by Anne Mather
‘He gives them to charities?’
‘Whoops!’ Elliot put down the ball and gave her an apologetic grimace. ‘That was very indiscreet of me. Easy to lose your head surrounded by this stuff—it’s a collector’s dream, you know.’
‘Why was that indiscreet?’ She handed him a pile of black-and-white photos, and knew she had him.
‘He does it all anonymously.’ Elliot was entranced by the old photos. ‘He just donated a week’s training with the England rugby team to some poor inner-city school—and that’s not telling tales; it was in the paper. Is that Obolensky?’
‘I think so,’ Karin said vaguely, her mind just whirring. Everything she had accused him of, everything about him that she had tried to console herself with late at night, she’d got wrong.
‘It is!’ Elliot squealed. ‘Did you know, apparently he liked to have oysters and champagne for breakfast?’
‘I didn’t know,’ Karin laughed.
He was staggeringly indiscreet after that, rifling through the photos. Karin learnt that Xante, far from being a spoilt little rich boy, actually moved most of his things on to charities or museums. ‘He even buys back the odd medal, you know, when some of the greats fall on hard times. They sell their stuff, he buys it—and, well, he keeps it for a while then gives it back to the rightful owner. Completely anonymously, that’s his rule.’
‘Who?’ Karin asked. ‘Who are the players that he’s helped?’
‘Now, that really would be indiscreet.’ Elliot smiled, and reluctantly he put down the photos. ‘If you ever change your mind about selling …’
‘I told you, I won’t.’
‘It’s more than money sometimes, isn’t it? I know if it were mine I wouldn’t be able to part with it.’
And then she did the strangest thing. She took the photo of the great Russian Obolensky and gave it to Elliot. ‘That’s not for sale,’ Karin said. ‘That’s for you.’
Maybe she’d read Elliot wrong—maybe next week it would appear in an auction—only something told Karin it wouldn’t. She understood in that moment that it wasn’t all hers to keep, and saw in Elliot’s face the very real pleasure that came from giving and sharing those wonderful memories with a nation that held them dear too.
‘Thank you.’ Elliot clearly didn’t know what to say. ‘You’ve no idea what this means …’
He’d no idea what he’d done either—he’d just given her another glimpse of Xante.
‘Are you going to the match today?’ Karin asked, but Elliot shook his head.
‘Couldn’t get tickets. I might just wander down to the ground and take a walk around outside; I can feel the pull of the crowd.’
As she waved one very happy buyer goodbye, Karin wondered what Elliot would say if he knew what she’d passed up today. They’d have been heading off soon for their champagne reception and then settling down to watch the rugby match. Heading back to the study, Karin sat for the longest time amongst her grandfather’s things, thinking of him and Xante.
Two men who despite different backgrounds were intrinsically the same.
Proud men who excelled. There was a photo of her grandfather on the wall, ball clutched to his chest, fierce concentration in his features, his only goal to win, to conquer. Was that Xante’s goal—to have her love him at all costs?
And what then?
There on the mantelpiece, as it had been for weeks now, was the white envelope. She hadn’t opened it, but she hadn’t shred it into a thousand pieces or tossed it on the fire.
But she’d thought about doing all three.
Karin had deleted his texts unread, had scrolled through his emails and sent them to the junk pile. And though the flowers should have gone in the bin they had been great when the house was being viewed.
There was just something about a letter, though.
His spiky writing was on the envelope, with a Greek postmark, and it had arrived on the fourth of January.
It was March now.
She could see her fingers shaking as she slit open the envelope.
Wondering what, if anything, Xante could say that might change things.
Unfolding the paper, her eyes misted as she smiled.
No apology, no explanations or declarations, because she’d heard them all before.
Just an honest statement from a very proud man, and Karin knew, because she was starting to understand him, just how hard those words would have been to write.
Glancing at the clock, Karin took a deep breath.
If she stepped on it, she might just make it. And maybe, just maybe, so might they.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TODAY, he should be excited about the game. He had two VIP tickets, and to Xante’s surprise he had been invited to observe the changing rooms at half time. Yet he couldn’t look forward to it.
Today should have been shared with Karin.
He had never gone to anything without a partner. There was any number of women he could have rung, except he hadn’t wanted to.
Was this the reason he had never fallen in love before? Xante thought as the English team milled in the foyer. There was a crowd gathered outside his hotel waiting to cheer them on and wish them well, and to the crowd’s delight some of the players were outside signing autographs. It was everything Xante wanted for his hotel. London was at its beautiful best, the spring air mild, the skies blue and clear. It should have been the best day, except it barely touched the sides.
Xante had never lost before, had always made it his business to win.
But love chose not to play by his rules.
And it hurt.
The hotel appeared quiet once the team and their entourage departed, except Xante knew better. Behind the scenes the ball room was being prepared, the chefs cooking meals for their return, adding the last touches to the victory cake that might never see the light of day. It was right he should go and see it. His chef was the jewel in the hotel’s crown, and the one man Xante occasionally pandered to.
