A Twist of Fate (27 page)

The stewardess stowed Romy’s Louis Vuitton bag and she sat down in her seat with a relieved sigh, before edging off the silver platform shoes, her favourite from this year’s Versace
catwalk collection. She smiled to herself, wriggling her toes, remembering the wrap party in Tel Aviv, which was probably still going on, she thought – all the Israelis being determined that
everyone should celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the State of Israel. And, boy, they sure knew how to party. She’d been lucky to get out of there.

She was so looking forward to this holiday. God knows she deserved one. Sometimes the fashion world seemed as if it had swallowed her whole. And whilst she couldn’t complain about the
luxury and the constant compliments, it sometimes didn’t feel as if Romy had any time to live her real life at all.

It had been five years since she’d first modelled for Vadim in Paris. Five years. She could hardly believe it had gone so fast. She still missed Paris and her dog, poor little Banjo, whom
she’d had to give away. Paris had been the last place that had felt really like home. Since then, Nico had moved back to Milan, and Romy kept her things in a room on the top floor of his
house, but she was hardly ever there. She’d lost track of all the places she’d been already this year.

She stared out of the window at the tarmac, the noise of the plane igniting a sudden memory of being a stowaway in the cargo hold all that time ago. She shut down the thought, as she always did.
For the most part it was easy, obliterating the memories by filling every second of her life with photo-shoots and travelling and parties. But sometimes – like now, when she stopped for a
minute and was off-guard – a memory slipped back to take her unawares.

One day she’d do something with all this money she’d earnt, she vowed. She’d rescue people like the person she’d once been herself. She’d do something useful with
her life. When all the madness stopped. When she had time to catch her breath.

But at least she still had Nico, she thought, concentrating on what lay ahead.

Whilst she requested him to be there as often as she could on photo-shoots, she hadn’t seen him for a couple of months. The last time was that night in Mexico, when they’d sat,
exhausted, on the terrace of their luxury hotel, vowing that they’d spend this week together in Monaco. It helped that Nico had been given sole use of a power-yacht for the week. A small
thank-you from the rich parents of a famously unphotogenic minor royal, whom Nico had made look like a supermodel on her wedding day. The offer of a holiday together had been too good to turn
down.

‘All I want for my birthday,’ he’d told Romy, ‘is to have you there, and for us to do nothing.’

‘Nothing,’ Romy had repeated, with a sceptical frown. Nico was even worse than she was when it came to making arrangements.

‘Well, when I say nothing, I want us to stay on the yacht and be perfect slobs, and float around the Med away from the crowds.’

Now, as the plane took off and climbed steeply through the thick bank of clouds to the sunshine beyond, Romy turned her head and looked at the young woman sitting across from her. She was
wearing a well-cut light-blue suit, and Romy smiled when she saw the book she was reading.

The stewardess came down the aisle, handing out elegant flutes of champagne, and Romy took one. The girl opposite did too, and they smiled at each other.

‘Is that a new one?’ Romy asked, nodding down at the book. ‘I’m a big fan. I’ve read all Shelley Lawson’s books.’

‘Really?’ the girl asked. She had an English accent, but with her dark curly hair and freckles she could easily have been Israeli. She was pretty enough to be, Romy thought, thinking
of the girl on her last shoot in Tel Aviv.

‘Yeah,’ Romy said. ‘She’s great. But
Sons and Daughters
is best.’

The girl spluttered her champagne and stared wide-eyed at Romy. ‘What? You liked that one?’

‘Yeah, sure. I thought the girl in it was really cool. I’d have done the same as her.’

‘I’m Shelley Lawson’s daughter. That was based on me.’ The girl laughed, moping up the champagne. ‘Sorry,’ she went on. ‘I’m used to meeting fans
of Mum’s, but not usually in first class. I’m Bridget,’ she said, proffering her hand, apologizing for it being soaked in champagne. ‘Bridget Lawson.’

An attentive air hostess arrived with a napkin.

‘Hey, aren’t you that model? The “catfight on the catwalk”?’ Bridget asked, clearly quoting those famous headlines from when Romy had first started out.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Romy interrupted. ‘With Tia Blanche. My nemesis. I guess I’ll always be infamous for slapping her. I wish I still could,’ she added.

‘Don’t you work with Perez Vadim?’

