The House On Willow Street (8 page)

When Tawhnee had arrived in Kearney Property Partners straight out of college, she’d been assigned to Mara.

“I can’t hand her over to any of the men,” Jack had confided to Mara at breakfast one day when she’d stayed over at his place and they were having coffee and toast before rushing to the office.

“Why not?” Mara had demanded.

“She’s too good looking. And young, very young,” Jack had added quickly when Mara had poked him with one of her bare feet. “She’s just a kid, right? Twenty-three or -four. I need a woman to take care of her. I need lovely you to do it.”

“Lovely me?” Mara got off her seat and slid onto Jack’s lap.

He liked her body on his, her curves nestled against his hardness.

They’d woken at six and made lazy, sleepy love. She felt adored and sensual, like a cat bathed in the sun after a hot day. Jack didn’t invite her to stay over often and never midweek, so it was a real treat.

“Yes, lovely you,” Jack said, and kissed her on the lips.

“I’ll take care of her,” Mara said, visualizing an innocent young graduate who’d gaze up to her new mentor. In fact, Mara had had to look up to Tawhnee, who was at least five nine in her bare feet. She was an object of sin in a dress and during the five days Mara mentored her, not a single man—from client to colleague—could set eyes on Tawhnee without their jaw dropping open.

“It’s sex appeal, that’s what it is. Raw bloody sex appeal,” Mara told Cici, her flatmate.

“So? You’re not the Hunchback of Notre Dame yourself,” snapped back Cici. “She’s nothing but a kid.”

“You are not getting the picture,” Mara said. “This girl is Playboy fabulous. I have no idea why she wants to work for us. She could earn a fortune if she headed to a go-go bar.”

“She might want to make money from her mind,” Cici pointed out loftily. “You’re labeling her. I was reading a thing on the Web about how beautiful women aren’t taken seriously and other women are jealous of them.” Cici loved the Internet and had to be hauled away from her laptop late at night to get some zeds.

“True. I’m being a cow,” Mara said, sighing. “I’ll try harder.”

She didn’t have to. Tawhnee was suddenly and mysteriously whisked away to work with Jack.

He was director of operations. It was unusual for such a lowly trainee to be working with Jack, but as he said himself: “She needs to get to grips with this side of the business. What
film should we go to see tonight? You pick. We’ve gone to loads of films I’ve picked. It’s your choice.”

In retrospect, she’d been very trusting. All the “
let’s go and see a film
” and “
shall we have dinner out
” had kept her fears at bay. Her boyfriend was being ultra-attentive, therefore there was no way he could be lusting after Tawhnee, even if every other man in the office was.

Like,
hello!

And then it was too late.

Mara was under her desk, trying to find her favorite purple pen when two of the guys came into the office after an auction.

“Lucky bastard,” said one. “I wouldn’t mind doing the tango with Tawhnee.”

“Yeah, Jack’s always had a way with the girls. I thought Mara had settled him down, but a leopard—”

“—doesn’t change his spots,” agreed the other one.

“And she’s hot. An überbabe.”

“Mara’s lovely and she’s great fun but not—”

“Yeah, not in Tawhnee’s league.
Who is
, right? Don’t get me wrong, Mara’s cute and she can look sexy, it has to be said, but she wears all those mad old clothes and she is short. Basically, compared to Tawhnee, she’s . . .”

“Yeah, ordinary. While, Tawhnee, phew! She’s so hot, she’s on fire.”

“Yeah, spot-on. Tawhnee’s a Ferrari, isn’t she, and Mara . . . Well, she’s not, is she?”

Under the desk, Mara wanted to dig a hole so deep that she came out in another country. Another planet, even. She stayed where she was for a few moments, like an animal frozen in pain. It was hard to know what hurt most. The realization that Jack was indeed cheating on her with Tawhnee, or the knowledge that the men she worked with and
lunched with and joked with saw her simply as an ordinary but occasionally sexy girl who liked “mad old clothes.” All those times she’d thought she’d pulled it off and camouflaged herself successfully into something different—something chic, elegant, stylish—with her fabulous vintage outfits, she’d been wrong.

Talent, kindness, laughing at their bad jokes . . . none of it meant anything compared to being tall, slim and hot. She was ordinary beside the Ferrari that was Tawhnee.

She waited till the phone rang to crawl out the other side where a handy filing cabinet hid her, and ran from the room to find Jack.

He was in his office alone, eyes focusing on his mobile, texting. At the door, Mara stared at him and wondered if she’d been nothing more than a diverting, wait-till-the-Ferrari-comes-along girl for him too.

He’d said he loved her, loved her shape, her petiteness; he’d called her his pocket Venus, and said he hated skinny women who nibbled on celery.

“You grab life with both hands,” he’d murmured when they were lying in bed after the first time they made love.

“And I eat it!” said Mara triumphantly, wriggling on top of him to nuzzle his neck. She’d never met anyone who shared her sensuality until she’d found him. They were so well matched in many ways, but none so much as when they were in bed.

For the first time in her life, Mara Wilson had met a man who loved her as she was—with the wild, red curls, an even wilder dress sense and an hourglass body, albeit a short one. Jack adored her 1950s clothes fetish. He told her she looked fantastic in fitted angora sweaters and tight skirts worn with red lippie, Betty Boop high shoes and eyeliner applied with a sexy little flick.

