CHAPTER NINE
‘SORRY?’ CARA DIDN’T have the faintest idea what she was talking about.
‘I was Pepe’s original date for the evening,’ the beauty said without the slightest trace of rancour.
Cara didn’t know what to say, could feel herself shrinking from the inside out.
‘It is not a problem,’ the beauty assured her. ‘We used to date but it was over a long time ago. I’m sure we’ll hook up again some other time when he’s back on the market and in need of a semi-platonic date for the evening. In the meantime, you should enjoy him while you have him.’
Cara searched for signs the woman was having a joke at her expense but saw nothing but open friendliness in those hazel eyes. She swallowed and forced her rooted tongue to work. ‘What does semi-platonic mean?’
‘Oh, you know—what is the English expression?’ Her eyes scrunched up as she thought, then another beaming smile broke out on her spectacularly pretty face. ‘I know—it means “friends with benefits”!’
‘Friends with benefits,’ Cara echoed weakly, her stomach roiling at the thought.
That friendliness turned to consternation. ‘Have I spoken out of turn?’
‘Not at all,’ Cara said, knowing as she said the words that they sounded weedy and pathetic.
The woman slapped her own forehead. ‘I have a very big mouth—forgive me, I meant no harm. I didn’t know you were serious about him.’
‘I’m not.’ Cara strove to affect nonchalance. From the pity in the other woman’s eyes, she failed miserably at it.
‘I must use the bathroom now,’ the woman said, shuffling to the door. ‘Please, forget what I said. I didn’t know—’
‘I’m not serious about him,’ Cara interrupted, her horror at the woman’s assumptions trumping her innate shyness. ‘I’m well aware Pepe has the attention span of a goldfish.’
‘That is a little unfair,’ the woman said with a slight crease in her forehead. ‘To goldfish.’ With a quick wink she entered the bathroom and shut the door behind her.
Taking rapid breaths, Cara rejoined the party, trying desperately to contain the nerves that threatened to overwhelm her.
As she sought out Pepe she could feel people staring at her, feel their curiosity about this stranger in their midst. For this was no social-networking occasion, this was a proper party for friends to mingle, catch up on each other’s lives, drink too much alcohol and behave indiscreetly. She couldn’t even have a glass of wine to calm her nerves.
Eventually she found him chatting to a couple of women, a tall glass of beer in his hand. Walking towards them, she almost came to a stop when she saw one of the women cup his buttocks and give them a squeeze. How Cara’s feet carried on moving, she had no idea, but it felt as if a million hot pins were being poked into her skin.
Pepe laughed and grabbed the wandering hand. He brought it to his lips. Whatever he said as he kissed it made the wandering-hand woman burst into laughter.
‘Cara,’ he called, spotting her and beckoning her over. When she reached him, he placed an arm around her waist, his hand gripping her hip. The same hand that just moments earlier had held another woman’s hand so he could kiss it.
‘I don’t think I’ve introduced you—this is Lena and Francesca. Ladies, this is Cara.’
The two women looked at her with unabashed interest. Wandering-hand lady held her hand out. Much as she wanted to refuse, Cara forced herself to shake it, all the while thinking, This hand just squeezed Pepe’s butt. This is another of his ex-lovers.
How many of them were here?
The hot pins poking her skin were now strong enough to make her brain burn.
‘Ladies, look after her for me while I get her a drink.’ With that, Pepe disappeared into the crowd.
Francesca, the non-wandering-hand woman, an adorably plump blonde who had squeezed herself into a black dress that gave her a cleavage like two pillows, was the first to speak. ‘I don’t think we have met before, non?’
Cara shook her head.
‘How did you come to meet Pepe?’
At least it was a question she could answer. Even so, it took two attempts for the words to form. ‘His brother is married to my best friend.’
Francesca’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ah, Luca. Now that is one fine specimen of man,’ she said, turning back to Lena.
The two Frenchwomen spoke in their native language before Lena addressed Cara. ‘Je regrette un...non English.’
‘Lena doesn’t speak English,’ Francesca said apologetically. ‘I am translating.’
Even if Cara had actually paid attention in her senior school French classes, there was no way she would have been able to keep up with the speed with which the two women spoke.
