Love, Lies And Louboutins

Chapter 3

It was half-past eight on Friday night and raining when Jools Beauchamp answered the doorbell. “Dad! I didn’t think you were coming.” It was his turn to have her for the weekend.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he entered the hallway and shook the rain from his umbrella. “There was an accident on the A4, and of course I caught every light. How was school?”

Jools shrugged. “You know. It was…school. I’m studying for a history test on Monday. The ancient Greeks.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Herodotus and Pythagoras, Euripides and Sophocles…”

She gathered up her things; a rucksack stuffed with clothes and her iPod (she loved that new song by Christa, “Promise Me Stars”) and called out over her shoulder, “Dad’s here, Mum. We’re leaving.”

“Bye, darling,” came her mother’s disembodied voice.

“Have fun.” In a slightly less friendly voice she said, “Hello, Oliver.”

“Hello, Valery. I’ll have her back on Sunday evening.”

With that, he opened the door and held out his hand for the rucksack. “Give me that. You take this.” He handed Jools his umbrella. “Let’s make a dash for it, shall we?”

Jools unfurled the umbrella and pelted down the path, following her dad as he sprinted through the downpour to the car, a black Peugeot RCZ. As he unlocked the boot and threw her rucksack in, she hurled herself onto the passenger seat and slammed the door, breathless.

“Wow. Nice, Dad,” she said, impressed. She breathed in the new-car smell and settled back against the Napa leather bucket seat. “It’s much cooler than the old Merc.”

“Yes, well,” he said as he slid in next to her and started the engine, “I felt it was time for a change.”

“Mum says you’re going through a mid-life crisis. Are you?” she asked curiously, and glanced over at him.

He shifted gears with rather more force than necessary. “Of course not,” he said irritably. “I’m still a bit young for a mid-life crisis, at any rate.”

Jools stared out the window as the rainy streets slid by. “So where’re we going? You missed the turning to Lambeth.” That’s where his flat was.

“I thought we’d go straight on to dinner. Since I’m a bit late,” he added. “Is J Sheekey all right with you?”

She turned away from the window and stared at him. “It’s only my favourite restaurant, which you know very well.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the occasion?”

“There’s someone I want you to meet.” He kept his attention focused on the road ahead. The windscreen wipers swished rhythmically back and forth, as if saying “clear the rain, clear the rain,” over and over again.

Uh-oh, Jools thought as she crossed her arms against her chest, here we go. Let “Operation: Introduce the New Girlfriend” begin…

She already suspected her father was seeing someone; the last weekend she spent at his flat, she’d found a cosmetic bag with tampons and a lipstick stashed under his sink, and she noticed new cushions – lime-green – tossed on the sofa. Dad would never buy cushions – much less lime-green ones – on his own. And there was a carton of soya milk in his fridge. He despised soya milk.

“Really? And who is it you want me to meet?” Jools enquired, hoping she sounded indifferent (which she wasn’t) instead of curious (which, despite herself, she was).

“Her name’s Felicity,” he replied, “and she’s anxious to meet you. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.”

Jools turned back to the window. The glass was blurred with slanting lashings of rain. “Does Mum know?”

He glanced over at her. “Julia, your mother and I are divorced. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that,” she retorted. “And it’s ‘Jools’, by the way, not Julia any more. I’ve told you.”

“So you have. Sorry, Jools it is.” He stopped the car at a junction and waited as a couple, dressed up for a night on the town, made their way across the road. “Your mother and I are both seeing other people.”

Jools thought briefly of Marcus Russo, her mum’s new boyfriend. He might be a famous television chef, and he might even be fit, for an older guy, but he wasn’t dad. And he never would be.

“So…does mum know about your girlfriend?” Jools persisted.

“I expect she does, yes.”

“And what exactly does Felicity do?”

He paused. “Do? Well, she’s, er, she’s a teacher. She teaches.”

“What form? What does she teach? Not maths, I hope.”

“Upper sixth.” He cleared his throat. “She teaches Latin.”

As Jools pondered this, he turned into a car park and searched for an open spot. She couldn’t help wondering what she looked like, this new girlfriend of her father’s.

