by Jill Mansell
“Bor-ing!” pouted the journalist, holding out her glass for a refill. “Come on, Max, give me a break. You can be indiscreet with me. Is marriage on the cards?”
Max, who had been drinking since two o’clock—running off five hundred copies of Tessa’s exhibition brochure was thirsty work, after all—was aware that he was on the verge of being alarmingly indiscreet. But, he reasoned, did it really matter? He loved Francine, and Francine loved him in return; she’d told him so when he’d phoned her just the other week.
With a faint smile he said, “Well, I wouldn’t rule it out…”
• • •
“How am I?” echoed Holly, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “How am I? I’m in love with Max, who treats me like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. As far as he’s concerned, I’m nothing more than a series of one-night stands without the hassle of having to remember a string of different names. I told him that I didn’t want to see him anymore, and he had to pretend to be disappointed. I don’t think I can cope with working for him any longer, and I’ve been offered a job abroad, but I don’t think I could cope with that either because it means I won’t see Max anymore. Apart from all that,” she concluded wearily, “I’m fine.”
He’d scarcely seen her since that night they’d spent together at her apartment, and on those few occasions when they’d met at Tessa’s cottage afterward the atmosphere between them had been strained to say the least, impotence being a first for both of them. Dominic recalled how his own humiliation, coupled with Holly’s conviction that she must be about as physically attractive as a garden slug, had resulted in the unhappiest of nights. Their mutual failure—for she had insisted that the fault must lie with her—had remained their dark, shameful secret. At least he bloody well hoped it had; if she’d opened her mouth to a living soul he’d never speak to her again.
But now her own unhappiness had overcome that awkwardness between them, and his heart went out to her.
“Well, he obviously liked your body,” he said with a crooked smile. “Surely that must give you some comfort.”
“It makes it worse,” insisted Holly miserably. “Sex was the only thing he was interested in, when he was with me. I felt like a blow-up doll. It was awful.”
“Then leave.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“In that case,” said Dominic with a trace of exasperation, “stay.”
“How can I stay?” she wailed, spilling white wine down the sleeve of his denim shirt. “He doesn’t love me. That’s even worse.”
• • •
Having been thoroughly jostled as she made her way across the hot, crowded room—Max was now talking to Sylvie and Colin, but Caroline Newman remained superglued to his side—Holly pushed open the doors that led out onto the terrace and stepped outside. The cold night air fanned her hot cheeks. The floodlit lawns sloping away into inky darkness reminded her of the huge step into the unknown that she now knew she herself had to take.
Moments later, Tessa and Adam joined her. Adam, who had had the foresight to bring a bottle out with him, refilled their glasses.
“I shouldn’t,” said Tessa. “If I get drunk I might start telling Max what I think of him.”
“Shame on you!” mocked Adam. “Just when he’s finally forgiven you for adding him into that painting you did for Ross.”
The Party, the only picture not for sale at the exhibition, was still attracting a gratifying amount of interest from dealers, critics, and ordinary art lovers alike. If Ross had wanted to, he could have sold it twenty times over. Wary of stereotyping herself, Tessa was nevertheless coming to realize that this was the style people most preferred; paintings like The Party were what they wanted above all else. However unwittingly this time, she thought with a rueful smile, Ross had sealed her future once more.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Holly, carefully perching herself on the edge of a table. The ice-cold metal bit into the back of her thighs. “Adam, is it warm in the Algarve at this time of year?”
In the darkness he was unable to see her face. Taking care not to overreact, he said simply, “Yes.”
“And is Portuguese an easy enough language to pick up?”
“It is.” He assumed it would be. He didn’t care whether it was or not. If Holly was coming with him to Portugal, nothing else mattered. But just to be on the safe side, he lied. “Of course it is. The easiest language in the world.”
“Hmm.” Pausing, she took a calculated sip of her drink. “In that case, maybe I’ll be able to scrape by after all.”