As Cara stood there like a spare wheel while the two women conversed loudly before her, that same dreadful outsider feeling doused her all over again.
‘I need to find Pepe,’ she whispered, backing away, horribly aware her cheeks were flaming.
Slipping back into the crowd, she spotted him easily enough, standing by the bar with what looked like a glass of orange juice in his hand. It came as no surprise to find him talking to a woman. This woman’s hand was playing with the lapel of his tuxedo jacket.
If her brain could burn much more it would boil. Everything inside her felt taut, as if it had been wound into a coil. Perspiration broke out on her skin.
‘Where are you going?’ Pepe caught hold of her wrist as she passed him.
She hadn’t even realised her legs were moving.
‘To the bathroom.’ She said the first thing that came into her mind.
‘Again?’
‘Yes.’
His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her. ‘You’re very pale. Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ She tugged her wrist out of his hold. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute.’
The lapel-fingering woman said something to him in French, looking at Cara as she spoke. No doubt she too was asking if Cara was his latest lover. The latest in a long, long line.
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Cara slipped out of the door. This time the adjoining room was full of partygoers all talking and laughing loudly. A small queue had formed by the bathroom.
She didn’t want the bathroom. She wanted to escape. She wanted to get as far away from Pepe and all the women who had shared his bed as she could.
As she stood there, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do, the opportunity for escape presented itself.
A door in the far corner flew open and a latecomer, dressed in a long coat and carrying a box of champagne, burst into the room. This was clearly someone who hadn’t bothered to observe the rule of using the outside entrance.
Screams of laughter greeted the newcomer’s entrance. Cara took her advantage and skirted her way past the crowd to the door.
Bingo.
The staircase was dimly lit and narrow, but she easily made her way down the first few flights until she reached the first floor. There, she shrank back to avoid a couple of bustling waitresses exiting large swing doors to the left, expertly carrying plates of steaming food.
Making sure no other member of the café staff was waiting to use the swing doors, she carried on to the ground floor and found herself in the centre of the café, right next to the bar.
A young man pouring a bottle of lager into a glass spotted her. ‘Je vous aider?’ he said, openly appraising her.
Not having a clue what he’d just said, she grappled for the right words in a language she hadn’t spoken in over a decade. ‘Un téléphone, s’il vous pla?t?’
‘Un téléphone?’
‘Oui. Je voudrais un taxi.’ She couldn’t hide the desperation from her voice. ‘S’il vous pla?t.’
He appraised her a little longer than was necessary before nodding. ‘Une minute,’ he said, then left the bar and walked to a table where four middle-aged men were loudly slurping coffee. They all turned to look at her.
‘Hey, English,’ one of them called to her.
‘Irish,’ she corrected, inching closer to them.
‘Need taxi?’
She hesitated before nodding. She might be desperate to get out of this place but she’d heard every horror story going about single women getting lifts with strange men.
He pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and showed her his ID, proving he wasn’t a mad axeman as her hackles feared. He was a taxi driver.
‘You have money?’ he asked, no doubt referring to her lack of a bag or clutch.
‘It’s at the house,’ she said, thinking of her precious forty-eight euros. She gave him the name of the street where Pepe lived.
He looked her up and down, no doubt estimating the cost of her silk dress before inclining his head and getting to his feet. ‘Wait here. I get car.’
She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder to the direction of the staircase. It wouldn’t be long before Pepe noticed she was missing.
Actually, with all those women fawning all over him, it was likely he wouldn’t notice she’d gone for hours. All the same, she didn’t want to take the risk.
If she was to see him now, she had no idea how she would react.
‘Is it okay to pay you when we get there?’
He slipped his jacket on and shrugged.
Taking the shrug as assent, she followed him out into the cold night air, hugging her arms round her chest and wishing she’d had the chance to grab her wrap, which had been whisked away as soon as they’d walked into the loft. The taxi was parked around the corner, but she made no attempt to soak up her surroundings, her entire focus on getting back to Pepe’s house, getting her passport and getting the hell out of there.
The journey back passed in a blur. The only thing she saw on the entire journey was those women’s hands touching Pepe as if they owned him.
When they arrived on Pepe’s street, she got the driver to crawl along until she recognised his distinctive red front door.
‘Give me a minute to get my money,’ she said, turning the handle. And then God knew what she would do. The fee was thirty euros.