And all the while he probably thought she was ordinary too. She was his ordinary fling while he waited for something better to come along.

“Yes?” he said now, without looking up from his phone.

Mara said nothing and Jack finally flicked a gaze at the door.

“Oh, hi, it’s you.”

Swiftly, he pressed a couple of buttons, deleting or getting out of whatever text he’d been writing, Mara realized. He smiled guiltily at her and that’s when she knew for sure. It took one look at his face to know the truth.

“Is it true?” she asked. “About you and Tawhnee?”

“I’m sorry,” he said feebly.

“Sorry? Is that the best you can do, Jack?” she asked quietly. She wouldn’t shout. Not here. She would leave with dignity.

“I wanted to tell you for ages,” he insisted.

“Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged.

Mara felt curiously numb. This must be shock, she thought.

“I’ve got a headache. I’m going home now.

“Of course,” Jack said. “Take tomorrow too. Er, headaches can really get you down . . .”

She left and grabbed her things from her desk. The guys were chatting.

“Hi, Mara, what’s up?” said the one who’d called her ordinary.

She looked at him through the haze of numbness, then stumbled from the room.

Cici had volunteered to go with Mara to the wedding.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll look totally sad if I come with you. No offense, but coming with a female friend is like
wearing a badge that says
I’m a loser who couldn’t get a date.
Brad Pitt is about the only man I could bring and not look like a sad cow.”

“Okay then, but promise me you’ll dance like there’s nobody watching,” Cici added.

“Isn’t that the advice from a fridge magnet?” Mara demanded.

“Fridge magnets can be very clever,” her friend replied. “
A clean kitchen is the sign of a boring person
, and all that.”

“True.”

There was a pause.

“I always danced like there was nobody watching,” Mara said mournfully. “Jack loved that about me. He said I was a free spirit. Although not as free as Tawhnee.”

“She was obviously free with everything, from her favors to her skirt lengths,” Cici said caustically.

Mara smiled. That was the thing about a good girlfriend: she’d fight your corner like a caged lioness. If you were injured, she was injured too and she remembered all the hurts and would never forgive anyone for inflicting them on you.

“She has great legs,” Mara admitted.

“All people of twenty-four have great legs. It’s only when you get to thirty that your knees sag and the cellulite hits.”

Cici was thirty-five to Mara’s thirty-three and considered herself an expert on aging issues. Mara could remember being mildly uninterested when Cici had complained about cellulite spreading over her thighs like an invasion of sponges. Then one day, it had happened to her and she’d understood. Was that to be her fate forever—understanding when it was too late?

The wedding band were murdering “I Only Have Eyes for You” when Jack appeared beside her, urbane in his dinner jacket.

“Mara, you look wonderful.”

Mara had maxed out her credit card on a designer number from an expensive shop that catered to petite women. She’d been going to wear one of her vintage specials, but she hadn’t the heart for it: she’d show Jack and everyone else that she could do “normal” clothes too. So at great expense, she’d bought a bosom-defying turquoise prom dress worn with very high, open-toed shoes. She’d curled her hair with rollers and clipped it up on one side with a turquoise-and-pink flower brooch. Her lips were MAC’s iconic scarlet Ruby Woo, her seamed stockings were in a straight line, and she knew she looked as good as she could. Not mainstream, no, but good. Not
ordinary
, she hoped.

“Would you like to dance?”

Dance with Jack?

It must be a dream. A very strange dream, she decided. Soon, a big white rabbit would appear, along with a deranged woman screeching “Off with their heads!” and possibly Johnny Depp wearing contact lenses and a lot of makeup.

Still, even if it was a dream, she’d go along. Nobody could think she was a bad loser if they saw her dancing with her former lover.

“Of course,” she said, beaming at him.

Smile all the time
, had been Cici’s other advice.
If you stop smiling, even for a minute, they’ll all be sure you’re going to cry, so smile like you are having the time of your life.

Amazingly, Jack seemed to be buying the fake grin and grinned right back at her.

Mara steeled herself for a speedy and guilty whisk around the dance floor. Tawhnee was sure to be watching, narrow-eyed. She might be young and beautiful, but she wasn’t stupid.

However, instead of the expected quick dance, Jack held Mara very close.

Mara’s ability to smile despite the pain inside cut off suddenly.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped at him.

“Do what?”

He was still smiling, seemingly perfectly happy.

Jack loved a party and what he loved even more was one of
his
parties. His wedding party would therefore be the ultimate in all-about-himness.

“Smile at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you weren’t my boyfriend for two years and didn’t dump me for Tawhnee, like that.”

“Oh.”

Even Jack’s skin wasn’t thick enough for that to bounce off.

They twirled some more, stony-faced now. Jack loosened his grip. Mara knew she should say nothing, but she couldn’t. Her mouth refused to obey. Instead of hissing
You bastard!
which had been on the tip of her tongue for some time, she demanded: “Why did you invite me?”

“Why did you come?” he countered.

“Because if I didn’t come, everyone in work would think I was bitter and enraged.”

“But—”

If Jack had been about to say “obviously you
are
bitter and enraged . . .” some part of his brain kicked in and told him not to.

“I wanted us to be friends,” he said forlornly.

Friends! After two years of thinking he was the love of her life, now he wanted to be friends.

Suddenly, Mara no longer cared what it all looked like.

She pulled herself away.

“Goodbye, Jack,” she snapped, and stormed off in the direction of the French windows.