What would Bill have made of Cesare? Deeley couldn’t help wondering, looking at Cesare, with his mad mop of curly hair, his big nose, the stubble already beginning to show on his chin, and his Italian suit, which would certainly have been cut much too tightly for Bill’s taste. Still, she had the feeling that Bill would have liked Devon’s new boyfriend. Cesare was most definitely a man’s man. Deeley had already heard him talk to Devon in a way that Deeley would never have thought that anyone could get away with; Devon had always had to be the boss, and now here she was, letting herself be ordered around by an Italian man half the size of her husband, and giggling happily as he did it.
Mind you, she gives as good as she gets, Deeley reflected. I’ve seen Devon slice Cesare into pieces with her sarcasm, and he giggles too. They’re a perfect couple.
She looked at her sister. It was an ironic thing to think at a funeral, but Devon truly had never looked so beautiful. Black suited her like no other shade; her pale skin was luminous against the shoulder-skimming neckline of the simple dress, her glossy hair a cascade of dark curls framing her beautiful heart-shaped face, her heavily lashed dark eyes and red lips.
And she seems so confident, Deeley realized. I know Devon’s always been worried about her weight, but ever since she came back from Italy, she doesn’t seem to care about it any more. Mind you, she’s drinking less, and I’m sure that helps . . .
Cesare’s arm slipped round Devon’s waist, pulling her against him. He whispered something in her ear that made her turn her head towards him, smiling gratefully; he dropped a quick kiss on her lips.
The evening after their terrible confrontation with Maxie, Devon, Deeley and Alice had taken refuge back in Devon’s basement flat, settling Alice to sleep in Deeley’s bed, propped up with pillows, while Deeley and Devon curled up on the living-room sofa, talking all night. Crying, hugging, drinking endless cups of tea, telling each other everything that had happened in their lives, ever since Devon’s TV career had taken off, since Deeley had gone to LA.
And before then, too. Confronting Maxie with her crime, her betrayal of their trust in her, had opened floodgates that Devon and Deeley hadn’t even realized existed. Their murder of Bill, the awful secret Maxie had forced upon them, had estranged the sisters from each other ever since. Devon had theorized that they’d been frightened to be as close as before, because if they were, they would start talking about that awful night, and if they did, they might never stop . . .
And Maxie kept telling us never to say a word. Never to say a word to anyone. Or we’d all go to prison for the rest of our lives.
So Devon and I stopped talking to each other. Confiding in each other. Maxie didn’t just kill Bill, she killed my relationship with my middle sister for eighteen years.
Devon had spilled out everything. How messed up her marriage to Matt was, how, even before she’d fled to Italy, she’d been sure that there was no chance they could reconcile.
‘Matt’s so lovely,’ she had said earnestly. ‘He didn’t do a thing wrong. Maybe he was too nice, but that’s not exactly his fault, is it? It’s my fault for being a cow, and not appreciating a really nice guy!’
She’d twisted her hands in her lap.
‘And then I met Cesare . . .’ she confessed. ‘I don’t know how he feels about me, or if he wants to see me again – but I can’t stop thinking about him. And I can’t be married to one man and be thinking like this about another.’
Deeley had held her breath, waiting for her sister’s conclusion. To her amazement, Devon had stood up, taken a deep breath, and marched up the internal staircase to the main house. Deeley’d looked at her watch: a quarter to ten. She’d waited, her heart pounding, pacing up and down between the kitchen area and the living room, unable to sit still, dreading the sight of Devon bouncing happily back downstairs, hand in hand with Matt, announcing that they’d miraculously reconciled, and were going to start trying for a baby straight away.
Or, even worse, not coming downstairs at all, because they were too busy making up by having wild sex all over the house . . .
Deeley had been trying so hard not to picture Devon and Matt in each other’s arms that she didn’t even hear the upstairs door open, or her sister’s footsteps on the treads of the stairs. She turned in her pacing to see Devon standing there, in the doorway, looking very subdued.
‘I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I went up and told Matt that I want a divorce.’
‘What happened?’ Deeley’s heart was pounding nearly out of her chest. Had Matt tried to talk Devon out of it? Had he pleaded, begged her not to go, told her he couldn’t live without her?
