by Lulu Taylor
‘Because I need to make the necessary security arrangements. I’ll need to know the times of your flights, and how you intend to travel between them. I may need back-up if we are in very exposed areas. And what address will we be at in England? A hotel?’
Romily sighed wearily. ‘God, this is all such a bore. I can’t think why I have to put up with all this, no one is in the least interested in me. I’m staying in a private house – a flat in Notting Hill probably.’
‘I will need to examine it or send colleagues to check it out,’ Rocco insisted.
‘This is stupid! No one else knows where I’m going to be.’
‘Someone will know, believe me. I must insist, signora, or I’m not doing my job.’
Romily stared at him but could see by the stubborn set of his jawline that he was going to be obstinate about all this. ‘All right. As soon as I have the address, I’ll give it to you. Satisfied? Now go and enjoy some beers or whatever you like. Tomorrow, work begins again.’
Chapter 53
London
ALLEGRA INHALED THE scent of the ravishing peonies that sat in a Herend vase on her desk.
‘Those are beautiful,’ Tyra said admiringly, as she put the last things into her boss’s in-tray. ‘Are they from Mr Hutton?’
Allegra nodded happily. ‘Yes. It’s very generous of him.’ She tried to hide the flush creeping over her cheeks. ‘I’m meeting him tonight, actually. We’re dining at Colette’s.’
‘Yes, it’s in the diary and booked. Gennaro has reserved the usual table for you.’ Tyra picked up the new photograph frame that Allegra had put on her desk that day. ‘Oh, I haven’t seen this! Is it little Alex? He’s gorgeous!’
A fat-faced, blue-eyed baby gazed out of the photograph, his hair a blond fuzz and his smile giving him pouched cheeks. Allegra’s eyes softened as she looked at it. ‘Yes, isn’t he? He’s nearly three months old now and a total angel. The love of my life.’
‘Except for Mr Hutton,’ Tyra said mischievously. ‘I’m off home now, is that OK?’
‘Of course. See you tomorrow.’
When Tyra had left, Allegra spent a little longer going through some design specs that had come through for Astor House. The designer had given her two looks for the main drawing room, one casual and one formal, and she was trying to decide which one she liked the most. One idea she had been toying with was creating much more of a Colette’s feel at Astor House by painting the walls the same pumpkin yellow as the main bar of the club, and using the same jewel-coloured velvets and striped silks in the upholstery. But was that wasting an opportunity to do something new?
At eight o’clock she tore herself away from her work and got changed into one of the selection of evening dresses and accessories she kept in the wardrobe in her office. Tonight she selected a black Roberto Cavalli dress with a plunging V-neck and three-quarter-length sleeves, ruched just below the bust. The effect was subtle but very stylish. When she dined at either of the clubs she avoided her more attention-grabbing clothes, such as her favourite crazily coloured Matthew Williamson sequined mini-dresses. The look then had to be more discreet, to remind everyone that she was working when she was on the premises and not partying. Nevertheless she enjoyed dressing up and wanted to reflect the spirit of Colette’s, so she only wore the very best. She looked at her reflection in the glass, then added a turquoise and gold medallion necklace by Alex Monroe and slipped on her Christian Louboutin champagne satin slingback sandals.
She took one last turn in front of the mirror, satisfied. She was ready.
She left the offices and took the short walk into the square. The doormen were waiting as usual at the entrance, ready to scrutinise everyone who wanted to come into the club and to open the doors of the expensive cars that pulled up. They touched their dark blue caps as Allegra approached, and she said her usual good evening to them, passing a few minutes by asking after their families. Then she went downstairs. The club was still quite empty which gave her time to say hello to the staff and check on preparations for the evening. It all looked wonderful, as usual. Sinbad, in his dove-grey bar uniform, was keeping an eye on his two young assistants and checking on the liquor stocks in the recessed cupboards to each side of the bar, disguised as mirrors with Lalique clouded glass in scallop-edged surrounds.
She was chatting to him while he mixed a Colette’s cocktail for her, a delicious blend of vodka, Benedictine, dry Martini and lemon, when Gennaro, the club manager, came out of the restaurant looking upset.
