Sleeping Arrangements Page 25

  Philip sat down beside her. For a while they were silent, thinking their own thoughts. Then Chloe looked up.

  ‘You were right about Gerard,’ she said frankly. ‘You were right all along—and I was wrong.’

  ‘Oh, Chloe.’ Philip put an arm round her and kissed her. ‘I wasn’t right. I had no idea all this was going to happen. I just … don’t like the guy. I’m jealous, I suppose.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘I don’t want to share you with anybody.’

  ‘No,’ said Chloe after a pause. ‘No … and I don’t want to be shared.’

  She kissed him back, closing her eyes, pressing into him with a sudden passion. Refamiliarizing herself with his touch, his skin, his smell. Like coming home.

  ‘It feels like it’s been forever,’ she murmured against his neck.

  ‘That’s because it has been for ever.’ Philip pulled away and stared at her, his eyes darkened with desire. ‘How soon do we have to leave, exactly?’

  The people-carrier was loaded to the brim.

  ‘Where are Philip and Chloe?’ said Amanda for the third time. She looked at her watch. ‘If we’re going to find anywhere to stay tonight, we’re really going to have to crack on.’

  The door of the villa opened, and Philip appeared, followed by Chloe. Both were slightly flushed.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Chloe. ‘We got … held up.’ She met Hugh’s eye and looked away again.

  ‘Right,’ said Amanda. ‘Now, where have the girls got to? They aren’t in the pool again, are they?’

  ‘I’ll go and find them,’ said Hugh.

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ said Amanda. ‘I’ll do it—’

  ‘Wait,’ said Chloe, and held out the piece of paper she was carrying. ‘I’ve written a note for Gerard from us all.’

  She unfolded the paper and read aloud:

  ‘ “Dear Gerard. Thanks for the villa! Sorry we had to leave early. We had a fabulous time. Adios!” ’ She looked up.

  ‘And then we’ll all sign.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ said Amanda. She reached for the paper and scribbled her name, then strode off towards the swimming pool. The other three looked at each other.

  ‘It’s very friendly,’ said Philip. ‘Do we want to be that friendly?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s friendly at all. I think he’ll understand perfectly,’ said Hugh. He reached for the page and signed his name, then Philip followed suit.

  ‘Good,’ said Chloe, signing with a flourish. ‘So that’s it.’

  ‘Back to real life,’ said Philip. ‘I think I’m ready for it.’

  ‘When’s your flight?’ asked Hugh.

  ‘Five o’clock. Plenty of time.’

  ‘And they changed it all right?’

  ‘Put on a small surcharge,’ said Philip. ‘That’s the price you pay, I guess. And you?’

  ‘We’ll drive around,’ said Hugh. He ran a hand vaguely over the people-carrier. ‘I’m not really sure what I want to do.’

  ‘Well, when you get back to Britain,’ said Philip, ‘be sure to give me a call. We can go down to the job centre together.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘The unemployed unite.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hugh, smiling back. ‘Absolutely.’

  Chloe looked up. Something about Hugh’s voice was wrong. And his smile.

  ‘Perhaps we’ll end up stripping for a living!’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hugh, and smiled again. ‘Maybe we will.’

  What was it? thought Chloe. Something about him just wasn’t ringing true.

  ‘Philip,’ she said suddenly. ‘Go and put this note somewhere prominent in the hall. And leave some extra money for the maid.’

  ‘OK,’ said Philip, walking towards the villa. ‘How much, do you think?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Chloe. ‘Whatever you think. And check under the beds again!’

  She waited until the door had closed behind Philip, then looked directly at Hugh.

  ‘You haven’t resigned at all, have you?’ she said. ‘You haven’t really left your job.’

  Hugh stared at her as though he’d been slapped. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  ‘Oh Hugh,’ said Chloe. ‘What have you done?’

  Hugh didn’t reply. He began to fiddle with the wing mirror of the car, his face averted from her gaze.

