Christmas at Claridge's (36 page)

It had been one thing playing at being the designer with colour charts and wallpaper swatches, getting Chad to draw up her ideas in his intricate Slade-quality watercolour illustrations. He had
been right, she did have an instinct for it, and in spite of her misgivings, she had slipped into the role easily, surprising herself most of all, almost every day of the past two months that
she’d been here. They were steadily honing the house to her vision, building it back up after months of picking at its bones; but from this point, this day, onwards, the work was technical,
intricate, artisanal, skilled. Every single leather fascia had been quality-checked back at the factory for grains and stains, then custom-dyed, hand-cut and hand-stitched. But if a single
measurement was out by even half an inch, if the leather wrinkled or bubbled, if the hot glue seeped and stained through the seams, if the tens of thousands of pounds’ worth of bespoke work
was ruined in any way . . . it was on her.

She started pacing, feeling nauseous with nerves. Instinct told her to stall. She was in charge when she had no right to be, when she had never asked to be. Gabriel had simply had his agenda,
while Tom had his own.

She wanted to hear her father’s voice. He would be able to calm her down with one of his impassioned soliloquies on his newest culinary discoveries. She had rung home several times since
their aborted phone call in the tunnel, but it had always gone to voicemail and she’d been left wondering whether she’d been premature in thinking forgiveness had been granted with the
safe return of the Birkin. Certainly she hadn’t heard hide nor hair from Tom.

She dialled the number and walked to the window, staring out at the gardens, the phone to her ear, her fingers drumming her thigh nervously. It went to voicemail again.

She stabbed disconnect with a furious finger. ‘For God’s sake, Dad! Just pick up!’

‘They’re away again.’

Clem whirled on her heel, her jaw dropping open in horror at the sight of Tom standing in the doorway – horror that he was actually there; horror at the state of him. He had lost weight
– a lot of weight – and his shirt bagged loosely around his chest while his jeans were a size too big. It made him seem taller, his eyes bigger. And he had cheekbones now, too, sharp
ones that seemed hard and out of place on such a wholesome, soft face. ‘Thought I should probably look in,’ he mumbled with ridiculous understatement, his head jerking towards the
shipment on the drive.

‘Tom!’ she cried. ‘You look awful.’

‘Thanks.’

She carried on staring at him in open dismay. ‘What the hell’s happened?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look it! There’s only half of you left.’

‘Well, my better half then, hopefully.’ He walked towards her, his tic fidgeting madly in his left cheek. He stopped a couple of feet away. ‘I was really shitty to you,
Clem.’

‘No!’ she shook her head manically fretting at the sight of him. ‘No, you weren’t. I deserved all of it. I was totally selfish, a complete loser.’

‘I pretty much blackmailed you, Clem,’ he said quietly, his cheeks stained a mottled pink. He swallowed and looked down. ‘I was so angry . . .’

‘As you had every right to be! You almost lost everything because of me.’ Her voice faltered. ‘I couldn’t see past my own needs. I jeopardized everything, all because
Josh was talking to another girl? When I look back, I can hardly believe it. I was . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Pathetic.’

Tom watched her. ‘You look amazing.’

‘Do I?’ she asked, surprised, looking down at her khaki silk cargo shorts and charcoal vest, sunglasses pushed back in her ponytailed hair and feather lariats swinging at her
neck.

‘In fact, you actually look happy,’ he said, indicating her bright, hopeful eyes.

‘Well, I am now
you’re
talking to me again. I felt like I’d lost my right arm.’

He blinked, his eyes suddenly watery. ‘Me, too.’

Clem threw her arms around him, hardly able to bear the sadness in his face. It had been so long since she’d seen her happy-go-lucky brother. ‘Oh, Tom! I’ve missed you so much.
I’ve got so much to tell you.’

‘And me you.’

Clem pulled away and looked back at him. Something in his voice told her his news wasn’t as uplifting as hers. ‘You first.’

‘Well, you can probably guess,’ he mumbled, one foot shuffling at the dust that had collected on the parquet floor. ‘Clover dumped me.’

‘
She
dumped
you
?’ Clem answered incredulously.

Tom nodded.

‘But why?’

