The Sex Was Great But... (8 page)

Holly gasped. “Oh, my God!” Her face went green and she slumped, but she didn't look surprised.

“Larry, can I call you back?” Nancy asked as she sat by Holly and took her hand.

Holly looked pale. “It's happening all over again,” she murmured trancelike, slumping farther down into the sofa.

She seemed to get smaller and smaller as Nancy explained the ins and outs of what her mother's actions would mean for Holly, and outlined the damage control strategy that Larry was putting into place. I just sat opposite, watching Holly shrink.

My mum used to shrink when she was upset. Mind you, when she was pissed off she could tower over people like a super-sized human.

“Why does she do this to me? This is just like when she—”

Nancy cut her off. “Sorry, babe, but it gets worse. The interview is just a teaser for her show.”

Holly looked like she'd been struck. “What show?”

“ABC have offered your mother her own show. A kind of middle-aged-female-Jerry-Springer sort of thing. Her first show is going to be aired in direct competition with
MakeMeOver
next season. She's going to confront the issue of Hollywood Princesses and how their careers impact on their families. I need a cigarette.”

“You're kidding.”

Nancy stood up, wrapped her arms around herself and gazed out over the view. “'Fraid not. They're billing it as ‘Catherine Klein takes on the spoiled youth of America.'”

I thought Holly was about to cry.

“But her name isn't even Klein; it's O'Reilly!” I pointed out stupidly, standing there like a walk-on in a soap opera.

My depressing train of thought was broken by Nancy twirling a lock of my hair in her fingers. “More than ever now we have to hope our Knight in Shining Armor can save us.”

Holly gave me a look, but I didn't know what it meant—it was a look that flashed between a glare and a glance.

“Poor Holly,” Nancy sighed as Holly walked out of the room. A few seconds later she followed.

I waited alone, with the half-empty tequila bottle in the cold, dark room, and tried but failed to stay awake. The heroics of the day were taking their toll and I was getting an early hangover from the tequila. When neither of them had come back after an hour, I took myself out to the poolhouse.

Unfortunately I didn't know where any of the outside lights were, so I tripped down the slope, guided only by the lights that lit up the pool. I felt around for switches inside
the poolhouse, but no luck. In the end I settled for crawling my way to the futon, where I collapsed, totally whacked.

There were no blankets or pillows, but I was so tired that I fell asleep in my clothes. Actually, they were the clothes I'd appropriated from Holly's ex-lover, Ted, and for some pathetic reason I didn't understand this made me feel smug. I fell into a deep, contented sleep almost immediately.

I don't know how much later it was when I was woken by the presence of someone else in the poolhouse. My body tensed as I peered into the darkness.

“Leo…are you awake?” Her voice was tiny, almost inaudible.

I said hi into the darkness as I struggled to remember where I was.

“I brought you some sheets and blankets.”

I sat up, adjusting my eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings. “Thanks. You didn't have to.”

There was a glow coming through the wooden shutters from the lights in the pool—barely enough to make out a human outline where she stood at the foot of the futon. I waited for my eyes to adapt before saying anything else. At one point I thought I could hear her heart beating, but it turned out to be my own. I thought of asking her to turn the lights on, but she seemed so content just to sit there that I thought it best not to intrude. So I sat there with her, not knowing what to do or say and with no understanding of what was expected of me.

“Are you okay?” I asked eventually.

“Yes,” she whispered.

I wanted to ask why we were whispering, but there were
so many things I didn't understand about her world—like why her boyfriends left their clothes, why they sold secrets about her to the press, why when she had so much money other people told her what to do. Why her mother wanted to mess her about.

“Are you sure?” I whispered back. “You sound upset.”

“A bit.” She sat down at the other end of the futon and I got my first whiff of her smell—like lemons that have just been cut. I knew as I inhaled her that night that I would never get enough of that smell. It wasn't just the perfume she was wearing. It was her.

“Sorry about…you know…whatever happened in there. That stuff about your mother,” I said lamely. I felt uncontrollably tired—the darkness and the silence seemed to engulf me. Also, my face was hurting again. I wanted to curl back up and fall asleep, but I sensed Holly wanted more than slumber from me, and I wanted to give more—whatever more was. “Has your mum…you know…has she done stuff like this before?”

Holly made a noise in her chest that might have been a groan, but could have been one of those bitter laughs I'd heard her use when we were discussing Ted. It was a laugh that kind of imploded and fell back in on itself.

I waited patiently for her to say something else. It was a while before I realized she was crying. She's one of those quiet criers—hardly any noise at all, just occasional muffled little gulps for air.

