by Susan Lewis
The ten o’clock news came on the radio, leading with the latest on the President’s South American tour, before moving on to the continued unrest in Bosnia. Pushing the buttons to find a music channel, he slowed behind a Texaco tanker, then pulled out into the left-hand lane. His face was drawn with exhaustion, a two-day stubble spiked his chin and his eyes felt like sandpaper. But despite the near overwhelming tiredness his mind was alert – the adrenalin pumping through his body making him edgier and more nervous than ever.
The past two days had not gone well. The meeting with his lawyers had been a disaster and still he couldn’t see any way out of the net Straussen had trapped him in. Everything he owned was now in jeopardy, his business, his investments, his apartments in London and New York, even the funds he had secreted in Jersey. If he didn’t do what Straussen wanted he would lose it all.
Refusing to give up hope, he focused his attention on the road ahead and on how he was going to handle the next couple of days. He was spending them at Straussen’s mansion, the great Gothic monstrosity on the banks of the Hudson where the old man conducted his business, nurtured his precious family and lavished hospitality on his cronies.
On reaching Tarrytown he turned off the highway and began winding through the deserted lamplit streets towards the outlying countryside. The moonless sky was an impenetrable ocean of darkness, no breath of air moved through the syrupy heat. He was wondering how Rhiannon would respond when he told her that their dream house was now no more than that. He wished to God he could believe she’d stand by him, but the funds she had put up as her share of the deposit had already been claimed by Straussen.
A few minutes later he was passing the towering black iron gates to the Romanov estate, telling him that he had less than eight miles to cover before reaching his destination. As he followed the Romanovs’ perimeter wall, he felt strangely affected by the air of tragedy that seemed to emanate from the place. Somewhere, in behind those walls, was the house in which Max Romanov had shot and killed his wife Carolyn. As far as Oliver knew, the place was never used now and hadn’t been since the night Carolyn died – though there was no outward sign of neglect, nor anything to suggest that the estate had become a Mecca for ghoulish sightseers and murder mystery fanatics who still, more than a year down the line, couldn’t leave the case alone.
Pushing his fingers hard into the sockets of his eyes, Oliver dismissed Romanov from his mind. Whether or not the man had bribed his way out of justice made no difference to him. He had his own set of problems to deal with right now, problems that needed his whole attention if he was going to get through these next couple of days and come out at the end of them with something still intact.
Ten minutes later the security guard at the gates of Straussen’s estate raised the barrier for Oliver to enter. As he drove towards the house Oliver’s stomach was like a lead fist. Through the trees he could see the pointed arch windows of the first-floor rooms where lights from the chandeliers cast their conical glow across the gravelled forecourt below. In front of the dour grey arches of the front porch was Straussen’s Rolls-Royce, his wife’s Mercedes and a Chrysler Le Baron that he knew belonged to one of the sons.
As he stepped out of his own car he could hear Straussen’s grandchildren squealing with laughter as they charged about the house. Looking up, he saw Reuben, Straussen’s eldest son, watching from the drawing-room window. He was a short, thickset man with a hawkish nose and narrow hooded eyes. He and Oliver stared at each other, then Rachel, Straussen’s wife, came to the window and seeing Oliver waved out before turning to speak to someone behind her. Seconds later the front door opened and one of Straussen’s minions took Oliver’s bags from the car.
‘Mr Straussen’s in the den,’ the minion told him and waiting for Oliver to go ahead into the house he closed the door quietly behind them.
Chapter 11
‘AT LEAST TWO of the long-term projects should be coming in during the next couple of weeks,’ Rhiannon said, slotting her key into the front door and stooping to pick up her shopping as she nudged it open. ‘I’m particularly interested in this scandal at the Home Office which should be ripe for exposure some time next month. There’s also this problem Reece is having with the French authorities. They’re obviously trying to block his programme and we’re not getting much support from the Brits, so obviously we’re touching a sensitive nerve somewhere. Carrie’s over in San Francisco, checking out . . .’
