The Scandal Behind the Wedding

by Bella Frances

  Gasping.

  She longed to be home. Longed to breathe naturally again. Longed to see Babs and for this giant Dubai adventure to be over. She’d given it a go. She’d given up her settled little London life in which she’d been making a difference. She’d come out here, chasing her dream of husband and happiness. And if she’d felt whiplash from the wreckage of her time with Nick, it was nothing to what she was going to feel when this horrific crash was over.

  Danny was the fast lane, the big time, the super-league. She’d allowed herself to get caught up in his world, but she wasn’t cut out to be part of his set. She liked things small, manageable, quiet. Reliable. She wanted an easy life where love was warm and comforting, not hot and choking.

  Fingers burned once? Whole body incinerated now.

  ‘Have you told Babs you’re on your way?’

  Silence finally broken. His voice was strained—fingernails scraping a chalkboard.

  She swallowed. ‘Not yet.’ She closed her eyes, pressing down on hot wet tears.

  ‘I want there to be someone to meet you, Georgia.’

  She thought of Friday night in the pub. She thought of wiping a cloth along the bar top, emptying the drip trays, chasing out the last of the customers. She thought of stacking chairs on top of tables, sweeping the floor, closing the large oak doors. She thought of sliding the bolts across, locking the world out and herself and Babs in. She thought of home. Longed for it.

  ‘No, there’s no need. Babs has the pub to run—there’s no way I’m going to get her out of her bed to wait for me at Heathrow. I’m perfectly capable of getting the bus.’

  ‘The bus? You’re not getting on a bus at seven in the morning with a truckload of designer luggage. Forget it.’

  When was it going to stop?

  ‘Okay. How about I get a helicopter home? Would that make you feel better? Have you stopped to think that no matter what I do from here on in it’ll have nothing to do with you?’

  She could see him squeeze the steering wheel a little tighter but she let her eyes rest there only a moment.

  ‘I...I just care about you, Georgia.’

  She hardly heard him. Whispered words.

  ‘I know,’ she whispered back.

  He reached for her hand. She let him hold it. Let him squeeze it.

  ‘I said I wanted us to stay friends.’

  He took his eyes off the road and looked at her, and she traced the lines of his profile, imprinting them one last time.

  ‘I meant it.’

  She looked away. The night passed by outside. The hustle of Dubai—his home town.

  ‘But we tried to keep it strictly business at the palace. And...’ A half-smile played at his mouth. ‘Well, that wasn’t exactly successful, was it?’

  ‘No, not exactly,’ she said, thinking of awakening after her dream, the heat of his body, the fire of desire that had erupted between them—the flames that nothing would extinguish. ‘Do you think it’s possible? For us to keep in touch and not want to climb inside each other?’

  They were already passing signs for the airport. That feeling of breathlessness was creeping over her again.

  ‘No.’

  ‘A clean break, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Suffocating, heavy, dense and dark—the air in the car as it rolled along the highway. Where she got the strength to hold back the emotion that battered at her she would never know. London faded. Babs faded. All she felt was the wrenching, heaving sense of being hauled away from her north star.

  Hold on, she told herself. Hold on—because it will get better, it will ease. And the world will right itself again. This time will pass. And you will be the better for it.

  He parked. He got a trolley. He put her cases on it. He moved with strength, with grace, with certainty. He cut a path—she walked at his side. She dropped her bags, checked her flight. LHR—the letters called her home.

  He took her as far as he could. Cupped her cheek. She kissed his palm. Bright blue eyes...dark green gaze. No overflow of emotion.

  She was going home.

  He was Dubai.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THROWING ORDERS AROUND, throwing money around, throwing himself into work. All things that in the past had been guaranteed to deliver the numbing sense of satisfaction Danny craved. This time? It was taking a little longer.

  Life had not so much rolled as rocketed along since the Friday night he’d driven Georgia to the airport to get the two a.m. flight home. He’d almost welcomed the searing pain that he’d known would follow, because it would remind him that other people always let you down—that if you could rely on anything in this world, it was that. The difference this time was that no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t blame Georgia for anything other than bringing sunshine into his life.

  So he’d created a punishing schedule of exercise and work, meetings and site visits. He’d managed the media for his project and the media for his personal life. He’d made a call back home, spoken personally to Mark, to his mother, and—when she’d finally crawled out of her self-imposed exile—his sister too. He’d looked at the world through Georgia’s lens. It had been the next best thing to having her.

  He’d fielded and shielded and brought this baby home. So he should be sitting back now, in the executive hospitality area that looked out over a football pitch—the first of the sports arenas to be completed—with absolute pride.