Was she one of those brisk, smartly dressed professional women one saw striding down the City pavements with a briefcase in one hand and a mobile phone tucked under her chin? Or was she a more boho type in swirly skirts and sandals?

Once he’d parked, they got out of the car and made their way across the street into the restaurant. Jools saw a slender woman with blonde hair and enormous blue eyes standing near the door. She wore a grey pencil skirt, a lavender cardigan, and kitten heels.

She was pretty. And oddly familiar…

Jools came to a stop. “Miss Brightly?” she blurted, confused. “What are you doing here?”

Miss Brightly was Jools’s former Latin teacher, and her presence here in J Sheekey was…well, wrong, somehow. She was meant to be standing in front of a chalkboard in the classroom, her hair held back with an Alice band, her hand upraised to write ‘Amos Amas Amat’ or ‘Study for upcoming gerund test on Wednesday’…

… not standing here in the restaurant, an uncertain smile on her lips, waiting for Jools’s father to say something.

The question was barely out of her mouth when she realized with dismay that Miss Brightly was her father’s new girlfriend. She was the one they’d come here to meet.

As Jools stood there, stupidly staring, her dad made the introductions. “Actually, I believe you’ve already met,” he said, in an awkward, jokey way that wasn’t the least bit funny.

“Hello, Oliver,” Miss Brightly murmured, and then turned to Jools and held out her hand. “Hello.”

Jools took it briefly. She saw, in the glance they exchanged, that Miss Brightly understood her confusion. “Hi,” she mumbled.

“It’s lovely to see you, Julia.”

“It’s Jools now, actually,” she said coolly, and dropped her hand back to her side.

“Oh.” Miss Brightly looked taken aback for a moment, then quickly regained her composure. “I’m sorry. Jools it is.”

“Let’s go in the bar to wait for our table, shall we?” Oliver said tightly, and put his hand at the small of Miss Brightly’s back. He gave Jools a pointed look over his shoulder.

She hadn’t much choice but to follow.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jools demanded later, when she and her father returned after dinner – minus Miss Brightly – to the car. She got inside the Peugeot and slammed the door shut. “You might have warned me you’ve been doing my Latin teacher.”

“Mind what you say, Julia,” he said sharply. “I did tell you, and I also told you she taught Latin—”

“Only because I asked,” she pointed out acidly. “And you called her ‘Felicity,’ Dad. To me, she’s only ever been ‘Miss Brightly.’ I don’t know what her first name is.” Jools scowled out at the dark, rain-slick streets. “God! That was the most painful dinner ever.”

“You didn’t make much of an effort.” His words were tight. “I must say, I’m disappointed in you, Julia. Felicity did her best to draw you out, but you responded in monosyllables, like a sulky child. There was no call to be rude.”

“I wasn’t rude. I was gobsmacked!” She turned towards him in the darkness. “Has she moved in with you yet, then?”

He slowed the car as they approached a roundabout. “No. But she will do, and soon. So you’d best get used to the idea.”

Have I a choice? Jools nearly said, but didn’t.

So… not only was mum seeing that insufferable television chef, Marcus Russo, now her father was about to move in with her sixth-form Latin teacher. Shit, what a turn up. Why couldn’t her parents work out their problems, like all the other happily married couples in the world?

They rode the rest of the way back to Oliver’s flat in silence, and the only sound was the swish of the windscreen wipers and the hiss of tyres against the rainy street.

Oh, well, Jools thought grimly. At least he didn’t ask me about my new boyfriend, Adesh.

Chapter 4

“And…that’s a wrap. Thanks, everyone.”

Wearily, Marcus took off his apron and tossed it aside. Thank God he wasn’t on the call sheet for tomorrow; the crew was filming an interview with the owner of a local cider press for the next segment of his weekly cookery show. He picked up his mobile and scrolled with his thumb to Valery Beauchamp’s number.

“Marcus!” Pleasure warmed her voice as she answered his call. “I didn’t expect to hear from you until tomorrow at the earliest. Are you done filming?”

“Yes. We wrapped a day early. Miss me?” he asked as he took a diet soda from the set’s refrigerator and took a swallow.

“That goes without saying, my darling.”

