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She opened a drawer in the vanity unit, drew out her phone, called up a text, pointed the screen towards Bastiaan.
‘This is the text he sent me today, while we were driving to St Paul de Vence.’ Her voice was hollow.
His eyes went to it. Went to a photo of the latest supercar to have been launched—one of those he and Philip had discussed over dinner in Villeneuve.
The accompanying text was simple.
Wouldn’t this make a great twenty-first birthday present to myself? I can’t wait!
Underneath, he could read what she had replied.
Very impressive! What does Bastiaan think? Check with him first!
Sarah was speaking. ‘I was as tactful as I could be—I always have been. I don’t want him hurt, whatever he thinks he feels about me, but I never wanted to encourage him. And not about this, either,’ she replied, in the same distant, hollow voice. ‘I know you’re not keen on him having such a powerful car so young.’
Harsh realisation washed through Bastiaan like a chilling douche. Philip had been so evasive about why he wanted money released from his funds...
But it wasn’t for her—none of the money was for her...
And she was not, and never had been, the person he’d thought her...not in any respect whatsoever. Neither nightclub singer, nor gold-digger, nor any threat at all, in any way, to Philip.
My every accusation has been false. And because of that...
His mind stopped. It was as if he were standing at the edge of a high cliff. One more step forward and he would be over the edge. Falling to his doom.
Sarah was getting to her feet. It was hard, because she seemed to be made of marble. Nothing seemed to be working inside her at all. Not in her body, not in her head. She looked at Bastiaan, at the man she’d thought he was. But he wasn’t. He was someone quite different.
‘You’d better go,’ she said. ‘My set starts soon.’ She paused. Then, ‘Stay away from me,’ she said. ‘Stay away—and go to hell.’
From the doorway, Max tried to speak. ‘Sarah...’
There was uncertainty in his voice, but she just looked at him. He gave a slight shrug, then walked away. Her eyes went back to Bastiaan, but now there was hatred in them. Raw hatred.
‘Go to hell,’ she said again.
But there was no need to tell him that. He was there already.
He turned and went.
Sarah stood for one long motionless, agonising, endless moment, her whole body pulled by wires of agony and rage. Then tears started to choke her. Tears of fury. Tears of misery.
Aching, ravening misery.
* * *
His aunt was staring at him from across her drawing room in Athens. Bastiaan had just had lunch with her and Philip, and now, with Philip back at his studies, his aunt was cornering him about his mission to the Riviera.
‘Bastiaan, are you telling me that this girl in France is actually some sort of opera singer and isn’t trying to entrap Philip?’
He nodded tautly.
His aunt’s expression cleared. ‘But that’s wonderful.’ Then she looked worried. ‘Do you think he’s still...enamoured, though? Even if she isn’t encouraging him?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. He’s full of this invitation to go to the Caribbean with Jean-Paul and his family.’ He cast his aunt a significant look. ‘Plus, he seems to be very taken with Jean-Paul’s sister, whose birthday party it is.’
Philip’s mother’s face lit. ‘Oh, Christine is a sweet girl. They’d be so well-suited.’ She cast a grateful look at her nephew. ‘Bastiaan—thank you. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for setting my mind at rest about that singer and my boy!’
His eyes were veiled for a moment, and there was a fleeting look that he hid swiftly. His expression changed. ‘I made one mistake, though,’ he said.
