The Untouchable (22 page)

Chapter Forty

Gloomy London crouched in the cold January drizzle, refusing to be part of Rosy’s optimism. Nevertheless, she threw herself into the renovation of new premises in Chelsea with determination resulting in a four-week turnaround from unloved pizza parlour to chic café that everyone was talking about. Goaded by Fiona she upgraded her flat using professional decorators to repaint it and fit free-standing kitchen units.

“You’re mad to go
this
far,” Fiona said, when she came around one Friday evening to inspect progress. “Why invest so much in someone else’s property?”

“It’s not an investment. It’s paint, and some Ikea units.”

“How nice.” Fiona ran a hand over the pale grey finish on the tongue and groove door of the integrated fridge. “French.”

Rosy smiled. “You like it?”

“I do, but why don’t you buy a place of your own?”

Rosy poked about in a recently delivered box of new bedding. “Um, I like to be flexible.”

“Flexible how? Why?”

“Just because.”

“Have you heard anything from Dallariva?”

“He’s testing a new bike in Malaysia and—”

“That’s not what I meant.” Fiona touched her arm.

“Then, no, I haven’t.”

“Are you expecting to?” Fi asked, her voice gentle.

“I don’t know.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Rosy shook her head. “I’m putting my energy into this, Fi.” She waved a hand at the kitchen. “Living life, comfortably, and developing the business to full potential. That’s my focus.”

“But—”

“That’s
all
, honestly.”

“If you say so.” Fiona hugged her and left, refusing a glass of wine—claiming that drinking before the kids were in bed on a Friday night could spell all sorts of disaster.

Rosy, resolute, opened the packs of sheets and pillowcases and put the lot into the washing machine.

***

Sepang International Circuit, just east of Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Marco finished exchanging New Year pleasantries with his new teammate, rookie Hans Kirkman, fast and furious Dutch rider barely out of his teens, and went outside. Arms folded, he stood at the entrance of the Dallariva Racing Team pit garages, beneath the stands: rows and rows of empty green chairs rising in tiers to the dramatic, webbed canopies, spread overhead like the pale wings of pterodactyls. He noticed a number of reporters wandering about the pit lane but it wasn’t a bunfight. Not yet.

First impression after several laps of the circuit on his new bike? Something lacked, something fundamental, essential to his performance. Not the bike, but him. Not good.

Terry came out to stand beside him. “Thoughts?”

“Something’s missing.”

“How is the lovely Miss Hamilton?”

“Talk me through the tyre options again.”

Terry hesitated. “Okay. I’ll get the data.”

Heavy rain prevented further morning testing but, after lunch, they got underway immediately on a rapidly drying track.

Marco went out, subdued, the heavy heat and humidity oppressing the entire team. After five laps, he came in for adjustments, and then did more. Solid laps, good test laps. They weren’t particularly fast, not for Marco, but neither could they be called slow.

“Initial feel?” Terry asked as Marco came into the garage for the last time.

“Good grip but there’s chatter. At full lean on the neutral throttle. I’ll show you on the track chart.”

Chatter. So easy to understand, so hard to fix. Terry made notes while they studied the chart, Marco pointing out the corners where the problem occurred. “And the suspension?”

“Good.”

“Anything else?”

“Petrol tank’s too far forward.”

“How much?”

“Two millimetres should do it.”

“What else?”

“That’s it. I’ll go now, if that’s okay.”

Terry walked with him to the back door of the garage and stopped him there. “You all right, Marco?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Because you need to find something. By this stage in the November tests we were way beyond this point. You’re sure you’re not in pain?”

“Sure. Everything’s okay.” Marco flexed his elbows. State of the art physiotherapy and specialized gym had rebuilt the strength in his arms. No excuses lurked there.

Terry put a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “The bike is fine, you are not. Go get some rest. Find that something.”

Marco went through the back door into the paddock, nodding a greeting to the waiting journalists, offering nothing besides “tomorrow will be better,” aware that Terry had stepped back into the garage, quickly shutting the door, so he wouldn’t be trapped into giving a statement.

Marco let himself into his sleek black and red motorhome, slammed the door, and unzipped his leathers. He flung his gloves on the floor.

Tomorrow will be better.

It had bloody well better be!

