The Untouchable (23 page)

Chapter Forty-Two

Rosy placed three tubby, marzipan bumblebees on top of Felix’s birthday cake and stood back to evaluate. “Fi, I’m putting up the Closed sign. It’s gone five.” She took a step toward the door and stopped. “Oh my
God
,” she whispered, staring through the rain-spattered window into the street.

“What?” Fiona, busy with sandwiches, kept buttering.

Rosy flew to the back of the shop, hands in her hair. She crashed into the office and pulled out the band that held her ponytail. Grabbing a brush from her bag, she brushed and wound her hair furiously into a loose bun, put on lipstick and wiped away the smudges of mascara courtesy of three hours in a hot kitchen.

“
What
is up with you?” Fiona stood in the doorway, head on one side.

“Those two guys, parking in the disabled bay—”

“Sweetheart, you’re bright red! What’s going on?”

“It’s him.” Rosy pressed a hand to the bib of her apron. Her heart beat so fast it could whip a stiff meringue.

“Who?”

“Marco. Marco Dallariva. Go, go. Tell him we’re closed.”

“If we’re closed, why the fuss with the hair and lipstick?” Fiona winked.

“Go, Fi, pleeease.”

Fiona held up a hand. “Okay. Okay. I’ll go and see what he wants.”

“Fi—”

“Listen up, Rosy. You haven’t been you for the past while. Something’s missing. You didn’t want to answer questions, so I let it go. We’re best friends and I respect your privacy, I really do. But I know that whatever it is that’s bugging you has
everything
to do with that man out there.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “Him, and those baby pictures you look at every day on your phone. I know that, okay?”

Rosy nodded, unable to speak, afraid she might cry.

“Good,” Fiona said. “You drink some cold water and take deep breaths. I’m going to let him in, and you are going to talk to him. You are going to talk to him and say what you mean, and mean it.” She left. Rosy glanced at herself in the mirror. Not good. She looked at her hands, stained with a rainbow range of food colouring in spite of always wearing gloves. Too late to do anything about that, because the tinkle of the glass doorbells said Fiona had let him in. And then that deep, mellow voice that went straight to her knees.

“Hello. I have a friend in a wheelchair. Do you have another entrance?”

Rosy dragged in a last, dizzying deep breath and stepped out of the office while Fiona answered. “It’s around the side, where the van’s parked. I’ll go and unlock the door.”

Lucy, Fiona’s cousin, here to help with the birthday party, jumped up from where she’d been sitting with the children, cross-legged on the floor at a low table, icing small butterflies onto birthday biscuits. “I’ll go,” she said.

Rosy smoothed her apron and approached. Marco, shrugging out of his coat, looked up. She’d forgotten those eyes. Knockout. “Marco.” She smiled. “What a lovely surprise.”

He smiled back, and she’d forgotten that too. Knees wonky, she went forward. In the narrow area between the café tables and counter, with Fiona trapped against the cake display, looking on, they kissed twice, once on each cheek, Marco holding both Rosy’s hands in his.

Say what you mean.

“This is great. I-I’ve missed you.” Rosy’s voice caught.

Marco put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the mouth. “Me too. I missed you too.”

“Um,” Fiona said.

“Oh…” Rosy stepped backwards. “Fiona, this is Marco. Marco, this is my best friend, Fiona.”

They shook hands. Rosy turned to the little table where the two children, industrious, took no notice of anything apart from icing themselves, mainly around the mouths. “And these little cherubs,” she said, “are Fiona’s two, Felix and Mary. Felix turns three today, that’s why we closed early, for his birthday party. It’s just us, because all his friends have chicken pox.”

“I see.”

Zavi arrived, led by Lucy, followed by Charlie bearing champagne, and there was a flurry of introductions. Those over, Mary yelled a joyous “Daddy!”,
lost her balance and fell forward onto the table crushing Felix’s green sponge and blue icing cupcake masterpiece and knocking over his juice. Felix bellowed, Mary burst into tears, Lucy went running for a roll of paper towel, and Fiona, with the authority of a hardened UN peacekeeper, sailed into the uproar to broker harmony.

