Bad Sisters Page 6

  This was a weak spot for Matt, and Devon, suddenly remembering that she needed him in a good mood, hurried to soften him up. Leaning into him, stroking his arm, she reached up to kiss him, feeling him immediately bend towards her, his irritation all forgotten. Matt was like a huge dog, never happier than when he was curled up in a pack, loving physical contact; it made total sense that he was a rugby player. No one could have been more suited to the game: shoving his opponents in a scrum, tackling a forward to the muddy ground, or piling on top of each other, was all in a day’s work for Matt, and once the game was over he was the first to be hugging his opponents and teammates, slapping them on the back, or throwing his arm affectionately round a fellow player’s shoulders.

  ‘Love you, sweetie,’ Devon said against his mouth. ‘Sorry I was a bitch just now. That interviewer wound me up the wrong way.’

  ‘No prob,’ Matt said fondly, kissing her back. ‘I don’t even know how you do it. I mean, I don’t mind the post-game wrap-up interviews and all that, but selling things all the time – I couldn’t do that. No way.’

  Whoops, Devon thought quickly. Maybe I should back away from it right now . . .

  But unfortunately, the publicist didn’t read Matt as well as Devon did.

  ‘Ooh! And talking about selling, Matt, I have some amazing news!’ she said breezily. ‘You know that aftershave ad you shot last year?’

  Matt cringed. ‘Don’t remind me,’ he muttered.

  Confident with his body as Matt was, being stripped naked, greased up and shot in very revealing black-and-white photos with a bottle posed strategically between his legs had been a step too far even for him. Though it got him into all the gay mags, Devon reflected. Which is exactly where you want to be to sell yourself as an icon.

  ‘Well! Guess who came calling?’ the publicist sang out. ‘This is amazing!’

  ‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’ Matt said, pulling a clownishly comic face of distress.

  ‘Calvin Klein!’ the publicist carolled joyously. ‘They want you for Calvin Klein! Underpants! It’s huge!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Matt said, blushing. ‘I mean, I’m OK with it, but you see some blokes in the showers who—’

  ‘Matt! She doesn’t mean your willy!’ Devon cracked up. ‘She means it’s huge that they asked you!’

  ‘Oh.’ Matt went as red as a turkey-comb and rubbed his springy curls so roughly that he looked as if he were trying to exfoliate his scalp. ‘Um. Sorry.’

  ‘They’ll totally photoshop you if they feel they need to,’ the publicist said helpfully.

  ‘Aaahhh!’ Matt clamped his hands over his ears, looking even more comic than before. ‘I can’t listen to this! You’re talking about putting my willy on display!’

  ‘Matt, sweetie . . .’ Devon reached up and unclamped one of her husband’s enormous hands from his equally large ear. ‘Tons of footballers have done it! David Beckham, Ronaldo, Freddie Ljungberg . . .’

  ‘That’s why it’s such a compliment!’ the publicist said eagerly. ‘It’s a really big deal – there’d be gigantic posters everywhere!’

  Not helping, Devon thought, watching Matt cringe at the thought.

  ‘It would really build the brand,’ the publicist added, her eyes wide with anticipation. ‘Totally take you and Devon to the next level.’

  ‘We’re not a brand!’ Matt protested, his jaw setting. ‘We’re a couple – we’re married. Husband and wife. That’s not a brand.’

  ‘Tell that to Victoria and David Beckham,’ Devon couldn’t help saying. ‘Look at all their perfume ads.’

  ‘All right for them, I suppose,’ Matt said, looking miserable. ‘Seems bloody weird to me, but it’s not my business, is it? It’s not for me, though. And I didn’t think it was for Dev, either.’

  He looked over at Devon, his blue eyes pleading.

  ‘Is that what you want, Dev? My bollocks up on a billboard six feet wide, for everyone to gawp at? Just to make a ton of dosh that we don’t even need anyway?’

  ‘You posed for that rugby calendar last year,’ Devon protested. ‘All of you guys naked, holding rugby balls in front of you. I didn’t think you’d mind that much.’

