ROMILY LOVED BREAKFASTING
on the terrace, even in the winter. It was a sun trap, and it only took a little sunshine to make it into a warm bower where she could look out at the massy mountains opposite and the gleaming blue jewel of Lake Como beneath.
She was sipping her coffee as she read a book when the maid came out and said, ‘Marco to see you, madame.’
‘Thank you, Gina. Send him out.’
The maid nodded and stepped back into the house. A moment later, the curly-headed Marco appeared, looking uncharacteristically bashful and clutching his battered white cotton hat in his hand.
‘Good morning, Marco.’ Romily smiled at him and gestured for him to take a seat opposite her. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘No, thank you all the same,’ he said, sitting down.
‘You look very strange out of that boat and off the water,’ she said.
‘I haven’t been in the house before.’ He looked about. ‘It’s very grand here. I’m not used to it. I’m more at home on the lake, that’s for sure.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you away from it for long. I just
wanted
to tell you that we are having a staff change soon.’
‘Yes?’ Marco frowned anxiously.
‘Don’t worry, I don’t mean you. Carlo is leaving us for a while. I’ve got a new bodyguard coming. His name is Rocco – he’s Carlo’s cousin and comes highly recommended. I’m sure you’ll like him. He’s arriving this afternoon and will come down and introduce himself to you. He’s going to be with Carlo for a few days while he learns the ropes and our security routines. I wanted to let you know.’
‘That’s very good of you,
signora
.’ Marco still looked worried, his knee jiggling.
Romily laughed. ‘You’d better go. You clearly don’t like my house!’
He looked stricken. ‘Oh, no, your house is very nice …’
‘I know, I know. You want to get back. That’s fine. I’ll see you later, Marco. I want to go to Como this afternoon to do some shopping.’
He got up, clearly relieved to be on his way. ‘
Ciao, signora
. Till then.’
She sipped her coffee and watched him go: a lithe figure in jeans and a fleecey top, his skin tanned dark brown from his outside life despite the season. He was just a boy but in a man’s body – and a rather fabulous one at that. Romily couldn’t help appreciating his broad shoulders and long back. In the summer he often went shirtless and she had idly wondered what it would be like to feel that smooth skin under her hands … perhaps to urge that back on as it bucked on top of her.
After all, it had been a long time.
No, Romily. Don’t go there. It’s not time for that quite yet
. She sighed.
But I’m still so young! Too young to live like a nun, that’s for sure
.
The maid came out with the usual selection of the day’s papers from across the world. She turned first to the British papers, which she always enjoyed reading the most. Some
political
issue took up the front page of the
Daily Telegraph
so she turned it idly. The second page had a big photograph taking up almost half: it showed a handsome, smiling young man who looked vaguely familiar to her.
EARL’S SON IN MYSTERIOUS OVERDOSE DEATH
read the headline, and underneath: ‘Suicide ruled out in tragic death of Hon. Alexander McCorquodale’.
Romily gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.
That’s Xander!
She read on quickly. The article reported that he had been found dead the morning after a raucous house party:
… where evidence of illegal drug taking and free-ranging sexual behaviour was rife. The body of Mr McCorquodale was discovered by his friend, Miss Imogen Heath, who called the emergency services immediately. Nothing further could be done, however, and he was reported dead on arrival at the hospital. A post-mortem examination found 10 ml. of cocaine in his body – just 1 ml. is enough to bring on a heart attack. At the inquest, Miss Heath said that she could think of no reason why Mr McCorquodale would want to kill himself, but that he had expressed dissatisfaction with the direction of his life. She said that he had seemed eager for a fresh start and not in a suicidal frame of mind. Other witnesses expressed the same opinion. The coroner said that he accepted suicide was not a factor in this case, and recorded a verdict of death by non-dependent abuse of drugs. Mr Piers Twistleton, owner of Thurston House where the death occurred, is currently under investigation for the possession and supply of Class A drugs and is helping police with their enquiries.
