‘Ha, very funny.’ Although he smiled back. ‘At least one part of me is bony,’ patting his stomach.
‘What are you on? There’s not an ounce of fat on you.’
‘Mm, you haven’t seen me in my boxers.’
‘Which ones, the red or the blue?’
His face froze, his eyes searching hers before finally managing to crease up with laughter. ‘The little Madame.’
‘That’s kids for you.’ She’d have liked to reach out her hand to pat his arm but it was a long time since she’d patted anyone. ‘She’s a lovely girl; you’re doing a great job.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
Well I do.’ She looked away and remained looking away as the air hostess, decked out in plain navy with green trim, went about performing last minute checks on seatbelts prior to take off. The pain in her left hand was now a dull throb, and it would remain that way unless she took her painkillers.
‘Would you do me a favour Mr…?’
‘Of course,’ his voice full of concern. ‘But it’s Matti.’
‘Matti, that’s unusual.’
‘It’s short for Matisse,’ his expression now on the rueful side of normal, and, was that a slight colour rushing up his neck?
‘But that’s French isn’t it?’
‘What’s wrong with the French?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Oh you’re English, I was forgetting.’
‘You were forgetting what exactly?’
‘That war, you know.’ He prompted. ‘The one with that short French guy and that toilet battle?’
Despite the pain, despite having to discuss Nineteenth Century Anglo French history and despite having to chat when all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball, she laughed.
‘The Toilet Battle? Really? ‘The Toilet Battle’ is the best you can come up with? Do you perhaps mean Napoleon and The Battle of Waterloo?’
‘That’s the one. If you must know, my parents were in Paris on a romantic mini break when I was conceived so, in effect, I was made in France!’
Shifting in his seat, he just managed to cross his legs without his knees ramming the chair in front. ‘So how can I help you, Mrs…?’ his voice lilting in expectation.
‘Cara, my name’s Cara, but not in front of the girls. If you could grab my bag from the overhead locker, if it’s not too late that is,’ turning to watch the blond air hostess treating the aisle like a catwalk.
‘I’ll just smile at her, shall I?’ He gave her a wink before half standing and quickly removing her bag from where he’d placed it only minutes before. ‘There, she didn’t even spot me,’ he ended, careful to place it in between them.
‘Thank you, Matti.’ She made herself look him in the eye before using her right hand, the good one, to flip up the flap and pull at the zip.
‘Here, let me,’ his hand a feather-light touch on her arm as he eased it open with a smile. ‘After all, I’m the one that attacked you.’
‘It was an accident.’ She didn’t look up, rummaging in the side pocket before drawing out a silver blister packet and pressing out a couple of bright purple tablets onto her lap.
‘Do you need water with those?’
No, I’m good.’ She met his look with a shy smile before resting her head back and closing her eyes. ‘My Italian-French knight in shining armour.’
My knight in shining armour. Well that was a joke for a start, a ruddy great howler.
His eyes lingered on her face, focussing on her skin still as white as a Geisha in shock, her dark eyelashes and eyebrows a stark contrast. She’d bundled her hair off her face in a messy clip thingy, and already the rich tendrils were coming adrift, framing her features in a cloud of curls. She was asleep now, he could tell in the way her eyes started flickering under her lids and the way her breathing had regulated. She needed to sleep; she needed sleep more than anything.
‘Sir, would you like a drink?’
‘Coffee please.’ He hadn’t noticed the air hostess with the buffet car sidling up beside him but coffee would keep him awake, not that he needed any additional stimulants sitting next to her.
‘And for your wife?’
There was a distinct absence of warmth or indeed smile as she pronounced the final word, as if someone was forcibly pushing it out of her mouth. He remembered now she was the one with the intrusive body language with a hand here, a boob there as she’d helped him into his seat. She’d all but ignored Cara.
Catching her eye he smiled. ‘Just a bottle of water please,’ surprised at how happy he felt at the word wife. He frowned.
