by T A Williams
However, things didn’t quite work out as she was hoping.
As she was just finishing her dessert of fresh strawberries and meringue ice cream, she looked up and noticed two men coming into the restaurant. Both were carrying holdalls and she wondered idly if they were tourists, even though they weren’t looking particularly happy, although that might have been down to the weather. As the waiter showed them to a free table on the other side of the garden, Matt looked up and followed the direction of her eyes. As he saw the two men, his reaction was unexpected in the extreme. To Alice’s amazement, he dropped his head towards the table, covering the side of his face with one arm and overturning his little espresso cup – fortunately now empty – in the process. He screwed himself round, so the back of his head was towards the two new arrivals, shot a furtive glance up towards Alice and she heard him speak in an urgent whisper.
‘It’s them. I don’t think they’ve seen me yet, but we need to get out, quick.’
‘Them? Who?’ She followed his example and kept her voice low, but she couldn’t get her head round why he was reacting like this. Did he know them? Were they bad men? A sudden horrible thought came to her. Was he maybe involved in some sort of criminal affair? After all, he had amassed a hell of a lot of money. Her initial bemusement began to turn into something far more sinister. Who were these two men and, for that matter, just exactly who was Matthew Livingstone?
His reply went some way towards reassuring her that she wasn’t in the company of a mafioso, but did little to explain what on earth had sparked off this reaction.
‘It’s the two paparazzi from outside the villa. I recognise them from earlier. I don’t think they’ve seen me yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’ He looked up again and she read real concern in his eyes. ‘Is there a back door to this place?’
‘Um, I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
Alice’s bewilderment intensified. Why had he said the paparazzi hadn’t recognised him? Surely, she was the only celebrity at this table. Just who on earth was he? She took another look across the garden and saw the two men deeply involved in studying the blackboard with the menu on it, which the waiter was holding up for them. One thing was for sure: she had no desire to be recognised and photographed either – irrespective of why Matt appeared to be freaking out – so she made a quick decision.
‘They’re busy looking at the menu. If we want to get out, now’s the moment. Come on!’
She got to her feet and made her way through the tables towards the bar, deliberately resisting the temptation to take to her heels and run. Behind her she heard footsteps as Matt followed on her heels with Guinness bringing up the rear. To her considerable relief, they managed to get past the paparazzi without being observed. They positioned themselves at the far end of the bar by the till and waited for Giovanni. As the friendly restaurateur slid the bill across the counter, and she dropped a hundred-euro banknote on top of it, he gave her a knowing wink.
‘Paparazzi – I can smell them a mile off.’ He tapped the side of his nose with a finger. ‘Don’t worry, Polly, they didn’t see you.’
Alice smiled back at him, genuinely surprised that he was familiar with her alter-ego from five years ago. She had eaten here a few times now but this was the first time he had ever even hinted that he recognised her. Of course, maybe Father Gregorio had told him but, either way, he was an excellent, discreet host. As he took the banknote and produced the change and receipt, Alice glanced across at Matt, who was still hunched down, with his shoulders towards the room. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to have registered that Giovanni had used the name Polly. He was still looking furtive and her bewilderment returned. Just who was her dinner companion and what did he have to fear from those two men?
Moments later they were outside in the street and she heard Matt let out a heartfelt sigh of relief.
‘Wow, that was a close call.’
They walked back to her house in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. When they got there, to her surprise, he hesitated at the door.
‘I think I’d better go, Alice. I’m sorry.’ She saw his eyes glint in the orange glow of the streetlight. ‘This is the reason I don’t go out much. I’m really sorry.’
‘You’re sorry… but why, Matt? What have you got to be sorry for? And why were you so freaked by those men?’
‘They’re paparazzi and I’ve had it up to here with paparazzi.’ She heard him sigh again. ‘I was hoping to get to know you a whole lot better before I told you my dirty little secret. I’m sorry.’
He leant forward, pecked her on the cheek and turned on his heel. As he and his dog headed back along the street to the piazza, she stood and watched them go, a confused mixture of sensations rising up inside her. The overriding one was mystification. She just couldn’t get her head around what had just happened. Along with it came annoyance, frustration and maybe even a little bit of fear. What exactly had he meant by his ‘dirty little secret’?
Chapter 27
Inevitably, she didn’t sleep well that night. She lay awake for quite some time, turning over and over in her head what had happened, his reaction and what he had said. What was clear was that he had a real terror of being exposed by the paparazzi, which meant that he had to be famous – or infamous – for some reason. Sometime in the middle of the night she even got out of bed and tried googling the name Matthew or Matt Livingstone, but without success. Although frustrating to find nothing, the fact that she didn’t discover his name on a ‘most wanted’ list was heartening.
She returned to bed and lay there, staring up into the dark, turning over scenario after scenario in her head that might explain his weird behaviour. The most obvious one was that the name was an alias. Maybe he had adopted a false identity when he moved to Italy. What made this less likely was the invasiveness of Italian bureaucracy. In order to open a bank account and buy the tower, he would have had to prove his identity numerous times so, unless he had a range of counterfeit documents, it seemed unlikely. Besides, why would he change his name? It pointed towards him having a dubious background of some sort.
