The Untouchable (28 page)

Chapter Fifty-Three

“Would you mind if I went home next week?” Rosy asked.

Marco, intent on his laptop screen, raised his head slowly. “Home?”

“Just for the weekend. It’s my birthday.”

“I am racing next weekend.”

“I know.”

He watched her, his eyes dark. She looked back, steady, and saw them change.

“No,” he said, kind but firm. “You must stay. I want you here.” He turned his attention back at the laptop, shutting her out.

She had been so sure he would say yes, sure that he’d be glad for her to get away, to re-charge and re-group. She waited a moment, knowing he
—
lost in the day’s records of performance data
—
wouldn’t look at her again. She wouldn’t argue, and he didn’t need the distraction.

***

“Happy Birthday.” Valerie pushed open the door of the motorhome minutes after Marco left. “How’s your day been so far?” She planted a businesslike kiss on Rosy’s cheek and handed her a bottle of champagne.

Rosy could hardly regale her with succulent details of the best pre-dawn sex
ever
, in bed, then in the shower, then back in bed, so she smiled and said, “Nice. Thank you.”

“What’s the plan?” Valerie asked, like she didn’t know everything.

“Marco told me to dress for dinner, to be ready as soon as he’s finished practice this afternoon.” Rosy inspected Valerie’s inscrutable face, finding no clues.

Valerie nodded, looking around the flower-filled living room. “Good. You do that,” she said, and left.

Marco, session over, came home to shower.

“Where are we going?” Rosy asked, when he had finished. “Should I wear stockings?”

He ran a damp hand up her thigh, under her dress. “No.” His hand roamed between her legs.

“You said we were late.”

The hand travelled to her bottom, squeezed it and pulled her close. They kissed, Marco’s towel dropping to the floor. “Happy birthday,” he murmured into her mouth. “Happy birthday. You will enjoy it, I promise.”

“Mmm, feels like it.” She laughed, pressing against his hardness. “Shouldn’t you put that away for now?”

Marco, elaborately sighing his reluctance, got dressed. There followed a short ride to the racetrack helipad, where a small, shiny black helicopter waited. The pilot took off, swung west and flew a breath-taking hundred and twenty miles to the red roofs, green domes and silver shimmer of the wide Vltava River streaming under the graceful arches of the old bridges of Prague.

“Where are we going?” Rosy asked, as they waited in the helicopter for the rotors to stop completely, so her hair didn’t get messy.

“The most beautiful hotel in Prague, where there is a Michelin restaurant. I am sorry it is such an ordinary thing to do, but I have no time to organize anything else. And no imagination, you know that.”

“It sounds like huge fun.” Any time spent away from the paddock was fun, but she could hardly tell Marco that. “I’m going to love it. I’ve never been to Prague. It looked absolutely beautiful from the air.”

The pilot got out and held the door. Marco, taking Rosy by the hand, led her to a black limousine parked on the runway.

“Do you fancy a Cosmopolitan?”
he asked, when they were on their way, poking about in a small cabinet set in the polished walnut interior.

“Are you joking?”

“No.” He produced a cocktail shaker and two glasses, and poured, handing her one. “Happy birthday, beautiful.”

In the heart of the old city, the driver pulled up under the pillared portico of a small, perfectly proportioned, neo-classical building. “The Hotel the Duke of Bohemia, Sir.”

“This is your gift,” Marco said, arm around Rosy’s shoulders, as they waited for the lift in the foyer, on a vast round silk carpet overhung by a million square crystals of a colossal art deco chandelier.

“I can’t wait,” Rosy answered. “I’m starving.”

“I didn’t mean dinner.”

“Oh?”

They got into the lift with a white-gloved operator. “The Starlight Terrace, Sir?”

“Thank you.”

