And, of course, the words that they weren’t saying.
‘That’s great,’ Matt said with complete sincerity. ‘That’s really great. That little girl’ll be so much better off with you.’
He had the nicest face she’d ever seen, Deeley thought, looking up at him. Not the handsomest; she’d met the handsomest men in the world in Los Angeles. But the nicest. She would never get tired of looking at Matt, at his slightly smashed-in nose, his craggy cheekbones, his square, solid jaw, his blue eyes . . .
‘Deeley! Matt! We’re heading off now,’ Devon called from the passenger door of the car. ‘Matt, you’re giving Deels a lift?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, without even looking over at Devon. ‘I am.’
‘Great!’ Devon beamed happily. ‘Ooh, and Deels, I forgot to tell you – Rory says they’ve greenlighted that series idea! Isn’t it exciting? We’ll start filming in Italy next month!’
Impulsively, she ran over and threw herself at her sister, kissing her.
‘I’m so happy,’ she said into Deeley’s ear. ‘I’m so happy, Deels, and I want you to be just as happy as I am!’
She squeezed Deeley’s arms, hugging her tight. ‘Be happy, Deels,’ she whispered, glancing sideways at Matt. ‘I’m not completely blind, you know. I can see how the two of you are together. You’re much better for him than I ever was. Go for it. Be happy.’
And, with a swirl of black jersey skirt, leaving a cloud of expensive perfume behind her, Devon turned and ran from Matt and her old life to Cesare and her new one, jumping eagerly into the passenger seat of the Lamborghini.
‘We do not start to make the film next month,’ Cesare said as he closed her door and walked round to the driver’s side. ‘You are not ready. You are not ready till you learn not to overcook the pasta.’
‘I do not overcook pasta!’ Devon said crossly as he got in and wound down the window, lighting a cigarette. ‘You’re such a liar!’
‘Stai zitta, perche é meglio,’ he said, slamming the door and sending the car flying out of the parking lot; even Matt turned his head to watch the Lamborghini in motion.
‘What’s that all about?’ Matt asked Deeley, as the Lamborghini zipped past the gateposts in a streak of bright yellow; oohs and aahs could be heard from the kids on the churchyard wall as it passed them.
‘Oh!’ She couldn’t help smiling. ‘Rory – you know, the producer who makes Devon’s shows – he saw Dev and Cesare together and thinks they’re hilarious. He pitched a series where Cesare teaches Devon Italian cooking. They’re basically going to bicker all the time and throw things at each other. The BBC loves the idea. I think Cesare’ll be chain-smoking, too. He says he looks forward to showing the British people how you really cook Italian food.’ She giggled. ‘Franco’s passed muster, but it’s run by Italians, which makes a difference. Cesare’s really taken against Jamie Oliver. They went to his Italian restaurant last night and Cesare made a big scene about meatballs in the carbonara, apparently.’
‘Sounds a blast,’ Matt said, raising his brows. ‘I won’t be watching, I shouldn’t think. Might be a step too far, watching my ex-wife cook spaghetti with her new man. But I wish them all the luck in the world.’
‘You do?’ Deeley breathed. She was absolutely unable to prevent herself from sounding like some girlish idiot; if anyone played back this conversation to her, she knew, she’d be cringing in total embarrassment. But it’s working, isn’t it? she told herself, crossing her fingers tightly in the draped folds of her skirt. This is going better than I ever dreamed it could . . .
Matt nodded soberly.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I do.’ His jaw tightened. ‘It was over for much longer than I let myself admit,’ he said sadly. ‘I’ve been flogging a dead horse for a long time now. Too proud to see it, you know? And I didn’t want a divorce. No one in my family’s ever been divorced, and I didn’t want to be the first. But you’ve got to face up to things sooner or later.’
He looked over to where the Lamborghini had been.
‘We always wanted different things, me and Dev. I couldn’t make her happy, no matter how much I tried.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘I’m a simple man, Deeley. I just want to be married, settle down. Make my wife happy.’
Deeley couldn’t say a word. She couldn’t breathe. She just stood there, staring at him, her lips slightly parted. I don’t just sound like an idiot, she thought. Now I look like one too.
