by Jill Mansell
Adam reached her first, his normally ruddy face white with fury. Not trusting himself to speak, he simply grabbed her and half dragged, half carried her toward the exit.
This was it, thought Antonia triumphantly. This was exactly what she’d needed to do in order to make Ross realize that he couldn’t just disown her when it was convenient for him to do so. The expression on Tessa’s face was worth it all.
“Ross doesn’t love you,” she said loudly enough to ensure that absolutely everyone could hear. “He loves me; he’ll always love me—”
Adam’s vast hand, salty and suffocating, clamped down over her mouth. She tried to bite it but couldn’t. Within moments they’d reached the doorway leading out onto the terrace. And Ross was right behind them, she realized with relief. It was all right, he was here, everything was going to be all right…
“I’ll call the police,” said Adam grimly, but Ross shook his head.
“Christ, isn’t it bad enough already? This is Tessa’s exhibition; for her sake let’s leave the police out of it, for now at least.” His fingers around her arm weren’t exactly gentle, but they were an improvement upon Adam Perry’s ferocious, bearlike grip. Able to breathe once more, Antonia cast a sidelong smile up at him as he led her toward the conservatory.
“I knew you’d understand.”
Opening the door, pushing her through, and locking it behind him, he shook his head. The expression in his dark eyes, an amalgam of anger and sheer disbelief, made her shudder.
“I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing. You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m not.” Trembling now, she collapsed into one of the cane chairs. Why didn’t he understand? Why wasn’t he reassuring her, putting his arms around her and telling her that everything would be all right? “I’m not,” she insisted, her eyes filling with tears. “I love you.”
At a complete loss, so angry that he thought he might hit her, Ross quickly turned away. “Don’t be so bloody stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” sobbed Antonia, wrenching open her bag and groping blindly for a handkerchief. “And you love me. We were happy until she came along. She ruined everything. And then when Richard d-died, you came back to me and we were h-happy again. You don’t love her; you can’t love her… It’s not fair!”
It was all going horribly wrong. She couldn’t even find a handkerchief. Still scrabbling in desperation at the bottom of her bag, her fingers closed around the small brown bottle of sleeping tablets the doctor had prescribed for her following Richard’s death.
“If that’s what you think,” came Ross’s derisive reply, “then you really are mad. Jesus, you march in here and wreck Tessa’s entire exhibition and expect me to approve of what you’ve done?”
He still had his back to her. Without even stopping to think, Antonia unscrewed the lid and tipped the contents of the bottle into her hand. There were maybe twenty pills in all, but they were shiny and lozenge-shaped—and ridiculously easy to swallow. Someone had left an untouched glass of wine on the table beside her, making swallowing them almost pleasurable. When she had shoveled them down, gagging slightly as their bitterness caught at the back of her throat, she smiled to herself. Now Ross would have to do something. He would have to show her, she thought with a surge of triumph, that he cared.
“Look,” she said, almost conversationally. When he turned, she held up the empty bottle. “I’ve just taken these pills. The whole lot.”
“Good,” Ross replied, his tone bleak. “Let’s hope they bloody work.”
Chapter 59
“I’m sorry about this.” Shivering uncontrollably, Tessa hauled Adam’s jacket around her shoulders, closing it around herself and Olivia. “But I couldn’t stay in there. Is that unreasonable? Hell, I don’t care if it is unreasonable—I’m sick and bloody tired of being patient and understanding. That bloody woman does exactly what she likes, and what does Ross do? Chases after her and leaves me on my own looking bloody stupid!”
Holly didn’t know what to say. She’d never seen Tessa so angry. She was cold too, but Adam only had one jacket. At least they’d be warmer inside the car.
Adam unlocked the doors and helped Tessa and Olivia into the backseat. “Where do you want to go? The cottage?”
