The Society Wife (11 page)

The words faded and she looked around, as if trying to remember why they were there. Lily was wondering the same thing. Allegra Montalvo y Romero de Losada was beautiful, glamorous, generous and wel coming, but she was also extremely drunk. From the fact that this hadn't been immediately apparent at the reception, Lily realised that it was a state of affairs Allegra was obviously quite used to. She also thought that it probably explained the rather large bruise that was discernible on one of her elegant cheek bones, beneath the pancake makeup.

‘I think,' said Lily carefully, ‘that perhaps I'd better be getting back. Tristan will be wondering where I've got to.'

Would he?

Once again her mind wandered back to the afternoon. There had been a fervour to his lovemaking that was almost fierce in its intensity. A ripple of profound, private delight shimmered through her as she recalled it…

‘Wait! You can't go until I've given you what I brought you up here for,' Allegra said, sashaying into the bedroom and disappearing into another small room leading off it. Left alone, Lily pressed her palm over the tiny roundness of her bump and silently pleaded with the baby to ease up on the sickness. The waves of nausea were getting closer together now, each one threatening to tip her right over…

‘Here!' Allegra was back, holding a large, flat box out in one hand and her glass in the other. It was full again, Lily noticed with concern. She must have bottles stashed all over the place.

Allegra set the box on the low table and sat back on one of the feather sofas. ‘Open it.'

Lily approached the box warily as if it were likely to contain something highly explosive, or liable to scuttle out and sting her. Lifting the tooled leather lid, she felt as if she were in one of those children's cartoons where the characters opened the treasure chest and their faces were illuminated with the glow of the gold, only now the light coming from the treasure wasn't a yellow glow, but a shimmering meteor shower of bright rainbows from the collar of ruby and diamonds that lay against the black velvet.

Allegra was watching her face. ‘You're a Romero now,' she said quietly, and suddenly she sounded absolutely sober. ‘A Romero bride, just as I was all those years ago. These are the Romero jewels, so it's only right that they should be passed on to you.'

Lily's hand had automatically flown to her mouth when she'd first seen the diamonds, but she dropped it now and tried to speak. ‘Oh…
señora
….'

‘Please, call me Allegra.'

‘Allegra, I can't accept these,' she protested a little breath-
lessly. ‘They're beautiful—more beautiful than anything I've ever seen, but so expensive…'

‘Priceless.' Allegra got up, swaying very slightly as she leaned forward and picked up the necklace. ‘But you already have my son, Lily, and although he might not think it he is worth so much more to me than these are. Please, let me put them on.'

The stones felt very cold against Lily's bare skin, and Allegra's long fingernails scraped at her neck as she struggled with the clasp. Lily closed her eyes, fighting back the rising nausea and the feeling that she was being strangled…suffocated…

‘There.' With a triumphant flourish Allegra stood back and, taking Lily by the hand, led her over to a mirror that hung on the wall.

The collar was wide, seeming to elongate her neck, and the large diamonds glittered with a brilliance that dazzled her. In the centre a single ruby nestled exactly in the hollow at the base of her throat, and it looked like a drop of blood.

Lily jumped slightly as Allegra's face appeared beside hers in the mirror, and with a strange, dreamlike expression Allegra removed Lily's own cheap costume earrings and slipped a pair of ruby droplets in their place.

‘I…I don't know what to say…' she said, truthfully. She felt a little faint, a little dizzy and it was taking all her energy just to suppress the sickness. Allegra's fingers bit into her flesh a little too hard as she held Lily in front of the mirror.

‘Welcome to the family, Lily,' she said in a strange, choked voice. ‘I hope that—'

She didn't get any further. At that moment the door opened, and Tristan appeared.

‘There you are.'

He stopped, and although his expression didn't change much there was something about the stillness that suddenly seemed to come over him that made Lily's heart batter against her ribs. In the light of the silk-shaded lamps he looked very pale.

And terrifyingly angry.

Allegra stepped back, away from Lily. ‘Tristan, we were just—' she began, falteringly and then started again. ‘The Romero jewels belong to Lily now.'

