by Lulu Taylor
Imogen had a feeling something awful lay unspoken and was almost relieved when the waiter arrived with their starters. But when he’d put the plates before them and gone, she said, ‘So what happened?’
Romily picked up her fork and toyed with some rocket at the side of her plate, her mood sombre. ‘We bought a little flat in the Marais, and I made it so cosy and comfortable. I loved it – so different from that grand house on the avenue Foch with all its gilt and mirrors and chandeliers. I was tired of all that. I wanted to be normal – to live an ordinary life with my husband. They said I’d be kidnapped or shot if I didn’t live behind their iron gates and bullet-proof windows surrounded by guards, but I thought that I would be fine with Mitch to protect me. I didn’t want to be the de Lisle heiress any more, just plain Mrs Romily Mitchell.’
Imogen smiled. ‘I don’t think you could ever be plain anything, Rom.’
‘I can try, dammit!’ she laughed. ‘Maybe I wasn’t going to give up my couture habit, but I was sure I could do without the gold-plated taps and the ridiculous cars.’
There was a pause before Imogen said quietly, ‘And then?’
‘Something terrible happened.’ Romily pushed her plate away. ‘My father got to Mitch. He offered him money to divorce me. And Mitch took it.’
Imogen gasped, shocked. ‘No! I can’t believe it!’
Romily looked sorrowful. ‘It’s true. He left me. We’d been married only six months.’
‘But that’s astonishing! I saw the two of you on your wedding day. I never would have imagined he would leave you so easily.’
‘There’s no accounting for men and their motives. Perhaps he was the most accomplished actor in the world. So …’ Romily put down her fork. ‘Having been a blushing, hopelessly smitten bride, I was suddenly an abandoned divorcee – in just over than six months.’
Imogen was flooded with sympathy for her friend, mixed with incredulity at Mitch’s behaviour. She never would have believed it of him. So much for my ability to judge character! ‘Oh, Rom … I’m so sorry! How could he? What an unbelievable shit.’
‘The pain was … terrible. Still is. That’s why I’m here. My parents got what they wanted: they destroyed the love between Mitch and me, poisoned it with their money. But they didn’t realise that in doing so they would lose me forever. Outwardly I’m still the perfect daughter, dutiful and loving, and my father hasn’t cut me off without a cent or whatever it is that angry fathers are supposed to do, but in reality I’ve gone far away from them. I couldn’t stay in Paris, it was too painful and difficult, so I decided to move to Italy and spend some time alone to get over my grief. I came looking for somewhere I could lick my wounds, and when I found the villa, set high above the lake with those views … well, I knew at once that I could find some peace there.’
‘Oh, Romily. You’re here all alone?’ Imogen could hardly bear the thought of it.
‘For now. But even so, I’m always surrounded – the servants, the bodyguards. My little brother Louis comes to stay sometimes and so do a few friends, when they’re passing through. I’ve found it a relief just to be still for a while.’
The girls sat in silence for a moment. I have no idea what to say¸ Imogen realised. She’s just like a young nun, shutting herself away from the world. The waiter came and removed their plates, Romily’s almost untouched, and they were both grateful for the interruption. After it, Romily said in a more cheerful voice, ‘So that’s why you won’t see Mitch here. Just like you, I’ve put it all behind me and I’m moving on. I have a wonderful life otherwise so don’t feel sorry for me. But what about you, Midge? Tell me about what you’re doing. What are your plans now that you’ve finished at Oxford?’
Imogen realised she wanted to change the subject and obediently tried to move the conversation to happier matters, but all the time she felt the sadness that had enveloped her friend and wanted to weep for Romily’s broken heart.
It wasn’t until the next day that Romily dropped her bombshell.
They’d spent a happy day sightseeing and then lazing around the villa and were soaking up the warm afternoon sun on the terrace when she said casually, ‘How is Allegra?’
‘Fine, I think,’ Imogen answered, enjoying the feeling of sunshine on her face. She looked over at Romily, who was in a loose linen top and casual slouchy trousers. Her eyes were hidden behind a large pair of Versace sunglasses. She said nothing. Imogen continued, ‘I’ve hardly seen her over the last year. She’s been in London and I’ve been slaving away in Oxford. We’ve swapped the odd email but that’s about it. I hope we’ll see more of each other when I get to law school.’
