in a bright yellow frock, a fashionable handbag on a gold strap across her shoulder. Ben saw the resemblance to Gianni right away, the same blue eyes and sandy hair worn in a bob. She came running out, arms wide. ‘I was so worried! Where did you disappear off to?’ Her gaze switched across to Ben. ‘Signore, did you find him?’
‘Yes, and if I’d found him half a second later he’d have been plastered across the front of my car,’ Ben said.
She glared at her son, hands on hips. ‘Gianni, is this true?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘What did I tell you about crossing the road?’
‘I know, Mama.’
‘Wait till I tell your father,’ she scolded, and the boy’s shoulders sagged further as though his worst fears had been confirmed. He was for it. But Ben could see from the light in the young mother’s eyes that she was more relieved than angry. She turned to him, overflowing with gratitude, pleading that he absolutely must come inside for a glass of wine. ‘I beg you, it’s the least I can do.’
Ben thanked her, made eye contact with the first security goon who was still standing there and said pointedly, ‘It seems I don’t have an invitation.’
‘Nonsense,’ she protested. Turning to the security guys, she took a slip of paper from her handbag and thrust it at them. ‘My husband’s invitation. He’s allowed two guests. I’m one, and this gentleman is the other.’
Ben hesitated for a moment, then shrugged.
‘Well, if you insist,’ he said with a smile, and shouldered past the goons as she led him inside.
The grass prickled Brooke’s knees as she leaned over her flower bed, reached out with the can and sprinkled water on the amaranthus, careful not to drown it. She loved the cascading red flowers of the plant she’d nurtured from a seedling, but it needed a lot of care and wasn’t completely suited to the soil of her tiny garden in Richmond.
Saturday, even a beautiful early autumn afternoon like this one, wasn’t normally a day of leisure for Brooke. She had a thousand other things to attend to that she knew she was neglecting, including repainting the kitchen of her ground-floor apartment in the converted Victorian red-brick house – but spending time in the garden relaxed her and that was something she needed badly right now.
As she stood up, brushing bits of grass from her bare knees and gazing at the colourful borders, she couldn’t help but let her mind drift back, as it had been doing obsessively of late, to the event a month earlier that was the cause of all her troubles.
Phoebe’s invitation to the fifth wedding anniversary party had seemed a wonderful opportunity to catch up with the sister Brooke was so close to but didn’t get to see often enough. Their schedules seldom allowed it: Brooke was either too busy with her London clients or off in France; or else Phoebe and her husband Marshall were away on one of the frequent exotic vacations with which an investment banker and a Pilates instructor to the celebs could indulge themselves. Skiing in Aspen, snorkelling off Bermuda, high-rolling in whichever of the world’s best hotels and restaurants were currently fashionable with the Serious Money Club. The couple had only recently moved into their latest acquisition, an insanely expensive eight-bedroom mock-Tudor house in Hampstead that Brooke hadn’t seen until the night of the party.
And what a party. The huge house was milling. A trad jazz band were playing in the corner of one palatial room, people were dancing, champagne was flowing. If anyone there hadn’t been a stockbroker or a top barrister, a billionaire banker or a PR guru, Brooke must have missed it. All she’d really wanted was to get some time alone with her sister, but Phoebe was taken up with playing the hostess and they’d barely been able to snatch more than a few words by the time the champagne was going to Brooke’s head and she’d headed for the kitchen to get herself a drink of water.
Not surprisingly, the kitchen was gigantic. Miles of exotic hardwood worktop and every conceivable cooking gadget known to man – despite the fact that Phoebe and Marshall ate out almost every night – but finding something as simple as a water glass wasn’t so easy. As Brooke was searching yet another cupboard, she heard the kitchen door open and turned to see Marshall come into the room, smiling at her. He clicked the door shut behind him, closing out the noise of the band and the party buzz. He’d walked up to her and leaned against the worktop, watching her. Standing a little close, she’d thought – but made nothing of it at the time.
‘I was just looking for a glass.’
He pointed. ‘In there. Oh, there’s Evian in the fridge,’ he added as she picked out a tumbler and went to fill it at the sink.
‘Great party,’ she’d said, opening the fridge and helping herself to the chilled water. She took a sip, and when she looked back at Marshall he’d moved a little closer. Was that a little odd, or was she just imagining things?
‘I’m so glad you were able to make it,’ he said. ‘It seems so long since we last saw you, Brooke. Keeping busy? Still going over to France to teach at that place – what’s it called?’
‘Le Val.’ She nodded. ‘More often than ever.’
Marshall’s smile had wavered a little then. ‘I suppose you’re still seeing that soldier fellow?’
‘Ben’s not exactly a soldier.’
‘Anyway, it’s good to see you again, Brooke,’ he’d said. ‘Tonight wouldn’t have been the same without you.’
‘Don’t be silly. Tonight is all about you and Phoebe. I’m really happy for you both.’
‘No, I mean it.’
‘Well, it’s sweet of you to say.’
They’d gone on chatting for a few moments. Brooke had noticed that Marshall was a little red in the face. Must be the champagne, she thought – until suddenly he pulled a serious frown, cleared his throat and interrupted their small talk by blurting out, ‘I really did mean it, you know. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again, a lot. In fact, I’ve been having trouble thinking about anything else the last few weeks. Or any
‘Marshall, are you drunk? You shouldn’t be talking that way.’
‘I married the wrong sister,’ he stammered. ‘I realise that now.’
‘You’ve had too much to drink. Let me make you a coffee.’
‘I’m not drunk,’ he’d protested, moving even closer and making her back away. ‘I think about you all the time. I can’t concentrate at work. I can’t sleep at night. I’m in love with you, Brooke.’
His earnestness was shocking. She’d been opening her mouth to yell at him to stop it and back off when the door had opened again and Phoebe had walked into the kitchen. Marshall wheeled abruptly away from Brooke and planted himself against the edge of the kitchen table, trying to act normal.
Phoebe didn’t appear to notice anything was wrong. ‘There you are,’ she’d said brightly. ‘I was wondering where the two of you had vanished off to.’
‘I just came in for a glass of water,’ Brooke explained, heart fluttering, holding up her glass as if somehow she needed to provide evidence. Why the hell did she feel she had to justify herself? She was furious with herself, and even angrier with Marshall for putting her in this situation. The fact that she’d hidden it perfectly only made her feel more absurdly complicit.
Exit Marshall, in a hurry, suddenly in urgent need to attend to the guests. Brooke had swallowed hard and spent a while catching up on things with her sister as though nothing had happened. Twenty minutes later, she’d made her excuses and gone home, upset and confused.
