The Untouchable (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

In the visitors’ underground parking area of the Saint Theodore Clinic,
Rosy walked back to the car and unlocked it. Of course they hadn’t let her in. Dallariva was a celebrity and she was a nothing. Only
approved
next-of-kin allowed, the no-nonsense receptionist had told her, in clipped, bossy tones, through the intercom. She hadn’t even breached the first line of defence.

“Well, hi.”

Rosy turned. Zavi wheeled out of the lift foyer and came toward her.

“Hello,” she said. “Have you seen him? They won’t let me in.”

“Yes. He’s a mess, but he’ll be fine. He’s fractured both arms, smashed his face, and concussed himself badly. After lying out in the rain all night he’s suffering from exposure, but otherwise he’s okay.”

“Oh, God.” Rosy held on to the roof of the car.

Zavi tilted his head in the direction of the lift. “You look like you need coffee. Come on.”

She shook her head. “They won’t let me in.”

“Leave it to me.”

She re-locked the car and followed him in a stupor of relief. He was going to be all right. Marco would be all right.

The deserted café looked like the minimalist cocktail bar of a luxury hotel rather than the canteen of a health institution. Rosy sat quickly in the first low leather chair she reached, right where her knees conked out. A waiter shot over from the coffee machine to move a chair, making space for Zavi’s wheelchair.

“A double espresso, please, and a cappuccino.” Zavi sounded a mile off through black dots swirling in her vision.

He studied her for a few moments before he spoke. “It’s good to see that Marco matters to someone, but why are you here? Why does this matter to you?”

“My fiancé, Luke, was killed on a motorbike. I hate them.”

“I’m sorry. When did it happen?”

“Four years ago. He broke his neck.”

“Was he killed outright?”

Rosy shook her head, frowning against tears, always close to the surface, always. “He was on life support for a few weeks until the specialists told us he would never be the same. His family took the decision to end it all.”

“Lucky guy.”

“How can you say that?”

“Well, it might just be me, but this is not ideal.” He pointed downward and rotated his forefinger in mid-air above his lap. “Women don’t go for this, much.”

“That’s not all there is to life.”

“It’s a big part. Quite how big I never realized, until I had to live without it. No one
wants
to live with a paraplegic, Rosy. Not with the respiratory and digestive problems, the bowel and bladder issues, never mind the sexual dysfunction. And what if he hadn’t been able to talk, or see, or hear? What would his quality of life have been?”

“I would have cared for him. I would have done anything for him.”

“Someone said that to me once.”

“I
would
have.” Tears surged.

“In the beginning, yes. But Luke wouldn’t have been the person he once was. Believe me, there are worse things than dying, Rosy.”

“So, it’s a good thing the man I loved,” she stumbled over the words, her voice rough, “the person I loved more than anyone, died. Is that what you’re saying?”

“In a way. A good thing for him, yes, especially with a broken neck and no hope of recovery. Be thankful he’s not lying in a clinic being kept alive against his will, too helpless to take his own life.”

“Have you...?” She stopped, wishing she’d never started.

“Yes. Be grateful he’s been set free.”

“I find it hard to live without him.”

“And if he had survived, disabled, he would find it hard to live without you. Think about him. Don’t be selfish.”

She looked away to the neat, venetian blinds that covered the wall of windows. After a while, she turned back to him. “You’re right. Thanks. You’ve helped me.”

“I didn’t do anything. You did, because you’re ready to move on. Luke’s free, and happy.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“Oh, but I can. I’m a Catholic. You have my word.” He grinned.

“It was all going to be so perfect.”

“Tell me about it.”

A month ago, a week ago, yesterday, Rosy would have wanted to fly at Zavi, scratch out his eyes scream and kick, but she sat back in her chair, restful, an unfamiliar stillness flowing through her. “I wouldn’t want what happened to Luke to happen to anyone. Not even my worst enemy.”

“That’s good news for Marco.”

She paused while the waiter brought their coffees. She didn’t want Marco to be an enemy, but they hadn’t exactly hit it off as best friends. “He’s not my worst enemy.” She dabbed at the cappuccino foam with a teaspoon.

Zavi sat back, smiling, green eyes naughty.

“What?”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“I...
no
. What on earth are you talking about?”

“You’re really worried about him.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

Before he could answer, a nurse arrived. “
Signor
Dallariva senior wants to talk to you.”

