True Colours Read online

  She knew what was in the package, had sourced JR Hartley’s famous book Fly Fishing herself plus the Worst Case Scenario Handbook, which Sebastian had insisted Tom would enjoy. A balloon of worry began to inflate in her stomach – after working with Sebastian so closely for so many years she knew how much he relied on Tom Ryan to help him run the estate, knew, although they had never met, that Tom Ryan was as an essential cog in the Wingfield machine as Sebastian was always saying she was, and she knew too how annoyed Sebastian would be if he found out that the courier had failed to collect the package. The courier company was a new one, one run by another of Jocelyn’s waifs and strays, a woman whose son Jocelyn had met one day on the DART, a teenager who had cystic fibrosis, but had plans to join the Irish Olympic swimming team. Whatever happened, Jocelyn wanted to keep Super Swift Couriers as their courier of choice, but she knew full well that if Sebastian knew they had let him down, they would be for the chop.

  Picking up the parcel, Jocelyn tucked it under her arm. St Vincent’s was on the opposite side of the city from her apartment, but she was sure the traffic wouldn’t be too bad on the return leg, so it would be just as well if she dropped the books in herself.

  St Vincent’s Hospital was humming when Jocelyn arrived. Evening visiting time was in full swing. It only took her a few minutes to find the lift to the men’s surgical ward.

  Pausing outside the swing doors of the ward, Jocelyn could see that there was only one bed not surrounded by visitors. In it lay a man in his sixties, earphones plugged firmly into his ears, his right hand tapping in time with whatever was playing in his ears. He looked pale, ill, but at the same time Jocelyn could tell that his shoulders were broad, that when he stood up he would surely tower over her, that in fact, he had all the bearing of a military man. She caught her breath as she pushed the doors open; despite her usual ebullient confidence she felt suddenly rather shy, could feel a blush creeping over her cheeks. After all, she’d never met this man before, and although she had heard enough about him that she could almost guess what he ate for breakfast, she was about to arrive unannounced as he lay in his pyjamas and a rather stylish navy silk dressing gown.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m so sorry to disturb you. It is Tom Ryan isn’t it?’

  Aware of a presence beside his bed even before she spoke, Tom’s eyes flew open as soon as Jocelyn said his name, regarding her with some interest. He had been expecting Alex, was rather surprised to see the friendly face of a voluptuous woman wearing a blazing orange shawl over a dress the colour of a ripe plum, her steel grey hair caught in a Spanish style knot on the top of her head. It was certainly a strange ensemble, but it suited her. And he didn’t get many visitors. As ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ shuddered to a close he nodded curtly to the chair beside the bed. Feeling she needed to explain, Jocelyn pulled it over, lowering her not inconsiderable bulk onto the red plastic seat.

  ‘I’m Jocelyn Blake,’ she struggled to free her right hand from the tangle of chenille that had slipped down her arm. ‘I’m…’

  ‘Sebastian’s PA..’ Tom interrupted her, his face breaking into a broad grin. ‘Could have recognised you anywhere, Sebastian gave me a very clear picture.’

  Jocelyn flushed bright pink, suddenly lost for words, ‘All good I hope.’

  ‘All excellent. He couldn’t cope without you, says so himself at least twice a day when he’s down on the estate. So what brings you here?’

  Jocelyn blushed again, unsure of how much she should reveal of her knowledge of the accident. But, before she could answer, he pulled out his earphones,

  ‘Was expecting my daughter Alex, she comes most nights, but she must have got held up.’ He paused, ‘She’s a designer you know, doing a big job for the Spanish government.’ He nodded proudly.

  Jocelyn was startled for a moment, didn’t quite know what to say.

  ‘Really? Sebastian bought you some books, I wanted to drop them in.’ It was her turn to pause, ‘Your daughter isn’t Alex Ryan by any chance is she?’

  ‘She is. Her mum was Spanish so she’s a lot better looking than me, but she’s a Ryan through and through. Have you heard of her?’

