The Untouchable (31 page)

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Marco, on the grid, straddled his bike, balance perfect, body forward, eyes on the straight section of track before him, registering his path through the four bikes ahead. Costa, in pole position, always made a good start but fell back in the first lap. Slow and steady, though. Tortoise and hare. He’d have to be watched. Savage, second, hung onto his position like a pit bull, the master of blocking. Third position
on the grid, a rookie Japanese rider, bonus. He could be pushed wide in the first corner. Savage would do that work if Marco nudged him. Roman West, surprise surprise, had come only fourth in the qualifiers. He was on Marco’s left, but wouldn’t necessarily have the advantage into the first corner. Work that disadvantage. Work it. He lifted his eyes, watching the red lights, waiting for them to go out, hot fear crackling in his veins with an acid tributary of pure adrenalin. Alone, closed in his helmet, ears plugged, he had only sensation and vision and, that vital extension of his nervous system, the bike. He waited for the seconds to evaporate, waited to pop the clutch and launch.

***

“And they’re off! Here we are, folks, in the sixth round of the season and oh my goodness, here comes Dallariva, the scorpion, remember, that stinging scorpion of the year before last’s season. Here he is in the first corner, two places ahead of where he started. Is that young man in a hurry? He’s left Nakatsuka…Oh my! Nagatsuka made a
right Horlicks
of that corner, Tony. Roman West benefitted from that! He’s left Nagatsuka in his wake. It’s early days, twenty laps to go on this tight, twisty circuit, not one of Dallariva’s favourites I might mention, but—”

“Holy guacamole! Dallariva’s attempted a pass there that cannot be upheld as an example of sensible riding, Liam!”

“Dallariva and sensible? In one sentence?”

“He’s through! Superb! Awesome! Whatever you say, it’s good clean racing, Tony.”

“Not so! Savage has taken him straight back with a bit of a bump. But Dallariva’s had great drive out of that corner! This race will go to the wire, Liam.”

***

Savage. Noise in the system. Marco hung about in his slipstream, working the tow until Savage, in the sixth lap, made a tiny mistake, out-breaking himself by a fraction in a hairpin. Marco shot past, compact, determined, one hundred percent in the moment, bulleting through the corners in lap two, three, four, five...

Fast.

And there, in lap sixteen, finally, right in front of him, Roman West, ripe for the picking.

Faster.

A little cat and mouse with West should set up things nicely. Marco stormed him from behind, sniffed, joined by Miguel Costa for five laps, a valiant effort, a possible threat. The fans went wild. To them, it seemed a game, so play it. Three laps from the end, Marco crouched for the kill. Game over. Manning up, he rolled on the power, rode away from Costa to hunt down West. He’d enjoyed the mild tussle. A taster. It had loosened him, primed him. Time to rock and roll. His bike would do it all on the straight. On lap twenty, he pounced.

Fastest.

***

“Boom boom, shake the room, Tony! Dallariva’s in the house.”

“That he is, Liam! Although, there’s less flair and mostly doggedness today.”

“Nevertheless a
crystal clear
message to his rivals,
don’t
mess with me.”

“And he’s done it! Marco Dallariva wins the British Grand Prix, followed in second place by Roman West, with Miguel Costae a somewhat distant third.”

“This man, this
true champion
, has defied all odds. It’s a long time since we’ve seen something like this on the Grand Prix circuit. Not only is this his first real comeback race since that serious off-season accident, but remember he is considered
too heavy
for this sport, and
in addition
he started back in fifth place, and with sheer guts and determination, rode the wheels off that bike and snatched victory from West.”

***

Marco exploded across the finish line, the chequered flag a billowed blur in the corner of his eye. He rode the victory lap, right hand raised in a salute to his fans, roaring from the grandstands in a sea of fluttering red and black.

Afterwards, penned in, in
parc fermé
, Marco had to shout into the microphone to be heard. “I was in a hurry,” he said to an interviewer. “I have important business in London this evening and I mustn’t be late.” He looked over the man’s head, his eyes moving back and forth, searching the crowd. Then he looked back into the camera lens and pointed.

