A Twist of Fate (45 page)

Simona Fiore burst through the crowd in a purple paisley jacket and greeted her in a perfumed hug. Romy smiled, glad of her warmth, remembering how close she and her former modelling agent had
once been.

‘You’ve arrived. Thank God. I was worried you might have changed your mind.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ Romy said, smiling brightly, as a trio of photographers gathered round her, their cameras’ lenses chattering like birds.

‘Well, now that you’re here,’ Simona said, steering Romy away once the photographers had finished, ‘you’re going to get drunk with me.’ She plucked two
Martinis from a waiter with a tray. ‘To our boy,’ she said, clinking glasses with Romy.

Romy laughed at Simona’s enthusiasm, but at the same time felt the prickling onset of tears. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘I knew this would happen. I spent ages getting made up.
And I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.’

‘Don’t worry, you still look sensational, darling,’ Simona said, pulling out the skirt of the red Valentino dress Romy was wearing. She’d made an extra-special effort
tonight in honour of Nico, calling in a favour from a stylist in Milan. ‘Now come, come, before you get whisked away. I want to show you something.’

Simona lead Romy through the gallery by the hand, not letting her stop as old acquaintances leant in and tried to engage her in conversation as she passed. She pulled Romy into a darkened room
at the back of the gallery and switched on the light.

‘Look,’ she said, sweeping her arm out dramatically.

On the back wall, in black-and-white, was a blown-up portrait of Romy on the beach of the Hotel Amalfi, her sundress clinging to her wet body, her hair splattered across her face as she’d
smiled at Nico behind the camera.

Romy stepped towards it, transported back to that magical, pivotal moment when her life had changed, remembering how she’d just baptized herself in the sea that day, how she’d washed
Schwedt and Berlin and London away. She studied her smile and the way the sun shone in her eyes. Had she really ever been that carefree and young?

‘I couldn’t believe it when I finally found that negative,’ Simona said. ‘You know, it was the first photograph of you I ever saw?’

Romy remembered how Nico had explained to her how he’d faxed Simona a copy of it, and it had been enough to make the powerful agent sign her on the spot. Romy hadn’t ever realized
why until now. There was something hungry in the eyes of that young girl, and a look that said she wasn’t going to miss one second of what life had to offer.

‘He told me he thought you were the future,’ Simona continued, ‘and you know, that boy was right.’ Simona put her arm around Romy and sighed. ‘Time moves so fast,
eh?’

‘Yes,’ Romy said, but it was no more than a cracked whisper.

‘Which is why I thought I’d remind us all of what fun we’ve had along the way.’ Simona went to a red velvet chair in the corner and lifted up a brown box.
‘Nico’s mother let me into his flat,’ she explained, ‘and I spent hours going through all his work to put this exhibition together. But I also found these . . .’

Simona handed the box to Romy. ‘Take a look.’

Romy undid the box. Inside were twelve black-and-white, ten-by-eight photos, developed from one negative sheet. But they’d all been taken, Romy worked out straight away,
before
that
shot on the back wall. All in order, they’d captured Romy down on the beach, stripping off her clothes and wading into the sea. Then coming back out, her arms thrown up to the sunshine, her
scrawny body glistening, her eyes shining with joy.

‘He could have made a fortune from them,’ Simona said. ‘Time and again. If he’d wanted to, he could have changed the whole course of your career.’

Romy nodded, unable to speak. It wasn’t the shock of discovering Nico had been spying on her that day, before he’d introduced himself. He was a photographer, after all. Taking
opportunistic pictures was part of his stock-in-trade, and
she
’d been the one who’d been naive and foolish enough to strip off on a public beach. No, what left her standing here
stunned was that Nico had been loyal to her right from the start, before he’d even known her. He’d chosen to be on her side, from the word go.

She hugged the box of photos close, closing her eyes.

He’d kept her safe, she thought. He’d always tried to keep her safe. He’d
died
trying to keep her safe.

Once again she saw the blossom of red blood on his white shirt. The memory that she’d tried so hard to forget. The memory that was just as real and as permanent as these photographs in her
arms. She felt her heart aching as the tears slid from her closed eyelids.

‘I can’t bear that he’s gone, either,’ Simona said, touching Romy’s arm.

‘He’s gone because of me,’ Romy said.