“Anywhere,” said Tessa through gritted teeth that wouldn’t stop chattering. Then she covered her eyes with her hands and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but could we just wait here for a few minutes? Maybe Ross has gotten rid of her… He might be looking for me… I can’t just disappear without letting him know…”
“Of course,” said Adam, firmly noting that Olivia thankfully had fallen asleep. “Stop apologizing. We’ll wait here as long as you like.”
• • •
“Tell me again,” instructed Ross, realizing that the situation was potentially very serious indeed. He could cope with the storms of tears—he’d grown almost immune to them in the past months—but this new, manic euphoria was chilling. Antonia was actually proud of what she’d done. And she had made it abundantly clear that if he didn’t help her now, then no one else would.
“Sleeping tablets, about forty,” lied Antonia, her smile bright but her speech beginning to show distinct signs of slurring. “Acetaminophen, ooh…about thirty. Took those before I got here. And how much have I had to drink? Eight or nine glasses of wine, maybe a bit more. I could die, darling, right here in your beautiful conservatory. Then you’ll be able to remember me every time you set foot in here…”
Ross recalled only too well the pretty sister of an old school friend of his. Dumped by her fiancé, she had taken fifteen acetaminophen tablets, and the teenage cry-for-help had backfired because unknown to her, it was a lethal dose. The effects of the drug were insidious; the following day she had been sitting up in her hospital bed holding her errant fiancé’s hand and laughing at her own stupidity. Two days after that, liver failure had set in. Within a week she was dead.
And Antonia had taken twice that amount of acetaminophen in addition to the entire bottle of sleeping tablets.
“I’m going to call an ambulance,” he said, moving toward the locked door.
“If you leave me,” Antonia replied sweetly, “I’ll smash this wineglass and cut my wrists.”
Ross knew that he couldn’t risk calling her bluff. Neither was he strong enough to overpower her. But if he waited for her to lapse into the inevitable coma, it might be too late.
“What,” he asked wearily, “do you want?”
She smiled. “You. I want you. I’ll go to the hospital if you take me. But only you.”
• • •
“…he didn’t even stop to think how I’d feel, with all those people staring and whispering. I just can’t believe that I stood there like an absolute idiot, waiting for him to come back.” Tessa was rattling on, incapable of keeping quiet. All the frustrations of the past months, having welled up and been suppressed for so long, were now spilling out. And she didn’t care. She was sick to death of Antonia Seymour-Smith and bewildered by Ross’s humiliating betrayal. She had needed him, and he had disappeared. She’d had enough.
“The press will have fun,” she continued bitterly. “I can’t wait to see what they make of it all.”
“But, sweetheart, Ross only—”
“Please, Adam,” she snapped, intercepting his argument. “Please don’t make excuses for him. I want to go.”
She halted abruptly. Holly followed the direction of her gaze, her heart sinking as she recognized Ross and Antonia making their way slowly across the dimly lit parking lot.
“Oh God,” said Tessa brokenly. “And I really thought he’d be worried about me. And Olivia. What a joke.”
Adam’s warm hand brushed her shoulder. “Let me go speak to him.”
“No! Look at them.” Through the tinted glass of the rear window, sh
e watched Antonia stumble against Ross. His arm was around her waist, and although his own limp was discernible he was clearly supporting her, murmuring encouragement as they made their way toward his own car, parked less than twenty yards from Adam’s Rolls-Royce. “She’s ruined the entire evening,” Tessa whispered incredulously. “She’s ruined one of the most important nights of my entire life, and he’s comforting her instead of me.”
• • •
“Oh, Tess, you can’t just stay here all on your own,” wailed Holly, following her into the darkened cottage. As Tessa flicked on the light switch, the phone began to ring. Despite everything, she felt a surge of hope.
“Hello?”
“Is that Tessa Duvall? This is Andy Llewellyn of the Evening Post. Do you have any comment to make about—”
She slammed down the phone, then disconnected it.
“Holly’s right,” said Adam brusquely. “What do you want to do?”
Pale but dry-eyed, Tessa tightened her hold on Olivia, her only remaining comfort. As long as she had Olivia, nothing else mattered. Feeling almost sorry for Adam and Holly, now caught up in this whole miserable mess and clearly worried about her, she managed a faint smile.