Zavi knocked back his espresso. “Go to the waiting area when you’ve finished that coffee,” he said to Rosy. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I only want to apologize. I’ll be five seconds.”

He raised his eyebrows, with a maddening half-smile. “Sure.” He turned to follow the nurse out of the room.

Five minutes later Rosy entered the waiting area, bright with vases of irises and modern art, only for the brisk reception nurse to bear down on her with a gimlet eye.

“I’m with Xavier,” Rosy said, fending her off.

She melted like ice in the sun. “Zavi! How is he? It’s too long since we’ve seen him.”

“Er, he’s very well.”

“Can I get you a coffee, a glass of water? Magazines? I’m Paola, by the way.” She tapped her name badge.

“I’m fine, thanks. Um, I’ll just wait here.” Rosy sank into a soft, square, grey leather armchair under the warm smile of a woman transformed. Clearly, Zavi’s charm had worked wonders. “Thank you,” she said again, and looked down, an impostor, digging for nothing in her bag.

The phone rang and Paola hurried off to the desk. Rosy sat back to wait. She’d been there ten minutes when the doors flew open and a six-foot, blonde, pregnant goddess, in cream leggings and off-the-shoulder cashmere pullover, swept into the room. Rosy noticed more tumbling blonde hair than she had ever seen collectively on the pages of
Elle
, fine cream leather boots bearing trademark red soles, and a mist of Dior ‘Poison’. The woman lifted her hair away from her neck with an exquisitely manicured hand, heavy with diamonds, and leaned across the desk to speak to Paola in an undertone.

Rosy turned her attention to the two men, both wearing dark suits, who followed the woman into the room. One she didn’t recognize. The other was Henri Albert, Frederick’s lawyer. He saw Rosy, replacing the flash of surprise in his eyes with polite recognition and a nod in her direction. Before she could respond, he turned away in the wake of the superb, cream woman. Paola herded them through a door labelled ‘Strictly Private’ leaving Rosy to ponder alone in the plush silence of the luxurious room.

Fifteen minutes later they left, sweeping back through the waiting area, deadpan and silent, not thanking Paola or saying goodbye.

“You can come now.” Paola beckoned Rosy and held the ‘Strictly Private’ door ajar. Rosy followed her along a broad, silent passage to a private ward. “In here,” she said. “Only ten minutes, see?”

“Yes.” Rosy stepped inside, terrified of what she was about to see.

Chapter Twelve

Just when Marco thought his day couldn’t get any worse, it did.

“Zavi,” he rasped.

“I’m here, Marco.”

“Have they gone?”

“They have, and now Rosy’s here.”

“Who?” He couldn’t see, had no idea who Rosy was. He could barely remember his own name. It was all he could do to remain conscious given the evil headache behind his eyes and the ghastly conflict between pain and pins and needles in his upper body, a conflict that pain was winning
—
had won
—
triumphant and victorious.

“Rosemary. Rosemary Hamilton. Frederick’s daughter.”

“Christ, not her.”

“She’s come to see you. Be nice.”

Marco heard footsteps.

“Hey, Zavi,” Rosy whispered.

“
Ciao
, again,” said Zavi.

“How is he?”

“Looks like hell, but he’s fine.”

Zavi?
Only Zavi’s closest family and friends called him that. Who did this woman think she was? Zavi in-fucking-deed. Marco listened to them talking in undertones, straining to make sense of what they said. He drifted, their voices fading in and out, and in. He frowned and stopped immediately it hurt so much. They were relaxed together, having fun, getting on, laughing and chatting softly, and it wasn’t about him. He didn’t like it one bit.

He floated away, like a boat that had lost its mooring. He shut them out, trying to work out what had happened, remembering his ride up to Apricale, how he’d parked the bike under the bare-branched trees in the public parking area and gone to buy a baguette at one of the local bakeries. Fresh baguette
jambon—
that was it, and a bottle of San Pellegrino. He’d sat on the old city wall, legs dangling over the sheer drop with his back to the town, drinking in the view, revelling in the rare incognito status he so seldom enjoyed, just a regular guy out for a ride on a winter’s day. At four p.m. he’d started back. The weather change had been abrupt. The wind came howling out of nowhere with frightening power, ramming blades of rain into the mountainside. He’d been looking for a place to pull off the road and wait out the storm when complete hell had broken loose. The road had literally moved and opened beneath him—an ugly gash, tearing the tarmac apart.