Tristan didn't look at her. Not for a second did his eyes leave Lily. They glittered with a dark brilliance like the diamonds.

‘Take them off,' he said in a voice of frosted steel.

‘It's so kind of your mother,' Lily said breathlessly, but her throat tightened around the words and she got no further. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, and an icy mist of horror and panic seemed to be closing around her, blurring everything that was familiar and normal and logical.

‘Take. Them. Off,' he snapped.
‘Now.'

Understanding tore into her head like a cyclone. Her fingers flew to the clasp and shakily fumbled with it. Of course, she thought despairingly, of course. He was telling her she had no right to wear the priceless Romero jewels. Her chest burned with the effort of breathing and acid tears gathered behind her eyes as the clasp opened and the necklace slithered off in a shimmer of brilliance that only real diamonds gave off.

Their marriage was a sham. Paste and plastic. Not real. The Romero jewels belonged around the neck of a woman Tristan loved, a woman he had willingly taken to be his bride, not the one who had trapped him into it.

She handed them back to Allegra, opening her mouth to say something, but discovering that she didn't know what to say. Thank you?

Sorry?

In the end she settled instead for a frozen little smile before following Tristan from the room.

 

‘Well, that went well, then.'

It was a pretty feeble attempt at humour, Lily knew that. She couldn't blame Tristan for completely ignoring it and keeping his stony face turned towards the blank, dark window of the car. But still it left the problem of the gaping chasm that had
opened up between them. The closeness they had shared this afternoon now seemed about a million years ago. Miserably she tried again.

‘Tristan, I'm sorry. I didn't know that she was going to do that, and I wasn't going to—'

‘Forget it.' His voice stung her like the lash of a whip. He took a deep breath, regaining his formidable self-control again before saying, ‘It's not your fault.'

There was a terrible finality in his voice and he kept his face turned away. His profile looked as if it had been carved in ice.

Not her fault.
Of course not. She couldn't help what she was, or, more importantly, what she wasn't—aristocratic, well-connected, with a string of surnames that would never fit in the strip on the back of a credit card, and a Christmas-card list that included all the crowned heads of Europe.

And that was what all this was about.

She had failed to pull it off, this business of being the Romero bride. Her face might have graced some of the most prestigious magazine covers in the world, but it had failed to fit in the Romeros' exclusive circle. Juan Carlos hadn't bothered to pretend, and although any fool could see that Tristan had issues with his family, it was also obvious that on some deep and primitive level he was also deeply bonded to them.
In my family you get…roots so deep they're like anchors of concrete, holding you so tightly that you can't move.

That was how it was. How he was, and there was nothing anyone could do to change it. The question was, could they somehow find a way to live with it? As the car made its way through the narrow streets of the Barri Gotic she very tentatively reached out and covered his hand with hers.

‘Tristan, I know I was wrong to—'

Very gently he moved his hand away and turned his head to face her. The street lights shone on the rain-wet, night-black window, lining his face with watery shadows.

‘No,' he said flatly. ‘You weren't wrong.
I
was. I was
wrong to think this could be more than just a business arrangement, Lily. I was wrong to let you think it was ever going to work.'

Lily felt the blood drain from her face as his shocking, hurtful words sank in. ‘But what about this afternoon? ‘A mistake.'

‘No…' she whimpered. ‘Tristan, no.'

‘Yes.' His voice was low and forceful. ‘I'm thinking of you, Lily; I'm trying to do what's best for you. We have to keep up this charade in front of everyone else, but I can't do it all the time in private as well.' He sighed. ‘From now on, it's as we discussed at the start. A business arrangement. A marriage in name only.'

Lily was too shocked to cry. She had gambled, and she had lost. Everything, including her dignity and her heart. All she had left was her baby.

 

That night Lily lay on her side of the wide bed that had been the scene of such rapturous lovemaking earlier. She felt as if she were balanced on the edge of some dark and fathomless abyss.

