‘No, don’t apologize,’ he assured her as she took her hands away; he was grinning even wider now. ‘I was having a lot of fun listening to you. I had a little bet with myself, actually. Want to know what it was?’
Deeley shook her head, pink in the face by now.
He winked at her. ‘I bet myself that you were pretty,’ he said, untwisting the towel from his waist; he was wearing a pair of short red trunks that left very little to the imagination. ‘Just the way you were yelping – I thought, that girl’s bound to be pretty. Don’t ask me why.’
As he turned to hang up the towel, Deeley couldn’t help checking out his bottom, tight, high and impossibly round, two firm handfuls moving temptingly under the snug red Lycra.
‘But I was wrong,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘You’re not pretty. You’re totally gorgeous.’ His grin widened. ‘Look, I’m staying here. Maybe I’ll see you in the bar later. What do you say? If you’re still feeling guilty, you can always buy me a big fruity cocktail to make up for it . . .’
And then he disappeared round the corner of the shower. Deeley was unable to help watching his lean dark shape until he had gone round the curve; a moment later, the shower went on, orange lights glowing off the brown mosaic walls.
Belting her robe, she looked around for her hotel flip-flops, smiling. He was cheeky and funny; Maybe that’s exactly what I need. Some cheeky guy to have a flirt with. She went upstairs slowly, smiling to herself all the way.
Because in the shower, and talking to the mystery man outside, she hadn’t thought about Matt Bates once. And in her current state of mind, anything that distracted from her sister’s husband, even for twenty minutes, was an absolute godsend.
Devon
Devon had always loved being recognized before. Who wouldn’t? That was part of the deal when you were famous; people whispering about you, knowing who you were, knowing your name before you told them, coming up to you to tell you how much they liked your show, to ask for your autograph, or to pose with you in a picture on their camera phone.
You could call Devon a lot of things, but she was no hypocrite. She had always wanted to be a celebrity, had worked hard to get there, and now that she was one, she had never complained about the fact that it inevitably meant that you lost a considerable amount of privacy. She didn’t have much respect for the famous people who did complain – they ought to know what they’d signed up for, in her opinion. And if they really didn’t like it, they were more than welcome to stop appearing on TV, or pretending to write books, and let someone else, who really wanted their fame and fortune, fill that slot instead.
Even now, getting off a flight at Florence Airport in sunglasses and a silk headscarf tied over her very recognizable glossy mane of hair, she didn’t regret the fact that everyone who’d checked her passport and boarding card at Gatwick had given her knowing glances, more than aware that Devon McKenna was escaping the UK the day after her humiliating appearance on 1-2-3 Cook. The press had relished describing in the most embarrassing detail how many mistakes she’d made; videos of her on the show were already all over YouTube, with links posted on broadsheets, tabloids and gossip sites.
Although every article did express sympathy for Devon at getting stuck with Shirley for a partner – The Times, which had always been nice to Devon, had a columnist suggesting she’d been set up – the trouble was that this disaster came directly on the heels of the failure of Devon’s Little Bit Extra. 1-2-SHE CAN’T COOK! had been the Sun’s headline. Gary had told her not to Google herself, but she hadn’t been able to help it; this morning had been like crawling over broken glass. Every time she hit a computer key, it was like the Little Mermaid taking another step on her new feet; sheer agony. But she hadn’t been able to stop.
Matt had begged her to stay off the laptop, but she hadn’t listened. And because he was laid up with his ankle injury, he wasn’t mobile enough to follow her around the house, snatching the MacBook away. He’d yelled a lot, listening to her sobbing, telling her to stop reading; eventually, she’d run upstairs, right to the top of the house, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to reach her up there on his crutch, and had an orgy of self-pity, tormenting herself with every nasty thing she could find about herself on the internet. It was as if she had to go right down to the depths, as far as possible, know exactly how bad it was in one fell swoop. Because after that, the only way would be up.
But it doesn’t feel like up, she thought gloomily as she queued up for passport control. It just feels like running away.
