The Untouchable (8 page)

Fiona opened her eyes. “That’s not what I read on the gossip websites. You’re coming home for Christmas, and that’s final. Book your flight now.”

“Well, I saw her with my own eyes, rushing to his bedside. There. Subject closed.”

Nevertheless, subject closed or not, the second she terminated the Skype conversation and before she opened the airline website, Rosy Googled Marco Dallariva. There were pages and pages of articles on him
—
heavy with rumour
—
around two main themes: his extraordinary talent and his inability to smile, considering his massive earnings and the stunning British supermodel on his arm. And was he, or wasn’t he
—
married? One newspaper site said yes, one said he was separated, one said divorce was imminent and others showed photos of a second honeymoon in Venice, earlier that year. Social sites showed them at events with entirely different partners. Apart from that, there was nothing about Marco’s personal life, no details, only reports on his superhuman effort to win this year’s world championship. His failure to do so gave Rosy a small rush of pleasure, tinged with only the slightest dab of sympathy. He was human, after all.

Lily Richards Dallariva on the other hand, had extensive, impressive coverage. Dozens of top quality photos could be found on any fashion or celebrity events’ website. She appeared everywhere, attended everything, from the Oscars to garden parties at Buckingham Palace. In many of the pictures, Marco lurked in the background, standing to one side so she could claim the limelight, or walking a couple of paces behind, like she was royalty.

And, though he was billed as one of the richest sportsmen in history and, in more than one case, the sexiest man alive, he
—
breathtakingly handsome, it had to be said
—
rarely smiled, never laughed. In fact, Rosy realized, the only shots that showed him smiling were the grainy ones where he’d been papped, alone. Didn’t he want to be with his wife? Odd. Nothing, bar stolen private moments, animated the brooding features of Marco Dallariva.

Rosy closed the laptop, thinking of him, roaring with laughter at her defense of the Indian princess a few days previously. She smiled, and then laughed at herself. It
had
been funny and she’d recovered from her sulk. As for the crate, it remained in place, blocking access to the garage.

She got up and placed the fireguard across the hearth. Switching off lights, she walked into the study and picked the photo of Dallariva off the desk.

“Are you a winner or a loser?” she asked, almost jumping out of her shoes as someone assaulted the front door with what sounded like a battering ram. She shoved the photo into the pocket of her cardigan and went into the hall, glancing through the window to see a short man pacing angrily on the doorstep. She opened the door.

“Good evening,
Monsieur
.”

He let rip with a barrage of French, all of which sounded like insults and swearing to Rosy who hadn’t studied the language since GCSEs. He waved his arms and shouted, spittle flying, and all she caught were random yelled words here and there, like
bête!
then
volé le lapin!
followed by
desastre
and
la deuxieme fois
and something about Frederick
jamais, jamais, JAMAIS
. He flung his hands in the air and stormed off, giving her no time to understand or apologize, if required.

Rosy watched him mutter his way through the open gates. She didn’t want to live in a fortress, but perhaps she should keep them closed from now on, to avoid a replay of that unpleasantness. What had he been on about? All she understood was that
some beast had stolen a rabbit for the second time and it was a disaster. This, apparently, had never,
never
, happened in Frederick’s time. But, maybe, with her hopeless grasp of French, she’d got it wrong. She’d ask Lydia in the morning. She locked the front door, checked the gate had closed, and went upstairs to bed. Getting undressed, she found Dallariva’s photo in her pocket.

“You poor, sad man.” She lifted the photograph to her lips and kissed the glass. “
Arrividerci
, Dallariva. Have a great life.” She dumped the photo on the bedside table and went to shower.

***

Marco lay on his back in the dark ward and stared at the ceiling. He’d been here three days. Or was it four? Or was it longer? There was no talk of him being discharged. When he asked about being released, doctors and nurses alike clicked their tongues, shook their heads and said the same thing.

“In about two weeks, maybe. Let’s see how things go.”

As far as he was concerned, things were going fine. All his tubes and pipes and drips had been removed and he’d been up and about. He could walk halfway down the corridor without fainting or having to sit down. Apart from not being able to use his arms or hands, he was okay. Perfect. And if this had been the height of the racing season, and not December, he would have been out of here already and back on the bike within two weeks. Terry, the team and their sponsors would expect nothing less. To hell with two weeks!

