Special Relationship

by Fox, Alessandra

  “Nick tells me you like jazz,” she said as she came back into the garden with Miles Davis's 'So What' playing from a CD player on the patio, loud enough to further enchant the already beguiling gardens of that part of London.

  “Big fan.. Reminds me of the nice side to New York.”

  Katherine thought that suggested there was something about New York that for her had a bad side, but she stopped herself from asking.

  “And you and Nick are going away at the weekend?”

  “Yes we are going to see his horse.”

  “I think Nick missed his last run, you know, dealing with, err, stuff, and he won again.”

  “I know. I love horses but didn't know much about racing until Ascot. Now I've started reading the races pages, to check for any news on Manarola. Can't wait to see him again.”

  When it started to chill, they went inside and drunk coffee. Katherine frequently looked at her phone, Alex thought she was looking for a message from her husband, and she began to recall what it used to be like for herself.

  Otherwise the evening finished as pleasantly as it had begun. They both went upstairs to see Cheng sleeping soundly in his bed, whispering together so not to disturb him. Then the sound of a car pull up outside. “I think it's your cab,” said Katherine, peaking through the curtains of the room.

  They walked down the stairs and kissed on the cheek.

  “Oh, before you go, I've got something,” she said, rushing to the kitchen. “Fortune cookie,” she said as she came back.

  “Oh, that's so lovely. Thanks Katherine, I've had a really nice evening.”

  In the car on the way home she unwrapped the small parcel and bit into the contents. She undid the tiny scroll inside and read the hand-written message. “You will be good friends with a person who treated you very badly.”

  Three days later she was packing her bags for a weekend in the English countryside to see the racehorse, only for Christos to drive her to the airport for a flight.

  “No, Manarola, the town in Italy, not the horse. I told you he is a a bad man,” Christos laughed as they approached Heathrow. She now remembered how he had precisely phrased the text invitation: “Do you want to see Manarola?”

  “You are right, CG, I should have never got involved,” kissing him on the cheek before leaving the car. He carried her bag, the contents ill-equipped for the trip as they were, to the terminal. “Italy is nice but it's not Greece,” he said. “You and Nick will visit, won't you?”

  “We will,” she smiled.

  She remembered now Kerry had asked her for her passport a few days earlier, citing some Companies House technicality. Now she saw Nick holding it aloft with a big grin and a look of triumph on his face.

  “You are such a fuckwit,” she greeted him.

  “I know I am.”

  They boarded the plane to Genoa and took the rest of the journey by car. He had hired an open-top BMW which he planned to drive himself.

  “What no driver and no Ferrari?” she joked.

  “Wanted it to be just the two of us,” he explained. “And we don't need to show off, do we?”

  “So says the man who has an Aston at his seaside home.”

  “A fine example of English class and understatement,” he replied.

  Once they had left the city and started to follow a coastal road, Nick stopped the car to lower the roof. She took off her jacket and put on sunglasses, kissing him in between.

  “They don't do much in the way of roads here,” he warned her as they arrived on the edge of Manarola and he carefully navigated one of the steep, narrow streets.

  He told her that it was the oldest of the Cinque Terre, the five villages or “lands” that made up the world heritage site. “They are only about twelve miles apart, so we can visit every one,” he said. “And we might become members of the Cinque Terre club”.

  “You are not already?”

  “No the club hasn't started yet. And we will be its first members,” he laughed.

  Their hotel, La Toretta, although expensive by Alex's standards, was probably bargain basement for him. But she could quickly tell how happy he was to be there.

  “Mr Hensen, so glad to see you again,” the receptionist greeted him. “And you have a beautiful guest,” she added looking at Alex.

  “Best I could find Maria,” he joked before Alex kicked his leg.

  “You very lucky to have any guest at all,” she replied, winking at Alex. “Come, I'll show you to your room.”

  The small balcony looked above the rooftops of small, yellow, orange and pink houses over a valley between the hills to the blue sea. “It's absolutely beautiful,” she said. He joined her and rubbed the back of her white shirt. But recognised the shuddering in her shoulders.

  “Alex, don't cry.”

  “Nick, I just feel so guilty about being happy.”

  “I know you do” he said, turning her around and holding her tightly. “Take a shower and I'll order us some food.”

  He ordered wine, buratta and bread and sat at the metal table made for just two.

  “Riomaggiore is south, very near, but Corniglia and the others are north. So I think if we pack light and rather take the hotel situation on the fly we should be good. But we'll take Riomaggiore first – it's an easy walk. Just be prepared for blisters for the others.”

  “Well if you had told me we were coming to Italy rather than the racing stables, I might well have been prepared.”

  “That's what I hate about you Alex Anderson, whether it be Frank's café or the Italian Riviera, you always fail to appreciate the efforts I go to...”

  She took his hand and squeezed it tight.

  The next morning, after she had woken him by biting him playfully on his rear. They skipped breakfast, nibbling only on the previous day's bread, washed and dressed for their trip.

  “Wear mine,” he said after she had complained that her heavy top was meant for Berkshire not Italy. She put on a stone-grey T-shirt and he laughed at her as she presented herself with the oversize clothing. “Seriously, it's not too big,” he assured her.

