The Perfect Retreat

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN




‘Morning,’ said Jack Reynolds, Willow’s co-star on her new film. She clutched her coffee cup, just like Jinty did her dummies.

‘Yes; morning,’ she said shyly.

Jack Reynolds was the biggest star in Hollywood, a definite ladies’ man and a philanthropist. He lived in Italy most of the year and only worked when the film intrigued or challenged him. The film he and Willow were starting was a small independent project with a first-time director and a small budget. She had done it on the advice of her agent and Lucy, who was fast becoming the most valuable person in Willow’s life.

Now Janis and Alan had headed back to New York, leaving Willow on her own. And with no sign or word from Kerr, Lucy became like a partner and a parent to her in so many ways.

She read scripts, gave fashion advice – which Willow still thought was amusing from a woman who only seemed to own one handbag – and even worked as an emergency babysitter when Willow’s nanny fell down and sprained her ankle. More than that, she and Lucy were friends and almost equals. Willow trusted Lucy completely and liked sitting and nattering about the day or their lives over cups of tea in Willow’s comfortable home. Her taste had become somewhat restrained as a result of her tight budget, but it was nothing that wonderful use of paint and carefully chosen furniture couldn’t disguise.

‘Pink!’ exclaimed Lucy when she walked into Willow’s newly painted kitchen.

‘Yes! I always wanted a pink kitchen,’ said Willow, smiling at the work around her. ‘Kerr wanted a black one at the other house. So dreary,’ she said.

‘It works,’ said Lucy, laughing.

‘I know, it really does. I love it; it makes me happy,’ said Willow.

‘Then that’s what’s important,’ said Lucy wisely.

Willow had made her own coffee in her pink kitchen. Part of her budgeting was not to give in to the ‘latte lifestyle’, as her accountant called it, and so she had taken hers in a flask to the film studio to start work with Jack. It was a relatively short shoot for her, just two weeks in the studio, but she was looking forward to it. A wordy and witty script in her natural accent. She had fun learning the lines.

Jack was supposed to be a dream to work with, she had heard, and she smiled at him warmly. They had had dinner when he first arrived in London at a Dean Street eatery. It was supposed to be quiet and private but the paparazzi had found out somehow and they were besieged when they left.

Jack had been attentive and interested in her when they ate, but she had the feeling it was purely professional and she was grateful. After Richard she had steered away from dating.

She had even said in an interview with Harper’s Bazaar that she was over men and would remain single for the rest of her days; instead she would focus on being a doting mother and hopefully, one day, a grandmother.

Jack sat in the makeup chair while Willow sat next to him.

‘What gives?’ he asked as he folded his paper away.

‘Nothing. I’m so tired. I was up all night with my baby – she has a case of the night terrors,’ she said as she closed her eyes while the makeup was applied.

‘Ah yes, one of the many reasons why procreating is not for me,’ he laughed. ‘I like my sleep too much. Don’t you have a nanny?’

‘When I work, yes, but not at night,’ said Willow.

Jack made a surprised face, which Willow didn’t see.

‘Hey, what are you doing tonight?’ he asked quickly.

‘Nothing; sleeping, looking after kids. Why?’ asked Willow with interest.

‘I’m having a dinner, thought you might like to join. Just me and a few friends. One of them is in a play in the West End and I thought we could meet them for a late supper,’ he said casually.

Willow thought about her options. What else did she have to do besides feed, bathe and get three children to bed? She hadn’t been out for anything other than work and public appearances in a long time – she longed for a fun night.

‘If I can get a babysitter,’ she said, wondering if she could get the nanny to work a few hours late. The new nanny was nowhere near as accommodating as Kitty, she thought. Kitty was always available; always saying yes. She had taken her for granted and then treated her like shit. Just thinking of it brought a flush of shame to her cheeks.

She had wanted to write her a letter, but Kitty wouldn’t be able to read it. She couldn’t call her because she didn’t know where she was, and there was no way she would ring Merritt to find out. Not that he would tell her anyway.

The rehearsal started and then they were straight into filming; there was no budget to discuss options. Willow worked hard but it was fun with Jack. He was hilarious and clever, and she knew her acting improved as the day went on.

Thankfully the nanny had agreed to stay the night, and Willow left the set with instructions to meet Jack at ten o’clock at J Sheekey.