To her disquiet, the driver also got out of the cab and followed her up the steps to the front door.
She rang the bell. And rang it again. Then banged on it. Then rang it again, all the while aware of the driver standing beside her impatiently.
She banged one last time before she remembered—Monique didn’t work weekends. Pepe had told her just a few hours ago that she would be returning to her own home.
Despair was almost enough for Cara to hit her head against the unyielding door.
Eejit that she was, she’d run away to an empty house for which she didn’t have a key.
Swallowing away the bile that had lodged in her throat, she tried to think. Nothing came. Her mind was a complete blank.
She didn’t have a clue what to do.
‘I can’t get into the house.’
‘I want my money.’ The driver’s tone was amiable enough but she detected the underlying menace in it.
‘You’ll get it.’ She rubbed a hand down her face. ‘Give me your address. I’ll drop it over to you as soon as Pepe gets home and lets me in. I’ll sign anything you want.’
‘You don’t pay?’
‘I will pay. But I can’t get into the house, so I can’t get my purse.’
‘You don’t pay, I get police.’
‘No, please.’ Her voice rose. ‘I promise, I will pay it. I promise. I’m not a blaggard.’
A meaty hand grabbed her shoulder. ‘You pay or I call police.’
Her fear rising, she tried to shake him off. ‘I will pay. Please don’t call the police.’
His hand didn’t budge other than to lock onto her biceps. ‘Come, we go see police.’
‘Get off me!’ she cried. All the heat in her skin had been replaced by cold terror. The thought of being dragged into a police station and being accused of criminality was more than she could bear.
But the driver was clearly furious and had no intention of letting her go. Keeping a tight grip on her, he hauled her back down the steps to the cab.
Before she could open her lungs to scream for help, a large car sped around the corner, coming to a stop before them in a screech of brakes. The engine hadn’t been turned off before Pepe jumped out of the passenger side and took long strides towards them.
‘Take your hands off her now,’ he barked, his anger palpable.
‘She no pay,’ the driver said, refusing to relinquish his hold, even though he’d turned puce at the sight of Pepe.
‘I said, take your hands off her. Maintenant!’
Before Cara knew what was happening, the driver let her go and a slanging match between the two men erupted, all of it conducted in French, so she couldn’t keep up. Her hands covering her mouth, she got the gist of it well enough.
If she weren’t witnessing it with her own eyes, she would never have believed Pepe was capable of such fury. The menace came off him in waves of pumped-up testosterone, his face a contortion of wrath.
It ended with Pepe pulling a wad of notes from his pocket and throwing them at the driver with a string of words spat at him for good measure. A couple of the said words jumped out at her as she recalled how she and Grace had once made it their mission to learn every possible swear word in French. She was pretty sure Pepe had just used the very choicest of those words.
When he finally looked at her, the rage was still there. ‘Get in the house,’ he said tightly, sweeping past her and up the steps, unlocking the door.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ He slammed the door shut behind her.
‘I’d forgotten Monique had the night off. Thanks for coming to my rescue.’ Her breaths felt heavy, the words dredged up. She knew she should show proper gratitude towards him—if Pepe hadn’t arrived when he did she would likely be bundled in the back of the taxi on her way to the nearest police station. But now they were safely ensconced in his home, her fright had abated a little but blood still pumped through her furiously. Forget the driver, all she could see were those overfamiliar women and Pepe’s amused, arrogant self-entitlement as he accepted their attentions.
‘I thought he was trying to rape you.’
‘Well, he wasn’t.’ She was barely listening. She kicked her crystal shoes off. ‘He was trying to get me to a police station to have me arrested.’
‘What did you run off for? You told me you were going to the bathroom! You humiliated me in front of my friends.’
‘Oh, poor diddums,’ she said, making no effort to hide her sarcasm. ‘I couldn’t stomach staying at that party a minute longer.’ Turning, she hurried through the reception and up the spiral staircase.
‘Are you feeling ill?’ He kept pace easily. Too easily.
‘Yes. I feel sick. Sick, sick, sick.’ She practically ran to her room.
‘Why didn’t you say something instead of running off and leaving me like a fool waiting for your return?’
‘Because you’re the cause of my sickness. Now get lost.’ Thus said, she slammed the door in his face.