‘I did for a time,’ Romy said, with a sigh. ‘Until there was some big mix-up a while back with the press. It all started with the
Culture Bulletin
in London. Perez was
furious about it and said I wasn’t high-profile enough for him and, after that, we kind of fell out.’ It had been a low point of her career, and Romy was surprised she could talk about
it now without feeling that familiar burning sense of injustice.

‘Ah. The meddlesome Maddox Inc. I know all about them,’ Bridget said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘The
Culture Bulletin
is part of the Maddox group of newspapers,’ Bridget said, taking a sip of champagne.

Romy frowned, a sudden memory coming to her. ‘I met a guy called Brett Maddox, once. He was some kind of Managing Director of Maddox Inc. He was a creep.’

‘Yeah, well, I knew the daughter, Thea Maddox. She’s a thief.’

‘A creep and a thief. That’s one very good reason why I haven’t let any of my stuff go in the
Culture Bulletin
since.’

Romy took another sip of her champagne and the stewardess came back with a delicious-looking plate of canapés. Romy couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten and happily
accepted. With no shoots booked for over two weeks, she fully intended to let herself off the hook this week.

‘Is all that stuff your mum writes based on reality? I mean, the bit in
Sons and Daughters
– that last one – about the baby really made me cry. That’s not true, is
it?’ Romy asked Bridget as they both started eating.

‘No. Mum has always had a vivid imagination. But it’s often uncomfortable reading for me,’ Bridget said in a confidential way, closing the book and tucking it into the pocket
of her rather nice Ferragamo handbag. Romy had almost bought the same one last season.

‘So why Monaco?’ Romy asked, intrigued by this confident young woman.

‘I work in PR for a big oil company,’ Bridget said, with a sigh. ‘Which would be fine, except that they’re the main sponsor of Alfonso Scolari in the Grand
Prix.’

‘He’s that racing guy, right?’

Bridget rolled her eyes. ‘He’s a lunatic. He’s been on the top of his game for two years, but now he’s out of control. Gambling. Women. Drinking. The lot. The sponsors
want to pull out, if he doesn’t start towing the line soon.’

‘And that’s your job?’ Romy asked, laughing. ‘To make him tow the line?’

‘You got it,’ Bridget said, pulling a dubious face.

But as she appraised the English girl, Romy couldn’t help thinking that if anyone could do it, she could. She had a forthrightness about her that Romy liked immediately. It was nice to
have a real conversation and not be treated as a supermodel for once. She couldn’t remember the last decent chat she’d had about anything other than fashion, hair and make-up for a
while. Yes, she thought, she liked Bridget Lawson a lot.

Despite the sunny outlook for her holiday ahead, it was raining in Monaco when Romy arrived. She turned on her phone and picked up her messages as they walked off the plane,
shielding her hair with her coat. There were three messages from Nico.

‘Shit’ she said. ‘My friend has been delayed on a shoot. He was supposed to be picking me up.’

‘Where are you going?’ Bridget asked.

‘The Marina in Monte Carlo, I guess.’

‘I’ve got a car picking me up. I can give you a ride into town?’ she offered, and Romy was grateful for their brief friendship not to be over yet.

And it wasn’t just any car that had been sent to collect Bridget. As they stepped out of the arrivals lounge, Romy saw a shiny stretch-limo by the kerb and a liveried driver standing next
to the back door, who was waving to Bridget.

But as they went over and the driver opened the door, Romy saw that there was already someone sitting on the fawn leather seat in the back.

‘Hi, trouble,’ Alfonso Scolari, the famous driver, said, kissing Bridget as she climbed in next to him.

‘Oh, the irony,’ Bridget said, making eyes at Romy.

‘This is Romy, my friend,’ Bridget said. ‘We met on the plane. I said I’d give her a lift. You don’t mind, do you?’

Romy shook Scolari’s hand, smiling. He had scruffy dark hair and the cheekiest grin she’d ever seen. He was wearing jeans and a trendy Smashing Pumpkins tour T-shirt beneath his
cream linen jacket. His dark-brown eyes bored into hers, and she felt something so unexpectedly physical that it made her cheeks burn.

But the guy was a terrible flake, Romy remembered, with a string of publicly broken-hearted girlfriends – including several well-known models – behind him. She looked out of the
window as the limo pulled away. She had no intention of adding her name to his list. She couldn’t wait to tell Nico about her ride from the airport. He was a Schumacher fan, but even so
– meeting Alfonso Scolari was pretty impressive.

