Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

She rested her head on his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that had come into her eyes. Even if she’d been able to put her feelings into words, she would have kept them to herself, for they would only make him angry. Besides, it seemed ridiculous, when she had so much, to be longing for Marian. But fame and fortune were not turning out to be all she’d expected. It was as if she was just a face and a body; no one was interested in what she thought or felt about anything. Her whole life was spread across newspapers, magazines and TV, but no one knew the fear she felt every day that something would happen to destroy it all – that Paul would leave her, when he was all she had. He was the only person who knew what she had done, how callously she had treated her family, yet still he wanted her. But for how long? Until his book was finished? She couldn’t bear to think about it, because he was the only person who could make her feel safe, who gave her a sense of identity and value when everyone else, she was certain, sneered at her behind their hands. If he left her she knew that she would not be able to survive, because after what she had done to Marian, she had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. The terror of that realisation seemed suddenly to drain the energy from her body, and she tightened her embrace as if to stop herself from falling.

  Taking her hand, Paul led her over to the bed. She thought he was going to make love to her, but he sat her down, then turned her to face him. ‘I want to talk to you, Maddy,’ he said.

  The seriousness of his expression started the fear churning inside her. Was he going to tell her now that it was over? Was he going to say he had made a mistake and didn’t love her after all? But he had told her only moments ago that he loved her, so why was she thinking like this? ‘What about?’ she asked in a small voice.

  ‘About trust,’ he answered. ‘I want you to trust me. No, no. I know you’re going to say you do, but you don’t. And you’ve good reason not to trust me when I treat you the way I do, and especially when there are things about me you don’t know.’

  Her head was on one side, her eyes curious, and the wobbly smile that tried to cover her confusion moved him deeply. She was like a child with a cruel parent – no matter what he did, she still loved him.

  He stood up and wandered over to the window. The night was black and soon it would be time for them to go down to dinner. But he had to tell her now. He’d worked it all out, rehearsed it, even. He wanted her trust, it was imperative. Not only for what he was going to do, but for what was to come after. He tensed as love drove through his body like a physical force, twisting his abnormality and exposing it for the abomination it was. He felt suddenly nauseous, and didn’t know if he could go through with it; he was aware that his detachment had been eroded by love, making the paradox of his conflicting needs increasingly difficult to govern. But then he inhaled deeply of the tangy Mediterranean air, and putting his hands in his pockets, he turned round and sat on the window ledge. ‘Your money has gone, Maddy,’ he told her. ‘There is nothing left.’

  She blinked, but she was still smiling, as though waiting for the punchline to a joke.

  ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘the three-quarters of a million pounds ran out some time ago.’

  Her smile started to dissolve. He knew she was waiting for him to laugh, but he fixed her eyes with his and willed her to believe him.

  ‘Do you mean we’re in debt?’ She laughed, uneasily.

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, my darling, it just means that we’re living on my money now. Which,’ he added, ‘isn’t money I’ve earned from the book.’

  Again he waited while she struggled to understand.

  ‘Then where . . .?’ she began.

  ‘I’m a wealthy man, Madeleine. I always have been. My estate, as it stands, is worth in excess of ten million pounds, my personal fortune around five. The reason why I didn’t tell you before was because I wanted to observe you, to see how you would use the money we stole from Marian and how low you would stoop to attain success – for us both. It’s an unpleasant thing to hear, I know, and I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but unless I’m completely honest with you I can’t expect you to trust me. I’ve treated you badly, and though you know why I do it, that doesn’t make it any easier for you.

  ‘But it’s going to stop, Maddy. No more lies, no more trickery. I love you, and I never want to hurt you again, but you should know that I no longer intend to pay Deidre for your career, which I have been doing ever since your money ran out. It’s my belief that, if you want to, you can make it on your own merits now.’

  She was staring at him and he could see it was all too much for her to take in.

  Nevertheless, he went on: ‘The house is now in my name, so are the cars. Your account at Coutts has been cancelled.’

