A Twist of Fate (29 page)

Because she’d found Johnny Faraday, the groom from Little Elms and the person Thea associated most with her childhood – apart from Michael, of course. According to Sarah, he was
working as a manager in a famous South African horse stud. Thea’s mind was reeling at how much his life had changed. Somehow, to her, he would forever be in the stables in Little Elms in her
mind.

Did he even remember her? she wondered. Would he want to hear from her? How kind had life been to him since Little Elms? Did he still remember all the times they’d had together, just as
Thea did?

Thea didn’t know. But one thing she did know was that she’d spent so long wondering about her past that finally, after all this time, maybe this was a sign that she should do
something about it. How often during this business trip had she been frustrated that people weren’t quick enough to take action? Well, it was time to start being decisive herself, she
thought. About her past and all the unanswered questions she couldn’t lay to rest. And maybe, just maybe, Johnny might know where Michael was.

Her Michael. The boy with the hazel eyes and blond hair. She glanced across at Reicke. Was that why she found him so attractive? she suddenly realized. Because he reminded her of Michael?

A crackle of feedback rang out from the podium, where an elderly man in a dinner jacket was shuffling notes, ready to speak.

She sipped her champagne and turned the other way, towards the stage, moving to stand next to an older, grey-haired man.

‘A young girl like you, Fräulein, should be out having fun,’ the man said after a moment to her, his English heavy with an Italian accent. ‘These events tend to be very
dry,’ he added, turning and pulling a face, making her smile. ‘You’re with the German party, I believe?’

Thea shook her head, her attention caught by Reicke, who was looking over in her direction and waving. It wasn’t the first time on this trip that someone had assumed she was German.

‘I am amazed by how many people have turned up,’ the man continued, ‘but it’s all for show. This unity,’ the man added confidentially, ‘this new-found belief
in the euro, it’s all because the Americans are on the prowl.’

‘Oh?’ Thea whispered, looking at the stage, where the Austrian Trade Minister had been introduced and was about to make his speech.

‘Their desire is to make everything homogeneous. Americanized. Centralized. But that way there will be no character left. No national identity. I, for one, would fight with everything I
had to stop Scolari being bought out by the Yanks.’

‘I am very enlightened by your views, Signor,’ Thea said, graciously bowing her head.
That’s
why she vaguely recognized him. He was Roberto Scolari.

And now she felt it all slotting into place. Scolari’s son was Alfonso Scolari, the F1 racing driver, who was now dating Romy Valentine seriously. Thea hadn’t believed it when
she’d heard from Andy Bellson at the
Culture Bulletin
in London that Romy Valentine had refused three interviews with his paper. The word in-house was that the girl was a total
princess, but Thea suspected the vendetta was to do with the
Culture Bulletin
piece that Brett had sabotaged, which had clearly put the supermodel’s nose out of joint.

‘I’m afraid I did not catch your name?’ Scolari said.

‘My name is Theadora Maddox. From Maddox Inc.’ She smiled sweetly, watching the old man try to recover his composure.

‘Miss Maddox . . . I . . . I . . . ’ he stumbled.

Scolari. Of course, she thought.

They would be perfect for her expansion plans.

Thea drank far too much champagne at the reception and, after the dinner, she got dragged onto the dance-floor. She danced to a few numbers, but was all too aware of the
attention she was garnering, being one of the only women in the room. She knew she ought to retire gracefully, before she made a fool out of herself, and as the music changed to a slow Phil Collins
number, she snuck off before she got asked to dance.

Reicke caught her just as she was getting into the lift. His bow tie was undone and his hair was more dishevelled than before and she found herself laughing at him, as he grinned at her and
leant comically against the elevator door, to stop it closing.

‘How about a nightcap?’ he asked.

‘No, I can’t,’ she said. ‘I need to sleep.’

‘Please. Just one,’ Reicke said. ‘I won’t see you again for ages.’

‘OK,’ she relented. ‘Just one.’

He inserted his room card into a reader on the panel on the wall and took her to the penthouse floor. She caught sight of herself in the tinted mirrors of the lift as she stood next to him,
holding her clutchbag. What am I doing? she thought, as she caught Reicke’s eye. He grinned at her.