Rosy watched her reflection in the mirrored walls. Dozens of her, side on, identical, infinite, looking for all the world like every second in her life up to now, and every second beyond, way, way into the future. First the mirrored lift of the Hotel Imperiale, now The Duke of Bohemia. Would this be life with Marco? The hellfire of motorbike racing interspersed with expensive surprises, meals in elegant privacy reached by chartered helicopter and mirrored lifts?

The doors slid open and they stepped into an airy lobby with a domed conservatory that revealed the pink and orange glory of the sunset sky.

“I’ll just pop to the ladies room,” she said, touching her hair.

“But you look perfect.”

“Are you sure?” Rosy glanced down at the red silk Fendi dress that Fiona had told her, all those months ago, would be so useful.

“Never more so.” He kissed her on the lips. His eyes, dark, heavy with desire, told her he spoke the truth. “If there were a thicker carpet,” he murmured, “you’d be in trouble right now.”

They drew apart while a waiter passed with a trolley, bearing a generous oval ice bucket holding a selection of several bottles of vintage champagne.

“Come,” said Marco. “Let’s go in.” He took her hand. “Remember you asked to go to London for your birthday and I said no?”

“It doesn’t matter, Marco, because this is just perfect—” She stopped, shocked. Her hand jerked out of his and flew, trembling, to her cheek.

“Marco?” she whispered.

He stood a few feet away, watching her face, smiling at her. “Happy birthday, my darling.”

Rosy’s mother, Eve, eyes teary, hair done, wearing a green dress scattered with silver sequins, stood with her husband, Bill, also smiling, a bemused fisherman who’d been plucked off the rocks, scrubbed, and inserted into jacket and tie. Fiona, clutching a champagne glass in her fist, eyes bright, looking a million dollars in vintage white Laura Ashley,
and Charlie, grinning from ear to ear, standing behind his wife, hands on her shoulders.

Rosy shrieked, ran forward, blinded by happy tears.

“What? How? When?” she babbled, hugging her mother fiercely, kissing Bill
several times until he went pink, crying when she got to Fiona and Charlie. “I had no idea, I had no idea,” she said, over and over.

Marco stood apart, holding the handbag she had dropped in the stampede, his eyes never leaving her.

Rosy needed the ladies to fix her hair and makeup, ruined after all the crying, and had to visit Felix and Mary, upstairs in a luxury suite, being cared for by a professional babysitter.

“Who Charlie is so going to kidnap, by the way,” Fiona said, with a laugh. “God, it’s good to see you, Rosy. You can’t imagine how much we’ve all missed you.”

“How did this happen?” Rosy sat on the bed, cuddling a sleepy Felix. Mary, red curls spread on the pillow, lay on her back, fast asleep, a pink teddy Rosy had given her pressed to her cheek.

“That dynamo PA of Marco’s rang on Tuesday, to ask if we could make it. Not taking no for an answer. All expenses paid, down to the babysitter. And we’re coming to the race tomorrow. Charlie almost died of joy when he heard that!”

“I’m so glad.” Rosy buried her face in Felix’s neck. Life, suddenly, with these indispensable, precious people around her,
seemed liveable again.

***

“How do you cope with the racing, Rosy?” Eve asked, in a private moment, when the men had left the room to smoke cigars on the terrace.

“It’s the most exciting thing in the world,” Rosy heard herself say. “I love it.” It was becoming true, if she pushed Hans into the shadows, just for tonight.

Eve took her hand. “You’ve come a long way in that case, darling.”

“I have.” Rosy meant it. “I have, haven’t I?”

“He’s a lovely man, but he doesn’t say much.”

Rosy hesitated. “Who are you talking about, your husband or my boyfriend?”

Eve laughed, raising her eyebrows. “
Touché
, darling, but you get my point.”

“Marco’s uncomfortable anywhere except crouched over the red hot fuel tank on a two hundred and fifty horsepower bomb, that’s all there is to it. But I love him and I’m going to make a go of it. I am.”

“Good girl.” Eve turned to smile at Fiona, who’d just returned, full of admiration for the murals and gilding she’d discovered in the ladies washroom.