When I cried as a kid, my mum never asked me what was wrong—never said dumb stuff like “Are you okay?” when it was clear I wasn't.

It was a good strategy on her part, because I was never
really sure why I was crying anyway—and even if I was sure I probably wouldn't have wanted to talk about it. When you're crying and someone asks you why, their concern just feels like another pressure. I don't think telling people why you're crying helps even when you get older, although maybe you get better at giving satisfactory answers.

My mum used to put her arms around me when I cried and ask me for a cuddle. Like
she
was the one who was upset. Like
she
was the one who needed to be held. Wiping away my tears, I'd give my mum a cuddle and she'd squeeze me hard, like she really needed me.

Cuddling my mum when I was sad made me feel like I was part of something bigger than whatever it was that had upset me—the marbles I'd lost, or the kid who'd walloped me in the playground and nicked my lunch, or the poor mark I'd got in spelling. Sometimes I'd even say, “It's all right, Mum,” totally forgetting that she was cuddling me because I'd been the one bawling my eyes out.

So instead of asking Holly why she was crying, or saying something dumb, I asked her if she would hold me. She didn't need a lot of coaxing. Her arms flew around my neck like I was some kind of life raft. I was almost afraid she was going to choke me. Only I didn't want to move her, so I just did that shallow breathing thing I'd seen junkies doing in films.

I stroked her back while she sobbed into my neck, and even though my face was going blue for want of air I felt like the luckiest man alive. Only not as lucky as when she kissed me.

So that was where and how and why we first did it. Really did it. Illuminated by the blue lights of the swimming
pool, we snogged, and then over the next few hours we explored one another's bodies. It had to be the longest running foreplay in the history of the world. I didn't get bored or agitated, like I normally do when I'm dying for penetration. It was dead romantic, I guess, apart from when she called me Ted. But I wasn't going to dwell on that. Not yet.

I
crept out of Leo's place at dawn, just like I've crept out of a hundred (well, maybe not as many as a hundred) guys' apartments, villas, houses, hotel bedrooms and mansions before. But here's the thing right…Leo's “place” was
my
poolhouse. And Leo was a down and outer, a guy I'd met while he was scrounging spare change and I'd just made eat-your-heart-out
9 ½-Weeks
love to him. Sex like I've never had it before. All-night, leave-your inhibitions-at-the-door sex.

At one point when I was going down on him I wondered what the magazine pollsters would make of it all, be
fore reminding myself how shallow it was to be thinking about magazine polls when you're giving head.

The sex—okay, I could just about deal with that. The part I couldn't square with my conscience, though, was the conversation with him afterward.

“Tell me something,” he whispered in my ear.

And so I did. I told him shameful, honest things that I've never told anyone. Things not even my emotional anarchist knows about. When we fell asleep it was in a tangle of limbs, hair, lips, heartbeats and secrets.

It was only when the cruel dawn light started peering through the wooden shutters that I realized what a horrible mistake it all had been. I'd just got jiggy and emotionally incontinent with an itinerant, and, as much as I blamed the emotional turmoil of my traitorous mother, the tequila, and Leo's eyes, most of all I blamed myself.

I peeled myself off his body, wrapped one of the sheets that had been ejected during the passion of our lovemaking around me, and tiptoed out. I dashed across the lawn, red-faced with embarrassment, terrified that Joseph or Conchita might spot me.

What had I done? What was I going to do? I couldn't even believe I'd done it, really. And not just done it, but initiated it! Relieved that Conchita wasn't up yet, I sneaked into my bedroom suite and took a shower. My yoga teacher was due in an hour and a half, and I took so many deep cleansing breaths I really did hyperventilate—well, nearly.

I remembered the day before, but even the image of Leo attacking me armed with his torn cereal packet couldn't make me smile. My sense of humor had been replaced by fear. I was literally fucked. Last night I'd had his testicles—
the same ones I had virtually screwed off him earlier that morning—in my mouth. What was I going to do?

I knew precisely what I was going to do. Leo would have to go. It was as clinical as that. I'd give him some money. However much it took. I'd send him back to London, where he couldn't do any harm. I'd discuss it with Jade or Abby or Sienna or Cameron or Sloane—or all of my PAs at once—and they'd talk to someone else I paid to look after me (whose name I didn't even need to know) and between them they'd sort it out. Better still, I'd put that new girl Rosie onto it. She used to work for Clinton.