It had been Rory’s idea. Devon had been amazed that he would come to her rescue after that appalling meeting at the BBC a couple of weeks ago, but then she’d realized that what he was actually doing was getting her out of the country and off the media radar, while he had time to strategize frantically and try to work out how – if it was remotely possible – to salvage the disaster that was Devon’s Little Bit Extra. The BBC still had six episodes to air, and British TV, unlike American television, didn’t pull failing shows. So they were stuck with a prime-time slot – 9 p.m. on Tuesday nights – filled with a series that was tanking in the ratings.
At least Rory could ship its troubled star off to Tuscany to lie low for the rest of the run. That was the deal: six weeks in Chianti, holing up in Rory’s villa. Staying away from the UK, in total retreat from the media. No interviews, no phone calls or emails to anyone who might pass information on to the eager, waiting press. Rory had already spoken to Devon’s manager, editor and publicist, and they were all in agreement; Devon had chosen to go against their advice and appear on 1-2-3 Cook – and look how that had turned out. Now it was time to do things their way.
She could have taken Matt, of course. Ironically, Matt’s ankle injury was perfectly timed for travelling with his wife to Italy and holing up in a luxurious villa, nothing to do but eat, drink, and work on his tan in the late spring sun. But Devon didn’t want Matt with her; she didn’t want anyone with her. Not her husband, not even Gary, who would have happily come along. Matt had been in pieces when he’d heard how long she was planning to be in Tuscany, all alone.
‘I’ve got nothing to do here, Dev!’ he’d pleaded. ‘I can’t train, I can’t do anything but stay off my ankle. I’m just on the sofa, watching rubbish TV, hoping the lads’ll come round and cheer me up a bit.’
Devon looked at her big, handsome husband, sprawled on the sofa, ankle elevated, the expression on his face agonized in a way she had never seen before. She knew it wasn’t due to physical pain; Matt had been crocked up many times during their relationship, and he’d been nothing but good-tempered when injured. Besides, he had plenty of painkillers if his ankle was that bad.
Her guess was that Matt was going through a really bad time at the prospect of his rugby career being over. From what she’d understood, this ankle blowout might well mean that he couldn’t play again professionally; no team could risk one of their stars suddenly taking a header because his ankle went out from under him. She felt for Matt, she really did. It was one thing to know, as a sportsman heading into his thirties, that his body was gradually declining from its physical peak, and that his days on the rugby field were numbered. It was quite another to be tearing down the field one moment, about to score a try, a British rugby hero, and the next to find yourself washed up on your living-room sofa like an enormous beached whale, your occupation effectively gone.
She’d knelt down beside him, taking a deep breath. ‘I need to be by myself,’ she’d said hopelessly. ‘It’s not about you. It really isn’t. It’s all about me.’
‘Dev – when isn’t it about you?’ Matt had said, rearing up against the back of the sofa. ‘I’ve been telling you for months that we’re in trouble! We haven’t had sex in so long I can’t remember when – now, with this diet, you’re sleeping in the spare room, so we don’t even get to cuddle! I’m lonely, and I need to be with my wife! For better, for worse, remember?’
Devon buried her head against the leather sofa. ‘I’
m just so miserable,’ she said against its side. ‘I’ve totally fucked up. I hate myself at the moment, I really do.’
‘But that’s what I’m for!’ Matt leaned over to stroke the top of her head, clumsily, because it was hard for him to move with his ankle propped up on two pillows. ‘I’m your husband – you’re supposed to lean on me when you need me.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And Dev, I need you now, really badly.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Things have been . . . I’ve been in a really weird state . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘I need my wife,’ he continued in heartfelt tones. ‘I really do. Let’s go away together. We don’t need to go to Italy – we can go anywhere we want. What about the Maldives? We’ve always wanted to go there!’
‘Do you know how much that’d cost, the Maldives for six weeks?’ Devon had said, raising her head and looking at her husband. ‘My series is a total failure, my book’s not selling – God knows when you’ll be able to play again – this is definitely not the time for us to go spending huge amounts of money . . .’
