The last thing her solicitor had said to her as he dropped her back home was to advise her to visit Thomas regularly.
‘Make sure you’re seen at the hospital on a consistent basis,’ he had suggested. ‘Perhaps you could visit on your way to work, or coming home? Establish a pattern, especially in the beginning. It can’t hurt to keep up the best appearance possible, can it? And then, as time goes on . . .’
The solicitor had cleared his throat discreetly, rather than finish his sentence, but they both knew what he meant. The prospects for Thomas recovering from his coma, the doctors had gently explained to Bella after the operation, were very poor. The younger you were when you suffered a brain injury, apparently, the higher your chances; patients under twenty were three times more likely to survive than those over sixty, for instance, and Thomas, at forty-eight, was edging towards the latter odds. It was too early, they had said, to see if Thomas had any motor response or pupillary reaction to light; if he exhibited one or both of those, it would be very encouraging.
But twenty-four hours after the injury, when they had tested for these reactions, the results had been inconclusive, after which there was nothing left but to wait and see.
To be brave.
As advised by the solicitor, Bella had settled into a routine in which a car took her three times a week to the hospital, first thing in the morning. She planned her work around the car trips, took her tablet into Thomas’s room, sat there for a respectable length of time, and asked Nita to organize gifts of biscuits and chocolates for Bella to bring, on a regular basis, for the nursing staff, expressing her gratitude for the care they were taking of her husband.
The rest of the time was entirely occupied by work, sleep, and the occasional Skype rendezvous with Ronaldo. And tonight, she was finally going to see him in person! Everyone else assumed that the panoply of grooming Bella was undergoing today – she had already had a mani-pedi that lunchtime – was because of her attendance at the awards ceremony. Only she knew for whose benefit all this effort was being mustered; only she knew that her heart was beating even faster with excitement at the fact that Ronaldo was booked into a room at her hotel and would be sneaking into her suite after the ceremony, than at the prospect of Sachs Hotels winning the Best Chain Experience award earlier that evening.
‘I was told your measurements might be a little smaller than the ones I was given,’ the stylist said, taking from the rail a black cap-sleeved silk dress embroidered heavily in turquoise, ‘so I pulled this one just in case it worked. With your eyes I think this blue would be perfect, and I have some great earring choices in case we go with it . . .’
‘I love it!’ Nita clapped her hands on seeing the dress. ‘And I think it’s going to be just right! I’m so happy Bella gets a wonderful night out, looking so lovely – you deserve this, Bella, you really do!’
Bella was genuinely touched to hear the choke in her assistant’s voice, realize that she had a lump in her throat. Nita bustled round Bella’s chair, which was turned away from the office, facing the windows, to give the hairdresser and make-up artist the advantage of the natural light; she was carrying the dress to show her boss, and Bella’s eyes widened in happiness.
It was beautiful. Chic, elegant, classic, with a flattering scooped neckline and a relatively demure hemline. She wasn’t trying to look like Charlotte, whose figure could allow her to carry off the most challenging of trends. Bella wasn’t the figurehead of a boutique hotel chain; she ran a much larger, much more lucrative company, and looking professional was equally as important as looking attractive.
‘It seems light as a feather,’ the stylist said, ‘but it’s fully lined, and has very clever built-in shaping panels . . . and I’ve brought a variety of shapewear too, of course. Which is totally standard,’ she added quickly. ‘I dress size zero ladies who wouldn’t go near a red carpet without their Spanx.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Bella said, her mouth now lipsticked to perfection. ‘Nip me in as much as you can. I’m not a gym bunny – I need all the help I can get.’
‘Trust me,’ the stylist told her, sounding relieved that this new and potentially highly lucrative client had not taken offence, ‘the gym bunnies all wear Spanx too. The ones who give interviews about how much training they do and are always photographed carrying their yoga mats – they’re squeezing into their shapewear before big events like everyone else. One of my clients wears two pairs, one over the other!’
