“You talk about it as if it were like selling a car!” she yelled back at him. “Ten years of marriage isn’t something you ‘just end.’ We have a life together. There was so much love there once.”
“And what about the love here, now?” said Danny, exasperated. “Doesn’t that count for anything? What about the way he treats you, spying on you, caging you up like some fucking trapped animal? How can he love you if he doesn’t trust you?”
“Well, he’s right not to trust me, isn’t he?” said Diana, fighting back tears. Danny had never understood her guilt over their affair, but it ran deep. The way he saw it, if she knew Brogan had been fucking every twenty-one-year-old with a pulse for years, why the hell should she care about his feelings? He didn’t want to consider the possibility that, despite all the pain he’d put her through, the love bond between husband and wife might still be intact.
Thankfully, they’d made things up before he left, and all his phone calls from London had been so full of love and longing that Diana felt reassured they were back on track. Contrary to his fears, she didn’t “get off” on the illicit, secret nature of the relationship at all. She had the same fantasies he did about marriage and children and happily ever after—about starting again. But for her, a new start would demand a painful ending to something that, for better or worse, she had striven to save and nurture for most of her adult life.
Despite these tensions, falling in love with Danny had given her a new lease on life. When they had spoken this morning—she’d slipped out early to Main Street on the pretense of doing some last-minute Christmas shopping and taken his call in a quiet corner of Gucci—he’d promised to engineer some sort of romantic getaway when Brogan flew to Antwerp in February, and it was the prospect of this that had her twirling around the chalet now like a love-struck teenager.
“Mrs. Diana?” One of the maids broke her reverie. “You want to do those placements now? Or should we go ahead and make up the table first?”
Bending down, Diana scooped up a handful of cards and began plonking them at random around the table. She wasn’t even reading the names.
“There you go,” she said, beaming. “I always say it’s better not to overthink these things. Don’t you agree, Joyce?”
“If you say so, ma’am,” giggled the maid. No doubt about it, whoever the mystery man was, her mistress had it bad.
Meanwhile, in London, Christmas Eve at the Meyer household was already well under way.
Minty, who’d rather saw off her fingers with a rusty penknife than see either of her sons marry a non-Jewish girl, was nevertheless enthusiastic about Christmas and all its rituals, especially those that involved eating, drinking, and generally making merry. It was the one time of year when both her boys came home, and that alone was excuse enough for celebration and for the giant fake Christmas tree (“I can’t be doing with all those dropped needles! At my age?”) that towered over the space that Minty liked to call the foyer like a vast silver rocket.
“Danny, bring us another beer, would you?” Jake, sprawled out on the settee in sweatpants and a Tottenham hoodie, called into the kitchen for his brother. “How long are you gonna be on that bloody phone for? Chelsea almost scored just now.”
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” Danny called back. “We already know the score, you know.”
“That’s not the point!” yelled Jake.
Reaching into the cavernous fridge for two bottles of Stella, Danny tried to put his game face on. He’d been trying to ring Diana back for the last hour—he just needed to hear her voice again—but her cell had been resolutely switched off, leaving him feeling ludicrously bereft and rejected. He must get a grip. If he kept moping around the house, Jake was bound to sense something was up. And once his twin brother got the bit between his teeth, he never let go.
Wandering into the lounge, he joined Jake on the couch and tried to focus on the soccer game. The Chelsea–Spurs match was months old, but it was a Meyer family tradition to spend Christmas Eve watching all the best of the season’s matches, lovingly recorded by Minty, back to back. Even Rudy, who’d never followed the premiere league, dutifully sat in his corner armchair, eating himself into a peanut coma and sporadically shouting out “Come on, you muppet!” when he felt it was required of him.
“Any word from Scarlett?” asked Danny, unable to concentrate.
Jake shook his head. “She’s in Scotland, up at Castle Creepy,” he said, stuffing a handful of pretzels into his mouth. “I don’t wanna bother her over the holidays.”