The penthouse was enormous. A thick cream carpet led into a sitting room with ornate silk armchairs and a dining room off it, with a fancy eighteenth-century wooden table with gold chairs. A
very expensive-looking antique grandfather clock struck midnight now, the figurines inside shifting around in a scene from Mozart’s
Marriage of Figaro
. ‘Wow,’ Thea said,
admiring it.

‘Isn’t it great,’ he said, coming to stand next to her and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. She caught a blast of his musky aftershave and felt a shimmer of desire.
‘There was some kind of mix-up and they gave me the presidential suite.’

‘You kept that quiet,’ Thea teased him.

‘I did. Until now.’

Thea followed him into the dark kitchen and, for a moment, felt her palms sweating, as she remembered the kitchen in Maddox Tower years ago, where Brett had first grabbed her. In the past few
years, whenever she’d got anywhere near a physical situation with a man, something inside her had always shut down. She couldn’t stop images of Brett rising up to ruin everything
– like now – images of that sauna in Switzerland. Almost seven years ago to this day.

Thea took a breath, forcing the thoughts away, as Reicke turned on the light and peered inside the fridge.

‘Gin, whisky, vodka or champagne? What can I get you?’

‘More champagne, I guess.’

He lifted out a vintage bottle and unwrapped the cork. ‘Find some glasses, could you?’

She opened some cupboards until she found some Tiffany flutes, and Reicke expertly popped the bottle and poured two glasses. She liked the feeling of playing ‘house’ with him, even
if it was just in a hotel. Yes, she thought, she could do this. She must make herself relax. Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself? Why shouldn’t she have fun?

‘I haven’t shown you the best bit,’ Reicke said, his eyes glittering as he nodded for her to follow him into the bedroom past the huge bed with its red brocade cover. He pulled
back the matching curtains and slid back the tinted glass door. Outside was a private terrace with a hot-tub. Reicke flicked a switch and the lights in the water came on.

‘Hang on,’ Reicke said, going to a panel in the wall. ‘That isn’t it yet.’

He flicked another two switches and the water started bubbling. Music came on through the speakers – the New Radicals album that Thea loved.

‘That’s amazing,’ Thea said, walking out onto the terrace to look closer and to see what was on the other side of the high wall. But when she turned round, she saw that Reicke
was undressing.

‘What are you doing?’ Thea gasped.

‘We’ve got to try it out,’ he laughed, stamping out of his trousers. He stood on the wooden slats surrounding the hot-tub in his Calvin Klein underpants and stretched his arms
out. She saw that, once out of his stiff dinner jacket and starched shirt, he was wearing a leather necklace with a small pendant, which nestled against his surprisingly toned chest. In fact his
body was incredible, and Thea felt a dart of desire run through her. ‘Don’t leave me out here in the cold, Thea.’

She laughed, amazed at how comfortable he was in his own skin. But he had every right to be. She bit her lip as she watched him climbing into the water.

‘There. See, it’s easy,’ he said. ‘Pass me my champagne.’

Thea rolled her eyes and went to fetch him the glass he’d left on the bedside table. He grinned at her, the water in the hot-tub bubbling against his chin and steam rising into the night.
He sighed as he stretched back.

‘I’ll close my eyes. Hop in,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t look.’

Thea looked up at the stars. She should leave right now. Reicke was her colleague. What was she even thinking of – getting into a hot-tub with him? And yet . . . and yet . . . she sighed,
exasperated with herself. What, or more precisely
who
, was she saving herself for? Tom? Still? After all this time?

‘Come on, it’ll be fun,’ Reicke coaxed. ‘I’m still not looking . . .’

Putting her champagne down, Thea quickly undid the zip of her dress, watching it slip down around her hips. She stared at her stay-up stockings, wondering whether to keep them on. In the end she
rolled them off, having difficulty balancing on one foot.

Then, giggling, she stepped into the water, in her thin lace bra and panties, staring at Reicke’s face. She watched him peeping open one eye and squealed, clamping her arm against her
breasts. ‘Don’t look,’ she wailed, plunging down into the water.

‘Can I open my eyes now?’ Reicke asked, and Thea laughed.

She stared at him across the water, but Reicke just grinned back.

‘You’re so American,’ he said. ‘Us Germans strip off in front of each other all the time.’

