The Untouchable (17 page)

“What did Marco do when all this happened?”

“Kept his nose down on the handlebars of his motorbike and his mind on racing. He gave it everything but failed to win. He was—is—brave. He pretends it doesn’t matter. All the while he’s dying inside. Awful woman. She’s lucky Lasarev didn’t throw her out.”

“Maybe Marco will take her back? After all they share a child.”

“Never!” Lydia shot her a scornful look. “He won’t give his heart back to her. She hurt him too badly. He won’t give his heart to anyone for a long, long time. If ever.”

“Maybe he’ll give his heart to little Leo.” Rosy packed neat piles of baby clothes and nappies into the chest of drawers, only to unpack them straight away when she realized they’d have to be washed. “These baby leggings are the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. So soft. I hope they’re machine washable.” She found the label. “Wow, Baby Dior!”

“Marco said not to spare any expense. To get the very best I could find.”

“How incredibly sweet.” She pressed the delicate fabric of a crib sheet to her cheeks, close to tears. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful baby.”

Lydia came to stand in front of Rosy, looking up at her,
her face sombre. “What are you going to do?”

“Do? What do you mean?” She held up a forefinger. “Did I hear the doorbell?”

“You did, but don’t change the subject. Ricky’s there, he’ll answer. You know what I mean. I can see what’s happening.” She held up a
hand as Rosy tried to interrupt. “I don’t know you well yet, but you are very like your father, generous and trusting. I like you so much for being like him in those ways, so please let me speak. When Ricky and I came in, and you were sitting with Marco, there was something there. Something intimate, and precious. Everyone felt it.”

“That’s what a cute baby does to people. Turns everyone to mush. Even Marco’s a big softie.”

“Falling for Marco is one thing. Falling for his baby is another.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lydia. Leave it, please.”

“Don’t say I didn’t tell you.” She turned away, casting a critical eye over the hastily prepared nursery. “Be careful, Rosy, I beg you.”

“You told me recently what a nice man Marco was.”

“Things are different today.”

Rosy hesitated. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Marco lay back in a chair, watching the activity in the kitchen. Ricky worked on the assembly of a flat-pack baby cot, and Zavi, back from London, sat in his wheelchair alongside Marco and cradled Leo in his arms. He’d been thrilled with the news of the baby and, on his way, had detoured to buy a case of champagne. Marco, removed from the party atmosphere building in the room, couldn’t understand the celebratory mood. He’d had a child dumped on him, one that no one wanted. It was a glorious fuck-up. He glanced at Zavi, cooing like an idiot over the bundle in his arms. Zavi caught his eye. “You’re a lucky man, Marco.”

“Am I?”

Zavi looked back at the baby. “I’ll never have one of these.”

“Maybe you’re the lucky one, in that case.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t. I’m sorry.” Marco frowned. He shouldn’t have said that, he really shouldn’t have.

Rosy and Lydia came downstairs. They stood in the hall discussing lunch before coming into the kitchen. Lydia greeted Zavi with a quick smile and wave across the room and went to busy herself at the far end of the kitchen table. Rosy, on the other hand, stopped dead in her tracks like she’d witnessed a divine vision.

“Zavi! How lovely to see you.” She hurried to him, kissed his cheek, resting a hand on his shoulder. “What do you think of Leo?”

“
Bellissimo
. He’s absolutely beautiful. My namesake. A miracle.”

“You’re holding him like a pro,” Rosy marvelled, as if Zavi had done something unique in the history of mankind. And her hand remained on his shoulder.

Zavi smiled. “I’m the eldest of five children. I know what to do.”

Rosy’s eyes, bright with pleasure, met Zavi’s. Zavi’s held an appraising smile, like he had a secret. Marco hadn’t seen that smile for years.

Rosy took the baby. “I must change his nappy.” She left the room, came back within ten minutes, laid the baby in his basket, and began to set the table. Marco’s eyes followed her every movement. Here was his solution, right here. The lovely Rosemary must be persuaded to look after him and his son. Could he ask her to do that? Would she? She came toward him, no longer smiling, but radiant. He opened his mouth to speak but she walked straight past him to Zavi, dispensing champagne.

“What a celebration. Isn’t it lovely to have a baby at Christmas?”

She accepted a crystal flute from Zavi, her hand back on his bloody shoulder! The most natural gesture he had ever seen. They belonged together. Tired, with an ache of desolation squeezing his heart, Marco turned his head away and closed his eyes.

