She lifted her bag onto her shoulder, looked inside it—her purse, her phone, her keys. One, two, three—all there. Everything was there. Time to go. She checked her watch. Eleven-thirty. An empty day ahead. But soon her days would be full again.
One step at a time.
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know if I need anything. What a beautiful day,’ she said staring past the doctor’s head to the trees and the sky outside.
She retraced her steps along the corridor, past the nurses’ station, where their chatter was bright and chirpy, past the television and the blue water cooler, past the automatic doors and out into the warm sunny morning.
She could go back to rehearsals now. That was amazing—the hugest relief.
You’re going to have a baby.
She should call someone to tell them the news. That she was able to dance. She should call someone and not think of anything else. Her mind whirred. Her heart pirouetted in her chest. They were about to start rehearsals for the winter season. She had a good chance of getting a principal role.
December.
Her heart sank. What size would she be? There was no chance of her being cast in any role, in any performance. There wouldn’t be any point until after the baby was born.
And what was she going to do until then? More coaching and more watching? And then—childcare? She could never afford that. Not on her salary, in London, alone.
Her feet were moving—left, right, left, right. She was at the underground station. She went down the steps. People thronged past her. She walked to the platform, felt the unbearable heat surround her. The noise of a train rumbled in the distance. People flicked their eyes at the information screens, fanned their faces in the stifling heat.
Like a dragon roaring closer and closer, the train finally loomed into view, lights like eyes blasting through the trapped turgid air.
There really was only one thing she could do.
CHAPTER NINE
MATTEO FASTENED THE cuffs of his shirt. He buttoned the single button on his suit jacket and straightened his collar. Tie or no tie? No tie. And no pocket square either.
He checked his image in the mirror one last time. It wasn’t great. His hair needed a cut, but he hadn’t had time, and he’d nicked his cheek shaving.
At least his lack of sleep was hidden under a midsummer Mediterranean tan. And it had been worth those two days on a yacht, convincing some of the wealthiest men in Europe to become part of the bank’s youth sponsorship programme. That had felt good. And it didn’t do any harm that it would look good—this was a week when appearances mattered.
He walked to the dressing table, collected his keys and phone. He pressed the screen, opened the contacts, scrolled until he found the one he wanted: Ruby, Ballet. It was time he deleted that number. He’d been right not to chase her—she was too much trouble. He’d barely been able to concentrate since that night, and there was no time or space for that right now. He’d had a lucky escape, truth be told.
He tugged his cuffs down one last time and walked through the immense French doors to the grand terrace of the Château de la Croix.
David had done a brilliant job. He’d really pushed the boat out arranging the Cordon d’Or Regatta this year, leasing this fabulous former home to royalty and movie stars from days gone by. There was nowhere finer than the Bastion St-Jaume, and no better event in the entire social calendar of the Riviera. Tonight the high-rollers and big spenders would descend. And the die would be cast.
Outside the finishing touches were being set. Three huge marquees dotted the immaculate lawns that ran down from the swimming pool through densely planted palms and onto the beach beyond. Already the château’s tiny harbour was filling up with launches as people journeyed in from ships anchored further off shore. Above, the sound of rotors slicing the air announced the arrival of the media, here to set up camp to get the very best shots of the A-list as they arrived.
And among them would be the sedate and conservative, deeply pious Augusto Arturo and his wife Marie-Isabelle.
Matteo walked through the sea of white-linen-covered chairs and cotton-draped tables to where the local media were setting up their shots. Huge gold ribbons encased each area, along with banners of golden silk. Bouquets of white roses were draped artistically across the tables and around the arches. Under one of these, the first guests to arrive had gathered—the kids who had sailed in the Medaille d’Argent that morning and were already toasting their own bravado.
He envied them their carefree youth. He’d been that naïve once, imagining his life could be built on his passions instead of being the pure, hard slog it had become.
‘Looks like it’s shaping up, David,’ he said as he took a beer from his assistant and turned to walk with him. ‘Everything going to plan?’
‘So far so good. Arturo and Marie-Isabelle will arrive in half an hour. I’ll hold back all the other guests until they’re safely inside. Couple of pictures and then you can take them onto the west terrace. The sunset will be beautiful. You’ll be irresistible, I’m sure.’
‘And Claudio?’ he said. ‘Do you think he’ll try and pull off any more dirty tricks?’
‘Well, the montage of your exes on The Finance Report last night wasn’t exactly helpful, but what else has he got?’
Matteo paused. What else did he have? Someone was drip-feeding the media with stories of his former girlfriends, trying to raise questions about his ability to lead the bank, never mind his morality.
‘Nothing that I’m aware of, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try. He might claim he’s got bigger fish to fry and we still need to cover every angle. I don’t want a single drop of his poison to land on this.’
‘I’ve analysed it from every single angle and back again. I can’t see anything coming at you now that we’re not prepared for. We’ve lived through Faye-gate, after all. Could it get any worse? Nothing came of those pictures of you with that dancer at the ballet premiere, despite how they tried to paint it.’