Later, when Fiona turned away to speak to Marco, Rosy said, to her mother, “I’ve been reading Frederick’s journal.”

“Anything interesting?” she asked, without much interest.

“No. It’s a page-a-day record of his life. Some impressions of trips he took to the USA and Russia, in search of inspiration in the old days before the Internet, and some writing ‘how to’. No titbits yet. Nothing worth publishing.”

“Good.” Eve smiled. “In a way.”

“Are you expecting something to pop up?”

“No, and you shouldn’t either.”

“Why didn’t he love us?”

“He did, but at a distance. He was a man loved by people. People he didn’t love back in a conventional way. Everyone wanted to be like him, to be with him, to have a piece of him. But he lived for one thing, his writing. He existed in a sole dimension, insulated, perfectly nurtured by his work. It’s all he had time for. An unusual man. It’s impossible to understand, though we’ve been over it so many times.”

“He didn’t want children.”

“No,” Eve agreed, patient. “But I did, and he let me have you.”

Let. Rosy swallowed the hurt. Frederick would not spoil her evening. “Was there ever a woman, after you? Women?”

“One, in much later life, after we divorced, I think. I hope so, for his sake. Maybe you’ll come across her.”

“I’ll let you know. Are you coming to the race tomorrow?”

“Sadly, no. We leave for the airport at six in the morning. It was a precondition to Marco’s hugely kind arrangement. Bill
has a tunny-fishing excursion booked out of San Diego. It’s the highlight of the trip.”

The evening rushed by. Marco, as usual, needed an early night.

Dessert arrived, a stunning creation of white meringue, ice cream, and macaroons, iced with white flowers and ‘Happy Birthday Rosy’ in Fiona’s trademark calligraphy.

“Fi! Are you telling me you did this?”

“I flew in with the components this morning. Nerve wracking. I’ve been in the hotel kitchen all afternoon getting it set up.”

Rosy, speechless, looked from Fiona to Marco. Marco, who’d eaten almost nothing, smiled at her, and glanced at his watch. He leaned forward. “I don’t want to rush you,
cara
, but the helicopter is waiting.”

“Just a few more minutes, please.”

Fiona’s eyes caught Rosy’s. “You see?” they said. “You see? Your life is grand, Rosy. Your boyfriend is the man.”

***

“I’d like another birthday present from you,” Rosy said, much later that night, drowsy, lying in Marco’s arms, in bed.

“Anything, princess.”

“Ride at the back tomorrow, right at the back, where you’ll be safe.”

“I promise.”

Wide awake, she lifted her head and stared at him in the half-dark. “You promise?”

He laughed.

He came second. After the celebrations, after the mist of champagne had settled on the crowd, after the trophies had been awarded, the interviews and press conference completed, after Fi and Charlie had been whizzed off to the airport, once the grandstands were deserted, the vast parking area for cars and bikes empty, the paddock quiet, Marco and Rosy walked to the motorhome, hand in hand in the dark.

“You promised me you’d keep safe and ride at the back.”

Marco chuckled. “I did.”

“You so did
not
.”

“I did. Second
is
at the back. Would I lie to you?”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Silverstone. Reliably wet. Huddled in the motorhome while the cold English rain beat on the skylight, Rosy coughed and sneezed her way through a full-on splashy cold. Cross with her nose, glowing like a beacon and running like Niagara Falls, she sat up in bed, wrapped herself in the duvet, and flicked through the TV channels. The motorsport channel showed the Moto GP Friday afternoon practice cancelled due to rain.

“Huh,” she snorted, switching off, throwing the control into the bedding. Fancy having to turn on the TV to see what your boyfriend was up to! In truth, Marco had been scarce, sleeping in Zavi’s motorhome to avoid her germs. Rosy couldn’t blame him. The championship was on a knife-edge, with Bobby Savage and Roman West a few points behind Marco. Marco led, and if he could win here, he’d be just that much further ahead. And if he found the rhythm everyone talked about so much, he could push forward, maintain his lead. Rosy contemplated the blank window, silvered by raindrops. It was imperative that Marco should win this Sunday at Silverstone and he couldn’t do that with pneumonia.