Devon heaved a weak little laugh.
‘He said he’d been meaning to ask me the same thing!’ she said, flopping into the armchair. ‘He said he’d known for ages things weren’t right. He said the more time he’d had to think about it, the more he could see that we just weren’t compatible. We want really different things. And, to be honest, we get on each other’s nerves.’ She looked up at Deeley with wide, shocked eyes. ‘So it’s official. I’m getting a divorce. What a day, Deels,’ she said slowly. ‘What a day it’s been.’
And then Devon had broken into tears, and Deeley had run over to sit on the arm of her sister’s chair, hugging her and telling her that everything would be all right.
At least I wasn’t lying when I said it would all come out right, Deeley thought now, looking at Devon, who, even at the funeral of their sort-of-stepfather, couldn’t stop glowing. The vicar had finished reading the eulogy, but Deeley was ashamed to admit that she’d barely heard a word. Her head was full of thoughts and speculations. She had caught the words ‘In the midst of life, we are in death’, or something like that. For me, it’s the opposite, she had to admit. Here I am at a funeral. I should be taking the time to think about Bill, to tell him how sorry I am about how he died. How grateful I am for everything he did for us.
But it’s really hard to focus on Bill, when I know Matt’s just come up the path behind me.
Devon had told her that Matt would be coming: he’d said he wanted to attend the funeral out of respect for what she and Deeley had gone through. ‘He’s such a nice guy,’ Devon had said on the phone that morning. ‘He insisted. I said I’d be driving up with Cesare, and he was totally OK with it. Said there were no hard feelings.’
Deeley had come with Devon and Cesare, who had shot over to London in his Lamborghini, making the drive in a mere sixteen hours, as soon as Devon had rung him to say she was getting a divorce. Devon had told Deeley, beaming from ear to ear, that Cesare hadn’t pursued Devon to London out of respect for her married status; he’d hoped that she would come back to Italy after her emergency was resolved, but had left the ball firmly in Devon’s court. However, once given the green light, he had jumped into his extremely fast car and driven straight to London; he was planning to take Devon back to Italy as soon as possible. The food in London, he announced, was getting better, but it was still scarcely on a par with Italy.
Deeley had assumed that all she would be able to think about on the drive was that she would imminently be seeing Matt again, as a free man, but Devon and Cesare’s constant bickering had been so distracting that it had fully occupied Deeley. Although the dialogue had mostly consisted of them hurling insults and telling each other to shut up, interspersed with Devon screaming at Cesare to slow down because of speed cameras, it was clear that they were an extremely happy couple; Deeley had never seen her sister so glowing, so full of laughter. And so obviously having vast amounts of very good sex, she thought wryly.
Matt must have noticed that, too, she thought, finally turning to look at him. She had barely glanced in his direction in the church, but now that she wasn’t sitting next to her sister, she felt more free to look at him. He was still using his crutch, she’d noticed that before, and winced for him, because it must mean that his ankle injury was pretty serious. She could hear it tapping up the path, Matt walking carefully on the uneven stones. As he re
ached the foot of the grave there was a moment when he paused, looking at the mourners, and then chose, quite deliberately, to limp his way over to Deeley’s side.
He was wearing a black suit, not quite as well cut as Cesare’s, but you couldn’t compete with a slim Italian man when it came to clothes; Matt had to have his suits specially made to wrap around his bulky muscles. He dwarfed even the pall-bearers as he passed them. Deeley noticed that none of them could resist darting glances at him, thrilled to be so close to an England international. It was extraordinary, the effect he had on her; with every step closer, Deeley’s heart beat faster, her legs felt weaker. By the time he reached her, she was concentrating so hard on looking normal that she felt paralyzed. In a bare minute, she had lost any sense of what a sister-in-law would normally look like when greeting a soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law at the funeral of her sort-of-stepfather – in whose death she had been very much involved . . .
Did you just hear yourself? she couldn’t help thinking. And that’s not even including the fact that you’re madly in lust with him, at the very least! There is no normal in this situation!