‘Rhiannon, give it a rest,’ Lizzy groaned, following her into the sitting-room and dumping her shopping on one of the sofas as she collapsed, straight-legged, into the other. ‘We’ve been over this a dozen times already. The place isn’t going to fall apart while you’re away, if anything it’ll be a relief to get back to normal after all the excitement.’ She yawned loudly, then braced herself as Rhiannon rewound the tape on the answerphone.
When the single message had replayed Rhiannon hit the button to erase it, her frustration as evident in the gesture as it was in the nervousness of her eyes and bleakness of her skin. ‘Tea or wine?’ she said, cutting Lizzy off before she could speak. ‘Say wine and I’ll make it champagne.’
‘Then wine it is,’ Lizzy responded.
As she turned towards the kitchen Rhiannon hesitated, suddenly remembering Oliver’s concern that Lizzy might be drinking too much. But, unable to think of a way to broach the subject, she continued on to the kitchen and took a bottle of Moët from the fridge.
In fact it had been her intention to have a heart to heart with Lizzy at some point while Oliver was in the States for she knew full well that Lizzy was longing to talk, but somehow, what with the wedding and the programme, time had run away with her and the opportunity for a chat had consistently refused to present itself. And now that it had, she was just too jittery to think of anything beyond the fact that Oliver should have returned from New York that morning and hadn’t. He’d left a message on her machine the day before to say he wouldn’t be on the flight he’d originally booked, but he’d failed to say when he would be coming and when she’d tried his apartment in Manhatten she’d got no reply, not even the answerphone.
‘When are you picking up your dress?’ Lizzy called out.
Rhiannon’s insides contracted. ‘You mean the dress?’ she said shakily, almost too afraid to think about it. ‘On Monday. What about you? Is yours ready?’
‘Maria brought it round last night,’ Lizzy answered, coming to stand in the doorway. ‘They were thrilled, you know, she and Evetta, that we asked them to do the dresses. They put everything else on hold to make sure they were finished in time, did they tell you?’
Rhiannon smiled. ‘No, but I guessed as much. I’m just sorry that we can’t give them any more publicity, but honestly, I don’t think I could stand the press being around, not when it’s such an intimate affair.’ In fact, right now, the very idea of the press getting wind of her wedding was turning her cold with dread.
‘I think they were more than happy with a whole half-hour promoting their talents,’ Lizzy responded sardonically. ‘They’re nearly as famous as the celebrities they’re dressing these days. Thanks,’ she added as Rhiannon passed her a glass of champagne. ‘What news on your dad, by the way? Is he coming?’
‘Oh God,’ Rhiannon muttered, putting a hand to her head as the very thought of it lodged like a bullet in her brain. ‘Yes, he is. And the bimbette.’ Her face was suddenly very pale as fear twisted her heart. ‘Oh Christ, Lizzy, you don’t think it’s going to happen again, do you?’ she cried. ‘He’s not going to let me down just days before the wedding?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Lizzy laughed, squeezing her arm. ‘He’s just got held up, that’s all. He’ll be back tomorrow and then you can find yourself something else to get in a state about.’
Rhiannon’s smile was weak. ‘It’s not like him not to call,’ she said, staring down into her glass.
Lizzy looked at her, wondering which was the best tack to take. ‘Was he planning on seeing Straussen in
New York?’ she asked, deciding to go straight for it.
Rhiannon’s heart turned cold. ‘Yes,’ she answered, bringing her eyes back to Lizzy’s. ‘But don’t ask me what’s going on there, because I still don’t really know. Whenever I bring the subject up he just tells me to stop worrying, that everything’s being taken care of and that he blew it all out of proportion when we talked in South Africa, because he was angry.’ Inhaling deeply, she threw back her head and took a large mouthful of champagne. Then looking at Lizzy again, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I know you need to talk and I . . .’
‘No, you need to talk,’ Lizzy interrupted, feeling much better than she had in weeks and realizing what a miracle cure being needed by someone you loved was for loneliness. ‘Did you ever do a background check on the guy? Straussen, I mean.’
Rhiannon shook her head. ‘No. It seemed, well, it seemed disloyal somehow, and . . .’ She looked down at her glass.
‘And you were afraid of what you might discover?’ Lizzy finished bluntly.
Dully Rhiannon nodded. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’ she sighed.