My hand was shaking as I applied my moisturizer. I heard Conchita bustling around and so I had her make me coffee. I hadn't drunk the stuff for months, but I hadn't slept much and I needed all the help I could get to face the inevitable showdown I'd be having with Nancy as soon as I called her to give her the news.

Nancy could have the showdown of the century if she wanted, I told myself. I didn't care. I wasn't budging. Leo had to go. I speed-dialed her house and Nancy picked up after three rings.

“You've just interrupted the best dream I've ever had in my life. This better be good, whoever you are.”

“It's Holly. Sorry to wake you, but this is important. I've been up all night and I've come to a conclusion.”

“This isn't sounding like something I want to hear without a large dose of vitamin C.”

“I'm sorry, Nancy, but with everything going down with Catherine I've decided I can't cope with the Leo project right now. I don't think using Leo on
MakeMeOver
is going to work, so I'm sending him back to London today.”

There—I'd said it! It was done and I was free. The line was drawn.

“Sorry, babe, what was that? I was just taking out my earplugs so I could hear you properly. What were you saying?”

“Leo… I don't think…”

“Mmm, I was just dreaming about how great that show is going to be. What a star you are, discovering that boy. He's the answer to all our prayers—especially now Catherine has gone national.”

This was going very badly. “It's not going to happen,” I told her, then I repeated my speech, only this time it came it sounded vaguer and crazier. I was stuttering and blabbering. Once I'd finished, I waited for her to say something, but the phone seemed dead. Surely she hadn't missed my big speech again? I couldn't face having to repeat it for a third time.

“Nancy? Did you hear what I just said?”

“He can stay here if you don't want him at your place, but FYI I am determined to do this project, with or without your support.”

“Excuse me? Did you just say FYI?” I couldn't believe it, Nancy hated that term almost more than I did. We both thought it was so pretentious.

“With or without you. I'm serious, Holly. With…” (pause for effect) “…or…” (pause for effect) “…without you.”

I reminded her that “With or Without You” was a U2 song, but she didn't laugh. “Okay, then,” I told her. “If you're going to play hardball, let me just say that as co-producer and co-creator and president and whatever other
half-dozen or so titles I have at Holly Productions, FYI,
forget it.
It's not going to happen. Leo's flying out to London
tonight.
”

In all our time together, Nancy and I had never spoken in italics or pulled rank. Who had more power on the show might be a moot point, but if push came to shove it was probably me. Nancy might be the one with the certain opinions, and the one bossing me around, but that was mostly because I liked it that way. Decisions aren't something I'm drawn to. Like I said, I prefer delegating. That way I don't get the stress and someone else gets the blame. Well, that's the idea anyway.

Nancy didn't say anything for a bit, but when she did speak she used the tone she always uses when she's so determined to get her way she's prepared to break bricks with her bare hands to do it. She repeated her offer to have him stay with her, but that filled me with even more dread than having him stay with me. What was my problem—was I jealous?

“Send him round to me. You don't want him there with you, and, besides, I can give him a comfier bed than that horrible futon. He can even share my bed if it comes to that. Joke.”

An image of Leo and me rolling around on the futon the night before flashed through my mind. I didn't mean it to happen. I'd gone outside to take him some blankets and then when he held me against his chest and it was warm and safe and lovely it was like… I don't know what it was like. Yes, I do, it was like someone had switched my skin to “on” and my brain to “off.”

I really hadn't—cross my heart and hope to die—meant
it to happen. I was sure of that much the moment it was over. As I lay across his chest in the aftermath of passion, listening to his heart beating under my ear and thinking how nice it was that my own heart was beating at the same rate as his, I had no regrets. But I had oh, so many regrets now. I hadn't meant it to happen.

But it had happened, and the worst thing was, if I was honest with myself (which was something my previous therapist highly recommended), I was longing for it to happen again.

Leo wasn't going anywhere. But somehow I was going to have to get him to agree not to mention to anyone what happened last night.

“I still think this is a mistake, but if it's going to happen he may as well stay here,” I told her firmly.

“If you're fine with that—otherwise my offer stands. He's welcome here. Before the call from Larry came last night I was having a ball with Leo. He's so funny, don't you think? Really funny. Not in a ha-ha way, just the way he talks and the way he reacted to all the stuff we were saying. He's so natural. And a natural storyteller too—that story he told us about his mom and his aunt driving back from the music festival that time. So funny.”

I agreed he was funny, but I couldn't remember the actual story. “And that smile of his is so great—apart from the fact that I am coming over today to take him to my dentist. He needs major work, darling. And I mean major. After that, I might take him off your hands for the evening and seduce the pants off him. Joke.”
She laughed at this last remark as if she really was only joking.

