Nameless

by Jessie Keane

  ‘He’s a bastard.’

  ‘In what way?’ Kit thought he knew in what way. He tried not to think about it. He hated to even hear Tito’s name mentioned when they were together. He couldn’t stand the thought of that fucker sliming over Gilda.

  ‘He’ll screw any woman with a pulse. And he likes hanging around with the aristocracy, giving himself airs. Like that pervert Bray – you seen him?The things he gets up to would make your hair curl, believe me.’

  Kit considered this. He knew of Lord Bray. Everyone did. Could he be Daisy Bray’s father? Yes, he could. Poor bitch. No wonder she was so shot away.

  ‘If you can’t stand Tito, why don’t you leave him?’ he asked. It was a stupid question: he knew it. But he hated this, snatched moments with her while she belonged to that bastard. Once, he’d been cool with the situation. But now, every time he saw her with that fat fuck, he wanted to punch his lights out.

  Gilda gazed at him, her expression sad.

  ‘He took me off the streets when I was eighteen,’ she explained. ‘He’s kept me ever since. He won’t let me go. Tito never gets dumped. It’s only over when he says it is.’ She sighed and cuddled in closer against him. ‘Kit . . . I’m so in love with you,’ she whispered.

  Kit jerked back in surprise. Her eyes were steady as they held his.

  ‘Well, you can’t say you’re that shocked,’ she laughed.

  Kit felt uneasy. He didn’t want her love. At the start, this had been all about fun, indulgence, happy escape. And the fact that she was tied to someone else – yes, someone dangerous – had only made it all the more appealing.

  ‘You could say you love me too,’ she prompted, half-embarrassed.

  ‘I love you too,’ he said obligingly. He had always firmly believed that he could never truly love anyone except possibly himself, and sometimes even that was a big ask. But he could see from her widening smile and her brimming eyes how much it pleased her.

  ‘There. Was that so hard?’ she teased.

  Kit rose from the bed and looked down at her. She was quite an eyeful, and he was very fond of her. In fact, just lately, he’d been living for these secret meetings.

  Is this love? he wondered.

  Christ. It was. He was in love with Gilda.

  ‘Time we were going,’ he said, and this time she got out of bed and started to dress.

  77

  Cornelius was just going into the upper chamber when someone caught his arm. He turned in surprise, with a quick spasm of alarm. He’d been jumpy since that incident with Sebby, starting at shadows. He felt he’d moved into some dark and dangerous place, driven there by his own moral bankruptcy.

  Tito had dug him out of that hole. But now Tito’s demands had picked up. He called on Cornelius constantly to get his lowlife pals and employees out of trouble. Cornelius felt his own standing among his peers waning as they colluded – reluctantly – with him to cover criminal tracks. People had started to avoid him.

  And a couple of journalists had been sniffing around, asking him about his association with Tito.

  ‘Is it really wise, Lord Bray, mixing with someone like that? Allegedly, Mr Danieri has countless criminal connections and . . .’ They’d scuttled up to him, notebooks poised, eyes hungry for a story.

  ‘No comment,’ said Cornelius, hurrying on.

  But they persisted.

  ‘I have no association with Mr Danieri, he’s a distant acquaintance,’ he blurted out, once.

  They persisted.

  ‘Consult your editor,’ he snapped. ‘This is harassment.’

  Of course he knew that his network of contacts would shield him from any smear. But still . . . when Richard Dorley grabbed his arm outside the Lords, his instant reaction was, Oh God, they’ve found me out. This is it. It’s all over.

  ‘Lord Bray?’ asked the man.

  Cornelius stopped in his tracks and looked him over. This didn’t look like any reporter he knew. The man was shabbily dressed, grey-haired, with a haggard and desolate air about him. Cornelius flinched when he looked into the man’s dark eyes. They reminded him of Sebby’s.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Cornelius, heartbeat accelerating.

  ‘I’m Richard Dorley, sir. My son . . .’

  To Cornelius’s horror, the man’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked and fiddled in the pocket of his raincoat. Pulled out not the handkerchief Cornelius had expected, but a photograph.

