by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
“Well, no. They had to be pulled apart.”
Theresa started to skim through the articles. “It says here that they’d had a disagreement in the locker room about a towel. That is ridiculous. I mean, I know they’re men, but a towel? Really?”
Julie refilled her glass and tilted the bottle in Theresa’s direction. She nodded and held out her glass.
“It’s got to be more than that,” Julie said. “Did he say anything to you?”
“No. I’d never heard of this other guy until now.”
“Didn’t you talk about anything?”
Theresa grinned. “Not last night. This morning we discussed his ex-girlfriend and his future wife.”
“The ex is Prada de Lonzalles, right? Total bimbo.”
“Yup. She rang him. Apparently, she doesn’t want to be ex anymore.”
“He’s not still interested in her, is he?”
“No.”
Julie frowned. “Didn’t you say she was his future wife?”
“No.” Theresa took a gulp of wine. She hadn’t planned to tell Julie this bit. “I asked him to marry me.”
“You what?” The screech was loud enough to set dogs barking three streets away. “Haven’t you been listening to yourself for the last ten years? You don’t want to get married. And if you did, there are plenty of men on your mother’s list who’d be better husbands than Emile Renaud.”
“That’s the point.”
Julie stared at her for a minute then shook her head and slumped back into her chair. “It’s me, isn’t it? I’m having one of those dreams again where nobody behaves like they do in real life. Let me know when I need to wake up.”
Theresa laughed. “No, listen to me. It could have been the perfect plan. Mum would be so horrified by having him as a son-in-law that she’d never dare suggest marriage to me again.”
Julie emptied her glass and held it out. “Pour me another one. If I keep drinking, eventually, one of us will start making sense.”
Theresa filled Julie’s glass and topped up her own. “He’s got an ex he’s struggling to shake off. This would be the perfect way to get the message over to her.”
“Oh, sure. In bizarro world.”
“That’s what he thought. He’s probably right. But it still leaves me with a mother who is determined to marry me off to an eligible bachelor before I get left on the shelf forever.”
“She said that?”
“I pointed out that this isn’t a Georgette Heyer novel and that no one has been on or off the shelf since approximately 1837. But she won’t take no for an answer, and now she’s started bringing in reinforcements. Next weekend it’s Hetta Black’s son. Widower with three children.”
“Oh, God.”
“Exactly. She won’t listen to reason.” She decided she’d eaten enough olives and nuts. Time for dessert. She opened the chocolates.
“But if you were already married…”
“…there would be no point parading me in front of possible suitors. Her word. And besides, she’d hate Emile.”
“Why? He’s gorgeous.”
Theresa smiled. “Oh, yes. But his hair is too long, his stubble too dark, his tattoos too edgy, and his name appears on the gossip pages far too often. He’s totally unsuitable.”
“He’s rich, famous, and built like a Greek god.”
“Those are not my mother’s criteria. She wants middle class respectability.”
“So you’re getting married…what, to teach her a lesson?”
“He said no.” She’d have been shocked if he’d said anything else, to be honest, and she wouldn’t have gone through with it. Probably not.
“You’re crazy.”
“That’s what Emile said.”
“He’s right.”
Theresa shrugged. “Yes, but it makes sense, kind of, if you think about it. It’s just a legal contract that would be beneficial to us both. We’d only need to stay married for a year and then we could get a no-fault divorce. Maybe if I explained that to him again.”
Julie pointed a finger at her. “Do not explain it again to me. My head hurts already.”
“You don’t need to agree, just Emile.”
Julie shook her head. “Not a chance. More wine?”
Theresa’s phone rang. “Hold on.”
“Thérèse?”
“Emile. Are you okay?”
She could almost hear the smile in his reply. “You watched the match. I’m touched, chérie.”
“Actually, I didn’t. But I’m reading the news online right now. That other player punched you.”
“His bruises will be worse than mine.” There was a definite hint of satisfaction in his voice.
“What was it about, anyway? It wasn’t really because of a towel, was it?”
He laughed, then she heard him wince. “No. The towel was the first skirmish.”
“So?”
Emile sighed. “His girlfriend, Mariella. You have heard of her?”
“No.”
“She is a model. Brazilian. Very beautiful.”
“And?” He’d better be getting to the point soon, and it had better not be what she thought it was going to be.
“She likes to play tricks to make him jealous. To get headlines, also, I think.”
“What kind of tricks?” She took a slurp of wine. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
“She told him she was having sex with me at a party last week.”
“Was she?” Theresa bit out.
“No, Prada trapped me. She cried.” He uttered the last two words with such distaste that he had to be telling the truth.
“Poor Prada,” she said, with a laugh.
“Poor Emile,” he corrected her. “I am the innocent party.”
“Of course.”
“But still, I have a three match ban and an ultimatum. Clean up my act or my contract will be terminated.”
“But it wasn’t your fault!” Her sense of justice revolted at the idea of Emile’s career suffering because of Mariella and Ernestinho.
“Ernestinho is on the same terms.”
“That’s ridiculous. He provoked you.”
“I hit back.”
“It was self-defense.”
