Chapter 48

Max had never been on the receiving end of an anonymous threatening phone call before. Shaken, he realised that someone had got completely the wrong idea about his friendship with Takao. They were warning him off because they were jealous of the amount of time he and Takao had been spending together . . . Good grief, how could they even think anything was going on between them?

It was worrying and embarrassing at the same time.

Dialling 1471 didn't help. Predictably, all Max got was Number Withheld, which was frustrating because if he could have rung back whoever it was he would have been able to reassure them that there was absolutely nothing going on between him and Takao.

Glancing at his watch, Max headed upstairs. He had promised to babysit for Bruce and Verity tonight and they wanted him to be there by six. Since he would be staying there overnight, he needed to shower, pack a change of clothes and leave his own note for Ray.

Max did this hurriedly, fifteen minutes later, without mentioning the phone call from one of Takao's disgruntled stalkers. It was too complicated to explain in a note and he didn't want Ray to start winking and teasing him about the top-secret, red-hot, -oh-so-passionate affair he must be having with Takao.

Anyone with an ounce of sense would know at once there was nothing like that going on between them, Max thought ruefully, but it was an undeniable fact that he had been spending a fair amount of time recently with Takao. And that, clearly, could be misconstrued.

Maybe it was time to take a step backwards.

Cancel the Harrods trip, for a start.

And give that Thai curry a miss.

Snatching up the red biro and the note he had already scribbled for Ray, Max added:

PS Visiting my mother tomorrow, straight from Bruce and Verity's. Could you let Takao know he'll have to choose his own carpets.

Pausing to read the message and experiencing a strange pang, Max discovered he had been looking forward to the shopping excursion more than he'd realised. He went hot all over at the thought that his hormones could be about to start running amok, that he might be developing some form of sad, pregnant-man's crush on the first man in months to show him a bit of kindness . . .

Oh dear, all the more reason to put the brakes on, Max thought with a shudder of alarm. It simply hadn't occurred to him before that this had been on the cards. The anonymous caller had been absolutely spot-on after all.

And thank heavens she did phone, Max breathed a sigh of relief, because at least now I know I have to keep my distance before it gets all out of control and embarrassing.

Basically he had to stop seeing Takao for his own protection.

Gosh, anonymous caller, whoever you are . . . thanks.

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'Coming in for a quick drink?' offered Ray when Takao dropped him home after work.

Takao said casually, 'Okay.'

But the house was empty.

'Gone!' Ray held up the two messages like an indignant ice-skating judge. 'Gone, both of them, and left me all alone. I ask you, how selfish and uncaring is that?'

Takao, who had spent the last couple of hours planning how he would invite Max out to dinner on the pretext of discussing . . . um, windowboxes, said, 'Actually, don't worry about that drink. I should be getting back.'

Never mind, at least he'd be seeing Max tomorrow.

'Hang on.' Ray was busy scanning the rest of Max's note. 'This bit's for you.' He waggled it under Takao's nose with irritating cheerfulness. 'Hey, looks like you've been stood up. Want me to come and help you pick out new carpets? Nothing with glitter in, I promise.'

'Good of you to offer, but actually glitter was what I'd set my heart on, So thanks, but no thanks.' Takao smiled his cool, detached, boss-like smile because he would rather walk barefoot over burning coals than let Mersey Tunnel-mouth Ray get an inkling of how disappointed he was about Max.

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'Ah, good evening, I'm conducting a survey on behalf of a well-known magazine-'

'Are you really? How exciting,' said Ray.

'- and I wonder if you could tell me which men, in your opinion, make the best lovers: (a) zoo-keepers; (b) quantity surveyors; or (c) Formula One racing drivers.'

'Oh dear, I'd love to be able to help you,' Ray sighed, 'but I'm afraid I'm celibate.'

'I'm sorry that was the wrong answer. The correct answer was (c), racing driver. And I'd be more than happy to prove it to you if –'

'How did everything go?' Ray broke in hurriedly, before Bryan got carried away.

'Mission accomplished. The practice sessions went brilliantly.' As modest as ever, Bryan added, 'Starting from pole position tomorrow. Would you like to hear my lap times?'

'I meant Daisy.' Ray knew Bryan was teasing him but he had to know.

'Didn't I tell you that? Mission accomplished. She's gone.'

Oh my God, thought Ray, his hands suddenly clammy with shock and relief. What have I done?

There was a pause.

'You've gone quiet,' said Bryan. 'Changed your mind about being celibate?'

'Was she upset?'

'I really hope you're not planning on dumping me and running off into the sunset with Daisy.'

'I wasn't actually expecting this to happen.'

'Too late to back out now. I wish I could see you tonight.' Bryan sounded regretful. 'But I'd never get any sleep and you'd play havoc with my reflexes. Are you coming up tomorrow, by the way?'