  ‘I’m very busy,’ said Cornelius, starting to walk away. A couple of people he knew well were ambling past, looking curiously – and, he thought, disapprovingly – at Cornelius talking to this shambolic little man.

  Richard caught his arm again.

  ‘Just look at it, will you? Please?’ he asked, brandishing the photo in Cornelius’s face.

  Cornelius looked. His innards froze as he saw a couple there. Sebby smiling at the camera, and himself standing there at Sebby’s side with his arm draped around the boy’s shoulders.

  ‘I’m trying to find him. It’s my son, Sebastian,’ said the man. ‘He sent the photo to his brother a while ago. His mother got very upset. And I promised her that I would come to London and track him down and bring him home. Andrew – my eldest son – recognized you in the photograph and said that’s Lord Bray. He said he’ll probably know where Sebastian is, he’s right there with him . . .’

  Cornelius stared dumbstruck at the incriminating photo. He had his arm around the boy’s shoulders, cuddling in close to him. They looked like lovers.

  Jesus.

  ‘I haven’t seen him about in a long time,’ said Cornelius, taking hold of the photo. He’d say he would show it around, get it off this man, dispose of it.

  But Richard snatched it back. ‘So you do know him?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Cornelius, flustered. ‘We met briefly, that’s all. I don’t know him.’

  He walked on into the upper chamber. As he did so, he felt a bead of moisture trickle down between his shoulder blades. He hadn’t even realized it, but he was sweating.

  78

  1969

  ‘I thought I’d take a spin down to the South of France in the spring,’ said Michael to Ruby a couple of weeks after their dinner at the Connaught.

  ‘Oh?’

  This wasn’t what she’d expected. This time they were doing lunch in the art deco Savoy Grill, and what she’d expected, what she needed, was that he would get straight down to cases and tell her what was happening with Charlie.

  She was finding him increasingly attractive. He had an air of being able to handle anything, however dark, however dirty; his power was an aphrodisiac to her, and that surprised her because she had always believed that she had power enough of her own without having to find it in a man. Also, men with power over her had hurt her so much in the past.

  Now she was feeling her stomach lurch a little every time she heard his voice on the phone; she was feeling that long-forgotten flush of excitement when he came into a room. But all that was a distraction, she had to concentrate on what really mattered here.

  She had abandoned the idea of contacting Daisy. Daisy was happy, settled. Ruby knew it would be selfish of her to ruin Daisy’s stability. She hated it, but she felt it was right that she stayed away. But her boy was another matter. Charlie had to be tackled.

  ‘I thought about Cannes. It’s nice, they’ve got these great big boulevards,’ Michael was going on. ‘Palm trees swaying in the breeze. The best hotels. You’ll love it.’

  ‘Me?’ Ruby nearly choked on her cocktail.

  ‘Yeah, you. This is an invitation to come with me on a little jaunt. Just for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘But . . . I don’t know. I have the business to think about.’ She was shocked that he had offered. Shocked and a bit scared. She hadn’t had a close relationship with a man in so long. Jesus, it’s probably healed over by now, she thought with a stab of mirth.

  ‘You have managers, let them manage.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ She hadn
’t taken a holiday in . . . well, she had never taken a holiday. Not really. Sometimes she shopped or went to the park or to the beauty salon, but her mind was always occupied. Not so much with business, though: now she was becoming more and more obsessed with staying away from her lost daughter, and tracing her poor nameless son.

  ‘Only,’ he said, looking very serious all of a sudden, ‘there’ll be things going on, Ruby. And it’s best we slip out of the country while all that happens, do you see?’

  Ruby took a deep breath. ‘You mean Charlie.’

  He nodded, glancing around to be sure they were out of anyone’s earshot. ‘Exactly. Now, how far do you want me to go, in relation to that?’

  ‘Get him to tell you exactly what happened to my boy. No matter what happened, no matter how bad it is, I want to know.’

  ‘And if he won’t play ball . . . ?’

  Ruby’s eyes grew cold. ‘Get it any way you can.’