“I don't think that would be such a good idea, Nancy.”

“Why not?” She sounded truly shocked that I might have a problem with it. Normally I wouldn't. Nancy has always been carnivorous where men are concerned. As a vegetarian, Nancy always boasts that the only meat she eats wears Calvin Klein. Besides, we've never had the same taste in men.

It's an immutable fact that girls can't be friends with other girls if they like the same sort of guys. Nancy likes her men keen and preferably in awe of her. I, on the other hand, while wanting my men to look good, also want them to have achieved something and to be someone—i.e. I want them to bring something to our PR table.

I don't just want sex in a relationship. Sex is overrated, in my opinion. Way, way, way overrated. Although an image of Leo going down on me sent a frisson of excitement through my groin.

“Well, it might get messy, that's all,” I told her primly.

“Messy? In what way?”

“Just messy. You might screw him around emotionally.”

“It's not his emotions I want to screw around with, Holly.”

“Well, he might have feelings.”

Nancy giggled. “He's a guy, Holly! Guys don't do feelings, remember?”

“Just don't do it, okay?” I insisted, my tone dripping with all the urgency I had being trying to keep out of it.

“As if I would. Like I said, I was only joking. The press would destroy us if a story like that got out.”

I suddenly realized how right she was.

After my yoga lesson, I had Conchita make breakfast for Leo, who was still asleep. I took it down to the pool
house myself, so we could have a talk. He sat up as I opened the door.

“I brought you some breakfast.”

He was looking kissable in that way people who have just woken up always do. “You're kidding? I've never been brought breakfast before. Well, apart from a cup of tea and a biscuit when I had mumps once. But this is…amazing. And I bet the tea bag isn't even floating on top.” He was so adorable.

“It's coffee.” I put the tray down beside him without looking him in the eye. I couldn't.

“Hey, come here,” he said, reaching out to take me in his arms.

“Leo! Don't! Look—listen. About the, erm…incident last night. About what happened. We need to talk.” I couldn't believe those words were coming out of my mouth. Men have been saying “we need to talk” to me all my life, but I can't remember having used those words myself before.

“I like you, Leo, I like you a lot. But—”

Leo looked furious. “Holly, stop! Two things. Firstly, I know what you want to say and, second, let me save you the trouble.”

“I just think it would be best if we pretend last night didn't happen and try to be a bit professional…”

He was definitely glaring at me now. “I said, I can save you the trouble.” He stood up—totally naked—and for a nanosecond I almost started having second thoughts. Not because his body was so gorgeous and totally toned and desirable and I was now regretting “the talk.” No, I was having second thoughts on how I'd gone about “the talk” and where it was about to lead.

Nancy would kill me if he left like this. She'd ask questions—really, really difficult questions—and when put under pressure I always tell the truth. I'd crumble and admit that not only did I have sex with him but I had “messed him round” the way I had suggested she would.

“Don't go,” I pleaded. “I'm not saying last night wasn't great, it's just…um…” My train of thought had totally gone. “Too, well, too complicated. Let's just draw a line under it and go on as friends.”

He didn't say anything. He was still trying to put on Ted's chinos, only he'd put them on back to front and was now having to take them off again. Only at the time I didn't find it funny because my heart was racing about how much trouble I could potentially be in with Nancy. In Hollywood speak, I was already inventing my back story.

Leo didn't find his back-to-front pants funny either. Not remotely. He started to curse, and then he started to pull them off again. In the struggle, though, the pants got all tangled up, and he was so annoyed he tried to kick them off. But his efforts sent him tumbling onto the bed, knocking the breakfast tray as he fell.

So that was how I went wrong for the second time. But what could I do? There he was on the bed, on his back, his legs trussed in the air like a chicken waiting to be stuffed, the pants still stuck around his knees. We both started laughing and he grabbed my ankles and pulled me down on top of him, rolled us over so he was on top of me, and started kissing me like…I don't know.

I can't describe it; I'm too much of a WASP to find metaphors for things like emotions and sex. I leave all that stuff to the greeting card people and
Playboy.
Be
sides, I'm determined to keep the whole thing a big mushy secret.

Let's just say he kissed me, and I haven't got precisely the right adjective but his lips did something to my lips that no one's kisses have ever done before. They fit perfectly onto my lips like they'd been custom made for them.

He lifted up the Anna Sui top I was wearing and with a dexterity men with only two arms and one tongue don't usually have he unhooked my bra, and then he sat back and gasped.