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘It is,’ Romy nodded, opening her raw eyes and looking at Simona. ‘It is.’

‘He wanted to be with you and Alfonso that weekend,’ Simona said. ‘He loved being near you both. You made him feel happy – a part of something great. That’s what he
always said. Don’t blame yourself,’ Simona told her, hugging her close now.

Romy buried her face in Simona’s neck and sobbed. She felt her chest heave. She knew she should never have come.

‘It was just bad luck,’ Simona soothed. ‘It was just life, that’s all.’

Romy bit down the words she so desperately wanted to say. But still she ached to unburden herself. To finally tell the truth about the night Nico had died. About Claudia and Ulrich. About what a
naive fool she had been. That she should have trusted her instinct to cut off her past, like she’d always done. That Nico’s death was her fault. Would always be her fault.

‘Come on,’ Simona cajoled her, clasping her by the shoulders and smiling at her bravely, wiping away a tear in her own eye. ‘Let’s go and join the party. Nico
wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad. Besides, there are so many people who want to see you.’

Romy faltered for a second, ready to speak, but then she looked into Simona’s eyes and saw only trust there. She couldn’t unburden herself. Not here. Not now. It would devastate
Simona. And tonight was about Nico. She had to remember that. And she knew, too, that unburdening herself wouldn’t help. It wouldn’t make her feel better. And it wouldn’t bring
Alfonso or Nico back.

Shut it out
, Romy told herself. The past was the past. Nobody need ever know the truth.
Think of Alfie.
Nobody must ever find out.

She remembered Simona telling her once that all she had to do was work hard and then she’d be safe.
Untouchable
. Wasn’t that what she’d said? Yes, she would work. She
would continue to do what she’d done so well these last two years. She would bury her head in her work and move on.

But as she dried her eyes, fixed her make-up and then went back out, united and smiling with Simona into the crowd, she felt as if she were looking down on herself from the ceiling. She saw
herself being greeted and fussed over, complimented and admired. She was Romy Scolari – rich, successful and beautiful. Hadn’t she fulfilled every dream she’d had since
she’d been the eighteen-year-old in that photograph? Shouldn’t she feel, in spite of those she’d lost on the journey here, that she was finally where she belonged? Hadn’t
all the work she’d put in earnt her that much peace, at least?

It should have done. But it didn’t. Instead she felt that she’d escaped nothing. She felt she still belonged nowhere. Inside – beneath the smiles and the carefully cultivated
mannerisms and all her projections of cool self-control – Romy Scolari still felt like a frightened little girl who would always be running away.

Brett Maddox was intrigued. No,
more
than intrigued, he thought, he was
excited
. Ever since he’d received the email from this businessman here in Germany, a
few weeks ago, he’d been anticipating this meeting. Now he rubbed his hands together as the plain black door in the building on the Munich street opened. He looked quickly round again to
check that he hadn’t been followed, then stepped inside.

‘This way, Mr Maddox,’ a suited bouncer said in German-accented English, leading the way up the steep red-carpeted stairs ahead of him. He had a crew-cut and was all muscle beneath
his smart black suit.

At the top of the stairs was another black-suited heavy with a crew-cut. An old scar gave the left side of his face an awkward downwards slant. He stared at Brett, who stared right back into his
black eyes. He wasn’t intimidated for a second. He’d seen plenty of men like this before. Enough to know that guys like this worked for guys like Brett. They asked no questions and did
what they were told. Brett watched him reach out and open another door.
Just take me to your boss
, Brett thought.

Behind the door Brett was pleasantly surprised to find what he liked to find behind doors such as these. He walked into a plushly decorated lounge and stopped beneath an ornate chandelier. Along
one wall ran a shiny black bar, with a pyramid of glittering bottles rising against an ornate mirror behind it, and a bartender in black-and-whites busy polishing a Martini glass.

A waitress in a short pink leotard, fishnet tights and high heels pouted over her shoulder at Brett as she sat at the bar and lit a cigarette. She was a pro, a hooker. Brett had had enough to
know that much for sure.

Oh yeah
, Brett thought. This was definitely his kind of place.

There’d been no hint from the street that such . . . facilities . . . might exist inside, and as Brett looked around he felt more and more comfortable. The man who’d asked him here
must clearly have known a thing or two about him, to have risked bringing him here at all. Which meant that whatever information they had for him was most likely accurately targeted too.