He smiled. He loved the plummy richness of her accent, so redolent of Oxford, and so different to his own. “What are you doing? No – let me guess. You’re having a glass of Cab Sauv and making edits to the latest issue, flagging pages with Post-Its and slashing paragraphs with red marker pens.”

Valery’s laugh was low and throaty. “You’re amazing. And exactly right.” She paused. “Oliver just came to pick up Julia – pardon me, Jools. He’s got her for the weekend.”

“Jools, is it? Since when?”

“Since last week. I tell you, that girl…” she sighed. “She wants no part of editorial work or fashion and regards my career with the utmost scorn. But I suppose I can’t complain, really, because she’s exactly like I was at that age. She likes to push me as far as she possibly can. Like she’s doing with this new boyfriend of hers, Adesh Patel.”

“And what does Oliver say about that?”

She snorted. “Oliver? He doesn’t know. If he did, I daresay he’d pack her off to Switzerland post-haste.” Her voice softened. “Are you coming down to London, then? We’ll have the place to ourselves until Sunday evening.”

“I should be there by noon tomorrow. We can have lunch somewhere – I’ll let you choose – and then we can do whatever you like.”

“In that case,” she murmured, “we’ll spend the entire afternoon in bed.”

He laughed. “I can’t think of anyplace – or anything – I’d rather do.”

“Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams.”

“G’night, love. Until tomorrow.”

Still smiling, Marcus rang off and remembered how he and Valery had met. He’d barged into her office at BritTEEN magazine determined to find his runaway daughter, Poppy.

“All right, Mr Russo,” the editor-in-chief said as she turned to face him, “let’s cut the crap. We both know you’re not here for an interview.” She crossed her arms and added acidly, “We’re a teen magazine. Our readers want to read about boy bands, not Michelin-starred chefs.”

“I don’t care what they want to read,” Marcus growled, his face inches from hers. “I want to find my daughter. Poppy’s only seventeen, and she’s run away from home.”

He’d eventually tracked his daughter down, and after years of neglect spent chasing after those damned Michelin stars he’d scaled back on his business commitments and worked hard to rebuild his relationship with Poppy.

On impulse, he scrolled to her number. “Poppy?”

“Dad? Wasn’t expecting to hear from you today.”

“Hello, darling. Just calling to tell you I love you.”

“I…I love you, too.” Her voice wobbled.

Immediately alerted that something was wrong, Marcus said sharply, “What’s the matter?”

She sniffled. “Nothing, really. Just…today was a really crap day at school, and then,” she drew in a soft, shuddery breath “and then Jez broke up with me.”

“Oh, sweetheart – I’m sorry. I know you really liked Jeremy.”

“I did. He was different to the others. Or at least,” she added bitterly, “I thought he was.” She paused. “His family’s moving house.”

“Are you at school now?”

“Yes. You said you wouldn’t be home at the weekend, so I couldn’t see the point in going back to Aughton to be alone there, when I can just as easily be alone h-here.”

Marcus let out a short breath. “Pack your things. I’m coming up to fetch you.”

There was a beat of silence. “What?” A note of hope was contained in the word. “But - you said you’re filming, you’d be busy—”

“I know I did, but things have changed. We’ve wrapped early. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Okay. I’ll get my stuff packed.” Poppy paused. “Thanks, Dad.”

“No worries, love. We’ll spend the weekend together. Have fun. See you soon.”

He rang off and sighed as he scrolled back to Valery’s number. She wouldn’t be happy to learn he wasn’t coming, that much was certain, but it couldn’t be helped. Poppy was heartbroken. She needed her dad. Marcus knew what he was giving up – a weekend spent in bed with Valery, crumb-laden sheets, reading the papers together over coffees on Sunday morning – but he was gaining something more important…

…time with his daughter, precious time; and a chance to make amends.

“Valery,” he began as she answered his call, “it’s me again. Listen, about this weekend…”

Chapter 5

The minute Jools returned home late Sunday afternoon, her mum appeared in the front hall, coffee cup in hand.

“Where’s your father?” she asked.

So much for ‘hello, darling, and how was your weekend?’ Jools thought, and dropped her rucksack on the floor at her feet. “He went back to the car to get something. Mail for you that came to his by mistake, I think.”

