‘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 Arpege, 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?’