“Hey, buddy. Marco?”

“Huh?” he grunted, aware of voices.

“You’re sending that heart monitor crazy,” Zavi said. “Relax.”

She bent over him then. He could smell her. He was leaning through the window of her car, filling his lungs with that fresh, greenness again, gulping air like a drowning man until his chest burned with pain.

“Zavi, why’s he so agitated?” she asked.

“He’s Italian, and he’s on drugs. What do you expect?” That smile again in Zavi’s voice.

Oh, very funny. Very.

“Do you want some water, Marco?” she asked.

Ah, she’d remembered he was here, and God, water! He opened his mouth and she guided the plastic straw between his teeth, trickling sweet, cold liquid over his parched tongue. He swallowed with difficulty and she waited, patient, giving him more, drop by drop, when he was ready, while he listened to her breathe and smelled her.

“Okay?” she asked, when he’d had a few sips.

“Mmm.” No! Not okay. The annoying woman who’d broken into his property, knocked him off his bike—

“More?”

Yes, he wanted more, but turned his head away, white-hot pain shimmering up his shoulders into his neck.

A nurse’s voice from the door. “Everything all right?”

“Sure,” Zavi said.

“Two minutes,” she said.

Rosemary spoke again, her face close to his, her fragrance everywhere. “Ouch, Marco, your lips.”

He pressed his lips together, cracked, sore, and dry.

“Here,” she said. “I’ve got something for them. Keep still.”

He didn’t. He jerked as her finger dabbed his mouth, shooting agony to every point of his body. “Jesus,” he groaned, tears of pain stinging his eyes.

“Sorry. I said keep still.” She stroked his lips, soothing them with something soft and creamy.

Zavi laughed. “It’s a great colour,
bello
. Sure brings out the colour of your eyes. Red.”

“That’s not funny,” she said, but Marco could hear by the smile in her voice that she thought it was. “It’s no colour. Zavi’s being silly.”

How much worse could this day get? He’d been stuck full of needles and tubes, cut open, sewn up, jabbed, prodded, strapped in plaster, and drugged. Then there’d been the visitors. First his father, none too pleased that he’d had to charter an executive jet to get back to Nice, abandoning a sulky girlfriend in Bermuda. Then Terry, unable to hide his anxiety, followed by effing Lily and her divorce lawyer, and now this damn Rosemary woman.

He opened his eyes then, and looked at her. She was fuzzy. Fuzzy and smiling.

“Hi,” she said.

“What do you want?”

“I came to say sorry.”

“Say it then.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Zavi said. “
Ciao
, Marco, see you later.” He left the room, closing the door.

“I said stupid, awful things to you,” Rosy said, “and I wish I hadn’t. I apologize. I take them back. I’m sorry. And I’m really sad you’re hurt. That’s horrible.”

Well, he had a whole raft of stuff to say to her! He opened his mouth, but couldn’t make sentences. They tangled his brain in a string of vague, derailed
ideas. “You can go now,” he said.

“Did you hear what I said?”

He nodded. It hurt like hell.

“Did you, Marco? Do you accept my apology?”

“Go away.”

That fixed her. She gasped, like she’d had a fright, followed by a brisk rustle as she stood up, then a blur and a void. Good, she’d gone. He closed his eyes, more exhausted and empty than he’d ever been in his life, powerless to stop the tears that leaked from his eyes and ran down his temples into his hair.

***

Outside the ward, Rosy, shocked, sank into the first chair she came across in the wide corridor and put her shaking hands to her face.

God, Marco looked terrible.

When she’d walked into the ward she hadn’t recognized him. All she had identified was an unrecognizable, bruised, swollen face and a fallen, frail figure she’d understood was him
—
breathing, existing, but with all the life knocked out of him, all the energy and vitality gone. The passion that made him Marco had been ripped out, leaving a discarded husk on the hospital bed. If it hadn’t been for Zavi, sitting at his bedside, she would have gone back to the reception desk and told Paola she’d made a mistake.

