True Colours, Page 21

  Was there a back door? Caroline thought of the patio doors in the blue parlour; but they would be locked. She was sure there was a door into the kitchen but that was miles around the back of the house and getting there would mean trekking along the muddy paths of the kitchen garden, and she certainly wasn’t going to do that in these shoes. And if Sebastian was in the ballroom, or just about anywhere else in the house for that matter, he wasn’t going to hear her tapping on the patio doors like a complete idiot. Caroline shivered as the chill hand of a breeze headed around the corner of the house and straight up the ankle-length skirt of her dress. She hadn’t bothered with stockings, had only just had her St Tropez done, and the g-string she was wearing didn’t offer a lot of protection.

  Maybe she could get in through the Palm House? Tripping down the steps, Caroline headed for the double doors leading into the extravaganza of foliage and fountains, tiled pools and exotic plants. But the ornate silver handle was chill to her touch. And stuck fast. Locked. Nom de Dieu. This was RIDICULOUS!

  There was only one thing for it: she’d have to phone the house. It would mean giving up the element of surprise, but at least she wouldn’t be left standing in the drive like a gypsy, freezing to death. But (of course) she’d left her phone in the car, which meant another trip across the gravel.

  Caroline took a deep breath, trying to control her temper. She needed a cigarette. Badly. After all the effort she’d gone to she was hardly going to go home now, so telephoning really was the only option – there was certainly no way anyone would hear her banging on the door of this mausoleum of a house unless she used a battering ram.

  Fighting to keep her temper, Caroline turned to head back to her car when she caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eye. More than a flash of red. More like a beacon, its light radiating from the passenger seat of the silver Golf parked in front of her.

  Unable to believe what she was seeing, her anger rising, Caroline tip-toed towards the car to get a better look. Oh my God. She’d thought she was mistaken, but no, there, on the front seat of the car lay a red leather briefcase. Under different circumstances, and obviously if she needed a briefcase, Caroline would have been very interested in a case like that herself; the patent crocodile leather soft, beautifully hand stitched, and quite the most gorgeous colour. And, more importantly, quite unmistakable. There was only one person she knew who owned a briefcase like that, and that was Alex Ryan. Bloody Alex Ryan. What the hell was she doing here at this time of the evening? And what the hell was Sebastian doing here with her?

  Whatever about forgiving him for the flowers, for all those cancelled dinners, there was NO WAY Caroline could forgive him for squirreling himself down here with bloody Alex Ryan of all people – ON HER BIRTHDAY! Last year Sebastian had whisked her off to the Ritz in Paris for the weekend, had produced a pair of diamond earrings as they’d sat down to a romantic candlelit dinner on the Seine. And this year he’d totally forgotten, his secretary the only one who had remembered to send her flowers. Horrible, disgusting, utterly grotesque flowers. It just wasn’t on.

  Caroline’s legendary temper began to flare, igniting like a forest fire. WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON?

  All care for her Jimmy Choos gone, Caroline thrust the bottle of Bollinger under her arm and peered into the car to get a proper look through the windscreen. There was no doubt about it, it was Alex Ryan’s. She tried the car door. Locked. Damn.

  Hauling open her own car door, Caroline reached inside for her BlackBerry. It was time she sorted this out, and found out exactly what was going on. She flicked the call button, putting the phone to her ear.

  No reception.

  She could almost feel the steam coming out of her ears. Bloody hell this bloody house was the END. It had to be the only place left in the entire country where there was no mobile reception. Well that was going to change. They’d need a mast put up if she was going to spent ANY time down here AT ALL!

  Throwing her useless phone onto the driver’s seat, Caroline reached for her weekend bag, hauling it across from the passenger seat like a woman possessed. It was time to sort Miss perfect curls Ryan out. Just wait till she saw her, then she’d sort Alex Ryan out for sure. Ripping the bag open, Caroline dug into the clothes tossed inside searching for her makeup bag, her fingertips reaching it with a burst of unadulterated satisfaction. Let’s just see what bloody Alex Ryan thought of this! Pulling out a steel nail file, Caroline checked the point with satisfaction – definitely sharp enough.