Willow dressed carefully, so as not to look too overdressed for the London theatre crowd. She found an old Stella McCartney dress in pale olive green silk chiffon, pleated, full skirted and tied under the bust. It was elegant and diaphanous, with a touch of the goddess about it when Willow let her hair down. With her favourite Yves Saint Laurent heels and a delicate diamond bracelet from Richard, she was ready to go.

Slipping on her warm Prada coat and picking up her Marni handbag, she jumped into the cab she had ordered, ignoring the surprise of the taxi driver at having someone so famous sitting on the back seat.

‘I picked up Michael Caine a little while back,’ he said once they’d started to drive.

‘Oh right,’ said Willow. ‘How was that?’

‘He was very pleasant, very nice fella,’ said the cabby. ‘You off to see a play then?’

‘No, meeting friends,’ said Willow, wondering who Jack’s guests would be.

‘Got a boyfriend yet?’ asked the man.

‘No,’ laughed Willow. ‘You single?’

‘Nope, not me. I got a wife and three kids,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying but I think you’re well rid of him.’

‘Who?’ said Willow. Did he mean Merritt? she wondered.

‘Your husband,’ said the man as he turned into busy traffic.

‘Ah yes,’ she said, careful to not be drawn into anything she might regret seeing in the papers later.

‘I saw him a while back, maybe three weeks ago. Drove him to Heathrow,’ he said. ‘He was rude. Not at all up for conversation.’

Willow’s ears pricked up with interest. ‘Where was he flying to?’ she asked.

‘International. Let me think … America,’ said the man.

‘Was he alone?’ asked Willow.

The man paused. He didn’t want to say too much, but she was such a nice young lass, he thought. ‘I’m afraid not. He had a woman with him; she was in black and white I remember. She was rude too.’ He shook his head in disgust at the disappearance of manners in cabs and Willow sat back, thinking about Kerr and Eliza. So they had gone to America, she thought. No wonder she hadn’t heard from him. No doubt he had had an offer he couldn’t refuse, and Willow’s money was not enough of an enticement for him to stay.

‘I’m sorry, love, if I upset you,’ said the man, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Not at all,’ smiled Willow genuinely. ‘You have done me a huge favour actually,’ she said as the cab stopped in front of the restaurant.

She paid him and tipped him generously although he insisted it wasn’t necessary, and she took his card. ‘I will be sure to call you when I need a lift anywhere,’ she said; and an update on my shit of an ex-husband, she thought.

Walking into the restaurant, she saw Jack at the table with a woman with her back towards her. She walked over. All eyes were on their table. ‘Willow,’ said Jack, and he kissed her cheek in greeting. ‘Rose Nightingale, this is Willow Carruthers,’ said Jack proudly.

Willow smiled hello and sat down next to Jack. She knew Rose Nightingale – she was England’s Meryl Streep. She had married a Hollywood movie star, divorced him and spent ten years working on her career. Then she had met Max on the set of a film with Jack, and the rest, as they say, was history. Max had brought three little boys to the marriage after his first wife had died, and Rose and Max had since had twin daughters, who were about Jinty’s age.

‘Willow. I am such a fan of your work,’ said Rose warmly, and soon they were talking like old friends. Max was in a play and would be meeting them soon. Willow and Jack and Rose screamed with laughter at everything; they gossiped and chatted. Rose was exactly what Willow needed.

‘How long are you here for?’ asked Willow to Rose.

‘About two months,’ said Rose. ‘The children are in school here and I’m playing house with the twins and doing a bit of snooping around to see what films are coming up that I might be interested in.’

‘Twins! I don’t know how you do it,’ said Willow, imagining two of Jinty, who that morning had poured chocolate syrup into the kitchen of Poppy’s dollhouse.

‘I don’t do it by myself,’ laughed Rose. ‘I have nannies and I have a husband.’

‘Yes, well I have a nanny but no husband,’ said Willow, with a roll of her eyes.

‘No one on the horizon yet?’ asked Rose.

‘No; I did see someone but it didn’t work out,’ said Willow, wondering why she was telling Rose.

‘Richard Devon wasn’t it?’ asked Jack.

‘How do you know that?’ asked Willow.

‘I read the gossip columns,’ said Jack with a shrug of his shoulders.

Willow tried not to laugh at Jack’s admission of gossip guilt.

‘No, it wasn’t Richard; that was just work.’

‘Then who was it?’ asked Rose, leaning forward. Since her marriage to Max, her goal was to have everyone paired off; she was like Noah’s wife on the ark.