Romily nodded, her expression inscrutable. ‘You know, I never understood why Allegra went cold on me. For ages she didn’t reply to any letters or texts or emails, and I wondered what I’d done to offend her. Then, after I got married, Mitch and I went to London on honeymoon and I contacted her at Colette’s. You told me she worked there, remember? We went out for tea together at the Ritz. That was the last time I saw her.’
‘And how was it?’ Imogen said cautiously, surprised. She had told Allegra all about the wedding, and often spoken about Romily to her after it, but Allegra had never mentioned their meeting at the Ritz. Romily was right: Allegra had gone cold on her, though she would never say why.
Romily said nothing while she poured out some tea. Imogen waited, sure that she was going to add something that would clear up the mystery of the coolness between her and Allegra.
‘Do you remember school?’ she said at last.
‘Of course.’
‘Our silly little club. The Midnight Girls. The three of us against everyone else.’ Romily laughed with an edge of bitterness to her voice. ‘I believed in that and everything we promised each other, just like I used to believe in love. Well, all that’s been kicked out of me.’
‘Has something happened between you and Allegra?’ asked Imogen slowly.
Romily took off her sunglasses and fixed her with a serious stare. ‘She betrayed me, Imogen. In a way I could never have believed her capable of.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She colluded with my father in persuading Mitch to divorce me.’
‘What? No!’ Imogen was amazed. She clutched the table. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘Yes.’ Romily’s face became stony and her voice cold. ‘Mitch was played a recording in which I appeared to be saying that I didn’t love him, had only married him for fun and that I would buy him off when I was tired of him. Of course, it was a fake. A perfectly innocent conversation had been recorded and then cleverly cut and edited. It was so well done it was almost impossible to tell that it was a forgery, but I managed to buy the original recording from my father’s assistant, thanks to some bribery and very sweet talking. I gave it to a sound expert who analysed it and discovered exactly where my words had been pasted together.’
‘Did you play that to Mitch? Tell him it was a set-up?’
Romily shook her head, and looked out over the lake for a moment. The late-afternoon sun caught the gold of her earrings and they sparkled. She turned back to Imogen. ‘It was over by then. There was no way back. He hadn’t trusted in me. Refused to listen when I tried to defend myself. That was enough for me. It showed he wasn’t the man I thought he was. That he didn’t truly love me.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ Imogen said, confused. ‘What does this have to do with Allegra?’
There was a pause and then Romily said clearly, ‘She was the one who recorded me.’
Imogen’s mouth dropped open and she could only stare at her friend, hardly able to take in what she had just heard.
‘I know it without a doubt,’ Romily continued. Her firm tone brooked no argument. ‘There were two voices on the tape, mine and hers. There is no way anyone else was present or that we could have been recorded without her knowledge. We only decided on the Ritz at the last minute – we had been going to the Wolseley. No one else knew our plans. The conversat
ion was recorded in such a way that whoever it was had to have been present the entire time.’ Romily shrugged. ‘It was her.’
‘But why would she?’ Baffled, Imogen stared at her fine china tea cup, not seeing what was in front of her as questions whirled round in her head.
‘I don’t know, Imogen, and if you can’t tell me, then we’re both in the dark.’ Romily’s eyes flashed and her face coloured with anger as she said bitterly, ‘I’ve never been anything but a friend to her! She came to stay with me in Paris, we had a wonderful time and then … I never heard from her again. I was hurt but kept on trying because I treasured our friendship and meant to stand by our promises. When she agreed to see me after the wedding, I was elated because I thought that whatever it was had gone away and we were friends again. But she only did it in order to betray me … to ruin my life. It is beyond any doubt.’ Her eyes glittered, although whether with tears or anger Imogen couldn’t tell. ‘I don’t know why she wanted to destroy me, but I do know that I can never forgive her. And I also know that no friend of hers can be a friend of mine. That is why I had to see you, do you understand now? So, Imogen, who do you choose? Her or me?’
