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She supposed he was thinking she should have worn her coat, but when numb silence was the current order of things she didn’t bother to say it out loud. She’d found a turquoise jersey shift dress lurking at the bottom of her holdall—one of those garments made of crease-free fabric that was so easy to pack—so she’d changed into it before they left and just stuffed everything else back into the bag—including her coat, along with her green bag.
Even in the mood she’d been in, not wanting to care about anything, the natural stylist in her could not let her walk around in a turquoise dress with a huge vivid green bag slung over her arm. So all those essentials women had to carry around with them everywhere they went now resided in a Harrods carrier bag she’d found at the bottom of a drawer. It now languished with the assortment of luggage that had appeared at this end of their flight.
‘Your things,’ Roque had deigned to offer in flat response to her puzzled frown.
Her ‘things’, all professionally gathered and packed into a brand new set of tan leather trunks and cases, were now stacked in the rear of the Range Rover. She had been moved, lock, stock and barrel, in other words. Evicted and expatriated with the swift efficiency of a man who was so at his best when he was in charge.
A little man wearing a white shirt and a soft black apron appeared like a magician at Roque’s side, with a deferential bow and a smile. Turning his attention to the newcomer, Roque conversed with him for a minute or two, then turned back to Angie. ‘Meu querida, this is Antonio. He speaks no English, so please be kind.’
The be kind bit struck Angie like the plunge of knife. Why would she be anything else to any of the staff in Roque’s employ? Did he really think that she was such a shrew she did not know how to behave herself? The idea that he did think that hurt.
Finding a smile, she offered it to Antonio with an outstretched hand. ‘Boa tarde, Antonio,’ she greeted him, as warmly as she could.
‘Boa tarde, senhora.’ Antonio beamed a smile back at her, then went off into a rush of Portuguese which forced Angie to angle a helpless look up at Roque.
‘He is welcoming you,’ he explained.
‘Oh.’ She looked back at Antonio. ‘I … thank you.’
‘Obrigado, ‘ Roque corrected.
‘Obrigado, ‘ Angie repeated obediently.
Antonio bowed again, before removing himself to the rear of the car, and she felt Roque’s hand arrive in the centre of her back, lightly pressing her to walk towards the house. They entered it by a side entrance, but still the black and cream chequered floor and rich mahogany woodwork spoke of timeless elegance lovingly preserved. The house was more like an antique emporium. Nothing Angie rested her eyes on was less than a hundred years old. Walking down a long hallway with Roque a half-step behind her, she felt as if he grew in stature the further inward they were drawn.
Eventually the chequered floor opened out onto a vast crescent-shaped grand front entrance, with spectacular wood and marble twin staircases sweeping up the curving apricot-painted walls to the floor above.
A neatly dressed woman who to Angie looked uncannily like Antonio awaited them. The resemblance was confirmed when Roque explained that this was Antonio’s sister, Zetta. After he’d guided them through the same greeting ritual, he added a few brief instructions to Zetta.
It was only when his hand
returned to the base of her spine to urge her towards the stairs that it began to hit Angie why they had come in through a side entrance.
Roque was making a very expressive point.
For the only other time he had brought her here had been as his new bride, and he had carried her in his arms through the front door. There had been no servants waiting to meet them, just the two of them and their soft laughter as he insisted on carrying all the way up the stairs.
This time there was to be no such romantic gesture— just a side entrance through which to gain access to the house, and the use of her own legs to carry her up the grand staircase. No soft laughter, no stolen kisses along the way.
Roque walked one step behind her and even the atmosphere felt cooler, making her tense fingers clutch the edges of his jacket more closely to her as she walked. And the silence between them grabbed at her heart and squeezed it. What had they lost? What had they done to all of that warm, soft, beautiful romantic love they’d brought into this house with them on their wedding night?
Reaching the point where the two stairways came together in a graceful sweep, Angie turned beneath the wide plaster archway which led through to the upper wings of the house. Without needing instruction she turned to the right, which led to the master apartments in this huge many-bedroomed place. Any idea of trying to escape to a different suite of rooms didn’t even get an airing this time. It seemed pretty pointless to try it when she knew Roque would simply do what he’d done in London and gather her up and bring her here.
Anyway, she was all out of fight, tired and depressed, feeling hollowed out from the inside by old memories she wished she didn’t have.
As they reached the door that barred the way further, Roque stepped forward to lean past her and do the polite thing with the door.
For a second she felt his arm brush her shoulder. For a second she felt his breath stir her hair. For a second she felt her senses leap and then tighten when he made a breath-catching pause. She could feel him wanting to say something, could feel his gaze on her half-lowered profile, as if he was willing her to turn her head and look at him.
Was he remembering the same things she was remembering? Her heart gave that same aching squeeze again, and the need to take a breath or suffocate in the heavy airlessness of their shared tension acted as a stimulus to a set of vibrations she wished she couldn’t feel.
Then he was pushing the door inwards and she was free to move again, walking on legs that felt rubbery into a huge, beautifully appointed bedroom, with four long windows dressed in a bitter lemon-and-lime-coloured heavy silk brocade which matched the cover thrown over the huge central bed.
Angie didn’t look at the bed. She didn’t really focus on anything. She just slipped Roque’s jacket off her taut shoulders and draped it over the back of a chair, then kept on going across an expanse of wooden floor strewn with beautiful rugs. She only came to a halt when she reached one of the windows, though it was much too dark outside to see anything through it.
‘Antonio will bring up your luggage shortly.’ Roque spoke at last.
Angie nodded.
