The Untouchable (29 page)

Chapter Fifty-Five

“
Cara,
hello.”

Rosy walked out of the bedroom to see Marco coming in, his leathers speckled with raindrops.

“
Cara
, you are dressed! Why are you dressed when you are should be in bed? Surely the doctor told you to stay in bed?”

She blew her nose, blinked away tears and forced a smile, dry lips sore. “I’m bored.”

“Is something wrong?” He reached out to touch her face but she ducked away.

“Don’t!”

“Don’t?” He put his hands on his hips. “Don’t what?”

“Touch me. You’ll get sick.” She looked away, the concern in his eyes too pure to bear. She went to a window. “Terrible weather,” she said, back turned, arms folded.

“
Cara
, look at me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

The enormity of the request beat in her head like a ticking bomb.
“I need to go home for a bit, until I’m better.”

“This is your home, Rosemary. Where I am. You know that.”

“I have something to do in London, with Frederick’s publishers,” she lied. “I’ve been reading his journal, as you know. They may want to publish it.”

He frowned. “You said it was boring.”

She took a deep breath, and shivered, closing her eyes against the stab of a sudden, lethal headache, nothing to do with her cold. “In the end, it wasn’t so boring.”

“Oh? That’s good news.”

“Yes. So, I’ll be going to London immediately.”

“Why? It’s not necessary. Everything can be done by phone and email.”

“I must.”

“Leave it until next week.”

She didn’t reply. After a moment, he asked, “What did the doctor say?”

The headache flared. “It’s just a cold.”

“What are you taking?”

“Nothing. It’s a virus.”

“Nothing? Not even for pain?”

“Well, yes,” she lied, again. “Yes.”

Someone hammered on the door. “
Si
.” Marco stuck his head out into the wet, spoke for a few seconds, and turned to Rosy. “I must go. It seems the rain is less. There’s a chance we may get track time after all. I’ll see you later.”

“No. I won’t be here.”

He’d gone. He dashed into the rain without looking back. She put on her raincoat and boots, picked up her bag and umbrella and let herself out. The hood of her raincoat well up, umbrella open and held low, she slipped out of the paddock unnoticed, walked the length of the back of the grandstands and went out through the main gates, phone to her ear, attempting to locate a taxi.

I’m coming to town
, she texted Fi,
as soon as she was out of the rain, travelling south
to London.

YAY. To what do we owe the honour,
came the reply,
seeing as tomorrow is the most important race of Marco’s life?

We’ll talk about it when I see you,
Rosy answered

Later, when the taxi reached London, travelling on Edgeware Road toward Marble Arch, once she knew Marco had finished the day’s riding, she called him. He hit the roof, and went through it. She sat in the back of the taxi, stationary in heavy traffic while his anger exploded down the line.

“Don’t make such a scene,” she replied, her voice dull. “It’s nothing. I’m sick.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Just give me a few days.” She couldn’t say more. She turned off her phone, dropped her head back and closed her eyes. Only three blocks from the hotel she’d booked, but she didn’t have the energy to get out and walk.

***

Marco fluffed the practice, only just avoiding the untenable drop zone of the bottom twelve.

“It’s about you, and the bike. Nothing else,” Terry said. “Go and get your head right.”

Bewildered, he went to the motorhome, showered and sat on the bed, wrapped in a towel, wondering what to do. Rosemary wouldn’t answer her phone. He’d left numerous messages. Had they agreed she should go to London? Where was she? Had he misunderstood? Had he been too preoccupied with wet front-end brakes
to hear what she’d been saying?

He cast his mind back, searched his memory for signs he could have missed. Was she pissed off he hadn’t been living with her for the last week? She couldn’t be, because she’d suggested he move out temporarily. It made sense, and sense was what she was all about. Sense and sex. All heart. Clever, and funny, too. He missed her, and more. He had to have her, wanted her, close to him all the time.

All
the time.

Anxious, he got dressed, stopping halfway, one arm in a shirtsleeve, fighting an intense desire to jump in a car and rush after her. He had an important job to do here, for fuck’s sake! An action like that would end in reprimand, penalty, and discipline. He could get fired, fined a hefty few grand at the very least. He had to put his concerns aside, at least for the following twenty-four hours.

Get your head right, Terry had urged, begged, and he had to. Jesus, if it was the last thing he did, he’d win this championship. Dressed, he left the trailer and went to look for Valerie.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, when he located her on a smoke break outside the entrance of the VIP area.

“Find her, make sure she’s okay.”

“I’m not your bloody mother!”

In spite of his distress, Marco half-smiled. Valerie’s way of saying yes.

“That friend of hers, Fiona, will know,” she said.

“Whatever it takes.”

***

Sick, miserable, exhausted, Rosy checked into a discreet, expensive boutique hotel in Mayfair.

