Chapter 49

'Oh.' Unable to think of anything else to say, Ray asked in a high voice, 'Where are you going? Somewhere nice?'

'The Mirabelle.' Kai indicated his striped tie. 'Pretty smart, hence the suit.'

'Pretty expensive too.'

'Never mind, she's worth it.' Turning, Kai caught the eye of the blonde waiting in the car. She smiled and wiggled her fingers at him, sex-kitten-style.

Ray felt his shoulders stiffen. It wasn't jealousy, it really wasn't. He just knew Kai hadn't really dropped by to return a pair of sunglasses that had cost all of two pounds fifty.

'Right. I'd better not keep you.'

'I don't know,' Kai mused, 'it just doesn't seem fair, somehow. There's Bryan Kutsenov, your secret boyfriend, about to take part in the biggest race of his life . . . and here you are, stuck at home like Cinderella scrubbing the kitchen floor.'

Ray gritted his teeth. 'I've already told you, he asked me if I wanted to watch him race.'

'Oh, that's right, and you said no, you'd rather give Florence's quarry tiles a good going-over.'

'You still don't believe me, do you? You think I'm making this whole Bryan Kutsenov thing up.' Losing his temper – oh dear, again – Ray flung the front door wide open and jabbed a finger in the direction of the sitting room. 'Right, let me prove it to you.'

Kai signalled to the waiting blonde that he would be two minutes and she nodded, evidently unperturbed.

In the sitting room, Ray grabbed the video remote and pressed Rewind. He was going to show Kai once and for all that it wasn't a fantasy affair. The tape finished rewinding and he pressed Play, fingers trembling in his eagerness to wipe that hateful smug smile off Kai's face.

A close-up of a woman with a lot of amalgam fillings appeared on the screen. Her orange-lipsticked mouth was wide open and her epiglottis quivered as she drew breath.

' ". . . All things wise and wonderful," ' sang the woman in a trembling soprano as the camera panned back to reveal the rest of the congregation, '. . . the Lord God made them alllll." '

'Morning worship from Norwich Cathedral,' Kai observed. 'Don't tell me I'm about to catch a glimpse of you and Bryan Kutsenov sharing a hymn book at the back of the church – hey, don't turn it off, I'm interested!'

He was still laughing when Ray pushed him out of the front door.

'Sweetheart, all you did was tape the wrong channel. It's a simple mistake, could have happened to anyone . . . in fact, it's exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from a racing driver's boyfriend to do, because after all, video recorders are tricky things to understand.'

'They're tricky things to fit in people's mouths, too.' Ray gazed pointedly at him. 'But I could always give it a try.'

Kai grinned. The front door was still open. Across the road in Kai's dusty green BMW, the blonde was peering into the rear-view mirror, carefully touching up her lipstick.

'Where did you find your girlfriend anyway?' Ray asked darkly. 'Hookers "R" Us?'

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The race started at two o'clock. Taping it – and this time checking neurotically at least a dozen times that he had the right channel – Ray sprawled on the floor with a packet of Jaffa Cakes and forced himself to sit through the most boring Wimbledon men's singles final in the history of tennis. Point by monotonous point the grunting, charisma-free pair slugged it out from their respective baselines. It was sheer torture – worse than being strapped to a chair and forced to watch two hours of morris dancing – but Ray stuck it out to the bitter end. He had to, having managed to convince himself that if he changed channels, even for a second, this action would send Bryan's car spinning off the track.

Finally, finally, one of the tennis players got into a muddle and started trying to hit his opponents grunt instead of the ball. He promptly lost his serve, went to pieces and flung his racquet to the ground as the winning ball hurtled past him. Game, set, match and . . . yes, championship! Ray was so relieved it was over he could have kissed them both.

The ball-boys and ball-girls trooped out. The officials formed an orderly line. The audience nudged each other to wake up. The obligatory royals made their entrance on court and attempted to make polite conversation with assorted tongue-tied ball-boys and girls.

'Too slow, too slow,' hissed Ray, on his knees in front of the TV. 'Come on, get a move on, for crying out loud, hurry up.'

Only when the loser had received his medal, the winner had kissed his trophy, the photographers had taken fifty million photographs and both players had left the court did Ray allow himself to turn over to the other channel.

When he saw what was happening at Silverstone, Ray's eyes filled with tears. He'd done it, he'd actually done it. Bryan had beaten the Frenchman and won the British Grand Prix. There he was, up on the podium, spraying champagne over an ecstatic crowd. He was laughing, joking with the photographers and drenching his overjoyed support team. Ray, sitting back on his heels, pressed his hands to his mouth. This had to be the best moment of Bryan's life, and it was all, all thanks to him. Because if Ray had watched the race – or even one tiny bit of the race – he knew with superstitious certainty that Bryan would never have won.

Bryan phoned him an hour later, yelling above a background of tumultuous noise.

'It's chaos here! Did you see me do it? Ray, can you hear me? Did you watch the race?'

'I'm watching it now. You're on lap twenty-three.' Ray looked down at his nails, bitten to shreds even though it was only a video rerun. 'God, I really hope you win.'

Bryan laughed.

'I can't wait until tomorrow.'

'Me neither,' sighed Ray, feeling very bold.

'No, listen, I meant I'm not going to wait. I'm getting out of here as soon as I can and coming to pick you up. Christ knows when, probably not until around nine . . . can you manage that?'

Anything, anything! Giddy with delight and ridiculously flattered, Ray said, 'Couldn't make it nine thirty, could you? Only I've got a bit more ironing to get through first.'

He heard the sound of champagne corks being popped in the background, punctuated by screams of laughter. How many stunning blondes was Bryan currently surrounded by? Stunning blondes with breasts the size of beachballs, Ray reminded himself, and teeth so dazzlingly white they glowed in the dark like neon . . .

