Christmas at Claridge's (38 page)

‘Yes.’

The table fell silent.

‘That’s . . . that’s a real shame that you can’t live your life the way you want to,’ Tom said, his voice low, the look in his eyes . . . what? Sad? Concerned?

Chiara shrugged and reached for her glass, aware suddenly of the group’s collective scrutiny and pity. ‘It is how it is. I am quite happy.’

‘If a little tired.’ Tom raised a grin.

‘Yes,’ she nodded gratefully as the tone lightened again.

‘Well, it beats me how you managed to squeeze in the time to teach Clem to cook as well.’ Tom looked across at her and winked. ‘Stella kept me up to date.’ He looked back
at Chiara. ‘It must have taken days surely? Teams of chefs drafted in, all doped up on tranquillizers.’

‘Tranquillizers?’ Chiara frowned, not quite understanding.

‘To cope with the stress of Clem burning water.’

Everyone laughed, even Clem, and
even
Rafa. ‘Ha, bloody ha.’ She grinned, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve done a lot of
growing up since I’ve been out here. I make my own bed every morning, I brush my hair, I even wear underwear now—’

‘Come again?’ Chad interjected.

‘Don’t ask.’ Tom sighed. ‘She was notorious.’

‘And now I can cook.’

‘One thing,’ Tom specified.

‘One very difficult, cool thing that happens to be your favourite meal.’ She stuck her tongue out at him, and Chiara and Chad laughed. Rafa was watching their teasing with vague
amusement, though the only sign of it was in the expression in his eyes, still a closely guarded secret.

‘So what’s next then in your dramatic reinvention of yourself?’ Tom asked, lacing the words with irony. ‘Learning to dress yourself?’

Clem gasped in mock outrage, spreading her arms wide and gesturing to the flawless-looking jumpsuit.

‘All right, I’ll give you that.’ Tom laughed. ‘You’ve got that down pat. It does look amazing.’

Her eyes met his at the loaded words. The jumpsuit, after all, had been the proverbial straw. He winked at her. She was truly forgiven.

‘I’ve still got to learn to drive,’ she said happily, nestling back in the chair. ‘That’s on my “To Do” list. It is a bit pathetic not being able to
drive at my age.’

‘You should do that while you’re here,’ Chad said, snapping a breadstick. ‘This coast road is pretty quiet, and if you’re going to learn clutch control anywhere,
it’ll be on these hills at the back. Is there anyone in the port who does lessons?’ he asked Chiara and Rafa.

Chiara shook her head. ‘No. But there is a man in Santa Margherita, only ten minutes away.’

‘Well, I’ll think about it. It’s not like I’ve got much free time,’ Clem said non-committally dipping some focaccia in oil. The way her life was progressing, she
might be better off learning to drive a boat first.

Chiara sat forward in her seat, her eyes bright. ‘Rafa can teach you.’

‘What?’
Clem almost dropped the bread in her lap, but she was too shocked to worry about hydrogenated fats on suede.

Rafa leaned in to Chiara and spoke hurriedly – and angrily – to her in Italian, his voice a low growl. Neither Clem nor Tom could understand, but Chad could.

‘Don’t worry about that. The schedule’s fine, I don’t see it being a problem,’ Chad interrupted them. ‘We’re on target. Half an hour here or there
isn’t going to mess things up.’

Rafa looked back at him with studied blankness, his jaw tight, the brief, light-hearted glimmer in his eyes gone again. He slumped in his chair and looked out to sea, his unhappiness at the
suggestion blatantly clear.

Clem gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Honestly its fine,’ she mumbled. ‘I probably won’t—’

‘No,’ Chiara said firmly, slapping Rafa on the arm. ‘It is the very least he can do after you gave him the extra work at the house. The money was very much needed.’

Rafa shot her a fierce look to be quiet – the two of them like an old married couple – and she lapsed into a tense silence.

Clem looked away, embarrassed, as Tom and Chad caught each other’s eyes, both baffled by Rafa’s evident unhappiness with the plan.

A well-cut shadow fell upon them and they all looked up to see Gabriel standing beside the table, a polite smile stretched thinly across his handsome face. ‘I am sorry I am late,’ he
apologized, his gaze coming to rest on Clem’s face. ‘I hope I have not missed much?’ There was an expression in his eyes she couldn’t quite read.

Clem felt Chiara’s, Tom’s and Rafa’s stares as his hand lightly, intimately, brushed over her hair while he took his seat beside her. She shook her head and forced a smile
back, still shaken by the depths of Rafa’s animosity towards her.