“
Rosamaria
,” he mouthed.

Chapter Sixty

“There’s a Mr. Dallariva to see you, inquiring whether may he come up to your room.”

“Um, well…” Rosy had thought to meet Marco in the discreet bar off the foyer, where, under the watchful eye of the well-dressed, she’d be forced to be discreet herself.

“He’s on his way up, Miss Hamilton.”

“Okay.” She replaced the handset.

The doorbell rang, a subtle blend of classical music and church bells. Rosy opened the door. Marco stood on the threshold, huge bouquet of crimson roses in one hand and a bottle of Dom Perignon in the other.

“Hello, Marco.”

He came forward to kiss her but she turned her cheek. Taking the roses, exclaiming over them to buy time, she took them to the bathroom, filled one of the marble basins with water and put them in to soak.

Deep breath, normal voice. “I watched the race.” She walked back into the bedroom. “You were amazing.”

“Wait until tonight.” He sat on the bed, and patted it. “Then, you will see amazing.” He stood up, coming to her, arms outstretched. “
Cara
?”

She moved away. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“Ah,
bella
, I was so busy. Okay, and angry and hurt. I am sorry. I will read them all and answer them tonight.”

“I was worried.”

“You? What about me? I had to get through the weekend without you. It was a fight.”

“You didn’t need me. You don’t need me.”

“What do you mean? Of course I need you. I need you for everything.”

“There’s something I must tell you. We have to talk.

“First I have a question. I will talk. Please allow me. Come here and kiss me first.”

“
No
.”

“Remember what we discussed about one of us having to change our lives?”

“Marco—”

“We assumed, if we began a relationship, one of us would have to change our life completely, and I was wrong to assume it would be you. It should be me.”

“But you love your life!”

“Some of it, yes, but some of it is wrong. Leo growing up without parents, you spending too much time alone, always worrying.” He jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. “Me. I’m the one who should change.”

“No.” Rosy shook her head, firm. “I couldn’t bear it. You mustn’t.”

“Listen to me.”

“Listen to
me
. I’m not coming with you to Chicago tomorrow.”

He dropped his arms. “Why?”

“I’ve got some business to attend to. I need to see Henri Albert, maybe Zavi—”

“Zavi?”

“Um, yes. He…he might like to come over and visit Leo.”

“That is kind.” He frowned.

She looked down, unable to meet his eyes.

“But,” Marco went on, “Zavi hurt his shoulder at the gym. It’s affected his mobility as you can imagine. He’s stuck at home feeling sorry for himself. I should go and see him. He could probably use some help. I’ll come with you.”

“But you have to go to Chicago.”

He shrugged. “I’ll change my flight. We’ll go later in the week. In any case, I want you with me.” He took out his phone. “I’ll call Valerie now.”

“Wait. Before you change your plans, let me finish.”
Backed against the window, she faced him. “It’s awkward. Just hear me out.”

Not listening, Marco, coming toward her, stopped short and stared.

“What?” she asked.

He smiled, head on one side, eyes on her chest. “Are your breasts bigger?”

“No.” She folded her arms.

“They are.” The smile turned to a grin. He came closer, pointing. “I have spent time studying and touching these. They are bigger.”

“Fi said the same thing. I think you’re both telling me I’m getting fat.” She smiled, worried that she grimaced, sidestepping the hand reaching for her.

“Okay. Tell me what you want to tell me,” he said, wandering off to the champagne. He picked up the bottle and peeled off the black foil. “And then I have a question to ask you. After that we will have dinner and go to bed. I am tired, but I want to make love to you, properly, for a long time.” He twisted the wires and eased the cork until it gave way with a soft pop. “Unless you want to do that now, and talk later.”

“No,” she murmured, sick.

He poured a glass of champagne and brought it to her, but she moved away, to the sofas, putting the table between them. She picked up the sheet of paper from Frederick’s journal, and handed it to him. “Read that,” she said.

Marco put down the glass, and scanned the page. “What is this?”

“It’s an extract from Frederick’s journal. Read it properly.”

She waited. Marco took his time, smiling as he got to the end. “So, Frederick had someone special in his life after all.” He handed the page back to Rosy.