'You do realise I had to win this race,' Bryan told him. 'I thought you wouldn't be interested in me any more if I didn't.'

'You're right, I wouldn't have been. I'm fickle like that.'

'What?' The noise level was diabolical. It was hard to be laid-back and witty, Ray discovered, when only the occasional word was managing to percolate through the din.

'Never mind. I'll see you later.' A thought suddenly struck him. 'During the race – were you wearing the pig?'

'Who's a pig?' Bryan's voice grew faint. 'Hang on, the signal's going, this is a useless phone.'

'See you later,' Ray yelled again, as Bryan began to crackle and break up. ' 'Bye!'

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No Florence, no Max. Damn, not even Kai Hiwatari, thought Ray as nine o'clock approached. When he was the last person you wanted to clap eyes on, Kai could be guaranteed to show up. But when you wouldn't actually mind seeing him – in order for him to witness the spectacle of you being swept off your feet by one of the most gorgeous, glamorous men ever – well, then you had . . . how much chance? Well, exactly. None at all.

Instead, Kai was off out somewhere with Rent-a-Trollop, no doubt regaling her with the rib-tickling tale of the dark-haired guy so pathetic and deluded he'd actually convinced himself he was involved with Bryan Kutsenov . . .

Typical, Ray thought, frustrated. Just when I'm looking so fantastic too.

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Nine o'clock came and went.

Then ten and eleven o'clock.

Ray could forgive Bryan for being late. He had just won the Grand Prix.

At midnight, he squirted on a bit more aftershave, brushed his teeth again and carefully redid his eyeliner.

At half past midnight he spilled orange juice down the front of his white velvet top. Doggedly refusing to believe that Bryan might not, after all, be on his way, Ray scrubbed the orange juice stain out of the top with neat Ariel, washed it, blasted it dry with Max's hairdryer and put it back on.

At ten past one anxiety turned abruptly to relief. Hearing the tick-tick sound of a black cab pulling up outside the house, Ray grabbed his bag and raced to the door faster than a greyhound out of a trap. Okay, so Bryan was a little late, but he didn't care. What did four hours of agonised waiting and nail-biting matter? Bryan had turned up, hadn't he? So much for the race-track groupies, Ray thought joyfully, wrenching open the front door.

'Hi,' panted Max, dragging his overnight bag into the hall. 'You're up late – just got in from somewhere nice? Oof, I'm shattered, a day with my mother's worse than any triathlon.' Pulling a face, he unzipped his bag. 'Wait until you see how much stuff she's knitted for the baby.'

Ray couldn't speak. Disappointed wasn't the word for it. Biting his lip, he watched Max pull a stream of doll-sized matinee jackets, cardigans and bootees out of the bag like a conjuror.

'Can you believe it? I think she even knits in her sleep,' Max marvelled. 'And this is only the stuff I could carry. Seven hats, I ask you, how many heads does she think this baby's going to have? Gosh, my throat's dry, let me put the kettle on.' He squeezed past Ray, heading for the kitchen. 'Fancy a cup of tea?'

'Um, no thanks.'

'Florence back yet? Honestly, she's turned into a complete gadabout! I bet they're having the most fantastic time in Edinburgh . . . Isn't it terrible about Bryan Kutsenov?'

Ray, his arms full of the soft, hand knitted baby things Max had dumped on him, felt the blood slow to a stop in his veins.

'Isn't what terrible? He won the race.'

In the milliseconds before Max's reply, Ray's mind conjured up a satisfactory explanation. There had been a steward's enquiry – or whatever they called them in motor-racing circles – and Bryan had been stripped of his title, found guilty of dangerous driving . . . or not doing enough laps . . . or failing a drugs test, something like that –

'Oh, haven't you heard? Put the TV on,' said Max, 'they're bound to be talking about it. After he left Silverstone this evening he was driving back to London and a lorry smashed into his car on the M1.' He looked at Ray, his forehead creasing with concern. 'I forgot, you met him once, didn't you? Bev was teasing you about him the day you painted my room.'

Everything was happening in slow motion. Feeling as if he was having an out-of-body experience, Ray watched himself bend down and place the bundle of baby clothes carefully on the floor. Okay, Bryan had failed to arrive because he'd been involved in an accident, which was fair enough, that was an excellent excuse for not turning up. And the reason he hadn't phoned Ray to let him know he was going to be late was because he was having a couple of X-rays done just to be on the safe side. Ray nodded to himself, reassured by this. Everyone knew you couldn't use mobile phones in X-ray departments because they sent medical machinery haywire.

Otherwise, of course he'd phone me, to let me know he's okay.

'He is okay.' He looked up at Max, seeking confirmation. 'I mean, maybe a few cuts and bruises, but that's all. He's a brilliant driver, you know, he wouldn't have just let a lorry crash into him.'

'I'm sorry.' Max hesitated, shaken by the depth of Ray's reaction. He was white as a sheet and trembling visibly. 'On the news it said the lorry crashed through the central reservation – there was nothing anyone could have don't to avoid it.'

'But Bryan is all right. He is all right.' Ray felt like a parrot but he couldn't stop saying it. He wished his teeth would stop chattering and he wished Max would stop looking at him in that awful, panicky way. 'Okay, he's in hospital, I realise that, but he's definitely going to be all right.'

The boiling kettle forgotten, Max came towards him. He led Ray into the sitting room and made him sit down.

'Ray, I'm really sorry. He's dead.'

'Oh no, that's a mistake. He can't be dead.' Firmly, Ray shook his head.

Clearly, thought Max, something was going on here that he didn't know about. He put his arms around Ray.

'Darling, I'm afraid he's dead. He was killed outright.'