The Untouchable (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

By that afternoon, Rosy had her phone.

“Delivery from
Signor
Dallariva,” said the bulky guard who was the brother of Dallariva’s driver. “It is secure line.”

“Thank you.”

“You want to go out?”

“Not now, but yes, tomorrow, if the weather’s okay.”

“What time?”

“Nine a.m.”

“Good. I knock at five to.”

Rosy closed the door, her thoughts interrupted by Leo’s wails. Having overslept his feed, he vented his objection at full volume.

Later, dying to call Fiona, something stopped her. Instead, she texted that she had a new number—had thought it more sensible, and economic, to fix herself up with a French mobile.

Sounds like you’re staying
? came the reply.

Not for long
, she answered.

Let me know? Charlie built website for kiddies’ ski school in Romania & now wants to go and try it out en famille. They’ll give us great deal so really want 2 go. Looking @ last week Jan. XXX

Sounds fab! Will let you know v soon. XXX

Rosy went upstairs to the nursery. “This is Fiona’s subtle way of telling me I need to come back to London and carry my fair share of responsibility,” she informed the fast-asleep Leo. She looked around the room. Although called ‘the nursery’, it couldn’t be called a baby’s room by even the longest stretch of the imagination. The neat, spotless changing mat gave sole evidence to the tiny occupant. There wasn’t even a teddy bear, or mobile of sparkly blue baby aeroplanes above the cot, or starter set of Beatrice Potter books, or tinkle of a wind-up soft toy.

She peeped into the cot. “I’m going to change this, Leo,” she said to his tightly closed eyelids. “I’ll make you the best baby room in France.”

He snuffled and sucked in his bottom lip.

She left the room, finding pen and paper to make a list. Ten minutes later, on her bed, with a cup of tea on the bedside table, and all the doors open so she could hear Leo if he cried, she began.

Mobile, books, teddy,

New curtains & paint walls

Rug & pictures.

Night light

Her new phone rang. “Rosy, it’s me, Fi. Can we chat?”

“Sure.”

“Everything okay? Is it a bad time? You sound—”

“No, no, it’s okay, really.”

“What are you doing?”

Rosy sat back in her chair. What
was
she doing? Playing a dangerous game, that’s what. She had to go back to London. Soon. She had a business and a home there. Frederick’s house wasn’t her home, and Marco’s baby wasn’t her business. She existed in limbo, playing with unreality.

“I’ll be back first week of January, Fi. I’m just about to book a flight. There’s a load to discuss. I’m excited.”

“You don’t sound excited.”

“I am,” she lied, and then, to throw Fi off the scent, she said, “and there’s something really important we need to discuss. Frederick left me money, as you know. I want to put more into the business.”

“But you’ve already paid off the loan.”

“There’s loads of money. I want to buy the premises we’re in, and expand. Open a second outlet. Buy that Victorian shop we viewed recently. What do you think?”

A moment passed before Fiona’s “
Wow,
” exploded down the line. “I don’t know what to think!” she shrieked. “That’s amaaaazing! I…what...how—”

“Think about it. I’ll let you know when I’m coming home. Definitely sometime next week. Promise.”

“Can I get the Red Velvet website upgraded as an urgent priority? Add all that stuff about you being a qualified pastry chef and finalist in The Great British Bakeoff?”

“I suppose—”

“And we need new photos. I’ll get a pro friend of Charlie’s over for a quote, if that’s okay?”

Leo let rip with a piercing yell—his big, painful, trapped-wind yell.

“Fi, I must dash—”

“God, what
is
that?”

“Um,” Rosy scrambled off the bed. “A cat. The cat. There’s a huge cat. Was Marc...was Frederick’s. A Maine coon—”

“What? What are you talking about? That’s no cat, it’s a—”

“Bye!” She rang off, and ran to Leo. For the rest of the day, instead of cuddling him at every squeak or snuffle, she kept busy drawing up a new business plan for Red Velvet to discuss with Fi. Leo, tranquil, lay on the bed beside her, studying the pattern on the pillowcase beneath the silky sweep of his gorgeous lashes.

“I love you,” she told him, over and over, “but you’re not mine, and I need to be very
very
careful.”

Before she went to bed that night, she booked a flight to London and tore up the nursery list. Leo would never live here, with her. In fact, very soon, she’d have to dig deep and find the strength to say goodbye to him.