  Moments later Caroline glanced around her, then bobbed down between the two cars, sweeping her dress behind her, the file held like a dagger in her hand as she jabbed at the valve on Alex’s front tyre. A second later, with a satisfying hiss, the tyre began to deflate. Caroline sat back on her heels, her lips twitching into a grin, mentally marking herself one point up. Whatever about Sebastian being a total shit and forgetting her birthday, one thing she would not accept was being made a fool of. No way. Next he’d be telling her he was talking bloody wallpaper to Miss Alex Perfect Curls Ryan. Ha!

  Taking a deep breath, feeling suddenly calm, Caroline stood up, smoothing her dress again. Now it was time to regroup, to come up with a strategy to sort out Miss Ryan, and to do that she needed a stiff drink and a cigarette. And, God forbid, a pay phone. The pub in the village was only ten minutes away. The perfect place to work out a plan.

  THIRTY TWO

  In the warm kitchen of Kilfenora House, Sebastian was in trouble and he knew it.

  ‘But how could you, how could you put that picture of me…like that…over your bed? Where you, where you…’ Her cheeks blazing, Alex caught a blonde curl that had escaped from her ponytail, hooking it behind her ear.

  Sitting here, like this, Sebastian could see that Alex hadn’t changed a bit, was just as hot-headed, just as gorgeous as he remembered. And just like he used to all those years ago, whenever they had a row, in the face of her anger, Sebastian dug his heels in, his voice cold, stubborn. ‘Where I what?

  Alex didn’t answer, she couldn’t, was so angry the words weren’t forming themselves. Snatching her napkin off her lap she threw it on the table.

  ‘Seemed like the perfect place to me.’ It was meant to be a compliment, but as soon as the words were out of Sebastian’s mouth he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

  ‘The perfect place? Don’t you know the meaning of the word private?’ the words tumbled over themselves, Alex continued, ‘I feel totally exploited, can’t you understand that? And you put it over your bed for God’s sake.’ Alex trailed off what could she say? He wasn’t getting it, probably never would and she was wasting her time trying to explain.

  Sebastian was sitting back in his chair, looking at her, not sure what to say, trying to keep his face deliberately blank, his mind in turmoil. He’d painted it straight after she left, had been dragging that picture around with him everywhere he’d ever lived, holding on to the memory, feeling somehow that, through that picture, Alex was closer to him, that she hadn’t just disappeared into the mist like a spectre. And he’d honestly thought she would like it, that it captured a point in time, a moment they had shared perfectly, intimately.

  The silence growing, Sebastian became aware of the mantelpiece clock ticking, the sound hollow and comforting. It was like an old friend, measuring the years, measuring the time they had been together. And the time they had been apart.

  Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, but Alex didn’t let him.

  ‘I came here to talk about Dad, about what you’re going to do for him.’ She drew a deep breath. She hadn’t planned to blurt it all out like this, but right now, she didn’t want to spend another minute here, so it was all or nothing. ‘He can’t work and he can’t live here if he can’t work. You need to think very hard about compensation, for his injuries, for his loss of earnings and for the loss of his home. He loves this place.’

  Alex’s voice cracked, her emotions tumbling like boulders down a mountainside. Sebastian didn’t respond, jus
t nodded. Arrogant bastard.

  ‘So call me when you’ve come up with something. You can get me on the office number.’

  Alex was at the kitchen door when he finally reacted.

  ‘Where on earth are you going?’

  ‘What? Home of course.’ Alex was through the kitchen door, slamming it behind her, the impact sending shock waves through the oak panelling on either side of the door, rattling a brass warming pan hanging on the passage wall so hard that for a moment she thought it would fall. Not that she cared. Right now, she just wanted to get the job for Venture Capital Ireland finished and get back to Spain; get back to her own life, leave him to get on with his, with the lovely Caroline. He’d certainly made his bed there…

  Alex faltered for a moment, putting her hand out for the wall in the darkness of the hall. Then she heard him coming after her and the door flew open,

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t go home.’