The atmosphere de-charged, allowing Rosy to relax a little. She turned to Marco. “How’s Leo?”

Marco smiled, taking his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll show you.” Heads together, they studied at the photos Mel had sent.

“Oh he’s beautiful. Please send me those pictures,” Rosy pleaded. “He’s changed so much.”

“Mel says he’s smiling. I will see for myself tomorrow, at home.”

Rosy’s heart went under, but she smiled anyway. “Just a short visit to London, then?”

“This time, yes.” He admired around the room, the chandeliers, the painted woodwork, French mirrors, marble-topped tables and assorted chairs. “This is beautiful. And the building is old. It can’t be Tudor, because it’s not at all poky or awkward.”

“Um, no. It’s Victorian.” She glanced at Zavi, aware he was watching. He smiled but avoided her eye, clearly trying not to laugh. Puzzled, she looked at Marco, his poker face giving away nothing. “We were lucky to get these two premises side by side.” She pointed over Marco’s shoulder. “And, although the building’s listed, we got permission to knock through at the back and put in a long kitchen across both properties.”

“Will you show me around?”

Say what you mean.
“I’d love to.”

Rosy took him on a guided tour of the kitchen, introducing him to the apprentice pastry chef and two assistants, packing up to go home. She showed him the cold room, pantry, and store.

“What’s that?” Marco pointed to a layered red sponge cake, iced with white butter frosting, as, tour over, they walked back through the kitchen to the café.

“That’s red velvet.”

“Very sexy,” he said.

“Would you like some?”

“Please. I missed lunch.”

She cut a slice, put it on a plate, found a cake fork and gave it to him.

“Mmm.” He tasted, watching her. “Beautiful. The best.”

Their eyes held. “I-I should probably go back to the others,” Rosy said, after a moment.

Marco inclined his head. “After you.”

She led the way, stopping and pushing open the office door as she passed. “This is the office where Fi and I can have a little privacy.”

“Can we go in?”

“Sure.” Did he want to talk business? Had he come to talk about buying Frederick’s house? That whole issue had stalled, thanks to Henri Albert’s lack of cooperation. No matter how many times she called him, he fobbed her off.

Marco followed her in, closed the door, and put the cake plate on the desk. In the darkness, save for the glow of her computer monitor, he stepped toward her and took her in his arms. “I have a question,” he said, while she stood, arms at her sides, shivering with shock though her nerves crackled.

“What?” she whispered.

“English is not my mother tongue, so I have a technical problem with the language.”

His English was beautifully, over-correct
—
just one of the thousands of things that made him so sexy. “Your English is brilliant, Marco—”

“There is this saying ‘falling in love’, and then the other one ‘fallen in love’. What is the difference?”

Rosy swallowed the catch in her throat. “
Falling
in love is the process. It’s happening. ‘Fallen’ means it’s happened.”

“Then that is what I mean. I have fallen in love with you. It’s happened. Finished. I love you.”

She put her arms around him, resting her forehead on his chest. “I love you back. I love you.” Tears shook her voice but she held them back, because he stunned her with an astounding kiss that shot white heat to every cell in her body. She could feel his love in her nail beds, her eyelids and behind her knees.

Everywhere.

“I love someone else, too,” she murmured against his lips.

“I will kill him.”

She laughed. “It’s Leo. I love him so much I could explode.”

He laughed with her. “My heart is happy.” He kissed her again.

“Rosy?” A voice behind the door sprang them apart. “Champagne’s open. Are you coming?”

“Just a minute.”

Marco pushed a hand through his hair. “This won’t be easy, because—”

“One of us will have to change our lives completely,” they said, together.

His eyes widened. “You have been thinking about it? You have been thinking about me?”

“All the time. Every second, and the time in between.”

