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‘How about we save that for another day? I’d like to finish up at Villa Rosa first.’
She frowned and sat back, placing her palms flat on his chest. Even though this was a little awkward, part of him loved that she wasn’t embarrassed by their nakedness. She looked the tiniest bit hurt. ‘Oh, okay, then.’
She sighed and swung her leg back from his body and stepped down onto the floor. She walked over to the wardrobe and pulled it open, reaching for one of the white luxury dressing gowns that hung inside. She wrapped it around herself and turned around. ‘I think you should order me some coffee. It’s time for you to tell me what’s going on.’
He could tell by the tone of her voice that he wouldn’t be able to brush her off with any made-up tales. And he didn’t want to do that anyway.
They’d got this close. Maybe it was time to finally share the secret that had been eating away at him since he’d got the phone call to say that Aldo was dead.
It was surprising how quickly room service could arrive. Within ten minutes they were sitting on either side of a table with an array of food in front of them. Portia pulled one leg up onto the chair, revealing her bare knee as she reached for a croissant and tore it apart. Her dark curls from last night tumbled around her face. Not a trace of make-up was left.
He poured the coffee and left it black.
Portia didn’t speak, she just studied him with her dark brown eyes.
‘You know how we spoke about the funeral I went to just before the awards ceremony?’
She nodded. ‘It was a friend, wasn’t it? I just assumed he’d died of cancer or something similar. You never really told me much about it.’
He nodded. ‘I know. I never told anyone much about it.’
She narrowed her gaze. ‘Okay, why?’
He felt his voice start to shake. ‘Aldo was my oldest friend. I’d known him forever. He still lived in the village my mother’s family came from. Aldo didn’t die from cancer.’
She set down her coffee cup. ‘What did he die from?’
Javier’s eyes went to the bay, sweeping around the beauty of the view and glistening sea. ‘Aldo committed suicide.’
Saying the words out loud was so harsh. It was like an admission of reality. The thing he really didn’t want to talk about at all—but was trying to find a way to deal with.
‘Oh.’ Portia pressed her lips together. She was still studying him intently. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that.’ She waited a few seconds and then added, ‘Had he been unwell?’
Bile rose in the back of his throat. There was an ache in his stomach. A real, physical ache. A gust of wind blew in through the open doors, carrying the aroma of all the food on the table, and he almost retched. Javier pushed his chair back from the table.
As he looked down he saw the goosebumps appear on his skin. ‘Yes—but I didn’t know it.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I didn’t recognise the signs.’ He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t there to recognise the signs.’
Portia spoke quietly. ‘What do you mean?’
Javier’s grey eyes met hers, pain etched through them. ‘Aldo had bipolar disorder—just like my mother has.’
Portia’s eyes widened. ‘Oh.’
He shook his head. ‘I spent my life around someone with bipolar disorder. If anyone should have recognised it—it should have been me. But I wasn’t there. I didn’t see enough of Aldo. I knew he was down. I knew he was depressed—but I thought that seemed like part of the grieving process after the breakdown of his marriage.’
‘And it was more than that?’
Javier nodded. ‘Yes. His sister told me later about the mood swings. The sleeplessness. The irritability. The erratic behaviour.’ He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. ‘All things I could have recognised.’
‘And if you had—would you have been able to help?’
Javier threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Of course I would have. I could have got him to see a specialist doctor, a therapist that could have helped with his condition.’
She gave her head a little shake. ‘This isn’t your fault, Javier. You weren’t here. You were working.’
Javier clenched his fists. ‘I know that. But still...’
Javier looked up and met her gaze. Those dark brown eyes were fixed on his. No judgement. No blame. His voice broke. ‘There’s more.’
Portia leaned across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘What?’
He let out a long slow breath.
‘I hadn’t been good at keeping in touch. I’d called. I’d emailed. But we hadn’t physically seen each other for seventeen months.’ He shook his head and bowed it. ‘That was far too long. Far too long for someone I’d known that long.’