‘Yes,’ Lizzy agreed. ‘And human. But you do realize, don’t you, that what it means is that you don’t quite trust Oliver?’
Rhiannon’s eyes flashed. ‘That’s not what it means at all,’ she snapped. ‘What it means is that I didn’t think it would be a particularly admirable thing to do to go behind his back. This Straussen guy is obviously not to be taken lightly and the last thing Oliver needs is me snooping around and maybe making things worse than they already are.’
‘OK, OK,’ Lizzy said, ‘keep your hair on. Can we go and sit down? My feet are killing me after all that shopping.’
Picking up the bottle of champagne, Rhiannon followed her into the sitting-room and, clearing a space on the coffee table to prop up their feet, they flopped down at either end of one of the sofas.
Looking down at the diamond on her left hand, Rhiannon felt herself assailed by nerves again. ‘By the way, did I tell you’, she said, changing the subject, ‘that Morgan and Sally Simpson are planning to come over in July?’
Lizzy shook her head. ‘For any particular reason?’ she asked.
‘If there is they’re not saying,’ Rhiannon answered. ‘Anyway, I’ll worry about that when the time comes. Did Jolene tell you about Richard Copeland retiring?’
Lizzy’s eyebrows arched. ‘We had quite a long discussion about it on Thursday afternoon,’ she reminded her.
Rhiannon tutted irritably. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Sorry, my mind’s all over the place right now. Maybe we should talk about you. It’ll give me something to focus on that matters, rather than driving myself insane over things that probably don’t.’
Lizzy shrugged. ‘What about me?’ she said. ‘I’m lonely. What more is there to say than that? I’ll survive.’
Rhiannon’s eyes sought hers and realizing what a lousy friend she’d been these past couple of months she said, ‘You still miss Richard, don’t you?’
Lizzy nodded, then forced herself to smile. ‘Yes, but it’s only to be expected,’ she said brightly. ‘I just wish I could get the bitterness under better control. I get so angry at times that I almost feel like killing someone. I mean, I do feel like killing someone.’
Rhiannon’s eyes were imbued with feeling as they searched Lizzy’s face. ‘Have you thought about maybe getting some kind of counselling?’ she suggested.
‘Oh yes, I’ve thought about it, but what I need more than a therapist is a man in my life, someone to share things with, the way I used to with Richard. OK, maybe not the way I used to with him, each relationship is different and I shouldn’t be looking to replace what I had, but I’m only human and, well . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she looked dejectedly down at her glass.
Rhiannon smiled. ‘I imagine, if you’d heard from Andy, you’d have told me,’ she said.
Lizzy sighed and let her head fall back against the sofa. ‘You’re right, I’d have told you,’ she said. ‘I just wish . . .’ She paused, then after taking a sip of her drink she said, ‘I just wish I knew why he’s not returning my calls. Better still, I wish he’d never asked me to live with him, ’cos some idiot brain cell in my head went and took it seriously.’
Rhiannon’s head tilted curiously to one side. ‘Are you saying you’ve changed your mind, that you do want to go and live with him?’ she asked.
‘Do I hell!’ Lizzy retorted. ‘I just wish he hadn’t asked, that’s all. It was a mean thing to do, making me feel like I mattered, then forgetting about me the minute the plane took off. Still, I suppose it’s shown me just how desperate I am that I’d go on mooning about a man this long after I slept with him. And I am desperate, I admit it. I hate being on my own. It’s like I’m only half alive. I’ve got no one to talk to, no one to do things with . . . Sometimes I go from Friday night right until Monday morning without speaking to a single soul and then, when I hear the sound of my own voice it makes me jump. I hate it. It’s not a life, it’s an existence and please don’t tell me that I have to get out more and make more of an effort to meet people, because I’ve already tried that and it depresses me more than ever. It’s not natural, it’s forced. I don’t want to be there and no one really wants me there because no one really wants to be bothered with single people, especially not single people of my age. I’m a misfit and I’m made to feel like one. I don’t have a husband, I don’t have any children, all my friends have deserted me and I’m so awash in self-pity you’d better open another bottle of champagne so I can drown myself completely. So,’ she grinned, after draining her glass, ‘are you sure you still want to talk about me?’