“Passport, please, Madam.” The immaculate receptionist showed zero reaction to her wretched state.

Rosy hesitated. She’d been planning on checking in under another name, although she hadn’t thought through what it should be, or why. She’d make a lousy crook. Sighing inwardly she found her passport and handed it over.

In the silent, silk-swagged luxury of the Waterloo Suite, she sank into an armchair and dared to switch on her phone. Dozens of missed calls and messages from Marco
—
messages to which she couldn’t bear to listen. Valerie, and Fiona too. She opened the most recent.

I INSIST YOU CALL ME IMMEDIATELY!
Fiona ranted.
MARCO IS WORRIED SICK! IF YOU DON’T ANSWER THIS MESSAGE NOW HE WILL ALERT THE
POLICE.
I’ve been to your flat
—
obviously you’re not there. Are you dead? FFS Rosy, am scared to death for you. WHERE ARE YOU? Fxxxxxxx

Rosy tossed the phone onto the bed, sat for a while listening to the tick of an ornate clock on the mantelpiece, and then got out her laptop, searching online for pictures of Frederick as a young man. There weren’t many and, of those, few were good quality images. She looked for Luciano Dallariva, too, imagining similarities between him and Marco, finding none. Comparing the best photographs of the two men, she concluded neither looked like Marco. The only parallel she identified was Frederick’s height. He’d been six feet tall; Marco was well over that, while Luciano was stocky. It meant nothing. She searched Diana Dallariva and Frederick Hamilton, and found what she wanted. The grainy black and white photograph had no date or title, but it had been that easy. The two of them sat at a small café table, facing each other, laughing, unaware of the camera. She printed the picture and then got up and looked in a round, gilt-framed mirror. Did she resemble Marco? She imagined his eyes, his nose, his lips superimposed on hers. The image blurred behind tears.

Rosy left the hotel, heading for a large bookshop a few blocks from Red Velvet. Finding the bestseller section, she picked up one of Frederick’s books, a hardback with a clear, colour photograph of him on the inside flap. Did he look like Marco? No, he didn’t. He didn’t. But—for the hundredth time—neither did Luciano Dallariva.

Marco’s height, his beauty, his brains, his blue eyes, all came from my wife, Diana. My contribution was purely biological.

Oh really?

She put down the book and walked out. Rain fell, soaking her. She’d forgotten her raincoat and umbrella in the hotel. Dazed she stood on the pavement, looking up and down the street. Where was the hotel again? Right or left? How ridiculous, she couldn’t remember. And when had it got dark? Instinct took over. She turned left, crossed the road and walked to Red Velvet. There, the windows glowed like an edible jewel box with the displays she’d designed trackside a few weeks ago. On a grandstand under the fabulous Spanish sun, she’d sat through the practices, sunhat on, binoculars in one hand, sketchbook-notebook in the other, and outlined these very themes while Marco handled the big-boy corners of Jerez.
Her eyes moved to the ‘Closed’ sign hanging against the glass door. Searching in her bag, she found a bunch of keys. Unlocking the door, she let herself in and tapped in the code to deactivate the burglar alarm.

Red Velvet slept in the half dark, warm and fragrant from the day’s baking. Rosy shut the door and stood still, deep-breathing the sweetness of vanilla spiked with cloves and the fresh smart of lemon.

Home.

In the small room that led off the office, she switched on the lights and then the kettle, turned up the heating and made a cup of tea. Sitting in an armchair that was too shabby to be seen in public, she took off her boots, tucked up her feet, and closed her eyes. For a while she evened her breathing, relaxed every aching muscle in her fevered body, and emptied her reeling mind.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Rosy woke, sitting in a puddle of cold tea, her chest in agony, her throat like she’d swallowed red-hot bees. Startled, she peered at her watch. What was the time, for God’s sake? And how on earth—

Horrified, wide-eyed, she struggled for orientation.

“Am I dreaming?” she croaked, throat blazing, standing up, testing her weight on a numb foot, fizzing with pins and needles.

Marco.

Realization crashed-landed and woke her properly.

For God’s sake, why was she here?

She took stock. Tea everywhere. She’d fallen asleep and dropped the mug. Finding a cloth in the wash-up area off the kitchen, she thought fast. Yes, there was a problem—a huge, horrendous issue that wouldn’t go away unless dealt with. And she would deal with it, step by step, whatever the effort, whatever the cost. She wiped up the mess, rinsed the cloth and draped it on the heater to dry, and then unlocked the first aid cupboard, searching for cold medicine.

But she couldn’t. Pregnant women didn’t take stuff like this.

Right. She felt her pockets, got out her phone and rang Fiona. Thank Christ, in a way, the call went straight to voicemail.