“Well, our passports are upstairs.”
Adam, stepping forward, took the sleeping Olivia from her grasp. “In that case,” he replied with characteristic bluntness, “get packing.”
“It was a joke,” Tessa protested weakly.
“Bullshit,” he said. “This isn’t a joking matter. You’re coming to Vilamoura with us.”
• • •
“No comment,” hissed Ross, having limped downstairs at ten o’clock the following morning to find himself being confronted by a disgustingly eager Andy Llewellyn.
“Can you tell me where Tessa Duvall is, then?” demanded the reporter, determined to get his scoop. “Her cottage is empty and—”
“Shit.” On less than two hours’ sleep, Ross didn’t have the patience to cope with bright-eyed journalists and their inane comments. He knew that Tessa wasn’t at home. Nor was she at Holly’s apartment. Having left Antonia at the hospital, he had driven—strictly against doctor’s orders—all around Bath in search of her. She was nowhere to be found. “No fucking comment,” he repeated bitterly, since Andy Llewellyn continued to hover. “I mean it. Just get lost.”
“Coffee,” said Grace, when the journalist had grudgingly departed. For some inexplicable reason she was standing behind the reception desk dressed in a dark-blue jacket and matching skirt. Taking the proffered mug, he glared at her.
“What are you doing?”
“Holly’s left.” Grace, who had been mentally bracing herself for the last two hours, spoke calmly. Somebody had to, after all. “You need a receptionist. Sylvie’s been teaching me what to do.”
Sylvie couldn’t teach a puppy to pee, thought Ross, but since Grace appeared to have made up her mind, he couldn’t be bothered to argue. He had more important things to think about. Tessa and Olivia had disappeared. Holly had disappeared. It stood to reason that they were together.
“Where has Holly gone?” he said, forcing himself to sound merely interested. Grace eyed him with evident disapproval. “I don’t know,” she replied truthfully, “but I do know that she’s with Tessa, if that’s what you’re trying to find out.”
“Of course it’s what I’m trying to find out,” snapped Ross. “She’s disappeared. Again. I want to bloody well find her.”
“You’re the one who disappeared last night,” Grace reminded him pointedly. “She was upset. And I don’t blame her.”
The memory of Antonia lying unconscious in the hospital’s emergency room having her stomach pumped out and intravenous drips inserted into her arms flashed through his mind. It could be touch and go for a while, the doctor had warned him. She might still die.
“I don’t blame her either,” he said tonelessly, imagining how Tessa must have felt when he hadn’t returned. “But I didn’t have much choice at the time. When I see her I’ll be able to explain.”
For the very first time in her life, Grace found herself feeling sorry for her father. His dark eyes were underlined with shadows; he looked terrible. “I don’t know when you’ll see her,” she said, more gently now. “When Holly phoned me last night, she was calling from Heathrow.”
• • •
Max, finally putting in an appearance downstairs at midday, stared at Grace and said, “What are you doing here? Where’s Holly?”
“Holly doesn’t work here anymore,” replied Grace, on this occasion enjoying herself. Having treated poor Holly abominably for months, sympathy was the last thing he deserved. “She’s gone away.”
“What? She can’t have!” Max, incredulous, glanced along the reception desk as if half expecting to find Holly hiding behind the filing cabinet. “Where’s she gone?”
“I don’t know.” Grace wished she had a camera. The expression on his face was superb. “Abroad.”
“But she can’t do that.”
“Yes she can,” she replied evenly. “She already has.”
Chapter 60
Tessa, glad of the clean, salty breeze coming in off the sea, twisted her hair up in a scarf in order to keep it out of the way. Beside her on the scarlet rug, Olivia sucked her fingers and happily kicked her heels. Seeing her, visitors to Adam’s beachside restaurant automatically assumed her to be the daughter of Juliette, the black-haired, dark-eyed waitress. With her golden, all-over tan, Olivia looked more Portuguese than the Portuguese and clearly reveled in the heady, temperate climate of the Algarve.