Scarlett had agreed to the LA plan, much to both brothers’ delight, and was now just waiting on the completion of her sale of Bijoux. Contrary to Cameron’s assertions, she’d gotten an excellent price for the place, and she and Jake had spent much of the last two weeks on e-mail, excitedly trawling the Internet for possible sites for the new LA store.
Although surprised by their partnership—bringing Scarlett onboard had been entirely Jake’s idea—Danny was fully behind it. He didn’t want to make things worse for Jake by going on about it, but he couldn’t help but be concerned at the degree to which the ridiculous Tyler Brett had encroached on the LA side of Solomon Stones’ business. A joint venture with someone as high-profile and, crucially, as legit as Scarlett (after Jake’s dalliance with simulants last year, they needed to be whiter than white) might finally turn their flagging fortunes around.
“Things are moving fast, though,” said Jake. “Did you see that interview she did in Marie Claire? Great prepublicity for us.”
Danny looked at his brother archly.
“You mean the one where she’s wearing that little gold number with all the cleavage? Yeah. I saw it,” he grinned.
“Can’t say I noticed what she was wearing,” mumbled Jake, unconvincingly.
It was perfectly plain to Danny that his brother fancied the pants off Scarlett. The bickering, the repeated, unnecessary dropping of her name into conversations, the constant comments about her being “too thin,” or “too tall,” or “too full of herself” for his taste were all classic giveaways. In fact, this was the only part of the LA plan that bothered him. Jake had a bad tendency to become obsessed with women until he slept with them, then lose interest overnight. Fine if the woman was a social friend or even an occasional customer, but not at all fine with one’s business partner. Happily, so far at least, his interest in Scarlett appeared to be entirely one-sided. For the first time Danny could ever remember, Jake seemed to have eyes for a girl who was utterly immune to his charms.
“Oi, come on, ref! What was that about?” Jake sprang to his feet, as excited about some presumed off-side infringement as if he’d been watching the match live and in person. “Did you see that?”
“Shocking,” said his dad, waking up with a start. “The man needs a white stick.”
“Anyone up for the pub?” asked Danny. It was no good; he couldn’t stop thinking about Diana. He had to get out of the house.
“What, now?” said Jake. “There’s still fifteen minutes of extra time.”
“All right, well, I’ll see you there then, yeah?” said Danny. And grabbing his coat, he shot out the front door before anyone could question him further.
Outside, a light dusting of snow had fallen, enough to turn the city streets from dark gray to light, without quite achieving true whiteness. It was bitterly cold, but the wind that had whipped through North London earlier in the day had died down, and Danny enjoyed watching his breath hang in the air in front of him as he walked, like the smoky puffs of a small dragon.
New York would be groaning with snow by now, he thought idly, and Telluride must be beautiful. Say what you like about the Yanks, but they knew how to pull the stops out at Christmas—twinkling lights everywhere, piped carols in the malls, eggnog lattes. He pictured Diana standing in the snow, as pale and tiny as a winter sprite, and felt a wave of longing bowl him over, flipping his stomach like a pancake. How the fuck was he going to make it through the next two weeks wi
thout her? And how the fuck was he going to live the rest of his life if she didn’t leave that son-of-a-bitch husband of hers and marry him?
He wanted so badly to confide in Jake. In the past, they’d talked to each other about everything, especially women. But he knew he couldn’t, not this time. Apart from the fact that he’d made Diana a solemn vow not to breathe a word of their affair to a soul—a vow that was in his interests as much as hers—he also knew that Jake would go absolutely nuts if he knew. They were already taking a calculated risk with Brogan by going into business with Scarlett. But banging the guy’s wife was a whole different magnitude. Not even Danny could see the big man forgiving and forgetting that one. And if he chose to, Brogan could make life very difficult indeed for Solomon Stones.
When Brogan got back to the chalet around six, after a day’s skiing with Natalia and her imaginary friends, he seemed to be entirely his normal self. The maids fixed him his usual bourbon and soda, and he spent a typical fifteen minutes downstairs on the couch, skimming through the business papers and unwinding before heading up to his room to change.
