The Untouchable (30 page)

Round, pink-faced, bald, and soft-handed, Hollingberry could have been a large baby himself. A baby who had seen it all. Rosy glanced at the certificates hanging on the wall of his office. Obstetrics, Gynaecology, Edinburgh Royal College of Surgeons. He settled her in an armchair, and sat opposite, notepad and pen ready. The receptionist brought tea.

“Tell me your story,” he said to Rosy, when she had gone.

“I’m sorry.” She stalled. “I have a terrible cold.”

“That’s all right.” He smiled, leaned forward and pushed a box of tissues closer.

Rosy took two deep breaths, drawing in the fragrance of Earl Grey.

“I’m pregnant.” Closing her eyes briefly, she went on. “And I think, maybe, possibly, that the father of the baby could be my half-brother. He’s Marco Dallariva, the motorcycle racer.”

Hollingberry nodded, and Rosy went on.

“I think his mother, Diana, could have had an affair with my estranged father, the writer Frederick Hamilton. Diana and Frederick are both dead so...so there’s no way to find out whether...” Her voice died.

Hollingberry, gentle, asked questions. Had she done a test? When? When had she had her last period? How had she found out about Diana and Frederick? And when?

“Yesterday. It all happened yesterday and I panicked.”

“That’s understandable. How much does Mr. Dallariva know?”

“Nothing. He can’t. It’s the British Grand Prix tomorrow. The slightest distraction could spell all sorts of disaster. I’d hoped I could do something,
prove
something either way, before he had to know. On Monday, he flies to Chicago and I’m supposed to go with him, but I want to get this sorted. I want to know one way or another, quickly.”

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. We’ll need DNA samples from both of you.”

“Marco had to do a paternity test last year. Could we not, somehow, use that, preferably without him knowing?”

“I would need his permission, and in any case the sample’s only held for three months once paternity’s been proven, so, no, fresh samples will have to be taken. I’ll need to see Mr. Dallariva, in person for that.” He wrote on his notepad. “Without upsetting anyone, or casting aspersions, is there someone you could talk to about this? In case you’re barking up the wrong tree? Someone you trust, who knew your father, who with a simple explanation could put your mind at rest?”

“Um, I hadn’t thought about that.”

He stood up, crossed the room, and opened a door into a small changing room. “If you’ll just pop in here, get undressed and put on the robe so I can examine you?”

Rosy did that, lying on the examination table while Hollingberry prodded and pressed with large, warm hands.

“What would the situation be,” he asked, “if you discovered, beyond all doubt, that you were
not
related to the baby’s father? Would you keep the baby?”

“Yes, yes I would. No question, whatsoever.”

“And if the test results came back and you found that you
were
related?”

“I-I suppose I would have to terminate.”

“That,” he said, “is going to be a problem because you’re quite a way along as far as I can feel. I’d say fourteen to sixteen weeks.”

“But incest,” she winced at the word, but there was no point denying it, because that’s what it could be, “is illegal. Surely that’s an extenuating circumstance? And the baby is at risk of abnormalities.”

“Less than is commonly believed, actually, but that doesn’t take away from what is an extremely awkward situation. Come with me. Let’s get you scanned.” He took her hand and patted.

The gesture was so comforting it almost breached her control. She held the tears.     “Why?”

“If there is a serious abnormality evident, we can terminate immediately.”

In shock, Rosy let him lead her into an adjoining room and help her onto a bed. He set up the scanner, rubbed gel on her tummy and pushed the transducer across her abdomen, not commenting when she turned her head away from the screen.

“Let’s see,” he murmured. “Let’s just have a look.” After a long time, he stopped, switched off the scanner and sat back in his chair. “Everything looks one hundred percent normal at this stage, but I have one question.”

“What?” Rosy turned her head to look at him.

“Has anyone in your family ever given birth to twins?”

Oh dear God
.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

I won’t think. I won’t think about it until Marco is here tomorrow, until we’ve had a chance to talk, Rosy decided, on the way back to the hotel in a taxi. She let go, closing her eyes, blanking her mind. The sun came out, streaming through the taxi window, warming her arms and hands. Half-dozing, she listened to the rattling jig of the engine while the car idled in thick traffic, so different to the highly strung soprano of Marco’s bike, unrestrained.