‘Miss McKenna?’ The vicar bustled over to Deeley’s side, startling her out of her trance. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ Deeley said, turning to her; the vicar took Deeley’s hands and pressed them firmly.
‘Very sad,’ she said, shaking her head sympathetically. ‘Very sad circumstances. I’m sorry that we couldn’t see your eldest sister here as well.’
‘She’s, um, awaiting sentencing,’ Deeley said, her eyes widening in surprise that the vicar had mentioned the disgraced Maxie.
The vicar nodded, her expression kindly.
‘It’s still a shame that she couldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘We do see criminals at funeral services sometimes, with a police guard if that’s considered necessary. And I must say, I take it as a blessing if they attend. For true repentance, one needs to make amends as much as possible. I would have liked to see your sister at this poor man’s funeral. Hopefully she will come and visit his grave, when she can.’
Deeley nodded; she didn’t know what to say.
‘She confessed, I understand,’ the vicar said, giving a last press to Deeley’s hands and then releasing them. ‘That’s a very good sign, isn’t it? A trial would have been very distressing for her family. And of course, it indicates an acknowledgement of her crime. I hope you will be visiting her in prison.’
Still unable to speak, Deeley made an ambiguous motion with her head; Matt put his arm around her, moving her back, away from the vicar.
‘They’re still very upset by all of this,’ he said, gesturing that Deeley should get into the car. ‘But the family does appreciate all your help, Vicar. It was a very nice service. Very moving.’
Shepherded firmly by Matt, Deeley gratefully got into the car. Matt limped as briskly as he could round to the driver’s side and got in too.
‘I didn’t know you had a convertible,’ she said, fastening her seatbelt, taking in for the first time the dark green BMW 3-series with its beige leather interior.
‘I don’t.’ Matt swung himself in and slung the crutch into the back seat, closing the door. ‘This is an automatic – I borrowed it from the garage for a month or two. Can’t drive a manual with my foot messed up like this.’ He grinned. ‘I might keep it, though. Nice, isn’t it?’ He started it up. ‘Never had a convertible before, but I really like it.’
He shot her a glance of concern. ‘You all right with the top down? Put on your coat, it’ll get cold,’ he said, nodding to the black fake fur jacket she was carrying over her arm. ‘Will the wind mess up your hair?’
He’s so sweet! Deeley thought with a rush of pleasure.
‘I couldn’t give a shit if my hair gets messed up,’ she said happily. ‘But,’ she realized that they were going to drive past all the photographers and news crews, ‘with the top down, they’ll get tons of shots of the two of us.’ She nodded towards the churchyard wall.
‘I couldn’t give a shit if they take photos of us,’ Matt echoed easily, raising a hand to the vicar as he drove away, rounding the gateposts considerably slower than Cesare had done.
Deeley settled back in her leather seat, still almost unable to believe that she was driving away with Matt. Sitting next to him as the paparazzi called their names, trying to get them to turn and look at the cameras. He must know what this will mean, she thought, on a rising tide of excitement. Photos of him holding my hand at the funeral . . . driving me away from the church . . .
‘Sorry about the vicar and all that,’ Matt said, piloting the car through the messy tangle of Riseholme’s streets with t
he aid of his satnav. ‘Bringing up Maxie. Must have been upsetting for you.’
Deeley heaved a sigh. ‘It’s not like I wasn’t thinking about her all the time anyway,’ she said sadly. ‘And the vicar was right – Maxie should have come to the funeral.’
Matt was concentrating on driving, but Deeley saw his mouth quirk in an ironic smile.
‘Somehow,’ he said dryly, ‘I don’t think your sister’s that big on repentance.’
‘No, she isn’t.’ Deeley sighed again. ‘She only confessed because it was all on tape and her solicitor told her she couldn’t hope to be acquitted. Particularly,’ she said in a small voice, ‘because Devon and I said we were prepared to testify against her.’
Matt shook his head in silent empathy for Devon and Deeley’s situation.
‘I was really glad to hear you weren’t going to be charged,’ he said. ‘Devon told me a few days ago.’
