by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
Eventually, they returned to the hotel, surprised to find its entrance blocked by a sea of journalists.
“Who do you think they’re after?” she asked Emile.
“No idea. Let’s just push through them and get upstairs. Don’t let go of my hand.” He pulled her toward the edge of the crowd and dodged the first rank of photographers. Then Theresa heard some shouting, and suddenly, the massed crowds turned on her and Emile, surrounding them with flashing lights. So many of them were yelling questions at the same time that she couldn’t work out what they were saying.
Crowded against her was Emile, grim and silent.
“Do you know what this is about?”
He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Someone’s leaked the story about our marriage.”
She stared at him. After all this time, it had never occurred to her that their false relationship would be exposed. Who could have told? Julie was the only person who knew, and Theresa trusted her completely.
“What do we do?”
Emile whipped out his phone and made a call. “The manager is sending a car for me. I’ll go straight to the training ground. They can’t get to me there.”
She nodded. “What about me?”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Come on. I’ll get you inside.”
There wasn’t time to think. He simply scooped her up and hefted her over his shoulder. Clinging on for dear life, Theresa had no idea how he managed to force his way through the crowd. As soon as they had clear ground inside the foyer, he set her on her feet.
“Go up to our room and stay there,” he ordered, then strode off to the concierge, who immediately signaled to a security guy and had him led away, presumably to a back exit.
“Mrs. Renaud? Can you tell us how you met your husband?”
“Was it Internet dating?”
“Did the club offer you a bribe?”
“No!” She’d replied to their increasingly outrageous questions without thinking, then watched in horror as hundreds more reporters surged towards her. She turned on her heel and ran for the elevators, flinging herself into one whose doors were just shutting.
What the hell had just happened?
She grabbed her laptop and opened up the Internet browser. Two clicks and she’d found the story. One of the British papers had run the headline that morning. She’d bet they’d been saving it up for today, anything to put their French opponents off their game.
Renaud Ordered To Marry, Says Ex
French Striker in False Wedding Scandal
He Bought Himself A Bride
Prada was having her day in the spotlight. All the papers showed old pictures of her with Emile, hanging on his arm and gazing up at him adoringly, if a little bit vacantly. Theresa, meanwhile, was shown entering her office building wearing a dark grey suit and glaring at someone just beyond the camera, in a picture she had no memory of being taken. Like the headlines, the story was a vicious mixture of half-truths, unfabricated rumors, and malicious lies. But at the heart of it, there was the indisputable fact that she and Emile had barely known each other when their engagement was announced.
“I knew as soon as I heard it that Emile had been bullied into it by his club,” Prada had said. “We’d been talking about marriage, but I wasn’t respectable enough for Thomas Gatz. He never approved of me. That’s why we broke up in the first place, but Emile wanted me back.”
Theresa could feel her bile rising. She pushed it back and carried on reading.
“I don’t know where he got her from. She just turned up out of the blue after he had the brawl with Ernestinho. I don’t know if he found her online.”
That would explain the question about Internet dating, then.
“The last nine months have been a living hell for me, knowing he’s been forced to stay with her when he loves me.”
It wasn’t true. Obviously, it wasn’t true. Emile didn’t care about Prada in the slightest.
“But when he called and asked me to fly out to Rio, I couldn’t refuse him. It’s the most important match of his career, and he needs me there.”
He’d called her? That couldn’t be right. Emile wouldn’t have done that. Maybe someone had set them up? What if a reporter had faked Emile’s voice to get the story?
Her phone started ringing.
“Hi Mum.”
“Theresa Mary Chartley, what on earth have you done? It’s all over the papers, you know. I don’t know how I shall ever be able to go back to the golf club now.”
Half an hour later, she’d just about succeeded in calming her mother down, having assured her that the wedding had been legitimate, that Emile had not bribed her to marry him, and that he wasn’t being unfaithful. Her phone rang again instantly, with her boss wanting reassurance that Theresa hadn’t done anything to jeopardize her license to practice as a lawyer. His concerns were swiftly dealt with, and she ended the call.
She slumped into one of the cream leather armchairs and rubbed a hand over her face. She wanted Emile. But as Prada had so publicly reminded her, he wasn’t really hers. He never had been. A contract, a marriage—it wasn’t enough to hold a man like Emile. She had to let him go. Now, while there was still a chance of escaping with minor wounds.
…
Afterwards, she couldn’t remember a single moment of the final. She assumed that she’d cheered for the goals and groaned for the near misses and the penalties given against them. She hoped she’d remembered to cheer for France and not for England. She knew that Emile had been out there, playing the whole ninety minutes, as he’d hoped. She remembered someone screaming in her ear when he’d scored. Later, she noticed the red grooves in the palms of her hands where she’d had her fists clenched so tightly that the nails had pushed into her skin.