‘That’s true,’ he said.
They’d reached the edge of the lake. Matteo stared across the dark green water, his mind filling with images of a beautiful woman with fear in her eyes.
He thought he knew women, but that morning he’d come to realise he knew nothing. He’d been all set to make a commitment as far as a second date, when—bam!
‘You’re not my type.’
He might not know women, but he knew a lie when he heard one.
He shook his head, shook her image out of his mind, and turned to look back up at the château. It was already aflame with stars of the media and finance, locals and internationals. People came here to have a really good time and then go on to have an even better time somewhere else.
Well, not he. He had traded in those chips. That night with Ruby had unsettled something in him and he hadn’t chased anything since, no matter how hard his friends had pressed him.
He pulled out his phone, checked the time—less than ten minutes until curtain-up. Time to get back in the zone.
It was all hanging on him tonight. His mother had pulled back even further from the daily grind of the bank. It was as if the closer he got the further away she went. But it was good that she was feeling fulfilled, working with her kids in Africa. He’d never heard her happier since Dad died.
God, he missed him. He missed him so much.
He touched his wrist with his right hand, wrapped his fingers around his father’s watch—the one thing that had survived the crash. He ran his thumb over the ridges of the dial, feeling the imprint of every etched line, remembering the times he’d cursed that watch because it had survived, ticking on while his father perished.
They would never be able to prove that Claudio had caused the accident. No one could accuse him of opening that bottle of whisky and pouring it down his father’s throat. But he was the one man who had known abou
t his alcoholism—the one man who’d been there with him when he’d battled it and won.
He’d been the man to drive him back there, too. He and his father had had a fight and the next thing they’d known he’d stolen his clients, started his own bank and then walked back into their lives goading them and gloating over his victory.
The day of the funeral—that fateful day—things had risen to the surface like so much toxic oil. Claudio had walked towards him, arms outstretched. All the signs of Let’s bury the hatchet for your father’s sake. And Matteo’s urge to be comforted, reassured, had been huge. Here was his father’s best friend, full of remorse, come to console him. He’d wanted it so badly. Despite everything he knew about Claudio he’d wanted to keep something of his father alive—even a corrupted friendship.
He’d been ready to forgive until, deep in Claudio’s embrace, he’d heard those words.
‘Get your hands off my son.’
And he had seen his mother, white-faced, grief-stricken, standing alone behind him.
‘Don’t you touch him. Don’t you dare come here to start your tricks again...’
And then he had known. The suspicion that had wormed black holes into his brain had taken hold and a sickening rage had fallen. It was his father Claudio had loved—not his mother. That was the reason for his presence that had shadowed their lives for years.
His father—his hero, his rock.
Who was the man they’d just buried?
Ashes and dust and the truth gone with him. And Matteo’s own world had crumbled and died too.
His paralysis had been broken. He’d lunged forward and bone had met flesh. His mother had screamed. Vases full of flowers had crashed to the ground. Women had shrieked and men had jumped forward. Hands had heaved at him, pulling him back as he’d struggled to get his hands on him. But Claudio had stepped away, clutching his jaw, spitting through the blood.
‘Get out of here! Get out of our house or I’ll kill you!’
He remembered his own roar. He remembered the words. He remembered the faces of the police officers as they told him they weren’t going to charge him for assault but that he was lucky. And that he’d better give up on the idea of blaming anyone for his father’s death. There was no way he could prove that the alcohol in his bloodstream was the responsibility of anyone but himself.
His mother had been inconsolable, sobbing. Words she’d never dreamed she’d say had finally tumbled out, confessing her secrets while he’d held her grief-wracked body close.
He learned that his father’s relationship with Claudio had gone further than friendship.
They’d battled it together. She’d stood by him once, but she would not do it a second time.
And then that journey back to St Andrew’s. The urge, the yearning, the need to see Sophie, to see her smile and feel her arms and let himself go, let it all out. But he hadn’t been able to do that, because she had stood there naked, with another man. Betrayal had been everywhere he looked. Nothing had been safe, nothing sure. Love was worthless.
‘Matteo?’
David’s voice.
‘Hmm...?’
‘Maybe you should head up and start hosting. Things seem to be hotting up already.’
He was here. It was now. His father had done what he had done. He was never coming back, but after years of work the bank might just make it back to where it had once been. He might just pull this off. He might just be able to feel as if Claudio’s dark shadow wasn’t going to hang over them for ever.
He stared at the crowd of youngsters who’d now dispersed and were wandering through the rose bushes at the edge of the steps, with a photographer snapping them here and there as they moved.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
He strode up the lawn. People turned to stare. He could feel the interested glances of women and their light-voiced laughter like torches lighting his way up the path.