Marriage was the last thing on his mind. Sex, hell yes, but marriage – no. The day he’d come home from work to find that Isabella had cleared out everything, apart from Evelyn and a pile of dirty nappies, was the day he’d done with marriage. Not only that but this Cara Bachmeire had more hang ups than a clothes rail. He knew there was something she was keeping to herself and he was pretty sure it was something to do with her hands, the hands she was still holding awkwardly on her lap. Sharp elbows indeed. He felt bad at bumping into her but it had only been a minor knock in the scheme of things; a minor knock that, if it hadn’t been for the chair, would have sent her toppling to the floor.
And the tablets, his hand reaching out to turn over the packet still resting on the little table in front of her. He’d recognised them straight away as morphine, or MST, but only because his Nonno was on them a couple of years back. Why would someone her age be on morphine, his eyes back on her face as he tried to guestimate her age. Twenty-three. Twenty-five at a push, but no more. So she either had chronic pain like his grandpa or was a druggie. Great, bloody fantastic!
He ran his hand through his hair, his mind dwelling on this new thought. If there was any risk of her being a drug addict then he’d have to tell the hats sitting right in front of him. Perhaps he should just tap them on the shoulder and tell them she was on the hard stuff. It wasn’t fair but then there was no fairness when drugs were involved.
How did you spot a drug addict, anyway? Was there any way of knowing or anything? He’d always assumed they were unkempt, not fashionable albeit quirky dressers with freshly washed hair and clean nails, his attention on her well-tended fingernails poking out the end of her gloves. The ones he’d seen on all those documentaries were skinny enough to fall through the gutter, not lush. His mouth dried at the thought of her body, and not just the thought as he took advantage of her closed eyes to feast himself on her curves. She wasn’t skinny, far from it. His wife had been skinny, skinny with the scrawniness that so often accompanied it; scrawny of both mind and body. She was a mean minded skinny bitch who only thought of one thing; herself.
He was rubbish at sizes. As soon as Evelyn was old enough to reject the pinafores and Mary Janes he’d used to love in favour of denims and trainers, he’d given her a clothes allowance and been done with it. So Cara could be anything between a size 0 and a 10, probably somewhere in the middle, his eyes on her long slim legs and narrow waist. But the way her dress stretched and pulled over both her hips and breasts gave a tantalising taste of what was to come, or not come, his eyes back on the tablets.
In a sudden fit of annoyance brought on by confusion as to what best to do, he picked up the foil packet and, flipping up the flap, stuffed them back in the pocket of her bag.
‘What are you doing?’
His hand paused. His hand paused, touching as it was the edge of an envelope just visible under yet another pair of gloves. Just how many gloves did she have, he questioned even as he recognised the envelope.
Turning his head he steeled himself for the verbal assault coming his way but decided to brave it out.
‘Afternoon, sleepy head. Feeling better now? I got you a water,’ he added, tilting his head in the direction of the table.
‘Mr Bianchi, I asked you what you were doing in my bag?’
‘The name is Matisse, or Matti if you’d prefer,’ his voice resigned. He’d felt he’d been making progress, huge progress with her
and now he was back to square one. ‘And all I was doing in your bag was returning your MST because you’d left them lying on the table and I needed to go to the loo. In fact, I still do,’ he added, standing up and moving away as quickly as possible.
‘Hey Dad, nice of you to pop by.’ He’d wandered down to the front of the plane to where the middle rows were full of nubile teenagers. Normally the only thing that would have made him come anywhere near them was an infestation of rampaging wolves, but now the eleven pairs of eyes scrolling up and down his body wasn’t even a little bit scary. They already knew about his underwear, what more was there to know? He didn’t have a love life, or anything close. In fact, the last girlfriend of any consequence was so long ago he couldn’t quite remember her name. Gayle or Gabby? He was pretty sure it began with a G although it could have been an H. Anyway, whatever her name, Evelyn had hated her to the extent she’d screamed the place down whenever he was on the phone to her and as for actually being in the same room…
It still surprised him that for such a pretty, fey-like creature, Evelyn was a brat when pushed into situations she didn’t like. If she got her own way she was adorable but that wasn’t very often. He’d had an impossible task of persuading her it wasn’t his responsibility to go about buying her diamond rings. He’d have died death by a thousand stares if she’d thrown a tantrum in Tiffany’s but a compromise had finally been reached, his attention on the diamond stud earrings that she’d never been without since.
