Ruthless (23 page)

‘So you’re going to be a psychologist,’ smiled Layla.

‘Got it in one. As soon as I qualify, I’m out of here.’

‘Yeah, as if I haven’t heard
that
a million times before,’ said Ellie, putting her head around the door.

‘It’s true,’ said Precious, unfazed.

‘We’ll see,’ Ellie smiled. She turned to Layla. ‘You got a visitor, Layla. Your brother’s here.’

52

Layla stepped out into the hall. It seemed to be packed full of tall, hard-eyed men. One of them turned around and gave her a dazzling smile. Layla felt the blood rush to her face at the shock of seeing him here. She was
blushing,
for God’s sake. And she looked a mess. Old jeans and a tatty T-shirt and her hair pulled back and . . . damn it, some things never changed. He had only to
smile
at her and she was ready to roll over and die.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said.

‘And hello to you too,’ said Alberto.

‘He’s not my brother,’ Layla blurted out to Ellie, who was standing there with Chris, the pair of them all expectant and deferential, as if royalty had pitched up at their door. Which she supposed it had, sort of.

‘Oh?’ Ellie looked uncomfortable. She knew who Alberto was. She had known his father Constantine through her connection to Annie. And she couldn’t understand why Layla was acting so bad-tempered.

Why the hell did I say that?
Layla wondered in anguish. She was hotly aware of all eyes on her, of Precious pushing into the doorway behind her and ogling Alberto with great interest.

‘Well, that’s correct. I’m not your brother,’ said Alberto, stepping smoothly forward. ‘Not
technically
.’ His eyes were resting on Layla’s face. ‘But I’ve always thought of you as my sweet, prickly little English sister.’

Precious cleared her throat. Layla saw Alberto’s eyes slip from her to Precious, and felt her guts clench up.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, Layla?’ said Precious, smiling, already extending her beautifully manicured hand towards Alberto.

‘Sure.’ Layla folded her arms, her face like thunder. ‘Alberto, this is Precious. Precious, Alberto.’

‘Who is definitely
not
Layla’s brother, right?’ said Precious, all smiles. ‘And American, is that right too?’

‘That’s right,’ said Alberto, taking Precious’s hand. ‘Hi, Precious.’

Then he turned to Layla. ‘Now come here and gimme a hug, Layla. And in answer to your question, your mother asked me to come. That’s what I’m doing here.’

‘Oh. Dear. God,’ said Precious, stretched out on Layla’s bed an hour later and staring wistfully at the ceiling.

Alberto had departed, taking his entourage with him. And Precious had said there was not a single doubt about it: she was in love.

‘What?’ snapped Layla, sitting on the stool by the dressing table.

‘Oh, come on. That man is
fabulous
.’ She turned her head and stared at Layla. ‘And he’s not your brother? Really?’

‘Of
course
he’s not my brother. Not in any way, shape, or form. His father married my mother. We’re in
no way
related.’

‘Right.’

Precious was staring at Layla’s face.

‘What?’ demanded Layla.

‘You seem mad at me. Why are you mad at me?’ asked Precious. This was a feature of the girl, and one of the reasons Layla had taken to her. She had this disarming, completely in-your-face and open honesty – she was so unlike Layla herself, who bottled everything up inside.

‘I’m not mad at you,’ said Layla.

‘Well, you
seem
to be.’

‘It’s just . . .’ started Layla.

‘Yes?’ prompted Precious. ‘Just what? Is there a problem with me fancying your brother . . .?’

Layla jumped to her feet. ‘He’s not my fucking brother!’ she yelped.

‘Oh.’ Precious sat up, her eyes fastened on Layla’s face. She swung her legs to the floor. ‘Oh dear. I think I’ve got it.’

‘You’ve got
what
?’

‘You fancy him yourself.’

‘That’s . . .’ Layla swiped a hand over her scraped-back hair. ‘That’s complete and utter
bullshit
.’

‘Is it?’

Layla’s face seemed to collapse in on itself. ‘Oh Christ . . . no it’s not. Oh damn it, I’m such a mess . . .’

‘No you’re not.’

Layla started pacing around the room. ‘It’s totally ridiculous. How could I be so stupid as to develop a crush on him? It’s
insane
.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite as strongly as that,’ said Precious, smiling slightly. ‘How long have you felt this way about him?’