  ‘You mean, I’m broke?’

  He laughed. ‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose you are. But I’m not, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

  She shook her head, bewildered. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’

  He walked over to the bed and took her in his arms. ‘Is it so bad to be dependent on me?’ he smiled.

  For a long time she said nothing, and he watched her, trying to read her face. Eventually she said, ‘I think I understand. You told me I was broke, then straightaway told me you were rich. That means you didn’t want me to panic, even for one second, or to think I had nothing.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, stroking her hair and feeling no surprise at her inability to deal with anything but the practicality of the situation. The strong feelings that underlay his manipulation of her, the complexity of his deceit, were beyond her powers of comprehension.

  She looked up at him, and her face was suddenly imbued with feeling as she took his hands and held them up to her mouth. ‘Paul, I love you so much, I wish I could put it into words.’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t even try, my darling. All that matters is the love itself.’

  Her hands looked so fragile in his, and his one desire was to crush them. He tore his eyes away, choking back the unholy yearning to impair, to destroy, then relaxed as love washed over him again.

  ‘And you love me, even though all I’ve got left is my body and my looks?’ she said.

  ‘Which is more than enough. And although you don’t have a single sou to your name tonight, or any means of getting any money, we’ll soon put that to rights. In the meantime, you’re at my disposal, woman.’

  She giggled. ‘But I might make you pay for what you’ve got on your mind right now. After all, I need the money.’

  ‘These,’ he said, taking her breasts, ‘have already cost me several thousand apiece, so I think I’m owed at least one tumble on the house, don’t you?’

  She pondered this a moment, then said: ‘Have I really spent that much money?’

  He nodded. ‘Almost two million.’

  ‘How?’

  He knew he could disguise the exaggeration by blinding her with figures, though the truth was that she had overspent on the lottery money by the amount of the house and the cars, which was something in the region of half a million. But that could wait. As could the news of her aunt’s death. He had cheated and lied as well as loved and cherished, until finally everything had started to fall into place. He had reached the final chapter, both metaphorically and literally; the book he was bringing to completion now would be his last. After that he would devote his life to loving her, with no more chicanery, no more heartache or brutality.

  He laughed. ‘I think Deidre could answer that question better than I can. But she’s helped you achieve everything you wanted – all I’m asking is that you should forget Marian, and everything that went before, and want only me now.’

  ‘I want you,’ she murmured, after a while.

  ‘And trust me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, as she closed her eyes. ‘I trust you.’

  The night air was alive with the sibilant sound of cicadas, and in the distance could be heard the gentle sough of the waves as they splashed onto the rocks before being sucked away
by the undertow. From the next room came the hum of conversation, and here in the dining room the romantic strains of Rachmaninov filled the air. Each place on the long oak dining-table was set with red folded napkins; silver cutlery and crystal glasses reflected the flickering candlelight, and outside on the terrace coloured lamps swayed in the breeze. Deidre surveyed the room critically before nodding to Geneviève that she could show the party of twenty guests through from the sitting-room.

  Once Madeleine was seated, at the head of the table, photographers took out their cameras and she and Paul smiled into one another’s eyes. At Sergio’s request Deidre had paid colossal sums to ensure that the birthday celebration, small though it was, would hit every gossip column, if not front page, the world over. Madeleine’s publicity must continue, he had said, right up to the last.

  There was a great deal of laughter as the shots were taken – the photographers and journalists had been chosen specially by Madeleine and Paul – and once they were done, notebooks and cameras were stowed away and Geneviève’s brothers, François and Pierre, poured the wine, while Geneviève and her friend served the pâté de foie gras followed by fresh sea bass, then beef in a burgundy sauce made to Geneviève’s own special recipe. The conversation swelled in volume as everyone tried to better the last anecdote, and raucous laughter accompanied lewd remarks and outrageous attacks on friends and acquaintances. Deidre noticed how Shamir’s eyes glittered, and was intrigued by her erratic bursts of laughter – it was so unlike her usual behaviour. She was seated between John Roddy, French correspondent for the New York Times, and Dario, the photographer they all knew so well. It wasn’t the first time Deidre had wondered about Shamir and John Roddy, and when she caught Madeleine’s eye they exchanged a smile at the prospect of a blossoming romance.