“Chérie,” he said with gentle mockery. “I am not on trial. I do not need you to be a lawyer for me.”
“Sorry. So, you have to clean up your act and make sure there’s no more tabloid gossip. How will you manage it?”
“With your help.”
“Mine? What can I do?”
There was a long pause, then an audible sigh. “Your proposal this morning. It was not serious?”
Her mouth fell open. No way. He was really going to suggest they go ahead with it? She shook her head in amazement. “Not completely.”
“If I have a wife, Ernestinho will respect that,” Emile said. “It’ll make the club happy. I’ll have my contract renewed. And it’ll keep Prada from getting her clutches into me again.” The only one of those he sounded remotely enthusiastic about was the last.
“What are you saying, Emile? You want me to pretend to be your wife?”
He grunted. “The paps would see through that in seconds.”
“So?”
“So it has to be real.”
Theresa’s hand gripped the phone. This really was crazy and she should say no now. Instead, she asked coolly, “What’s in it for me?”
“A year of great sex and the chance to irritate your mother. Wasn’t that the deal?”
When he put it like that, it was hard to see any downsides. “We need to agree terms. I can get a friend to draw up the pre-nup for us. No financial obligations on either side. Just a clean, quick divorce at the end of a year, right?”
“Yes.”
“Sex is okay if we both want it, but I don’t think we should promise exclusivity.”
“I’m supposed to be cleaning up my act,” he said.
“Yes, but I’m not.”
“Scandals featur
ing my wife with other men are not what Gatz had in mind.”
“I can be discreet. Besides, it’ll be easier to get the divorce if there’s evidence of adultery.”
“Maybe after a few months, then.”
“Fine.”
“One more thing, I think we should be clear that neither of us is emotionally involved. This is purely a legal arrangement, which happens to benefit us both. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”
“I have the marks to prove it,” he muttered. Theresa glanced down at her nails and remembered raking them down his back while he bit down on her neck.
“We’re really going to do this, then?”
“If you don’t agree, I’ll have to call Prada.”
She laughed. “One day you’ll have to tell me what you ever saw in her.”
It took a moment for him to answer, with unexpected bleakness. “I was lonely and she was there.”
If he hadn’t been at the other end of the phone, she might have reached out to touch him, to take him in her arms and offer herself in Prada’s place. As it was, she kept her voice steady, businesslike, as she sealed the deal. “You don’t have to call her. I’ll do it.”
When she’d pushed the button to end their call, she closed her eyes and screwed her face up. Maybe she’d just done the stupidest thing in her life. Maybe it was the best. Whatever it was, there was no going back on it now.
Julie was watching her in horrified disbelief. Theresa picked up her glass of wine and emptied it. Then she smiled at her friend. “Looks like I need to ask you a favor.”
“Does it involve me wearing peach taffeta?”
“Not if you’re good, but I’d like you to be a witness. Emile can ask one of his teammates to be the other one.
“Theresa.” Julie looked at her sternly. “You’re going to tell your parents first, aren’t you?”
She popped a chocolate truffle in her mouth and didn’t answer.
Chapter Three
The club’s PR machine rolled the news of the engagement out to the press as swiftly as possible to counter the story that Mariella had been spreading. When Emile had hinted to Gatz that he was planning a long engagement, the tall German had looked down his nose and given the smallest shake of his head. Reluctantly, Emile had accepted his fate and told Theresa to organize it as soon as possible.
She’d texted him that morning, reminding him of the time, the place, and the paperwork he would need to bring. The underlying message was clear: don’t get cold feet. Too late for that. He had ice blocks that he’d had to force into his shoes for training that day. The only thing stopping him from putting an end to the whole ridiculous charade was the knowledge that Theresa was more than capable of coming to find him and persuade him into it all over again. Well, that and Gatz breathing down his neck.
“Don’t forget to bring a witness,” Theresa had told him. “Doesn’t have to be anyone you know.”
He couldn’t just bring a stranger. For an intelligent woman, Theresa was clueless about what it meant to be as famous as he was. Inviting a stranger to witness their wedding was asking for the story to be sold to the highest bidder and all over the tabloids the next day. And, while he needed the publicity, he needed to stay in control of it. No candid shots taken with a phone at awkward moments. No one talking about whether he and Theresa acted like a real couple. They’d pose outside the registry office for the paparazzi, smile, and keep their mouths shut.
He scanned the changing room where the team had finished their training session for the day. A couple of guys were still in the shower. Others had towels around their hips and some not even that. Emile caught the eye of the friend he was looking for and raised a finger in his direction. At least Rafael di Santo was Italian. There was half a chance he would understand why Emile was doing something so crazy when there was a woman involved.
“What’s up?”
“Are you free this afternoon? Just for a couple of hours. I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“The kind where you witness my wedding.”
“Today? Bit quick, isn’t it?”
Emile raised his hands, dismissing all responsibility. “Can you do it?”
“Si. I have to meet Camille later but she is…I don’t know, having something extended. Hair. Or nails. Or something.”
Emile grinned. He’d bet that Theresa never spent her afternoons in a hair or beauty salon. There was nothing fake about her—no fake tan, no fake hair, and no fake breasts. All natural and all woman. And very soon, all his.
