The Untouchable (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Rosy had a lump in her throat. A lump of nerves if it were possible, and add to that an odd twist in her stomach, somewhere between anxiety and excitement or a mixture of both. She crunched along the driveway to the road, making the only sound in the silent softness, her boots slipping on compressed snow. How wonderful to be free of the house. She’d been stuck inside since she’d got back from the shops yesterday and discovered her unexpected visitor.

Morning chores done,
she’d made a call to Lydia, to warn her about the storm damage to Marco’s house, followed by one to Zavi, to tell him about Marco. He would know who to inform, and Ricky would be here tomorrow to take Marco home, or somewhere, so she could stop worrying.

The fresh air stung her nostrils but Rosy breathed it in right to the bottom of her lungs anyway, reminding herself that the fresh beauty of a snowy landscape wasn’t the only reason she was outside. She had something
—
two things, actually
—
to think about and it might be easier to do that properly if she was out of the house, alone but for a pair of crows flying overhead against the cold, white sky.

Firstly, Frederick. Why had he kept all those photos of her? They had never communicated. Frederick had tried, in the month after Luke’s death. He’d written her a letter, but she’d thrown it away, unanswered, upsetting her mother.

“Give him a chance, darling,” she’d said. “He’s trying to do the right thing.”

“No.” Rosy had bitten back a thousand objections. How could her mother, after twenty years of abandonment, be so sympathetic, be on his side? She had cried the evening away, again, like a heartbroken teenager, deaf to all consolation.

At the end of the drive, she shelved Frederick and assessed the main road, feeling the hard chill of compacted snow freezing her feet through her socks. It looked fine. There was a layer of snow on the tarmac, but nothing a 4x4 couldn’t handle. If there was no taxi driver brave enough, perhaps Ricky could take her to the airport
while Lydia babysat Marco, who
might even lend his Range Rover, he’d be that keen to see her gone.

Would he? Yes. A few short weeks ago, she’d never heard of Marco Dallariva. Pure chance, fate, had forced him to her door. He’d certainly not
wanted
to come. He’d been a desperate refugee in an untenable situation, that’s all.

That’s all.

She hiked back, past her gate, to Marco’s, not ready to go inside.

The thing being
—
that
wasn’t
all. There was something else she had to face.

Yesterday, when she’d undressed Marco, she’d had to stop her hands running away over that broad, smooth, brown back. For a moment she’d been dangerously distracted, imagining what it would be like to press her lips to the hot skin of his neck. She’d touched him, rather a lot actually, putting a hand on his shoulder, guiding his fingertips gently as she helped him. And his long, muscular legs and, strong, beautiful feet
—
at least as handsome as his hands
—
hadn’t gone unnoticed, or untouched. She’d fallen asleep last night telling herself it was nonsense, but this morning...well, she’d sat on his bed and shaved him, hadn’t she? Her stomach swerved as she remembered the slight cleft in his chin that drew her eyes like a magnet the second she exposed it. As for the rose oil, that had just been an excuse to touch him again, and the cleft hadn’t gone lacking.

She puffed a great cloud of white vaporized frustration. Poised, that’s what she was, but for what, exactly? Deep inside her, that morning, there’d been a shift, like she had come to a crossroad of some kind.

“C’mon, Rosy, get real!” She swung her arms, walking faster, kicking the snow. “Real! Real! Real!”

At the gate to Marco’s property, she turned right and walked along a path below the wall. Snow laden trees hung heavy, the weak sun sparkling through their crystal boughs. What a waste of beauty, to be doing this walk by herself—or was she alone? A movement caught her eye, high up in one of the trees on Marco’s side of the wall.

“Hello,” she called, feeling stupid. Had someone been watching her?

She glimpsed eyes, green eyes. Green eyes? Probably a squirrel. Although, did one associate eyes—particularly green ones—with a squirrel? It was more tail, wasn’t it? She peered up into the branches. “Hey! Who’s there?”

Nothing happened. For a few moments, Rosy stood in the absolute silence and then, to her delight, church bells rang out over the valley. Forgetting the eyes, she walked back to the house, determined to feel Christmassy. There were only a couple of days to go, after all, and how could she not, with snow, icicles, bells, and poinsettias? And what about the Christmas tree she hadn’t had time to decorate? She’d do it as soon as she got back to the house—well, not immediately because there was something important to do first.

Striding through the gate, she passed Marco’s precious crate, looking for all the world like a giant, square Christmas cake, iced with a pristine layer of thick snow, and pushed open the front door. She removed her woolly hat, scarf and gloves, and toed off her boots, putting them on the boot stand in the hallway to dry.

Then she went into the study, sat at the desk, booted up the laptop, and cancelled her flight to London.

***

Marco said he’d settle for a double whisky and a cigarette for lunch, but Rosy gave him sushi she’d bought the previous day from the fabulous fish counter at the supermarket.