‘Yes, but this is different. We’re all alone. And, as you said earlier, I’m your boss.’

Thea suddenly regretted pointing out that glaring fact, but Reicke didn’t seem to be offended. He tipped his head back and looked at the stars.

‘It is rather lovely, isn’t it?’ he said.

Then he looked at her, and this time his face was serious.

Under the water she felt Reicke’s foot touch hers and then his leg. She held her breath. She could feel herself trembling, despite the warm water. But his closeness felt wonderful.

Then, before she knew it, he’d crossed the water and was next to her and his lips were on hers, kissing her. He took her in his arms and kissed her more passionately.

‘Let’s forget everything,’ Reicke whispered. ‘Let’s just enjoy each other. You and me.’

March 1999

Romy concentrated hard, as she wound the ancient pasta-maker on the worn wooden table. She felt Maria Scolari’s strong, floury hands cup her own as the soft doughy
mixture fell in folds.

‘That’s it,’ Maria said, nodding her head.

Romy glanced up at Alfonso’s mother and smiled. She had neatly curled salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing a striped apron made in the local pink and white patterned cloth. Despite being
married to one of the richest men in Italy, when she was here at the family’s Tuscan farmhouse the matriarch of the family liked to get her hands dirty in the way of all her ancestors before
her.

Romy found it fascinating. Where she herself had done everything to sever all contact with her own roots, Maria positively embraced hers. In fact Romy had never been somewhere where family
tradition was so obvious – from the hand-painted plates on the oak dresser to the tiniest rituals. Like the way in which Maria sang to the hens as she collected eggs in the morning, or the
secret recipes for the giant dishes that Maria prepared for the family to eat in the evenings under the vine-covered terrace. Even the family dog was seventh-generation, from the same litter born
in the farmhouse during the war.

Romy loved being amongst it all and learning the family ways from Maria, who treated all her children with total joy and devotion. And none more so than Alfonso, whom Maria – as well as
Roberto, and all Alfonso’s sisters – worshipped. Romy had thought when she’d first seen how they spoiled him that they’d never accept her, but somehow they had. Which was
why she felt particularly blessed that Maria had singled her out to help in her kitchen this morning.

Alfonso swung round the kitchen door, the sunlight streaming in behind him. He was carrying a towel over his shoulder and announced that he was going for a swim in the lake with his father.

‘It’ll be freezing,’ Maria said. ‘You’ll catch a chill,’ she went on, tutting at him.

Alfonso smiled and came over and hugged Maria from behind, putting his arms around her shapely waist, making her bustle and slap his hand, and then tut as he stole a cherry tomato from the vine
cuttings on the table. But there was no mistaking the love in her eyes as Maria watched her son, who now winked at Romy and kissed her dramatically, bending her over backwards in his arms. As usual
she felt a dart of pleasure run through her, not dented for a minute by the fact that he was showing off in front of his mother.

She laughed as Alfonso started singing a loud opera aria as he made for the door.

‘Did he tell you that he used to want to be a singer,’ Maria said when he’d gone.

Romy felt herself blushing. ‘Yes, of course . . . ’

‘Romy,’ Maria said, putting her floury hand on Romy’s wrist. ‘Don’t play games with me. Not any more. He can’t sing for toffee.’

Romy felt the colour rise even more in her cheeks.

Maria chuckled at her. ‘I knew the first time you came here that you hardly knew a thing about my son. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re still here now. Do
you love him?’ Maria asked, shocking Romy with her directness.

‘Yes,’ Romy told her, amazed that she was admitting it. But somehow this beautiful farmhouse kitchen demanded the truth. And Maria herself seemed to demand the truth too.
‘I’ve never felt like this about anyone.’

Maria nodded, taking over the machine and letting another sheet of pasta spill expertly into her hand.

Romy couldn’t help feel that this short exchange had propelled her relationship with Alfonso to a whole knew level. She wondered what he would say when she told him that his mother had
seen through them all along. Would he be angry that she’d been so easily caught out?

But looking at Maria now, Romy realized that this formidable woman, who appeared so motherly and keen to please her husband, was in fact the backbone of the Scolari family. Nothing her children
did had probably ever got past her.