The cake was stunning, an exact replica of the trophy the victors would claim. Somehow Jacques had created its image in spun sugar. Its surface was absolutely smooth like frosted glass, and beneath, a filling made of traditional strawberries and cream. This was perhaps the most elegant strawberry-charlotte cake in history.
But it had come at a cost. The freshness of the ingredients that were now encased in elaborate frosting meant Jacques had been working through the night, his craggy French face quilted in concentration as he added the finishing touches to his masterpiece.
‘They must win!’ He didn’t look up as his boss entered; in fact, he cussed in his own tongue at the intrusion. The chef was one of the few who would swear at Xante and get away with it. ‘All this work, and maybe they no see.’
‘How does it feel?’ Xante asked, curious now as he watched him work. ‘When it’s cut up?’
‘Like serving my guts on a plate and then handing over a carving knife!’ the deranged chef raged, but then he gave a rare smile. ‘But it is the best feeling too. I remember each beauty I have created with love. This is the best, though. This one will hurt the most!’
Why could everything he said be compared to Karin?
Was this how he must now live, lugging around a broken heart for the rest of his life, accepting defeat as somehow he knew he must?
Except there was no dignity in this defeat, no consolation that he had given his best.
He’d given her his worst. He had set a detective on to her then bullied her into confessing. He didn’t blame her for a second for ignoring his attempts at contact, but, oh, how he’d kill for just one more chance.
‘What time do you leave?’ Jacques asked, and Xante glanced at his watch.
‘Ten minutes ago …’ He looked again at the cake. ‘Congratulations, it’s beautiful.’
‘Merci.’
He thought he was hallucinating as he walked out into the foyer, for there she was—just as she had been on the first day they’d met, walking past A
lbert, smiling a greeting. It wasn’t her assumption that had him intrigued as she walked towards him this time; there was this air of tranquillity about her, an innate strength in her eyes, that took Xante’s breath away.
‘You came?’
‘I accepted the invitation,’ Karin said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘It would have been rude not to.’
Was that the only reason she was here?
There was nothing in her eyes that gave him a clue, nothing in her stance that bore witness to all they had shared. Cool, elegant and always beautiful, she stood before him. But if she was here for them, if somehow he was going to be given another chance, then Xante knew he had to get it right this time.
That it had to be perfect.
‘I just have to go to my room.’ Xante gave a tight smile. ‘And then I’ll be ready.’
‘No problem.’
Completely unflustered when Xante returned and they headed out, she slid into the car beside him, and they drove in silence the short distance to the ground.
There was no one more skilled at flirting than Xante, yet the skill abandoned him at the very moment he needed it most. He was always together, always assured—always always, always … Suddenly he was as gauche as a teenager and trying not to show it. She was, to him, like glass—he had no idea how to handle her, as if all natural movement had left him, just as if Jacques had told him to move the cake.
A champagne reception in the Orchard enclosure greeted them. Karin surprised Xante by taking a glass, but did not surprise herself. The rigid control she had sworn by had left her the day she’d met Xante, after all. How nice it was to just be herself now, to have found herself, and the absence of fear was surely the best thing in the world to wake up to. She felt safe enough now to be herself and know she wouldn’t come to harm.
Sick with nerves on the way to his hotel, she had been dreading seeing him, and dreading not seeing him even more, and it had taken all her control not to rush to him in the foyer. But now they were here, mingling with the crowd, feeling the excitement in the air, it was hard not to relax and enjoy. Eating a sumptuous four-course lunch, listening to the speeches, she caught Xante watching her.
‘What?’
‘You look happy.’
‘I am.’ Karin smiled, because finally she was. Finally she had let go of the sordid parts of her past and kept only the good bits, and now she could remember them with love.
‘It’s nice being back at Twickenham. My grandfather used to bring me here.’ They were getting ready to move to their seats for the pre-match entertainment before the three o’clock kick-off that was nearing. ‘Before the refurbishment, of course. Sometimes we’d just slip into the stands and watch, other times he’d bring me to the formal functions. I can remember once when we were in the stands, though, and a man nearby suddenly recognised my grandfather. He told him how wonderful he was, and it made his day—just that people remembered him, remembered all he had achieved. Rugby meant everything to him.’
‘And his family too,’ Xante offered, but Karin shook her head.
‘Not in the end.’ She gave a small shrug. ‘After my grandmother died, they were the one disappointment in an otherwise glorious life, but he was proud of me.’ It was nice to be able to say it, nice to just speak the truth and accept the love her grandfather had given without the bitter taste of regret.
Xante swallowed. ‘I see that you are selling your home.’ He had money, so much money. It was a curse sometimes. He knew how pompous he sounded, but whatever the outcome, whatever happened today, he wanted to do one right thing by her. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘Yes, Xante, I do,’ she interrupted. ‘It’s already sold. The exchange takes place next month, and I’m actually relieved. I’ve spent my whole life trying to honour his memory, trying to claw my way back to what the Wallises once were. I want to do it by myself now. I want to live my life on my terms. I’m hardly going to be in the poor house once the sale goes through …’ He saw the flash of tears in her eyes, knew behind the brave words she was bleeding inside—yet he also knew that she meant it. ‘It’s time to put the past where it belongs.’