Given his obvious wealth and his relative youth, could he be involved in organised crime, maybe even a drug baron? Had his business in Rome last week been criminal business? Mind you, she reminded herself, paparazzi normally confined their attentions to celebrities rather than gangsters, for obvious reasons. Angry celebrities normally only sue, while gangsters kill. But why on earth would a normal, honest man choose to conceal his true identity? Somebody with nothing to hide would hardly do such a thing – unless he were in a witness protection scheme or similar. It was baffling.
She finally drifted off to sleep, but when she woke next morning, it was with that same feeling of bewilderment, plus considerable regret. It had all been going so well last night, up to the moment when the paparazzi arrived, and she knew she had been looking forward immensely to getting him back to her house. Now that had all been blown out of the water and she still didn’t know why. She also didn’t know where that left their fledgling relationship. She considered sending him an email to see how he was feeling, but somehow she felt it would be better to give him a bit of time and space. The fact of the matter was that the strange events of last night had dented her trust in him. She still didn’t really know much about him, but she had believed everything he had told her up to now. Could it be there was a far less palatable Matt Livingstone hidden beneath the handsome exterior?
She didn’t feel like a run so she went over to the bar for a chat and a cappuccino. Rita was most apologetic for revealing Alice’s address to David. She had remembered seeing the two of them together earlier in the month and it hadn’t occurred to her to query why he didn’t know her whereabouts. Alice told her not to worry and explained that she had sent him off with a flea in his ear.
While she was there, her phone bleeped and she saw she had a message from none other than Felicity.
Hi Alice. Just arrived back in LA. It was great to meet yo
u at last and we must stay in touch. I’ve already passed on your name and the signs are good. I reckon they’ll go for it. I do so look forward to working with you. Fliss x
This was brilliant news and Alice sent her a quick reply, thanking her and echoing the hope of working with her. This, coupled with the guest appearances and her very own art series, made it almost certain that she had a great future ahead of her.
Back at her house, she found an email from Matt and she clicked on it eagerly. She would have preferred a phone call, so she could speak to him directly, but she sensed he was trying to give himself time to explain – but he didn’t. The message contained a long and profound apology for ruining her evening – which he said he had been enjoying immensely – but there was no explanation of what he had meant by his ‘dirty little secret’. It did, however, contain an invitation to dinner with him in the tower that evening. She took her time before replying but, whatever her doubts and reservations, she knew she wanted to see him again so she sent him a friendly reply saying she would be there – not least in the hope of finding out just what on earth was going on.
That afternoon was still extremely hot, so she went for a short walk around the village, ending up at the bar again around four o’clock for an ice cream. As she waited for Rita to finish scooping up her portion of white chocolate and lemon ice cream, her eyes alighted upon a well-thumbed copy of today’s paper, lying open on a nearby table. A photo on the right-hand page suddenly caught her attention. It was a picture of none other than Felicity at the foot of the Spanish Steps, in Rome. What was really weird, however, was that she was arm-in-arm with a man – and not just any man. He had obviously just realised that they were about to be photographed and was in the process of turning his head away from the camera, but Alice recognised him instantly all the same. To her amazement, she saw that the man was none other than Matt. The megastar was gazing at him with affection and the headline above it read: Felicity Winter and Her Mystery Man in Rome. The article went on to produce a handful of fanciful suggestions as to the mystery man’s identity, but none even came close.
Alice just stood there, stunned. How on earth could it be that these two knew each other? Had they somehow met while Fliss had been at Conrad’s villa? Why hadn’t Fliss said anything to her about him? Of course, Fliss had no way of knowing she had even met Matt, let alone had a massive crush on him, but seeing them together was such a colossal coincidence that Alice struggled to get her head round it. Assuming the photo was genuine, could it really be that Matt had fallen under the thrall of the Hollywood star just as David had done with Layla? Alice took her ice cream to a table and sat down, trying her best to think logically. She knew only too well how the media could twist, misconstrue and invent stories. A single photo of two people arm-in-arm proved nothing. Fliss was a touchy-feely sort of person, and gripping somebody’s arm was eminently normal behaviour for her. Somehow these two had met up and had been photographed together. It wasn’t as if they had been caught in bed together, after all.
But how on earth had they come to be there – and just who was Matthew Livingstone? The seed of mistrust planted in her head now began to blossom and she came close to sending him an email, telling him she couldn’t come to dinner with him after all. In the end, natural curiosity got the better of her and she decided to go, just to find out what the hell was going on.
She drove up to the tower that evening in a state of considerable agitation. Her head was still filled with the image of him arm-in-arm with Felicity and, to make matters worse, another thought had suddenly occurred to her: if Matt really was from a criminal background, he might have darker plans for her. Had she seen things she shouldn’t have seen at the restaurant last night? Might this invitation be a means of luring her to a tragic death, maybe falling off the top of the tower? She very nearly slapped her own face. What on earth was wrong with her? Of course he wasn’t a homicidal maniac! And of course she had nothing to fear from him. As for his connection with Fliss, she would ask him and he would tell her, and that would be that. This was just an invitation to dinner, and maybe more, although she knew in her heart that there was no way she was going to take things to the next level until he had explained in detail just who he was and what on earth was going on.