Romily dropped the paper, blinking as she absorbed the news. Imogen found his body? How extraordinary. What were they
doing
together? She was caught between conflicting emotions: on the one hand, she was desperately sad that
Xander
had died.
Poor Allegra – what must she be feeling? She loved him so much. No matter what she did to me, I wouldn’t wish that on her, or anyone
. And, on the other hand, she was curious to know more. What exactly were the circumstances of Xander’s death, and why had Imogen been with him?
She picked up her cup absent-mindedly and took another sip of coffee. Well, Allegra always was recklessly destructive, and it seemed her brother had been too. The whole McCorquodale clan was tainted with poison, and now Imogen was caught up in their vileness. The poor girl – what she must have been through. Romily couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, even if she had chosen to take Allegra’s side.
She got up and went through the cool terracotta-floored sitting room to her private study. Sitting at her desk, she picked up the telephone receiver and pressed a speed-dial button. It connected her at once, and the ringing tone was answered within a couple of seconds.
‘Hello,’ Romily said. ‘I’ve just read the paper. About McCorquodale’s death.’
She listened to the person on the other end of the line.
‘Well, I want to know exactly what happened,’ she said. ‘Can you organise that? I’d like a report on exactly what took place – and I mean the truth, do you understand?’
She nodded, apparently satisfied with the reply. ‘Good. Yes, everything here is fine. I’m watching your progress with a great deal of pleasure. It’s all very impressive. I’m looking forward to further updates.’
A moment later she put the receiver down and sat back in her chair. Then she fired up her desk-top computer. She would see what she could find online, she decided.
Poor Xander. What an end. He had everything, and yet … it just wasn’t enough
.
Chapter 47
Scotland
XANDER’S FUNERAL TOOK
place the week after the inquest.
Allegra couldn’t remember much about the first week or two after he died. She had been relaxing at home on a sunny Sunday morning, looking forward to some calm, quiet hours away from the Soho building site. Every day was taken up with the minutiae of the build and the design, the problems and snags they had to cope with, and the management of a large team of workmen. The club had to be absolutely right, she knew that. If she’d learned anything from David it was that the pursuit of perfection was everything. She refused to compromise on anything when it came to her vision and that meant her workers simultaneously detested and respected her. She was sure they were cursing her behind her back when she insisted on a light fitting being moved two inches to the left or a wall being repainted for the third time. But who cared about being liked? The club was more important than that.
It was strange how many problems they were running into. Neighbours had unexpectedly objected to their licence application, planning had come down hard on them, even the first building contractor she’d hired had suddenly pulled out of the job which meant she’d had to tackle a long and difficult search for another. Nothing went smoothly. Every
day
the whole project felt as if it was threatened with total failure.
Then the phone call came.
Imogen had been half hysterical. At first Allegra couldn’t understand what she was saying. When she realised it was all about Xander and that he was in a Northampton hospital, she knew she had to get there right away. Picking up her keys on the way out, she realised that her hands were shaking violently and her mind racing with panic.
Oh, fuck, I can’t drive. I mustn’t
. Her hands were trembling almost too hard for her to dial the number on her phone, but all she could think of was to call Adam. He’d been her right hand man now for weeks. She’d grown to trust him and to make the most of his confident, can-do attitude.
‘Allegra, what can I do for you?’ he asked, not sounding at all surprised to hear from her on a Sunday morning.
‘Are you busy?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Can you drive me to Northamptonshire? I have to get there right away. My brother’s in hospital. I think it could be serious.’
‘I can do better than that,’ he said, grasping the situation at once. She had told him some of her concerns about Xander before now – somehow it was easier to talk about her brother’s problems than her own. She could confide her fears over Xander’s drug use but said nothing of her own, or the lonely searches for anonymous sex, or the nightmares that still plagued her. ‘Stay where you are. I’ll call you back in two minutes.’
She paced about the flat, desperate to be doing something. Should she call her parents? Miranda? David? But she knew nothing about her brother’s condition beyond what Imogen had stuttered out: Xander in a coma, taken to hospital. What could she tell them? She would only worry them all. She would wait until she knew more and could calm their fears.