“You’re going to Vilamoura!” exclaimed Tessa, who was obviously au fait with the situation. Gosh, thought Holly, au fait. Maybe I should consider a job in France instead.
“If Adam’s sure he doesn’t mind,” she said, all of a sudden feeling unaccountably shy.
Mind? Adam, pondering her choice of word, shook his head and smiled into the darkness. Maybe at last, with Max out of the way, he might stand a chance of bringing her around to his way of thinking. He might stand a real chance with her.
“I think I may be able to bear it.”
Tessa gave Holly a hug. “You’re doing the right thing,” she assured her. “But I’ll miss you terribly. So, when are you going?”
Almost exhilarated now by the fact that she had made the fateful decision, Holly said, “Tomorrow.” Then she paused and bit her lip. “Well, tomorrow would be nice, but I suppose I’ll have to work out my notice first.”
Grace, holding an exhausted Olivia, had appeared in the open doorway. The same thought struck both her and Tessa simultaneously, but Grace would never have dared to voice it herself.
Tessa, however, recognized a neat solution when she saw one. “We’ll speak to Ross,” she said, removing her fractious daughter from Grace’s arms and exchanging a brief, secret smile with her. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”
Chapter 58
Antonia shivered as she stepped out of the taxi. On the way over to the hotel she had been taking a furtive swig of vodka just as the driver had swerved to avoid a rabbit, and the icy liquid had spilled down the front of her white Alexander McQueen dress. Now the material clung wetly to her breasts, which didn’t exactly look chic. Still, never mind; she could hang around outside for five minutes, use the time to compose herself. Mustn’t get too drunk, though. She needed to ensure maximum impact, and for that she had to keep her wits about her. Besides, she wanted to be able to remember every moment of it afterward. Where was the fun in causing a truly memorable upset if all that remained the next morning was a foggy blur?
Her train of concentration was rudely interrupted less than a minute later. As she picked her way along the narrow, unlit path leading toward the back of the hotel, she tripped over an abandoned shoe.
Scooping it up and flinging it into the bushes, she hit Colin Rowland squarely between the shoulders.
“Christ! What’s that?” he howled.
Sylvie giggled beneath him. Colin, still regarding himself as the hero of the hour, had insisted upon celebrating alfresco. The cold November air and mattress of dead leaves, however, left a lot to be desired in terms of comfort. As long as it wasn’t Ross, Sylvie didn’t mind being interrupted at all.
“Disgusting,” pronounced Antonia, catching a glimpse of pale buttocks and crimson boxer shorts as Colin scrambled to his feet and hauled up his trousers.
“My God, it’s Antonia Seymour-Smith,” whispered Sylvie, in turn recognizing the white silk-clad figure and that clipped, derogatory tone. “Tessa’s going to love this.”
“I ain’t crazy about it meself.” Colin, who regarded himself as Tessa’s savior, had heard enough about Antonia to know that he didn’t like her. And since, unlike Sylvie, he didn’t have a job to lose, he turned, unsmilingly, to face her.
“Look, nobody wants you ’ere, stirring up trouble. Why don’t you just
go ’ome?”
He was good-looking enough in an unpolished way, Antonia supposed. Observing him carefully, giving him the old up-and-down, she shook her head. The original rough diamond. And that appalling accent… “I’ll do exactly what I want to do,” she replied with disdain, tossing her half-smoked cigarette at his feet. “And it’ll take a lot more than a brainless gorilla like you to stop me. Particularly a brainless gorilla who copulates without even bothering to remove his cowboy boots.”
• • •
Holly saw her first, carelessly helping herself to a glass of wine and spilling at least a third of it as she swung around to survey the scene.
Hell, she thought, irritation mingling with unease. Antonia wasn’t meant to be here; Ross had supposedly spoken to her about it, explaining that it was Tessa’s night. The last thing they needed was a clinging, over-emotional ex-lover causing friction and rotting up the evening.
