tomorrow?’
‘Working.’ Lola shuddered, because tomorrow was going to be hell on wheels; when she was crowned Queen of the World, opening shops on Boxing Day wouldn’t be allowed.
‘Friday?’
‘Working:
‘Saturday?’
‘I’m not working on Saturday.’
‘How about Blythe? Would she be free then?’
‘As far as I know’
‘OK, now listen,’ Nick said slowly. ‘How about this for an idea?’
But before he could tell her what it was, there was a knock at the bedroom door and Blythe poked her head round. When she saw Lola’s mobile, she said, ‘Well, that’s a relief, I thought you were talking to yourself! Who’s that you’re on the phone to?’
Um ... ‘Gabe’
Her mother, who was fond of Gabe, said brightly, ‘Say hi to him from me!’
‘Mum’s here.’ Lola gripped the phone tightly as she spoke into it. ‘She says hi.’
‘Am I Gabe?’ Nick sounded amused. ‘Say hi back. And wish her a merry Christmas from me.’
OK, this was seriously weird now. ‘He says hi, and merry Christmas.’
‘Tell him I hope he’s had a good day.’ Blythe smiled broadly. ‘Tell her very good, thanks,’ said Nick. ‘All the better for hearing her voice.’
‘And I hope he’s been behaving himself,’ said Blythe.
‘She hopes you’ve been behaving yourself.’ OK, enough now. Nick sounded as if he was smiling. ‘Oh yes. Tell her I haven’t been arrested in years.’
If there was anything more manic than working in the West End after Christmas when the sales were in full swing, it was shopping in the West End after Christmas when the sales were in full swing. Elbows were out, toes and small children were getting trampled on and everyone was carrying bags of stuff they’d either just bought or had been given for Christmas and were about to take back. And it was worth queuing for forty minutes to return a load of clothes to Marks and Spencer’s, because who but a fool would want to keep them, when the exact same items were now half price on the rails, enabling you to buy – ha! – twice as many? This was Blythe’s favourite bit.
‘Mum, we’ve been shopping for three hours. My feet hurt. My back’s starting to ache.’
‘Lightweight!’
‘And I’m thirsty,’ Lola said whinily.
‘We’ll buy you a bottle of water.’ Her mother was in the grip of buying fever; her eyes were darting around, greedily taking in sequinny sparkly tops, dresses awash with flowers and frills, things with spots and stripes and fringes ... OK, some of the colours might be iffy, but they were reduced in the sale .. .
‘And I’m hungry,’ Lola pleaded. Sono hungry. Mum, if youmake me carry on shopping now, I’ll last another hour. But if we stop for a proper rest and have something decent to eat, I’ll be set up for the rest of the day’
Blythe heaved an impatient sigh. ‘You were easier to take shopping when you were in a pram.
OK, we’ll eat. Where d’you want to go?’
‘Marco’s,’ Lola said promptly. ‘We always go to Marco’s.’
‘Are you sure? It’s a ten-minute walk from here. We could just go to the cafe downstairs.’
‘Oh no, no.’ Lola shook her head. ‘Because then you’ll just try and fob me off with orange juice and a prawn baguette. We’re going to Marco’s and we’re going to have chicken cacciatore and a nice glass of red, just like proper ladies who lunch.’
The restaurant was busy, warm and welcoming. Lola slipped her shoes off under the table and took a big sip – OK, maybe slightly bigger than a big sip – of Merlot. ‘Oh, this is better. My feet thank you. My stomach thanks you. Are we both having the chicken?’
‘Fine by me. Steady with that wine, love. You’re glugging it down like water.’
It was one o’clock. Lola felt the butterflies start up in earnest; any time now, her mother was going to find out why.
She saw him twenty minutes later through the full-length front window, making his way across the street. Blythe, sitting with her back to the entrance, was chattering away about holidays. Lola took a deep breath; in an ideal world her mother’s hair would be just brushed and she’d be wearing rather more make-up, but short of lunging across the table and forcibly applying a fresh coat of lipstick to her mouth, there wasn’t a lot she could do about it. Yeek, and now the door was being pushed open, here he came, it was really going to happen.
‘... so I said I’d think about it, although I’m not sure it’s really my thing.’ Blythe wrinkled her nose. ‘I mean, hill walking in Snowdonia. In big clumpy hiking boots. Sleeping in a tent, for heaven’s sake! Would you say I was the tenty type? It’s all right for Malcolm, but where would I plug in my hairdryer? And what happens when I need to ... to ...’ Her voice trailed away and the piece of chicken she’d been about to eat slid off her fork. All the colour abruptly drained from her face, leaving only freckles behind.
Nick, standing behind Lola’s chair, said, ‘Hello, Blythe.’
Chapter 26
Blythe was in a state of shock. For a split second Lola thought she might bolt from the restaurant. Then, visibly gathering herself, she managed a fixed smile. ‘Nick, what a surprise.
How nice to see you.’ Even her voice sounded different. ‘How are you? Looking well.’ Her shoulders were stiff, her jaw clenched with terror; mentally she was screaming go away, go away, please go away.