  ‘That was for charity,’ Matt said, his voice rising. ‘For flipping Great Ormond Street children’s hospital! Of course we all got our kit off for that! Can’t you see the difference between that and posing in a pair of tightie whities with my willy flopping over my leg? I’d feel like such a twat, Dev!’

  ‘It would be really super-tasteful,’ the publicist said in an attempt to reassure him.

  It didn’t work. Matt shot her a look of seething resentment.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he said with the air of a man trying very hard to cling to the last remnants of his self-control, ‘but this is really between me and my wife. I mean, it’s my privates we’re talking about here.’

  ‘I’ll leave you two alone, shall I?’ the publicist said, slipping past them adroitly. In silence, husband and wife heard her footsteps click across the marble hallway and the front door open and close behind her.

  When Devon looked up at Matt again, she was expecting him still to be angry, resentful that she didn’t understand him well enough to have turned down the Calvin Klein offer without even suggesting it to him. Anger she could have dealt with, expertly redirected down a different path to – hopefully – reach the outcome she wanted; anger was a strong, powerful emotion that a woman who knew how to manage men could often use, like a blowtorch, to burn through to where she wanted to go.

  But instead, Matt looked sad. Which was much harder to deal with.

  It was the easiest thing in the world to read Matt. He had no filters, no wall that he put up: sad, happy, elated, angry, whatever he was feeling showed clearly on his face. He was completely sincere. Devon reached up, stroking his arm, feeling how taut and tense his big muscles were.

  ‘Matt,’ she started carefully, ‘I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. Please believe me.’

  Matt shrugged, a gesture that for him spoke volumes. ‘Dev,’ he said gently, ‘you sort of do. You want me to do this ad. And now you’re going to try to talk me into it.’

  ‘I . . .’

  Devon, who had got her start on live TV, who was brilliant at ad-libbing and banter, who had competed on celebrity quiz shows and was never lost for words in an interview, found herself grinding to a halt now, unable to go on. Because Matt was absolutely right. He’d caught her in a lie. And she had no idea how to get out of it.

  ‘Dev,’ Matt said, even more gently. ‘Come here.’

  He folded her in his arms. It had always been so wonderful to be held by Matt; he made her feel small, delicate, feminine – he could pick her up as if she weighed nothing at all. Even though she’d weighed considerably less when they first met, Devon had never – as she’d said to the interviewer – been skinny.

  But now, all she could feel was how repulsed Matt must be at how fat she was. His arms, wrapping round her back, couldn’t avoid touching the roll directly below the constriction of her bra strap; though Matt had always loved her breasts, he must be aware of how much bigger they’d grown in the last few years. He’d loved to watch her walk round naked after a bath or shower; now, she never let him see her naked if she could possibly help it. Her stomach, pressing against him, stuck out like a shelf. Surely he must secretly be revolted by her.

  ‘I know you’re always worried about money,’ he said into her thick, glossy hair. ‘But we’ve got enough to last us the rest of our lives, even if we retired now. We couldn’t go on living like this, of course,’ one hand left her back briefly to gesture round the lavish kitchen, ‘but we don’t even use half of the rooms in this house, do we? We could – what do they call it? – downsize tomorrow and not even notice.’

  Despite her resolution to win Matt round to seeing things her way, Devon stiffened in her husband’s embrace at the idea of giving up anything they had; she couldn’t help
it.

  He laughed ruefully. ‘Don’t worry, Dev,’ he said. ‘I’m just making the point that we’re not going to starve, whatever happens. If I ripped my Achilles tomorrow and couldn’t play again, we’d still be all right. I know nothing’ll stop you from building your empire, and I respect that. You’re going to have your TV shows and your books and your – what did I say that was so wrong? Crockery! – and make barrowloads of dosh for both of us. And I’d find some other way to earn a living. Coach, or something. I’m not the idle type. What I’m saying is, there’s no need to pressure me into showing my photoshopped willy in a pair of boxer shorts, just so we can have enough to buy another posh sofa, or go on holiday again.’

  ‘It’d be a lot more than a sofa,’ Devon muttered against his chest.