  But Alex was already at the end of the passage, walking fast, ‘Why the hell not, since when did you tell me what I can and can’t do?’

  ‘Since you downed a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. There’s no way you can get into a car for at least another six hours.’

  Her step faltered for a moment, then decisively Alex headed for the front door,

  ‘I’ll stay in the village. They’ve rooms at the pub. I’m sure I can get there without having an accident.’

  ‘No way.’ Sebastian strode past her, trying to get to the door ahead of her, but Alex was already there, had her hand on the huge knotted brass handle, pulling it open. ‘What happens if they’re full? Or if you get there and change your stubborn pig-headed little mind?’

  ‘Stubborn? Pig-headed? How dare you?’ The door open, Alex stopped dead for a second, her eyes wide. How dare he talk to her like that?

  But Sebastian wasn’t finished,

  ‘How dare I, how dare you? You were the one who upped and left, not me, and now you’re doing it again, running off like a frightened rabbit.’

  ‘Don’t you mean a stag?’ Alex was at the bottom of the steps now, almost at her car. She narrowed her eyes looking at him hard, her hand in her pocket searching for her car keys.

  ‘That’s a bit below the belt isn’t it?’ Sebastian’s voice was calmer now. He had reached the bottom of the steps, but seemed to be standing back, letting her go, his hands thrust in his pockets.

  ‘You’d know all about below the belt…’

  His mouth open, he was about to reply when Alex said, ‘I’ve left my bloody keys in the kitchen.’

  Suddenly, Sebastian’s face cracked, and half-turning from her, he tried to cover his mouth, tried to stifle his laughter.

  Alex could feel her own mouth twitching this was insane but it wouldn’t do to calm down now, not when she had the upper hand. She’d lose face going back to get her keys but…she didn’t get much further with her train of thought.

  ‘You won’t get far on that, even with the keys.’ He was pointing at her front wheel.

  Turning, it took Alex a few moments to register what Sebastian was looking at, then it dawned on her. A flat. She had a puncture. Confusion muddled her brain for a moment – how could that have happened – and then it hit her – the spare was in the garage at home…Alex thought fast.

  ‘Looks like I’ll just have to call a taxi, won’t I?’

  ‘A cab, here?’ Sebastian almost snorted, raising is eyebrow. Now she was being really silly. ‘There’s only one taxi driver in Kilfenora and he lost his licence about six months ago.’ She knew as well as he did that they might only be ten miles from the nearest big town, but it was impossible to get a cab to come out this far.

  ‘Great.’ Alex sighed, pursing her lips. She felt like stamping her foot, screaming at him, but found herself fighting a smile. How could this be happening? And why was she laughing – it was tragic, not funny at all. It had to be hysteria.

  ‘I do know a country house that runs a good B& B operation though. Owner’s a shit of course, but the coffee’s good.’

  THIRTY THREE

  ‘What can I get you love?’

  Caroline clenched her lips into a smile, biting back a snide retort about familiarity and use of the word ‘love’. Right now, she needed a drink and needed it fast, and rubbing the landlord of Foley’s pub the wrong way would only add to her train wreck of an evening. As if the whole fiasco wasn’t already bad enough, to add to her boiling temper (and humiliation if she’d let herself admit it; but she wouldn’t, pushed the very idea from her mind the moment it had arrived) – a gang of ill-kempt oiks with baggy jeans and, from the state of their personal hygiene, she was quite sure, fleas, had leered at her as she had climbed out of her car. And she was still in shock.

  ‘Oy love, let’s have better a look at that.’

  ‘Do that again love, come on, I wasn’t ready.’

  For a second Caroline was paralysed, her Gucci handbag dangling from one hand as she pushed the car door wide, her gorgeous Jimmy Choo peep-toe boot-shoes placed carefully on the uneven tarmac. Had she flashed? No, surely not? The very first thing she’d learned at finishing school had been how to get out of a car in the most ladylike and elegant manner possible: ‘knees and ankles firmly together girls, watch me, watch me, derrière pivoting on the seat before both feet are placed, TOGETHER, on the ground, and then one takes the proffered hand or, if necessary, uses the door of the car to provide that that little extra lift required to alight in one easy, fluid movement’. Caroline could hear Madame Ricard’s voice now, polished and clipped, every word precisely chosen to complement the next.

