was like being on
The
Weakest
Link.

“Isn't it about time you made up your mind?”

Of course it was. But it wasn't as simple as that.

“I want another drink.” Discovering that her glass was empty, she pushed away from the pillar. “Are you going to buy a painting?”

Pause.

Finally Jay said, “I'm not sure.”

“Why not?”

“The thing is, there are a couple I like, but I can't decide. Over there.” With his glass, he indicated the paintings, which were attracting a fair amount of interest.

“Come on then, let's go and have a look. If you faff about, someone else'll get there first and you'll miss out on both of them. What?” Nadia protested, when he still didn't move.

A small smile lifted the corners of Jay's mouth. A dry, know-all smile with a hint of challenge.

“Exactly.”

Damn, thought Nadia with resignation. She'd walked right into that.

“This one,” said Annie. “This one's definitely my favorite. Look at the expressions on those faces—don't you just love the little boy hiding under the table?”

The evening was turning out to be far less intimidating than Annie had feared. Everyone was cheerful and friendly, and the paintings lining the walls of the gallery meant there was always something to talk about. Especially where Clare's pictures were concerned, each with its own cast of characters and story to tell. Discussing the hidden meanings of abstract art would have been a minefield, Annie thought with a shudder, far too nerve-racking and requiring the use of scary long words, but Clare's quirky, comical style meant you could simply enjoy her work.

And everyone did seem to be enjoying it. The man she'd been chatting with said, “And how about that baby with the dummy in its mouth? Fantastic.” He glanced at the brochure in his hand. “Clare Kinsella. She's a clever girl, I'll say that for her.”

“She is.” Annie nodded in agreement as James reappeared with a fresh drink for her, and said, “Oh thanks, darling.” Then she blushed, because she'd never actually called him darling before. It had just popped out.

“Dad, Dad.” Behind James, Clare tugged his arm in a state of excitement. “Three paintings sold already, isn't that amazing? And an agent's offered to represent me in New York!”

The man next to Annie touched her arm and said, “Sorry, I didn't realize.” Genially he added, “You must be incredibly proud of your daughter.”

Before Annie could react, Clare had swung round, her glossy hair managing to swish across Annie's face.

“Oh, please,” Clare half-laughed in disbelief, “you have to be kidding. You didn't seriously think she was my mother!”

“Sorry.” The man blinked, taken aback by her vehement reaction.

“I mean, do we even
look
alike?” Clare gestured at Annie, with her wavy reddish hair, plump curves, and mortified expression. “Apart from anything else, she's not even old enough to be my mother.”

“Clare.” James was apoplectic.

Spitefully, Clare went on, “She just looks it.”

Annie turned and fled, stumbling toward the door then out of the gallery into the street.

Into the shocked silence, James said furiously, “You've gone too far this time.”

“I don't care.” Awash with hormones, Clare defiantly stood her ground. “She's after you, Dad. She's like a limpet. I just want her to leave our family alone.”

Most strangers would have been embarrassed. Eagerly, the man waited for James to retaliate.

“You clung to Piers like a limpet.” James's voice was icy. “The difference is, he didn't want you. Nobody's going to tell me to stop seeing Annie. She's welcome at our house any time and I won't tolerate you speaking to her in that way. In fact,” he concluded, pointing a trembling finger at his spoiled, wayward daughter, “I think it's probably high time you moved out.” James turned and left, following Annie out of the gallery.

“Oh, for God's sake,” Clare sighed under her breath. At least the rest of her family hadn't been around to witness the spat.

“Family tiff,” observed the man who had caused the ruckus in the first place.

Irritated, Clare surveyed him properly for the first time. He was incredibly ugly, with the face and neck of a toad. And what he wore was frankly ridiculous, a hideous purple velvet suit with an ultra-shiny gold waistcoat. He was also perspiring freely and the neckline of his emerald-green shirt was damp with sweat. When he stuck out his hand, her first instinct was to pass him a paper napkin to wipe it with.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to shake the pudgy hand. Yurgh, wet.

“Malcolm Carter,” said the toad. “I like your work.”

Double yurgh, was he actually leering at her? Clare, who had been leered at by ugly men before, said briskly, “Well, I should be mingling.”

