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He nodded. ‘The dining room was modelled on the one at the Palace of Versailles and there’s a hand-painted ballroom with a pure gold ceiling—not to mention a corridor wide enough to ride a bicycle down.’
‘Is that what you used to do?’
‘Only once,’ he said flatly. That had been the first time his ‘father’ had hit him. His nanny—one in a long line of indifferent women in whose care he’d spent most of his time—had spotted the bruise when he was getting ready for bed, readily accepting his explanation that he’d acquired it after falling over. Later he’d discovered that the nanny in question had been sleeping with Diego. He’d overheard an indiscreet maid exclaiming that the woman had been discovered naked with him on the floor of the library, a litter of used condoms beside them. All he could remember about that particular incident had been his mother screaming. And then sobbing as she had dramatically stabbed at her wrists with a blunt blade which had refused to cut.
Tara stared at him. ?
??You must have felt very isolated there. My own...’ she ventured hesitantly, before plucking up the courage to say it. To reassure him that her own life hadn’t been all roses around the cottage door. Well, it had—but there had been very sharp thorns on those roses. ‘My own childhood was pretty isolated. In fact, my grandmother—’
‘Look, I really don’t have time for this,’ he said, with an impatient narrowing of his eyes as he glanced at his watch. ‘And I have an imminent meeting. The city tour is over and so is the glimpse into my past. Come on, let’s get you to Bloomingdale’s—it’s only ten minutes’ walk away.’
His dismissive attitude hurt. It hurt far more than it should have done, but that was a result of her own stubbornness—not something he had done. Because Lucas was just behaving in the way he’d always behaved. How many times did he need to say it for her to finally get the message that he wasn’t interested in deepening their relationship? He didn’t want to know about her past. What had made her the person she was. What had made her happy and what had given her pain. She was someone he was forced to spend time with because of the baby and someone he liked having sex with, but that was as far as it went.
So put up or shut up, she told herself fiercely as Bloomingdale’s came into view—with all the different flags fluttering in the autumn breeze and a quirkily dressed brunette called Jessica waiting for them. After initial introductions, she gave Tara a thorough once-over before fixing her with a warm smile and turning to Lucas.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Conway. She’s in good hands.’
Lucas gave a brief nod. ‘Thanks. Just do what it takes. I’ll be back tomorrow night in time for dinner, Tara. Okay?’
Tara nodded and thought how crazy the whole situation was. Right up until they’d left the apartment that morning they’d been hungrily exploring each other’s bodies—yet now, in the cold and clear light of day, she was expected to give him a cool farewell, as if she meant nothing to him.
Because she didn’t.
‘Right,’ said Jessica, turning towards Tara as Lucas’s car pulled away from the kerb. ‘Let’s get this fairy dust working.’
It was an experience Tara had never thought could happen to someone like her. Pushing all her troubled thoughts resolutely from her mind, she felt positively Cinderella-like as Jessica led her through all the plush and beautifully lit departments, which were perfumed with all manner of delicious scents. She’d been planning to purchase only a modest wardrobe but it seemed Lucas had forewarned the personal shopper this might be the case because she was overruled in pretty much everything.
‘I’ve never owned a shirt like this before,’ she observed wonderingly, running her fingertips over the delicate fabric. ‘I’ll save it for best.’
‘Ah, but you’ll need more than one,’ responded Jessica, with a smile. ‘Which means you won’t have to.’
In the space of a couple of hours, Tara went from being someone who’d never owned a single silk shirt, to someone who now had several. For the snowy New York winter she snuggled into an oversized metallic anorak, its hood lined with shaggy faux fur, which Jessica told her was fresh off the runway, while for more formal occasions came a mid-length coat in midnight blue, the warmest coat Tara had ever worn. An accompanying cobalt scarf was plucked from a rainbow selection and Jessica’s gaze travelled ruefully to the overly long home-knit, which lay abandoned on a nearby chair like a large and neglected woollen snake. ‘You might want to find that another home,’ she suggested gently.
Tara felt a momentary pang before being persuaded into the first of many dresses—slinky shirtwaisters and soft knits which Jessica said emphasised her slim frame. Next came boots—long boots and ankle boots—plus a pair of trendy shoes with lace inserts to go with a swingy chiffon shirt and boxy denim jacket. There were exquisite embroidered bras and matching thongs, as well as T-shirt bras with more practical pants. And Tara felt momentarily overwhelmed as she acknowledged that it had been Lucas’s murmured appreciation which had made her revel in her own body instead of being ashamed of it. He’d never moaned about the state of her underwear, had he? Not really. He’d always been more concerned in taking it off than complaining about how faded it was.
She blinked away the sudden tears which had sprung to her eyes as she tried on the jeans which were an entirely different breed from the baggy ones which had always been her mainstay. Fashioned from soft and stretchy denim, they hugged her bottom but allowed for future expansion, though there was still no visible sign of a pregnancy bump. She wanted to tell the shopper that in a few months’ time none of these gorgeous outfits would fit—but she could hardly start telling her personal business to a complete stranger, could she?
‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs Conway,’ said Jessica as the session drew to a close.
Tara shook her head—despairing at her instinctive pang of yearning at the thought of being Lucas’s wife. It’s because your own mother was never married, she told herself. Nor her mother before that. You’re just secretly craving the respectability you never had, which made your own childhood such a misery. But things are different these days and nobody cares if a child is born out of wedlock. ‘I’m not Lucas’s wife,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m actually his housekeeper—and I was wondering if you happen to sell aprons here?’
To Jessica’s credit, she didn’t look a bit fazed by what have been an unusual request. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
The morning ended with a rock-star experience at the hair salon, where Tara sipped cinnamon-flavoured latte as large chunks were hacked from her curls. The result was...well, unbelievable, really—and several of the stylists had clustered around the mirror to say so. Her hair looked just as thick as before but it was more...manageable somehow. Little fronds framed her face and, where layers had been chopped into it, the colour seemed more intense and the texture more lustrous. She was aware of heads turning as she left the salon in her brand-new jeans, pale jumper and the boxy denim jacket. And she’d never had that experience before. Of men’s eyes following her as she slid into the back of the chauffeur-driven car which Lucas had ordered for her.
She remembered her grandmother’s disapproval of fancy clothes—understandable given her own monastic upbringing, but a bit tough on a growing teenager who had been forced to wear second-hand outfits, which had only increased the amount of bullying she’d received.
The apartment was quiet and, since Lucas wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, she had a whole day and a night without him. The only time she’d been on her own since she’d arrived here—which meant no distractions as she prepared for her very first dinner party in America. She looked down at the list of people he’d invited—an official from the Irish embassy and his wife, an Italian businessman named Salvatore di Luca and his girlfriend Alicia, and an ‘unnamed guest’ who seemed to have been added since last time she’d looked at it.
She wasn’t going to deny that it was going to be weird serving Lucas and his guests and playing the role of servant, all the while knowing she would be sharing his bed once everyone had gone home. But surely it was better that way.
It had to be. Because if they stopped being lovers... She bit her lip and silently corrected herself. When they stopped being lovers, if the baby drove a wedge between them, or when he tired of her as history dictated he would—then surely it would be less traumatic not to have become used to being his partner in public, and then have that role wrenched away from her. Such a brutal change of circumstance would surely leave her feeling neglected, unloved and unwanted.
And hadn’t she already experienced enough of those feelings to last a lifetime?
Smoothing down her pale cashmere sweater, she went into the kitchen, realising that she needed to get a move on with her planning. Without her stack of cookery books, she was forced to fire up her computer to look up some recipes online, but she scrolled through them uninterestedly.
Until suddenly she had a brilliant idea.