Portia still had her hand over his. She stopped squeezing and started moving her thumb in little circles over his knuckles. ‘But that happens with friends. Even the best of friends. I have friends from school that I only ever get to see every five years or so, and we just pick up from where we left off. Time doesn’t matter to us. We’re all leading our own lives.’ Her hand came up and touched his cheek. ‘But they’re the kind of friends—almost like sisters—that I know if I picked up the phone to them in the middle of the night and told them I was in trouble, they’d drop everything to help me. And I would them.’
He could see the sincerity on her face. She absolutely meant it. Portia Marlowe was a much better friend than he’d ever been.
He snatched his hand back and stalked out to the balcony, putting his arms on the railing and stretching down, closing his eyes and willing the Bay winds to sweep away his conscience and regrets.
‘Javier?’ Portia stood beside him in her dressing gown, worry etched across her face. Her voice was quiet. ‘What is it?’
She knew there was so much more to this. He couldn’t pretend any more.
He started to shake. ‘It was my fault, Portia. Mine. I was away—filming in the Arabian Desert. It was a terrible location. No phone signals. Sixteen-hour days on set. And even as I say that out loud I know exactly what a pathetic excuse that is.’ His voice was getting louder. He couldn’t help himself. He was so wrapped up in the emotion that he couldn’t stop. ‘He phoned me, Portia. He phoned me and left me a message saying he really needed to talk. And do you know what I did? I got back to the trailer, couldn’t get a signal and fell asleep. I fell asleep!’
Portia had pulled back, her eyes wide. But she stood her ground next to him as her hair was blown around her face.
‘What kind of friend am I? My best friend calls—tells me he needs me. And I’m too busy—too tired to call back. I was the last person Aldo called before he killed himself.’ He thudded his hands down on the railing.
His breaths were coming in short, sharp burs
ts. He could feel his heart thudding against his chest.
There was a flicker to his left. Someone standing on the balcony of the neighbouring suite; a man also stood looking out over the bay.
Portia didn’t speak. She just took one of his hands and pulled him back indoors. She pushed him firmly down onto one of the large armchairs and settled on his lap.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and dipped her head next to his ear. ‘Don’t, Javier. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t blame yourself because you didn’t answer the phone on one occasion. You have no idea if it would have made a difference or not. How could you? If you had spoken to him, and he’d still done it, would you feel better or worse?’
He was numb. But Portia was sitting in his lap, putting her cheek against his and letting the heat from her body reach through the robe towards him.
His throat was completely dry. Her fingers stroked through his hair. She was trying to offer some modicum of comfort.
His voice was throaty. ‘He wanted to talk, Portia. That’s what he said. He just wanted to talk.’
She gave her head the smallest shake. ‘But you still don’t know. You had no idea your friend was unwell. If you had done—I’m sure you would have called him straight away.’ She closed her eyes for a second. ‘We all have points in our lives where we’d like to turn the clock back and take different steps. But that doesn’t always mean we’ve done something wrong.’ Her hand was still on his face. ‘What about his mum and dad? His sister? How are they doing?’
‘I try and speak to them every week. I don’t think his mum or dad will ever get over it. How do you do that? How does a parent get over losing a child?’
‘And they didn’t know either?’
He shook his head. ‘That’s just it. They didn’t recognise the signs. He’d lost weight. He’d apparently mentioned he had trouble sleeping. His moods were erratic.’
She held out her hands. ‘And because of your experience with your mother, you think you would have put the pieces together?’
He gave the briefest of nods. His emotions were bubbling beneath the surface. He’d never really spoken to anyone about all this before. He’d never really shared like this. It didn’t matter that there was still that tiny voice in the back of his brain, telling him that Portia was a reporter. The woman he’d come to know in the last few days hadn’t shown any cut-throat tactics that he’d seen in his childhood. None of the deviousness. None of the manipulative behaviour. The Portia Marlowe he knew had a good and honest heart.