‘Dev! It’s our marriage I’m talking about!’ Matt had lunged for her hand, and managed to get hold of it, clinging onto her so tightly he ground the small bones in her palm against one another. ‘How can you put a price on that? Dev, if you can’t turn to me when you’re in trouble – and you won’t comfort me when I’m all messed up – what kind of marriage is this?’
He looked haunted. And big, handsome, rugged Matt was the last man in the world who was suited to that expression; it would have been much better on a gaunt, high-cheekboned French actor, with three days’ stubble, pulling on a Gauloises and staring off into the distance, remembering the last woman who had broken his heart. Matt’s craggy features, his clear blue eyes, were made to be happy, carefree; seeing him so miserable, so broken-down, drove home to Devon very powerfully how badly she was behaving. How much she had messed things up.
But all she did was pull her hand away from him and stand up. ‘I just don’t like myself,’ she said in a small, pathetic voice. ‘I despise myself. And I don’t . . .’ She swallowed. It was really hard to get the words out, especially because they sounded so pathetic. ‘I don’t want to be around someone who’d want to be with me.’
‘But Dev – where the hell does that leave us?’ Matt sounded ready to explode with frustration. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do when my wife says something like that to me?’
‘I don’t know!’ Devon jumped up, barely able to meet her husband’s eyes. She was already in her coat; she pulled it around her, realizing with a degree of relief that since the egg-only crash diet, she was just about able to fasten the buttons.
‘Also, you’re leaving me stuck here!’ Matt added, grabbing his crutch. ‘I can barely get up the bloody stairs to get to bed, or make myself something to eat – what kind of wife leaves her husband by himself in this state?’
He was frowning now, his forehead deeply lined, grimacing as he managed to get the crutch wedged under his armpit enough to swing first one leg, then the other, off the sofa. Devon didn’t know whether he was intending to try to come with her; she practically bolted for the door.
‘A really bad one!’ she yelled over her shoulder, tears starting to form in her eyes as she hauled the suitcases she had stacked in the hall to the front door. ‘A really bad wife! I know I’m a terrible wife! I know I shouldn’t be leaving you like this! I feel like shit, OK?’
‘It’s all about you, Devon,’ Matt said sadly, managing to hobble across the living room in time to see her bumping one of the suitcases down the front steps to the waiting cab. ‘You don’t say “us” – you say “I”. All the time.’
He was absolutely right. And Devon couldn’t deny it. Pulling up the handle of her carry-on case as the cabbie stacked the rest of the suitcases into the ticking vehicle, she paused on the steps for a moment, looking back at her husband, who was leaning half on his crutch, half against the living-room doorjamb. It was as if she were staring at him from a very long distance away, not just the width of their hallway.
Matt’s such a good husband. But maybe a good husband’s the last thing I need.
‘Look,’ she suggested, at least trying to deal with the fact that she was abandoning him when he was injured. ‘Deeley’s downstairs – she’s living here rent-free, and as far as I know all she’s doing is taking Pilates classes and going shopping. Why don’t you ask her up here to help you out, give you a hand with stuff? She could have the spare room.’
‘Jesus, Dev!’ Matt exploded, the strong cords of his neck popping out in frustration, his forehead creasing into a mass of lines. He banged his crutch on the floor for emphasis. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? You don’t give a shit about me, do you? You haven’t bothered to take a moment to see what’s going on with me – what I’m trying to tell you!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Devon said feebly. ‘I’m really sorry, Matt.’
He heaved the longest, deepest sigh she had ever heard. It was only when he eventually spoke again that Devon realized he’d been waiting for something. For her to say or do something that seemed incredibly obvious to him, but simply hadn’t occurred to her.
‘Just go, Dev,’ he said very sadly. ‘You’re already out the door. Just go and do whatever you’re going to do.’
And she had.
Devon had reached the top of the Italian passport control queue. Pushing her sunglasses up onto the crown of her head, so her face was visible, she stepped forward and handed her passport to the smartly uniformed man behind the Perspex screen. Taking her in, he flashed a huge, appreciative smile as he looked down to her photograph and up again to its original.
‘Benvenuta in Italia, signora,’ he said, sliding the passport back to her. ‘Veramente, molto benvenuta.’