Malcolm blinked. “You could always mingle with me.”

I'd rather cut off my own tongue, thought Clare. Honestly, she'd gone to all the trouble of ensuring that only the right people received her invitations; clearly the other exhibitors hadn't been so fussy.

Her gaze flickered restlessly in the direction of the door; no sign of her father so far, returning with Annie. She supposed she'd have to make some sort of apology, just to keep the peace.

“I'm over here,” Malcolm prompted. As if she didn't know.

“What? Oh, sorry. It's just that I really ought to speak to the people who've bought my work.”

“Speak to me nicely and I might buy something.”

What a creep. Clare wondered whatever possessed a middle-aged man to put on a purple velvet suit and think he looked good in it. Moreover, it wasn't even a decent suit. Why should she waste another minute talking to someone like this?

“Look, I'd love to stay, but I need to see that man over there.” Vaguely she indicated Jay. “Could you give me five minutes?”

“Then you'll be back?”

“Of course.” In your dreams, Mr. Toad.

“You won't regret it.” Groping inside his jacket, Malcolm pulled out a card and pressed it into her hand. “Here, keep this anyway. Don't lose it. We should get together soon. Dinner maybe, next week.”

Good grief, was the man insane? How old was he, anyway? At least forty-five, not to mention grotesque. And he seriously thought he was in with a chance?

“Absolutely.” Clare flashed her most insincere busy-artist smile, the one involving almost more teeth than she possessed. “I'll see you around. Ooh, must catch up with… um… my friend over there. Bye!”

“New boyfriend?” said Jay.

“You're so funny. I just had to get away from him.” Clare shuddered at the thought of being snogged by Mr. Toad and his repulsive toad-like tongue. “So, are you going to buy one of my paintings?”

“Don't be shy. Just say what's on your mind.”

“Oh pleeease.” Clare clutched his arm. “Go on, you know you want to. And God knows I want you to.” Rolling her eyes, she said mournfully, “Poverty-stricken, single mother-to-be, I'm going to need every penny I can scrape together.”

She was being deliberately flippant, making light of the situation, but Jay sensed the anxiety beneath.

“Nadia told me. How are you feeling?”

Clare hesitated. How was she
really
feeling? To be honest, now that the initial shock had worn off, the prospect of a baby was no longer as horrifying as it had been. Secretly—and whether this was the hormones kicking in, she didn't know—she was beginning to feel differently about the future. Unbeknown to the rest of her family she had bought herself a book entitled
You
And
Your
Baby
, and had even felt quite maternal toward the diagrams of fetuses at different stages of development, even though most of them looked like E.T. It was all very new and strange, yet at the same time curiously moving…

Except this wasn't the image she wanted to project tonight, especially not if she was going to persuade Jay to dig into his pocket in order to keep her and her newborn babe-in-arms off the streets.

“Pretty crappy.” Clare shrugged bravely and looked resigned. Then she indicated the other exhibitors and said with a rueful smile, “But selling more pictures than those two losers would definitely cheer me up.”

***

“I'm not going back in there,” said Annie, “so don't even waste your breath if that's why you've come after me.”

“Don't be daft.” James had found her finally, waiting at the bus stop opposite the church. She was dry-eyed but trembling and clearly upset.

“She really doesn't like me. Well, that's fine, because I don't like her either. I'm sorry, James, but that's it. Pregnant or not, your daughter is a spiteful cow. And here's my bus, so if you'd just let go of my arm—”

“You're not getting on the bus. I'm taking you home,” James said firmly.

“You can't. You have to go back to the gallery. Everyone will be wondering where you are.”

“Clare's gone too far this time. I've told her she has to move out.”

The bus trundled to a halt, the doors swishing open.

“You can't do that,” said Annie. “She's your daughter. And I'm catching this bus.”

“No you aren't.”

The driver, watching the exchange with interest, said, “Getting on?”

“Yes.” Annie attempted to wrench free from James's grasp.

“No,” said James.

They glared at each other.

The bus driver, who had young children, said with exaggerated patience, “Right, I'm going to count to three. One… two…”

“Let me
go
,” Annie panted.