The next morning Tristan went to the office and Dimitri collected her from the hotel and took her to Tristan's apart ment in the Eixample. Left by herself, she walked slowly around her new home, admiring the pale blond wooden floors, the sleekly efficient kitchen with its stainless steel surfaces and gleaming run of fitted units, the big windows that looked out over the city to the sea in the distance, and thought wistfully of the cluttered house in Primrose Hill.

She felt very alone. And very certain that, not only had her brief honeymoon ended, but so, effectively, had her marriage.

‘L
ILY,
my darling!'

The nicotine-soaked rasp of Lily's agent in London reached down the telephone line into the quiet of the Barcelona apartment like an echo from another planet.

‘Now, don't hang up, angel—I'm not ringing to pressure you about work, I just want to know how you are. And of course make sure that you're eating properly and getting plenty of sleep, darling. I'm worried about you.'

‘Just like the old days, Maggie,' said Lily with a smile as she sank down into one of Tristan's squat, modern sofas and slid a cushion into the small of her back. When Lily and Scarlet had arrived in London as green seventeen-year-olds Maggie Mason had clucked over them like a mother hen, although her motives were largely financial.

‘Ah, the old days, when I had to beg clients to cast you because you always looked so shy and serious until you got in front of a camera. That
does
seem a long time ago. Now you're all grown up and married to the most eligible man in Europe! How's it going, darling?'

‘Fine.' Lily heard the slight stiffness in her voice and forced herself to smile. ‘I'm doing everything by the book. Tristan has registered me with the top obstetrician here, so I'm being well looked after.'

‘That's good! Fantastic!' There was a pause, and Lily could vividly picture Maggie briskly tapping the ash from her
cigarette into an ashtray placed precariously on the landslide of paper and magazines on her desk. ‘Well, in that case, darling, how's everything else? You're keeping busy? Only you would not believe how inundated I am with requests for you to work. Simply swamped with demands from just about every luxury brand imaginable, all wanting the new Marquesa de Montesa to represent them. Of course I tell them all that it's impossible—that you're absolutely off the circuit and far too busy with your gorgeous husband and your glamorous life to
work
, for heaven's sake… Am I right?'

Lily hesitated for a fraction of a second, before saying brightly, ‘Yes, yes, that's right, very busy,' but the lie seemed to echo around the emptiness of Tristan's stark and beautiful apartment. She tried to soften it a little. ‘It's the baby, really. I mean, I'm sure if you could see me now the only work you'd be offering me would be the back end of a cow in a butter commercial.'

Unconsciously while she'd been talking she found that she'd pushed up the cashmere jumper of Tristan's that she was wearing and was gently rubbing the flat of her hand over the neat mound of her bump. At almost six months pregnant she already felt huge, and although she was deeply relieved that the stage of morning sickness had passed she found it constantly surprising how the simplest tasks suddenly seemed overwhelmingly challenging.

Maggie was not to be deflected. ‘Come, come now, darling. I saw that picture in
Hello!
of you and Tristan at some function last week. Pregnancy suits you—although,' she teased, ‘I'm not sure it can be entirely responsible for the luminous glow in your cheeks…'

Lily felt her face grow warm. The reception had been held at one of the impossibly grand function rooms at the Banco Romero and had been a stilted affair with endless formal photographs, for which Lily had been expected to take her place at Tristan's side.

That was the reason for the glow in her cheeks, she thought miserably. Because for a few moments her husband had circled
his arm around her waist and held her against him. Because just the feel of his body against hers in a room full of strangers was enough to turn her knees to water. Who, looking at those photographs of the Marqués de Montesa so close to his pregnant wife, would have guessed that that was the first time he had touched or held her in weeks?

Ten weeks, to be precise. Since the night that she had worn the Romero jewels.

‘No, really,' Lily stammered now, ‘I love being pregnant. I know it sounds mad, but I really do.' Her voice softened, and her hand stilled on the bump as a wave of primitive love washed through her. Tristan's coldness and distance were so much more bearable because she had the constant comfort of the child inside her, making its gentle, rippling, fishlike movements. ‘It's like being under some as tonishing enchantment. My body has taken on this amazing life of its own.'