White marble steps appeared. He bounded up them. At the top were more of the young men and women who’d won the Medaille d’Or that afternoon. Bronzed and happy and on their way to a good time. He shook hands and kissed cheeks, walked on through the throng.
Faces swam before him—bright, smiling faces, so much happiness. The bank’s brand was really on the rise. It was just what his father would have wanted. They were finally back in the big league.
He took all the praise with a smile, but it still felt undeserved. Until they had those extra clients from Arturo Finance he wouldn’t feel back in the black.
He walked across the terrace, putting his empty water glass on a tray and stretching out his hand to shake that of the man coming towards his—the town’s mayor, with his wife.
Wasn’t it a marvellous event this year? So exciting!
He introduced the mayor to the winning team, photographs were taken, and they shuffled indoors as the next guests arrived. An actress and her boyfriend, fresh from Cannes.
She was looking as exquisite as ever! Was she showing at Cannes?
He listened to her reply as they too swung round for pictures. Over her shoulder David signalled Augusto and Marie-Isabelle’s arrival.
Matteo felt grim determination clutch at his heart. There was no reason to feel anxious about this and every reason to feel confident. All the signs were there—this was the delicate first step in talks towards a merger. Arturo wouldn’t have come if they weren’t going forward. But it was the old-fashioned way. Private talks to build the relationship, get the chemistry right, and only then would the lawyers be given clearance to tidy up the deal.
He watched Augusto Arturo exit the car, saw the care the old man took over his wife, waiting while she adjusted her dress, offering her his arm as they looked up and smiled and began the slow climb to meet him.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of something red—something that was burned deep on his subconscious. His heart thundered. His groin tightened.
He turned back to see Augusto and Marie-Isabelle, heads down, still climbing up. He swung his head to the left to see David. His assistant’s face had changed from looking composed to a full-blown frown. He saw cameras begin to flash and felt a wave of interest pass over him and the others on the steps in the direction of the figure in red.
He turned now—fully stared. And there between two security guys, eyes fixed, wearing the same cherry-red, wide skirted dress, was... Ruby?
He stalled for a second, framed by guests and cameras, on the cusp of the most important moment of his business life. His heart crashed into his throat. Not another woman come to make a scene? Not now. Surely...?
But there was no mistaking it was her, and in a split second he read the situation. The two security were doing their, job checking to see if she was welcome or not, but they stood back respectfully, awed by her bone-deep beauty, her consummate elegance, her spirited challenge.
As if the rest of the world had dissolved he saw her she looking at him steadily, imploringly, with some deep, dark message, and he knew something was up. Something really big.
In a second David was at his side. ‘You want me to take care of this?’ he whispered as he slipped behind his shoulder.
Matteo’s hand automatically reached for David’s arm, holding him in check.
Augusto’s sharp eyes watched everything even as he held out his arm for his wife, who was mounting the last step. Matteo glanced back at Ruby, then to Augusto, who now approached with his wife on his arm.
They were only a metre apart.
This was his moment. The tone, the chemistry of their welcome had to be right. He had to pull this off without a hitch or everything else would fall like a house of cards.
Around him people sensed the tension and began to crowd closer. David hovered expectantly.
Whatever she wanted, she would have to wait until they were safely settled away from cameras.
From the corner of his eye he saw the solitary red figure step closer.
‘Can I speak to you, Matteo, please?’ she said, her voice as clear as a midnight bell.
For a second he froze. The world was here—watching, waiting. He was swimming in a sea of staring faces with only one lifeline.
‘Darling Ruby. You’re here!’ he said, hating himself. But he would not drown—not now.
They all turned to look at her. Marie-Isabelle was happily curious, but Augusto was no fool. Matteo’s heart thundered faster. David’s eyebrows shot up. And Ruby stood there, her dark eyes burning with a story he didn’t yet know and couldn’t risk hearing in front of this man.
Because she could ruin him. With a single phrase she could lay months of work to waste, destroyed. Another untrustworthy woman...another disaster ahead.
He kissed Marie-Isabelle’s powdery cheek and dipped his head respectfully. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment. David will take you straight through to the terrace. I shouldn’t be long.’
He turned just as Augusto’s shrill voice cut in. ‘Please invite your lady-friend to join us. The lovely young lady in red. Isn’t she the dancer you were photographed with in London last month? We saw the feature in the press. I would be delighted to meet her. Wouldn’t you, my dear?’
Marie-Isabelle smiled graciously.
‘What a lovely idea,’ said Matteo, and with a slight nod he took two paces across the carpet, past the curious faces, and lifted Ruby’s hand into his.
He didn’t pause to look at her or at anyone else as they moved off together, as if to the music of some practised pas de deux.
Away from the guests, down a short flight of steps and through some huge French windows, he led her into a drawing room full of nothing other than heavy antique furniture and vast windows that lent no privacy.
‘Whatever you’ve come to say, you’ll do so in private,’ he said, moving briskly through the hallway, scanning the area for signs of listening ears or probing cameras.
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