***

Lunch over, Rosy took Leo to his new bedroom for a nap, while Ricky did likewise with Marco. Coming downstairs, she came across Zavi, about to leave.

“Father and son are wiped out,” she said. “A big day for both.”

“I’ll say.” Zavi wound a scarf around his neck and pulled on a pair of leather gloves. “I hope Marco comes to terms with what’s happened. He seems deeply disturbed, withdrawn.”

“He’s had a shock. There’s a lot to take in. He’ll need time to adjust.”

“Otherwise, he’s looking good. I’m amazed at the improvement since I’ve been away.”

“Ricky cares for him really well.”

“Ricky, huh?”

Their eyes held.

“Mostly Ricky, yes.”

“Ah.” Zavi hesitated, and there was a small silence.

“Do you need help?” she asked.

“I wanted to ask you—” he said, speaking over her.

“You first,” Rosy said.

“I’m off to Milan tomorrow morning, for Christmas, and I wondered if,” he shrugged, “we could have dinner together when I get back?”

“Of-of course, would you like to come here?”

“I’d like to take you out.”

“Out?”

“You sound doubtful.”

“Um, it’s just that I don’t—”

“I realise a dining companion in a wheelchair isn’t the ideal—”

“No! No, it’s
nothing
to do with that.”

“Good.” He smiled. “What, then?”

“Marco can’t be left.”

“Ricky’s here.”

She folded her arms and studied the floor.

“What is it, Rosy?”

“I haven’t been out with...anyone since Luke died.”

“Then it’s time,” he persisted. “Experiment with me. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it again, with me or anybody.”

Something inside her loosened, and let go. She smiled. “Of course I’ll like it. Thanks for asking me.”

“Shall we say the night of the twenty-seventh? I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Perfect, and thank you.” She opened the door and followed him outside, bending to kiss him goodbye. “Thanks for coming.”

He got into the car and drove away.

How lovely of him to ask her out. Marco wouldn’t mind, would he? No, she told herself, to squash the niggling idea that he wouldn’t like it one bit.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Christmas Eve morning, and Marco had never been so frustrated in his entire life. He could squeeze toothpaste onto his own toothbrush, but couldn’t get it anywhere near his mouth. He could get a glass out of the kitchen cupboard, open the fridge and pour himself a glass of juice that he couldn’t drink. He could roll a cigarette but not smoke it, set up his iPod but not put the earphones in his ears, he could run a bath and switch on the shower but not wash himself.

“You can use your phone on speaker,” Terry pointed out on his daily call to Marco. “And your laptop. You can Tweet and update your fan page online. You’ve got thousands of messages from fans wanting to wish you well, desperate to know how you are. Put a message out there. Introduce them to your baby son, or at least pip the media by mentioning him. Let them know you care.”

But Marco wasn’t sure he cared. He asked Terry to delegate. Avoiding the merry hustle and bustle that filled the house, woven with the delicious smell of festive home cooking, the jingle of traditional Christmas carols and the wails of a hungry newborn, Marco kept to his bedroom, read a book, and dozed.

At five in the afternoon, Rosy came into the room. She shot a disapproving look at
Il Capitano
who’d rolled himself up in half of Marco’s quilt, to hide from the fresh intruder, and asked how he was.

“Fine.” Marco laid his book aside, swallowing a yawn. She wore an apron and had her hair in rollers so clearly didn’t care how she appeared in his presence. He was like a brother, or one of those platonic male friends some women professed to have.

“Good, then you can come and help me bath Leo.”

He opened his mouth to say no but she wasn’t paying attention. Back turned, she had the wardrobe open.

“Let’s get you dressed first.”

“Why can’t Ricky do that?”

“He’s gone to fetch Mel.” She fiddled in the cupboard. “Lydia went to your house this afternoon, last thing before she went home, to pick up some clothes. You’ll be glad to know it’s dried out a bit and the dead animal has been removed. Pietro will start repairs straight after Christmas.”

She turned to face him, holding out some dark jeans and a navy blue sweater. “I don’t think we’re going to get those arms of yours into a shirt, Marco, so how do you feel about these? They’re not too formal, though we ladies are dressing up a bit.”

He sighed but not so she could hear. To be honest, he felt nothing, but said, “Fine,” to avoid a marathon discussion about his feelings—or worse, what he should wear. He wasn’t in the mood.