“Is Mrs. O’Donnell home?” he asked casually, downing the remnants of his drink as he climbed the wooden stairs.
“Yes, sir, of course,” said the maid. “She’s in the bedroom. I think she might be sleeping.”
Diana, in fact, had just woken up from a doze and was on her way into the shower. The water was already running, its hot jets pounding the slate floor of the wet room, and thin wisps of steam were winding their way into the bedroom, mingling with the lavender and sage scents of her favorite Bougies candles.
The hiss of the shower was so loud that at first she didn’t hear Brogan come in. Turning around, she was startled to find him standing immediately behind her.
“Darling. You scared me,” she said, instinctively wrapping the towel more tightly around her.
“Did I?” Yanking the towel away with unnecessary force, he grabbed her naked body and pulled her to him. His hand on the small of her back was cold from clasping the bourbon glass. But his eyes were even colder.
“Is something wrong?” asked Diana.
Brogan didn’t respond. Instead, pushing her back on to the bed, he pressed his whole body weight on top of her and began fumbling with his fly.
“Honey, stop,” Diana laughed nervously. “Come on. We have ten people coming for dinner in less than an hour. I need to get ready, and so do you.”
He looked at her. For the rest of her life, Diana would never forget that look. Like a wounded animal fighting for its life, she saw hatred, fear, and rage swimming in his eyes. The next thing she knew, he was inside her, grinding painfully against her, fucking her with a roughness and violence she’d never known in him before.
“Brogan, stop!” she cried out, panic starting to seep into her. “What is this? You’re hurting me.”
She was so dry, he felt enormous inside her, like a rolling pin grating against sandpaper. But he ignored her cries, thrusting faster and harder, biting painfully into her shoulder as his frenzy mounted. Finally climaxing, with a noise like a sob, he withdrew, zipped up his pants, and walked wordlessly into the bathroom, leaving her shaking and whimpering on the bed while he splashed cold water onto his face.
By the time he came back out, she’d slipped on the dress she was wearing earlier—still in shock, her nakedness was making her feel even more vulnerable—and stood by the dresser, staring into space.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered, cowering away from him. “Why…?”
But she didn’t get any further. Lunging across the room, he swung his fist at her face with such force and suddenness that she didn’t have a second even to raise her arms in defense. The next thing she knew she was flying across the room, her back slamming into the far wall like something out of a bad action movie.
“How could you do it? How!” Brogan roared. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”
Hauling her up off the floor like a rag doll, he hit her again, a slap across the mouth this time but still hard enough to draw blood.
Numbed with adrenaline and shock, Diana felt no pain, but merely stared at him, mute and incredulous.
“I thought you were better than that. Better than all the other cheap, money-grabbing whores.” Another punch to the ribs sent her sliding to the floor again. One of her eyes had closed up, but with the other she looked up and saw tears streaming down his cheeks. “But you’re not. You’re just the same. You’re just the fucking same!”
Some time passed. She wasn’t sure if it was seconds or minutes. Brogan had gone back to the bed and sat down, his head in his hands. He was shaking, she thought crying, but it was hard to tell. Her senses were playing tricks on her. Her vision was blurry and even sound seemed muffled. She was aware of blood pouring from her lip and pooling into her lap, soaking the white dress. And yet a part of her felt oddly calm, relieved almost, that the dreaded moment of discovery and confrontation had at last arrived.
“Danny Meyer.” Brogan was speaking again, apparently to himself. “Danny fucking Meyer, of all people! Some two-bit dealer, some nobody.” He shook his head. “What can he possibly give you that I don’t?”
“Time,” said Diana, gently. “Affection.”
“I give you affection!” shouted Brogan, turning to look at her. Diana reached up and touched her bloodied face, but said nothing. “I shower you with gifts, with jewels, with clothes. I buy you beautiful homes, fill them with whatever you want. I get you the best fucking doctors…Is that what it is?” he asked desperately, as though the thought had just occurred to him. “Are you mad at me for not giving you a child?”