‘No,’ she managed, picking up her menu. ‘You’re just in time. We were, uh, j–just getting ready to order. Is there anything you’d particularly recommend?’

‘Why don’t I streamline the process and order on everyone’s behalf?’ Gabriel smiled, more genuinely now. ‘I know the food very well here and the chef always does a
few specials for me that aren’t on the menu.’

‘That sounds great,’ Tom said.

‘I’m in,’ Chad echoed, placing his menu back on the table.

‘I prefer to order my own choice,’ Rafa said.

Gabriel looked up at him, pinning him with a cold stare, before turning to Chiara. ‘How about you Chiara? Are you happy for me to order for you?’

She nodded. ‘Of course,’ she replied politely.

‘So that’s settled then. Majority rules, I’ll order.’

‘Hey! What about me?’ Clem pouted.

‘I already know what you like,’ Gabriel smiled, squeezing her hand and making her blush at his blatant intimacy.

He raised his hand for the waiter, who came running, ordering a feast for the entire party in immaculate Italian, without once looking at the menu, but his eyes all the while on Rafa, who was
staring back at him with ill-concealed contempt.

Clem stared up at the vaulted ceiling, the crisp white pillow puffed like a balloon around her head. Gabriel was asleep beside her, his shoulders and back exposed above the
thin white sheet. Usually, when she couldn’t sleep, she just rested her eyes on his face and body, examining the proportions of him in minute detail, as though it would unlock the sexual
power he held over her, but it wasn’t working tonight. She felt jittery and agitated, squeezing the muscles rhythmically in her legs, trying to wring out the restlessness that made her want
to run.

She sighed in frustration and turned onto her side, her eyes falling to the two tight muscles bunched like fists in the small of his back. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she just
sleep? She was taking Tom to the boatyard tomorrow and she needed to be on form for the site visit. It was the most prestigious element of the commission, and it was imperative Tom was
impressed.

Clem felt thankful that Chad and her brother had hit it off so well, so quickly. Chad’s support had been vital these past few months and Clem had seen how relieved Tom had been as
he’d learned how fully Chad had project-managed Clem’s ideas in his absence. At least she hadn’t been completely free-wheeling out here.

Things couldn’t have gone better between Tom and Gabriel either, so it couldn’t be that on her mind. The two men – both on their best behaviour for her – had quickly
dominated the table, their conversation swinging from the global recession to Six Nations rugby to the American elections to Brioni cashmere, and pretty much everything in between – except
Clem; both men appeared to have a tacit agreement that she was off limits that night. They had talked easily and fluidly, navigating a careful, wary path between their fledgling business alliance on
the one hand and vague new personal relationship on the other. Clem hadn’t realized how nervous she felt about it, until Tom had winked reassuringly at her when Gabriel left the table briefly
to take a call, and she’d felt her shoulders drop and spread an inch.

Rafa had continued to be his usual, taciturn self, of course; she didn’t expect anything more from him. He despised her and made it plain to everyone. She knew Chad had long since picked
up on it, and she’d seen him frowning and looking embarrassed on her behalf on more than one occasion during the evening, but there was no question of firing Rafa, not if Gabriel wanted the
frescoes to be re-established, which he did.

Her jiggering body fell still as she thought back to the exchanges between Rafa and Gabriel. She had been so focused on smoothing the path between her brother and her lover that she’d left
no space on her emotional hard-drive for anything else. But there had been a hardness in Gabriel’s tone whenever Tom had included his old pen pal in the conversation, his smile fading like a
spent breeze every time their eyes met. Had he picked up on Rafa’s animosity towards her? Had he overheard Rafa’s resentful words to Chiara just as he reached the table, the
painter’s contempt all too clear in his words and face?

She wanted to say yes. She wanted to believe Gabriel had been defending her, putting the smaller, poorer man back in his place. But she knew it wasn’t true. Or at least, not the whole
truth.

She watched as his ribs spread lightly with every breath, the power in his incredible body dormant now, but she had glimpsed a fraction of his strength earlier. Their love-making had been
rougher than usual, almost angry, and he had been on her the moment the door closed, ripping off the jumpsuit with such urgency that it had torn slightly at the seam on the shoulder.

It hadn’t just been lust. It had been Gabriel staking his claim. For some reason, she realized, he saw Rafa not as a labourer or an artisan or an equal. But as a rival.

And once he started down that path . . .