He heaved himself into a sitting position, stomach muscles objecting. That wasn’t good, to be losing fitness already. He sat on the edge of the bed for a while before he stood and steadied himself against the dizziness. After a few minutes, he left the ward and walked into the passage, to reception and back again, several times, ignoring the night nurses as they prowled about, managing illness, injury, and death. One of them came to help him pee, and put him back to bed. Why were nurses always thrilled when you did something totally normal like pee, or spit, or cough?

“Wonderful!” she said, grinning like a clown. “Brilliant!”

Christ. He couldn’t stand it a second longer.

Chapter Fourteen

Early the next morning, armed with a to-do list, Rosy started on the study. If
—
and it was a big if
—
she stayed here, she’d want to make this space hers, and if she decided to sell, well, it had to be cleared out anyway. Two hours into the job, Lydia arrived, late, and cross.

“I have been lambasted by
Monsieur
Tatou.”

“What happened?”

“Frederick’s cat stole his grandson’s rabbit.”

Rosy’s hands flew to her cheeks. “That’s awful!”

“Don’t worry too much. It was already dead. The first rabbit shot by Tatou’s grandson this hunting season.
Madame
Tatou was preparing it for the pot when, whssst, she turned her back and it disappeared.” Lydia clicked her fingers in the air.

“How do they know it was Frederick’s cat? I don’t even know what he looks like. I’ve never seen him.”

“Everyone knows that creature. He wanders miles from home helping himself. He’s wild.”

“Well, so was the rabbit.” Rosy shrugged. “Somehow I don’t feel bad.”

Lydia muttered off to bash about in the kitchen. Rosy felt guilty. She was supposed to look after the cat. Frederick had specified that in his will. Maybe, if they could lure the cat home, she could take him to animal welfare. She wasn’t crazy about cats so it would be kinder if he was re-homed. She wrote ‘cat’ on her list and carried on.

By noon she had finished the study. The bookshelves had been rearranged. Frederick’s eclectic collection, from
The Odyssey of Homer
to Miriam Stoppard’s
Complete Baby and Child Care
—
why he had a copy of that was anyone’s guess
—
had been packed into boxes, ready for storage along with a quantity of framed photographs.

“Why did he have a copy of Miriam Stoppard?” Rosy asked Lydia as she treated herself to a coffee break in the kitchen.

Lydia shrugged. “I-I don’t know.”

“Did you and Frederick chat? Did you get along?”

“Of course.”

“Of course?”

“I worked here Tuesday to Thursday every week, and the rest for Mr. Dallariva. We were together a lot Frederick and I. I always did the study first, and then he’d shut himself in there for the day. Some days his lunch would stand out until four o’clock. He liked things organized, immaculate, scrubbed and sparkling.”

“I can see that. You’ve looked after the place beautifully.”

“Thank you.” Lydia kept her eyes on the pillowcase she was ironing. “Have you decided what you are going to do with the house?”

“Not really.”

“Because I’d like to keep working. Frederick was very generous to me in his will, but I wouldn’t know what to do with myself at home. I’m single, you see.” She shrugged. “I like this job.”

“I’d love you to stay, Lydia. I’m going back to London before Christmas, and I won’t make any decisions until well after the New Year. Meanwhile I’ll need someone to caretake.”

“Then it’s settled, thank you.”

Lydia went on ironing and Rosy roamed the house, looking for jobs. Other than the study, there was little else to do. Frederick, being a typical man it seemed, harboured no extras. There were no drawers full of inherited linen, shelves of old vases, cupboards piled with unused dinner services or boxes of vintage clothes. There wasn’t a single item of furniture too ugly to live with. Each room held exactly what it needed
—
no more, no less. The antique furniture was plain and solid, without decoration. Paintings were well hung, not overpowered by their neighbours, and there wasn’t a single ornament to be seen. Walls were neutral, and curtains and upholstery, while richly textured, were plain, in deep colours.

Plum velvet, leather, antique wood and oil paintings combined in a lovely ambience, Rosy observed, tossing out a heap of cushions that had seen better days. She’d ordered new ones online from a shop in Paris, and once those were in place, and she’d put flowers in every room, the house would be ready for a new phase in life. It would sell very quickly she was convinced, if it came to that.