It was right that she was here today. She had spent so much time protecting her grandfather’s heritage that in doing so she had forgotten to protect her own, and now it was time to claim the wonderful future she somehow knew awaited.
Twickenham was the place her grandfather had loved the most. She didn’t need a house, or even a rose, to hold onto his memory. She dragged in the air, and could almost feel him standing on the other side of her, sharing in the magnificent sight of his team running out onto the pitch.
The bands were in place, the flags proudly displayed, the teams lined up side by side. England and Scotland, two great nations, were preparing for battle, and the atmosphere was electric.
The Scottish team was standing shoulder to shoulder, bristling with energy, all eager to get out there. But first duty called, and Karin felt her throat tighten and every little hair on the back of her neck stand on end. ‘Xante, I have a confession.’ She watched as a slight flash of alarm crossed his features—which was merited, given her last confession—and somehow that made her smile.
‘You can tell me anything.’
‘I love the Scottish anthem, and not just a little bit either.’
She watched and listened as the drums rolled, then beat their slow rhythm. The cry of the bagpipes made her quiver, together with the passion in the crowd as it sang along and as people held up phones, capturing this wonderful anthem for ever.
The rough, passionate faces of the Scottish team were shown on the big screens but blurred before her eyes as the emotional rendition filled the stadium.
Every heartfelt word reached her.
She could feel the man beside her, a man she was so scared to trust but somehow knew she must start to. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her throat tightening as the English national anthem struck up and the crowd raised the roof. The ground filled with one deep, baritone voice as the chests of their beloved team swelled with pride. They stood tall and proud, strapped and ready, brimming with testosterone and singing with a shed-load of passion; it was just a great day to be at Twickenham.
She felt Xante beside her.
She had been born to this.
Xante was here on passion alone, for this great game.
And then came the best bit. Swing Low Sweet Chariot pumped that English blood around her veins, but it was Xante who was singing the loudest.
‘Today I am an Englishman trapped in a Greek’s body.’ He made her smile, he made her laugh; he had made her the woman she’d thought she could never be. ‘I love you, Karin.’
He said it just once—looked her right in the eyes as he did so—and then left it to her to do with that knowledge whatever she would.
It was a thrilling match. Just like the old days, she roared her team on, caught up in the rush, watching the ball picked up, tossed, and then caught and held so fiercely. She felt as if they were running with her heart.
And could she do it? Take the risk, throw herself over the line?
Muddied and wearied, still they fought.
Believed the goal was in sight, no matter the score board.
She watched the captain ground the ball, the roar from the crowd fading as they awaited the decision. While the Scots shouted their protest, the English held their breath as the video-referee made his decision—it was just minutes from half time, and this one mattered.
Every single one mattered, but especially this one—because, Karin told herself, if they got this then she’d tell him.
The arm went up, the whistle blew and the try was awarded. The crowd was going wild. The decision had been made for her, only Karin couldn’t do it, couldn’t just turn around and tell him.
If he gets it over, Karin told herself, if he converts the try, I’ll tell Xante.
There was a lot more riding on this conversion than the captain realised as he lined up the ball. So badly she wanted
that kick to soar between the posts—not just for herself, not just for the team, but for the man who was kicking it.
The man who got up and trained, the man who gave it his all.
There were only winners in this game.
‘He’ll get it.’ Xante had no idea how vital this conversion was, or maybe he did, because he was shouting the ball over as it soared.
And soar it did between the posts, as the crowd roared, a spectacular conversion that had the English singing, and that had Karin tingling right down to her frozen toes. Because now she had to tell him.
‘I love you, Xante.’ Without qualification, she said it. ‘I have always loved you.’
He turned and smiled, because somehow he’d always known that too, had known when he’d held her when they’d been making love. ‘You have terrible timing …’ He watched her blink at his curious reaction. ‘I have been invited to the changing rooms for half time.’
‘Oh!’
‘You understand, it would be rude …’
‘Of course.’ Because she did understand. Appearances were everything. Commitments had to be adhered to and, yes, sometimes they were a pain, but now and then they were a pleasure. He took her by the hand and led her through the maze of corridors. Of course they didn’t allow Karin in, so she just stood outside listening to the boom of voices and smelling the liniment and the maleness of the place. Her heart thudded in her chest, stunned at how easy it had been to tell him. Stunned at just how good and natural it felt to have told Xante that she loved him.
There were good days and there were best-of-your-life days, and it didn’t take being in love to know that this one was extra precious as she flattened against the wall while a wall of muddy men charged past, pumped and ready … And then it was just the two of them.
‘Amazing!’ He looked like the cat who’d got the cream as he stepped outside, and Karin could only smile.