‘Hello Deeley,’ Matt said quietly, as the pall-bearers took up the straps lying on the trestles beneath the coffin.
It was such a solemn occasion, Deeley should have felt horribly guilty at the rush of excitement that fizzed through her on hearing Matt say her name. It was schoolgirl-ish, silly and stupid, to feel such exhilaration at such a simple thing. Especially at Bill’s funeral.
Of course Matt’s going to say hello! she told herself firmly. What else would he say? And of course he’s standing next to you – he’s not going to join his wife and her new boyfriend, is he? Don’t let this give you any ideas!
‘How’ve you been?’ Matt asked.
‘I don’t know, really,’ Deeley said simply, looking up at him. The sight of his handsome, craggy face was like a blow. All she wanted to do was reach up and kiss him, and that was completely out of the question. His clear blue eyes were questioning, concerned, completely focussed on her; no one else existed in that moment.
‘It’s all been such a mess,’ she continued. ‘God, that’s such a huge understatement.’
‘I can imagine.’ Matt grimaced in sympathy.
‘But at least we know,’ Deeley said in a heartfelt tone. ‘At least we know everything now. We can bury Bill properly. Tell him how sorry we are.’
Deeley choked a little on those last words; the realization of what she and Devon had been tricked into doing by Maxie was still very hard to deal with. Matt shifted his weight, wedged his crutch into the grass, and reached out his hand to her for comfort. It was so big her own disappeared into its warm grasp; tears pricked at her eyes, and she blinked them away.
‘He knows you’re sorry,’ Matt said quietly, as the pall-bearers lowered the coffin into the waiting grave in front of them. At its head, the simple stone was engraved with Bill’s full name, the dates of his birth and death, and then the words: BELOVED STEPFATHER. ‘Believe me, he does.’
Deeley’s fingers gripped his convulsively.
‘Deep breaths,’ he said gently. ‘Take deep breaths.’
It was as if Matt’s hand was the only thing holding her up, giving her strength. As the coffin disappeared into the ground, as the pall-bearers pulled out their straps and discreetly backed away, Deeley met Devon’s eyes across the open grave. Devon was clinging to Cesare now, both his arms around her; he was smoothing down her hair, whispering in her ear. Devon wiped tears from her eyes and managed a smile for Deeley. Devon took in her husband, standing next to Deeley, holding Deeley’s hand; she looked from one to the other, processing the sight with a tiny nod.
Matt didn’t let go of Deeley’s hand, even with Devon looking at them. She hardly dared imagine what that might mean. Her heart was pounding; there was an odd, metallic taste at the back of her throat, a haze of nerves enfolding her. The vicar was saying something; now she’d closed her Bible and was walking back, passing them, touching Deeley lightly on the shoulder in sympathy. Devon, half-leaning on Cesare, was already following the vicar back to the church.
Matt looked at Deeley. ‘Can I give you a lift?’ he mumbled. ‘I’m going back to London . . .’
‘Yes!’ Deeley almost squealed, then caught herself in horror at the sound she had just made. ‘Um, yes, thanks,’ she said in an artificially formal voice. ‘That would be very nice.’
He grinned, his hand leaving hers, as they started to walk back down the church path, the paparazzi cameras snapping away.
‘I saw a very flash yellow car parked up there, next to the hearse,’ he said, a glimmer of amusement in his voice. ‘Thought you might have had a bit of a Mario Andretti time coming up here.’
‘Just a bit,’ Deeley said, smiling. ‘And there’s not much room in the back.’
‘He seems like a nice bloke,’ Matt said, his tone deliberately casual.
‘Yes, he does,’ Deeley agreed. She was watching her step; she didn’t want to trip on the loose stones in her kitten heels. But she was watching what she said about Devon and Cesare just as carefully – and even more so, what Matt said about them.
‘That’s what she needs,’ Matt went on, looking straight ahead. ‘Some Italian guy in a Lamborghini. Lots of drama, lots of waving hands around and yelling. Like in the films.’
Deeley glanced up ahead, at Devon still leaning on Cesare, dabbing at her eyes now with a tissue. Matt was quite right: Cesare was the perfect fit for her sister.