  But it’s not about the money, she admitted to herself. Matt was right; they had plenty of money. More than she’d ever imagined in her wildest dreams. Matt’s salary and endorsement deals aside, her books sold in Germany, the US, Australia, Japan, wherever her TV show was on. Her ceramics line was doing really well. And she was about to launch a whole collection of glassware; the signature piece would be extra-large wine glasses, for Devon’s Little Bit Extra.

  No, it wasn’t the money. It was the attention. Devon had always loved attention, lapped it up as greedily as a cat with cream, been unable to pass a mirror without looking into it and posing. She’d tried to be an actress, but it hadn’t worked; she was so photogenic you couldn’t take a bad shot of her, but she had no talent whatsoever, and she’d been sensible enough to realize that soon enough, and stop flogging a dead horse. Devon’s talent was in being herself, writ large. Smiling, chatting, using her own words, her own charm, being a person that viewers wanted to watch on the screen, have in their living rooms at the end of the day. She adored being on TV; she adored it when people stopped her in the street, asked her to sign their copies of her books, wrote about her in papers and on the internet.

  It’s the attention. That’s what I love. And that’s what I can’t tell Matt. He understands about the money; he understands about growing up poor and hungry. But he doesn’t understand about my need for attention. And he never will.

  If Matt did a Calvin Klein ad, we’d really be in the big time. Devon McKenna and Matt Bates – we’re already famous, but this would be huge. It’d shoot us right up into the top ten celebrity couples in the UK.

  And maybe I’m shallow for wanting to be famous, for wanting attention. But if wanting to be on TV means you’re shallow, tons of other people are too! Really, what’s so wrong with it?

  ‘I’d be really proud,’ she attempted finally. ‘Married to a Calvin Klein model. That’d be amazing.’

  ‘Love . . .’ Matt took her by the shoulders and looked down into her big brown eyes. ‘Be proud of me when I score a try that wins us the World Cup, or I get my hundredth cap for England. Or when the London Tigers win at Twickenham, with me as captain. That’d be something to be proud of. Maybe I’ll get an MBE some day, go to the palace and have the Queen pin it on me, or whatever she does. With you by my side, looking like a total stunner in a fantastic hat.’

  This prospect was so appealing to Devon that her eyes widened automatically, her lips parting slightly, moist and inviting. Matt couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘God, you look so sexy when you’re excited about something!’ he said fondly. ‘Is it meeting the Queen?’

  More the fact that we’d be bound to get on the front pages for an MBE, Devon thought. A big, lovely photo of Matt looking hunky and me staring up at him lovingly. And not in a hat. My hair pinned up really high, like Sophia Loren, with a Philip Treacy feather clip in it.

  Her expression turned so soft and dreamy at this ideal picture that Matt’s arms tightened around her. Bending down, he kissed her, and as always, Devon responded to him, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck – which took some doing, as Matt’s neck was as thick as an oak beam. His hand came up to cradle her head, his tongue, warm and insistent, slid through her parted lips, and she felt that familiar wet hot stir of excitement deep inside her, her body instantly opening up to him.

  She’d fancied Matt from the moment she first met him on the rickety set of Wake up UK; he’d loomed over everyone else like a colossus. They’d all assumed that because he was a sportsman, he’d be a bit slow on the uptake, and Devon had been hugely relieved when she realized that not only was he gorgeous, he had more than a few brain cells knocking around in that enormous cranium. Their chemistry had been blindingly obvious to everyone who’d seen them bantering live on TV as Devon helped him make pasta sauce; he’d asked her out to dinner that night, and she’d barely even played hard to get.

  The lovely thing about big muscly men was that they generally liked girls with curves. If Devon’s taste had been more inclined to posh, Sloaney boys, she’d have been in trouble, as they tended to prefer their women blonde, skinny, and flat-chested. She’d had the opportunity to observe that over and over again at the parties Maxie threw with her super-posh husband; both the men and the women treated Devon as if she were common because she was voluptuous; though they were impressed that she was on TV. It was bizarre: in Devon’s experience, if posh women weren’t stick figures, they tended to be pear-shaped, with no boobs to speak of and big flat bums as wide as the Grand Canyon, which they’d often emphasize by wearing tartan skirts, for goodness’ sake! And yet they looked down on her for having all her curves in the right places.

