right, we’ll split up.’ Turning towards Tiffany, Francesca said, ‘I’m so sorry, Tiffany. Now you’ll have to put up with Chris. How boring for you.’
‘Hey!’ Chris protested in an injured tone.
Calum laughed and looked at Tiffany. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
Tiffany gave a great sigh of relief and pleasure and prepared to be devastating. But just at that moment Sam Gallagher strolled up to them.
‘Tiffany! So there you are. I’m afraid the ice in your drink melted so I drank it myself.’ He looked round the group, all of them regarding him with different expressions, and said a genial, ‘Hi there.’
If Tiffany had been capable of mental annihilation he would have disappeared into dust. Couldn’t the stupid man see that he wasn’t wanted, for heaven’s sake? But he just stood there, grinning amiably, expecting her to welcome him back. She sensed Calum’s withdrawal and said quickly, desperately trying to retrieve the situation, ‘This is Mr—er—I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name. One of your other guests,’ she said to Calum, with a look that disowned Sam entirely.
‘It’s Gallagher. Sam Gallagher.’ Sam held out his hand to Calum and Chris, then to Francesca. ‘I guess you must be the Princess.’
‘I guess I must be, at that,’ Francesca agreed, giving him an amused, mischievous look. ‘Have you been looking for Tiffany?’
‘Yeah. I went to get her a drink but she kind of disappeared. Found someone else to talk to, I guess.’
Chris gave Tiffany a wry smile. ‘Sorry, I didn’t intend to tread on anyone’s toes.’
Still fighting valiantly, Tiffany gave him a sparkling smile and said, referring to the way he’d bumped into her, ‘The only toes you—nearly—trod on were mine.’
But it wasn’t enough. He smiled in appreciation of her wit, but clapped Calum on the shoulder and said, ‘OK, if we have to split up, let’s go.’ And the two cousins walked off together.
If there had been a cliff handy Tiffany would have thrown herself over it. Just why was it, she wondered bitterly, that everything always went wrong for her? Just what had she done to make some cruel fate decree that every time she took one step forward she could guarantee to be knocked back to the end of the street? And just why had that same fate provided a man as thick-headed as Sam Gallagher to cross her path today of all days?
Tiffany was good at hiding her feelings, knowing that all people wanted to see was a pretty, animated face. People had enough problems of their own without being bothered by those of a total stranger. She tried to hide them as she realised that there was nothing now to stay for; she might as well leave.
But perhaps Francesca noticed, because after looking at her she said, ‘But we don’t have to split up. Come and sit with Michel and me, Tiffany. And you too, of course, Mr Gallagher.’
‘Sure thing.’ Sam put a hand on Tiffany’s arm and began to walk along with them.
She shook him off, much as Francesca had shaken off the Count earlier, and gave him a look of cold dislike. But Sam seemed immune to that too, merely giving her a lazy grin as he strode along, making her have to hurry to keep up.
Tiffany felt dwarfed by the three of them and was glad when they found one of the large circular tables with some spare seats. But there were other people already there so she and Sam had to sit on the opposite side to Francesca and Michel. As the last guests came into the garden to take their seats, she saw that the caterer, watched by Calum, was hastily ordering a waiter to lay an extra place at another table. So now the Brodeys would know that they had an uninvited guest. Just great!
A trio was playing in the background, the food on the buffet was out of this world, but all Tiffany could hear was Calum’s voice asking Chris to introduce her, and all she could taste was chagrin at the way Sam had butted in before he could do so.
The table was too wide to talk across it to Francesca; the man on Tiffany’s other side was Portuguese and his English wasn’t very good. Sam chatted to her, but she was so angry with him that at first she didn’t answer. He glanced at her from long-lashed brown eyes, then concentrated on his food. As to be expected at a party given by a wine company, there were three wine glasses and a champagne flute in front of each guest. Waiters came to fill them with each course but it took a couple of glasses before Tiffany’s bitterness melted away and she thought, What the hell? Tomorrow can go hang, just like all the other tomorrows that have come and gone. I’m here so I might as well make the best of it.
Turning to Sam, she said, ‘Sorry.’
‘Did I mess something up?’
She gave a wry laugh. ‘Not really.’ Then she sighed. ‘No, there was nothing to mess up.’ She smiled at him. ‘Why don’t you tell me about America?’
‘America is a big country to talk about. Have you ever been there?’
‘A couple of times, when I was a young child, to Disneyland for holidays. But I haven’t been to—where did you say you came from? Wyoming, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Isn’t that cowboy country?’
‘I guess you could call it that. There are certainly a lot of cattle ranges there.’
He began to tell her about it and she listened, at first politely, but then with growing interest. Sam had a way with words, could use them to paint a picture in her mind. He was amusing, too, so that for a while she forgot her troubles and lived in his world, which seemed infinitely preferable to her own. But then, few were not. She laughed at Sam’s description of a rodeo he had attended once and, feeling herself watched, glanced across the table. The Count and the other man beside Francesca were both momentarily occupied by the people on their other sides. She had her eyes fixed on Tiffany and Sam, her head slightly tilted as she contemplated them and listened to Sam’s deep tones. When Tiffany looked at her Francesca raised a suggestive eyebrow towards Sam, the question clear.
Tiffany shook her head the slightest fraction, letting her know she wasn’t interested. Although she could have been, could have really enjoyed Sam’s company, if he hadn’t shot her ploy to pieces. Even though he was good-looking and a pleasant lunch companion, she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him for that. It had meant so much—this last, desperate chance to earn some money.
Lunch came to an end; people began to get to their feet, to talk in clusters again for a while as they drank a last glass of port, deep amber-coloured this time, then drift towards one or another of their hosts to say goodbye before leaving. A feeling of fatalism stole over Tiffany: she had absolutely no idea how she was going to get out of the mess she was in. She had given it her best shot but it hadn’t worked, thanks to Sam. Excusing herself, she went in search of the ladies’ room, and found that a downstairs cloakroom in the house had been set aside for the purpose. Even the cloakroom took her breath away. There were beautifully draped curtains at the window, ornamental French hand-basins with gold taps, a dozen bottles of good perfume and hand lotion for the guests’ use. How the other half lived, Tiffany thought with irony, remembering the shabby, antiquated bathroom she had to share with a dozen others, and that covertly. By nature fastidious, she thought that that was perhaps the most difficult thing to bear.
She washed her hands and applied