Layla looked at Precious uncertainly. She’d never shared this with
anyone.
But she liked Precious. They’d formed a bond from the instant they’d met. And . . . yes, she trusted her. Precious wouldn’t blab, she knew it.

‘Oh shit, just about forever,’ she said, exhaling sharply. ‘Since I was ten years old, I think. It was so bad I was embarrassed to be anywhere near him – I was relieved to be at school in England. And whenever he came over, I did the vanishing act.’ Layla looked at Precious. ‘Pathetic, yes?’

Precious shrugged. ‘You can’t legislate for how you feel. And as you so rightly say – he’s
not
your brother.’

‘Oh no.’ Layla was shaking her head, wagging her finger in Precious’s face. ‘No, I can see what you’re doing. You’re
doing
me, aren’t you? All this psychology stuff, all this counselling hoo-ha – you’re trying it out on me.’

Precious didn’t seem to be listening. She had a look of excitement on her face. Her eyes were moving over Layla assessingly.

‘He sees you – and he sees his
sister
,’ she said.

‘Well, obviously.’

‘He doesn’t see you as a fanciable woman. Well, it would be a bit of a push,’ said Precious.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, come on. What?’ she demanded.

‘I wonder why you feel the need to play down your looks so much, that’s all,’ shrugged Precious.

‘Look, just bugger off, will you?’ said Layla through gritted teeth. Who the
fuck
did this girl think she was, to say that? ‘
Bugger off.
Go and shake your arse in someone’s face, that’s what you’re best at.’

Precious stood up. Though Layla was trembling with fury, Precious seemed unperturbed. ‘Attack as the best form of defence,’ she said, smiling.

‘Fuck off!’ yelled Layla.

Precious hadn’t long gone when Layla heard the phone ringing in the office down the hall. Ellie picked up, and Layla heard her own name mentioned. She went out into the corridor, listening. Ellie was saying: ‘No, no, far too poorly to come to the phone. . . . Well, of course it’s an inconvenience for
you,
and she feels terrible about letting you down, but what can she do? . . . A major audit? . . . Well, you know what a conscientious girl Layla is, she wouldn’t ever want to let you down, but she’s so ill . . . Yes, OK, I’ll see she gets the message.’

Ellie put the phone down, looked at Layla. ‘Sounds like your boss is a right prick!’

‘Was it Etchingham?’ Layla could feel her heart pounding.

‘Yeah, that’s the one: Graham Etchingham. Your mum must have given him this number,’ said Ellie. ‘Cold-blooded fucker.’

‘That’s my head of department. What exactly did he say?’

‘He wants a doctor’s certificate by tomorrow.’ Ellie shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it – your dad could get you ten if you wanted. Whew – talk about a short fuse!’

Layla chewed her lip. ‘I’m going to lose my job,’ she moaned.

‘No you’re not,’ said Ellie, getting up to give her a hug. Layla was such a worrier: Ellie wished she’d toughen up, grow a bit of a ruthless streak like her mother.
Fuck
Etchingham. He was a tiny parasite on the arse-end of the Earth, nothing for a Carter woman to trouble herself over. Why couldn’t Layla
see
that?

‘Yes, I
am
,’ Layla insisted, pulling free of Ellie’s embrace. ‘Because no one knows how long this is going to go on for, do they? I’ve been off three days – three days! – and
already
Etchingham’s spitting blood.’

‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?’ said Ellie. ‘We just have to sit tight until this resolves itself.’

Layla had her doubts that this would ever resolve itself. Ellie didn’t know the whole story, the full awfulness of what had happened. All Ellie knew was that Annie had a bit of trouble. No one had told her that Layla had killed a woman, shot her dead. Layla shuddered anew to think of it. Couldn’t believe it, even now. She had a terrifying sense of things hurtling beyond her control, and she hated that. She craved normality, neat rows of figures to add up and make sense of.

She craved her
job.

53

‘The police are sniffing around,’ said Annie next morning.

They were in the drawing room, Max on one sofa, she on another. Only a few feet apart, but it seemed like a mile. She didn’t want to talk to him. But all this shit was happening, and Layla was clearly at risk. They were her parents. They
had
to communicate, even if it was a pain in the arse.