Hours after it had ended, the team was finally released, sky-high on the adrenaline of victory. The team buses were commandeered to take everyone to a nightclub on the seafront. Waiters brought trays of champagne and cocktails in every color of the rainbow out to them while the players slowly made their way through the crowds. Theresa took a glass of champagne and watched Emile, surrounded by adoring fans, all wanting to tell him how brilliant he’d been. She’d have her chance to tell him later. Now she was going to dance.
She walked towards the entrance of the club, pausing when there a disturbance blocked the path.
A tall, tanned, blonde disturbance about to ruin the best day of his life.
Prada, with a retinue of paparazzi to capture the moment for posterity.
“Emile.”
He turned his head, handing back the pen he’d been using to autograph people’s shirts. The moment when he recognized his ex was obvious. His face blanked, and he stepped backwards.
Prada strutted towards him.
“Congratulations,” she murmured in a low, husky voice.
“Thanks,” he said coldly.
She placed a scarlet fingernail at the top of his shirt. “I knew you’d be celebrating.”
He pushed her hand away, but she was clever. She took the chance to grasp his wrist.
“You don’t have to pretend any more, silly. Not now that you’re a hero.”
“Prada.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down so she could whisper in his ear.
A smile spread across his face, and he said something in reply.
Theresa couldn’t watch any more of this. Strike three for Project Fall Out Of Love, and she was done. There wasn’t any point loving a guy who’d drop you in an instant for a woman he despised, just because she had the spotlight for a moment. She’d been fooling herself if she thought Emile had ever been serious about her. She turned her back on them and went gratefully into the dark, throbbing heat of the nightclub, letting the music crowd everything else out of her mind.
She danced with a string of Brazilian men who showed her how to samba, shaking their hips against hers while they shimmied their chests to the music. It was a carnival d
ance, fun and crazy and she let it roll over her black mood, blocking out every thought of Emile and Prada. She stamped her feet and rolled her hips and joined in the wild yelps and cheers of the dancers. Eventually, she became aware of one man dancing close behind her. She could sense the warmth of his breath on her neck and feel the touch of his groin against her bottom. His hand slid around her waist, and there was no mistaking the bolt of desire, which coursed through her veins. Her body knew he’d make love as perfectly as he danced. He’d be a hell of a one-night stand.
Hellish as a husband.
She turned into his body, maintaining the rhythm of the dance.
“Shall we go?” he mouthed over the music.
She didn’t want to go with him. She didn’t want to hear about Prada. She wanted to stay in this safe place where all that mattered was that the pulse of the music matched the pulse in her heart.
He put a hand around her wrist and tugged gently. She couldn’t hide forever. She took a deep breath and followed him.
…
He took her down to the beach after checking that the ring box was still in his pocket. He slung his jacket over her shoulders, though there was still some warmth in the air. She’d taken her shoes off to walk through the sand. He watched her closely. She was tired, and there was too much tension in her shoulders. She needed a break.
“You know, you haven’t told me how brilliant I was.”
She shook her head. “I assumed everyone else had told you. I didn’t want to be boring.”
“You’re never boring.” Crazy, frustrating, and incomprehensible sometimes, but never boring.
“Fine, then. You were utterly brilliant. Will that do?”
He hooked his arm round her shoulders. “It’ll do for now.”
The moon hung full and clear in the sky, but the beach had its own lighting from the endless run of clubs and bars that ran alongside, as well as the parties that were dotted along its length with torches and bonfires. Theresa’s hair glinted, the spikes appearing silver-tipped in the moonlight. Her face was shadowed, but he’d grown to know it well enough to fill in all the contours he couldn’t see. She was so beautiful in her simple green dress, effortlessly outshining all the other wives and girlfriends.
Emile grasped Theresa’s hand more firmly as they approached their spot. He needed to know she wasn’t going anywhere without him.
“It’s here, I think.” She’d stopped and was measuring their location by eye.
Emile led her a little closer to the waterline, to where the waves just lapped over their feet and back again.
“Here.”
He looked out to sea, made a wish on the moon, then turned to Theresa.
“I have something for you.” He took the ring box out of his pocket and offered it to her.
“What’s that? A farewell present? I don’t want it, Emile.”
He blinked. Where the hell had that come from? “Farewell?”
She sighed and looked away. “Why don’t you go back and find Prada. I’m sure she’ll be waiting for you.”
Bloody Prada. She’d whispered an apology in his ear and, fool that he was, he’d let her off the hook. He’d just won the World Cup, who’d care about a few headlines with an ex-girlfriend hoping to boost her flagging career? “This is nothing to do with Prada.”
She stared at him, then shook her head wearily and started to walk back towards the hotel. Emile caught her hand.
“Don’t walk away. Please.” He’d never seen her look so defeated. He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her he’d make everything all right.
“It has to happen one day. Now’s as good a time as any.”
That damn contract. He should never have let her talk him into signing it. “No, Thérèse. Don’t say that. Not tonight.”
She lifted her head to look at him. “Did you ask Prada to come to Brazil?”
“No!”
“But you weren’t exactly fighting her off. If you want her, you might as well go back to her now, Emile. We always knew this had to end sometime. Might as well be now.”
He was shaking his head. “I can’t believe you would think I want Prada.”