The make-up artist and hairdresser nodded in unison.
‘So,’ Nita said excitedly, waving the dress at Bella as if she were a flag-bearer at a ceremonial event, ‘why don’t you try it on?’
As she stood up, polished and preened to look the best she had in years, curls bouncing on her shoulders, her skin smooth and glowing not just from the make-up but also the healthier diet she had been eating for the last few weeks, Bella realized that she was dressing up as if she were single and going to a wonderful party where she might possibly meet a wonderful man. And that no one around her seemed to think, for a moment, that this was strange behaviour for a woman whose husband was in a coma.
Yes, she might as well have had the engraved brass nameplate removed from the door to her office suite, replacing it with one that read Brave Bella. But practically no one, she thought, had said ‘Poor Thomas.’ They were concerned for her, how she was reacting to the sudden tragedy; but no one had talked about Thomas as a person, commented on a happy memory they had of him, or mentioned how supportive he had been of Bella.
Looking at her assistant’s eager face, it occurred to Bella to speculate whether Nita had actually liked Thomas. In fact, had anyone really liked him? Or had they just tolerated him as her husband?
She had a feeling that, from the general reaction, she knew the answer to those questions already . . .
Chapter Twenty-One
‘You look lovely!’ Bart said, enfolding Bella in a hug and then stepping back, holding her shoulders, looking her up and down with brotherly appraisal. ‘I have to say, Bell, you’re being bloody brave.’
‘So brave,’ Charlotte agreed.
‘Stiff upper lip,’ Conway said, nodding in approval. ‘Best way.’
The Sachs family were gathered around a drinks table in the bar, socializing before they moved into the enormous dining room and took their places at one of the best tables, together with a handful of the highest-ranking company executives. Naturally they had purchased several tables for the various divisions of the company, but, for thirty years, the one in the centre of the front row, directly below the stage, had been where Jeffrey held court. He adored awards ceremonies, and was currently surrounded by sycophants and admirers much in the manner of Henry VIII with his entourage.
Adrianna, who had been standing quietly by his side, taking the tiniest of sips from a glass of champagne, glided over to welcome her prospective stepdaughter. She was wearing an ankle-length sequinned dress, extremely form-fitted, which made her figure look even more Barbie-doll than usual, and she moved with the grace of a serpent as she practically slithered towards Bella.
‘You look beautiful, Bella,’ she said to her very sincerely, placing kisses in the air just above her cheeks. Though she did not touch her shiny lips to Bella’s powdered skin, she was close enough that Bella could feel her warm breath, smell her deliciously rich perfume. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so well.’
‘Thank you,’ Bella said, looking up at her father’s fiancée. ‘I can tell you really mean that.’
Across Adrianna’s beautiful face a faint expression of surprise flittered for a moment.
‘Of course I mean it,’ she said. ‘I never say anything I don’t mean. How is your husband?’
‘There’s no news,’ Bella said. ‘We just have to wait and see.’
Adrianna nodded.
‘Perhaps I should wait until you tell me, next time,’ she said. ‘It’s hard for you to keep giving the same answer. But you are good to keep working, coming out to parties, wi
th your hair and make-up nice. You didn’t do that yourself.’
This was so clearly a statement, not a question, that Bella didn’t even attempt to confirm it.
‘You must go on and live your life,’ Adrianna continued. ‘Your father feels the same as I do.’
It was the oddest feeling, to be mothered by a woman who was several years younger than herself, looked like the winner of a worldwide beauty contest, and had sexually entranced her elderly father into paying a fortune for a divorce so that he could be free to marry her. And yet Bella found herself strangely comforted by it, particularly because it was something that had been lacking in her life for at least ten years.