“Do you know anything about her?”

He thought for a moment. “No.”

“I think Frederick might be referring to your mother.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m concerned that Frederick and your mother had an affair. I’m worried the child Frederick refers to is you. Who else could it be? Is there any other explan—”

“Are you crazy?”

She swallowed her fear. “No, I’m not, but we have to be sure. Look at this.”

She handed him the photo of Frederick and Diana. Marco’s face softened.

“I took this, with my first camera, on my ninth birthday.

“Where was your father? Why isn’t he in the picture?”

“He was standing behind me, giving instructions. My parents took me to the little camera shop that used to be in Saint Michel. When we came out, we bumped into Frederick. My parents joined him for coffee while I went around the marketplace taking photos.” He tossed the photo onto the coffee table. “It’s just a picture taken by a little boy of two good looking people.”

“It’s intimate.”

“They were posing. The camera caught a brief second of happiness between friends, that’s all. Photos don’t reveal emotions and secrets, Rosemary.”

“I’m not convinced

“I am. What you suggest is not possible.”

“But…how do you know?”

“I do. Trust me.”

“No.”

Slowly, he walked to the fireplace, resting his hands on the mantelpiece. Head down, he spoke in a quiet voice. “My parents had the perfect marriage. They were the envy of everyone they knew and met. They were deeply in love. Utterly faithful.”

“I know it’s difficult to believe they—”

“I don’t like what you infer!” He turned on her, hurt, shock and anger rising in his eyes.

“Marco, you told me your father has girlfriends, young women of your age. You
told
me that—”

“
After
my mother died.” Marco threw his hands in the air. “He was mad with grief, he—”

“He what? Comforted himself with a string of girls? How touching!”

“
What are you saying
?” Marco shouted. “That my father
and
my mother had affairs? Are you mad?”

“Maybe they did. Maybe she did. Can we at least stick to the point?”

With a supreme effort, Marco controlled himself. “What
is
the point?”

“The point is, we need to take DNA tests, to be one hundred percent certain that we aren’t related.”

He crossed the room and stood at the window, gazing onto the treetops of the park. “I suppose I could ask my father if she was unfaithful,” he said eventually, his voice loaded with reluctance.

“It’s not good enough. Don’t you see? She may not necessarily have told him. Maybe he never knew. The only people who would know are Diana and Frederick, and they’re both dead.”

“So, my mother is a lying, cheating,
whore
?

“I didn’t say that.”

He turned on her, his face gaunt with a mixture of confusion and distress. Then he spoke, his voice flat and cold. “I have a job to do. The American season starts tomorrow and I have a championship to win. I am going to Chicago. Are you joining me?”

“Please, Marco, don’t you see that DNA tests are the only way to—”

He strode across the room, picked up his bag and wrenched open the door.

She went after him. “Marco, I love you. I will always love you. Please,
please
, listen. I must go to France tomorrow. I must sort this out, see if I can—”

He swung to face her, his face hard. “Do not start rumours about my parents.”

“I’m not doing that!”

“Goodbye, Rosemary.” He stepped out of the room.

“No. Please. Wait.”

The door closed. Rosy stood, stuck to the spot, terrified. Why wouldn’t he listen?

Grabbing the room key she went after him. Too impatient to wait for the lifts, way up on the tenth floor, she raced down the stairs to the empty foyer.

“Excuse me,” she said, to the receptionist. “Did you see my guest, Mr. Dallariva?”

“No, ma’am. No one has entered or left the hotel since he arrived. We’re quiet tonight.” She smiled.

“Oh.” Puzzled, Rosy walked to the door, put her hand on the glass and peered out into the dark drizzle, but there was nothing to see.

Back in her room, distraught, she sat on the bed for a long time, thinking about what had happened. Surely, Marco would reconsider? Of course he was upset. She cringed at the way she’d handled the situation. She’d known he’d be distressed, had known she’d have to be ultra-sensitive, but she’d failed. At least he was still in the hotel, somewhere. She’d get into bed and wait for him to come back.

Because he would come back, she knew he would.