'To watch you race? I don't know.' Without warning, Ray's stomach contracted. The idea of cheering Bryan on from the stand was all very well in theory, but when it actually came to it, he didn't know if he could bear to watch. This was motor racing, not tiddlywinks.

It was dangerous.

'I'll drive carefully,' said Bryan. 'Keep to the speed limit, follow the highway code, all that stuff, I promise.'

'I still don't think I can.' Ray braced himself, expecting to be called a wimp. 'Sorry.'

There was another pause, then Bryan said, 'Don't be. I'm quite flattered. As far as Daisy was concerned. Watching me race was basically a photo-opportunity that was too good to miss.'

His tone was dry. Ray, who had never told him what Daisy had said to her friend on the phone that day in the salon, wondered if he had known all along. As he spoke, a lump came into his throat. 'Good luck for tomorrow, unless it's unlucky to wish you luck.'

Actors said break a leg, didn't they? Maybe racing drivers said burst a tyre.

Bryan sounded as if he was smiling.

'Wish me as much luck as you like. And put the TV on tomorrow morning. I have a pre-race interview lined up and I want you to see it.'

'Why?'

'Don't argue,' said Bryan. 'Just do it, okay?'

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Ray was on his forth bowl of Cheerios the next morning by the time the racing commentator's interview with Bryan took place. Sitting cross-legged on Florence's sofa, he squealed and dribbled milk down his chin when he realised why Bryan had been so keen for him to watch.

Ray's copper pig was making his TV debut, attached to a narrow strip of leather and tied around Bryan's tanned neck. As he spoke, Bryan idly unfastened the second button of his denim shirt and fiddled with the pig until finally the interviewer was forced to comment on it.

'This?' Bryan grinned. 'Oh, he's a good luck present from a close friend of mine.'

The interviewer, who was as famous for his faux pas as for his high-octane commentary style, said eagerly, 'And that's the very lovely lady in your life, Australian actress Daisy Schofield , am I right?'

'Actually, no, but I do have a message for the lovely person in my life.' His tone light, Bryan smiled lazily into the camera. 'And that is, when you meet the right person, you know it. That's what happened to me and I-'

'Well that's all we've got time for,' bellowed the interviewer, clamping his hand excitedly to the side of his head in final-lap fashion. 'I hear through my earpiece that your team manager is waiting to speak to you down in the pits, so for now, Bryan Kutsenov, and on behalf of the rest of the nation, may I wish you the very best of luck for this afternoons titanic race!'

The camera's swiftly turned their attention to Bryan's great rival, an ugly Frenchman with a face like a walnut, and Ray turned off both the TV and the video. Unable to watch the race, he wished he knew how he was going to get through the next few stomach-churning hours.

He wished the commentator hadn't stopped the interview just as things had been getting interesting

Ray really really wished the guy hadn't used the word titanic.

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Halfway through cleaning the kitchen floor – blimey, that was when you knew you were desperate – the doorbell rang.

Wringing out his sponge and peeling the wet knees of his jeans away from his skin, Ray went to answer it.

'Oh no, not you again.'

'That's what I love about you, your unquenchable enthusiasm,' said Kai. 'Tell me, have you ever considered becoming a Samaritan?'

'Have you ever considered becoming a stand-up comedian?' Ray parroted back. Heavens, sometimes a wet sponge was an awfully tempting thing to have in your hand.

Kai, reading Ray's mind, said mildly, 'This is my best suit. I'd rather you didn't.' He pulled Ray's cheap sunglasses out of his pocket. 'I only stopped by to drop these off. You left them at the pub on Friday night.'

'Oh. Thanks.' Grudgingly, Ray took the glasses from him.

'I'm surprised you're here,' Kai went on. 'Thought you'd be up at Silverstone. Isn't there some kind of race going on today?'

'I was asked. I didn't want to go.' God, that sounded feeble, even to Ray's own ears. Kai clearly thought so too. Irritated by his knowing smirk, Ray said crossly, 'What's the suit in aid of, anyway? Don't tell me you've been to church.'

Ray would have died rather than admit that actually Kai was looking good. Only someone with his gypsy-dark colouring – and fat-free physique – could get away with a navy-blue suit teamed with a deep-red shirt and blue and gold tie.

'You like it?' Kai's eyes widened in mock-alarm and he held up his hands. 'Stop, better not answer that. And no, I haven't been to church. We're just on our way out to lunch.'

For a moment Ray thought Kai was asking him out. We as in you and me.

Then he realised Kai didn't mean it like that at all.

Ray's gaze jerked automatically in the direction of Kai's car. In the passenger seat a glamorous-looking blonde with swept-up hair and a low-cut top was reading a newspaper and calmly smoking a cigarette.