***

Marco showered, dried, and put on a pair of shorts. With half a litre of mineral water mixed with an electrolyte solution, he sprawled on one of the leather sofas in bland luxury, only the hum of the aircon for company, if you really listened. He knew what Terry was on about. His performance on the new bike had a dull edge. Terry believed that the rider, not the bike, worked the magic. That, and hard work in the brutal face of anything life hurled at you —getting on that bike, over and over, no matter if you were de-motivated, depressed, sick, injured, or frightened as fuck.

He could do that. Passionate about the sport, electrified by the thrill of the race, addicted to the ecstasy of victory, he could do it. Head down, hammer down, faster, always faster.

So, what bugged him like a mosquito in his visor?

He drank deep from the water bottle and sat up. The email from Henri Albert, now a week old, informing him that Rosemary Hamilton wanted to sell her house, disturbed him. Of course he wanted her house. That went without saying. She could have the asking price; she could have more. As matters stood, he had a thirty-day first option to buy, but hadn’t jumped at it because something didn’t sit right. Putting down the bottle, he rested his hands on his spread thighs, elbows turned out, and stared at the carpet between his feet. Here was the thing: he wanted Rosemary’s house, but he wanted her in it.

He lifted his head, scanning the nondescript, polished hardwood cabinetry, granite counters and leather upholstery. How would it be if she were right here, now, in this motorhome, instead of halfway across the world? There’d be flowers for a start, and wine in the fridge. There’d be candles and soft music, a proper meal on the table, and cake. Cake. He grinned at the thought.

Could he ask her to try? Travel with him for a season, give it a go? He stood, drained the bottle and chucked it in the bin. She’d have to give up her home and her job, not see her family and friends for months on end, so no. It wouldn’t work. It never did.

And, what about Leo? He had the best care money could buy, but was it right to leave him thousands of miles away, to grow up on a stranger’s watch? Apart from anything, he missed him like crazy. He took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the photographs Mel sent him nearly every day. Marco chuckled. He was identical in all of them: eyes squeezed shut, and a blue blanket covering half his face.

In the bedroom, he flicked on the vast, flat-screen TV, identical to the one in the sitting area, and watched a bit of news, standing up. Satisfied that nothing major had occurred in the world since last time he’d switched on, over a week ago, he took off his shorts and dressed in jeans and t-shirt. Some of the guys in the garage had been talking about braving the bright chaos of Kuala Lumpur that night. There’d been talk of a restaurant specialising in French-Malaysian fusion dishes, whatever they were. He’d declined the invitation to join them, but had changed his mind. Running a hand through his still-wet hair, he left the motorhome and walked back to the garage.

The
lack
he was experiencing applied not only to his racing, but his whole life.

Time to live a little.

Chapter Forty-One

The middle of February already—how had that happened? Marco, heading home to Saint Michel on the way back from San Francisco where he’d taken part in a charity auction, made a detour via London. Zavi was trying out a new riverside penthouse apartment on the top floor of a reconditioned warehouse east of the City. He’d go and see it for himself, see what Zavi was up to, see if Zavi could help him with the idea forming in his mind.

At Heathrow Airport, he dived into the First Class arrivals lounge, showered, and changed his clothes. During breakfast, he went online and searched Red Velvet out of not-so-idle curiosity. And here it was, laid before him on the most appealing website he’d ever seen.

“Welcome to Red Velvet,” he read. “Deli, bakery and café.” He scrolled through the tabs glancing at the offerings, his mouth watering in spite of the large English breakfast he’d just consumed. He searched for a photograph of Rosemary and found it in the About Us section. There she was, utterly beautiful in a pink and white polka dot shirt, hair up, arms folded, smiling. He gazed at her for a while and, decision made, scanned her CV. Well-educated, she was a qualified pastry chef, she’d won awards, worked in senior positions in two of London’s top catering agencies, and had been a finalist in something called The Great British Bakeoff, some television series—a baking competition played out under a white marquee in the emerald gardens of a stately home.

Marco fetched a third cup of coffee, sat back in his armchair and thought. Next to Rosemary, he was a boy. A boy of twenty-nine who had spent his life doing one thing only. She, by comparison, at nearly thirty-five, had packed her life with experience, honed her skills, pushed herself to attain her dream. Could he compete? He’d never been to university; he never even finished school. He didn’t read much—there was never time—or go to the ballet, theatre, or opera. He was well travelled, that much was true, even if he sometimes forgot where he was, in the endless carpeted corridors of one featureless hotel after another, or sealed in his motorhome in some dustbowl.