  But they’d always practised from the back of a Rolls Royce – it was rare that she had to clamber out of her own low-slung sports car in an evening dress, particularly one which was fastened by two buttons at the waistband and nowhere else, the wrap skirt slashed to the hip to reveal just the right amount of thigh.

  Summoning every reserve of her composure, Caroline had tossed her head, firing them an acid stare as they had continued to leer, and reaching for a jacket she had (thank God!) left on the back seat (three-quarter length, black leather), she pulled it onto her knee like it was the most natural thing in the world, and hid behind it as she performed the remainder of the manoeuvre, slammed the car door, pipped the alarm on and walked deliberately (but not too briskly), through the front door of the only pub in the village.

  But perhaps pub was a generous term, one that suggested cheerfulness and hospitality. The moment Caroline had got out of the car she had been hit with such a strong smell of greasy takeaway food that she had thought it would turn her stomach, but the inside of Foley’s was worse. Much worse.

  Years of tobacco smoke had left the air tainted, and although she was careful not to touch anything, the feeling that every surface was tacky with generations of goodness knew what, made Caroline feel positively queasy. She shivered involuntarily as she waited for the landlord to finish pulling a pint for the only other occupant of the bar, an elderly man in a rough tweed jacket and a tweed cap that looked a lot like it never left his head. For a moment, Caroline wondered if it was possible that he slept in it, was assailed suddenly by an image of him in a filthy Victorian nightshirt, woolly socks and his cap shuffling along a tattered linoleum hall to the bathroom…

  ‘Brandy. Double.’ It didn’t come a moment too soon.

  Squirreled in the furthest corner of the lounge from the door, praying the dim lighting would hide her if the oiks chose to come in, praying the upholstery wouldn’t leave a grimy mark on her dress, whiter than a virgin ski slope in the sunshine, Caroline knocked back her drink, could feel its warm fingers spreading out across her chest with relief.

  This place really was a total pit. As if that great damp castle – with no doorbell (she still couldn’t believe it) wasn’t bad enough, the only glimmer of civilisation for miles was a culchie village where, she was sure, the majority of the inhabitants could barely read and write. Caroline almost groaned out loud. Perhaps it w
as an Irish thing; perhaps it was the rain and being cut off from mainland Europe that was the problem.

  Her mind wandered back to her own parents’ chateau (which had a doorbell, a beautiful round brass doorbell set in an engraved brass plate protected from the hot French sun by a graceful porticoed porch). And the nearby town of St Emilion, ancient like Kilfenora, but so different; elegant, sophisticated. Small by French standards, set on the top of a steep hill, its cobbled streets winding up past art galleries and tiny restaurants; patisseries and artisan jewellers clinging to each other as if they might slip down the hill and tumble into the vineyards surrounding the town if they didn’t hold tight. World-famous vineyards that stretched out in every direction, like a gentle sea surrounding an island, sparkling in the mid-summer sun, Ausone, Canon-la-Gaffelière, L’Arrosée, Bellefont-Belcier.

  Caroline caught her breath, an unconscious stab of homesickness laced with alcohol blending with her anger to produce a toxic mix. Anger and disappointment. Peter had dumped her and she was being made a total fool of by Alex Bloody Perfect Curls Ryan. The gamekeeper’s daughter for God’s sake. Well there was just no way she was going to stand for that. No way anyone was going to make a fool of her.

  Caroline wasn’t the only person knocking back doubles in Foley’s.

  In the public bar on the other side of the pub, Peter was nursing a double Scotch. A double Scotch and an anger so fierce that it was threatening to explode at any moment. The bitch journalist had wimped out. WIMPED out, despite all the hints he’d given her, all the pointers. And now the key player in the consortium he’d put together had pulled out, had been offered some deal to buy up property for half nothing in Dubai. Dubai? The country was bankrupt, or if it wasn’t, it soon would be. No amount of oil revenue could balance the crazy spending that had been going on there for the last ten years.