“I didn’t until I saw you having such a cozy chat earlier.”
“You’re jealous.” That must mean she cared. Hope rose inside him.
“I’m not a fool, Emile. I’m not interested in sharing, either. I thought I’d made that clear.”
“I’m not asking you to share.”
“No. Well, I suppose that’s something.”
He took hold of her hands. He had to try again. Get her to understand what he was trying to say. “Look, I know I’ve been selfish lately and I haven’t spent enough time with you.”
Theresa watched in horror as he slid his hand into his pocket and brought out the ring again. She wouldn’t touch the box, so he opened it for her and showed her. It was stunning. A simple platinum band set with square cut stones that graduated in color from palest pink to darkest purple. Sapphires, perhaps. Maybe even diamonds. She shuddered to think how much he must have spent on it.
“It’s an eternity ring. I want eternity, Thérèse. With you, forever. No more contracts. No more divorce. I just want you.”
She kept her eyes focused on the ring. She didn’t trust herself to look at Emile. Out here in the Brazilian moonlight, she might let herself start believing him.
“It’s a lovely ring.”
He took it out of the box and held out a hand to her.
She took a step backwards. “I can’t let you give it to me.”
“There’s nothing going on with Prada, I promise.”
For tonight, she believed that was true. But he was Emile Renaud. World Cup hero. Paparazzi’s wet dream. She’d seen him tonight, surrounded by women and loving it. For him, there would always be other women. Other Pradas. The last few months were an aberration, while he was recovering from his injury and training for the World Cup. But the playboy player wouldn’t be satisfied with the kind of life she was comfortable in, or at least not for long.
“You can’t give me an eternity ring. We have a contract. We’re getting divorced in October.”
“We don’t have to. Thérèse, I want to rip up that ridiculous contract and forget the talk of divorce. I want to give you this and for us to be together. Always.”
“There isn’t any us, Emile, don’t you see? There’s you in your world, and me over here in the real world. It’s never going to work.” It didn’t matter how much she wanted him to be right, somehow, she had to make him see the truth. She held his hard gaze without blinking, until eventually, his eyes flickered and his lips twisted.
“What if I want the real world? What if I need you to tell me when I’m out of line? God, Thérèse, what if I waste the rest of my life playing poker with the guys, because you’re not there to tell me not to?”
What if she let herself believe him? What if he broke her heart?
“I’m not your guardian, Emile. You have to make those choices yourself.”
“I choose you. I choose us. You and me. A family.”
There was another thing she’d almost forgotten about. He’d been upfront about his desire to have children. To make a family like the one he’d never had. She couldn’t give him that.
“We both have to choose, Emile. And I’m sorry, but I can’t choose that. I can’t choose you.” She twisted her head away so that he wouldn’t see the tears escaping from the corners of her eyes.
“I see.” He snapped the ring box shut and slid it back into his pocket.
“You’ll thank me one day,” she said.
The red-hot glare he sent her made her flinch. “Just shut up now. I think you’ve said enough.”
The walk back to their hotel was excruciating. Theresa wanted to be alone, but Emile insisted that she needed an escort.
“If something happened to you now, how do you think I’d feel?” he said bluntly.
So they walked in parallel, a few feet apart, not touc
hing and not speaking. She’d ruined the happiest day of his life and she hated herself for doing it.
He saw her safely to the hotel, then he turned and walked back into the night. Theresa watched him go until he’d completely disappeared into the crowds that still filled the streets of Rio. Not only French supporters, but the whole city had taken the final as an opportunity for celebration. Theresa turned into the relative quiet of the hotel lobby and went up to their room. She was booked onto a lunchtime flight, and it hardly seemed worth trying to get a couple of hours sleep. She packed swiftly, then took her bikini and went for one last early morning swim in the hotel pool.
Emile still hadn’t returned by the time her taxi arrived to take her to the airport. She’d contemplated leaving him a note but she had no idea what to write. Instead, she phoned when she was back in London. To apologize and thank him, but mostly just to hear his voice and know that he was okay. He didn’t answer, and the message she managed to leave was stilted and awkward. She wasn’t surprised not to hear back from him.
A week later, she called again, and this time he picked up the phone.
“Hi.”
“Hello, Emile.”
There was a pause. She tried to work out what to say next. She should have planned it before she phoned. Written it down, even.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye,” she said.
He didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to make it easy, but at least he hadn’t hung up on her. Yet. She took a deep breath.
“You took me by surprise that last night. I’m sorry I spoiled it for you when you should have been celebrating.” It had been cruel to walk away then, even though she was still convinced it was the right thing to have done.
“Have you changed your mind?” He said the words curtly, but he couldn’t wholly disguise the hope she heard behind them.
“It wasn’t supposed to last, Emile. We agreed that. Just for as long as we both wanted it.”
“And you don’t want it anymore?”
She had to be honest. As honest as she could be, at any rate. “It was never going to work between us. I don’t fit in your world, and you don’t understand mine. We don’t want the same things.”