Seconds later, Max spotted her too. Swearing beneath his breath, he moved swiftly across the room to Antonia’s side.
Party, party, thought Antonia, smiling at a middle-aged man in a hideous maroon-velvet dinner jacket. We’re having a party, what fun.
“Antonia, what are you doing?” demanded Max in a low voice. His fingers closed around her upper arm, and she looked pointedly down at them.
“Am I under arrest?” Her eyebrows arched in surprise. Pouting pink lips curved with sly amusement. “My dear Max, you must know what a great lover I am”—there was a provocative pause, then she added delicately—“of fine art.”
“You aren’t supposed to be here; you know that.” She could be difficult; he knew he would have to tread with great care. “You must realize how awkward the situation is.”
Antonia laughed and took another sip of her drink. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression that this was a public exhibition. Don’t I have as much right as anybody else to admire Tessa’s work, and to maybe purchase a couple of her charming paintings if I so wish?”
She was glad she hadn’t finished the rest of that vodka. Her diction was still crisp—God, even Julie Andrews would be envious—and her mind sharp enough to realize that if she could allay Max’s suspicions from the outset, she would have cleared that first, all-important hurdle. A quick argument followed by unceremonious ejection from the hotel would mean an entirely wasted journey.
Still smiling up at Max, aware of curious eyes upon the pair of them, she watched him struggle with his conscience. She was the tragically bereaved young widow, after all. And nobody liked to upset a widow. It simply wasn’t done.
“If it makes you any happier,” she whispered confidingly, “I won’t stay long. Let me just take a look at the paintings, make my choice…and then I’ll go.”
It was such an eminently reasonable request that Max knew he couldn’t argue with it. With a shrug, he let go of her arm. He’d done his bit, he told himself. If Ross didn’t like it, he’d have to do the dirty work himself.
“All right,” he said, taking a step backward and for a fraction of a second meeting Holly’s unsmiling gaze across the room. “But don’t take all night. And just be…nice. OK?”
Nice party, thought Antonia gleefully as he moved away. Nice people. Nice Tessa Duvall. It was enough to make a normal person throw up.
Aware more than ever now of the attention she was attracting from different corners of the room, she wandered obediently across to the nearest painting and studied with the appropriate degree of absorption a medium-sized portrait of Holly King—overweight and overdressed as usual—painting her toenails. What a waste of paint.
• • •
Concealing her own unease and determined not to allow Antonia’s arrival to spoil her night, Tessa turned back to the young reporter who was covering the event for the local paper.
“I’m sorry. Where were we?”
“I was just saying,” said the girl earnestly, “how lucky you are to have a boyfriend who was able to put his own hotel at your disposal. If it weren’t for Ross Monahan, this exhibition wouldn’t have been able to go ahead, would it?”
Arranging the exhibition with Marcus Devenish was something Tessa had been inordinately proud of doing, something she had achieved without the assistance of anyone else. Grateful as she was to Ross, it still rankled to know that her own solo effort had now been nullified. It was the fourth time in the space of less than three hours that the same challenging statement had been put to her.
“I’m sure the exhibition would still have been held,” she replied, taking care to conceal her irritation and speaking in even, measured tones. “Not tonight, of course, but at some stage in the future—”
“Still,” interrupted the girl, “having a rich boyfriend to help you out must be nice.”
“Oh yes.” Tessa, watching Antonia as she swayed back toward the drinks table for a refill, was unable on this occasion to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “It’s the answer to a dream. If he hadn’t had money, I’d never have slept with him in the first place.”
• • •
Fucking hell, thought Ross, returning from taking an overseas call in his office and halting abruptly in the doorway as the crowds momentarily parted to reveal Antonia standing before one of the paintings at the far end of the room.
Grace materialized at his side, her expression equally unamused. “She turned up five minutes ago. Max spoke to her,” she said tightly. “He says she’s all right, but I don’t trust her. She’s a troublemaker.”