‘Yes, we’ve been lucky, I suppose,’ Deeley said dully. Of course it was a huge relief that the police had decided not to press charges against them for their involvement in Bill’s murder, or their part in concealing his body, but using the word ‘lucky’ in any context referring to the whole miserable situation seemed much too ironic.
She thought of the TV footage of Maxie being arrested; the media had been tipped off, probably by some police officer making some extra cash on the side by passing information to the tabloids. Word had got round, and by the time a furious Maxie was escorted out of the Bilberry offices, the press was clustered outside, ready to eat up this highly juicy story. Maxie, usually so perfect when dealing with the press, had been so angry that she’d been unable to control herself; her face had been twisted into a snarl, her shoulders hunching as she tried to shake off the hand a police officer had placed on her shoulder.
She’d looked guilty. Plain and simple.
Deeley closed her eyes, letting the events of the last couple of weeks wash over her. The interviews with the police, who at first had been almost unable to believe what they were hearing. Finding a solicitor to represent her and Devon. Hiding out from Olly’s wrath, when he realized what Maxie’s sisters had done, and from the media, who were doorstepping every McKenna and Stangroom they could find, relishing this story. It had everything: three beautiful sisters, rags to riches, English aristocracy, politics, glamour, fashion and a huge buried scandal.
But most of all, of course, it had pictures of beautiful women. All the McKenna sisters were very photogenic, and nowadays photos were what drove a story faster than anything, and kept it in the news. One picture of Deeley in her LA glamour days, of Devon smiling, spilling lusciously out of a Vivienne Westwood dress, or Maxie doing promotion for Bilberry, was worth a thousand words.
‘She’ll be going away for a while,’ Matt commented, and Deeley knew who he meant. ‘Even pleading guilty, and with all her connections – I mean, she killed someone, and covered it up for years. That isn’t just a slap on the wrist.’
‘It’s a mandatory life sentence, our solicitor says,’ Deeley said, still with her eyes closed. ‘Usually it’s a minimum of fourteen years. But the judge gives you a tariff, so you serve that and then apply for parole. And apparently Maxie’s got some kind of thing with the chief whip of Olly’s party, and he’s got a lot of pull with a lot of judges. So she might get much less than fourteen years. She’s going to try to argue that there are plenty of mitigating circumstances. Our mum, having to look after me and Devon, all that.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’ Matt turned the BMW onto the sliproad for the M1. ‘I’m sure she’ll know how to work the system,’ he said cynically. ‘Bet you she’ll be running that prison in a couple of months. Everyone jumping to her tune.’
Deeley couldn’t help smiling at that: he was absolutely right. Maxie would have warders and inmates alike under her thumb in no time.
‘And what about Olly?’ Matt asked. ‘What’s he going to do about all this?’ He winced. ‘Poor bloke. I never liked him, but no one deserves this.’
‘I really don’t know,’ Deeley admitted. ‘I don’t know if Olly’ll divorce her or not. He’ll probably have to, just to save his career.’
‘The sooner you get little Alice away from him the better,’ Matt observed. ‘He never wanted her in the first place.’
‘I already have,’ Deeley said proudly. ‘We’ve been staying at a flat that belongs to some friends of Devon – they’re travelling or something. I tracked down that nice Australian nanny who walked out on Maxie and Olly, and she’s been helping me for a bit. She’s looking after Alice today. I didn’t want to bring her.’ She grinned. ‘Also, I don’t imagine you can fit a baby car seat in a Lamborghini.’
‘I was going to ask you about that,’ Matt said, and Deeley opened her eyes, just a little, so she could look at him under her lashes. ‘If you had any rush to get back to London, I mean.’
Her heart leaped up into her throat and started pounding at her windpipe.
‘Not really. The nanny’s got Alice all day – she said not to worry about it. I think she’s taking her to the zoo this afternoon. She’s staying in the flat, too, so I don’t have a curfew or anything.’
‘Great,’ Matt said. ‘Because I was wondering if you wanted to maybe make a day of it . . . you know, since we’re out already. Go to the Cotswolds for an early dinner? I know this really nice little country house hotel that does great food . . .’