She looked for more stuff to sift through, and found nothing but empty cupboards and drawers, so she searched for places to clean, finding out quickly that there was nothing to do. Lydia left nothing untouched. The highest shelves in Frederick’s study were clean, even behind the books. The linen cupboard was immaculate. Everything gleamed in the scullery and laundry, every window sparkled. Even the tops of the kitchen cupboards shone, without a speck of dust or a trace of grease to be wiped away. The fridge, oven, and dishwasher looked like they’d never been used. A tour of the upstairs bedrooms quickly told her there were no jobs there. Besides the one she occupied, the other three rooms were polished and vacuumed, beds stripped, awaiting new occupants. The two large, plain bathrooms had nothing to offer either, though she stuck her head into both, in the vain hope. Outside, a quick inspection in the rain showed her that the garden had been perfectly put to bed for winter by the garden service, and the greenhouse, garage, and shed were neater than any she’d ever seen. Even the car was spotless, inside and out.

She wandered around to the front of the house and looked up at it, moving to stand under a tree. What should she do? Keep it? She’d surely kick herself in years to come if she sold. But, if she lived here she’d be miles away from her friends and her mother. And why would she live here if she knew nobody in this part of France? It seemed crazy. And yet, when she saw the house, and moved around inside, it seemed familiar, like they belonged together, like they should have always known each other. It was her dream home, handed to her on a plate. The more she convinced herself she should leave, the greater the inclination to stay.

No, the more Rosy convinced herself that she should leave, the more she
wanted
to stay.

A giant, icy raindrop fell through the branches, hit her on the head and drove her inside. One thing she didn’t have to do any longer was worry about an overdraft, or paying the rent on her London flat. She could afford that easily now. She made a cup of tea and went into the study where she settled at the desk, in front of her laptop, and typed in banking details for herself and the business. The least she could do
—
at the moment
—
was pay off the crippling loan she and Fiona had taken in order to get Red Velvet up and running. She dialled the bank’s customer service number, and sat back to wait.

Much later, Lydia stuck her head around the door. “I’m going home before the weather gets any worse. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Rosy muted the call. She’d been transferred around a call centre in India for most of the last half hour, fractious after listening to an endless wobbly taped version of Elton John’s
Crocodile Rock
.

“Thanks, Lydia, you’ve been fantastic. Enjoy the weekend.”

“And you, but not before you’ve been to the shops. The milk’s almost finished along with everything else, and by tomorrow morning you’ll be down to one teaspoon of butter and the last half bottle of wine. I need things too, so I’ve left a list on the kitchen table.”

“Thanks again. I’ll go tomorrow. See you Monday.”

***

Another day crawled by, hour after excruciating hour. Forbidden visitors because of his ‘critical condition’
—
he snorted in disgust, he wasn’t even in the ICU for crying out loud
—
Marco lay in bed unable to sleep in spite of painkillers and sleeping tablets, feeling worse than he’d ever done in his life. Uncomfortable and restless on his back, he closed his eyes, willing himself not to tense against the acute pain that sizzled up and down his arms like bolts of electricity, and made a decision. He’d leave, tomorrow. He’d get up, walk out of this beige and grey hellhole, and go home. He relaxed his shoulders, took a deep, slow breath, and made a plan. That done, he fell asleep.

***

“How are we this morning?” The Japanese nurse
—
new
—
gave an excellent bed bath, serenely soaping, rinsing and drying, over and over, until every millimetre of Marco’s body squeaked with cleanness. He felt a hundred times better, almost human.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked, as she dried between his toes.

She raised her head and levelled exotic, slanted eyes on his. “Going home to my husband, and baby son.”

Ah, right. Marco gritted his teeth mentally while she brushed his, and helped him into a fresh pair of shorts. Then she strapped his arms into slings with a great amount of patting and, “There there,” and, “Isn’t that super?”

No it wasn’t, it was fucking awful, but he smiled anyway.

“I need a favour,” he said, as she was leaving. “My wallet and phone are in the bedside drawer, with my keys. Could you get them out for me, please?”

“Sure.” She came back into the room and got him what he’d asked for. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Um, yeah. I might go along to the café.”

“It’s not open until nine.”

He mustered a grin. “Well, when it is open, then. Just for something to do.”

“Why the keys?”

“Uh, I...habit, I guess. I feel naked without them.”

She laughed. “Okay. I’m around until eleven. Come and find me if you need help.” She slid the phone onto the top of his left arm, inside the sling, followed by the keys and wallet. “Have a good time.”

“Thanks,” he glanced at her name badge, “Akira. You have a good time too.” He waited ten minutes, kicked back the blanket, and got out of bed—a bed in which dozens of people had no doubt died. No way would he stay in it a moment longer.