  Michael looked at her consideringly. ‘Not much love lost there, then.’

  Ruby drained her drink and placed the empty glass firmly upon the table. She looked straight into Michael’s eyes. ‘I hate him.’

  ‘Then a little break for the pair of us, don’t you think? A nice trip down to the Côte D’Azur.’

  ‘All right. OK. I get the message, I’ll come.’

  ‘At last!’ said Vi when they met up for lunch and Ruby told her the news about the holiday. ‘I was starting to really worry about you. Who is he? Is he nice-looking? Come on, I want the details.’

  Ruby smiled, but bearing in mind the motivation behind their trip – that they should be out of the country when whatever befell Charlie took place – she felt she ought not to be too specific.

  ‘I met him through the business. He’s . . .’ Ruby hesitated, trying to find the words to describe the sheer physical impact of Michael Ward . . . ‘very attractive.’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Vi. ‘And rich, I trust?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose he is.’ Ruby was torn about the trip. It might be lovely . . . but all the while she was getting her jollies, Charlie would be getting quite another sort of treatment. She shouldn’t give a stuff about that, but she did.

  ‘Not separate bedrooms . . . ?’ queried Vi.

  Ruby snapped back to attention. ‘Of course separate bedrooms. Vi, I hardly know him yet.’

  Vi sipped her tea and eyed her friend with cynicism.

  ‘Not still pining after that arsehole Cornelius, I hope?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course not. That was years ago.’

  ‘He’s done very well for himself. You know he’s a friend of Anthony’s? Cornelius got him into White’s.’

  ‘Well, good for him.’

  ‘I think I would have died of curiosity by now, in your place,’ said Vi.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning Daisy. His daughter. Your daughter.’

  Ruby said nothing. She had been dying of curiosity and stifled love for too many years to count, suppressing the almost animal, visceral need she felt to see her daughter, to know her. Daisy’s welfare must come first, not her own feelings. She knew Daisy was well looked after, she knew Vanessa had longed for a child and that she would lavish care on one. So she had to rein in her impulses, and leave Daisy alone. It was hard, though. Crucifyingly hard.

  ‘Surely you’d like to see her, at least?’ said Vi.

  Ruby looked at her friend. Vi thought she had never seen so sad an expression in anyone’s eyes before.

  ‘Of course I want to see her.’

  ‘Why don’t you then? You could see her, perhaps even speak to her. She wouldn’t know you were her mother.’

  ‘No,’ said Ruby. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Rubes . . .’

  ‘Drop it, will you, Vi?’ Ruby managed a smile. ‘Or should I say Lady Albemarle?’

  ‘Do you know, I nearly purr every time I hear that,’ said Vi with a shiver of bliss. ‘Lady Albemarle. Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Ruby smiled. ‘Is Anthony wonderful?’ she asked. Vi never really mentioned her relationship with the staid, rather elderly Anthony.

  Vi gave her a wry look.

  ‘Now that really would be asking too much, don’t you think?’ she said briskly. ‘A thousand acres, a fabulous home in the country and another in town, pots of money and a ladyship . . . and then to expect your husband to be the life and soul of the party? No, darling. Anthony is . . . nice. So I think, overall, I’ve done pretty well. Don’t you?’

  79

  They drove down to the South of France in Michael’s Aston Martin, stopping off at Nice before proceeding to Cannes. Ruby couldn’t quite believe that she was here, cruising along the Croisette in the vivid sunshine, while Michael played his favourite audio tape of Matt Monro singing ‘On Days Like These’.

  ‘That’s from the new Michael Caine film, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘The Italian Job?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘But the man was driving . . .’

  ‘A Lamborghini. Along the Grand Corniche, I think it was.’

  ‘Or was it the Alps? He crashed in a tunnel. The Mafia got him and pushed the wreckage of the car over the cliffs. They threw wreaths down after it.’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to crash,’ he said.

  Ruby believed him. Michael was a great driver – smooth, considering, observant. He spoke French – not fluently, but enough. She didn’t speak a word of it, although she loved its lyrical sound. She had never driven, either.