Marco. He’d been quiet today. Her stomach jerked. Anxious, she roused herself, got out her phone and looked at the time. One o’clock—he’d be starting qualifiers in the next hour. She’d forgotten. She hadn’t even asked him yesterday how the practices had gone.

She called him, but, as expected, the call went straight to voicemail.
Hello darling
, she texted.
Am about to install myself in front of the TV and watch every second of qualifiers. I know you’ll be brilliant. Can’t wait to see you. Miss you. Love you. XXXOXXX

Of course, no answer.

At the hotel, she paid the taxi driver and went straight to her room. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, she switched the TV to the motorsports channel and turned down the sound. Putting her hand low on her stomach she closed her eyes.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, I love you both.” She stayed still for a moment, connecting to the energy of the lives inside her—growing every hour, every minute, every second of every day.

Stronger, she sat up. To work. Firstly, Hollingberry had suggested she might speak to someone who had known Frederick well. An utterly sensible suggestion. Of course she could do that. Her own mother had been vague about Frederick’s relationships but, if pressed, perhaps she could offer more valuable information, particularly in the current circumstances. Henri Albert, discreet and professional, would surely help her in any way he could if he knew the reason behind her request. And, of course, there was Zavi. Hadn’t Marco said Diana had been best friends with Zavi’s mother?

But, what if the news leaked? Sickened, she put her head in her hands. No one could be trusted with a juicy titbit like this. The media would pay a fortune for the inside story of her and Marco’s misfortune, go mad for it.

Zavi wouldn’t leak anything, would he? Could he be persuaded to ask his mother if she knew the most intimate details of Diana’s life? Would she be prepared to share such information if it existed? She would, Rosy convinced herself, especially if she knew the truth. She would.

She reached for the phone, and changed her mind. Not the sort of thing to discuss on the phone. She’d have to go and see Zavi. He’d be back in Monaco now, attending a friend’s wedding, according to a conversation between him and Marco she’d recently overheard.

She glanced at the television screen, Marco emerged from the shadows of the garage, stretched, got on his bike, swooped down the pit lane and out onto the track into the sun. How strange to look at that alien, robotic, red and black figure and to know that she knew him, inside his leathers, his body armour, his skin, his heart, his blood.

He deserved the immediate truth. She would tell him as soon as he arrived tomorrow. Then, if he agreed, on Monday, she would fly to France, stay at Villa Diana, spend precious time with Leo, catch up with Mel and Lydia, and visit Zavi and Henri Albert. Surely, surely by the time Monday was over, there would be progress to a solution.

Feeling a little better, Rosy stretched her legs and lay back on the pile of pillows. Marco’s first flying lap was well under way. She watched the whole session until he returned to the garage and disappeared inside. He finished fifth fastest, which meant he’d start Sunday’s race from the middle of the second row. He’d be disappointed.

I watched everything, my darling
, she texted.
You were fabulous and I’m so proud. I love you.

No answer.

Rosy lingered in a hot bubble bath, watching a movie on the television screen in the bathroom. An hour later, wrinkly skinned but warm, headache-free and more clear-headed than she’d been in the last two days, she wrapped herself in a vast hotel robe and got back on the bed with Frederick’s journal. For the rest of the afternoon, the evening and well into the night, she studied it, looking for clues that would set her free. Over and over she read the passage that had stolen her joy, puzzling over the words and tenses, reading between the lines for clarity.

She found no clues. Nothing.

***

The following morning Rosy, knowing Marco would be up early, got up early too.

Up early with you
, she texted.
Thinking of you all day. Be safe. I love you.

She dressed, requested an early room-cleaning service and went downstairs for breakfast. The buffet was a vision, reminding her she had eaten nothing since yesterday morning at Red Velvet. Fiona had given her lavender sponge cupcakes, decorated with crystallized violets. Her hormones had rebelled. The lavender flavouring was overpoweringly medicinal, the violets coarse and over-sweet, but of course she dared not say anything. Hell, she’d developed the recipe herself. What would Fiona have said if she’d refused to eat the result? As it was, her comment that she thought the recipe unbalanced had drawn a sharp look.

Picking up a plate, she approached the feast. No lavender and violets here, just good plain English breakfast. She helped herself to oatmeal and fruit salad, ordered toast and scrambled egg and went to sit at a table by the window.