Though she laughed Rhiannon was watching her closely. ‘I had no idea it was so bad,’ she said.
Lizzy shrugged. ‘Why should you? I didn’t want to burden you, not at a time like this, and besides, what could you do? What can any of us do? Richard’s gone, he isn’t coming back and Andy . . . Well, God only knows what Andy’s doing and who the hell cares?’
‘You. Obviously.’
‘No. I’m just using him as an excuse to feel sorry for myself. Or, to put it another way, I’m flogging a dead horse because I don’t have another one to flog.’
Rhiannon smiled. ‘But if it weren’t for him you wouldn’t be feeling this way.’
‘Wrong. If it weren’t for Richard I wouldn’t be feeling this way.’
Rhiannon was shaking her head. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘You were getting over Richard. You were pulling through. And this with Andy has really set you back. If he didn’t matter, Liz, he wouldn’t have had such an effect.’
‘Not true. He’s just the first man I slept with after Richard and I expect, given a few more weeks, I’ll even have forgotten his name. Now, get the phone will you, it might be Oliver.’
Rhiannon was already reaching for it, a horrible sickening sensation returning to her stomach as inwardly she pleaded with God for it to be him. But it was Evetta, who was designing her wedding dress, letting her know that she was going to put a half-veil on the hat as well as a cloud of net around the brim, but if Rhiannon didn’t like it when she came on Monday it could be changed in a matter of minutes.
After replacing the receiver, Rhiannon stood staring out at the garden. The churn of panic inside her was starting to break through her resolve as the dreadful nightmare of the last time she’d come so close to getting married assaulted her in wave after relentless wave of remembered pain and humiliation. The presents that had to go back. The calls to cancel the church, the cars, the cake and the flowers. The dress that would never be worn. The rings that would never leave their boxes. The sympathy, the shock, the sniggers, the stares and the unbearable desolation. She had never felt more alone in her life than she had during that time. Her best friend had run off with the bridegroom and her father had blamed her. Surely to God Oliver wouldn’t put her through that again?
‘No, of course he won’t,’ Lizzy laughed. ‘The man is crazy about you, anyone ca
n see that, and the wedding’s going to go ahead despite all the rubbish you’re telling yourself right now.’
Though it gave her a momentary lift to hear it, Rhiannon sighed as she wandered back to the sofa and sat down. ‘So where is he?’ she groaned. ‘Why doesn’t he call? He must know that I’m half frantic by now. I mean, it’s only three days until we get married, for Christ’s sake, and he goes and does a disappearing act on me.’ Her eyes came up to Lizzy’s. ‘Do you think I should go over to New York to look for him?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Lizzy laughed. ‘You’ll just end up passing each other mid-ocean. He’ll call, Rhiannon. Better still, he’ll probably walk in that door any minute and surprise you.’
‘If he does I’ll knock his damned block off,’ Rhiannon said churlishly. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, let’s change the subject. I can’t stand this. I’m just going to drive myself insane. Did you ever ring that woman Sharon Spicer back?’
Lizzy’s head jerked up in surprise. ‘Whatever made you think of her?’ she said. Then without waiting for an answer, ‘No, I did not call her back and, fingers crossed, garlic round the door and crucifixes wielded, she seems to have given up calling me. What are you doing now?’
‘Trying his number in New York again,’ Rhiannon answered, jabbing at the buttons. After twenty or more rings she slammed down the receiver. ‘Well, that’s that then,’ she said briskly. ‘He could have come up with something a bit more original than walking out on me at the eleventh hour, since that’s already been done, but . . .’
‘Oh shut up,’ Lizzy told her, pouring more champagne into her glass. ‘Why don’t you do something useful like unpacking the shopping?’
‘What’s the point?’ Rhiannon snapped. ‘A girl who isn’t going on honeymoon doesn’t need a trousseau, does she?’
‘But a girl who is going on honeymoon does,’ Lizzy retorted. ‘So, let’s have a look at what you bought? What’s the temperature like in Marrakesh at this time of year? How did you find out, by the way?’