A few games tables were dotted around the room, and over to the right were two metal poles on a raised stage area. In the evening Brett could imagine this place would be kicking. But now, in the
late afternoon, it had a relaxed, sedate atmosphere. In a corner booth he noticed a man with very blond hair fold up a newspaper and stand.

‘Mr Maddox,’ the man said.

So this must be Heinz-Gerd Solya. Brett had tried researching him online, but had found out little. But from the look of his tailored suit and the expense he’d clearly gone to decking out
this club, he was obviously a man of wealth and power.

Brett shook his hand and Solya offered him a seat at his table. As Brett sat down, Solya clicked his fingers. A girl Brett hadn’t even spotted jumped up from where she’d been
flicking though a magazine in a corner booth.

Brett’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. What could she be? Fourteen? Fifteen at the most? She had that vulnerable schoolgirl look that Brett liked. That
frightened, malleable
look. The one that said she’d give no trouble. Not like most of those so-called teenage hookers and lap dancers he’d wasted his money on back home, Brett thought. This little bitch was
genuinely fresh. Her young breasts bulged against her waistcoat top. Whatever he was here for, Brett sure hoped she was part of the deal.

‘Bring us some champagne,’ Solya told her.

The girl hurried off.

‘Are all your staff as . . . well trained?’ Brett asked.

Solya looked pleased by the compliment. ‘If they know what’s good for them, they do what they are told.’

The girl returned with a bottle of Krug champagne. The finest, Brett noticed from the label. He watched her stroking the bottle and felt himself harden as she grasped and twisted its cork until
it popped. It was all he could do not to delve greedily between her legs as she filled his and Solya’s glasses to the brim, a coy smile on her pretty face.

‘So . . . I’m intrigued by what you mentioned in your email,’ Brett said, watching the girl retreat, eager now to get this business part of this meeting out of the way as
quickly as possible. ‘That you have information about Romy Scolari . . .’

Solya smiled. ‘Oh yes. Romy Scolari.’ He ran his tongue across his very white teeth, as if trying out the words for taste. ‘For a long time now I’ve been aware that your
company would like to buy Scolari. That is correct?’

The man’s confident tone, the way he’d cut straight to the heart of such a potentially huge piece of business, all implied that he could help somehow, that he could make it all come
true.

Brett took a sip of champagne to calm his beating heart. Scolari was everything. If he could get Scolari where Thea had failed . . . ? If he could prove to the rest of the Maddox board exactly
what he could do, then finally,
finally
, justice might be done and he’d get what was rightfully his.

It had been nearly two years since Griffin Maddox had died. Two years of Thea being Chair of the board, blocking him, stopping him. Two years of humiliation, when he should have been in charge,
just like Maddox had promised him. Like Storm had guaranteed he would be. But Lance Starling hadn’t been able to sway the old man, or make him change his will in Brett’s favour. Though
God knows, he’d tried.

‘What type of information is it you’ve got?’ he asked.

Solya stared at him and Brett saw a flicker of darkness in his blue eyes that answered all his questions.

You’ve got dirt on her, that’s what
, Brett realized, salivating over the thought of whatever dark secrets this man – and very soon Brett himself – had access to. A
sex scandal? Drugs? Something even worse? The worse, the better, as far as Brett was concerned. He thought of a recent magazine picture he’d seen of Romy with old man Scolari and his wife and
those five ugly sisters. An untouchable Italian family. But apparently not. Romy Scolari was their weak link.

The women always were.

‘She is not what everyone thinks she is,’ Solya said.

‘Go on.’

‘Mr Maddox. Speaking frankly, the information I have in my possession is enough to bring Scolari to its knees.’

Brett could barely keep a lid on his excitement.
Fuck me
, he thought.
Is this it? Is this the missing domino that’s going to set my whole plan in motion?
Because he’d
already done the groundwork. Oh, yes. He’d already flattered that fat fool, Franco Moretti, the second most important of Scolari’s shareholders after old man Scolari himself. He’d
already set doubts in Franco’s mind about his own future in the Scolari organization. And secretly promised him double what his shares were currently worth. Was the information he was about
to glean here really going to prove the key to bringing the rest of Scolari into the fold?