***

A colossal, black Mercedes 600 and something with dark windows was not, in Rosy’s view, the way to go about unnoticed.

“Can’t we go in the Peugeot?” she asked, when the security guard
—
the one who’d brought the new phone the previous evening
—
arrived on the doorstep.

“Is not bullets proof.” He scanned the drive with shaded eyes, whipped open the back door of the car and clipped the baby seat containing Leo, into place.

“Wha—”

“In. Quick.” He held the door.

“
Bullets
? What bullets?” With the lightest pressure in the small of her back, he moved her into the car and shut the door. How did he
do
that? In the following split second, he slid into the driver’s seat and a low click told her he’d locked all the doors.

“Honestly, this is ridiculous.” The interior of the car was as quiet as a cathedral—one that smelt of leather—sealed off from the outside like a luxury submarine.

“Mr. Dallariva prefer. He is very wealthy, so I must protect his family.”

“Yes, but—”

“I am Calev, Miss Hamilton.

Rosy heaved a sigh and gave in. “Where are you from, er, Calev?”

“I am used to be Israeli Army special forces. Now I work in security. Also my brother, Chaim. Seatbelt please.”

“Look, I hope you haven’t got a gun, because I don’t wish to be in the presence of guns, especially not with a baby!”

“You not worry about gun. Look at beautiful sunshine.”

Rosy sat back and did as she was told, holding hands with Leo, who gripped her thumb with his fingers.

You couldn’t make it up.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Look, I am a free man,” Marco said, when he walked through the door, two days after his scheduled return, raising his arms and letting them fall. Calev stood in the background, obscured by a bouquet of astonishingly large and beautiful red roses in a crystal vase the size of a fire hydrant.

“How wonderful.” Rosy kept her hands behind her back, to stop herself hurtling into those same arms. She’d missed him like crazy, but only knew that now, seeing him in her hallway. Had she made the biggest mistake of her life, turning down Marco Dallariva?

Of course not.
Marco was an attractive, virile, fit man, all the more so now that he’d recovered, now that his confidence hid his vulnerability. She would naturally feel drawn, as did a billion other people in the world.

“Yes.” He stepped aside for Calev to come inside. “Here is a thank you.”

“What magnificent roses.” She guided Calev into the seldom-used dining room, where the table was big enough for his burden. When he’d gone and she’d finished tweaking the stems, back turned to Marco to hide her confusion, she said, “When do you get back on your bike?”

“Tomorrow.”

“That’s...very soon.”

“I go to Malaysia next week.”

“Malaysia?”

“We do pre-season speed and performance tests at Sepang.”

“What about Leo?”

“I’m not really sure what to
do
with Leo, but I know he needs the best care possible. So, I bought Mel out of her contract in Cannes. She will be Leo’s
au pair
from now.”

“What about Ricky?”

“I’ve organized him a physiotherapy job with one of the racing teams.”

“He must be thrilled. And...are you going to stay, live, here?”

“Yes,” he smiled. “In my house. Pietro has his building team busy there now.”

Rosy’s heart plunged as it had soared. “What about the furniture?”

“It’s coming this evening.”

She gazed at the roses and swallowed hard. “How nice that everything’s worked out.”

“Yes. Thank you again for your part in that. I must go.”

And he did.

Late that afternoon, Ricky arrived in Marco’s Range Rover to say goodbye and fetch his stuff and what little stuff of Marco’s remained in the house. He brought Mel to pack Leo’s things. Rosy held Leo in her arms while Mel emptied the cupboard of clothes, nappies, and baby products. Ricky collapsed the cot, folded the pram and loaded them into the car. Mel fitted the car seat while Rosy stood in the hall, hugging Leo gently, murmuring her love.

Their cuddles were short-lived. Mel took Leo from her, put him in the car seat and closed the door.

“Bye!” Rosy called. “Be a good boy, Leo!”

They drove away into the cold dark, Rosy waving madly like she was relieved, like the best plan in the world had just fallen into place.

She shut the front door. “I. Will. Not. Cry,” she whispered to the back of it. “I mustn’t. I can’t. I won’t.”

One person, lately scarce, made it evident that the new situation pleased him.

“Captain Whiskers!” Rosy cried, hearing his familiar pat on the back door as soon as she entered the kitchen in search of wine. She let him in. He sat in front of the fridge, looking pointedly at the handle.