At least someone was happy, thought Tessa as she pulled out her sketch pad and a box of pencils and attempted to drum up a bit of enthusiasm. But enthusiasm had been in pretty short supply for the past five weeks. Coming to terms with her own unhappiness had been difficult enough, but maintaining a facade of cheerfulness had been sheer torture.
Maintain it though was what she felt obliged to do. Adam and Holly, touchingly concerned for her well-being, had been so kind, and she had felt so deeply ashamed of herself that concealing her true feelings had seemed the only way of repaying their kindness. She had trained herself not to cry—at least, never when anyone else was in earshot—and to smile as if she meant it whenever a smile was required.
But the feelings she refused to allow anyone else to see, or to even guess existed, churned endlessly within her like a nest full of snakes. She was never unaware of them; they were always there, from the moment she woke up each morning to the time she eventually succumbed to another night of fitful sleep. The marvelous Portuguese food failed to tempt her, and she had lost weight. Holly was openly envious, whereas Tessa could only gaze down at her concave stomach and berate herself for her lack of control. Never one to indulge in self-pity, she found herself quite helplessly consumed by it.
And the awful sensation wasn’t showing any sign of going away, or even lessening. Each day was as depressing, as dishearteningly hard to bear as the one before. Time didn’t appear to be healing the wound at all.
Chewing the end of her pencil, Tessa gazed at the cluster of fishing boats hauled up above the shoreline, their nets spread like spiders’ webs over the bleached sand. It was such a tranquil scene; she didn’t understand why she couldn’t absorb some of that effortless tranquillity, why she couldn’t simply count her remaining blessings and get on with the rest of her life.
But thoughts of Ross continued to haunt her. Every time she reminded herself that he was undependable, her mind betrayed her, dragging up shared moments of laughter, closeness, and simple, gut-wrenching love. Whenever she told herself that he had betrayed her, memories of his bravery, tolerance, and many extravagant gestures flashed to the fore.
It was a no-win situation, depressing in the extreme. And having to pretend that everything was fine—that she was, as always, in control of her emotions—was the
most dreadfully depressing part of all.
• • •
Adam wanted Tessa to be happy almost as much as he wished that Holly would fall in love with him. Sadly, he wasn’t at all convinced that either wish was likely to be fulfilled. Holly was a huge hit with the customers in the restaurant, and she was working with touching diligence to expand her Portuguese vocabulary, but the necessary magic—that indefinable chemistry—had so far failed to materialize. She never even so much as mentioned Max, but he sensed nevertheless that Max was there, in her mind. The only good news, he thought dryly, was that he wasn’t the only man in Vilamoura who didn’t possess that elusive chemistry. Locals and visitors alike, charmed by her wonderfully voluptuous body and russet curls, did everything in their power to charm her in return and were smilingly rejected every time. She was impervious to their outrageous flattery. These handsome, dark-skinned, dark-eyed men interested her not at all, which was a relief in one way, thought Adam, except that he would have been a great deal happier if only he could rid himself of the lingering suspicion that this cheerful, hardworking, morally impeccable member of staff was a mere two-dimensional clone of the real Holly King.
It was midafternoon, the quiet period between lunch and dinner, and the restaurant was virtually empty. Holly, sitting behind the bar, had her head bent over a book. When Adam approached, she leaped a mile and the book, sliding off her knees, dropped noisily to the floor.
“I thought you’d read that one already,” he said, knowing perfectly well that she had. Max Monahan’s fast-moving, tightly plotted thrillers occupied the entire top shelf of her bookcase at home, and she had freely admitted months ago to having read and reread every one of them.
“Not for years,” lied Holly, embarrassed. Those precious books were Max; they made her feel closer to him. Leaping to her feet and shoving the paperback hurriedly beneath the counter, she picked up a soft white cloth and began polishing glasses as if her life depended on it. Flushing beneath her tan, she said, “Where’s Tessa?”