  But he wasn’t. He was switching a glass of warm champagne between one hand and another. He was shaking the hands and patting the backs of the next team in town, the company owners who would come here to wine and dine and entertain. He was mingling with international football players he might once have been impressed by. And he was avoiding the ubiquitous wives and girlfriends, and the female predators who were here with no other game on their minds than husband-bagging.

  The news that his new wife was on another continent had quietened down, and so many months had now passed that speculation had moved on from when she would be back to if she would be back.

  Of course, regardless of whether he was married, there was always a steady stream of women who would happily act as his personal hostess. The thought left him cold.

  The Al-Jafar penthouse lay empty.

  He still hadn’t done anything about the divorce. He’d been far too busy. And it was surely better if the clean break they’d agreed upon included a communication blackout. Which included any communication from lawyers. Predictably, she had been in touch to start the ball rolling—but he had called time out...for now. Just until he passed another one of his project milestones. Like this one. The Dubai International Soccer Stadium.

  He smiled and he laughed, he posed for photos and moved from group to group, feeling as empty as the cavernous arena they were all there to celebrate. One milestone passed—another seven to go. And that didn’t include the milestones that were stacking up in his personal life.

  He had to take the next step. And soon. He knew it made sense—because the other option didn’t. He didn’t do U-turns. They were a sign of weakness. And he didn’t do long-term commitment. That was a sign of lunacy. And in those few wild moments he would admit to having, when he found himself dialling her number or checking flights to London, thank God common sense had prevailed. Misery too—but that would pass.

  Life had been fine before Georgia and it would be fine again after. It was just another milestone away.

  ‘You are the toast of
the town, my friend.’

  Sheikh Salim stood at his shoulder: quiet, modest in his pristine dish-dasha—the madding crowd’s second favourite attraction.

  ‘I think we should be proud of what we’ve done, Salim. I don’t mind who knows it.’

  The words came easily—he could say all the right things, could act appropriately. He could stand shoulder to shoulder with the man he’d spent years emulating and take the plaudits and the praise and the validation for being one of Dubai’s brightest stars. But he couldn’t recapture the buzz he’d used to feel.

  He had more money than he knew what to do with. Should he buy more cars, a bigger house? Take a holiday? God no. He could think of nothing worse. The only things that killed the creeping, suffocating unease were work and exercise.

  ‘Yes. Against the odds, we’ve done a good thing,’ Salim went on. ‘And we both know that your stance on wages and conditions has caught worldwide media interest and saved our town from another negative onslaught.’

  ‘Your stance too—you’re just more measured about how you say and do things. I still haven’t learned the fine art of understatement.’

  ‘Ah, you’re very hard on yourself. You’ve learned a great many things, even in the time I’ve known you. But forgive me when I say there is one huge lesson that you don’t yet want to learn. However, time will tell...time will tell.’

  Danny turned sharply. It was not the first time his friend had made a statement like that and he knew perfectly well that he was referring to Georgia. He’d made no secret of his disappointment that they had dissolved their marriage after so little time. He asked after her frequently. And even though Danny rebuffed his questions every time he had a feeling that there was some other line of communication open.

  ‘I am particularly proud of the opportunities we are now able to offer the families of our workforce,’ Salim said, and nodded to himself.

  Danny wasn’t sure what else had been cooking in the background, but he knew that shrewdness and compassion were equally measured in this man. And with his own time so tight he’d left some of the softer sides of the project to those with the capacity. But now his antennae were tingling. Salim was looking almost smug.

  ‘I haven’t had a recent update from the charities board. Is there anything I should know? You know I don’t like surprises.’

  ‘No, you don’t. But sometimes it’s good to roll with the punches. And I think you’ll particularly enjoy rolling with this one. Anyway, we’ll give an update shortly,’ he said, pointing at the podium, where PR and media people were now gathering. He nodded across the room. ‘But first, if you don’t mind, I think I see your brother. I would like to talk thoroughbreds for a moment, in amongst all this football, so if you’ll excuse me...?’

  Danny watched him. The room watched him.

  Having the rest of Team Ryan here hadn’t been his idea, but he’d seen the sense and he’d felt the glow of pride from his mother. And that, he supposed, was something. No, this bright idea was down to Salim, whose interest in Danny’s personal life had taken a sharp turn for the worryingly intense.

  * * *

  Georgia looked down at her shoes. A bad choice. Her toes were pinched and the strap behind her ankle was already working up a blister. She’d forgotten how much her feet swelled up in the heat, and just walking to the stadium had taken her out of the coach’s arctic air-con and into the midday inferno. But she loved these red shoes—loved the memory they brought back. And it was just a coincidence that they set off her Portobello Market power dress perfectly.

  She looked around at her little crew. Their wide-eyed wonder had been replaced with nervous smiles as they stared through the glass doors at the array of world-class football players—their heroes. So far she had avoided staring at anything other than her notes, but she knew he was in there. She could feel him. She just wished she could be as confident as Sheikh Salim that Danny would be happy about her involvement in this aspect of the charity. She wished she’d had a chance to brief him personally before now, but it wasn’t to be. She could only assume someone else had done it.