Because, having battled Jeffrey for her own and her children’s rights, brought them up single-handedly after the divorce, and seen them successfully launched into adulthood, Christie had moved to the South of France and declared herself effectively retired from maternal responsibilities. Considering what she had achieved for them, her four children had accepted this and the subsequent toy-boy parade with easy-going understanding, but Bella couldn’t help feeling how nice it would have been to have Christie talking to her as Adrianna was doing.
And suddenly she realized she had an impulse to blurt out to Adrianna – who never said something she didn’t mean – the question of what she had thought of Thomas . . .
‘What a lovely new mummy we have, eh?’ Bart said affably, interposing himself into the little tête-à-tête. ‘Not only is she a raving beauty and a superb hostess, but she actually cares how we’re doing! Quite the pleasant change, eh?’
The look that Adrianna gave Bart, Bella thought, could only be described as enigmatic.
‘Family,’ she said calmly, ‘is very important to me.’
‘Me too! Here’s to ever-closer family ties!’ Bart said, clinking his glass of champagne with hers. ‘Oh, Bell, you need a drink!’
He gestured at a waiter, who approached immediately with a tray of filled champagne flutes. Bart had a knack with summoning service staff.
‘No news, I suppose?’ he said to Bella, who shook her head, understanding that he was trying, tactfully, to ask about Thomas’s condition.
‘From now on, I think it is best to let her volunteer that,’ Adrianna said as Bella took a brimming glass. ‘So don’t keep asking her.’
‘Yes, Mummy!’ Bart said irrepressibly. ‘Anything you say!’
Adrianna’s expression remained entirely unreadable, but her gaze met Bella’s for a moment. One elegant eyebrow rose, and Bella was reminded of the way she and Charlotte had used to bond over Bart’s latest idiocy when they were children. It felt very familiar, as if Adrianna were a third sister, not the woman who was marrying their father.
‘Bella, darling!’ Bella’s sister-in-law Samantha bustled up to her, giving her an affectionate hug. ‘It’s so nice to see you looking so well. Excellent job!’
This was a verbal tic of Samantha’s, and Bella had heard it enough to realize that it wasn’t meant as patronizingly as it sounded. Samantha’s air was that of a bright, cheerful head teacher at a private girls’ school, doling out support and encouragement for achievements she considered worthy of praise, and ‘Excellent job!’ was how she praised children and adults alike.
‘You’ve lost weight, haven’t you?’ Samantha said, casting a swift practised glance at her sister-in-law. ‘It suits you. And what a lovely dress!’
There was no side to Samantha; Bella knew this wasn’t a dig at how well she was looking while her husband lay in a coma, a sort of merry widow. A coma widow. Samantha’s entire ethos was keeping calm and carrying on; during the weekend at Vanbrugh Manor, there had not been the slightest indication in her behaviour that Conway was absent because he had been caught cheating with a sexy Eastern European temptress half his age. He might merely have been on a business trip that sadly prevented him from joining the rest of the family for a delightful break at their father’s country home.
‘Thanks,’ Bella said. Samantha enfolded her in a hug that involved a couple of encouraging pats to the back as they disengaged. ‘You look lovely too.’
Samantha was, as always, dressed entirely appropriately, in a long print dress with an asymmetric neckline and pleated skirt. Her face was almost bare of make-up, with no attempt to call attention away from a very horsey mouth by, for instance, using plenty of mascara and liner on her round blue eyes. The Samanthas of this world didn’t derive their attractiveness from their physical appearance but from their social status, which was impervious to any change. She could divorce Conway tomorrow and still be the Honourable Samantha.
Bella had no idea why her sister-in-law wasn’t doing exactly that. Was it love? Stubbornness? Determination to keep her family together? She was very curious, but she could never put the question to Samantha. Friendly as they were, there was a distinction: they had never been friends. Samantha had her friends already, the people like her with whom she had grown up, gone to school; a closed circle of aristocrats which would never open to any outsiders.
Why don’t you ask Adrianna what she thinks? she wondered suddenly. Look at her, saying so little, watching everyone, observing us so she can dose us with her perfectly chosen cocktails! I bet Adrianna has a pretty good idea about what’s going on with Conway and Samantha . . .