Afterwards, she went for a short walk around a small garden square belonging to the hotel, looking up at the blue sky between the fresh green leaves of a stately London plane tree. What a beautiful day for racing. She’d check the weather at Silverstone, too. Hopefully, Marco would be under this same blue sky, looking forward to perfect conditions.

Back in her room, television on, she set up her laptop, connected to the hotel wifi and looked at flights to Nice. Not many seats available from any of the London airports. She booked the last seat going, on the earliest
flight from London City, emailed Lydia and Mel to say she was coming and turned her attention to the television. The warm-up session had started and she gave it her full focus.

***

“Good morning viewers! Liam Dyer and Tony Morris, at your service in the commentary box to bring you coverage of the warm-up session of the Great British Grand Prix we’ve all been looking forward to. Unfortunately, the day that started so beautifully has clouded over and we’ve even had a little rain down at turn six.
Just a small shower, mind you...uh oh...is that a raindrop I see on the commentary box window?”

“I’m very much afraid it is, Liam. Tough luck, summer’s over.”

“Most of the riders are out on track, led by Roman West. Who would you put your money on today, Tony?”

“Roman West for sure. He’s had everything on his side so far this weekend, and has a perfect bike, to boot.”

“Whoaa! Is that someone down on Abbey Corner?

“It’s Dallariva!”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that is a very rare sight, to see Dallariva down in a
warm-up
!”

“Agree, Liam. Is he all right? That’s the main thing.”

“He’s on his hands and knees, on his feet, and ouch! Dallariva seems to be working on his limp, Tony. Let’s hope it’s not too serious. The DRT team needs to hold it together, to succeed, to come out of the tragedy, difficult as it is, of Hans Kirkman’s passing.”

“It’s what Hans would have wanted to see. His idol and mentor, Marco Dallariva taking this year’s world championship.”

“A lovely lad, Kirkman. I miss him more than I can say.”

“We all do. We all do.”

***

Holding her phone, swallowing hard to push her heart back down where it belonged, Rosy texted.
Marco, please tell me you’re okay—

What, exactly, was the point? He wouldn’t answer. Too busy. Preoccupied with what lay ahead this afternoon, absorbed as usual. Consumed. And still angry with her for letting him down. She deleted the message.

Restless, she left the room, took the lift down to the foyer, hesitated at the sofa in the bay window, changed her mind and went outside. Why sit inside? Silverstone might be veiled in slick drizzle, London was not. She’d have an early lunch, somewhere outside, and get back in good time to see the race. Red Velvet was the place she wanted to go more than any other. It pulled her like a powerful magnet, but she stayed away. Given the dire situation at home with sick children and tricky in-laws, Fiona would likely be working again today. Probably best to avoid her hawk-like scrutiny for now, until she’d spoken, face to face, with Marco.

She ended up taking a bus, then the Underground to the South Bank where she found a café with tables in the sun. How strange to be the only single person at a table for one on a Sunday when everyone—everyone—else formed part of a family, or group of friends. Head down, she pretended to study the menu. Was Marco all right? What if he’d hurt himself? He’d been limping on his left leg, the one he’d broken three times since the start of his racing career. What if, like Hans, he hadn’t initially appeared hurt, but had in fact been seriously injured? What if…

What if something happened to him and she wasn’t there?

“Would you like to order, Madam?”

Someone stood in front of her. She squinted into the sun. “What?”

“Are you ready to order?”

“No.” She pushed back her chair and stood up, stumbling against the table. “Sorry, I’ve made a mistake. I have to go.” Sick with dread, she hurried back to the hotel walking so fast in the direction of the Underground she broke a sweat.

Marco
, she texted, off the train and on the bus.
Talk to me. Please. I have to speak to you before you race. Please, please let me know you’re all right. I love you, and I’m worried
.

Her phone battery was all but flat. Off the bus, desperate, she ran the last few blocks to the hotel, whirling in through the brass-trimmed, bevelled and etched glass revolving door and straight up the carpeted stairs, invoking a pair of raised eyebrows on the habitually deadpan face of the doorman.

Charger plugged into the wall, phone plugged into the charger she checked her messages. Nothing. She flopped on the bed, tempted to cry. Whose fault was this anyway?

Hers
.

She looked around the room, hating everything she saw, unbearably lonely.