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Max.

‘Meaning?’ she asked.

He stretched lazily in his chair. Annie kept her eyes on his face.

‘Meaning you’re sitting on a pile of Mafia money here, aren’t you.’

Annie felt her jaw clench. ‘This house is mine,’ she said.

‘Yeah, but it
was
Constantine Barolli’s. Before he cashed in his chips.’

‘What are you driving at, exactly?’

‘The Bill don’t ever rest over Mafia millions. They’ll never let it go.’

Annie thought of standing in the graveyard with Alberto, of the things he’d told her. That he might be forced to make a break for it any time now. She knew Max was right about the cops and their attitude to people profiting from organized crime.

‘And besides, there are other things,’ said Max.

Annie took a calming breath. ‘Can we not talk in riddles please?’

Max shrugged. ‘If I say it straight, you’ll kick off.’

‘Try me.’

‘Come on. You
know
what people are saying. Same thing they’ve
always
said.’

‘No. I don’t. Humour me.’

‘OK. They’re
saying
you’re his mistress. And that you only have to let out one little squeak and he’s over here, hanging out the back of you.’

Annie’s eyes were like chips of ice. ‘Alberto’s my stepson,’ she snapped.

Her heart was pounding hard against her ribs. She felt sick.
This
was what had broken up their marriage.
This
was the whole source of all their bitter arguments. Max had
never
accepted that her relationship with Alberto was an innocent one.

She could tell him it was until she was blue in the face: he’d never believe it. All her business trips to New York, he perceived as visits to Alberto. They weren’t of course. Oh, she’d often see Alberto while she was there, but she’d rarely stayed with him. Usually she stayed at the Old-Colonial-style penthouse she owned in Manhattan. She adored Alberto. But
not
the way she had always adored Max. Which she didn’t any more, she told herself. Not at all. Because he had killed her love for him stone dead.

Max gave a chilly smile. ‘Looks a lot like his dad though, don’t he?’

Before she knew it, Annie was on her feet, the blood singing in her ears.

‘Listen up, will you? Alberto is my
stepson
,’ she repeated, glaring at her ex-husband with murder in her heart.

‘Sure he is.’ Now Max stood up too. Annie didn’t flinch – she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. They glared at each other, nose to nose.

‘He
is.
And you know something else? You and me, we’re
divorced.
If I wanted to sleep with
anyone,
you’d have no say in the matter. Even Alberto. Which isn’t the case, which has
never
been the case, you
arsehole
.’

Max was silent for a moment, his eyes locked with hers.

‘You know what?’ he said at last.

‘No. What?’ demanded Annie. She could feel the heat of his breath on her face. Could smell the faint citrus tang of his cologne. She wanted,
so much,
to hit him.

‘I never know whether to fight you or fuck you, and that’s a fact,’ he said. ‘I’m leaning towards the second option, right this minute.’

This was how it had always been between them. Max was deep and dark, forever pulling strings and taking risks, determined to come out on top in anything he did; Annie was obstinate to the last, with a strong need for security and stability. She was his polar opposite. They sparked off each other, attracted, repelled.

She could feel the tug of his attraction, even now. And he could feel hers. She could see it in his eyes, the dilation of his pupils, the red-hot flash of desire evident in the tension in his body.

He started to move forward. Annie drew back her arm and slapped him, hard, around the face. Max stopped in his tracks. He rubbed at his jaw, gave her a glinting smile and stepped forward again, undeterred.

At that moment, the door opened.

‘Am I interrupting?’ It was Alberto.

Max looked at Alberto, then at Annie. ‘You see what I mean? One little squeak.’

Alberto glanced between the two of them. ‘Did I miss something?’ he asked.

‘No,’ they said together.

‘Come in,’ said Annie, glad of the distraction but all too aware that this would only confirm Max’s suspicions: here was Alberto, with her. She’d called for help, and he’d come running.

‘Have a seat,’ she said. Max sat down on the sofa opposite her. Alberto took one of the armchairs. She hoped she wasn’t blushing, but she was very afraid that she was. She could see the mark on Max’s face, where she’d struck him.

Fuck it. I shouldn’t have lost it like that,
she thought.

‘OK. This putz who got himself blown up by the car bomb,’ said Alberto. ‘His name’s . . .’