Had he . . .? Clem held her breath at the sudden thought and slid her hand underneath the pillow, exhaling with relief as it closed around the silken pouch. It was still there. She had taken
extra precautions now that she was sharing her bed on a regular basis and had hidden it inside the lining of the pillowcase, but she couldn’t assume that was enough; not now that Gabriel was
on alert. She lifted her head and slipped the silk packet out of its hiding place. Rolling over smoothly, she reached down over the side of the bed and pushed it under the mattress. She looked back
at her sleeping lover, but he didn’t stir so she lay back, her heart hammering wildly and driving sleep even further away for another night. That didn’t matter, though. All that
mattered – all that ever mattered – was that the secret was still hers.

The next morning, Clem felt as hellishly tired as she’d feared, but it was only really proved to her when Tom bounded into the folly like an over-excited puppy.

‘Why are you so happy?’ she mumbled, drawing her knees up to her chest as she sipped coffee from the armchair. She was waiting for the call from Stefano to say the boat was
ready.

‘Hey! The sun is
shining,
I’m in
Portofino
and I’m just about to ride on a
Riva
in order to go check out a
yacht.’
He grinned, arms
outstretched. ‘Exactly what isn’t there to be happy about?’

Clem arched an eyebrow. She thought people with broken hearts weren’t moved by superficialities like those. ‘OK, Mr Happy. Well, just to warn you, I’m being a grouch. I slept
like shit.’

‘You look it . . . damn, this place is cute.’

She watched impassively as he scampered up the stairs, taking in the small, round bedroom dominated by the massive bed. ‘Feel free to look around,’ she called out sarcastically.

He came back down the steps, every movement fizzing with vim.

‘So, you and Gabriel hit it off then,’ she remarked lightly, but inwardly dying for his feedback as he started trying to work the TV remote to find a sports channel.

Tom stopped exploring and straightened up thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, last night was surprisingly fun. But I don’t know whether I
like
him for being so likable, or whether I hate
him for it.’

‘Huh?’

‘Well, this place, that face. He’s kind of got it all going on, hasn’t he? I really want to hate him just on principle.’

‘He’s lovely,’ Clem said, peering over the top of her cup.

He threw a quizzical look at her. ‘Lovely? Huh. Interesting word.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘You could have chosen – oh, I don’t know –
perfect?’

Clem blinked slowly. ‘Nobody’s perfect, bro. Not even me.’

Tom laughed again, and she couldn’t help but crack a grin at his ready smiles. It felt good to bask in his energy after all this time, like lying in a sun spot after a winter of
blizzards.

Her phone buzzed and she saw the text from Stefano, saying that he was down by the jetty waiting for them. She sighed and drained her coffee, then stood up, tugging down her white shorts and
blue striped shirt, which was already untucked. She picked up her iPad. ‘Chad’s meeting us there; he’s going to go on to Rome after. You ready?’ she asked, knowing his
answer even before it left his lips.

‘Sis.’ He grinned, loping over to her and throwing a heavy gibbon-like arm around her shoulder. ‘I was born ready.’

Boys, Clem thought to herself, as she watched Tom throw his head back, his arms spread across the back bench, his hand subconsciously stroking the leather seats that he’d
inspected through slitted eyes as they’d climbed aboard. His reaction was exactly the same as Luca’s, and no doubt Gabriel’s, too, when he’d first bought the boat –
the thrust and guttural roar of the engines, the sleek purity of its lines, it just spoke to something in men, much like Clem’s legs and Stella’s bosom.

Mario, the owner of the shipbuilders, was there, ready to meet them as they moored on the far side of the bay an hour later, and they climbed onto the powder-blue bikes that everyone used for
moving around the giant docks.

Clem let Tom go ahead and stay abreast of Mario whilst he gave her brother the tour he’d given her over two months earlier. She remembered how awed she’d been then by the
storeys-high scaffolding, the convex glass roofs vaulted like cathedrals above them.

The yacht was no longer red and rusty-looking, but powdered white with the first basecoats. It was quiet in there today, no banging, drilling or shouting accompanied them, no teams of men in
boiler suits and knee pads – all other work had to cease while the hull was being sprayed. Just one air bubble or grain of sawdust and the paint wouldn’t take. Chad arrived and Mario
went with him into one of the offices to deal with some paperwork, as Clem took Tom over to a separate scaffolded tower, which allowed them to see the profile of the boat from what would be the
waterline, rather than having to look up past the belly of the hull. It wasn’t stupidly big, not a billionaire’s boat with a helipad and a swimming pool, but 30 metres long, with two
tiered upper decks and a sharp, elegant prow. It was stunning and as understated as twelve million pounds possibly can be.