She knew by the arch of her mother’s brow and the ever-present cup of coffee in her hand – one of many today, no doubt – that she was over-caffeinated and spoiling for a fight.

“Have you been working?” Jools asked warily.

“Yes, I have. Someone in this household has to earn money to pay your outrageous school fees next year.”

She bristled. “Dad’s paying my tuition, too, and I’ll get myself a job—”

“You can’t work a job and be a full-time student, Julia. Not if you expect to succeed, that is.”

Oliver pushed the door to and stepped inside. “Hello, Valery.” His expression was cautious. “What’s going on? Why the raised voices?” He handed his ex-wife several envelopes. “These are yours, I believe.”

“Mum’s on at me about school fees again,” Jools muttered, and rolled her eyes skyward. “She’s in a mood, as usual.”

“Don’t roll your eyes,” Valery snapped. “It’s rude. And don’t speak as if I’m not in the room. I won’t have it. I’m still your mother and as such I deserve respect.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.” Jools glared at her. “I was speaking to dad.”

“I don’t think Jools meant any disrespect,” Oliver said. “She was just making an observation, that’s all.”

“Yes, take her side, like you always do.” Valery’s words were like acid, corrosive and destructive. “That’s why she’s so difficult now – because you’ve always spoiled her and made me out to be the bad parent because I’m the one who has the balls to discipline her!”

“That’s not true,” he said, his tone reasonable despite the anger her words stirred in him. His glance went to her coffee cup and back. “Perhaps you need to cut back on that a bit.”

“Perhaps I need to switch to bourbon instead.” And she turned on one stockinged foot and stalked off to the kitchen.

Oliver and Jools exchanged glances.

“Will you be all right?” he asked softly.

She nodded, resigned to her mum’s moods. “I’ll be okay, I’m used to it. It’s probably Marcus. They must’ve had a row. Or maybe,” she added, “she got word that yellow is the new black,” and attempted a smile. “She hates yellow.”

Oliver grinned. “She does. It’s far too cheery for the likes of her.” He reached out and chucked her under the chin. “I’m off, Lady J. Try not to upset your mum.”

“I’ll try. But no guarantees.” She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him goodbye. “Thanks, dad. See you next time.”

He kissed her back and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

With a wary glance in the direction of the kitchen, Jools went upstairs to her bedroom and called Adesh.

“Hey, Jools, what’s up?” he asked. “Just got back from your dad’s, then?”

“Yeah. Great weekend it was, too. I met his new girlfriend.” Jools added, “It’s Miss Brightly.”

Adesh let out a snort of laughter. “Wasn’t she your Latin teacher last year? Cripes.” He paused. “I’ve heard she’s pretty hot, though…for a teacher, anyway.”

Jools rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling. “I can’t even imagine her and my dad shagging. Ugh.”

“So don’t think about it.”

“Easy for you to say,” she retorted.

“Look, I have to go to Deepa’s, mum’s out of fenugreek and the local shop’s closed. You want to go?” Deepa was Adesh’s aunt. She lived in Bethnal Green.

“I can’t, I’m still grounded,” Jools grumbled, and sat up. “Because of you, I might add.”

“So? Just sneak out, like you did last time. Your mum’ll never know, she’s always on the phone anyway.”

That was true enough. Even when she wasn’t at the magazine, Valery was usually on the phone with to her assistant Holly, or tapping away ferociously at her laptop, responding to emails. She wouldn’t miss her daughter for a half hour or so.

“Okay. Pick me up on the corner in five minutes.”

“Nat,” Rhys said as he came in the bedroom late Sunday afternoon and handed her mobile over, “it’s for you. It’s Gemma.”

His wife Natalie, propped up in bed with masses of pillows and an assortment of baby catalogues and magazines, looked up in surprise. After Gemma and Dominic’s splashy Christmas wedding in Scotland, the pair had disappeared off the public radar; in the interim, she and Gemma had lost touch.

It wasn’t surprising, really, she reflected; Dom and Gem were newlyweds, after all. And with her own baby on the way, Natalie’s days were filled with pre-natal appointments and shopping, and reading books about childbirth, and training herself to eat Brussels sprouts a bit more and Dairy Milks a bit less.