  ‘Senor Marquez’s PA is a very good friend of mine. Alex is doing a fantastic job for them apparently…’

  ‘That’s good,’ Tom smiled sheepishly, ‘You always think your children are wonderful – it’s good to hear that someone else thinks so too.’ He pulled himself up in the bed, wincing as he did so, ‘So tell me what Sebastian’s up to. Are you invited to the wedding?’ he raised his eyebrows with a knowing look that made Jocelyn laugh out loud. She could see that they had a lot to talk about, and from his look, he shared a few of her own thoughts as well.

  THIRTY

  Clouds were gathering over the city as Caroline headed through the busy Dublin streets, her tiny BMW Z9 cabriolet sports car nipping along the quays, weaving through the coagulating traffic like the bright red dot of a laser pointer at an interdepartmental traffic management meeting. A taxi driver hooted angrily as she cut across him to shoot into the bus lane and down a one-way street. She waved cheerfully at him.

  Once she was on the N7 and heading for Kildare, Caroline turned the CD player to full volume and lit a cigarette, putting her foot down, eating up the miles to Kilfenora. Within the hour she was zipping through the village and turning towards the grand gates of Kilfenora House itself.

  She slowed down as she turned between the gate posts, heading into dappled shadow; a group of deer almost hidden between the majestic oaks and elms that lined the edge of the drive raising their heads in interest as she passed. A few moments later the house came into sight below her, huge, its castellations concealing a barrage of chimney pots, the windows winking. Behind it, the lake reflected the landscape like an oil-painting, the occasional ripple initiated by a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves above her.

  Pulling over to get a proper look, pushing her sunglasses up to the top of her head, Caroline shuddered. The house looked like it was laughing at her; like an ugly old woman, cackling at her.

  The first time she’d seen Kilfenora House, captured in an aerial photo in Sebastian’s study, she’d been bowled over by its splendour, splendour added to by the excitement of becoming Lady Kilfenora, by the pink wave of romantic dreams set in motion by her friend Sophie’s wedding and her well-aimed bouquet. She’d been working towards it of course, had focused on marriage as her goal ever since that night with the Chinese Ambassador when she’d realised that her brother’s best friend was actually rather gorgeous, as well as being a major catch. And before she’d even set foot in Kilfenora, they had moved from a playful ‘if’ to a ‘when we get married’.

  Then she had got inside.

  Caroline had heard all about the house of course, about its famous Palm House, how Paxton had been commissioned by whichever Lord Kilfenora it was when he’d seen the splendid Italian Renaissance-style chateau and magnificent glasshouse that Paxton had built for Baron James de Rothschild outside Paris. But, unfortunately, while Paxton might have been busy on Kilfenora’s Palm House, it seemed he hadn’t been allowed near the main house at all.

  Somehow, Caroline expected the splendour of Baron James de Rothschild’s Château de Ferrières with its 120-foot glass-ceilinged central hall, the eighty guest bedrooms, the sculptured columns and decorative painting, but instead, when she had finally found a weekend free to accompany Sebastian to his family home, she had been met by the smell of damp and an even smellier dog, dust an inch thick on the picture rails, and had suddenly, scarily, wondered what she was getting herself into. Still, as she’d told herself at the time, once they were married she could get the decorators in (and an army of cleaners), and give the whole place a facelift, get the awful dog a kennel as far away from the house as possible. And this was their country house, so they wouldn’t be spending much time here, could organise house parties for the weekends they came down, and spend the rest of the month in town.

  Now, looking at the house again, Caroline kn
ew she could never live here, not permanently – she just wasn’t made for the middle of nowhere, famous architects or not. Decisively, she flicked the automatic into drive. So that was another thing they would have to sort out if this marriage was to go ahead – they’d need a proper house in Dublin. It wasn’t exactly Paris or New York but one step at a time…and at least Dublin had an international airport…

  THIRTY ONE

  Despite wishing the ground would open up and swallow her, or, if she was lucky, that she might get whisked away by aliens, Alex had to admit that the food smelled fantastic. And, as Sebastian lifted the glistening golden roast from the oven in a cloud of delicious scented steam, her stomach growled audibly. She blushed, putting her hand to her belly, but the unladylike sound had broken the tension.