  Before dessert was served, Deidre signalled to Dario, who several minutes later slipped out of the room to follow her into the hall. She watched him as he strolled towards her, a small, thin man with a smooth face and immense brown eyes. She had known him for seven years, but ever since she had discovered he was a member of Sergio’s bottega he had felt to her like a stranger.

  ‘Did you speak to Sergio?’ she asked, as he drew close.

  ‘The bottega met last night,’ he answered. ‘I spoke to him after.’

  ‘Well, what did he say?’ she asked, trying but failing to hide her irritation.

  As Dario’s eyes moved over her face she thought she detected a glimmer of disdain. ‘He wants her soon, Deidre. Sooner than you think.’

  Deidre’s face paled. ‘When?’

  ‘In three weeks.’

  She gasped. ‘He told me everything had changed, that a complication had arisen . . . but so soon . . . What is it, Dario? Tell me, please.’

  Dario had long suspected that Deidre knew nothing about Sergio’s connection with the Tarallo family, and this confirmed it. He shrugged. ‘You know I cannot tell you, Deidre. It is the way Sergio wants it.’

  She nodded, swallowing hard on the harsh feeling of exclusion, but she knew better than to try and push Dario. She looked at him again and was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to ask about Olivia. He was a member of the bottega, he could give her the answers. She just wanted to know whether Olivia was still alive. But as his implacable Italian face softened with regret she realised he had read her mind.

  ‘I can tell you nothing,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But you have my promise that one day you will see them again. Now you must make the plans for Madeleine to be in Italy within three weeks. Can you do it?’ There was no menace in his voice, the need for threats did not arise. She loved Sergio, perhaps beyond life itself, she would do nothing to jeopardise their future together. However, should she at any time appear to be failing in her promise, then he, Dario, would kill her. Sergio had given that instruction the night before; she knew too much, he had said, and they could not risk losing everything now.

  ‘Yes, I can do it,’ Deidre answered. She would not show her fear, for behind those dark, inscrutable eyes of his she had read the darker intention. ‘Now come along,’ she smiled, threading her arm through his, ‘time for the birthday cake.’

  It was evident when they walked back into the dining-room that, despite the guests who had had more than enough to drink – or maybe because of them – everyone was having a wonderful time. Deidre was pleased for Madeleine, and smiled as she glanced up at her. Madeleine had whispered earlier that Paul had already told her what her surprise was, but she refused to say more because Paul wanted to make the announcement himself. Certain that they had set a wedding date, Deidre could already see the confetti fluttering about Madeleine’s face, but she would allow herself no feelings on the matter as she clapped her hands for everyone to follow her out to the terrace.

  François was already there, filling champagne glasses, and as soon as everyone was gathered, Geneviève and her friend, followed by two local lads blowing a trumpet and banging a drum, came out of the kitchen carrying a birthday cake ablaze with candles and sparklers. They all sang ‘Happy Birthday’, then Deidre rapped a table for silence and Paul stepped forward to a chorus of ribald remarks.

  He laughed as he waited for everyone to settle, then raising his glass, he looked from one face to the next and said: ‘As you are all no doubt aware by now, I have a surprise for Madeleine. She thinks she already knows what it is, but in fact, she doesn’t. So, if you are ready, ladies and gentlemen – Madeleine, I’d like you to be the first to congratulate us. I have asked Shamir to be my wife and she has accepted.’