  Oh well, that’s Maxie’s problem, Devon thought, kissing her husband. If she wants to starve herself to skin and bones just to fit in with Olly and his posh boys, rather her than me.

  And then, it happened. Just as Matt’s other hand, caressing her bottom, lifted and nudged her into the space between his legs, letting her feel how hard he was just from kissing her; just as her own body melted against him, reaching up to him, rubbing herself against him in a way that made it more than clear how much she wanted him too; just as Matt swung her round, half-pulling, half-carrying her towards the door, heading for the bedroom, where they could shut the door firmly against the cleaning lady and Devon’s assistant, both of whom might come into the kitchen at any time – just then, Devon caught sight of her reflection in the big mirror over the sofa.

  She froze.

  Oh God! I’m the size of a house!

  It was a bright, sunny day, and the kitchen, with its glass extension, had been specially designed to let in as much light as possible for the TV cameras. Which meant that there was nowhere for Devon to hide from the sight of herself. She’d thought the outfit she’d so carefully put on that morning was very flattering – and when she’d been posing in it in front of her walk-in closet mirrors, before breakfast, it had been. Slim-fitting jeans, with a tummy-control panel for extra help, so that when she adjusted the waistband to sit just below her belly button, they sucked her in and lifted her bottom to where it ought to be. The black Ghost crêpe shirt, with a deep cleavage to show off her best assets, a nipped-in waist, and long tails that swept over her tummy and bottom, giving her extra coverage where she needed it most. And big amethyst Zoppini earrings, the stones set in stainless steel, the purple setting off her dark hair and eyes perfectly. Purple was the best colour for brunettes.

  But now the waistband of her jeans had ridden down, and not even the heavy, forgiving crêpe fabric of the shirt could hide the muffin-top roll that bulged over the top of the denim. The way Matt was holding her, she could clearly see the roll below her bra strap, too. She’d always been proud of her legs, but her thighs, at this angle, looked chunky in the tight jeans. And a soft little bulge of fat under her jaw was almost a double chin at this angle.

  Her face was still beautiful; she had strong enough features to carry the extra plumpness. Her hair was dark and glossy, her skin smooth and creamy. But those were the only positives. The rest was unbearable to look at.

  Almost violently, she pushed away from her surprised husband. The thought of going to bed with him – of ta
king off her clothes in front of him, of him seeing the red marks on her skin where her bra and jeans and knickers had cut into her – was too much for her to handle. On the few occasions they’d had sex recently, she’d staged it very carefully; in the evening, by the soft light of candles or a bedside lamp, with Devon wearing a baby-doll negligee that served up her bosoms like two succulent white peaches in snug chiffon – the frillier the better, for Matt’s tastes – and flowed in lavish pleats over the rest of her torso.

  By daylight, it would be too much. Matt would see how big she’d really become. Tears pricked at her eyes, tears of humiliation and self-hate.

  ‘What is it, Dev?’ Matt was asking, coming towards her, trying to take her hands.

  She turned away. But she could see him in the mirror, his craggy face now all concern for her, his hard-on momentarily forgotten as he tried, and failed, to work out what on earth could have just gone so badly wrong.

  Matt’s so bloody nice! she thought almost resentfully. Why doesn’t he get angry for a change – tell me I’m messing him around? Perversely, she would have welcomed that much more than tender concern. A nice squabble, to let off steam – a good row, shouting at each other, throwing some plates (or crockery, as Matt would put it) – that was exactly what the built-up tension inside her needed in order to find release.

  But Matt was never going to give her that. He just wasn’t the quarrelling type.

  ‘I don’t feel like it,’ she said. The hot rush of excitement had ebbed away as quickly as it had come, leaving her feeling like a beached whale, washed up on a rocky, uncomfortable shore. The only thing she wanted to do was stuff her face, so she could shove down these horrible emotions, make them disappear under the sheer weight of the food.

  Long-term, it was a disastrous idea. But short-term, she knew it would work. It always had before. And now, all she wanted, with a passion almost as strong as she’d had for Matt just moments ago, was to somehow get him out of the kitchen so she could raid the fridge.