“Fi, sweetie, I’m here, I’m fine,” she rasped. “Have a terrible cold and,” she paused, sucked in a painful breath, and lied, “just wanted to separate from Marco while I incubate lethal germs. Don’t know what the fuss is about. Sorry to worry everyone. A misunderstanding, probably. Marco didn’t register that I wanted to come up to London, he’s that busy and preoccupied as you can imagine and, anyway, that’s all, really. Let’s chat tomorrow. Love you, bye.”

Marco answered her call before the first ringtone. “Rosemary?”

“I love you, Marco.”

Silence.

“Marco?” Her voice was all but gone.

“
Cara
, what has happened?”

She tried a laugh. “Honestly, I’m so sorry. My temperature is over one hundred degrees. I’m so feverish I didn’t know what I was doing and—” Lies, lies, lies.

“Don’t talk shit.”

“Marco, darling, please. Honestly, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to worry or annoy you, didn’t realise you’d be so upset. You have a huge weekend ahead. I’m a drag, and I could make you very ill.” She talked him around, soothing, smoothing, persuading—easy, because she lied.

Eventually, not convinced, but mollified, trusting, giving her the benefit of the doubt, he rang off.

Desolate, she sat at the desk and Googled private clinics in west London, selecting one that offered online appointments at short notice, even on a Saturday, and promised utmost discretion. She made an appointment, went back to the armchair, curled up in it and shut her eyes.

***

“Whaaaaah!” Fiona’s scream woke her. “
Rosy
? Bloody
hell
.” Fiona stood in front of her, a hand over her mouth. “What are you doing? I thought you were some homeless person who got locked in last night.”

Rosy scrambled to her feet. “Fi! Sorry, sorry, I’m a mess, I—”

“You’ve entirely lost your voice!”

“It’s just a cold.”

“Does Marco know you’re here?”

“Um, yes.”

“He rang me last night to say you were okay, but I won’t say he sounded convinced. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“You look utterly ghastly, FYI.”

“Thanks.”

“That wan smile doesn’t fool me either. What’s up?”

Rosy shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Balls. What are you taking?” She opened the medicine cabinet and peered inside.

“I can’t take, mustn’t, I mean, take any of that stuff.”

“Why on earth not? You’re the queen of over-the-counter winter drugs. You took three cold medicines simultaneously in November, plus supplements, and no one could stop you. Now, what do you want? A cocktail of Lemsip, paracetamol and Night Nurse
should do the trick. What do you say?”

“Fi, please,” Rosy breathed with difficulty, “stop asking questions.”

Fiona dumped the drugs on the desk. “Were you here all night?”

Rosy nodded, flopping into the chair.

“Because I had a text last night informing me the alarm had been deactivated. I ignored it because there was a widespread power cut in West London.” Fiona came closer, eyes shrewd. “Something’s not right. Apart from anything else, where’s your stuff? Or are you just here for the day? In fact,” she folded her arms, “I’d say something’s very wrong.”

Stretched to the limit, Rosy closed her eyes. Tears trickled. Powerless to stop them, to hide anything more, she cracked. “I’ve discovered something terrible,” she whispered.

Fiona went down on her haunches next to the chair and took Rosy’s hands in both of hers. “Okay. No nonsense now, because you’re scaring me. Tell.”

Rosy took a hand away from Fiona and put it into her bag. “This is an extract from Frederick’s journal.” She held out the page. “Read it.”

Fiona let go of Rosy and sat cross-legged on the floor. Taking the page, she started to read. “So?” she said, looking up when she’d finished. “Is this what’s upsetting you? Frederick had an affair?”

“With Diana Dallariva.”

Fiona glanced back at the page she held. “Who is Diana Dallariva?”

“Marco’s late mother.”

Silence. Fiona’s head came up slowly. She stared at Rosy, round-eyed. “
What?
”

Rosy, miserable, nodded. “The child Frederick talks about is Marco, I’m absolutely sure.”

“Not necessarily. Unless there’s more.”

“There is.” Rosy went on to tell Fiona how Marco’s father believed Marco had inherited his beauty and brains from Diana. “He laughed at the fact that Marco looks nothing like him. And he doesn’t. Not one bit.”

“But on your birthday Marco told me that his father raced motorcycles back in the day. Surely that’s where Marco inherited his talent? Surely that proves Luciano is his father?”

“Diana also rode motorbikes. She had her own collection and even did track time. She was a skilled rider, apparently.”

“It still doesn’t mean—”

“When I first met Frederick’s lawyer, he told me that Frederick and Marco were friends because they were so similar. Both gifted and intelligent, he said. Marco paid for Frederick’s funeral. Frederick stored his car in Marco’s garage. Frederick had pictures of Marco in his house, recordings of all his races. They even shared a cat, for crying out.”

Fiona rubbed her eyes, squeezing them shut. “God,” she groaned, “it can’t be true.”

“It’s horrible, Fi.”