Ross leaned on his stick, relieving the ache in his left leg. The sense of uncomfortable responsibility he felt toward Antonia returned. She was alone, conspicuously solitary, and although he had asked her not to come, the air of sadness underlying her cool facade wasn’t easy to ignore.
“Maybe she’ll leave soon,” he said with a brief, reassuring smile in Grace’s direction.
“Hmm,” said Grace, not returning his smile.
• • •
Although she tried hard not to look at her, Mattie found her gaze helplessly drawn in Antonia’s direction time and time again. This was Richard’s widow, she thought, studying the slim, elegant figure in shimmering white and wondering how Antonia would feel if she knew that standing less than six feet away from her was his mistress, pregnant with his child. Then she shivered, glad that Antonia didn’t know. Such ice-cold beauty coupled with the sharpness of tongue for which Antonia was famous could undoubtedly destroy her at a stroke. And it didn’t matter anyway, thought Mattie, because Richard had really loved her, not Antonia, and that was a secret really worth keeping…
They were all watching her, thought Antonia, swinging around and catching them off guard. It was actually rather amusing picking them out: Max, Hugh Stone, Holly King… There was Ross, talking to that dreary little waitress, and Tessa Duvall, even Adam Perry… All watching her like prison-bloody-guards…
“And who the hell do you think you’re staring at?” she demanded, her gaze fixing abruptly on the woman to her right.
Mattie, prickling with embarrassment and pretending not to have heard, hastily turned away.
“I said,” repeated Antonia with slow amusement, “what are you staring at? Do I know you or something?”
“No… I’m sorry…” The woman was blushing furiously.
Antonia grinned, enjoying herself enormously. “What are you, anyway?” she persisted. “Fat or pregnant?”
Mattie dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Richard had loved her… Nothing else mattered… Tears glistened in her eyes, and her voice caught in her throat. “Me?” she said, forcing herself to meet Antonia’s glittering blue gaze. “I’m pregnant.”
• • •
“What did she say to you?” Grace, fiercely protective of her mother, glared at Antonia’s retreating back.
“Nothing.” Mattie shook her head, not wanting to cause any trouble. “She…sh
e asked me if I was pregnant, that’s all.”
“You should have told her that it was Richard’s baby.”
“Grace!”
“Well, maybe not,” conceded her daughter with a shrug. Then she smiled. “But Richard paid for the silk knickers you’re wearing, didn’t he? It’s a shame you couldn’t at least have told her that.”
• • •
It was so unfair, thought Antonia, jealousy churning inside her as she watched Ross and Tessa together. If the calculating bitch hadn’t managed to get herself knocked up, it could all have been so different.
In the days following Richard’s death, she recalled now, she had been devastated but at the same time happy, because Ross had come back to her. In its way, it had been almost perfect, just like old times, until he had had that stupid accident and Tessa had flown back and ruined it all, forcing her unceremoniously out of the picture. Now Ross was treating her, Antonia, like some kind of frail, elderly aunt; he was kind, solicitous…and distant. And she was damned if she was going to go along with this bloody stupid charade a moment longer. She loved him too much to allow it to happen. It was time he took notice of her once more. Proper notice of her. Ignoring her like this, pretending that she barely even existed, simply wasn’t fair.
• • •
It was achieved in less than five seconds flat. For Tessa, who saw it happen, it seemed more like five minutes played out in agonizingly extended slow motion. One moment Antonia was standing quietly, clutching her drink and gazing up at The Party. The next moment, without any warning whatsoever, she had bent to remove her left shoe and taken an uneven step forward. The stiletto heel shattered the glass and gouged a hole in the center of the canvas. Someone screamed. The sound of the stiletto being dragged downward, tearing through the canvas and scraping viciously against the backing board beneath it, seemed to echo around the entire room. There was a terrible, appalled silence, broken only by the sound of Antonia stepping back to survey the result of her work and crushing already fragmented glass beneath her feet.