Immediately he shoved it back open. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Leaving.’
Uncaring that he stood mere feet away, and uncaring that the dress she wore cost thousands of euros, she tugged it off and threw it onto the floor, unceremoniously followed by her matching designer bra and knickers. The clothing felt soiled, bought to satisfy his conscience.
‘Like hell you are.’
‘Like you can stop me.’ Storming into the walk-in wardrobe filled with yet more clothing bought to satisfy his conscience, Cara rummaged through until she found the dress she’d worn to the christening. Her dress. Bought with her money.
In the back of her mind a voice piped up telling her to clad herself in as much of the designer clothing as she could before leaving. It would be something to sell online.
She ignored it. Sanity could go to hell. These expensive clothes, as beautiful as they were, made her feel cheap.
She found her original underwear, freshly laundered, and stepped into the knickers.
‘Where are you going to go?’
‘Home.’
‘How are you going to get there? You don’t have any money.’
She turned on him. ‘I don’t know!’ she screamed. ‘I don’t know where I’m going to go or how I’m going to get there, but as long as I’m far away from you I don’t care!’
‘If you walk away you will never see me or my money again. Your child will grow up without a father. Is that what you want?’
‘Why would I want our child to know you as its father? You’d be a lousy father just as mine was. Selfish.’
‘I am nothing like your father.’
‘So you keep saying and, do you know what, I think you’re right. My father might be an utter scumbag but even he wouldn’t hold his own baby hostage as you’re doing.’
‘I’m doing no such thing,’ he said, his own voice rising, a scowl forming on his face. ‘I’m trying my best under difficult circumstances to protect our child.’
‘By holding your bank account and the promise of access to it over my head as a sick method of keeping me prisoner? That’ll be a good story to tell the grandkids.’
‘I will do whatever is necessary to ensure my child makes it into this world without coming to harm.’
‘My child? Our child? So you’re admitting paternity now, are you?’
‘No!’ He swore. At least she assumed he swore, given the word he spurted out in Italian contained real vehemence behind it. ‘It was a slip of the tongue.’
‘You’re good at that,’ she spat with as much vehemence as she could muster.
‘And what do you mean by that?’
‘Only that you must have slipped your tongue into half the women at that party tonight. How many of your exes were there? A dozen? More?’
His eyes glittered with fury before the visible anger that had seemed to swell in him dissipated a touch.
He leaned back against the wall and surveyed her. ‘You’re jealous.’
Her response was immediate and emphatic. ‘Don’t talk such rot.’
‘You are.’ He said it with such certainty she tightened her grip on the bra lest she punch him one.
‘I am not jealous!’ How dared he even suggest such a thing? Jealous because of him? ‘I was humiliated. All those women acting as if they owned you, all pretty much spelling out what a great lay you are... Is it any wonder it made me feel sick?’
‘See?’ A half-smile played on his lips. ‘I knew you were jealous.’
‘For me to be jealous would mean I have to have feelings for you, and the only feelings I have for you are hate. Do you understand that, Pepe? I despise you.’
Turning her back on him, she stormed into her en suite and locked the door behind her.
She absolutely was not jealous.
No way.
For the first time she realised she’d been screaming at him with only her knickers on. Could her humiliation get any greater?
She tried to put the bra on but her hands shook so much she couldn’t hook it together. And she’d left her stupid dress in the room.
Pepe banged on the door.
‘Go away!’ she screamed. ‘Just leave me alone.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Well, I’m not coming out until you’re gone.’
‘Then you’ll be in there for a long time. For ever, if necessary. Because I am not going anywhere.’ Now there was no amusement to be heard in his voice. Only a determined grimness.
Let him wait. Let him wait for ever. Let him...
Patience was clearly not Pepe’s forte. ‘You have exactly ten seconds to open this door or I will break it down. Ten.’
The fight began to seep from her. This was all too much. ‘Please, Pepe, just leave me alone.’
‘Eight.’
He was serious.
‘Seven.’
The tears that had been fighting to break free for the past hour suddenly escaped. She could no more contain them than she could prevent him breaking the door down.
‘Four.’
With salt water rushing down her cheeks like a mini waterfall and trembling hands, she unlocked the door and pulled it open.