  Sebastian half-turned to look at her, throwing one of his more disarming grins over his shoulder.

  ‘There’s no way you can go home with that empty stomach and leave me to eat all this on my own.’

  Rolling her eyes, pulling an ‘okay if you insist, but I don’t want to be here’ sort of face, Alex reluctantly pulled out the kitchen chair nearest to her, the sound of its legs scraping on the tiles louder than she had expected. This wasn’t what she had envisioned for tonight at all.

  ‘Hey, don’t get comfortable yet. There’s more white in the fridge, make yourself useful.’

  Sebastian’s tone was playful, scolding, and Alex had to smile as she pushed the chair back under the table again and headed for the fridge.

  ‘What did your last slave die of?’

  Being here in the kitchen, just the two of them, Alex suddenly felt like they were taking up exactly where they had left off all those years ago, joshing each other like she’d never gone away, and the words slipped out before she thought about them. Oh my God, what had she said? Hiding her head in the fridge, waiting for a caustic reply, I shot him actually, or he’s a tough old ox, tried to shoot him you know, but made a mess of it, Alex almost missed Sebastian’s actual response, muttered into the steam of the chicken he was attacking with a carving knife,

  ‘Broken heart. Sad but true.’

  Alex winced. A broken heart? What the hell could she say to that? She bit her lip, knowing there was no answer that could make that one right, no answer she could give right now, right here, that would explain everything that had happened. Light-hearted or not. No matter how much she wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, to whisper – I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help it – she knew she had to keep quiet.

  Alex died inside all over again, the gnarled hand of despair grasping her empty stomach and twisting. Just like the night she’d left, the night she’d arrived in Barcelona and sobbed into her pillow her own heart shattered, torn in two by the two people she loved most in the world.

  Now tears welled up into her eyes. Alex brushed them away, reaching for the bottle of wine, rattling it nosily against the fridge door, pretending she hadn’t heard. Then, talking into the fridge, pretending she was reading the label, buying time so she could get a grip on herself, Alex said,

  ‘This is very good white. Where’s it from?’

  Sebastian didn’t answer for a moment, then, as she turned, his eyes met hers, ‘Bordeaux.’

  ‘Oh.’ The word might have been short but its message was long enough to fill a book. This was one of those nights when everything she said would be wrong, she just knew it. Alex tried again, said the first thing that came into her head – she needed to move this conversation on, get out of the place she was in or, she knew, she’d find herself trapped, and that sure as hell wouldn’t help her dad. ‘Corkscrew?’

  ‘Usual place, beside the sink. Nothing’s been moved in this house for a hundred years.’

  Alex breathed a sigh of relief – the house…she should have thought of it before…the house was safer ground for them both, much safer.

  ‘Glad to hear it. I’m sure this old place would get really miffed if anyone started moving stuff about. It’s like a wonderful old grand dame isn’t it, a benevolent matriarch?’

  Sebastian laughed out loud, ‘It is; and costs as much to run.’

  Moments later, sitting opposite him, a steaming plate in front of her, Alex could see that the delicious smells coming from the oven had been a good indication of what was inside, that Sebastian was rather a good cook. She tried to stifle the thought, knowing deep down that admitting a glimmer of admiration for him in any shape could have her backtracking right to where they had left off all those years ago, opening the floodgates to goodness knows what. Shaking out her linen napkin, smoothing it over her knees, Alex listened as he chatted about the food, about free-range chickens, about the best way to roast parsnips. And, despite her misgivings, her efforts to resist, for a moment Alex found herself relaxing again, for a moment forgetting that she needed to stay aloof and focused, forgetting that she had a deal to negotiate.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Sebastian reached for the bottle and leaned over to top up Alex’s glass.

  ‘Fantastic. You’re right; I was starving.’ Alex smiled, teasing, her eyes meeting his across the table. ‘But I didn’t think men could cook.’

  ‘Ah,’ he filled his own glass, his face breaking into a shy grin, ‘I’m multi-talented. Run a multi-million euro business, cook, and I even paint. No flies on me.’

  Paint.

