The Untouchable

The Untouchable

by

Gina Rossi

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Untouchable

COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Gina Rossi 

The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Contact information:
[email protected]
&
http://ginaginarossi.wix.com/gina-rossi-website

Cover art: James at
www.humblenations.com

Dedication

For Jonathan, my best and favourite hero

&

Marco Simoncelli

58

1987 - 2011

Chapter One

“Rosy?” Fiona called. “Phone. He says it’s urgent.” Fiona, Rosy’s best friend and business partner, in that order, stuck her red curly head around the door.

Rosy adored simple wedding cakes. Like this one, standing naked before her, a four-layered, rich fruit cake with ivory icing. All she needed to do was add a band of small diamanté crystals to each tier and deliver to The Dorchester by three p.m. Long, dark hair tucked under a cotton cap
—
something between an oversized beret and a shower cap
—
she pulled on gloves and, taking extreme care, stuck a strip of baking paper to the icing.

“I can’t, Fi. Take a message.”

Light pencil marks indicated where the crystal studs must go, precisely central and one centimetre apart, as the bride had instructed. She poked a finger in the box of Swarovskis on the table. Four hundred and fifty of the things, and no room for error. Taking a small handful, she spread them out, picking one and sinking the post into the side of the cake.

“I tried. He said no.”

“He?” Was this a rare call from a bridegroom?

“Someone called Ricky. Says it’s personal.”

“Is he a client?”

“No.”

Rosy pointed at the cake, unadorned but for one tiny sparkle. “Explain what I’m doing and tell him I’ll call back.”

Fiona’s head vanished. Seconds later she reappeared in the glass-walled office space adjoining the bakery.

The second stud went in, and the third, fourth, fifth. Rosy looked up. Fiona was still talking. Sixth, seventh, eighth. Once there was a rhythm to the process, things went quickly.

“Sorry.” Fiona’s head popped around the door for a second time. “He won’t go away. Says it’s about Frederick.”

Rosy’s hand jolted. The stud she held
—
crystal number thirteen
—
sprang from her fingers, gouging an ugly hole in the pristine icing. It shot across the table and pinged on the floor.

“I love my job,” she muttered. “Truly.” She took the call. “Rosy Hamilton.”

“Hi there. I’m Ricky Jarvis, Frederick’s carer.” The accent was pure Australia.

“Oh?”

“Um, I don’t how else to say this but I went to check him around five this morning, and, um, he was dead.”

“Dead?”

“The doctor’s been. Said it was a massive stroke.”

“Oh,” Rosy said, aware of Fiona, mouth rounded in an O of questioning surprise, eyes popping on either side of her freckle-dredged nose.

“He didn’t suffer,” Ricky went on. “It was quick, apparently.”

Pity. She sat on the office chair. “How did you get my number?”

“Your mother gave it to me in case anything…you know, happened, while she was away.” He sounded upset.

Rosy thought of her mother, well out of touch. Salt water fly-fishing in Cuba. On honeymoon. It had taken her twenty years to remarry.

“What do you want me to do?” Rosy looked through the glass partition at the cake, bare and waiting. She glanced at her watch.

“The funeral’s on Saturday.”

“Where?” She supposed she’d have to send flowers.

He paused. “Right here, in Saint Michel, you know, the south of France.”

She hadn’t known.

Fiona handed her a glass of water. Rosy took a sip and lowered the glass over a newspaper on the desk, open at the sports section, the page dominated by a photograph of a motorcyclist in red and black leathers. He straddled an enormous motorbike, leaning hard into a left-hander, his knee slider down on the track. In spite of the helmet and visor, Rosy saw intensity in the angle of his head, aggression in the tilt of his left shoulder, sensed the pure focus of his shielded eyes.

Dallariva and Team End Season in Second Gear
, the headline said.

Unbelievably, the racing number on the front faring was thirteen. Talk about courting disaster. She centred the base of the glass on Dallariva’s head, pressing a wet halo into the paper. She detested motorbikes. Couldn’t look at one without thinking of Luke, easy-going Luke, with eyes the colour of mountains, and the wind in his hair.

“Give me the address,” she said.

“No worries.” Ricky sounded mightily relieved. “I’ll collect you from the airport.”

“I’m not coming. I’m definitely not coming!”

He hesitated. “Take my number. Think about it and call me back.”

She pressed her lips together to stop ugly words, wrote down the number and hung up.

“What?” Fiona removed the glass and handed her a steaming mug. “Whatwhat
what?
”

Fumes burned Rosy’s eyes. “Jeez, Fi, what
is
this?”

“Brandy laced with coffee. I’m experimenting with booze for Magenta Blood’s purple fantasy. She told me rock stars don’t do sober wedding cakes. Now tell. Who’s dead? Who’s Frederick?”

“My father, I suppose.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed, disappearing between the pale feathers of her eyelashes. “Your old man is Frederick Hamilton?
The
Frederick Hamilton? The old guy? The writer?”

“Was.”

Fiona, who never swore, glared at her. “Fucking hell, Rosy, you never said!”

“He left when I was a kid. Said he didn’t fancy family life. Said it cramped his
inner creator
.”
Rosy pulled a face.

“But he’s famous. All over the airport Top Ten. Often two or three bestsellers at once.”

“I try not to notice.”

“Will you go to the funeral?”

“Absolutely not.” Rosy gulped a mouthful of hot brandy. “Never. No way.”

***

“So, have you thought about it?” Fiona asked, the following morning, once she had gone through the post and emails, checked the messages on voicemail, and made coffee.

“What?” Rosy, at the desk, traced the outline of a skull onto a piece of paper.

“You know perfectly well what. Going to your father’s funeral.”

“Is this skull big enough?” She held up the paper for Fiona to see.

“Too big. I don’t think they should be bigger than one centimetre across. And Rosy, you have to—”

“Who would have skulls on a wedding cake?”

“Magenta Blood, for one, and it’s not for us to comment. Now listen to me, I—”

“Have you measured? How many do we need?”

“Rosy, will you
listen
to me?”

“Not if it’s about Frederick’s funeral. I’m not going.”

“You must.”

Rosy put down her pencil. “No.”

“Is someone from your family going?”

“Obviously not my mother. There is no one else. Being an only child means there’s no brother or sister I can dump this on.”

“Have you spoken to your mother?”

“Last night.” Rosy shook her head. She wasn’t going into it. She wasn’t about to explain.

“Rosy?”

“Do me a favour, Fi. Drop it, please.”

“Did he do something really terrible to you, like beat you, or run off with a teenage lover and lavish diamonds on her while your mother slaved to make ends meet?”

“No. He bought my mother a house, paid for my education, and, as far as I know, there wasn’t another woman. Not initially, anyway.”

“He doesn’t sound
all
bad.”

“He didn’t have time for us. Couldn’t be bothered. It knocked my mother’s confidence and gave me a screwed up self-image. He didn’t love us, didn’t want to be part of us and, guess what? I don’t want to be part of him.”

“I still say you have to go to the funeral.”

“I’m not, Fi, and that’s the end of it. Besides, we’re at make-or-break point with Red Velvet. I can’t take time off now, not even for a funeral. Christmas is looming and we’ve got to give it all we’ve got, or everything we’ve put into this business will go down the tubes.”

“Abandonment aside, aren’t you just a teensy bit curious?” Fiona persisted. “I know I’d be madly fascinated,
completely
intrigued.”

Rosy admitted curiosity, but wouldn’t be drawn in spite of Fiona’s tenacity and her determination to wear her down.

“I’m not going, Fi, I’m not. Please, leave it. I beg you. Let’s move on to something else.”