She’d stay closeted in here with her thrilling secret. No longer alone, she hugged herself, put the palm of her hand on her stomach. God knew how it had happened but it had. The paddock doctor had confirmed it when she’d gone to see him earlier in the day, at Valerie’s insistence. He’d asked, before prescribing medication for her cold, if she was one hundred percent sure she wasn’t pregnant.

“Well, I’m on birth control,” she’d said. And, she’d just had her period, the third blissfully light one in a row.

“We’d better do a test in that case.” He’d grinned. “Bear with me, because nothing is one hundred percent effective apart from abstinence. Anyway, a pregnancy test makes a nice change from broken collarbones and torn ligaments.”

She’d laughed, done the test, and got the shock of her life. “It can’t be true,” she said, over and over, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“Congratulations,” the doctor said, “to both of you.”

A short examination had revealed she was quite far along, more than fourteen weeks.

Fourteen weeks!

With Marco so crucially positioned in the championship, she’d have to pick her moment. She’d wait until after the race on Sunday. There was a two-week break before he raced at Indianapolis. That would, should, give him enough time to grow accustomed to the idea.

“Go home,” the doctor told her. “Go to bed and stay there. You can’t take any drugs so tough it out.”

Rosy dashed ‘home’, back to the trailer, her cold forgotten. What would Marco say? She shook her umbrella, ducked inside and, making sure the door was properly closed, shrieked her joy to the ceiling.

“Yay! Whoopeeeee!” she yelled. Then, breathless with excitement, she felt her tummy. Impossible. Her heart rate was way up. Exhilaration beat a tattoo on every pulse point in her body. “Poor little baby. I’m sorry,” she murmured, and got undressed and climbed into bed.

Eyes closed, she focussed her thoughts on Marco. Would he be overjoyed, or...

No. I didn’t want,
don’t want
, children. It wouldn’t fit into my lifestyle. I’m a racer who lives on a racetrack God knows where in the world for eight months of the year. How would children fit into that scenario?

Would he be furious?

No.

No, he absolutely wouldn’t be furious. They loved each other madly, deeply. Surely he—

Had she made a ghastly mistake? No! There had been no mistake. She had taken precautions although he had stopped. Fact: the pregnancy had happened, precautions or no.

Leo had progressed swiftly from unwanted to loved. He had changed Marco. Would this baby do the same? Marco
would
be delighted. In any case, whatever happened,
whatever,
she would keep this baby. Marco wasn’t heartless, but if a precious child drove a wedge between them, so be it. She had all the means in the world to give a child the best start in life, and she was mature enough to go it alone.

Alone? Why did her thoughts veer in that direction? This new baby would be Leo’s half-brother. She, Rosy, would be related to Leo via this baby. Fresh excitement, joy and love poured through her. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them, ecstatic.

She got out of bed, turned up the heating on the panel in the control box in the kitchen, and made herself a cup of tea. Back in the bedroom, needing something to do, she opened the deep drawer under the bed and pulled out the carrier bag of Frederick’s notes. Three-quarters through, she had thus far found nothing more than a straightforward record of his life, and she wanted to get finished. Difficult, because there was little emotion and if Rosy was looking for a glimmer of empathy, she found none, found herself discounting entries like:
I realized very early in life that I am not parent material, not marriage material, although that did not stop me from marrying as I approached old age, and having a child. I never engaged. The sentimental hoo-hah that descends on a household when a baby arrives bewilders me. I have no interest in such stuff. On the one occasion I wrote a child into a story, I had to buy a baby care book for research purposes.

