I stopped kicking. ‘But you have seen her since last night?’
He shook his head. When my eyes widened, he said, ‘I can’t just barge into her bedroom, can I? She’s a teenage girl, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I suppose I’d better, then.’ I climbed stiffly to my feet. As I did, my robe fell open to reveal an expanse of thigh, topped by a scrap of red lace. I checked to see if Stuart had noticed, but he had already turned away.
I made an espresso and downed it in a single gulp before I headed upstairs to Niamh’s room and knocked on the door.
‘Niamh? It’s Cleo. Can I come in?’
There was no answer, so I went to turn the handle, but it didn’t move. ‘Niamh?’ I said again. ‘Can you open the door?’
A few seconds passed. I wiggled the handle again, but it refused to budge. It was almost as if she’d wedged the back of a chair against it to stop anyone coming in. But why would she have done that? And then the penny dropped. She must have smuggled someone she’d met at the party into the villa last night. Knowing Bill would go apeshit if he found a stranger in his parents’ place, I rapped on the door. ‘Niamh, let me in now, please.’
The slap of footsteps on the marble floor was followed by the scrape of chair legs and the door opened an inch. I peered through the gap right into Niamh’s tear-stained face.
Apprehension crawled across my skin like an army of ants, and I clutched the doorjamb to steady myself. ‘Niamh?’
Her gaze darted behind me. ‘Are you on your own?’ she whispered.
I nodded, and she took a step backwards. I gave the door a gentle push and slipped in. Niamh closed the door and dragged the wooden dressing table chair over, propping it under the handle.
‘What on earth’s wrong?’ I cried, taking in her dishevelled appearance. She’d changed into a pair of baby-pink flannel pyjamas with a teddy bear embroidered on the breast pocket. They wouldn’t have looked out of place on a five-year-old.
She still hadn’t answered me, so I sat on the end of her bed and assumed a maternal air.
‘Are you homesick, is that what it is? Because if you are, we’re flying home tomorrow, and I’m happy for you to take a few days off next week if you want to see your folks.’
She shook her head.
‘Is it me? I know I can be abrupt, so if I’ve upset you, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not that,’ she mumbled. ‘I mean, you are abrupt, but that’s not it.’
I scoured the room, looking for inspiration, my gaze falling on the green top and denim skirt she’d been wearing the previous night, laying in a tangled heap on the floor by the dressing table. ‘Did something happen at the party?’ I asked.
She pulled her sleeves down, hiding her hands, and bowed her head. I touched her arm. ‘Niamh?’
‘N-nothing h-happened.’ But the tears clogging her throat told me she was lying.
‘You can tell me, you know.’
‘I c-can’t,’ she stammered.
‘Come on, don’t be silly. It can’t be that bad.’
She sprang forwards and kicked the top and skirt under the dressing table with a ferocity that took me by surprise.
‘Niamh, talk to me. Please. Tell me why you’re so upset.’
She wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. What on earth could have turned our cheerful, easy-going au pair into this trembling, nervy mess?
‘If you did something last night that you wish you hadn’t, you won’t be the first, and you definitely won’t be the last,’ I said.
She made a strangulated noise that was halfway between a sob and a choke.
I pushed myself off the bed. ‘Shall I help you tidy up while I’m here?’
‘I can do it myself,’ she said sullenly.
‘Don’t be silly. I’d like to help.’ I straightened the bedclothes and picked her hairdryer up from the floor, winding the cord around the handle and placing it on the dressing table.
Bending down, I scooped up her green top.
‘Don’t touch that!’ she cried, darting forwards.
But I was too quick. I held it up and stepped towards the window. What was it she didn’t want me to see? Spilt wine? Vomit stains? My eyes widened. The top was ripped from the neckline to the hem. I glanced at Niamh. Her face was white with terror.
‘What happened, Niamh? How did this get torn? Did someone attack you?’ My grip on the silky material loosened, and it fell to the floor. ‘Oh, my God. Were you raped?’
The word leaving my lips had an instant effect. Niamh began keening, a mournful wail that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I opened my arms, and she collapsed into my embrace. I felt tears prick the back of my throat as I held her tight and whispered into that fiery red hair, ‘It’s OK. You’re safe now. It’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.’
When she was spent, I extricated myself and fetched her a glass of water and a length of toilet paper from her tiny en suite. She took a sip of the water and blew her nose. I sat beside her and said gently, ‘You need to tell me what happened.’
‘No.’
‘But Niamh…’
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Did it happen at the party?’
She shook her head.
‘On the way home?’
She gave the tiniest of nods.
‘But Bill gave you the money for a taxi.’
I hadn’t meant it as a rebuke, but it was obviously how she interpreted it as it sent her into a fresh storm of crying.
‘Niamh, sweetheart,’ I soothed. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. Did it happen on the way back to the villa?’
Another barely discernible nod.
‘Did you recognise him? Was it someone from the party?’
The silence stretched between us, as thick and sticky as molasses.
‘Who did this to you, Niamh? You can tell me.’
She shook her head, her eyes fixed on a swirl in the marble tile under her feet. She mumbled something I couldn’t hear.
‘Tell me, Niamh.