  They walked along a pathway built into the dry-stone cliff and stopped regularly to look at the sea.

  “Shared passion, isn't it?” she said as they watched the gentle rippling of the Mediterranean. “Imagine if the world was made up all of land.”

  “Nearly three-quarters ocean, thankfully,” he replied.

  It was their second day at breakfast when he revealed he had other “other things to sort.”

  “Like?”

  “Not the time or place, but can we discuss it on the way to Corniglia.”

  She looked at him and for a reason she couldn't explain other than some comments he'd made about visiting Megan's grave, and that she was growing ever closer to him, had an inkling what might be in his mind. “Must pee,” she said, going to the bathroom and sitting on the closed toilet seat.

  Nick had chosen the location carefully. Nowhere too public and not so remote that might involve a long, awkward car journey before or after he had made his suggestion. They could see Corniglia in the valley below when he asked if they could sit down and admire the view.

  They had been there a few minutes, neither saying anything, before, picking at the grass and without looking at her, he carefully broached the subject.

  “Alex, this is going to very painful for you and tell me if it's a really terrible idea and whether you don't even want to go there...

  “I didn't know the best time to suggest it...and now maybe is not the time...but I would do anything to make you as as peaceful as you can be... after what happened.

  “What I'd like to know is...well, firstly...I just need to know, you don't want to go back to New York?”

  “No, I don't.”

  “If it were possible, and I think it might be, would you like Megan to be closer to you, like in England?”

  “What are you saying?” she said, feeling her heart beat faster,

  “If you want to
leave her undisturbed then I understand. But it is possible that she can be brought to England so that you – and, I hope, we - can be closer to her. You will have to get the permission of the father – the natural father. But most of the legal stuff would go through our lawyers and it's your decision whether you want to go through the process. But I'm sure it can be done.”

  “You have checked?”

  “I wouldn't even suggest it if I wasn't certain it was possible – although the father's permission is the unknown. We would arrange a funeral here and that you'd have to be strong for that – but I'd be with you.

  “You would, though, of course then be rather committed to England, and if that's not what you want...well, you'll have to think.”

  Alex felt herself going pale.

  Chapter thirty-three: The castle and the Farewell Ball

  By the time Lord and Lady Ashton's 'Farewell to Britain' event was a few, cold autumn days away, their relationship was in the open and she had semi-moved into Nick's Park Lane flat, only returning to hers when he was on business trips. She'd even managed to achieve what she'd feared when she'd first been there and spilt red wine on his light-coloured cloth sofa.

  With the company, Kerry had by herself won them a new contract after which Alex insisted she take a bigger equity stake. She also ensured the two of them continued their once or twice weekly evening meet-up's, trying to fit them in when Nick was away.

  On one of their nights out, they laughed together how after his pay rise Adrian had given up his joke T-Shirts and had started to dress like a young executive and, how, after hers, Suzanne spent even longer on Facebook. Then Kerry whooped with delight when Alex told her she was invited to the “Lord and Lady” bash. “Hubby and Ollie too,” she told her.

  “We made it, didn't we babe...like with the company,” Kerry said.

  “You know I think we did,” Alex replied. “And you know what, thanks to you, I think I will too.”

  Katherine's fortune cookie message, that they would become good friends, proved prophetic, and she spent time with her too, enjoying her company while also, she hoped, helping to assuage the obvious loneliness induced by her errant husband.

  And Tavis she had met for a couple of whisky-drinking binges in Soho when he talked of her future with Nick, rather than question her past.

  On one of their jaunts he told her: “You know, I really did believe you were up to no good. Couldn't work out why you weren't a WAG already, which Alex knew to be an acronym used in the British press for wives and girl friends, usually of rich football stars.

  “But he has given you the all-clear and I trust his judgement,” he told her on one of their trips.

  There was however one problem she hadn't anticipated. A picture of her and Nick leaving a night club turned up in a gossip magazine under the headline 'Special Relationship'. Alex cringed on reading the sub head, “Yank babe snares rich Brit”, but it got worse several days later when he told her that an American journalist, recognising her from the picture, had been on to to him to ask whether this was the woman involved in the Harris murder case.

  “I think I persuaded him that whatever your resemblance to Leigh Harris, you are not her. But, I'm sorry, can't promise he won't dig further.”

  “Fuck it, Nick, I just can't get rid of my past.”

  “You don't want to get rid of your past – your past is your beautiful little girl.”

  She held him tightly. “Why do you have to be so fucking perfect?”

  The rain pelted against the big glass windows of his apartment and she sat on the new sofa listening to music. Nick was at the table with his laptop working on some figures for a meeting he had the next day.

  In her mind – as it had been since Italy – remained the biggest decision she'd ever had to make. She wondered again that if Megan was brought to England whether she could continue to hide her past to everyone outside Kerry and Nick. But the other consideration was most important – what her daughter would have wanted. Nick hadn't discussed it since Italy but she knew it was on his mind too.

  The next day she went to lunch with Lord and Lady Ashton in Bayswater.