‘Lady Allegra, may I have a word with you, please?’ he said quietly.
‘Of course, Gennaro. What is it?’
‘In private, please,’ he murmured.
They went through to the private dining room which was not being used that evening. It was a small but lavish room, dominated by a huge Sargent oil on one wall and by rows and rows of bottles on the other three. A large Baccarat crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and vintage Tiffany silver candelabra were arranged on the table beneath.
‘What’s wrong, Gennaro?’ Allegra asked, concerned. The manager was usually completely unflappable and capable. He understood the Colette’s way and managed the staff with a firm but fair hand.
‘It’s Mr Mac,’ Gennaro said, looking worried. ‘He came in here earlier, before we opened. He said he wanted to check that all was well but he was acting very strange … very angry with everyone. Well, he thought that the cutlery was dirty … but it wasn’t! I wouldn’t allow such a thing, Lady Allegra. He insisted that every fork and knife in the place was tarnished and insisted we begin to re-polish before we opened. So I sat down all the staff and we began to polish the cutlery on all the tables. He seemed happier then, and a few minutes later he left. So I stopped the polishing and sent everyone back to their usual jobs.’ He looked at her anxiously. ‘I thought I should let you know.’
‘Thank you, Gennaro. It was the right thing to do.’
The club manager went out and Allegra sat on a dining chair, thinking hard. This wasn’t the first instance of David acting erratically. It was worrying. He was still officially in control of the clubs even if she was the managing director. What he said, went. If his eye for perfection were finally deserting him … what then? What did that mean for the future of Colette’s, Oscar’s and Astor House?
She looked at her watch. Adam would be here any minute. She hurried back to the bar to be ready to greet him.
Allegra woke up with a small cry, reaching out for someone, trying to hold on as hard as she could. Her eyes were terrified and unseeing, her face and body clammy with panic, and she was breathless.
Under her urgent, grasping hands was a firm, solid arm. Next to her in the bed, the duvet rumpled over him, Adam lay staring at her, concerned, calming her down with his gentle voice, saying, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, it was just a dream. I’m here …’
She blinked at him, coming back to reality. It had been the usual dream: she’d been reliving those last few seconds of Sophie’s life, trying desperately this time to hold on to her, to alter the frightful outcome, but no matter how hard she tried, she never could. The cold horror of it was hard to shake off but she smiled weakly. ‘A nightmare,’ she explained.
‘I guessed.’ He looked worried. ‘Was it the same one?’
Allegra was wary. ‘How do you know?’
‘Just the way it always unfolds. You get so frantic, reaching out, trying to hold on.’
‘Do I say anything?’ she asked. So many years keeping my secret. It would be ironic if I gave it away in my sleep.
Adam stared at her for a long while, then he reached out for her and kissed her tenderly, wrapping her in his strong arms. ‘No,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘You never say anything. And you’re always safe with me, do you understand?’
She nodded, relaxing against the warm security of his body, feeling the fear flow out of her and away.
Chapter 54
IMOGEN SAW THE small brass plate on the office door, engraved with the words
‘David McCorquodale Group’.
Alex was strapped to her chest in a sling and she ran one hand over his small head in its soft woollen hat. It had been a lovely walk down from Regent’s Park, breathing in the autumn air and relishing being out and about. Motherhood had been a shock: she’d had no idea how far a baby would subsume her existence. Every hour of every day had been about Alex since the moment she’d arrived home: his feeding, his sleeping, his playing, gurgling and smiling. She was utterly in love with him, though, from his bright button eyes to his adorable curling little toes.
The strange thing was how much he resembled Xander. When Allegra played with Alex, the McCorquodale resemblance was so strong he could be her son rather than Imogen’s. Seeing those navy blue eyes and the expressions that reminded her so vividly of Xander was a bittersweet sensation: Alex brought Imogen great joy and comfort and was the most precious thing in her life. But she also recalled every day what she had lost, and what Xander had lost too.
Sometimes she stood over her baby’s cot, gazing down at him and saying softly, ‘Your daddy would have adored you, darling. It breaks my heart that he’s not here to love you like I do.’
The hole in both their lives where Xander should have been could never be filled. They would both miss him forever.