“I'm never going to let you go.” Without even realizing what was about to come out of his mouth, James added, “I love you.”

“…three,” concluded the driver, and the doors of the bus swished shut. As he pulled away, he tooted his horn and shot them a cheery grin.

“There's no point,” said Annie helplessly, scrabbling in her pocket for a tissue as tears began to leak from her eyes. “It's never going to work.”

“Let me deal with Clare. She's going through a rough time—”

“See? You're defending her already! She was mean to me
before
she got pregnant. She wants me out of your life and she's not going to stop until she gets her way.”

“That's not going to happen,” James insisted. “I won't
let
it happen. I've already told you, she's getting a place of her own.”

“James, listen to me. Clare might leave the house but she'll still be your daughter.”

“Sshh. Come on.” Since passers-by were starting to stare and public demonstrations of affection weren't James's forte, he took her firmly by the hand and led her back toward Princess Victoria Street, where his car was parked.

Ten minutes later they reached Kingsweston and Annie's cottage. The sun was setting now. Her hanging baskets needed watering. The look of sadness and resignation on Annie's face clutched at James's heart.

“I don't think we should see each other anymore,” she said quietly.

“I love you.”

“It's too difficult, too… complicated. Easier to end it now, before—”

“No, listen to me.” Vehemently, James shook his head. “I mean I
really
love you. And I want us to be together, more than anything. You're the best thing that's happened to me since… God, you're the best thing that's
ever
happened to me.”

“Don't, please don't. Oh hell, I can't believe I'm starting again.” Annie rubbed at her brimming eyes with the scrumpled damp tissue. “
And
my nosy neighbor's peering out of her bedroom window. Nothing she likes better than a bit of drama to gossip about.”

“Let's go inside.” James climbed out of the car, gazing pointedly at the nosy neighbor as he marched up to the front door. The moment Annie had managed to fit her key into the lock, he bundled her over the threshold and kissed her, hard.

“You're not making things easy for me,” Annie protested, when she was free to speak again. “I'm only trying to do the sensible thing.”

“Bugger being sensible,” declared James, who had spent the last forty-odd years being sensible and now couldn't for the life of him imagine why. “I'm not letting you go and that's that.”

Annie didn't speak. She couldn't. James had just told her—
three
times
—that he loved her. Theirs had been a ridiculously chaste romance to date. Having both acknowledged from the outset that they were both hopelessly out of practice, all they had exchanged so far had been kisses. She had been simultaneously grateful and frustrated. Young people these days might leap into bed with each other at the drop of a G-string, but she had never been able to do that. Love mattered. It was important to her. Sex with a virtual stranger, just for the hell of it, held no appeal.

Finding James and getting to know him properly, the old-fashioned way, had been a blissful experience. And now she was ready to take their relationship further, in the knowledge that this would only make it more perfect.

Except what was the point, when the relationship was doomed?

Annie blinked, squeezing her eyes shut and willing herself not to cry.

“James. Please.” Falteringly, she tried to explain what he was refusing to acknowledge. “I've seen this happen before. My cousin went through it. He met this wonderful girl. She was divorced, with two children. The boy was fine, no problem at all. But the girl turned into the teenager from hell. She refused to accept my cousin and tried everything to split them up. He did his best to win her over, but it was hopeless. After a year, they broke up. Just couldn't handle the stress anymore.” Annie shrugged helplessly. “And it's not only them, it happens all the time. If the children aren't happy, no one can be. The family just gets torn apart and everyone ends up miserable.”

“I love you,” murmured James.
Fourth
time, oh God, he must really mean it. “I want to be with you,” he went on, brushing a strand of damp, red-blonde hair from her forehead.

Annie melted; how was it possible to feel so loved and so unhappy at the same time? It was hopeless, a no-win situation. And James wasn't helping, stroking her shoulder like that and kissing her neck.

The thin strap of her turquoise dress slid down and Annie shakily exhaled, each kiss setting her skin on fire.

Oh, who was she kidding? Of course she wasn't unhappy. At this moment in time, how could she be?

“Not fair,” she whispered, trembling with lust and anticipation as the second strap slipped off.

“Just trying to cheer you up.” James smiled and pulled her closer. Hmm, he was definitely managing that.