‘I was always too boring for Devon,’ Matt continued.
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not—’
‘No, really!’ Matt shot her a sideways glance that was brimming with humour. ‘No need to deny it. We were never the best match. An Italian prince and the jet-set life, that’s more her speed. I never even wanted to live in London – that was all Dev. I’d’ve been in the countryside. Wiltshire was my pick. Or the Cotswolds.’
‘Oh, lovely,’ Deeley said unguardedly.
‘Yeah.’ He wasn’t looking at her now, but Deeley had the sense that he was choosing his words very carefully. ‘I’m all crocked up now, you know. I’ve played my last game. Saw the doctor and the coach yesterday. I’m officially retired.’
‘Oh, Matt, I’m sorry.’
And why can’t I start a sentence without saying ‘Oh’? she thought, furious with herself. I sound ridiculous!
He held up the hand not grasping the crutch. ‘No worries. Honestly. I’ve had my time, done everything on the field I wanted to do. Some blokes might go into coaching, but I’ve thought it over and that’s not me. I fancy a fresh start. Buy a farm in the country. Pigs, cows, sheep, the works. Orchards.’ He grinned. ‘I fancy making my own cider, believe it or not.’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ Deeley said, trying as hard as she could not to gush, and worrying that she’d failed.
‘Really?’ He glanced at her again. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d’ve fancied that kind of set-up. You know, farms are mucky places. A glamour puss like you . . .’ His swift look took in her black Issa jersey dress, her suede kitten heels, her hair twisted up into an elegant chignon. ‘I mean, you’re a party girl, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Devon used to point you out on telly, at all those awards ceremonies in LA, dressed up to the nines. Country life might not exactly be up your street.’
‘Oh, it is,’ Deeley said, realizing that she’d done it again, started a sentence with an ‘oh’, she could have kicked herself. ‘The happiest I’ve been in London is going to Green Park.’
And as she said it, she realized, with great relief, how true it was: I mustn’t make things up just to please Matt, or say what I think he wants to hear, she told herself firmly. He’s had enough of lies, and so have I. We have to be honest with each other from the beginning.
‘You know,’ she admitted, in the interests of full disclosure, ‘that wasn’t really my boyfriend in LA. It was all fake. He didn’t want to come out – he thought it would hurt his career. So he asked me
to pretend to be his girlfriend.’
‘Poor sod,’ Matt said compassionately. ‘Can’t blame him, can you? I mean, it’s getting better, but there’re still a lot of crappy people out there.’
‘And I was pretty wild then,’ Deeley continued bravely, very glad that Matt had been so nice about Nicky and her LA set-up. ‘I was a party girl. Like you thought I was.’
‘Well, fair enough,’ Matt said. They had slowed down, were walking as slowly as they could, but they were almost at the church now. ‘I mean, you were single, weren’t you? You’ve got a right to have your fun.’
‘And I thought I’d do that when I got back to London as well,’ Deeley said quickly, determined to get this all in before they reached the others. ‘Be a party girl. But then I realized that I didn’t really want to. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. But just dressing up and going to parties – I’d done all that solidly for five years, you know? I didn’t need to throw myself back into it. The best time I’ve had in London has actually been looking after Alice – you know, Maxie and Olly’s daughter. Taking her to the park, playing with her. It’s been really lovely.’
Matt looked at her, his expression unreadable.
‘I haven’t seen much of her, but she seems like a nice little girl,’ he said. ‘Poor mite, what’s going to happen to her now?’
Deeley took a deep breath. ‘I want to adopt her,’ she said simply. She’d been thinking about this ever since Maxie’s arrest. ‘I don’t think Maxie gives a shit about her, and I know Olly doesn’t. I can’t imagine they’ll make a fuss if I take her on.’
They had come to a halt now by Matt’s car, and were staring at each other so intensely that everything else faded away in a haze. The vicar, talking to Devon, Cesare and the funeral director; birdsong from the wood pigeons and starlings nesting in the church gables; cars starting up as the pall-bearers drove away – all the sounds around them melted into nothing. All they could see were each other’s faces, all they could hear were each other’s words.
Bad Sisters Page 39