‘Oh, rats,' drawled Maggie. ‘I was hoping I'd find you bored to tears and desperate to get back to work. You're still doing the next instalment of the perfume ad, I suppose—but that's not until after the baby's due, which is ages away.' Maggie paused, and Lily heard her take a deep drag of nicotine before she continued thoughtfully. ‘I don't suppose you'd consider a lifestyle feature, just to keep the masses happy would you? Something along the lines of “my fairy-tale marriage to the gorgeous blue-blooded Spanish billionaire”?'

Lily suddenly felt very cold. ‘No. No, I don't think that would be a good idea.'

‘Darling, why not? You're so buried in domestic bliss that you're perhaps not aware that your fabulously romantic marriage has made you absolutely the hottest ticket in town. I've heard rumours about paparazzi photographers remortgaging their houses to pay for tip-offs about your antenatal appointments, and which parties you and Tristan will be appearing at. You can't buy this kind of publicity, so when it comes along, by God, you have to make the most of it…'

Lily's knuckles were white as she gripped the phone. ‘No,
Maggie, and—oh, gosh—talking of antenatal appointments reminds me, I'm going to be late for one if I don't get a move on. Thanks so much for ringing. It's gorgeous to talk, and I'll phone you if I change my mind about work or anything.'

A little later as she sat behind the silent Dimitri on the way to her appointment at Dr Alvarez's office Lily thought back over the conversation.
My fairy-tale marriage to the gorgeous blue-blooded Spanish billionaire indeed.

What a joke.

What would Maggie say if she knew that at this moment Lily didn't even know where the gorgeous blue-blooded Spanish billionaire was, or who he was with? He had left two days ago on one of his frequent ‘business trips', as usual giving no clue as to when he would be back. And although in many ways his physical absence was easier to bear than the great yawning distance that he so carefully put between them when he was home, it still hurt.

How, she thought bleakly, had she ended up deceiving all the people she cared about most?

She was saved from coming up with the answer to that question by Dimitri's guttural voice with its impenetrable Russian accent.

‘Nearly there, Marquesa. I park at front?'

‘Yes, please, Dimitri.' She smiled ruefully. It made no difference how many times she told him to call her Lily. ‘How is Irina?'

He didn't reply, but once the car had come to a standstill in front of Dr Alvarez's building he reached into his pocket for a creased piece of paper and handed it to her with a little grunt. It showed the grainy amphibian outline of his sister's unborn twins.

‘Oh, Dimitri, look! They're adorable! And getting so big… When are they due?'

He had come round to open the car door for her. ‘Six weeks. But maybe they come sooner.'

Lily gathered up her bag and prepared to ease her bulk out
of the car and Dimitri put a steady hand beneath her elbow. It made her smile to think that she'd mistaken the gentle giant for a gangster the night she'd arrived in Barcelona. It seemed so ridiculously naïve now. But then so did a lot of the things she'd thought back then.

‘How is she?' Lily asked gently. Dimitri had told her that Irina had lost her husband and both of their families in a terrible bombing raid on their village. Dimitri had been trying to persuade her to come to Barcelona before the babies were born, but she was unwilling to leave the place that was her last link with her husband.

‘Always tired. Her blood has not enough…' he frowned ‘…metal?'

‘Iron,' said Lily. ‘Are they looking after her all right?'

Dimitri nodded, implacable behind his dark glasses. ‘Señor Romero make sure. He pay for best doctors. He look after her.'

How typical of Tristan, thought Lily as she made her way slowly up the steps to Dr Alvarez's consulting rooms. Dutiful to the last—even to the unknown sister of his driver, thousands of miles away in Russia. She hated the mean little part of her that resented the idea of Tristan looking after anyone else. But she had so little of him, so very, very little, that it hurt to know that she shared those dry crumbs with anyone else.

Sighing, Lily paused at the top of the steps and took the mobile phone from her bag and dialled his number. Waiting for him to answer, she pictured him sprawled across the bed in some lavish hotel, a sultry beauty lying with her head on her chest, her dark hair spilling over the rumpled sheets. As the ringing continued she imagined him reluctantly disentangling himself from the long, tanned limbs of the beautiful woman and cursing quietly as he searched through the pile of hastily discarded clothes on the floor for his mobile…

‘Hello?'

