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‘You’ve got to open yourself up to love, Corso,’ she whispered, aware of the faint prick of tears in the backs of her eyes. ‘You’ve got to learn to love the woman you marry, or else your life will be empty. Just like you’ve got to get to know your brother, because he’s the only brother you’re ever going to have.’
Now the disdain was back, and this time it was here to stay. ‘I think we’ve said enough, don’t you? I’ll speak to Rodrigo about your transportation. Goodbye, Rosie.’
‘Just one more thing,’ she said as he turned away, and as he faced her again she could see the flicker of apprehension on his features. Did he think she was about to make a total fool of herself? To beg his forgiveness for her presumptuousness and tell him she’d changed her mind and would take him on whatever terms she could get?
‘What is it?’
‘I just want to be sure that I’m still going to get paid, even if I’m cutting short my involvement in the tour.’
His mouth twisted, as if her words had in some way reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, Rosie. You’ll still get your money.’
And then he was gone. Tears blurred her eyes but Rosie dashed to the shower and brushed them away with an impatient fist before layering her clothes into her suitcase as fast as she could. The exquisite designer outfits she left hanging there—glittering symbols of a different time. She gave a bitter smile. She would have no need of couture when she was back in her old life.
A chauffeur-driven car was waiting to take her to the airport and somewhere over the Atlantic she was able to get a message to her sister, announcing her arrival time in the UK and wondering if they might be able to meet up next weekend, in order to begin the process of getting their mother settled. She was wondering if—and how much—she was going to tell Bianca. Why rake up something which was probably better left forgotten?
The last thing Rosie expected was to see her sister standing waiting for her at the Arrivals exit, her glossy black hair piled up in a sleek updo, oblivious to the men who were giving her second and sometimes third glances.
‘What are you doing here?’ whispered Rosie as the two women hugged tightly.
‘I thought I’d surprise you as that text from the plane didn’t sound like you at all. You look...Rosie!What on earth is the matter? You lookterrible!’
Rosie didn’t trust herself to reply, but by the time they’d reached Bianca’s car she had started crying and the two of them sat in the airport car park, while outside rain lashed down wildly from a gunmetal sky. She’d held herself in check throughout the flight but now she was home and reality had started sinking in, she couldn’t seem to hold back the tears any longer and they streamed down her cheeks.
‘You’ve been having a relationship with Corso?’ Bianca verified in amazement, when Rosie’s choked words had become comprehensible.
‘Yes! It’s okay. Call me a fool and I would agree with you—because he’s a...brute! A cold-hearted and unfeeling brute and I hate him.Hatehim!’ She waited for guaranteed words of support because Bianca had never been Corso’s biggest fan, but to Rosie’s surprise, no such words came.
‘You do realise,’ ventured Bianca cautiously, ‘that he sent me a massive cheque to buy Mum a house, a couple of weeks ago?’
Rosie blinked, as if her sister had suddenly started speaking in a foreign language. ‘But I hadn’t done any work for him then,’ she said in confusion. And she certainly hadn’t been sleeping with him at that point. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘He asked me not to. He was very insistent you shouldn’t know.’
‘What...what did he say?’
‘That we should get Mum out of London as quickly as possible, so she could be close to her sister. Only we should put the house in our joint names, in case she was tempted to give all her money away again to some chancer she might meet on the Internet. In fact, I’ve got a few places lined up. I thought we could go and look at them with her, this weekend. Wasn’t that kind of him?’
‘Wasn’t it?’ said Rosie weakly.
‘It made me think that maybe I’d misjudged him in the past. Now I’m not so sure.’
Rosie nodded and fumbled in her bag for a tissue. But in a way, it made everything even harder to bear. She didn’t want to think of Corso as being considerate, and looking out for her mother. She wanted to think of him as the man who had...
What?
Given her the most blissful time of her life but neglected to tell her something which was deeply personal to him? Wasn’t she behaving like a child who looked into a toy-shop window and demandedallof the toys?
She tried to put on a cheerful front—not just for her own sake, but for others too. She didn’t want Bianca to worry about her, and made her promise not to breathe a word to their mother. And even though she felt empty and distracted, she managed to celebrate getting her degree and resolved to start looking round for a job in the art world, once she felt a bit more like herself.
But then the articles started appearing in the sort of colourful magazines you found at supermarket checkouts and Rosie found herself buying them and slavishly reading them, despite knowing it was only piling on the agony. Articles about Corso and his hunt for a royal wife. All with the same stomach-churning theme along the lines of:Who Will Wear the Monterossian Glass Slipper?
There were accompanying photographs, too—and that made it even worse because Rosie started comparing herself unfavourably to the sleek beauties who seemed practically perfect in every way. Her eyes scanned every image with forensic intensity as she searched Corso’s ruggedly handsome features for clues about which one he liked best. For a while it seemed as if the cute redheaded equestrian from Boritavia was a serious contender, until she was replaced by a dark-headed beauty from Mardivino.
Rosie screwed up the magazine and hurled it into the recycling bin, telling herself that she needed to face up to reality.
Corso was going to marry somebody else and, yes, her heart was breaking. But so what? One day she would get over it.
And then the invitations started arriving. Old-fashioned cards written in black ink and delivered in thick, buff-coloured envelopes—inviting her to attend interviews at some of London’s most famous art galleries. They all mentioned her work in Paris and New York and said she came highly recommended. And you wouldn’t need to be a genius to know who was behind these surprising requests.