He looked down, his lips drawing into a thin pale line. He was quiet for a long time, then he shrugged, looking more like ten than thirty, and it reminded her of Luca’s face that first day
on the boat as he stared at the wishing tree: both of them boys with wishes that weren’t coming true.

‘Obviously, I took the flat off the market once we’d signed the contract for this job, as there was no need to sell it any more—’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well, she took it badly, Said it was a clear sign I wasn’t ready to commit to her, that I never would.’

‘But . . . but you selling the flat was never about you committing to her anyway. She said that herself. It was a clear-cut case of releasing equity into the business. Even
I
understood that.’

‘I think she hoped—’

‘Oh I
know
she hoped!’ Clem couldn’t help herself from saying.

He was quiet for a second. ‘On top of that, I’ve been doing crazy hours at the office, what with this job becoming so much bigger than we first realized. I just needed to stabilize
the business, you know?’

‘I so do!’ Clem said loyally, clutching his arm.

‘She just . . . flipped.’ He shrugged again. ‘Said she needed time to think.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’ He shifted weight uncomfortably and Clem knew there was more. She tipped her head to the side, waiting for it as Tom sighed. ‘I think there might be
someone else.’

Clem’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

He shrugged. ‘She didn’t say; just that she knew someone who was only too ready to give her what she wanted if I wouldn’t.’

Clem listened carefully, a lot less convinced by Clover’s rhetoric than her brother. There were less territorial Middle Eastern states than Clover. It was a bluff and she knew it. Clover
was banking on him falling apart without her, which, given the state of him, he clearly was, so that when they reunited, it would be with the proposal she craved, and some mythical rival hovering
in the shadows had been calculated to get him moving sooner rather than later.

‘Coming out here was totally the best thing you could have done,’ she said, rubbing his arm. ‘The change of scene will help give you perspective and the sunshine will make you
feel better.’

He shrugged his eyebrows doubtfully. ‘I was nervous about not overseeing the work myself anyway.’

‘Control freak,’ she teased.

He looked at her, an anxious look in his eyes. ‘How’s it going with Gabriel?’

Clem paused. ‘As you predicted.’

He winced apologetically. ‘I . . . I was wasted.’

‘But right. Let’s face it, it was pretty obvious what was going to happen.’

They were quiet for a moment and she knew he was worrying about the implications on the commission if – and when – the relationship foundered.

‘How’s Stella? Showing yet?’ she asked quickly.

‘She was showing before she was pregnant!’ Tom chuckled.

‘She said the morning sickness has really kicked in now.’ Clem sighed. ‘I hate not being around for her.’

‘Listen, if there’s one thing Stella’s used to, it’s throwing up in the morning,’ Tom replied with his trademark grin. ‘Besides, Mercy’s looking after
her. She’s helping out on the stall a lot; the days are too long out there for Stella at the moment, especially when she’s face first in a bucket.’

‘Nicely put. Sensitive, bro.’

He grinned, kicking the floor again. ‘I apologized to Mercy, by the way. Clover twisted everything so much that . . . Well, anyway, I gave her a pay rise to make up for it. We’re
mates now, although she doesn’t do the “cleaning in her bra thing” with me.’

‘Probably just as well,’ Clem giggled.

He jabbed a thumb to his chest. ‘Listen,
I
know where the thermostat is. I make sure it’s turned down.’

They laughed as the sound of Chad leading the workmen through the house interrupted them.

‘Where are you staying?’ she asked, wishing she could have her brother all to her herself for a bit longer, but there was no spare room in the folly, and she could hardly ask Gabriel
to move back to the Splendido again.

‘A little hotel in Santa Margherita, it’s basic but fine. It was all I could get at such short notice.’

‘Um, talking of hotels . . . I take it you got my message about helping Chiara with her hotel, too?’ She felt nervous bringing it up, and unsure about telling him it was being funded
with the money from the flash sale. Technically he had rejected it all, but passions had cooled since then. Had he changed his mind? Did he assume it was still his? She could never explain why she
was gifting such a colossal sum to her pen pal and she didn’t want to bring all that up now and risk souring their reconciliation.

‘Yes, Simon mentioned it. I haven’t seen any orders come in yet, though.’