“I’m not giving you a cigarette.” Adamant, she dipped a tiny salmon roll into soy sauce.

“Why the chopsticks?”

“This is how everyone eats sushi. Even people who have to be fed.”

“Is that so?” He smiled.

“What’s funny?”

“Every time I open my mouth, you open yours.”

“I do?” She sat back and looked at him.

He held her eyes and smiled more. “Yeah.”

“I feel like a sparrow feeding an overgrown cuckoo chick.”

This time he laughed.

“That suits you,” she said. “You should do it more.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what this time?”

“The way I am.”

“I’ll endure,” she said. “You’re not here for long.”

She carried on, performing this incredibly personal task—intimate, and a little embarrassing, and that embarrassment brought an easy smile to her mouth, and his. That, and the bizarre situation in which he had landed. Who would be so stupid as to break both arms falling off a motorbike? But he had, and here he was, helpless in her care—and, moreover, he’d chosen it. Lying in hospital after her visit, standing on the rain-ravaged terrace of his damaged house, he’d never doubted where he’d go. She’d drawn him, and he’d powered through her less than ecstatic welcome to commandeer her bed. However, so far, they had little in common
—
a real shame. She hated motorbikes and he shouldn’t ever eat cake so that was a poor start, and what about his vow to lay off women? He’d been celibate for months and planned to stay that way, so what the hell was happening here? He looked at her fingers, laced through the chopsticks, glimpsed the tip of her tongue between her lips as she aimed for, and successfully speared, a prawn.

“You can leave out the seaweed wrap.” He gazed at her mouth. “I’m not mad about it.”

“Nor me. Open.” She offered the prawn.

There. They did have something in common. They both disliked seaweed.

“I went to Bargemon the other day,” she said.

“Did you like it?”

She gave him the last of the rice. “I loved it.”

So did he. He’d ridden that narrow, winding, tree-shaded road early last spring, on his BMW 1200, parked just off the main square and eaten a perfect omelette in the only restaurant open at the time. He remembered the gracious old building opposite, boarded up but still beautiful, even in an advanced state of dereliction. Had she noticed it? About to ask, he coughed, a small piece of rice caught in his throat.

“Okay?” she asked, a hand on his back.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Sorry.”

She cleared away the lunch and returned presently with two cups of coffee on a tray, and a newspaper. “I’ve left a message for Zavi,” she said, “so he knows where you are, but I asked him not to tell anyone.”

“Why?” he asked, surprised, and cautious.

“Because,” she put down the tray, “I have a feeling you’re hiding from something, or somebody.”

What could he say? She’d put her finger right on the stinging, raw spot. His silence gave her all the affirmation she needed.

“I’ve been hiding from something for four years.” She sat in the armchair and stirred her coffee. “You’ll have to wait. It’s too hot to drink.”

He didn’t mind. Her coffee was lukewarm, milky and, worse, decaffeinated. She wouldn’t give him the espresso he craved and, in that case, he’d frankly rather go without. With any luck, if he engaged her in conversation, she’d forget about the coffee and wouldn’t make him drink it. “Er, what were you hiding from?”

She shrugged. “Life, and happiness.”

“Oh.” He settled in for a long explanation, but she surprised him. “Zavi showed me a way out of it. Pointed out something I hadn’t realized. Made me face up to something I didn’t want to see.”

“He did?”

“Four years ago, my fiancé was killed on a motorbike. Not outright, but he...” her voice faltered. She stopped talking for a moment, took a shaky breath and carried on. “Luke died a few weeks
after. Zavi made me see that it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Of course I didn’t want him to die, but that was selfish. I wanted Luke so I could be happy. I didn’t think about his happiness, or what his life might have been like.”

“Zavi, huh?
I’m glad he could help. He’s a good friend.”

She nodded, smiling, and then floored him. “Why’s Zavi in a wheelchair?”

He stared at her, opened his mouth and shut it.
Shit.
He looked over her head, through the window, just able to see a line of pale, bare trees against the darkening sky. It couldn’t be more than two o’clock and it looked like night was falling.

“Marco?”

Why couldn’t she mind her own business for her own good? Why did everything have to be dragged out and examined? The small flame of interest that had warmed him earlier guttered and died. He looked into her waiting eyes and knew that, whatever else he felt, he owed her the truth. She was that sort of woman.

“Because of me,” he said. “I nearly killed him.”

Chapter Twenty

“A racing accident.” Silence fell for a full minute.

Rosy lowered her cup. “An accident? Then why do you say that you—”

“I knocked him off a motorbike at two hundred miles an hour.”

“On purpose?”

“Of course not!” He glared. “Zavi’s my best friend. Our
mothers
were best friends.”

“Are they still?”

“My mother’s dead.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Drop it, for God’s sake.”