But I can do it on my own, she told herself resolutely. I’ve got lots of support. My parents dote on Alex. I can always turn to them to share all those special moments: the first birthday, first word, first step …
And she could turn to Allegra, of course. On the spur of the moment she had decided to call in at the club offices and say hello.
She pressed the doorbell and immediately an answering buzz and click told her the door was open. She went up the small staircase to where a friendly-faced girl was waiting for her at the top.
‘Hello, I’m Imogen, you must be Tyra.’
‘Yes, I am,’ she said. ‘And this little sweetheart must be Alex! Can I see him?’
They went into Tyra’s office where Imogen unstrapped Alex who blinked sleepily and then grinned at the women who cooed over him for a while.
‘He’s gorgeous!’ Tyra said, melting at the sight of him. ‘I’d love a little baby.’
‘Hmm. He’s gorgeous right now, but you might think differently at two in the morning,’ Imogen said with a smile. She looked about. ‘Is Allegra here?’
‘No.’ Tyra shook her head. ‘She’s gone down to Astor House for the next couple of days to oversee the work.’
Imogen groaned. ‘I’m an idiot! Of course she has. I completely forgot – she told me at breakfast. That’s what having a baby does to you, Tyra.’ She sighed and said to Alex, ‘Back home for us, wee man.’ She glanced back at Tyra. ‘Would you mind if I give him a feed first?’
‘Go right ahead. Use Allegra’s office, if you like. I’ll bring you some water.’
‘Thanks.’
Imogen settled down in Allegra’s chair and latched Alex on to her breast with a muslin at the ready to catch any spills, then sat back to enjoy the calming sensation of the baby suckling. Humming to herself and rocking gently, she fell into a dreamy state that was hardly surprising when she’d only managed four hours sleep the night before. Vaguely she was aware of hearing the door below open and then close. Then she realised there was someone standing in the doorway, staring at her.
‘Who the hell are you?’ barked a voice.
She jumped, startled, and Alex popped off her breast, leaving one milky nipple exposed. She realised it was David McCorquodale.
‘I said, who are you?’ he said again, in a querulous voice.
‘It’s me, Imogen.’ She was afraid. How stupid – it’s only David. There’s no reason to be scared. Perhaps he was confused by the sight of her breastfeeding. ‘I just came in to feed the baby.’
‘Imogen?’ He looked her up and down, frowning. ‘Who’s Imogen?’
‘Allegra’s friend … Alex’s mother …’ Her voice faded. How could he not recognise her? She’d seen him only recently when he’d come over to spoil Alex and give him a basketful of beautiful presents including an Asprey’s silver rattle.
His face cleared suddenly and he smiled. ‘Oh, yes, of course! Imogen! How are you? And how is that gorgeous great-nephew of mine? I just came in to drop off some papers. Now, I’m going to the club to talk to the manager. If you’ve finished there, would you like to come?’
‘Yes,’ she said, relieved that he seemed his normal self. ‘That would be lovely. I’ve not been in Colette’s for ages.’
Together they walked round the corner to the club, Alex back in his sling on Imogen’s chest. Inside it was buzzing with activity as the staff worked busily, clearing up from the night before and preparing for another.
‘Ah, here’s Gennaro!’ called David as the club manager approached them. ‘Have you met the lovely Imogen?’
An Italian man with grey-flecked black hair came forward, a smile on his face. He looked kind and capable. ‘No, I haven’t. How do you, madam?’
‘Imogen’s almost family, you know, Gennaro,’ David said. ‘Her little boy is my great-nephew.’
Gennaro looked down at Alex’s head and the tiny fist curled round Imogen’s finger. The baby had gone back to sleep after his feed. ‘How wonderful,’ he said tenderly. ‘I love little babies. I’m sure he’s beautiful.’
Imogen caught a glimpse of a young man leaving the bar behind Gennaro and going into the restaurant beyond. He looked familiar. How funny … do I know him? ‘Who’s that?’ she asked. ‘One of the waiters here already?’
Gennaro glanced over his shoulder and said, ‘Oh, no. My young nephew, visiting from Italy. He wants to see if he can get some DJ work in London and Mr Mac kindly said he can use the decks here and, if he’s any good, perhaps do a session.’