“Me too.” Marco opened the door and they went out into the bright light.

“I am so sorry,” he said to Fiona and Charlie. “We have gate-crashed your party.

“The more the merrier.” Charlie handed out champagne. “Happy birthday, Felix,” he toasted. “Welcome everybody.”

“I big!” Felix proclaimed, and ate another biscuit.

Marco turned to Rosy. They touched glasses. She smiled up at him. He put an arm around her shoulders and glanced at Zavi, involved in a joint project dominated by Mary, who had politely, if loudly, asked Lucy to move out of her way so she and Zavi could Smartie-stud a small pink and chocolate cookie.

“Typical Zavi,” Marco said, “mobbed by women.”

“He looks happy.” Rosy leaned against Marco, her shoulder fitting perfectly under his arm.

“Look, Rosy and man, look at my pretty cake.” Mary held up the cookie for approval.

Fiona, brushing past
en route
to the kitchen squeezed Rosy’s hand while Marco’s attention was diverted.

***

“Looks like you got things done,” Zavi said to Marco, as they drove along King’s Road in light traffic.

Marco nodded, thoughtful. “Thanks for coming,” he said, indicating, turning right, heading south to the Chelsea Embankment. “I owe you.”

“You do. There’s a good Italian, a real Italian modern, a few blocks from the apartment, open until late, big wine list. Expensive. You can take me there now. Consider it a down payment.”

Marco smiled. “Okay.”

“Did you notice the other woman?”

“Hmm? Not really.”

“There were six of us in an empty café, and two children. How hard could it be?”

Marco thought. “There was Fiona, Rosemary’s business partner; her husband and, er—”

“Lucy, Fiona’s cousin. She’s a dress designer.”

“She is?” Marco had a vague recollection of a long, loose pullover that looked like its wearer had knitted it with sticks she found in the garden. He couldn’t recall the colour. He could recall the wide sash of Rosemary’s clean pink and white striped apron, fitted to her slender waist, tied in a huge, hasty, crooked bow behind her. How she’d slipped her hands into the big, pink and white polka dot pockets and laughed, delighted as he savoured her red velvet cake. And how warm she’d felt, tucked into his side where she belonged, while they’d stood together sipping champagne and smiling at the children. How she’d smelled of the lavender and chocolate éclairs she’d proudly shown him in the kitchen. The smudge of red food colouring on her neck.

Zavi nodded. “Yep. Just graduated. Amazing hair.”

“Really? Good.” Was it good? What was going on here? What about Eleni? She and Zavi were supposed to be back together.

“I guess, Marco, you were blinded by the stars in your eyes.”

“How’s Eleni? Will she be joining us tonight?”

“No. She’s on a shoot in Casablanca.”

“Everything okay?”

“Mm.”

“Can I tell you something, Zavi? Something I would only tell you, as a good friend?”

“Sure.” Zavi, serious, turned his head to look at Marco.

“It’s hard for me to say this.”

“I understand.”

Marco grinned. “You,” he said, without taking his eyes off the road, “have pink icing in your groin. It looks pretty dodgy.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Rosy, torn, had spent the entire Saturday on the phone to Marco, and talking face-to-face with Fiona, trying to see a way forward. Come Sunday, the discussion remained wide open.

“The way I see it there’s only one thing to do.” Fiona put two mugs of coffee on the table and sat in the chair opposite Rosy. The quiet, rainy Sunday morning dulled the windows of the bright café. People hadn’t ventured out, and thanks to Frederick, it didn’t matter. Profits were healthy. Rosy and Fiona no longer had to look at each browsing customer as a make-or-break option where end-of-month figures were concerned. You had to spend money to make money, as the saying went and here, in these high-ceilinged rooms, was the proof that it worked.

“And what is that?” Rosy asked.

“You have to live with him. If you’re going to give this new relationship a chance, you have to be with him. You told me that’s what he wants, more than anything.”