‘So,’ Bart said casually to Adrianna as Samantha hugged Bella, ‘how are things going? Wedding plans smooth as silk, or d’you have any creases to iron out?’
‘That is a question a woman asks,’ Adrianna responded coolly. ‘Do you want to know if I am happy with my dress? Or if the flowers will be just the way I imagined them?’
‘No,’ Bart said bleakly. ‘No, I don’t. I was making conversation. I couldn’t give a shit about your wedding.’
They stared at each other. The large, crowded ballroom seemed to drop away, the sounds of chattering networkers and chinking drink glasses faint now, heard through fog. It was just the two of them, intently focused on each other, palpable emotions crackling between them. They were standing by one of many small, high drinks tables; Bella and Samantha, on the other side of it, were absorbed in conversation, and there was no one else close enough to overhear. For a little while, they were on their own tiny island.
‘Why should you care?’ Adrianna said finally. ‘There is no reason for it.’
‘Not in the least,’ Bart said, shrugging. ‘I couldn’t care less about who you marry.’
There was a long pause.
‘You will be there, though?’ she asked eventually. ‘Your father is expecting you to come.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I always like Venice. Will there be any pretty bridesmaids for me to flirt with?’
‘My sisters,’ Adrianna said. ‘Liilia and Sirje. They are both at least as beautiful as me, maybe more. And they are very . . . friendly girls. More friendly than me. That will be perfect for you.’
‘I’m not sure I like friendly girls that much any more,’ Bart said. ‘Recently, I seem to have become obsessed with coldhearted, gold-digging bitches.’
Adrianna bit her full lower lip.
‘Then you should go for a drink at Farouche,’ she snapped. ‘The girls there have ice cubes for hearts. Perfect for you.’
‘But none of them will make me drink a martini with cocktail onions,’ he said.
Another pause. Adrianna, very deliberately, looked away, searching for her fiancé across the ballroom: finding him, she gave him a little wave and blew him a kiss. He beamed back at her.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ Bart blurted out.
‘If you are trying to find a way to make me tell your father you should run the company,’ she said after a pause, ‘I am not impressed.’
‘You know it’s not about that any more,’ he said impatiently. ‘Don’t pretend. You know I’m telling the truth. And you think about me too. I’m sure of it.’
‘Stay away from me,’ she said, in a tone as gelid as the hearts of the girls at Farouche. ‘You have no choice. Stop
thinking about me. You know if your father has any concern about . . . this, I will sacrifice you and feel no guilt at all. I will tell him you have been bothering me, and he will believe me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you won’t feel guilty,’ Bart said. ‘But I know you’ll feel something. Look at me.’
He made it happen through sheer force of will, staring at her so fixedly that she reluctantly turned back to meet his eyes.
‘There,’ she said. ‘I looked at you. Now leave me alone.’
But even as she spoke, Bart was turning to his sister-in-law, leaning over the table and lavishing on her the ridiculously extravagant compliments that made her blush even as she told him he was being an even sillier boy than usual. Adrianna stood alone, self-assured as always, her expression so blank she might have been a statue of herself. It took her a few moments to realize that, now that Bart was flirting with Samantha, Bella was saying something to her. Adrianna shook her head to clear it and swivelled to an angle that ensured her fiancé’s younger son was out of her line of vision.
‘Things are crazy at the moment, obviously,’ Bella was saying brightly. ‘Your wedding, plus the four of us in this battle that Daddy’s pitched us into. I was thinking it would be nice for you and me to meet for lunch and get to know each other a bit. You were so busy hosting when we came down to Vanbrugh that we didn’t have much time to chat.’
Adrianna’s lips curved into a smile.
‘I always think that’s funny,’ she said. ‘When you say “came down”. Vanbrugh is above London on the map.’
Bad Twins Page 24