Deeley sank her fingernails into her thighs to stop herself yelping aloud. ‘I’d love to!’ she exclaimed, trying incredibly hard not to gush.
‘Seems a bit mad,’ he said, looking at her briefly. ‘Driving all over the country. But there’s bloody paparazzi at all our places, and this way we can have a nice day out without anyone shoving cameras at us.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ Deeley agreed demurely. ‘Really sensible.’
She was smiling now from ear to ear, a warm glow spreading across her entire body. The miracle had happened; the unbelievable happy ending was actually within her grasp. Matt glanced at her again, and she saw that her smile was mirrored on his face; he was attempting to be cool, but actually he was beaming like a madman. He reached out his left hand and put it on her leg; his palm was so big, it covered half her thigh. The contact made Deeley jump with shock and pleasure. All the memories she had been trying so hard to repress came flooding back in a tidal wave: that evening on the sofa, on Matt’s lap, grinding against him, his hands on her skin, his body hard and eager beneath her. Excitement rushed through her, her lower body beginning to melt. She reached down and put her hand over his, pressing his palm deeper into her thigh.
‘Jesus,’ Matt muttered, the BMW swerving a little as his other hand trembled on the wheel.
‘Or we could just stop at a Travelodge,’ she suggested. ‘There’s bound to be one along the motorway, isn’t there?’
‘Deeley!’ he said in frustration. ‘I’m a romantic guy! I was going to take you to a country house hotel . . . this lovely stone manor house, they’ve got a suite with a four-poster bed and stunning views . . .’ He went red. ‘Not that I was taking anything for granted,’ he added quickly, as the car swerved again, causing a lorry to honk. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered in parentheses, pulling into the slow lane. ‘I was just thinking we could have a nice meal, get to know each other more, have a really good conversation . . . they’ve got gorgeous gardens, I thought we could take a walk there and then have a cocktail on the terrace . . .’
‘Or,’ Deeley said firmly, her entire body now burning with frustration, ‘we could find a Holiday Inn Express, check in, and fuck each other’s brains out.’
The BMW swerved yet again; a coach full of schoolchildren passed them, and some rowdies in the back, seeing Matt’s hand on Deeley’s leg very clearly in the open convertible, banged the windows and yelled encouragement.
‘Deeley!’ Matt said crossly. ‘How do you expect me to drive safely when you say stuff like that? I’m only human!’
Deeley was too far gone to care now; she fe
lt completely suffused with golden, sparkling joy, bathed in sunshine. She pulled his hand further up her leg. Matt groaned and dragged it away reluctantly.
‘I haven’t been able to think of anything else since that night,’ she said happily. ‘I’ve been trying so hard not to remember it, but all I can think of is sitting on your lap, kissing you, touching you—’
‘Right! That’s it!’
Matt wrenched at the wheel as an exit came up, shooting the car up the off-ramp. Deeley held onto the seat with both hands; he was speeding like a madman, whizzing round a roundabout, into a narrow, undistinguished country road, and down it, past side lanes and hedged fields, as the countryside sprawled out, becoming more sparse and unpopulated, finally squealing to a halt, rubber screeching on tarmac, shoving the car into reverse, backing up fifteen feet and stamping on the accelerator as he spun the wheel, sending the BMW bouncing down a narrow farm lane with a decrepit, clearly long-abandoned gate at the end of it.
He slammed the car to a stop and turned to look at Deeley, about to say something. But she had already kicked off her shoes, unsnapped her seat belt and was hitching up her skirt, climbing over the leather armrest to sit on his lap.
‘Put your seat all the way back,’ she said, straddling him, her knees on either side of his legs, wrapping herself deliciously around his wide torso. Bending over, she kissed him, her hands sliding around his neck, pulling him towards her.
‘Deeley . . .’ he started, but she bit his lip.
‘Stop talking and put your seat back,’ she whispered, reaching down to unbutton his jacket. She popped the buttons open, and then the shirt below, sliding her hands down his ripped abdominals to the waistband of his trousers, finding the buckle of his belt.
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