Another thing, he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He centred on one thing, knew about one thing—his sport. All those weeks ago when she’d been looking after him, he’d told her she asked a lot of questions.

“Well, you don’t, and it makes you one-dimensional,” she’d answered.

She was right, but could he do anything about it? Yes. Yes he could. He’d visit her at Red Velvet and find out everything, be interested, engage, react. He put down his coffee, copied the address and postcode into his phone, closed his laptop and put it in his bag. He left the lounge and followed signs to car rentals. He’d go straight to Zavi’s. Currently so conveniently based in London, he could be roped in for on-the-spot moral support

***

Zavi opened the door of his apartment to let Marco in. “Long time no see. How was Kuala Lumpur? If the newspapers are to be believed, you had a pretty good time off-track.”

“Believe me, it looked more fun than it was.” Marco dropped his bag on the floor and held out his hands, palms up. “So, this is it. When do you move in?”

“I have.” Zavi wheeled out of the hallway across the wide oak-planked floor to the living room and the full-length windows with views on the wide, cold grey waters of the Thames and a sullen, leaky sky.

“I don’t see any furniture.”

“What do I need furniture for?” He patted the wheels of his chair. “Like a snail, I carry my furniture around on my arse.”

“Does that mean no beds? Must I find a hotel?” Marco followed him to the windows and stood next to him, hands in pockets, gazing at the river as it slid east to Greenwich, carrying a barge loaded with yellow containers and a ferry heading for Canary Wharf Pier.

“You’re staying?”

“Just tonight, if I can.”

Zavi grinned. “Sure, there are beds. The rest of the stuff’s coming next week. There’s a chair in the kitchen. Grab that and a couple of beers and we’ll sit here and watch the rain. Unless you want to go to the pub. The Captain Kidd’s not far, and I could show you the site of the execution dock.”

“Cheerful.”

“So, why are you here?” Zavi asked, when Marco returned carrying a chair in one hand and two bottles of chilled Heineken in the other.

“I need a favour.” Marco handed Zavi a beer, swung the chair to the floor and straddled it, sitting back to front.

“Tell me.”

“I need you to come to tea with me this afternoon, at Red Velvet in Chelsea.”

Zavi frowned. “That’s Rosemary Hamilton’s gig.”

“Her new place, yes. Will you come?”

“You don’t even drink tea. And have you any idea how far Chelsea is?”

“I’ve got a car. I know how to get there.”

“How?”

“I drove past on my way here.”

“Why didn’t you stop off and
drink tea
while you were passing?”

Marco studied the neck of the beer bottle he held. “She was busy. And very efficient. I lost confidence.”

“What if she’s busy when we get there? What if she’s left?”

“She’s got a private function at five.”

“How do you know that?”

“I double parked and phoned.”

“You spoke to her?”

“Not her. A woman with red hair answered the phone.”

Zavi leaned forward. “You were watching?”

“Of course. I was outside the shop window.”

“Stalker.”

“Not if I do something about it immediately. Will you come with me?”

“Why would I want to grind for hours through gridlocked London, the most inaccessible city in Europe?”

“You live here some of the time. It can’t be that inaccessible.”

“Yes, but I live here.” Zavi pointed at the floor. “Here. In
east
London, where it’s empty, roomy, wide open, and modern.
West
London is Tudor and Georgian. Poky and awkward.” He sipped his beer and locked eyes with Marco. “I bet you…I bet you I can’t get in. I bet you there are steps. What do I do then?”

Marco stood up. “I get to practise my fireman’s lift or you stay outside and I’ll bring you cupcakes.”

“Jesus, Marco.”

They stared each other down.

“Why do you need me?” Zavi asked.

“Because you’re social, and clever. You make me look better.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Come. Bring your blue badge.”

“I know what’s going to happen. Nothing. We’ll go all the way there and nothing will happen. Because you need to take a step forward. You had a real bad time with Lily, but that’s nearly a year ago. It’s time to progress.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t wink at a woman in the dark. You know what you’re doing but nobody else does. You need to say what you mean to Rosy, and mean what you say. Preferably today.”

Marco hesitated. “I know. Are you coming?”

Zavi looked at his watch. “It’ll take us until five to get there.”

“Yes or no?”