‘So, how are you getting on with the delightful Mrs Bachmeire?’ Stella questioned with a cheeky smile. ‘She hasn’t tried to sit on your lap or anything lush has she? With a bod like that, she’s wasted as a widow. We’ve been trying to set her up with Mr Sugar, the trombone teacher, but she’s having none of it.’
He was tempted to glance back down the aisle towards his seat, her seat but he managed to restrain himself. Instead he focussed his attention on Evelyn; Evelyn who was suddenly making a very good attempt at ignoring him. So she was up to her old tricks, was she? The smile he threw Stella was welded to his face like tungsten carbide. She must have twigged he was interested that evening in the church, his mind filtering out everything apart from their conversation but there was nothing. He’d said nothing and done nothing. As a lawyer, he was far too careful about what came out of his mouth, his attention now caught on the food trolley winding its way in their direction. He’d have to go back. He didn’t know what he’d find apart from a bad tempered woman, but he’d had plenty of experience with those. He grinned, suddenly remembering The New York Times he’d picked up at the last minute.
‘I must apologise, I’m sorry for...’ Were the first words he heard arriving back at his seat. He decided to forgive her straightaway; after all, she had found him with his hand in her bag.
‘No problem.’ He rooted around in his jacket pocket for a pen before unfolding the newspaper to the crossword section.
‘Look, I said I’m sorry,’ she interrupted as he tried to concentrate on the clue for one across “The tiny insect races for the finish”.
In truth, he wasn’t really concentrating. All his attention on the clearly agitated woman beside him now picking at the label of her water bottle.
He met her gaze, wanting to smooth out the parallel lines trekking across her forehead with a kiss but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do anything until she’d told him what was going on. The one thing he demanded more than anything was trust in a relationship, if there wasn’t trust there was nothing.
Touching her arm with a gentle hand he smiled. ‘It’s fine, I perfectly understand what it must have looked like but lip gloss, or whatever else you keep in there, really isn’t my thing.’
‘I am surprised.’ She quipped back.
‘Surprised.’ His turn to frown.
‘Yes, surprised, I have a nice little tube of rose shimmer that would suit you to perfection.’
The queue in arrivals was even longer than the last time, although who’d actually want to visit the UK in February was another thing. They couldn’t all be on business or attending a three day workshop at The Royal Philharmonic, could they, his attention on a family of five hauling a bundle of fishing rods across their backs. There was even someone that had managed to sneak their sports gear into the hold as he watched a portly gentleman in Rupert yellow check trousers and white spats stroll by pushing a heaving trolley with about 20 clubs poking out the side.
Joining the back of the queue, he waited behind first the girls and then the hats, trying to guess if any of them would be stopped by the row of custom’s officers who, true to form, stood with hands behind their backs, their eyes the only thing moving as they roamed over the motley crew of travellers looking for illegal immigrants and drug smuggl…
He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t even finish his footstep his shoe poised mid-air, his full attention now on the woman beside him. The woman beside him with a bag stuffed with morphine for God’s sake. Would they stop her? Were they even looking at her, his eyes now trained on the officer ahead?
If they did stop her, they’d lock her up and throw away the key. She’d lose her job, her reputation and her freedom, all over a few pills. They’d reached the conveyor belt now where he lost track of her while he slipped off his shoes and undid his belt. By the time he’d loaded his coat and shoes in the tray provided and rooted in his pocket for any loose change, she was already through the body scanner and out of sight.
Hurrying to follow, he wasn’t quite so lucky.
‘If you could step aside, Sir, I just need to pat you down.’