“No!” said Diana. “Of course not. I’m not even mad at you. I’m unhappy, Brogan, that’s all. I’m lonely.”
“So what? So you go creeping off to have sex with that slimeball? That fuck! You’re lonely, so it’s all OK?” His rage was building again. Diana scrambled back away from him into the corner, but he made no move in her direction. Instead he picked up one of the scented candles, a saucepan-size glass circle, and threw it onto the floor, sending glass and hot wax flying in every direction.
“Is it OK when you sleep with girls from your agency? When you bring them to our homes?” Diana challenged him bravely. “What about Natalia?”
“That’s different,” said Brogan.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a man, that’s why. It’s different for men. We need variety. Besides, Natalia means nothing to me. I’ve always respected you.”
Diana let the ridiculousness of this statement hang in the air between them. It was Brogan who spoke again.
“Do you love this guy?”
It was bizarre. She was the one lying bruised and bloodied on the floor. And yet in that moment it was Brogan who seemed the more vulnerable.
“I do,” whispered Diana. “Yes, I do.”
Letting out a great bellow of grief and fury, Brogan flew at her again, lifting her by the shoulders and shaking her so violently that Diana could feel her brain rattling back and forth in her skull. Scared she might pass out, she at last found the strength to start fighting back. Flailing out wildly with her legs, she landed a couple of useless kicks against his stomach before hitting him more by accident than design in the balls.
“You bitch!” hissed Brogan, releasing his grip as he clutched his groin. Aware that this might be her one and only chance to escape, Diana ran, flinging open the bedroom door and throwing herself blindly down the stairs.
“Mrs. Diana?” The maid came out of the kitchen and gasped in shock when she saw Diana’s swollen face. “Oh my God!” she shrieked. “What happen?”
“Mr. O’Donnell,” panted Diana, pulling on the nearest pair of snow boots and a quilted jacket just as Brogan staggered onto the landing. “Please…try and stop him.” And she bolted out of the front door like a hunted fox, running for her life.
The next twenty minutes were a blur. At first she was sure she could hear Brogan behind her,
and all she wanted to do was put as much distance between them as possible, weaving in and out of side streets and pitch-black alleyways until pretty soon she had no idea which way was up. Not until she was convinced she’d lost him did she start to feel the cold. The snow boots and jacket were woefully inadequate protection against the minus-ten-degree temperature, and her bare legs and hands had long since gone completely numb. Only yesterday she’d been reading about some drunken revelers who’d died of exposure earlier in the season after failing to find their way back to their slope-side condo. She had to get indoors, and quickly.
At the end of the street she saw a late-night convenience store, a place where the local kids who were too young to get into the bars used to hang out after hours. She’d never been inside—she and Brogan weren’t really convenience-store people—but had passed it hundreds of times and always thought it looked cozy and inviting, with its 1950s advertisements and its old-fashioned milkshake counter. Quickening her pace, but too cold to run, she limped toward the light it threw out over the street.
“Can I help you?” asked the pimply teenage kid behind the counter, on autopilot, without looking up from his Nintendo DS Lite.
“Phone,” whispered Diana. Her teeth were chattering so much she could barely get the word out. “I need a ph-ph…I need to make a call.”
“Holy crap!” said the kid, at last looking at her properly. “You want me to call the cops? You want some, er, some hot tea? Carl!” He yelled out back to his colleague. “Get me some blankets from the closet and some hot water. We got a situation here.”
Diana’s skin, by this point, had turned a mottled shade of blue, a combination of bruising and cold. Her left eye was swollen like a plum and fully closed. The gash on her lip had stopped bleeding, but a lump the size of a Babybel cheese was forming there, and enough blood had already spilled down her dress and jacket to make it look as though she’d been stabbed.
Flawless Page 17