Rosy put her cup back on the tray. “No. I won’t. Tell me about Zavi, and why it’s your fault he’s disabled. It’s a reasonable question.” Not that
reasonable
was a word that applied when Marco Dallariva was in the room. She looked at him, expectant, until he gave in.

“We were on a track in Mexico, on the last lap of a race, fighting for the lead. He overtook me in a fast corner, but it didn’t stick and I came back at him. He went for me again, on a series of turns called The Twister, a sharp left-right-left, and got ahead on the straight by dive-bombing me up the inside. But, we touched handlebars and he went down.”

“So why was it your fault?”

“He was ahead of me, and the rider ahead owns the space.”

“How far ahead?”

“Millimetres.”

“How can you tell millimetres at two hundred miles per hour?”

Marco blinked. “I could tell. He was ahead. I was reckless. The bike cartwheeled off the track and ploughed into the gravel run-off, hitting him in the lower back, breaking his spine. ”

“How awful!” She shuddered, nausea thickening her throat.

“Yes,” Marco, in pain, squeezed his eyes shut.

Rosy bowed her head. What could she say? How could you still be friends after something like that? How could Zavi be best friends with the man who’d crippled him?

“I’m sorry,” she said, eventually. “That’s terrible for you, and him.”

Marco nodded.

“Coffee? It’ll be all right now.”

He shook his head.

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Rosy picked up the newspaper. “I was about to throw this away. It’s yesterday’s, but I could read it to you if you like?”

“If you must,” he said, after a moment.

“I was looking for ‘yes, please’ or ‘no thank you’.”

“All right then, no thank you.”

Fine, she’d read it herself. She’d at least glance through it before she tossed it in the recycling. Scanning the second page, a photo caught her eye, then the paragraph below.

“Oh my God!” she said, under her breath.

Marco, eyes shut, rolled his head on the pillow. “What?”

She looked up, unsure. “It’s...”

“It’s what? You can’t gasp at the newspaper and not tell me what you’re gasping at. It has to be pretty amazing for you to gasp.”

“It’s Lily Richards Dallariva.”

“So? She’s in the paper every day, one way or another.”

“But...”

“What?” He opened his eyes.

“She had the baby.”

He jerked, shocked, instantly haggard, like he’d taken a massive body blow. Rosy looked back to the paper, and scanned the article.

Supermodel Lily Richards gave birth to a 3.9 kilogram baby boy at a private hospital in Paris last night. The baby, as yet unnamed, was delivered by Caesarian section and mother and baby are both doing well. Ms Richards and her partner, Russian property billionaire Vladimir Lasarev, are reported to be delighted.’

Rosy studied the photograph of the couple. Lily wore a cream sequined sheath, her pale gold hair cascading over one shoulder. Lasarev stood beside her in a dark suit. He was shorter, overweight, pale and bald as a boiled egg. She lowered the paper.

“Do you want me to read it?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.” She folded the newspaper and set it on the floor next to her chair. “She came to see you in hospital.”

Marco stared through her. “The baby isn’t mine although, initially, she led me to believe it was.”

“That’s terrible! Why did she do that?”

“What? Sleep with other men, or lie to me?” He focused, his eyes angry. “I thought that baby was mine! I presumed we had a future. I thought our rocky marriage had a chance. I wanted her to work less and travel with me. But I live on the racetrack and she didn’t want to.” He sat up, kicking at the bedding.

Rosy studied the bottom of her empty cup. It sounded like too much wanting from two strong-willed people, and not enough compromise and understanding, too little give and way too much take.

“I wanted someone to love me,” he said. “I glimpsed how perfect life could be with the right person.”

More wanting.

“What a mess,” she ventured.

“Not for her!”

“But you still see her? The other day in the hospital—”

“Divorce papers. Henri Albert was present to witness my pathetic attempt at a signature.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand. “I made my mark. It wasn’t my finest moment.”

“No, I’m sure not.” She stood up and folded the quilt back, taking her time to smooth it with her hands. “Come downstairs with me. I’d value your opinion on the Christmas tree.”

He shook his head.

“Come, Marco. I don’t want to decorate alone. The tree’s up, but it’s bare and unhappy. We’ll light the fire, have a drink and share the joy, come on. Let’s both make an effort.”

“Why have a Christmas tree when you’re going back to London?” He put his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She reached out to steady him, touching his shoulder. Their eyes met. For a few moments they stood together on the small rug between the bed and the window where fresh snow tapped softly on the panes, looking at each other.

“I’m not going back to London,” she said.

***

Rosemary turned the wing chair around for him, so it faced the hallway where she’d put the tree. She lit the fire, pushed the footstool closer so he could put up his feet, and covered him with rugs. Best of all she put a whisky on the table next to him, where he could drink it himself through a long, bendy straw.