Clem rolled her eyes. ‘Ugh, that’s because she’s a
nightmare to
work with! She won’t commit to anything. I think, deep down, she actually wants the hotel to
fail. She’s struggling to keep up as it is, even without all these big changes.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Her heart’s just not in it.’

‘Well, you’ll have to introduce us. Stella said she’s great. It’ll be nice to meet her at last. I don’t know how I never met her the first time.’

‘You were in Argentina on your gap year when she came over, remember?’

‘Oh yeah.’ He smiled at her fondly. ‘It amazes me that you two have kept in contact all this time. My pen pal went AWOL on me. Shame, really, as he was a good bloke.
D’you remember him? We got on like a house on fire.’

Clem gave a tiny nod, a quiet fear beginning to creep up her nervous system.

Tom looked pensive as the memory took hold. ‘Actually, I ought to see if he’s still in the area while I’m here. I hadn’t thought about that. I mean, he lived in the next
village and I bet everyone knows everyone here, don’t they?’

‘Pretty much,’ she murmured.

‘Tch, what was his name?’ he mused, frowning. ‘Agh. It’s on the tip of my tongue.’

‘Rafa.’ Her voice was tiny.

‘That’s it!’ Tom said, clicking his fingers. ‘Rafaello Vicenzo. Of course! How could I forget?’

Clem hovered nervously at her desk, pushing paper around like it was a deck of tarot cards. From beyond the closed door in the library, she could hear Tom’s calm voice
issuing precise instructions to the team. He and Chad had taken to each other immediately – no surprise there as they shared a mutual appreciation of rugby, firm handshakes and cold beers
– and Clem had slunk away on the pretext of selecting bedcovers for the boat’s bedrooms.

She got up and walked the length of the end room, once, twice, three times, wringing her hands and squeezing her eyes shut in long, slow blinks. It was bad enough
her
being back here,
hiding in plain sight. But Tom’s presence was the final clue – should anyone be looking – that could unravel her secret.

There was only one thing she could think of to do.

She opened the doors behind the desk and stepped out onto the terrace, looking up into the scaffolding. It wasn’t Tuesday, so Rafa wasn’t in Florence. She knew he was in there
somewhere.

She walked around the building, ducking low as she passed the library windows, so that Tom wouldn’t see her. She stepped down into the gardens to look up at the higher levels. There were
more carpenters and plasterers than she could shake a stick at, but no sign of Rafa anywhere.

‘Claudio,’ she called up to the nearest workman, waving her arms to get his attention. She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. ‘Have you seen Rafa?’

The old man, as dusty as if he’d walked through a flour cloud, grinned and pointed up to the corner bedroom. The garden suite? Today? He
must
be worried about deadlines.

She nodded her thanks and ran through to the front hall, jogging up the stairs as soundlessly and quickly as she could.

She stopped at the bedroom door. Rafa was painting on the far wall, his back to her, headphones on. He was barefoot, wearing just his jeans, his khaki T-shirt lightly stuffed into his back
pocket and hanging out like a magician’s scarf. He was holding a long-stemmed brush in his right hand, dabbing at something with tiny, precise brushstrokes, the small muscles in his back
tightening with the movements. He looked as though he’d been cold cast in bronze. She watched as he took a step back to assess the work, his face coming slightly into profile as he angled his
head, and her breath caught at the sight of him – immersed, passionate, lost.

She tossed her head, immediately throwing the thoughts out, and walked over to him. She tapped his shoulder lightly, but the touch startled him – the combination of music and painting
clearly took him somewhere beyond this room – and he turned with agile ferocity, grabbing her by the arm before she could say a word.

His grip was tight, his fingers pressing hard into her skin and pulling her up onto her toes, but not a sound escaped her. His face was inches from hers, and in the shock of her silent approach,
he hadn’t yet composed his features into the customary snarl that he reserved for her. What she saw . . .

She felt her heart hammering beneath her ribs, like a dove beating against a cage. Seconds passed as neither one stirred, the moment tight, frictional and airless.

It was Clem who pulled away first, falling back into space and safety. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ she said in a quiet voice.

He took a step back, too, widening the breach between them further, hostility restored. ‘What do you want?’

‘You have to go.’