  ‘Hugh …’

  ‘I tried to resign,’ said Hugh in a rush. ‘I tried to. I phoned up and told the head of human resources exactly how I felt. At some length. And …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he told me to have a month off.’

  ‘A month,’ said Chloe. ‘And you agreed to that?’

  Hugh was silent. The sun passed behind a gauzy cloud. There was the distant sound of an aeroplane passing over, far away.

  ‘Chloe, I don’t want to be unemployed,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not strong. I’m not a pioneer, like you and Philip. I haven’t got your … guts, I suppose.’

  ‘What about spending more time with your family?’

  ‘I’ll do that!’ said Hugh. ‘I’ve got a month off. Everything will change.’

  ‘In a month?’

  ‘I’ll change the whole way I work. It’ll be different from now on. It will.’

  ‘Does Amanda know?’

  ‘Not yet. That’s the point. This will give her a shock. Then we can regroup, start again, do things differently …’

  As he spoke, Chloe stared at him, and felt a sudden jolt of recognition. Hugh was wearing exactly the same frozen expression she’d seen on his twenty-year-old face at the instant he’d realized who Sam was. An expression she hadn’t understood at the time, but had analysed during a thousand sleepless nights since. Ashamed, aware of his own weakness, apologetic—but determined not to let his boat capsize. The self-preservation instinct rode so high in Hugh Stratton, nothing else could compete.

  She exhaled sharply, feeling something released inside her.

  ‘You never could take that chance, could you?’ she said simply. ‘You never could take that leap.’

  Hugh took a step towards her, his eyes fixed determinedly on hers.

  ‘I would have leapt this time,’ he said. ‘If you’d said yes, I would have leapt.’

  ‘Would you?’ Chloe smiled disbelievingly.

  There was silence between them. Inside the villa, a door slammed; from around the corner, voices were approaching.

  ‘Chloe, don’t think badly of me,’ said Hugh quickly. ‘Last time we parted … you despised me. Don’t despise me this time.’

  ‘I don’t despise you,’ said Chloe.

  ‘I want you to think better of me than you did then.’ His voice was pleading. ‘Do you think I’m a better person now?’

  ‘Come on, Octavia!’ came Amanda’s voice. She was striding towards them, disgruntled children in tow.

  ‘Do you?’ said Hugh urgently. ‘Do you, Chloe?’

  ‘Chloe!’ called Amanda. ‘Chloe?’

  Shooting Hugh a helpless glance, Chloe turned her head.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Have you seen a pot of Factor Twelve sun cream? Lancôme?’

  ‘I … I don’t think so,’ said Chloe.

  ‘I know it was by the pool this morning.’ Amanda shook her head. ‘Oh well. These things happen. Now, where’s Jenna? Jenna!’

  ‘All done,’ said Philip, emerging from the villa.

  ‘Good,’ said Chloe. She shot another glance at Hugh, then moved away, towards their own car.

  Jenna and Sam appeared in the drive, both a little pink in the face.

  ‘Bye,’ said Jenna casually, and hefted her knapsack onto her back.

  ‘Bye,’ muttered Sam, and gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘See you around.’ They touched hands briefly, then moved to their respective cars.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amanda. ‘Well of course, we must all meet up. For a drink or something. As soon as the house is finished, we’ll have you over. We could make it dinner. Or brunch!’

  �
��Maybe,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hugh.

  As she met his eyes, she knew it was never going to happen. They would never meet again—at least not deliberately. Perhaps by chance. She had a sudden glimpse of them bumping into each other, in ten years’ time. At the theatre, or out Christmas shopping. Older, set into middle age; the two Stratton girls sulky teenagers. Sam well into his twenties. A surprised greeting, polite enquiries, laughter at this remembered holiday—now just an anecdote in the file. A quick, silent glance between her and Hugh. A promise to meet up again. And then away into the crowds once more.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said again, and looked away.

  ‘Right,’ said Hugh. He turned to Octavia and Beatrice. ‘All set? In you get.’