“A special treat,” she said, “because you’re feeling
miserable.” When she’d settled him, her phone rang. She
disappeared into the kitchen to answer, saying, “I can’t talk now. No, no, I can’t, honest. I’ll call you back this evening, Fi. Promise. I’ve got something
really
important to tell you.” She laughed. “Stop it. Don’t be silly.”

What was so important, and why couldn’t she talk now? She wasn’t busy, not really. It could only mean she wanted to talk about stuff she didn’t want him to hear. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Did it matter? Yes, he decided, it mattered.

He sipped the whisky, a tot of Frederick’s finest single malt which, had Frederick been in charge, would have been a generous double, known to most as a triple. It went straight to Marco’s head. Pleasant. Perhaps if he behaved extra-well he’d get more. Numb with shock over the birth of Lily’s baby, even though he had known it was coming, he swallowed the hurt. In time, he would forget, and put himself beyond the place where Lily could wound him. For now, sitting in Frederick’s chair, in Frederick’s house, he would do what Frederick had advised
—
concentrate on, and live in, the moment.

In due course, while Rosemary wound an infinite number of small, white lights into the branches of the tree, he relaxed. She hung decorations, first holding them up against the branches, head on one side, to see how they’d look in a certain position.
At one stage she got up from where she was kneeling among a heap of boxes and packaging, and came to him holding two clear glass orbs with sparkling silver snowflakes inside.

“They’re just from the supermarket,” she said, “but aren’t these lovely?” She bent over him, holding the ornaments and his nostrils filled with fragrant, fresh flowers.

“Yes,” he said, drunk, “and you smell lovely.”

“Thank you.” She went back to the rug and stood in front of the tree, hooking the glass snowflakes onto the branches. She glanced at him sideways, smiling. “
J’adore
.”

For a delicious, fleeting moment, warm, mellow and detached from reality, he misunderstood. His head spun, his mouth dropped open, he blinked, stunned.

“It’s by Christian Dior. My friend Fiona
—
that was her on the phone earlier
—
made me buy it before I came here. She’s trying to rejuvenate me.” She shrugged and went on hanging decorations.

Reality slapped him in the face.
Fuckwit
. He shook his head at his own stupidity.
J’adore,
not
Je t’adore.
Needy, that’s what he was, and needy was a big turnoff.

***

When Zavi returned Rosy’s call, Marco was back in bed. Rosy connected Marco to her hands-free headphones and left them to talk. A while later she went into the room to find Marco half-asleep.

“All okay?” she asked.

“Mm.”

She retrieved her headphones and stood at the window winding the wires into a small coil between her fingers.

“It’s so dark,” she said, “and windy. I think we’re in for another storm, and,” she leaned closer to the glass, “if I’m not mistaken, there’s a wild animal running around in the garden.”

“Oh?”

“Perhaps it’s a stray dog,” she went on, looking at the base of the thick laurel hedge where the creature had disappeared, “although, to be honest, it looked more like a cat, an enormous cat. Much bigger than any domestic cat should ever be.”

“
Il Capitano
,” he murmured.

She glanced at him. “Who?”

“The cat.” He roused himself and spoke more clearly. “
Il Capitano
. Someone gave him to me as a present but he got fed up with me always being away, so he came to live with Frederick. Frederick called him Captain Whiskers. I guess the poor guy went back to my house after Frederick died.”

“That thing’s a
cat
? But it’s enormous!”

“He’s a Maine Coon.”

“A what?”

“It’s a special breed.”

“Cat it isn’t. It has a vast tail like a raccoon and a mane—”

“That’s him. He’s a special, large breed with excellent hunting skills, descended from Norwegian forest cats. He’s intelligent and affectionate, and probably pretty confused right now. Perhaps you could let him in and give him something to eat.”

Rosy turned from the window and stood next to the bed, marvelling at the sudden flow of words. “I’ll put something outside the back door for him.”

“No. He’ll be cold and wet and unhappy, maybe frightened. Let him in.”

“I’m not letting that...lion into the house. My house.”

“But he lives here.”

“Are you talking about Frederick’s cat? The one mentioned in the will I’m supposed to look after? The rabbit thief?”

“That’s him.”

“A shared cat? In that case, you can look after him.”

Marco grinned. “I’m not legally bound.”

“I’m not a cat person.”

“Please, Rosemary. I’ve been worried about him.”

“Softie.”

“Perhaps if you made his favourite meal? Poached chicken with gravy and baby carrots. He loves baby carrots.”

“Am I really having this conversation with a motorsport tough dude?”

“Thanks,” he said, and fell asleep.

She went downstairs to the kitchen unable to believe she was about to poach chicken for a cat. But she would. Nobody ever called her Rosemary, and there was something in the way Marco said the word.
Rosamaria
, rolling
the r’s softly. The request, made in that husky, broken voice, would be fulfilled.

That voice could make her do anything.