‘Yes, and now Mr Mac wants to have a word with you,’ said David impatiently. ‘Excuse us, Imogen. It was lovely to see you and Alex, but we must get on.’
‘I ought to get this one home,’ she said. ‘’Bye, David. It was lovely to see you. Come and visit us soon, won’t you?’
She walked across the square towards Oxford Street where she would pick up a bus to Regent’s Park, by far the quickest and easiest way to get home. She was standing on the edge of Oxford Circus, waiting to cross the road, when a large sleek car came past, crawling along in the flow of traffic. Imogen looked at it idly, wondering where such a smart vehicle was going. Then she glanced inside, and gasped.
She stood frozen as it drove past, unable to decide whether to wave or cry out. Then it was too late. The traffic cleared, the car gathered speed, and the next moment it had pulled smoothly away.
But Imogen knew without a doubt that the passenger sitting on the pale leather back seat, alone and elegant, was Romily.
Chapter 55
WHENEVER HE ENTERED one of his own restaurants or clubs, Mitch was reminded of Mr Panciello. When his old boss had come into the establishment there’d always been a frisson, a little rush of fear and excitement, and everybody had raised their game, whether they were likely to cross his path or not.
Mitch felt the same atmosphere now when he came into Alfred’s, his high-class Italian restaurant just off Piccadilly. There was a sense of bustle just out of sight as everyone made sure that things were looking right in case he happened to glance in their direction.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Tony, the maître d’, ‘everything is prepared for your lunch.’
‘Am I in the private room?’
‘Yes, sir, the small one, as you requested.’
‘OK. I’m gonna check that everything is perfect.’
‘Very well, sir. Let me lead the way.’
Mitch followed the back of Tony’s well-tailored suit as he led the way through the elegant main dining room, up some carpeted stairs and into a small hexagonal room built into the tower, designed by a previous eccentric owner of the building when it was still a private house. Mitch looked about.
‘That vase of flow
ers is wrong,’ he said brusquely. ‘It’s too small and stingy. I want something richer. Colette’s always has wonderful, generous arrangements, and certainly nothing with freesias in it. Change it.’
‘Absolutely,’ Tony said with a nod of the head, and gestured to a nervous waiter who removed the offending vase at once.
Mitch inspected the rest of the room which was set out carefully with the best china, cutlery and glassware. ‘Let’s hope this satisfies the old man,’ he muttered. Then he sat down to wait.
At precisely one p.m., David was shown into the private room. Mitch got to his feet, and welcomed him with a warm handshake.
‘It’s an honour to have you here, Mr McCorquodale. A great honour. You’re a pioneer in your field, a true master.’ He stood back so his guest could sit down.
‘Very sweet of you to say so, dear boy, if a trifle over-exaggerated. It’s true I did blaze a bit of a trail in my time but I’m sure I was only one of many who saw that our generation craved youthful vigour and not the stuffy old ways.’ David took his place at the table, his eagle eyes glancing quickly over it, taking in every detail.
The old man is quite a dandy, thought Mitch. David was dressed in lime-green corduroy trousers, a violet velvet jacket and a black and white checked shirt. On his feet were perfectly polished Gucci loafers.
Mitch joined him at the table. At once a waiter appeared to pour chilled water into their glasses. A second later he was back to offer four varieties of bread baked that morning in the restaurant kitchen.
‘Rosemary foccacia … how delicious,’ David said as he took some. ‘And I see you use proper sea salt. Very good. Who do you get your balsamic vinegar from?’
‘Er, I’m not absolutely sure,’ Mitch said, wishing he’d thought to check. It was always the tiny details that mattered most.
David dipped his bread in the oil and vinegar and said, ‘My particular favourite is from the Saggio family. They boil the grape juice in an open pot on a fire for well over a day, then age it in their vats. The best has been aged for fifty years. Giuseppe Saggio is only a little older than his choicest vinegar. Such fun, don’t you think? I love to go to Italy on my buying tours, sampling the best oils – my favourite thing is tasting the new pressing, so strong and peppery, over hot bruschetta. This one you’re serving is very good: dense and fruity. From Ornellaia, isn’t it?’