  Her stomach pirouetted again. It had been twelve whole months since she had seen him. Six months of them were dust. Gone. She had been in a walking coma. Learning how to breathe, how to live, how to smile. How to look at a sunset or walk in the park or ride in a car without thinking of him.

  Babs had stood sentry better than the Queen’s Guard. She’d asked no questions but had listened faithfully when Georgia had finally been able to form sentences. She’d wept and hugged and adored her when she’d told her she had brought home enough money to clear her debts and buy back the pub. The only time she’d raised an eyebrow and made her feelings known had been when Georgia had told her she was heading back to Dubai.

  ‘You know how hard I’ve been working on this twinning programme,’ she’d told her sister. ‘You know that the apprentice soccer coaches here will never get a chance like it again. To train the children of the immigrant workers in the very stadium they’ve been building! To meet football legends!’

  Of course Babs did know. She’d been there every step of the way with her. She’d been instrumental in convincing her, after Salim’s wife had been in touch, that it would be the very thing to get her out of her dank little prison. And Georgia knew that it was only concern for her battered heart that had had Babs wincing and wringing her hands when she’d told her about the trip.

  But that was then. And this was now.

  Three months to plan and execute. To prep her teenaged coaches, get them passports, arrange accommodation and ensure they knew the ground rules of this opportunity of a lifetime. And here they were—ready to rub shoulders with their heroes, ready to tell the UAE press about this philanthropic act from United Arab Leisure—also known as Danny Ryan and Sheikh Salim al Baraka.

  And she could do this. She could pass this test. There were more important things than her wounded pride, her broken heart.

  He’d never called her. Not once. The only contact had been a missive from his lawyer asking to delay their divorce—she supposed for some tax or corporate reason.

  She had slowly blown out every candle of hope, one by one. And then she’d sat in a dark, dank pool of despair until finally she’d realised he was never coming for her. And then slowly, slowly, she’d put herself back together again.

  The only problem was the paint wasn’t dry.

  The door opened.

  ‘Ready for you now.’

  She squared her shoulders, gave each of her boys and girls a bracing hug and a winning smile, then led them through.

  Panoramic views of the stadium...up close and personal views of the world’s most elite football players...the flash and clatter of cameras lighting their path.

  They took their places.

  Mrs Georgia Ryan read her nameplate. She sat behind it, unperturbed.

  * * *

  Danny watched. His hand went to his jaw. He should have known. Should have realised. Should feel angry at being duped. But he could only feel awe.

  Georgia Anne Ryan. Even more beautiful than before. Even more composed. Drawing every eye. A goddess.

  She hadn’t seen him. He was way at the back of the space but he was moving to her, slowly weaving his way in and out of the glitzy and the glamorous, as if she was pulling him in on some golden thread.

  Salim caught his eye, held it for a moment, then looked away, satisfied.

  She sat on the podium with
six kids. They looked at her as she spoke, as she radiated her charm. She was more brightly illuminated than the flashes from ten rows of snappers and hacks. She told the room—the world—about her work. And he felt even more awed. All about her? Nothing was ever all about her. It was always all about everyone else.

  She told of her charity work for United Arab Leisure. She told of working with inner-city London kids, keeping them in the system through sport and encouraging them to pay back through becoming coaches themselves. She spoke of the shock of the English kids when they’d learned that even in their poverty they had so much more than the children of immigrant workers in Dubai. She spoke of the fortunate children of diplomats and industrialists. Of how all of them shared the same thing—the need to be loved. The universal leveller.

  She spoke of her inspirational visit to Sheikh Salim’s palace, of meeting his family and witnessing how wealth there did not mean affluence or arrogance. It meant respect and responsibility. She spoke and this collection of the talented, the smart, the beautiful and the rich all halted their chatter. They listened.

  ‘Georgia, this is your first trip back to Dubai in a year, is it not? Speculation has been rife that you’ve moved home—that your marriage is over. Can we assume that your appearance here suggests otherwise?’

  He saw faces turn to him. Then to her. He watched her absorb the question, saw a shadow roll over her eyes. She looked down at the desk. The air stilled. Became charged, tense, taut. She was going to lose her nerve.

  He felt the flare of anger—so unfamiliar in him now.

  He saw faces. His mother, his sister, his brother. Sheikh Salim. He could almost feel them willing him to be calm. Of course he would be calm. He wouldn’t let anyone down. Never again. Eleven years in this town had taught him well. He had gained so much—wisdom, money, power—but the one thing he hadn’t managed to gain was peace. Not since the moment he’d said goodbye to that intoxicating redhead. And he had to let her know.