‘He’s nobody, he’s not famous,’ said Willow laughing.

‘What does he do?’ asked Rose.

‘He’s a gardener. He designs gardens,’ said Willow.

Rose frowned. ‘Not Merritt Middlemist?’ she said. Willow nearly dropped her wine.

‘How did you know? How do you know him?’ she asked.

‘Merritt designed my garden in LA. Amazing work,’ she said to Jack. ‘Wow, he is sexy,’ said Rose knowingly.

Willow took a deep breath inwards as she allowed herself to be reminded about Merritt while Rose rhapsodised to Jack about him.

‘He is super handsome, tall, strong, cool. Knows bloody everything about plants and wears the hell out of a pair of jeans. And those hands … Jesus, I was pregnant when he did the house and I was so goddamned horny all the time, I made Max get out in the garden and trim the roses, so to speak, and then come and take me like Lady Chatterley,’ she said, sitting back against the banquette.

Willow laughed, despite her heartache over Merritt. Jack sat back too. ‘Jesus. You make him sound so good I might ask for his number.’

Rose laughed and waved her napkin at him. ‘Silly man,’ she said as a tall man came to sit beside her.

‘Darling, guess what?’ she said.

Max looked at Willow. ‘Hello! Max Craydon,’ he said.

‘Willow,’ she answered.

Rose interrupted. ‘Willow was seeing Merritt Middlemist,’ she whispered.

Max made a face at Willow. ‘Lucky you! He was all she talked about when he did our garden with his team. I ended up having to wave a chainsaw around with no top on to outdo him,’ he said, and they all laughed.

‘So, what happened?’ asked Rose.

‘Nothing; it just didn’t work out, that’s all,’ said Willow vaguely.

‘What a shame,’ said Rose. ‘I hear his paintings are about to go to auction.’

‘His paintings?’ Did Merritt paint? she wondered.

‘Yes – the art world is abuzz. Apparently they found over seventy paintings of his great-great-grandfather or something. His wife had painted over them.’

‘Eliza?’ asked Willow.

‘Eliza? Who’s Eliza? No, his great-grandfather’s wife painted over them. And anyway they found them underneath and they’ve had them restored. He’s selling them soon; two weeks I think,’ said Rose. ‘He’s going to be rich after they sell. There’s a big interest in Victorian Romanticism. I might have a look actually,’ she said.

Willow listened with interest. ‘How did they find them? How did they know?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know any more than that. There was an article in the Independent about it – you could probably find it if you looked it up online.’

Willow thought about the computer she had left at Middlemist. She would buy a new one tomorrow, she thought as they ordered.

The dinner was wonderful and Willow found the company stimulating and hilarious. When they left, the paps were there as they said goodbye to Rose and Max at the door. Willow kept her head down low as Jack hopped into a cab with her.

‘Hello again.’ She looked up and saw the cabby from earlier in the evening.

‘Oh hi,’ said Willow.

Jack looked at her. ‘Where you headed?’ he asked.

‘Home,’ said Willow, nervous. There had been no frisson between them at the restaurant, and she wondered now if he would try something and whether she would knock him back. It had been a while since sex with Merritt and she missed it – the sex, she thought, but not Merritt. Ah f*ck, who the hell was she kidding; she missed Merritt also.

‘I’m at Blakes. Mind if you drop me off?’ he asked.

Willow sighed with relief. ‘Of course not,’ she said, and they chatted companionably with the cabby as they headed towards his hotel.

He kissed Willow’s cheek as he left the car. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, and she waved him goodbye.

The cabby pulled out again into traffic and headed in the direction of Willow’s home.

‘I picked him up the other day,’ said the cabby.

‘Really? What a coincidence,’ she said, looking out of the window.

‘He was with his boyfriend though.’

She looked at him. ‘I don’t think Jack Reynolds is gay. I’m pretty sure of it,’ she said.

‘Oh right,’ said the cab driver. ‘He had a nice young Italian man with him; an actor. Dante or something. Oh well, I must have been mistaken,’ he said as he drove. But he knew he wasn’t. Twenty years of driving cabs taught you a thing or two about people, and he knew a gay man when he drove one. And he knew a heartbroken woman when he drove one, he thought as he glanced at her in the mirror.

Shame, he thought as he dropped her off; young, beautiful and all alone. The world wasn’t fair. And all the while Willow was thinking that she must remember never to drive with that cab driver when she had a secret; it would be all over town by the end of his shift.