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Oliver looks up and frowns. “You okay, Maxim?”
“Yes. I’ve got to leave.”
“Did you mention interior design to Lady Trevethick?”
Damn!
“No. I will, though. Unless you’d like to?”
Oliver’s face falls and he looks a little uncomfortable. “I’d rather you did, Maxim,” he responds eventually.
“Okay. I’ll do that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Disheartened, I trudge through the backstreets of Chelsea back to the flat. So far, today has been exasperating. I feel like I’ve been thwarted at every turn. I’ve made a call to Kit’s and my GP, Dr. Renton, and have an appointment to see him tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll get some answers then. The genetic counseling clinic was not forthcoming at all and the clinician dealing with Kit is on holiday, but I have an appointment in a couple of weeks to see her. I’ve even called my mother and left a message for her to call me… all to no avail.
I cannot believe how bewildering this news has been.
There may be nothing wrong.
But on the other hand, something awful could befall me as I get older.
Hell.
It’s the not knowing that’s so frustrating.
As I round the corner of Tite Street onto the Embankment, I spy a few people—mainly men—hanging around the entrance to my building.
Wait. These are not people!
Three of the shambolic riffraff are holding cameras.
Paparazzi!
For a nanosecond, I wonder who they’re waiting for, and then an older man wearing an Arsenal FC scarf spots me. “There he is!” he shouts.
Fuck. They’re after me!
Lord Trevethick! Lord Trevethick! Maxim!
Congratulations.
Care to comment on your marriage? Your bride? When do we meet her?
My mood slides from bad to worse as they swarm around me like cockroaches. I put my head down and walk through them, saying nothing.
This is all I fucking need.
I head into the safety of the building while a couple of the reporters shout questions at me. Leaving them on the doorstep, I vault up the stairs, cursing whoever informed the press about our marriage. Alessia is not going to appreciate the attention; this I know.
I’ve not been accosted by any journalists since I was with Charlotte, an ex-girlfriend. She loved attention—as an actor… sorry, no, an artist, as she liked to style herself—she lapped it up, especially from the press. I roll my eyes at the memory. She was socially ambitious and hideously pretentious. Thank God she moved on. Apart from my time with her, I’ve managed to avoid being tabloid fodder, but I’ll get the occasional mention in the social diary columns of more discerning publications.
I unlock the front door, step into the hall, and stop.
Alessia is at the piano, and I recognize the melody immediately—Clair de Lune, a piece I can play myself but with nothing like her grace. As I listen in wonder, the last few frustrating hours slip away, and I’m transported to a more peaceful, hopeful state. I creep down the hall, peer into the drawing room, and watch her.
Eyes closed, head bent, she’s wholly surrendered to the music as it flows effortlessly through and from her. Somehow, she senses my presence and turns and smiles, her face lighting up at the sight of me.
“Don’t stop,” I say, walking toward her.
She shifts on the piano stool, not missing a note, and I settle beside her, wrapping my arm around her waist while the music caresses and holds the pair of us.
This is sublime.
And I have an idea—I hover my right hand over hers, and she immediately understands what I’m trying to do. She withdraws her hand, and I take over. We stumble over the first few notes, but I watch her left hand, following her lead, and we continue the piece.
Together.
I’m thrilled that I’m able to keep up with her without the composition in front of me. She makes it easy because she’s so attuned to the music and its languid rhythm.
Following her lead makes me a better pianist.
It’s humbling.
It’s exhilarating.
As the final note drifts into the ether and disappears, we grin at each other like fools. “That was amazing,” I whisper.
Alessia laughs, threading her arms around my neck and drawing my lips to hers. We kiss. Her mouth is warm, wet, welcoming, and arousing all at once. I tug her onto my lap, deepening our connection, our tongues celebrating each other so that we’re breathless when we pull apart.
She rests her forehead against mine. Her eyes closed. “I’ve missed you,” she whispers.
“Oh, baby. I’ve missed you. And I’d like nothing more than to take you to bed, but we have an appointment with the immigration lawyer.”
She pouts but stands, obviously reluctant to leave the safety of my lap. “I am ready.” She hands me our passports, our marriage certificate, and the apostille issued by the notary in Tirana confirming our marriage certificate is legitimate. I slip them all into my jacket pocket. Then frown.
“There’s a slight problem. We’ve been besieged by the press outside.”
