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My phone buzzes again with a number I don’t recognize. “Trevethick,” I answer.
“Lord Trevethick. My name is Donovan Green. I’m a journalist for the Weekend News.”
“How did you get this number?”
“Lord Trevethick, is it true that you married your cleaner, Alessia Demachi?”
His question winds me as if his fist has slammed into my solar plexus. I hang up without making a comment. How the hell did the slimy bastard get my number? And how did he get Alessia’s name?
My phone rings again, but I block the number.
Fuck a duck.
What am I to make of this? I’d better warn Alessia’s parents that some stringer may turn up on their doorstep looking for a story. I know Shpresa will stay quiet, but my father-in-law, who, let’s face it, likes a little drama and attention, might not be so taciturn.
Maybe I should throw these vultures a bone.
Tomorrow night, Alessia and I will be guests at Dimitri Egonov’s annual spring bash, which will be attended by the great and the good and the not so good, so there’ll be no doubt. The world will know that we’re married, and the Grimy Slimy Weekend News can fuck off.
The cab stops outside my building, and it’s a relief that there are no reporters or paparazzi outside. I pay the driver and hurry inside, anxious to see my wife.
* * *
Alessia wraps languid limbs around me as we both return to earth. I nuzzle the special pulse point beneath her ear and move over onto my side, taking her in my arms. “You are the world to me,” I murmur as I hold her close. It’s early Saturday morning, and I want to spend the whole morning getting lost in my wife.
The buzzer from the building intercom sounds.
“What the hell?” I grumble.
Is it the press?
“Can we ignore them?” Alessia whispers against my neck, her breath tickling the fine hairs there. The buzzer sounds again, and this time a garbled, disembodied voice echoes through the hallway from the intercom.
“Bugger.” I sit up.
Who the hell is that?
“Do you think it’s that reporter?” Alessia is wide-eyed with alarm.
“I don’t think so.”
The buzzer sounds again, and I clamber out of bed and wander naked into the hall to answer the intercom. “Hello,” I grunt into the speaker.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Caro. What gives?” Shit! I forgot to mention Caroline’s plan to Alessia last night. I’d been too distracted by the journalist.
“I’m here to take Alessia shopping. I told you. Let me in.”
Shit. I haven’t broached this with Alessia. I press the door release and pad back into the bedroom, where Alessia is up and draped in the quilt.
“Caroline is on the way up,” I mutter as I hunt for my jeans. “She wants to take you shopping. Do you want to go?”
“Shopping for what?”
“Clothes.”
“I have clothes.”
“For the party tonight?”
“Party?”
Hell. I’d forgotten this too! “We’re going to a party. An acquaintance. That’s if you want to.”
“Okay,” she says, but her eyes are wide with uncertainty.
“It should be fun. Go shower. I’ll entertain Caroline.” I zip up my jeans.
The front doorbell buzzes, and Alessia gives me a hesitant, unreadable look as she hurries into the bathroom. I pad out to the front door holding a T-shirt.
“Good morning, Maxim,” Caro says brightly, offering her cheek for a quick peck. I oblige, then drag on my T-shirt to stop her from checking out my torso. “You’re only just getting dressed? Did I interrupt you shagging?”
“Fuck off, Caro.”
“Yes. I’d love a coffee. I’ll make it.” She breezes into the kitchen, leaving me standing barefoot in the hallway.
I follow her in.
“Where’s Alessia?” she asks.
“Showering. And black. No sugar, please.”
“I know how you take your coffee,” she chides.
* * *
Alessia showers in record time. She doesn’t trust Caroline, and doesn’t want to leave her sister-in-law alone with Maxim, who happens to be Caroline’s ex-lover. Caroline is still in love with him, or so Alessia thinks.
Draped in a towel, Alessia dashes into the spare room where all her clothes are kept, to dry herself and dress.
Maxim and Caroline are in the kitchen. She hears him laugh at something she says. And Alessia is spurred on to be quicker. Three minutes later, she’s dressed in black trousers and a white long-sleeve T-shirt, with Gucci loafers.
“Good morning, Alessia,” Caroline says brightly when Alessia walks into the kitchen. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” Alessia responds, surprised at the compliment. “So do you.” Caroline is dressed in dark jeans, knee-high boots, and a fitted tweed jacket. She gives Alessia a quick hug and peck on the cheek.
“Sorry to interrupt your morning shag,” Caroline says with a wink.
Alessia blushes and turns her attention to Maxim. He hands her a coffee. “Here you go. Just ignore her.”
Alessia smiles and takes the coffee.
Why is this woman so brazen? Are all English women like this?
Or is this awkward because Caroline knows Maxim intimately, and they used to “shag”?