Chapter 37
Lake Como
2008
‘PAPA,’ ROMILY SAID sulkily, ‘I don’t understand why I can’t have a plane. Why can’t I?’
‘It’s an added expense, my darling,’ Charles de Lisle said from his office where the lighting was not exactly flattering. His face looked a little green over the web camera. ‘We have two planes already, can’t you use one of those?’
‘I can’t believe you’re being so mean! What does the money matter?’ Romily frowned into the web cam, pushed out her lower lip and made the face of a little girl deprived of the thing she wants. ‘I only want a little one!’
‘Ma chérie, you don’t understand. It’s not just the money – although planes don’t come cheap, even the little ones – it’s the logistics. Where will we keep it? Who will pilot it? How many staff will it require? When and where will maintenance be undertaken?’ Charles shook his head. ‘No, my darling, it’s all far too much of a headache. Charter whatever you need if ours aren’t available.’
‘It’s not fair!’ cried Romily. ‘I bet you get one for Louis!’
‘Only if he can fly it himself.’ Charles looked grieved, as he always did when Romily was upset. Ever since the end of her marriage, he’d granted most of her wishes, as though to make up for the great hurt and anguish he had caused her then.
‘Huh!’ Romily sighed heavily and looked away for a moment. Then she said, ‘Well, I must go, Papa. I’m very busy, I’m afraid.’
Charles’s expression was sad, his thin mouth turned down at the corners. He looked older these days, with his grey hair thinning and his wrinkles deepening. ‘Very well, ma chérie. Will we see you soon?’
‘I suppose so. I’ll let you know. ’Bye, Papa.’ She clicked off the connection and sat for a moment staring at the screen. What a shame. She had particularly been hoping for her own plane, which she’d already planned to kit out in white fur (fake, to please her vegetarian designer friend) and white leather (real, because there was only so much a vegetarian friend should expect) and platinum fittings. That would have set them all talking! But as it was, she was quite happy to turn her mind to some other delightful little schemes.
She opened her calfskin monogrammed diary and perused her engagements. In two weeks she had to be in London. The days she would be there were marked with heavy dark lines in pen. She was looking forward to it, anxious for it even, and the time was dragging. Until then, all she could do was plan her trip and prepare for it. There were always clothes to be bought, of course. A definite chill of autumn in the air meant it was time to think about berry-coloured crocodile-skin handbags, beautiful coats, fine buttery tweeds and oodles of cashmere. And, of course, shoes. She’d been drawn to the new shapes and colours like a bee to a lavender bush, and relished an afternoon trying out the latest styles in Milan.
Yes. That was how she would spend this afternoon. She picked up the house phone and her assistant, Monica, answered. ‘Oui, madame?’
Romily stood up and examined her reflection in the large gilt mirror opposite as she talked. ‘Call the car, please, Monica. I’m going to town today. Tell them five minutes. And please send an email to Countess Bianca to check she’s coming for dinner tonight.’
‘Of course. And, Madame … Vincente has telephoned five times already today.’
‘Has he? How charming.’ Romily watched her reflection smile wryly and thought how much she liked her new white shirt: chiffon with tiny velvet polka dots all over it. She ran one hand over the smooth grey skirt she was wearing. ‘I’ll call him from the car. I think he’ll be with us for dinner tonight. Will you tell Cook please?’
‘He wanted to confirm the menu with you—’
‘I don’t care about that,’ Romily said. ‘Whatever he thinks is best. He is the chef after all, not me.’ She hung up, thinking of the afternoon that lay ahead of her, surrounded by the best shoes in the world. She would probably spend a lot of money … a lot of money. Well, if they wanted her to be a spoilt heiress, what on earth did they expect?
She got back from Milan laden down with bags from expensive shops and boutiques. Monica was waiting for her in the cool hall, clutching her notepad and looking serious as usual.
‘Hello, madame,’ she said as Romily put down her goodies. ‘I’m leaving in a few minutes so I just wanted to update you …’
‘Of course.’ Romily patted her slightly windswept hair back into place.