  ‘If Jenna sits in the middle …’ said Amanda, frowning thoughtfully at the car. ‘That means Beatrice must get in first …’

  ‘I want to sit next to Daddy,’ interrupted Beatrice. ‘I want to play silly faces.’

  ‘I’ll play silly faces,’ said Jenna.

  ‘With Daddy,’ whined Beatrice, and a ripple of pleasure passed over Hugh’s face, like wind across the sea.

  ‘We’ll play silly faces when we stop,’ he said, his voice light and happy. ‘I promise, Beatrice.’ He got into the car and unwound the window. ‘Bye, Philip. Bye, Chloe.’

  Next to him, Amanda was buckling her seat belt. She leaned down to get something from a bag at her feet, and Chloe moved towards Hugh’s window.

  ‘Hugh,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Hugh, what you asked before …’

  She hesitated, and he turned towards the window, his face taut.

  ‘Yes,’ said Chloe simply. ‘Yes, I do.’

  A slow, happy expression grew on Hugh’s face.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, his voice deliberately casual.

  ‘No problem,’ said Chloe. ‘Have a … have a good journey.’

  A flicker of emotion passed over his face. He nodded, then started up the car. Beside him, Amanda sat up, holding a small make-up bag, and said something to him which Chloe couldn’t hear. She turned and waved brightly at Chloe; after a pause, Chloe waved back.

  She stood quite still as the car proceeded down the drive, paused, then disappeared out of the gates. For a few moments she stared, transfixed, at where they had been. Where he had been. As Philip put a hand on her shoulder, she turned with an easy smile.

  ‘OK?’ she said. ‘No point hanging about, is there?’

  ‘No,’ said Philip, and put an arm tightly around her. ‘No point at all.’

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS. Copyright © 2001 by Madeleine Wickham. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wickham, Madeleine, 1969–

  Sleeping arrangements / Madeleine Wickham.—1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4299-2686-7

  ISBN-10: 1-4299-2686-4

  1. Problem families—Fiction. 2. Vacations—Spain—Fiction. 3. British—Spain—Fiction. 4. Chick lit. I. Title.

  PR6073.I246 S64 2008b

  823′.914—dc22

  2008012470

  First published in Great Britain by Black Swan, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, a division of The Random House Group Ltd.

  First U.S. Edition: July 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  MADELEINE WICKHAM is the author of several novels, including COCKTAILS FOR THREE, A DESIRABLE RESIDENCE, and THE GATECRASHER. As Sophie Kinsella, she has written a number of bestsellers including the Shopaholic series.

  Photo Credit: John Foley/Opale

  Visit Madeleine online and sign up for her newsletter at http://www.sophiekinsella.co.uk

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  Keep reading for a sneak peek of more

  Madeleine Wickham novels you won't want to miss!

  40 LOVE

  Patrick Chance has the perfect setting for a tennis party—his beautiful new country house complete with stable, bar, Jacuzzi, and, of course, the tennis court. As his guests gather on the sunny terrace, it seems obvious who is winning in life and who is losing. But by the end of the party, nothing will be certain. As the first ball is served over the net, it signals the start of two days of tempers, shocks, revelations, the arrival of an uninvited guest, and the realization that the weekend is about anything but tennis. In this funny, penetrating, and perceptive novel, Madeleine Wickham is in stellar form, sure to please her many fans and gain her new ones as well.

  A DESIRABLE RESIDENCE

  Liz and Jonathan Chambers were stuck with two mortgages, mounting debts, and a miserable adolescent daughter. Then realtor Marcus Witherstone came into their lives—and it seemed he would solve all their problems. But soon Liz is lost in blissful dreams of Marcus, Jonathan is left to run their business, and neither of them has time to notice that their teenage daughter is developing an unhealthy passion for the tenants, Piers and Ginny. Everyone is tangled up with everyone else, and in the most awkward possible way. A wicked comedy of what happens when deceptions are just a bit too close to home.

