‘None taken.’
‘But I still don’t get why on earth you would want a pretend girlfriend.’
‘Because it would make my family happy.’ His sigh contained exasperation, but affection and warmth, as well. ‘They were genuinely so thrilled that I might have found someone.’
‘Did Edna Harris mention the bunny suit?’
‘Yup. But I don’t think they would have cared if you were naked.’
Had he really said that? Naked? The two syllables resonated in the air, evoking images he quickly censored. Move along.
‘My sisters were happy I’d lightened up and met someone “fun”. My mum was happy I’d met anyone, because she’s worried I’ll never get over Claudia.’
Do you think you will? She bit back the question. None of her business. God knew she didn’t like discussing her own personal circumstances, her own losses and how she’d dealt with them. So instead she picked up a piece of pizza and contemplated him over the rim.
‘I get that you want to make your family happy.’
Hell, she’d do anything for her grandmother. Anything at all. The familiar twinge of intertwined love, guilt and worry twinged her nerves. Her grandparents had used up their pension, the equity in their house on her—the cost of bringing up a child as they’d entered their seventies had taken a huge financial toll on them. Then, when her grandfather had died, his pension had stopped.
And now... Well, Gabby squirrelled away as much of her salary as she could for the future that she knew was imminent—the time when her grandmother would need more and more help at home to retain her independence. A time when there might be no choice but to find a residential care home. After all, Lucille had turned ninety the previous month.
Gabby would be more than happy to move in with her grandmother right now, but Lucille flatly refused, informing her that she didn’t need to be tied to an old lady—she needed to be living her life and enjoying her youth. Nothing would budge her.
‘Gabby?’
‘Sorry. The thing is that, however much you love your family, faking a relationship is a little extreme. Plus...surely it’s wrong.’
‘Wrong in what way?’
‘Well, it’s an outright lie, for a start. But it’s not only a factual lie. It goes deeper. You want to make them believe that you’re getting over Claudia, that you’re moving forward, when you aren’t.’
‘I have got over Claudia. In the sense that I am not still in love with her or her memory. But my family won’t accept that—they want proof, and the only proof I can offer them is a girlfriend.’
Gabby shook her head. ‘But if you’re over her, why not open yourself up to the idea of a real relationship? With someone you really like as opposed to a virtual stranger whom you kissed to help her out.’
For a treacherous instant the kiss returned to her mind, replayed in full neon pink bunny-suited glory. And in that instant a small voice from the deep recesses of her brain screamed at her to shut up! Questioned why she was having some sort of moral, intellectual discussion about this. Hell, if this man wanted a fake girlfriend, so what? She should take the opportunity and run with it.
Run where? interjected the voice of reason. Towards more kisses? That would be plain stupid.
‘My reasons for not wanting another relationship are personal. My objective here is to combat my family’s worries. And, from an entirely selfish viewpoint, I’d like them to cease their matchmaking efforts, which, frankly, are driving me nuts.’
‘But...it won’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because presumably you don’t want to continue this fiction for ever. So what happens a few months down the line when we split up? They’ll start worrying again. Even more than they are now. Because if you dump the fake girlfriend—FG for short—then they’ll think it’s because of Claudia. And if FG dumps you, they’ll be worried that you’re heartbroken. Lose-lose.’
‘I’ve thought of that. I’d make it clear from the get-go that the relationship isn’t serious for either of us. You or me. It’ll be a bit of fun, an interlude...a first step on the relationship ladder.’
To her surprise she felt a pang of hurt at the implication that that was all she could be. Get real, Gabby—talk about oversensitivity. This was a fictional, hypothetical scenario. Yet the idea of playing the role of ‘an interlude’ didn’t appeal. Shades of her childhood. To her mother she had been an unfortunate interlude, not a commitment.
Aware of his scrutiny, the small crease on his forehead, she shook her head. ‘There is no “us”—this is a hypothetical question about you and FG.’
He raised a hand in mock surrender. ‘Fair enough. But I have thought this through. This fake relationship will be a fun, strings-free one. Me putting my toe back in the relationship waters with someone not after commitment. That way my family won’t try to gather FG into their bosom, but they will feel happy I am “moving forward”. They will also stop trying to set me up with every female of their acquaintance. Win-win. It will work. So I need a real fake girlfriend. I need you. All you have to do is attend a few events with me, some family functions, be seen with me for a few months... And, of course, I’ll pay you. So what do you think?’
‘I think it’s mad and you’re madder.’
Suddenly he smiled. ‘So you’ll do it, then?’
For a moment the smile literally rendered her speechless. The usual gravity of his face had lightened, his eyes seemed flecked with wicked charm, and for a moment she almost entered the bubble of insanity and agreed.
As if he sensed her hesitation, he said, ‘Come on Gabby. It might even be fun.’
Fun. Still under the spell of that smile, her brain was exhibiting interest in the whole ridiculous idea. Perhaps it was a bit like the urge to poke an aching tooth or prod a bruise. Plus he’d said he would pay her—so in truth this would be a job, a business transaction, a chance to put away a little extra money for her grandmother.
‘What sort of events?’
‘My sister is getting married in a couple of months in Bath—at the actual Roman Baths. And I’m hosting a charity gala next week in London. We’ll need to have a few meals out, or other date-like activities in between. Smile for a few photos. There may be an interview or a few questions from reporters.’
The last words were said in such a casual tone that at first she didn’t comprehend their meaning. And then suddenly a whole lot of dots were joined up. ‘Exactly who is your sister marrying?’
‘Alessio Bravanti.’
‘The racing driver?’ Just to be absolutely sure.
‘That’s the one.’
‘And this charity gala—you don’t mean a knees-up in the village hall? You’re talking a full-on function? The type covered in celeb magazines?’
‘Yes.’ He eyed her, no doubt noting the horror that etched her features. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, but you’ve got the wrong girl—the wrong candidate for the role.’ Pushing her plate away, she shook her head, aware of a pulse of frustration-tinged regret. ‘I wish I was the sort of woman who would jump at this, but I’m not. The whole thought of being watched and judged makes me come up in hives.’
‘No one will judge you.’
‘That’s not true and you know it. Your family will definitely judge me, and I won’t blame them for that. They care about you. But it won’t only be them. What about all the