  “At last I've got you all to myself ,” the Lord bellowed with his characteristic guffaw as he opened the door. “The old girl is having her hair done, but she'll be back soon, so we'll have to be quick.”

  “Henry, please behave yourself.”

  “OK, I'll settle for a brandy. You too?”

  “Why not,” she smiled.

  She had been to the Ashton's many times since Italy and she had grown even fonder of both of them. He told her that all the plans were in place for the weekend in Sussex and that they were both looking forward to the warmer climes of the Canaries.

  “We'll only come back if you and Nick announce your wedding date. If not we'll see you either if you visit or next May, but you must stay in touch. I don't know how to use that inter web thing, but Ellie does, so mail her electrically.”

  “Definitely,” Alex, suppressing a laugh, promised before Lady Ashton returned with her driver.

  “I thought you were going to get your hair done, woman?”

  “Yes, I did, Henry. Now try to act your age.

  “How much did they charge?” he asked. But Lady Ashton ignored him and kissed Alex on both cheeks. “You bring sanity to our home, I'm so glad you came,” she said.

  They spent the evening discussing the plans for the big event and Alex assured them that, with Katherine's meticulous planning, everything would be fine.

  “We do it every year, Ellie. What can possibly go wrong, apart from some drunken politician falling in the lake and drowning?”

  “That wouldn't reflect very well on us and probably delay our trip, Henry.”

  Alex laughed at them and was reminded why Henry got on so well with Nick, with their shared penchant for wisecracks and banter.

  She was as buoyant as she had been since making her escape from New York and, as she travelled back in the taxi, looked forward to rewarding the man who had helped make it possible. The lift knew her by now – face recognition, apparently – and there was no need to wait for the screen.

  ”Where are you?” she called as she entered the apartment.

  “Here,” he replied, laying on the sofa, looking at flashing prices on his laptop.

  “Hope the high-flyer is not too busy or tired,” she said as she undid his zip.

  “I think the Japanese stock market can wait.”

  He ran his hand under her skirt and dragged down her underwear as she straddled him face down. “And to what do I owe this show of affection?”

  “Oh she said,” as she came up to reply, “I was propositioned by Henry today and I just wanted to check I'm with the right man.”

  “He's eighty whatever, that's outrageous Alex.”

  “No, this is outrageous Nick,” she replied as her tongue probed further.

  Later in the evening they showered together and then cuddled up to listen to jazz and to plan their own arrangements for the Ashton's event the next Saturday.

  They decided that they'd travel alone, or at least alone bar Christos and Jamie, the bodyguard, who Nick insisted was necessary to appease any of his investors there.

  “Katherine will send another car to travel a different route or different time with Kerry and her family. Don't want to look like we are heading a Royal cavalcade, do we?”

  “We certainly don't,” she replied before they fell asleep still huddled together on the sofa.

  When the big day arrived, Kerry must have been more nervous than any of the those invited. She didn't want to let Alex down and wasn't practised in making conversation with VIPs, nobility or even very wealthy people like Nick.

  “Are you ready, yet?” she called to Luke half an hour before the car was due to arrive.

  “Ten minutes,” he said.

  “It's just the weekend and we are staying one night,” Nick reminded Alex as she queued bags and cases by the lift.

  “I'm a bi
t scared,” she said.

  “Well don't be, you know the hosts, you know me; Tavis and Katherine will be there, and Kerry. And you can tell the politicians to fuck off. Oh, and I think that actress from the film we saw the other day will be there. You can tell her she must be sore from the casting couch, and that the film was dire.”

  Christos had never been nervous in his life, Alex guessed, as he drove them down the motorway with Jamie following behind. “Anyone important here today?” he asked his boss.

  “Yeah, you are driving her, CG,” he replied, rubbing her leg.

  Alex caught Christos's grin in the rear view mirror.

  “Jesus,” she remarked as they arrived at the Ashton estate. “This would take up a large chunk of London.” Brockhurst House, a grand white stone home set in acres of grassland broken up only by a number of sprawling oak trees and a vast lake, was not what she expected of an English stately home. “It's huge and very unusual-looking,” she remarked.

  “Regency period,” he said. “A time of great excess when they tended not to follow what had gone before. They got pissed and built grand avant-garde homes. It took their minds off Napoleon.”

  Trying to put her at ease, he added: “Just remember, it's all inherited.”

  Those words became a mantra throughout the weekend as, in turn, Alex tried to calm Kerry but it was the Lord and Lady themselves who did most to make a woman whose parents had brought her up on a social housing estate in a rough part of London, most comfortable.

  “It's open to the public most of the year, Kerry,” Lady Ashton told her. “We get to use it a few days a year. Far too big run for us old people and we'd need a very big overdraft facility.”

  She and Luke were then invited to “evening drinks” and were soon won over by The Lord's buffoonery act. Nick and Alex attended too and the woman discussed what a likeable couple the nobles were. “What's not to like?” Kerry said. “They might have got lucky – accident of birth and all that – but you have to admire their class.”

  “Guess you shouldn't judge people by the amount of money they have wherever it came from," Alex remarked.