“But he doesn’t live anywhere for most of the year. He uses that big house in France as a base, but he’s hardly there.”

“He has a child now. Won’t that change him?”

“Eventually I suppose Leo will be one of the factors that’ll make him retire. Maybe.”

“Then, for now, you have to travel with him.”

“But I’d have to give up...everything.”

“Charlie says guys like Marco work flat-out during a championship, both on the technical and business sides of their sport. And then there’s all kinds of charity work as well. And the whole training and fitness aspect. They earn massive money but they have to work damn hard for it. Races take part all over the world: Malaysia, Japan, America, everywhere in Europe and the season lasts eight months at least. If you consider
that
, can you really see him popping back to London all the time?”

“I can’t see how else it’ll work.”

“Sweetheart, he won’t have
time—
”

“There’s also the age difference thing. I’m five years older than him.”

“Four, and I didn’t notice it bothering him on Friday evening. He was utterly intoxicated, and I’m not talking champagne.”

Rosy grinned. “You make me laugh!”

“It’s not funny, it’s true,” she said, smiling, “but there
is
one other thing—”

A couple pushed open the door, hung their coats, scarves and umbrellas on the rack and settled with their newspapers at a table in the far corner. Lindy, a pretty Moroccan student who worked Sundays, came out of the kitchen at the tinkle of glass bells, to take their orders.

Fiona lowered her voice. “Think very carefully before you answer this, and be honest, at least to yourself. You’ve told me everything about Marco and his baby son and all the circumstances surrounding that issue.”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“So, would you,” she spoke slowly, “love Marco as much, if baby Leo didn’t exist?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

“You’re absolutely sure of that?”

Rosy nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re not using Marco as a vehicle to channel your maternal instincts?”

“No.”

“Good, then back to my point. No matter how much he loves you, he won’t survive if you’re indefinitely apart. Marco is one gorgeous man, he’s highly eligible and he wants
you
. Go get him.”

Or someone else will
. The words hung, unspoken, between them.

Rosy looked around the café. “After all we’ve done here, Fi, after all we’ve achieved, just as we’ve got going with the boost of Frederick
s
’s money, I chuck it all in. How does that make sense?”

“You don’t have to chuck it all in. You can still be creative director like you are now. But you don’t have to be here, in these rooms, in this kitchen, to create, design, or experiment. We can do all that online, talk to each other every day.”

“This is where I live. I don’t want to be away from here.”

“What? Ever? Are you going to carry on doing this until you’re seventy years old, right here, in this spot?”

“Probably not, but for now, it’s everything I’ve dreamed of. Besides, I don’t want to let you down.”

“Don’t be mad. You won’t be letting me down.”

“I would, and...and just as I’m just feeling confident about life again. Like I can go on living and—”

Fiona leaned across the table. “Marco’s a big part of that. You’re being adored by an awesome man, of course it’s going to boost your confidence.”

“I’m not a motorbike fan, and you know why. I’ve tried to watch him, I really have, and he’s explained over and over that it’s safe, but it’s not. They have huge crashes and, sometimes...” Rosy gazed at the wet window, frowning, “...sometimes, I think—I know—they get killed.”

“Sweetheart, everyone gets killed, every day, right here in London, doing ordinary things. It’s a bloody miracle Charlie hasn’t gone under a bus the way he jaywalks. All Marco does is go around and around a track in a static environment, very, very fast. It’s safer than crossing this road.” She pointed to the zebra-crossing outside the shop, at the wet tarmac, jumping with raindrops under the orb of a Belisha beacon, winking orange in the grey light.

“Look,” Fiona went on, “you can dip in and out of Red Velvet, but you can’t dip in and out of Marco, as it were. You have to be with him. It’s what people who love each other do.”

“I-I can’t commit to that.”

“Think about it, please, Rosy. This is important. Do it. Be with Marco.”

Rosy shook her head. “I don’t think I can do it, Fi. I really don’t think I can.”