Her phone buzzed and she picked it up.
‘I’m coming to get you,’ Adam said. ‘Then we’re taking my friend Ben’s helicopter. He’s a qualified pilot. He’s meeting us at his helipad in the City. Keep calm. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
Adam must have driven very fast because he was with her in about fifteen minutes, despite the distance from his North London home to Marylebone.
‘I was lucky with the lights,’ he said smoothly. ‘Let’s go.’
Within the hour, they were soaring above London and heading out over the countryside.
In normal circumstances she would have enjoyed the flight and the beauty of the landscape beneath them. As it was, she could only watch the fields and towns disappear and silently urge the little aircraft on.
Adam sat beside her, casual in his jeans and T-shirt, deftly using his iPhone to make all the arrangements, locating a place to land near the hospital and arranging permission, while Ben sat at the controls, guiding them towards Northampton.
When she arrived at the hospital, the first person she saw was Imogen, wearing a black cocktail dress and high heels with Xander’s dinner jacket over the top. She looked distraught, her hair unkempt and last night’s smudged make-up on her face. ‘They won’t tell me anything!’ she stammered. ‘They’re waiting for you!’
She should have known at once from Imogen’s face that she already knew the truth. She should have known from the way they ushered her into a private room, with solemn eyes and no sense of haste, but somehow she didn’t. All she wanted was to get Xander out of here and home.
That’s it. He has to go into rehab. We can’t take any more of this. It’s too serious now. We’ll take him back to Scotland, take him home. We’ll make him better, we’ve got to
…
But it was all too late for that. They told her he was dead.
He
had died sometime during the previous night of a suspected overdose. There had been nothing they could do for him.
She had been floored by shock.
No, not Xander! He can’t be dead. It must be a mistake. How can Xander be dead
?
They’d made a terrible mix-up, she was sure of it, and any minute she’d see him, smiling his lopsided smile and saying, ‘Sorry to give you such a fright. I’ve been an idiot again.’ But then they took her to identify the body, and there was no mistake.
She looked down into his face, pale and still, the dark blue eyes she knew so well closed, and knew he was no longer there: it was serene but empty, a shell that looked like Xander. Whatever it was that was him had gone. She said nothing but a wail began in her head:
My brother … my Xander … where are you? Where have you gone? Why, Xander, why?
She couldn’t believe she would never see his smile or hear his voice again.
Adam got her and Imogen back to London. The girls huddled close together in the back of the helicopter, sobbing, grateful for the noise of the helicopter that drowned out the sounds of their grief.
Back in London, he arranged for Imogen to be taken home. He drove Allegra back to the flat himself and stayed with her that whole first terrible night and the next day, which was almost worse. She woke having forgotten, for one blissful moment, what had happened. When it all came back it was with a sickening punch of recollection. It felt as though there would never be another happy carefree day in her life again. She was drenched in sorrow, and horrified by the pointlessness of such a death. More than anything, she felt lonely to the depths of her soul.
Adam was her rock. Through it all he stayed at her side, arranging things, supporting her, listening to her, giving her drinks when she requested them and gently removing the bottle when she’d had enough.
Late at night, in her sitting room, she said in a low voice, ‘Thank you so much. You’ve been wonderful to me. This is more than I deserve.’
‘It’s the least you deserve,’ he said seriously. ‘Besides, I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. These days are the worst. But, I promise, you’ll learn how to cope with this. You need only put your faith in time, which will heal you.’
‘I miss him so much … I don’t know how I’m going to get through a week, let alone a lifetime without him.’ Allegra’s head drooped and she covered her face with her hands, wondering how long she could bear these terrible feelings.
He put his hand on her back and rubbed it gently. ‘You can do it. You have to.’
Adam insisted that she didn’t return to work, even though she wanted to get back to the new club as soon as she could. He would cover everything, and David and Tyra could cope with Colette’s in the meantime, he told her.