‘Countess Bianca is arriving at seven and bringing a friend. Vincente will be here in half an hour.’
‘Thank you, Monica. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Romily said with a nod. She watched as her assistant went back to her little ground-floor office to tidy up. An ironic smile played about her lips. She probably thinks Bianca is my closest friend … She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the gilt-framed mirrors and sighed. Actually, she probably is, these days. Ever since …
She thought of Imogen with sadness. When Romily had laid out the stark choice between allegiances, her friend hadn’t been able to believe it. With tears in her eyes, she’d begged Romily not to ask her to make such a choice, but she’d held firm. It was impossible, she’d said, to remain loyal both to her and to Allegra, so which one was it to be?
When Imogen refused to make the choice, Romily had turned cold. She’d hoped so much that Imogen would choose to side with her, when she was so obviously the wronged party. Allegra had betrayed her, for God’s sake, and ruined her marriage! How could Imogen decide to stand by her?
‘Then you’d better leave,’ she’d said coolly. ‘I understand. I’m sorry it’s come to this but you must see that I can’t have anyone in my life who is in contact with that woman. I respect your loyalty, even though it’s misplaced.’ She’d held out her hand. ‘And I wish you all the best, Imogen.’
‘Romily!’ her friend had cried, tears spilling over. ‘Do you really mean it? You don’t want to see me ever again either?’
‘I’m afraid not. You remember what happened at school all those years ago, on that terrible night? You and I protected Allegra then but we both know the truth. She was the one responsible. We thought at the time it was an awful mistake, but now I know for sure that Allegra is rotten through and through. I just hope it’s not you who suffers next. Now, I’ll order the car for you.’
Imogen had left, miserable and weepy, unable to believe she was seeing Romily for possibly the last time. But Romily remained adamant: her life had to be cleansed of Allegra’s poison.
*
The evening sunlight cast brilliant rays into the drawing room, and the balcony radiated the heat it had absorbed during the day. The scent of late-summer roses filled the air.
‘Are you going to the Hennessy party in Cannes?’ Bianca asked idly. She tossed back her long black hair and crossed her tanned legs, admiring the coral pol
ish on her toe nails as she did so.
‘I expect so,’ Romily replied, her voice as careless as Bianca’s. We’re far too worldly to care about yet another party, they seemed to be saying to each other. But in reality, each party was another fabulous excuse to compete with their clothes, their make-up, their coverage in the press and their tally of famous friends. They were sitting in the drawing room, enjoying a drink before dinner. Bianca and Romily had taken their places on the vast cream sofas while Vincente was lounging in an artfully shabby Deco leather club chair. Bianca’s date was still getting ready.
Romily sipped her champagne and said, ‘Do you like these, Bianca? They’re the latest range. I got them in Gucci this afternoon.’
‘Darling, I love them,’ purred Bianca, leaning forward to admire the high shoe boots, studded all over with tiny metal rings. ‘They’re so channelling the punk-Gothic feel I adore! I’m jealous you got them first.’
Romily smiled down at her beautiful and very expensive shoes. She’d teamed them with a silver chainmail mini-dress from a quirky boutique she’d seen in Como, and the effect was pleasingly metallic.
‘Am I coming?’ Vincente said in a mournful voice.
‘What?’ Romily looked over at him with a mildly irritated expression. He was half sitting, half lying in the armchair in his cream Armani suit and Dolce & Gabbana striped shirt. He was a short man with blond hair and ginger stubble that had grown out to a little goatee on his chin.
‘The Hennessy party. Am I coming with you?’ He looked over with pleading eyes.
‘Oh, I should think so. You usually come to these things with me, don’t you?’ Romily was fond of Vincente but his childishness sometimes annoyed her. He was always pretending he was helpless, just a boy with no idea of the way the world worked. She was sure it concealed a much sharper mind than he was letting on. But he was a genial man and, for the most part, good company, and he was useful for accompanying her to these endless parties and events. She hated walking down that red carpet on her own, with the bulbs flashing and the people staring. It was much better to have Vincente to hang on to, to deflect some of the attention. And he did so love it.