  The word hit Alex like a kick in the gut, hauled her out of the familiarity of the warm kitchen and plunged her straight back to the moment she had entered Sebastian’s bedroom, to the exact moment she had realised with chilling clarity that the nude stretched across the wall above his bed was a painting of her.

  It wasn’t a moment she was going to forget in a hurry; neither, come to that, was she likely to forget Caroline’s description of her as an overweight tart. Alex put her fork down with a clatter – all thoughts of the wonderful meal, of how good Sebastian looked sitting across the table from her, his blue eyes dancing with mischief, of how much she’d missed him, of how much she had longed to sit just like this during those first few years in Spain – banished with one word. And she could feel her blood rising.

  ‘I’d noticed.’

  Sebastian looked up, surprised at the sudden ice in her tone. ‘What?’ almost comically, he searched behind him, trying to see what it was that had displeased her so.

  ‘I’d noticed that you can paint.’ Alex’s voice was low, the words pronounced clearly, carrying with them the weight of much more than an observation. It took a moment for Sebastian to register what she meant, then he blushed faintly.

  ‘Thank you. I…’

  ‘It wasn’t a compliment.’

  ‘What?’

  Alex was glaring now; her words came spitting at him from across the table, ‘How could you?’

  ‘How could I what?’ utterly confused, it was Sebastian’s turn to put down his knife and fork, ‘What did I do?’

  ‘You painted me naked.’

  Dumbfounded, he looked straight at her, her words hitting home like a stream of arrows, each one stinging more than the last, ‘But you’re beautiful naked.’

  Alex opened her mouth, shut it; then tried again, ‘That’s not the point. You painted me…painted me…’ how could she say it, ‘having an orgasm’, Alex blushed scarlet, not prepared to go there right now, ‘and then you hung it over your bed.’

  ‘I thought you’d like it.’ Sebastian sounded devastated, like a little boy who had been sent to the naughty step for daubing his mother’s bedroom wall with green marker pen, trying to recreate her favourite corner of the garden.

  Accelerating around the last bend of the drive, Caroline sent a shower of gravel into the air as she skidded to a stop neatly beside Sebastian’s Jaguar. Jocelyn had been right – he was here – and now she had the advantage of surprise.

  A smile played across her lips as checking her lipstick in her rear-view mirror, taking off her sunglasses and running her fingers through her hair, Caroline adjusted the top of the slinky wrap dres
s she was wearing, bright white against her tan, pulling her neat breasts up in her padded satin bra to ensure her cleavage was displayed to its maximum advantage. Sebastian obviously needed a reminder of the benefits of marriage…and tonight he was going to have the ride of his life…Reaching into the passenger seat footwell she grabbed the neck of a bottle of Bollinger. Sebastian might not like champagne, but he loved Champagne Bellinis and there was a case of peach juice in the larder left over from her last visit. After a few of those he’d be very amenable to her plans.

  Climbing out of the car, humming to herself, Caroline glanced at the silver VW Golf parked a few yards away and smoothed her dress, her head spinning with thoughts of the evening ahead. If Sebastian wanted this to work, there was only one way to go, and that was her way. He’d got a lot of making up to do after the fiasco with those flowers this morning, to say nothing of his behaviour over the past few weeks, but at least now he knew it was her birthday, and what’s more, had had the day to think about how much he had upset her. So Caroline was quite sure he would be suitably reticent; and tonight she was going to show him exactly what he would be missing if he didn’t come around to her way of thinking.

  Stepping carefully across the gravel to preserve her custom-made envy green suede Jimmy Choos, Caroline tripped up the broad stone steps to the front door and raised her hand to ring the bell.

  The bell.

  Searching the broad oak frame on both sides of the panelled door Caroline screwed up her face – where the hell was the bell? She’d always come here with Sebastian and the door had been opened by one of the staff before they were even out of the car. But there had to be a bell – how did strangers get in? Or the postman with a parcel? What about election canvassers or the woman with the census? Caroline looked again, running a manicured finger along the frame in case it was cunningly concealed, then took a step back, looking for a chain or a handle, or something. Anything. This bloody house was a disaster – fancy there being no bell! Utterly thrown for a moment, she turned around on the top step, working out what to do next.