“It won’t take long.”
He dressed swiftly in jeans and a dark blue casual shirt. Nothing too formal, since Theresa would be coming straight from work, too. They’d planned to keep the whole thing low key and understated.
Outside, Emile pressed the button on the remote to unlock his pride and joy. He loved the Mercedes McLaren Roadster more than any woman. She wasn’t only as expensive as most houses, she was also rarer than hen’s teeth. The waiting list had been over twelve months, but she was worth every minute of it. In steel grey carbon fiber with polished chrome trim and doors that lifted up like something belonging to James Bond, it was the kind of car he’d imagined as a kid, when all they’d had was his mum’s battered old 2CV. He pushed a second button to raise the roof.
“Might as well make the most of the weather.”
Rafael laughed and looked to the sky, which was dotted with white clouds amongst the blue. “This is not weather.”
Emile grinned as he eased into the driver’s seat. “It’s the best you get in London.”
“I know.” The Italian sighed dramatically. “Now tell me about the mystery woman. How long have you known her?”
“Three and a half weeks.” He checked the road was clear and pulled smoothly out into the traffic. “Quick work.”
“Thanks.”
“I meant her.”
Emile grimaced. His friend had a point. “It’s been accelerated.”
Raf’s lips widened even further. “What’s she got on you?”
“Not her. Gatz.”
“This is because of what happened with Ernestinho?” He sounded appalled.
“That and the last three years. Gatz has a file on me. This thick.” He held his thumb and forefinger three inches apart. “I bring the club into disrepute, apparently.”
“Not half as much as Ernestinho does. I’m sorry, my friend.”
“Thanks.”
“So who is she? I’d have thought Prada would be first in line to get your ring on her finger.”
“She’s nothing like Prada.”
“Clearly. This one has succeeded in getting you where she wants you.”
“She has a well-paying job.” Theresa had made it quite clear she wasn’t in this for the money. She’d insisted on splitting the costs for the ceremony, and when Emile’s lawyer glanced over the pre-nup she’d drawn up, he’d shaken his head in disbelief. Theresa had waived all her rights to a share in Emile’s fortune.
“Good for her.”
“She doesn’t watch football.” That irritated him more than he cared to admit. He’d invited her to his first match back after the ban and she’d turned him down. How were they supposed to convince anyone it was a real relationship if she couldn’t be bothered to show up to watch him?
“Neither did Prada.”
“True.” Prada was happy enough to go to the matches and be photographed for the gossip pages, but he knew she always spent the time texting her friends and flipping through magazines. Usually, she remembered to check which team had won before she met up with him afterwards. “But Theresa didn’t know who I was.”
Rafael gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s what they all say.”
Emile shook his head. Theresa didn’t seem like the sort of woman hungry for her fifteen minutes of fame in the trashy tabloid media. In fact, she’d done what she could to stay out of the papers in the past few weeks. The press release had mentioned her name and
she’d supplied a blurry photo, which must have been taken some time ago when her hair was long. Emile had to squint to see that it was the same woman.
“We’ll just go through the ceremony, sign the register, and be out of there. No fuss, no gossip.”
“Sure.” Rafael leaned forward to look at something outside his window. “Where is this registry office, anyway?”
“Just up here on the left.” Emile stopped looking for a parking spot and followed Rafael’s gaze. “Putain de bordel de merde.”
The pavement was blocked and the crowd of paps spilled over into the road. Long lenses were already focusing on him in the car and journalists were yelling questions. Behind them, at the top of the steps into the building, two women stood calmly amongst the crowd—a tall, slim woman with shocking white-blonde hair and Theresa, looking like a dream. Or a fantasy. Or maybe a damn fairytale. Whichever was the one that got its clutches on your heart and made breathing an optional activity.
…
“Looks like he’s arrived,” Julie whispered, without letting her smile slip.
The paparazzi had been waiting for Theresa when she arrived with her friend. For the past fifteen minutes, the two of them had done their best to maintain their composure under the barrage of flashes and questions. Theresa had hissed at Julie to shut up the first time she’d tried to say anything, and since then, they’d both waited silently, smiling calmly into the press pack.
But Theresa’s shoulders tensed as she watched Emile slide his ridiculously impractical sports car effortlessly into a tiny parking space on the other side of the street. Up until that moment, she hadn’t quite believed he would go through with it. She could have laughed the whole thing off with Julie and no one else would have been any the wiser. Now she had no excuse to pull out, despite the butterfly doubts that swirled in her stomach. Doubts that she quelled sharply. They both knew what they were doing. He’d signed the pre-nup without any amendments. He’d get his contract at Woolwich renewed, and she’d never have to face her mother’s matchmaking again. No harm no foul.
The paps turned to catch the pictures of him getting out of the car with another guy.
“Rafael di Santo,” Julie breathed. “Wow.”
Theresa glanced at the man with Emile. He was playing to the cameras, with a wide, flashy smile, but her gaze was drawn back to Emile’s stern face. His eyes held hers, and she shivered under their grim intensity. He gave a slight nod.