Lily's heart rocketed as his voice reached her ear; dark, rich, husky. She felt the heat flood her face. Her face, and her body.

‘Tristan, it's me. Lily.'

‘I know.'

‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.' She closed her eyes, willing the surge of stupefying need that just hearing his voice had aroused to subside again. ‘Look, I've just arrived at Dr Alvarez's office for my scan. He has this high-tech equipment that means that you can see it on the Internet…' She felt her throat tighten. ‘I just thought…if you're anywhere near a computer…'

There was a long pause.

‘Tristan? Are you still there?'

‘Yes.' She thought she heard him sigh, but it could have been static on the line. ‘I'll connect my laptop now.'

 

It sounded so easy, Tristan thought as he switched on the computer and waited to see if there was any chance that the wireless connection was going to play ball today. The things that people took so much for granted in the modern world, like electricity or phone signals, were erratic and unreliable in Khazakismir, which was almost more difficult to deal with than if they hadn't been available at all.

The health centre's small office was currently doubling up as a storeroom to house the massive influx of basic medicinal supplies that Tristan had demanded on the day of the village raid all those months ago, meaning the desk was pushed right up against the window in the corner. Since that time things had been quieter here, and the rhythm of day-to-day life—never smooth or easy—had gradually been restored, giving them a chance to finish off the building and recruit and train some more staff from the local population. The health centre was still full, still struggling to cope, but the cases they were dealing with were the effects of the harsh winter and poor nutrition; influenza, pneumonia, sheer exhaustion from the grinding stress of living in poverty, rather than the bloody aftermath of deliberate violence. Today the cries that echoed through the corridors were not those of the maimed and bereaved, but of a woman giving birth.

Things were running fairly smoothly now, and the staff Tristan employed via the charitable trust had proved to be competent and courageous beyond anything he could have hoped. He didn't need to be here at all.

And yet he kept coming back.

Kept running away.

Swearing softly, he stared at the screen of the small computer, until the little hourglass danced in front of his eyes. He remembered Lily telling him about the scan a while ago, and about the latest technology that enabled absent fathers to view their babies over an Internet connection, but he had pushed the information to the back of his mind.

Or maybe he hadn't.

Maybe that was why he had flown out here two days ago, on the private mental pretext of dealing with a missing consignment of supplies, which, if he was honest, was never likely to be recovered. Maybe it was because all the red tape and tightrope negotiations with volatile local government officials was easier than being at his wife's side and getting a first glimpse at his unborn child.

Straightening up he slammed his fist down on the desk, making the laptop bounce alarmingly. A second later the screen changed, signalling that the elusive Internet connection had finally been established.

From down the hallway the woman in labour gave a low cry, like an animal in pain. Tristan's mobile phone rang.

‘Señor Romero? It's Dr Alvarez's secretary. Are you ready to be put through to the scan room?'

 

For a moment there was nothing to be seen but a grainy moon-scape of grey, broken by a paler crescent of white. Tristan straightened up and exhaled, realising only then that he had been holding his breath, mentally bracing himself against whatever he might see. But this he could deal with. The screen in front of him showed a picture like television static, a tiny white
arrow racing across meaningless ghostly shapes in the snowstorm, clicking and measuring.

Measuring what? His chest lurched as he wondered if, whatever they were, the measurements were OK.

And then suddenly the screen split, and on the right hand side another window opened up onto a sepia-toned underwater world. For a moment Tristan wasn't sure what he was looking at as the sonogram moved around and the image swirled and billowed, but then the screen stilled and the picture resolved itself, and he was looking at his baby's face.

It was astonishingly clear, astonishingly
real
. The baby was in half profile, its eyes closed, a tiny, perfect hand pressed against one rounded cheek. As he watched a frown flickered across its face and the hand moved, the delicate fingers stretching and uncurling like fronds of coral as the baby opened its rosebud mouth wide and gave a restless movement of its head, as if it were looking for something. And then a second later it stilled again as the thumb of the small, flailing hand found its place in the tiny mouth.