Of course you do, his eyes fixed straight ahead while the burly, black-haired stranger did his worst. He’d have laughed even though it wasn’t funny; all his thoughts now on where she’d disappeared to.
Chapter Seven
If it was cold in New York it was positively glacial in London. Stepping outside was a mistake of unprecedented proportions but it had to be done in order to locate the mini bus she’d arranged to take them to the hotel. She smiled at the sight of the familiar coach arrogantly pulled into a no wait zone. The sight of the familiar green and gold logo was like bumping into an old friend after many years. She’d thought she’d feel sorrow at the thought of anything that reminded her of Aaron but now, as the distance between them widened and memories faded, she forgot the sadness. When she’d heard about the London trip, she’d managed to shoe horn herself along, mainly because of her contacts. So, instead of Mavis and Maggie looking forward to a week in some cheap hotel on the outskirts, they were being put up in the lap of luxury at The Squirrels, the flagship hotel of Aaron’s parent’s hotel dynasty.
Ushering the cold looking group of sleepy girls and wide-eyed teachers towards the coach, she threw a brief glance behind her at the sight of Matti nearly tripping over himself in his rush to join them. He was threading his belt through his jeans with one hand, while struggling with his coat and bag in the other, and failing miserably with both.
Rushing to help him, she shouldn’t have laughed but she couldn’t help herself. ‘Here let me take your coat while you dress yourself.’
‘There’s no need to…’
‘Of course there is,’ her eyes twinkling up into his grumpy face. She eased the jacket over his shoulders careful not to knock her palms in the process. ‘Do remember the girls are at an impressionable age and the sight of one of their friends dad’s with his jeans around his ankles is an experience they can do without; it’s an experience we can all do without.’
‘I’ll keep you to that.’
‘What?’ Her eyes flew to his face and his sudden smile.
God, she’d have to toughen up around him, that’s for sure, or just avoid him completely. Obviously, she was out of practice with the rules of flirting or she’d have quipped back with something sharp and snappy. All she managed was a weak smile and an even weaker hand lift as she pointed to the coach.
She watched his eyebrows rise as he finally finished on his
belt and started work on his buttons and scarf before dragging a plain navy hat over his hair without a thought as to how it made him look. That’s one of the things she liked about him. He didn’t worry about mussed up hair or making himself look ridiculous with his reverse strip show at Gatwick. She liked that, whilst he smelt good, it was mostly of soap, shampoo and toothpaste; the scent of aftershave only a subtle undertone. In fact, up until now, she hadn’t found anything she didn’t like about him; except for finding his hand in her bag, a little voice interrupted. That had caused her a moment of worry, but only a moment. After all, he was a lawyer, wasn’t he? And as such, he’d have too much to lose if petty pilfering was part of his remit. Shrugging a sigh, she walked beside him deep in thought. Even if he was just being nosy, there was nothing to hide. She had nothing to hide really. Okay, the less people that knew about her accident, the better but only because she despised pity. Apart from her family, and she included Aaron’s family in that, a couple of close friends and her boss, no one knew and that’s how she’d like it to continue.
‘The Squirrels, we’re staying at The Squirrels, how, why?’ His face anxious. ‘And just how much is this going to cost?’
Her eyes scrolled back to the coach and the delicious exterior and plush leather interior with a smile, forgetting that, to most people, this was the most expensive hotel not just in the UK, but in Europe. It was the preferred choice for crown princes and reality stars alike, but to her it was just somewhere to go if she wanted to catch up with Marcus, Aaron’s older brother and the manager.
‘Don’t worry about it, and the treat is on me.’
He pulled her to a halt, stopping her from climbing up the last step.
‘I can’t allow that. This must be costing a fortune for all of us…’
She was well aware of thirteen pairs of eyes now glued to the tableau unfolding at the front of the coach so instead of continuing the conversation she pulled her arm away. ‘I’m quite tired, Mr Bianchi. Let’s at least grab a seat and then I’ll explain.’
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 40