  As shock froze every smile on the terrace, so all eyes moved to Madeleine. But Madeleine, too stunned to move, was staring at Paul as, still smiling, he held a hand out towards Shamir. The silence stretched beyond endurance until suddenly Madeleine’s glass slipped through her fingers and smashed on the tiled floor. Only then did she move, and so quickly that no one could stop her. Her silvery dress fluttered in the darkness as she ran across the garden and plunged into the black shadows of the orchard. From the other side of the terrace Deidre started after her, fighting through the cluster of bodies to get to the steps. But by the time she reached the old wooden gate in the side wall and rushed out into the narrow mountain road beyond, Madeleine had vanished.

  – 24 –

  Enrico paused, watching the coast melt like wax into the pink, early morning haze. Surf-topped waves lapped lazily against the hull of the Rosaria, and he inhaled deeply before opening the cabin door and going inside.

  The bitter aroma of coffee was sweetened by a delicate scent of soap, and he smiled at the scrubbed face that turned to look at him. Madeleine tried to smile back, but his kindness pushed tears into her eyes.

  ‘I thought you would sleep,’ he said, taking the coffee pot from her and filling the cups she had set out. She watched as he stirred milk into the dark liquid, then put his head back through the door, calling out for the crew to come and get their coffee. ‘Come,’ he said, turning back to her, and he led the way into the saloon. The cushions were still dented where she had been sitting, curled into a ball, as if cowering away from the world. Her dress was hanging from a cupboard door, glittering silver and gold in the dusty columns of sunlight that shone through the portholes. He was grateful that she had chosen to put on his robe rather than Rosaria’s.

  He still wasn’t sure whether he was doing the right thing in taking her with him, but since he had found her, in the early morning darkness, sitting on the forward deck in all her evening finery, he had been unable to tell her to go. She’d seemed almost frightened when he stepped on board, and had backed away as if she thought he would strike her. There was a confusion at first as he spoke in Italian, then French, until he remembered that of course she was English. He’d asked for an explanation, sounding harsher than he intended, and her eyes had widened, giving her the look of a persecuted animal. Then suddenly she had lunged forward, trying to push past him, but he had grabbed her, and asked again why she was there.

  His English was good
, but sobs shook her voice, making it difficult for him to understand. In the end he gave up and took her inside, where he poured her a brandy. It was some time before her breathing steadied, and while he waited he remembered how she had inflamed his anger two nights before. Since then he’d all but forgotten her, but now her distress began to feel like an intrusion.

  Eventually, when she made no effort to try again with an explanation, he stood up. ‘I think you must go now,’ he said, and started to walk to the door.

  ‘No! No, please.’

  He swung round, half expecting, from her desperate tone, to find her on her knees, but she was still sitting, holding her empty glass, shivering and looking so vulnerable that he could not help but feel he must take some responsibility for her.

  ‘But I must sail soon,’ he said, fighting it.

  She lowered her head and started to mumble.

  ‘I cannot hear. You must speak up.’

  ‘Can you take me with you?’ She lifted her face. ‘Please! I can’t go back. I can’t . . .’

  He looked at her, trying to feel the anger he had managed to inject into his voice. It eluded him, while her helplessness cut a direct route to his sense of chivalry. ‘Tell me why you cannot go back.’

  She nodded, and took a deep breath; and at once words began to tumble incoherently from her mouth. Afraid she might become hysterical again, he stopped her, and with the patient tenderness he normally reserved for his sons, he took her over each stage of the night before until he had a full picture of what had taken place. When she finished her face was taut and white, as if she were only then grasping the full horrific truth of what had happened. He refused to allow himself any feeling on the matter, nor did he ask why she had chosen to come to his boat; he figured he already had the answer to that. Everyone knew that Enrico Tarallo had lost his wife, and this English bellezza had thought to find one broken-heart understanding of another. The transparency of her motive irked him, but still he found himself agreeing to take her with him. What he would do with her once they arrived in Sardinia, he didn’t yet know, but as his grandmother would be waiting with the boys, there was no question of her staying with him.