Devon’s Italian was extremely basic, mostly limited to restaurant vocabulary, but she knew that he was saying ‘Welcome to Italy’, and she smiled back at him charmingly enough that he swivelled to watch her walk round his booth to the luggage belts before, reluctantly, returning his attention to summon forward the next person in the queue.
It was the same with the customs officials, lounging against the wall, looking as bored as the German shepherd dog lying at their feet; on catching sight of Devon, doing her best to manoeuvre a trolley piled high with matching suitcases past them, they brightened visibly, standing up, their hands automatically rising to straighten their caps, staring at her blatantly while muttering comments on her figure, walk and – being Italian – her clothes to each other as she went by.
In England, this would have been highly annoying. In Italy, for some reason, it wasn’t. Devon had been to Italy several times, but always with Matt; this was the first time she had travelled here alone, so she had never experienced before the full surge of attention that its heterosexual men directed to unaccompanied women they considered worthy of attention. To her surprise, Devon realized that she definitely liked it. Maybe it was because she didn’t feel treated like an object. They weren’t just staring at her boobs or her bum; they took in the whole of her, from head to toe, and a definite part of their assessment, she could tell, was how she was dressed, how she presented herself.
Which is actually really nice, she thought, wrestling the trolley towards the automatic doors at the end of the customs corridor; it kept trying to veer left, rather than straight ahead. I mean, if you make an effort, they notice. It’s every woman’s dream.
Rory had said that she would be met at the airport by Gianni, the husband who, with his wife Laura, ran Villa Clara for him; they lived in a cottage down the drive, and managed the grounds and the house. Rory left a car in Italy which Gianni would drive to the airport to collect him; Devon could use it when she was there to get around. She paused a little way through the doors, looking around her. There were no barriers, just a motley crowd of people staring expectantly past her, waiting eagerly for their loved one to come through the doors. A few men in shirtsleeves were holding up signs with names written on them in black pen, but even
allowing for misspelling, there was no way that she could make ‘Devon McKenna’ out of any of the names on offer.
Devon’s heart sank. Gianni hadn’t turned up after all. She’d jumped on a flight at the last minute, paid an extortionate price to Meridiana, the only airline that flew to Florence, which was closer to Villa Clara than Pisa; maybe, despite Rory’s assurances, Gianni simply hadn’t had enough notice. She was fumbling in her bag for her mobile phone, aware that she was blocking the way out but not sure where she should be heading, when a man’s hand landed next to hers on the bar of the trolley, pushed it down, and started to move her firmly through the crowd towards the exit doors ahead.
‘Madonna,’ he said cheerfully, ‘this is a communist carrello, eh? He only wants to go left.’
Devon jerked back, grabbing her phone tightly in case he were an unusually well-spoken mugger.
‘Who are you?’ she said suspiciously, glancing at him. First she saw the light blue shirtsleeve, rolled up to mid-forearm. There was a dull gold bracelet on his wrist, its heavy links snagging a little in the dark curly hairs. Rearing back, she saw a head of curly hair, thick wild ringlets, almost like an Afro. He wasn’t much taller than her, but he walked so confidently the crowd cleared for them and the trolley as if by magic.
‘You are Mees Devon, non é vero?’ he said, his entire attention focussed on piloting the trolley. ‘I am here to take you to Villa Clara.’
Devon started to say something, but he was still talking, his light tenor voice rising and falling in cadences, almost as if he were singing.
‘And Mees Devon . . .’ they exited the flight terminal, and Devon blinked in the sunlight before sliding her sunglasses back onto her nose, ‘you are welcome to Italy.’
He turned to smile at her, and Devon got her first glance of his face. But his features weren’t the first thing she noticed.
Wow, Gianni is so hairy! she thought, almost giggling to herself. His narrow dark eyes were framed by long, curly eyelashes; his chin was stubbled as heavily as if he hadn’t shaved in days; and the cloud of curly ringlets that floated around his head was like something out of a Renaissance painting. It almost, but not completely, distracted from his nose, which dominated his face: aquiline, with a magnificent hook, the famous Roman profile which featured on so many historic statues of generals or emperors.
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