“It must have to do with that singer, Christa,” Nat murmured as she took the phone. “The tabs say she’s taken off on Dominic’s private jet – with Dominic.”

“Yes, and Gemma’s furious,” Rhys confirmed. “She took her wedding ring off at the office Friday and told me they’re through.” He sat on the bed next to her. “That’s the first sensible thing she’s done since she married the little twit.”

“Gemma,” Nat said cautiously into the phone, “hi, it’s me. What’s going on?”

“We’ve separated, Nat,” Gemma bleated, and burst into a series of hiccupping sobs. “Not even married six months yet, and Dom’s run off with another woman! And not just any woman – he’s run off with a bloody pop star!”

Natalie made soothing, shushing noises until Gemma’s sobs and hiccups subsided somewhat.

“I don’t believe it,” she told Gemma firmly. “Dominic loves you, Gem. After all those other women, he married you. He’d never do something like this unless he had a very good reason.”

“Do you…do you really think so, Nat?” she asked doubtfully, and blew her nose.

“I do. Trust me – there’s more to this story than meets the eye.”

“So what’s fenugreek?” Jools asked as she climbed into Desh’s second-hand Skoda and settled in next to him.

“It’s a spice.” He shifted gears, and with a wheeze and a puff of exhaust, they were off. “Mum uses it a lot in her cooking. So… you’re grounded, then? Because of me.” There was an edge to his voice.

“Not because of you, exactly,” Jools hedged. “It’s not a race thing. It’s because of the ‘sneaking out without asking’ thing.”

He slanted an amused glance at her. “You mean like you’re doing right now?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

He parked in front of Deepa’s house a short time later, and Jools glanced around uneasily. The east end of London was thirty minutes and a lifetime away from Maida Vale. Immigrants, many of them Bangladeshi, lived cheek by jowl with halal grocers, balti houses, crowded markets, tower blocks and council estate housing. Gang graffiti was sprayed on the brick wall across the street. The light faded as they stepped out of the car.

Deepa’s house was narrow and dark. “Are you sure she’s home?” Jools asked Adesh uncertainly.

“No,” he said, unconcerned, “but even if she isn’t, we can wait for a few minutes. She might be in the kitchen, making jaangiri. If she is, you’re in luck.”

“What’s jaangiri?”

Adesh paused on the pavement to thrust his wallet into his back pocket. “It’s cake. It’s really good.”

“If you say so.” Personally, Jools had her doubts. She glanced down the street, and her uneasiness returned. She saw a couple of men on the corner, talking in low voices and smoking. They eyed her in the gathering dusk, then looked away.

“Come on, then.” Adesh held out his hand.

She took it and followed him up the short path to his aunt’s front door, and waited as he knocked. There was no answer.

“She’s not home,” Jools said after a moment, secretly relieved. “Let’s go.”

“Hold on, she’s probably round back in the kitchen. Give it another minute or two.”

She shifted from one foot to the other. “I really can’t hang around long, Desh. I’ve got homework yet to finish, and if mum catches me out, I’ll be grounded until next year. Come on, let’s go.”

Jools released Desh’s hand and turned to head back to the Skoda to wait. Halfway down the path, the darkness in front of her suddenly gathered itself into a solid mass as two shapes loomed up before her. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand immediately darted out to cut off the sound, and she smelled the scent of Turkish tobacco and tasted grease and the salty tang of sweat on her assailant’s skin as he pulled her back hard against him.

She struggled frantically to free herself from his grip, and cried out as he yanked her arm up and back. The pain made her sick to her stomach. But no one could hear her; in the darkness, no one could see, either, as she and Adesh were dragged, twisting and kicking, to the corner, and shoved into a white van.

Once inside, someone grabbed Jools’s hair and pulled her head back. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes. A scarf – smelling incongruously of Chanel No. 5 and motor oil – was tied roughly around her eyes. She was thrust forward and landed on her knees in a corner, where she huddled, blind and terrified. Jools heard the scrape of the van door shutting, felt the rumble of the engine, and the van lurched forward.