  In fact, she had never really lived. That was coming home to her now. Something deep within her was changing. She had been frozen in time after the babies were born and then so cruelly lost. All her feelings had become locked away; she had withdrawn from the world, hidden herself away behind the cool, efficient façade of the businesswoman. Forgotten about the world of pleasure, and sensation.

  She glanced at him as he drove.

  He was so good looking. His hands were strong on the wheel. The sleeves of his open-necked white shirt were rolled up to his elbows and the muscles in his arms were impressive.

  ‘What?’ he said, glancing back at her.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, and fixed her eyes on the road instead.

  She swallowed nervously. All the way down here, when they had stopped in hotels he had, without even asking her, booked two rooms, one for each of them. She liked it at first, but gradually it began to grate on her nerves. Didn’t he want to sleep with her? She felt at the same time pleased that he respected her wishes, and affronted that he did so.

  Now he was booking them in to the Carlton. Separate rooms again.

  Oh, for God’s sake, thought Ruby, half amused, half angry.

  He kissed her politely at her door as the porter took their bags, showed them their rooms.

  ‘I’ll see you for dinner at eight, down in the bar. OK?’ he said.

  She nodded, bit her lip. Suddenly she was so furious she wanted to hit him. These were fabulous rooms, with endless views stretching away over the crystalline-blue waters of the Med. Rooms made for romance. But Michael just kissed her goodbye and went along the hall to the room next door.

  Ruby unpacked, bathed, changed into white linen trousers and a turquoise top. Then she opened the balcony doors and walked out, inhaling the hot salty breeze and a faint sweet tang of lavender. This is so wonderful. But she felt unloved and resentful. She wanted to share this with Michael. But maybe he just saw her as a companion. Maybe – oh shit – he was still in love with the memory of his wife.

  That thought sunk her even further into gloom. She went back into the room and flung herself on the bed. She glanced at her watch. It was only five o’clock.

  Maybe he thought that she was just in this for the favours he could do her. Like getting the truth out of Charlie. And . . . wasn’t she?

  Well, she had been. That had been at the forefront of her mind when she’d first called him. Three bouquets, and she had thought: all right, here’s a man with influence, a man who knows t
he underworld and how it works, someone who isn’t scared to break down barriers. He could help me. So – at last – she had called him, and now . . . maybe right now, his people were beating the details out of Charlie.

  But things had changed. Being with him over the past week or so, spending leisure time with him – a completely alien concept to her before now – had begun to skew her feelings in quite another direction.

  The cold, controlled Ruby was retreating. Now she was remembering the Ruby she had been as a young girl . . . but it had all been beaten out of her, first by her father and Charlie, then by that uncaring bastard Cornelius. She had been looking desperately for love, and instead disaster had befallen her.

  Hadn’t she learned her lesson by now? It was dangerous to love, dangerous to trust. And she had sworn she would never love again. And yet . . . here she was. In danger of falling for Michael Ward.

  ‘Oh God,’ she moaned against the pillow. Three hours until she could see him again, hear his voice. She sat bolt upright. ‘Shit,’ she said loudly.

  She got off the bed, slipping on her sandals. She grabbed her key, then went to the door. She stepped out into the hall, and hurried along to his door before she had the chance to change her mind. She rapped on it.

  He opened it after a few seconds. He was towelling his hair dry, and wearing another pristine white towel around his waist. Water droplets beaded his chest, rivulets running down from the dark hairs there. Ruby almost moaned. He looked startled to see her there.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  Ruby stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, and lunged at him and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. She felt his whole body stiffen in surprise, then relax. He dropped the hand towel and fastened his arms tight around her waist.

  The kiss lasted so long Ruby felt light-headed from lack of air when it finally stopped. She almost blurted out that she loved him then, but she stopped herself in the nick of time.

  ‘This is nice,’ he breathed, working his hands up under her turquoise tunic. His hands fastened over her breasts and Ruby let out a shuddering groan of pleasure. ‘No bra.’