He must have been on the lookout, as the gates swung open before she had to ring the bell. She drove through and up the drive, parked alongside the old Land Rover and climbed out. It was comforting to find herself greeted by the rapturous Labrador, who jumped all over her as she emerged from the car. Behind Guinness was his master, looking decidedly… sheepish. Alice took this as a good sign. Of the many adjectives that could be used to describe a brutal criminal or a drug baron, she was pretty confident that sheepish wouldn’t have made the cut. He appeared more interested in studying his feet than looking towards her, so she marched up to him, but stopped short of kissing him. He had a lot of explaining to do first. She did her best to keep things light – for now.
‘Hi, Matt. You look miles away. Remember me? I’m the girl you invited for dinner.’
He raised his head and she saw a little smile spread across his face as he looked her straight in the eye.
‘I owe you an explanation.’
‘I rather think you do. At least one.’
Together, they went in and climbed the stone staircase to the top. It was all looking a lot tidier this time and she commented on it. In reply, he managed a hint of a grin.
‘Just don’t open any doors. I’ve been picking stuff up and slinging it into odd rooms to hide it. Now, first things first, I think we both need a drink. I’ve got some good champagne in the fridge.’
‘There’s no need for champagne. We just need to talk.’
He shook his head. ‘In fact, there is a need for champagne. I’ve just had some very good news. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.’
He went over to the kitchen, produced a bottle of champagne from the fridge, opened it and filled two glasses. By this time the dog had stretched out at Alice’s feet and was rolling about on his back, grunting happily to himself while she scratched his tummy with her toe. As she took her drink from his master, she pointed down at Guinness, keen to break the taut silence that had descended upon them.
‘He may not help with the housework, but he’s a lovely dog.’
‘Like I said, he’s my best buddy. The great thing about dogs is that they accept you the way you are. They aren’t judgemental.’
‘And people are? Towards you?’
He didn’t answer. He just clinked his glass against hers and then sat down on the other side of the dog. He took a mouthful of wine and she could see him brace himself. She also took a sip and sat back, waiting to hear what he had to say for himself.
‘Like I just told you, Alice, I owe you an explanation. Once again, I’m really sorry for ruining last night, which was going so well. The thing is, I haven’t been completely honest with you.’ He stopped and corrected himself. ‘No, that’s not right. Everything I’ve told you about me has been true, I promise, but I just didn’t tell you the whole story.’
This was patently self-evident, but she just nodded and waited for him to carry on. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
‘You see, when I told you I was trying to write a book, that was true, but the thing is, it wouldn’t be my first book. I’ve already written one.’
He hesitated and Alice wondered where he might be going with this. She saw him take a deep breath.
‘I wrote the first one under a pen name, not my real name. The book’s called The Playboy and His Women. You’ve maybe heard of it.’
Alice was glad she was sitting down. Of all the different scenarios she had been exploring in her head over the past twenty-four hours, this certainly wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t a gangster. He wasn’t in witness protection. He wasn’t some sort of crazy attention-seeker with delusions of celebrity. He was in fact the highly successful writer of one of the most controversial books of the twent
y-first century, the book that critics had called ‘a declaration of war upon the concept of love.’ She found herself gawping at him in amazement.
‘You are M. T. Landseer?’ She could hear the incredulity in her voice. ‘You’re the guy they call the destroyer of romance, the anti-Cupid?’
He nodded soberly and hung his head. ‘Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. M. T. Landseer shares my initials, but it’s a made-up name.’
Alice took another, bigger, sip of champagne and let her mind consider the implications of this confession. Here she was, sitting opposite the man with whom she would have been only too happy to jump into bed as recently as the previous night, only to discover that his intentions – as so eloquently described in his book – were almost certainly just selfish sexual gratification. She took another sip of wine but barely tasted it, an overwhelming feeling of disappointment settling upon her.
‘I see.’
‘You know the book?’
‘I’ve just finished reading it.’
‘Ah…’ He picked up the champagne bottle and reached over to top up her glass. She could see this was probably just to give him time to choose his words, and she took heart from the nervous expression on his face. He set the bottle back down again and took another deep breath. ‘That book isn’t me.’
‘I thought you said you’d written it?’
‘Oh, I wrote it all right, but it doesn’t reflect the way I really think.’ He took a mouthful of champagne before continuing. ‘I told you I was a journalist, and I was. I first hatched the idea when I saw the amazing success of Fifty Shades. It occurred to me that millions of people around the world are prepared to pay good money to read about sex and not much else, so I set out to give them just that. It took me a surprisingly short time to write it: less than three months. I was pretty pleased with myself, particularly when the first literary agent I showed it to signed me up there and then.’