After a good meal, he let her run a comb through his not quite perfect fur only shooting one or two cross looks as she snagged on knots. He’d hated Leo, arch interloper, and had disappeared in a full-blown sulk shortly after Leo arrived, only returning to the back door for sporadic, large meals.

“Just you and me now, kitty,” Rosy said, combing. “Abandoned.”

The cat suffered her for five minutes, and then slid off to commandeer the sofa in front of the study fire.

From outside came the rumble of a heavy vehicle. Turning on the floodlights she looked through a window and saw Calev directing a small flatbed truck through the gate, with extreme care.

When she opened the window to ask what was going on, he pointed at the crate containing Marco’s Indian.

“We come to fetch box,” he called.

They loaded, the driver under severe instruction from Calev to be careful, particularly of her gates.

“Thank you,” he said, when they had finished, passing her the gate control. “I go now. Goodbye.”

She leaned on the windowsill and gazed at the spot where the crate had stood. How bizarre that it should look so forlorn.

Back on the fringe of life, the place she’d been for the last four years, Rosy acknowledged a few simple facts. She belonged in London, and she loved working at Red Velvet. Also, it was time to move on.

***

Lydia arrived for work the next morning as arranged, and after a swift exchange of news asked Rosy if she felt all right.

“I’m fine, but I didn’t sleep too well.”

“Why?”

“I want to sell the house. I know it’s not what we discussed. I know I said I wouldn’t be in a hurry, but I think it’s the best thing to do.”

“Are you selling to Marco?”

“Him, yes, or anybody, if he’s changed his mind and doesn’t want it anymore.”

“You are sure?” Lydia stared at Rosy, one hand at her throat.

“As sure as I’ll ever be.”

“What about
Il Capitano
?”

“I’ll make the best decision possible for him. I owe that, at least, to Frederick. I’m sorry, Lydia.”

Lydia touched Rosy’s arm. “Don’t be. There is much work at Villa Diana. Marco has offered me a full-time job there, so, as soon as you have gone, so will I go.”

Rosy nodded, fighting stupid tears. With no more to say, she went into the study to call Henri Albert.
Il Capitano
, sensing disruption, left the house. He squeezed himself through the hedge in the kitchen garden and waddled his way through the wild grass beneath the olive trees lining the path to the river.

She turned from the window to answer the phone. Frederick’s publisher asking, in the politest possible way, if she had come across any unpublished manuscripts since his death, and if she had
—
or did, at any time in the future
—
would she be kind enough to contact them. There was only one place to look. Lydia had mentioned there were papers to go through in Frederick’s private workspace. Rosy went upstairs, bin bag in hand, walking through his bedroom and into the bathroom, past the lacquered screen to the desk under the window. She looked out.
Il Capitano’s
tail was still visible, like a furry flag, aloft in the grass. Rosy watched it disappear, and then turned to the desk to go through the drawers.

Il Capitano
had made his decision and stuck to it. He was going to live with Marco.

The desk didn’t contain much apart from the expected. Pens, pencils, print cartridges, a stapler. There was no laptop. That had gone into Henri Albert’s care as soon as Frederick died. It had been cleaned and the files transferred to Rosy. She had yet to look at them.

In the double volume bottom drawer she found a manuscript of sorts—hundreds of loose pages and scraps of paper. She sorted through the top few: handwritten notes, scribbles and doodles, some typed pages, all, it appeared on first inspection, meticulously dated. She sat on the floor and arranged the pile. More and more stuff came out of the drawer—a lifetime of ideas scattered around her on the tiles. She surveyed the array of paper, all sizes, all colours, a map of Frederick’s life, jotted on notepaper, old till slips, the back of a shopping list, a postcard of Marseilles, a Christmas card. She imagined him sitting at his desk every morning, scribbling a page of journal, and throwing it into the drawer before settling down to the day’s writing. Had he planned to publish an autobiography? There was one way to find out. She’d have to give it proper attention; it was only fair. She got up and fetched a roomy carrier bag from the kitchen. Should she just send everything to the publisher? Hardly a good idea if there was personal information in the tattered bits and pieces that had come forth.

Back at the desk, she placed everything in the bag, stuffed it into a holdall and put it with the rest of her packing. She’d go through the lot when she had time. Who knew? An autobiography of the famous Frederick Hamilton might sell extremely well, if there were juicy bits. She could donate the spoils to charity.