Fiona read the extract again. “Frederick mixes his tenses. ‘Was’ and ‘is’. It’s hard to understand if he’s talking about someone in the past, or somebody current. And, wouldn’t he have mentioned her death if he’d been in love with Diana? Surely he would have done that, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

Fiona got up and sat on the edge of the desk. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. First of all, you have to tell Marco.”

“No.”

Fiona held up a hand. “You know you have to. What else are you going to do? Pretend you don’t love him anymore and dump him? Never tell him the truth?”

The thought had crossed Rosy’s mind. She avoided Fiona’s piercing
eyes. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You are already,” Fiona cried. “You are! When I spoke to him on the phone last night, he was in anguish,
desperate
. He needs you. You’re taking a big risk withdrawing your support hours before he rides the biggest race of the season.”

Head down, Rosy swallowed the tears. They leaked out anyway.

“Rosy.” Fiona slid off the desk, sat on the arm of Rosy’s chair and put her arm around her. “You are going to tell Marco. He’ll come straight to London after the race tomorrow.”

“He will?”

Fiona handed her a tissue. “That’s the plan. That’s what we decided. Him and me. Break the news gently, suggest a DNA test. It’s not like he’s never done one. He’ll support you Rosy, and understand. He adores you, but you
must
tell him. Together you can tackle the problem in a practical way.”

Rosy closed her eyes, heaving a shaky sigh. “You’re right, of course.”

“And remember, there might not even be a problem.”

Debbie, a new waitress, knocked on the door. “Can I open now? There are a few people waiting outside.”

Fiona glanced at her watch and stood up. “Go on. I’m coming.”

“I should go.” Rosy shifted to sit on the edge of the chair.

“I could do with some help. We’re one short today.”

For a brief moment, Rosy’s world brightened. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, chucking the tissue in the bin. “I’m so tempted, but I’ll hiss germs everywhere. Blast away the meringues with one of my giant sneezes.”

“You can wear a mask and gloves and stay in the back.”

“I’ve got an appointment later.”

“Where?”

“Um...nails,” she lied. “With Candice, at Nailtech around the corner.”

“She’s on holiday.”

Rosy frowned against the headache lurking behind her eyes. “I swear it was her I spoke to. The line wasn’t great, and my ears are blocked.” She stuck a big, fake smile on her face and stood up on shaking legs. “Have you got time for a coffee before I dash?”

Fiona, halfway through the door, grinned. “Always. Are you still on the black stuff?”

Rosy hesitated. “Um, no. Actually, is there any tomato juice?”

“
Tomato
juice? You don’t even like tomatoes.”

She flushed. “I’ve...changed.”

Fiona narrowed her eyes, came back into the room, closed the door and stood in front of it, hands on hips. “Erratic behaviour, refusal to take over-the-counter meds, a lot of crying, a sudden craving for tomato juice?”

Rosy looked at the floor.

“Where are you staying, by the way?” Fiona asked.

“The Marlborough.”

“I’d prefer you came to ours, where I could make sure you didn’t do a runner. Or something more stupid.”

“I won’t. I’ll stay there until Marco comes.”

“Good, because staying with us would be real punishment. Charlie’s got manflu, the kids are stuck together with snot and my fire-breathing dragon of a mother-in-law is occupying the sofa-bed in the living room. Why do you think I’m working on a Saturday? You’re way better off slumming it in the
Marlborough.
Just
promise
you’ll stay there.”

“I promise, Fi.” She smiled. “Is that everything? Have you finished cross-questioning?”

“No,” Fiona said, going for the jugular, “there’s one more thing. Your boobs are bigger. Is there something else you’d like to tell me?”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Phew, close shave. Rosy crossed the street and walked in the opposite direction she needed to go. Turning, she smiled and waved at Fiona, who watched her from the doorway of Red Velvet.

A good way down the street, Rosy turned right, walked three blocks and turned right again, giving the café a wide berth. On guard, over coffee, dismissing the craving for tomato juice as a silly health-whim, she’d babbled some nonsense to throw Fiona off the scent. She’d changed the subject to the practical and mundane of the business and feigned fascination when Fiona related the drama developing around a new extractor fan that had conked out within the warranty period. Bad customer service, no follow-up. As for the situation of enlarged boobs, Rosy had said, “I’ve put on weight, Fi, and I’ll thank you not to mention it. I eat too much now, without Hans to help me—” She’d stopped short. Even poor, dead Hans had been drawn into her messy knot of lies. She had to stop, she really did.

Fiona, thank God, had nodded sympathetically and topped up her coffee cup.

In a street where it was impossible to find a taxi on a busy Saturday morning, Rosy found a black cab, cruising with the light on. She hailed it, got in and gave the driver the address of the clinic.

“We won’t keep you waiting,” the receptionist said, even though Rosy arrived a good ten minutes early. “This way please. Dr Hollingberry is ready.”