She listened to Bridget attempting to explain her own visit, and how she was here to tell Alfonso what the sponsors had told her that he needed to hear.

‘Oh, Bridget,’ Scolari cooed in his rolling Italian accent. ‘You are so gorgeous when you are angry. What can I do, if beautiful women throw themselves at me?’ he said
with a shrug, his eyes now seeking Romy’s reflection in the mirrored glass separating the driver’s compartment from them. He stared at her so hard that she had to suppress a giggle,
before – with obvious satisfaction – he turned back to Bridget and complained, ‘How can I cope, when you are not there to protect me?’

His phone rang and Scolari went into a loud, expressive tirade.

Bridget turned to Romy. ‘See what I mean?’ she whispered. ‘He’s a nightmare.’

But as Romy got surreptitious glimpses of Alfonso Scolari, she could see why he’d been so successful. Both in romance and on the track. Whatever he was doing, he gave it 100 per cent of
his attention and passion. She watched him bellowing into the phone, loving the cadence of the expletives he was using and the way his elegant hands gesticulated them. She tried to follow the
rapid-fire Italian, but all she could really pick up was that something from Alfonso’s point, at least, was deeply unfair.

Before long they were nearing the Marina.

‘I can jump out here,’ she said, and Bridget knocked on the window for the driver to stop.

‘Hey, Romy, why don’t you and your friend come to the Grand Prix tomorrow?’ Bridget suddenly asked.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I have seats in the sponsor’s box. It would be good to have you there.’

‘OK, well, sure. Nico will be thrilled.’

Alfonso rang off the telephone. ‘Excuse me,’ he told Bridget and Romy, remembering his manners. ‘My father’s lawyer.’ He shook his head, exasperated. ‘He is
like Mike Tyson,’ he explained, ‘chewing my ear off.’

Romy laughed.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said, smiling and getting out of the car. ‘Oh, and good luck,’ Romy told Alfonso, reaching back into the car and shaking his hand. When he
looked at her again, she grinned back stupidly.

She got out onto the pavement and went around to where the driver was lifting her case from the boot. She was still smiling as she walked along the pavement towards the marina. Motor racing had
never been her thing, but free tickets to the Grand Prix would surely be something that she and Nico could fit into their schedule. In fact it would be the perfect birthday surprise for him.
Wasn’t it typical that, just when they were supposed to be relaxing, there were more parties to go to.

As the limo drove off, Bridget Lawson sat back in her seat.

‘Is the lecture over?’ Alfonso asked, looking at her with puppy-dog eyes. ‘I can’t cope with any more abuse. My father has legally cut me off.’

Bridget knew Alfonso came from the Scolari publishing and media dynasty. For a proud, politically connected man like Roberto Scolari to cut off his only son must mean that Alfonso had besmirched
the good family name once too often. After all, Scolari was one of Alfonso’s team’s sponsors too. Perhaps Roberto Alfonso had been banking on the fact that, sooner or later,
Alfonso’s good old-fashioned Catholic guilt about his mamma back in Tuscany and his six sisters might kick in. But clearly it hadn’t yet.

She decided to take a different tack.

‘Look,
I
understand, but BK Oil are very cross. Why can’t you just leave the delinquents and the call girls alone? Just for a while. Why not go on a proper date, with a real
woman?’

‘I would do, if I had a real woman who inspired me.’ He grinned at Bridget and then sat up in his seat and twisted to look out of the back window at the departing figure of Romy.

‘You want to take her out on a date?’ she asked.

‘If you could made it happen, Bridget, I would be the perfect gentleman,’ Alfonso said, holding his hand against his chest. ‘She is seriously gorgeous.’

Bridget smiled, pleased with herself.

Yes . . . Romy Valentine and Alfonso Scolari. Now
there
was an interesting proposition. And Romy was perfect. As far as Bridget could recall, there were no sex or drug scandals littering
her past.

She’d have to do a bit of research, but at her age – what must Romy be: twenty-five or so? – she must be coming to the end of the peak of her catwalk career. She might be in
the game for some serious international PR whilst she planned her next move. OK, so she said she was on holiday, but Bridget had a feeling that she might be able to persuade her.

Yes . . . she would set up the date in a restaurant. Somewhere classy. Somewhere that projected the right sort of image for a truly reformed and tamed man. Then she’d tip off all the
journos and photographers she knew. She was already writing the press release in her head. This might just be the opportunity to project a more civilized image for Alfonso – and all the
brands associated with him.