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When Greek shipping magnate Stavros Kanonidou (eighty-five) tied the knot with his latest young bride this weekend, his billionaire son, Leonidas (thirty-three), made sure all eyes were focussed on him. It seems heart-throb Leon has exited the marriage market at last, judging by his tactile display on the dance floor with nubile blonde English hairdresser Marnie Porter.
Just who is Marnie Porter and how has she managed to land herself one of the world’s most eligible bachelors?
Phone this number if you know. (We pay for any information used.)
Marnie felt faint. Dizzy. A wave of pain and regret made her glad she was sitting down because she honestly didn’t think her trembling knees could have supported her. When her phone began to buzz, she looked down to see another unknown number flashing on the screen. A journalist? She didn’t know and she didn’t care. She turned it to silent just as Leon’s chef tiptoed in to deposit a cup of steaming black coffee in front of her, but when she mimed eating—presumably asking if she wanted breakfast—Marnie shook her head because the thought of food made her want to heave.
But as well as the pain, the irony of the situation didn’t miss her. It seemed that just as she’d got used to this rarefied life with its servants and planes and luxury yachts it was about to be taken away from her. She didn’t care about the trappings, the only thing she cared about was the man and she needed to speak to Leon. She badly needed to tell him before anyone else did.
He didn’t answer. Not the first time she tried, nor even the fifth. After an hour had gone by, she sent him a text.
Please ring. It’s urgent.
But Leon didn’t ring, or text, and after she’d sent the chef away for the rest of the day Marnie began to pace around the huge apartment like a caged animal, staring out of the vast windows without really noticing the park’s blazing autumnal display. It was past noon when she realised she hadn’t even taken a shower and she was just emerging from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, when she heard the sound of a key being turned in the lock.
She froze. And wasn’t it funny the things which crossed your mind at moments of high tension? So that instead of wondering just how she was going to tell him, she found herself wondering whether or not she should call his name and let him know where she was.
But it seemed there was no need, because she could hear Leon striding down the corridor and when he walked into the bedroom, loosening his tie, she couldn’t seem to read anything from the tight, closed look on his face. His icy gaze scanned over her and she thought about how he’d made amazing love to her that very morning and somehow she couldn’t imagine that ever happening again.
‘Get dressed and then come to my office,’ he ordered succinctly. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
Here came another stupid dilemma—deciding what to wear. And although there were plenty of exquisite clothes in the wardrobe which Leon had bought for her, Marnie couldn’t bring herself to put any of them on. The clock had struck midnight. It was time to return to her familiar rags. Wriggling into a pair of tracksuit bottoms, she swathed her bosom in a roomy top, unable to miss the faintly contemptuous curve of his lips as she walked into his office, where he was sitting perched on the edge of his desk.
‘Sit down,’ he said, gesturing towards the brown leather sofa on which they’d once spent a very passionate couple of hours one rainy Sunday afternoon.
‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind,’ she declined stiffly. As a doyenne of the formal reprimand, she was conscious that he might be employing a touch of psychological warfare here. Did he want her passively seated—and was he intending to make it seem as if he were interviewing her, as if she were his subordinate?
And aren’t you?
Aren’t you?
Had she ever imagined for more than a second that she was really his equal?
There was silence for a moment while he studied a paperweight containing an iridescent shell, before lifting his gaze to hers—and it seemed she had forgotten how beautiful his eyes were and how sometimes his gaze could wash over you, as brilliant and as blue as the ocean itself.
‘So, where do we begin, Marnie?’ he questioned heavily.
‘That’s up to you,’ she answered, in a low voice. ‘How much do you know? Have you been told that my mother was a prostitute?’
‘Yes.’
She nodded. Had one of the journalists prised out that particular nugget and presented it to him, or had someone in his office been tasked with uncovering her past? It didn’t matter. She had often wondered how it would feel to talk about this to someone, to open the door on a room which had been kept closed and locked for so long. And although she knew that what she was about to say was going to bring to an end this part of her life with Leon, wasn’t there another part of her which felt a funny sense of relief to be able to unload the dark and heavy burden, after so many years of carrying it around?
‘Do you want to hear why?’
‘Not really.’
It hurt to think he didn’t care enough to want to find out more—but wasn’t that just another layer of hurt to add to all the others which were building up inside her?
‘Well, I’m going to tell you anyway,’ she said, suddenly fierce—and Marnie realised that maybe she was defending the indefensible. But really, she was defending her mum.
‘She came from the north of England,’ she said slowly. ‘They said she’d had a tough childhood. A father who drank and who liked to beat her mother. He beat my mum, too, and I think...’ For a moment her voice faded away as she recalled the other things she’d heard. Things buried too deep ever to be resurrected. Dark things hinted at by social workers, too tired and overworked to know how to deal with two angry and confused little girls.
‘Anyway, she ran away to London and got in with a bad crowd. It’s as simple as that, really. There was no safety net—and if there was she had no idea how to access it. Nobody to look out for her. She got pregnant by one of her clients.’ Her mouth was working like crazy now, but years of practice meant she was able to keep the prick of tears at bay. ‘I guess I should be grateful that she kept us.’
She lifted her chin, aware that her voice was trembling, waiting for him to prompt her—and when he didn’t, she continued of her own accord.
‘I told you I didn’t remember anything about my early years, but, of course, I did.’