“I want you to feel your best,” she said, “because you’re my host for the evening.

Crap.
Exactly what he didn’t feel like doing. He recovered quickly, obliging with a grin. “Is this a date?”

She smiled, eyes down, pulling back the quilt.
Il Capitano
fled. “Get up,” she said.

***

Ricky said he’d dress Marco before he went to fetch Mel, but Rosy, not looking Ricky in the eye, had said she would. Would? Wanted to, and wasn’t about to let anyone else do it.

More the fool me.

S
he helped Marco into his jeans, put on his shoes, and then concentrated on the top half, the best half, although, if she was forced to choose between halves, it would be difficult. The pullover wouldn’t go over his arms so she found a t-shirt with looser sleeves and tried that.

“That’s better.” She folded back the cuffs.

“How’s my hair?” Marco asked.

“Standing on end.” She lifted her hands and combed it with her fingers. He dipped his head to her upturned face, and brushed her lips with his. At first she pulled away. There was a baby to bathe and feed and a Christmas meal to finalize, but Marco, somehow had his arms around her now. She couldn’t move; if she did, she might hurt him. She stood still, clamped to his body
—
a body letting her know exactly what it needed. Not meaning to respond, she closed her eyes, put her arms around him, and kissed him back. It lasted five seconds before the realization hit her. He was a practised kisser
—
any fool would know that
—
and, with his looks, money and fame, he could choose from a million and one woman in the world. What on earth would he want with a person like her? He was just passing time, bored, frustrated, and turned on by any female who touched him.

She turned her head to break the kiss. “I have things to do.”

He raised his head and rested his lips on her temple. “We have things to do.”

She removed herself from his arms, turning to the door. With shaking hands, she re-did one of the rollers that had come loose. “Come,” she said, “bath time.”

Rosy led the way down the passage and into Leo’s room. The baby bath, filled, waited for its occupant. She felt the water, picked up Leo, laid him on the changing table and undressed him.

“His skin’s too big,” Marco observed. He looked closer. “What’s that?”

“His umbilicus. Where he was attached to the placenta. It’ll drop off in a few days.”

“Have you done a baby course or something?”

“You sound amazed.” She laughed, soothing as Leo jumped at the sound. “My friend Fiona had two babies hardly a year apart. Chaos. All volunteers needed. I’m godmother to both, so that’s how I learned.” She lifted Leo, scrunched-up and pink, into the bath, calming him with murmured words while his puzzled eyes searched for focus on her face.

When he was dry and dressed, she removed the bottle from the warmer and was about to sit in the armchair and feed him when Marco said, “I’ll do that.”

“But—”

“I can hold the bottle, and the baby.” He wriggled his fingers, sat in the chair and waited for her to hand over. “Besides,” he looked pointedly at her hair, “you have stuff to do.”

Rosy settled Leo with Marco, dimmed the overhead light, and went to her bedroom to finish up. At the mirror, she made up her face and brushed out her hair, teasing the crown gently, smoothing and pinning it up on the back of her head, working quickly in case Marco needed her.

Marco. Passionate, certainly. She turned her head to the left, then the right, threading a stray strand of hair behind an ear. And in spite of his terrifying, life-threatening occupation, he soothed and somehow settled her with his decisiveness. For example, he would feed Leo, even if it were really difficult. She considered her reflection, the request for an answer in her own eyes looking straight back at her. What was it about Marco that held her captive?

He was expressive, could be affectionate, and endlessly endearing—and therefore likeable—when he was in the mood, but there was more. When she was with him, his energy flowed in her. His belief and conviction filled her head, touched her life, more than. Her body, heart and soul were made whole, without any broken bits. He filled in the holes, stitched the tears. Marco had the ability to mend her, and he didn’t even know it.

She moved to the wardrobe and opened the doors. For a moment, her hand rested on the red dress Fiona had made her buy, but she chose a black lace one she’d never worn, fitted to the waist, with three quarter sleeves. She found a pair of sheer tights,
slipped them on, put on the dress and looked in the mirror. The hem sat just above the knee. Fiona had been right
—
the length flattered her legs. But that’s where it stopped. All decidedly plain without as much as a pair of earrings to brighten the picture. Lipstick would help. She slicked on a coat of ‘Inimitable’ feeling anything but. A small cry floated down the passage.