Nothing new there, then, but it explained the presence of the Miriam Stoppard book that had been so useful when Leo arrived out of the blue. Should she even bother to read on? She did.
In my beloved house in France, I found peace, at last. Here I could write, write, write, without the domestic fetters I had suffered in London. I feel no guilt estranging myself from my family. They are well provided for, have plenty of money and always will. I have bought my freedom. Now I can change people’s lives. What will fate deliver, I ask?

“Blegh!” Rosy flung the page hard across the room. It fluttered upwards and floated down onto her face. “Odious man!” She sneezed, blew her nose on the hundredth tissue. But, Frederick had changed her life, and there was no getting away from that. If—and putting the disgusting head cold aside for one minute—it hadn’t been for Frederick’s abandonment of her and her mother, she wouldn’t be sitting right here, right now, in Marco Dallariva’s bed. Dark and light. Yin and yang.

Marco Dallariva, gorgeous, irresistible, sexy. She loved him; he loved her. Rosy lay back in the pillows and read on. Perhaps, in these last pages, as old age stalked, Frederick would show a softer side. He didn’t. She finished reading. The pages ran out, the last one dated some five years earlier. Had he given up? Unusual for a prolific, methodical, best-selling writer to not finish the journal of his life, albeit a secondary task. Rosy thought for a minute. Of course, the rest would be on computer—in the files she’d had transferred to her own computer when Frederick’s had been cleaned. She’d received them, but never opened them. She got up, fetched her laptop and took it back to bed.

With Frederick’s files open, sure enough, among workaday bits and pieces, she found the journal, taken up digitally on the day after he’d stopped writing it on paper, the day he’d finally joined the modern world. She read on, half-dozing, but sitting bolt upright, when at long, long last, at the very end, the word
love
jumped off the screen like a prize.

In conclusion,
have I ever been in love? My mellow old age and encroaching ill health have perhaps made me soft, but yes. The answer is YES. Who can explain these things? God? For I cannot. She was a local beauty who lived close. Someone I knew for years and years. To say she was beautiful is not enough, for she was beauty itself and all around her was, is beautiful. My greatest joy is that we have a beloved son. A blue eyed, dark haired son who is utterly cherished. Again, I am not much of a father, never made a good husband, but, now that this lad is an adult, has achieved success beyond his, my, anyone’s wildest dreams, we have much in common. When he returns to St Michel we share precious times.

The words fell over themselves in Rosy’s fevered brain. Curiosity overcame the instant rush of jealousy. Where was this woman now? She had a step brother! Where, who, were they?

That was all. That was it. Rosy searched the files for more but found nothing. That was the last entry, dated only weeks before Frederick’s death. She had to be content with that conclusion, such as it was. She read it over, frowning, blinking, her emotions in uproar, the truth beating on her brain, even though she pushed it, hurled it, away.

Was Frederick talking about Marco?

Marco looked absolutely nothing like his own father. Luciano had confirmed that the first time they’d met him, when he’d come to visit Leo. And, she had a strong feeling that Luciano and Frederick hadn’t been bosom-buddies. “My wife and he were friends,” Luciano had said, referring to Diana and Frederick. “She came to his dinner parties. I did not.”

Why? Did Luciano dislike Frederick, suspect something between the two of them? Did he know?

Marco himself had not been complimentary about his father’s marital fidelity. “He prefers women, girls, less than half his age,” he’d said, when they were looking at Diana’s portrait in the storage unit near Nice.

It couldn’t be true. The instability of her agitated mind had sent her imagination off on a wild tangent. Hands shaking, she scrolled to the top of the excerpt and read it again. The woman Frederick spoke about could only be Diana Dallariva, and the baby, Marco.

Could it?

She got up, brushed her teeth, washed her face and got dressed, not entirely sure why she was doing these things. She made the bed and got out a small holdall, packing a change of clothes, basic toiletries and her laptop. She would go to London, she supposed—because she didn’t know what else to do—and feel her way forward.

Only one option existed in the circumstances: the truth.