  WEDDING GIRL

  Engaged to a man who is wealthy, serious, and believes her to be perfect—she is facing the biggest and most elaborate wedding imaginable. Milly's past is locked away so securely she has almost persuaded herself that it doesn't exist—until, with only four days to go, her secret catches up with her.... And when “I do” gives you dÉjà vu, it could be a problem. A delightful comedy that will leave readers desperately wanting more wonderful Wickham!

  SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS

  When two families arrive at a villa in Spain for their vacation, they get a shock—it has been double booked. An uneasy week of sharing begins, and tensions soon mount in the soaring heat. But the temperature isn't solely to blame: there's a secret history between the families—and as tempers fray, an old passion begins to resurface.... Sit back, grab a cool drink, and get ready for a wonderfully wicked trip you'll not soon forget!

  THE GATECRASHER

  Fleur Daxeny goes through more rich men than she does designer hats. Beautiful, charming, and utterly irresistible, her success at crashing funerals to find wealthy men is remarkable. Fleur is not one to wear her heart on her Chanel sleeves, but she soon finds her latest conquest, the handsome and rich widower Richard Favour, more lovable than she could have thought possible. Can she trust her heart, or will she cut ties and run away as fast as her Prada pumps can take her?

  COCKTAILS FOR THREE

  Each month, three staffers of The Londoner gather at a nearby lounge for a night of cocktails and gossip. But the events of one April evening will have permanent repercussions for the trio. Madeleine Wickham combines her trademark humor with poignant insight to create an edgy, romantic tale of secrets, strangers, and a splash of scandal.

  40 Love

  It was the sort of warm, scented evening that Caroline Chance associated with holidays in Greece; with glasses of ouzo and fli
rtatious waiters and the feel of cool cotton against burnt shoulders. Except that the sweet smell wafting through the air was not olive groves, but freshly mown English grass. And the sound in the distance was not the sea, but Georgina's riding instructor, intoning—always with the same monotonous inflection—“Trot on. Trot on.”

  Caroline grimaced and resumed painting her toenails. She didn't object to her daughter's passion for riding—but neither did she comprehend it. The moment they had moved to Bindon from Seymour Road, Georgina had started clamoring for a pony. And, of course, Patrick had insisted she should be given one.

  In fact, Caroline had grown quite fond of the first pony. It was a sweet little thing, with a shaggy mane and a docile manner. Caroline had sometimes gone to look at it when no one was About, and had taken to feeding it Ferrero Rocher chocolates. But this latest creature was a monster—a huge great black thing that looked quite wild. At eleven, Georgina was tall and strong, but Caroline couldn't understand how she could even get onto the thing, let alone ride it and go over jumps.

  She finished painting her right foot and took a slug of white wine. Her left foot was dry, and she lifted it up to admire the pearly color in the evening light. She was sitting on the wide terrace outside the main drawing room of the house. The White House had been built—rather stupidly, Caroline felt, given the English climate—as a sun trap. The stark white walls reflected the sun into the central courtyard, and the main rooms faced south. A vine bearing rather bitter grapes had been persuaded to creep along the wall above Caroline's head, and several exotic plants were brought out of the greenhouse every summer to adorn the terrace. But it was still bloody freezing England. There wasn't much they could do about that.

  Today, though, she had to concede, had been about as perfect as it could get. Translucent blue sky; scorching sun; not a gust of wind. She had spent most of the day getting ready for tomorrow, but luckily the tasks she had allotted herself—arranging flowers, preparing vegetables, waxing her legs—were the sort of thing that could be done outside. The main dishes—vegetable terrine for lunch; seafood tartlets for dinner—had arrived from the caterers that morning, and Mrs. Finch had already decanted them onto serving plates. She had raised an eyebrow—couldn't you even bring yourself to cook for eight people?—but Caroline was used to Mrs. Finch's upwardly mobile eyebrows and ignored them. For Christ's sake, she thought, pouring herself another glass of wine, what was the point of having money and not spending it?