The man in red and black leathers on the colossal motorbike, the icon who held millions of fans in his thrall, had vanished. Where was the big, blue-eyed Italian whose mere presence had her
—
face it
—
catching her breath? Flat on his back, that’s where, with both arms in plaster from armpit to fingertips, bent at the elbow, hanging from some overhead contraption. His fine, Roman nose
—
broken
—
was held in place by a metal splint stuck to his forehead and cheeks with broad strips of sticking plaster. His eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed, had swollen to slits, his lip stretched, glued where it had been badly cut. Worse, he’d suffered heavy concussion. Confused and fragile, he’d barely been able to communicate.

But she got the message.

After a while, steadying herself, Rosy got up and returned to the waiting area where she found Paola, about to go off duty, flirting with Zavi. He turned away from the desk to look at Rosy.

“How was he?” he asked.

“Hostile. However, you claim to be best friends, so there must be some good in the man.”

A shadow shuttered Zavi’s eyes. “He’s my friend, and protector. I owe him everything.”

An awkward silence followed. “Anyway,” she said, after a moment, “I did what I came to do. Now, I must go home.”

“Home?”

“To Frederick’s house to sort out some things, then back to London for Christmas. And you?”

“I’m off to London first thing tomorrow, on a shopping trip with my sisters.” He glanced at his watch.

“I can’t think of anything worse, shopping in London so close to Christmas.”

“It’s an annual excursion. I install myself in the champagne bar at Harrods while they pillage the store, floor by floor. Then we go and stay at the Ritz. Everyone’s happy.” Zavi said goodbye to Paola who’d been joined by a colleague, and moved to the door. “Are you coming?”

“I need the loo,” Rosy confessed. “So, have a good time, and happy Christmas.”

“And you.” He smiled.

“I hope I see you again, sometime.”

“Me too. Have fun.” He rolled out into the foyer, half-turning as he went through the door. “Take care.”

“And you.” Rosy went off to the ladies. Nice, that’s what Zavi was, even though she’d made a catty remark about his friend. Why couldn’t Marco take a page out of Zavi’s book?

When she came back, Paola and her assistant were leaning over a computer monitor, completing the handover procedure before Paola went home.

“Mr. Dallariva had seven visitors today. Dr. LeClerc says no more. The patient is distressed. Of course, as his wife, Mrs. Dallariva has priority at all times.”

Wife?
The shockwave hit Rosy in the guts.

“I bet she looked fabulous—” The younger woman glanced up and caught Rosy’s eye. “May I help you?”

“I was just leaving.”

Paola straightened up, smiling. “Will we be seeing you tomorrow?”

“No,” Rosy opened the door and fled.

Wife.
And pregnant too! Why had she assumed Marco wasn’t married? Because he was always alone? Because he had never mentioned being married all the times she had seen him? Which were exactly four
—
she added up on her fingers as the lift descended to the parking garage, and those times had hardly been of the relaxed, social variety. Anyway, did it really matter?

For some ridiculous reason it did. And it hurt.

Chapter Thirteen

By evening, Rosy had finally managed to connect her laptop to the internet in order to Skype Fiona. She’d taken her on a tour of the house, before settling by the fire in the study with a glass of wine, to relate the drama of Marco’s ordeal.

“That’s awful, Rosy. Thank God he’s all right.”

“I might stay here for Christmas, Fi.”

“Because of him?”

“No,” Rosy said, “not at all.”

“Don’t be crazy, you’ll be alone. And, anyway, we’re expecting you.”

“It seems silly to go all the way to London when I have to turn around and come back to clear up estate matters.”

“It’s only a two hour flight, and clear up what?”

“This house. I don’t know what to do with it. Sell it, rent it, sell the furniture, store the furniture. There’s so much stuff that needs sorting.”

“It’s a beautiful house. For God’s sake don’t rush to dispose of it.”

“That’s why I’m thinking I should take a little time out over Christmas to get organized and make plans around it. That way I can—”

“It’s him, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Rosy?”

“Oh, Fi,” Rosy couldn’t help laughing. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s Dallariva, isn’t it? You’re going to nurse him back to health.”

“Stop it.”

Fiona put down her glass, closed her eyes and spread her hands like a clairvoyant. “I can picture the scene. Dallariva lying in a coma, murmuring your name, and when he opens his eyes, there you are, the only person he
ever
wanted to see. ‘Never leave me,’ he begs, ‘oh perfect woman’.”

“Nonsense. Anyway, he’s married.”

“He is
not.
You like him.”

“Do not. I saw his wife this morning at the clinic. And, she’s pregnant.”