and that’s the end of it. Please,’ she looked at him, ‘let’s forget it ever happened.’
‘Amore mio,’ Alberto murmured, ‘I cannot forget.’
‘Then try.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘Do you disregard all that we talked about?’
‘I made a mistake,’ Elisabeth retorted sharply, spritzing fragrance behind her ears. ‘This is my future, Alberto, and you had better get used to it.’
In a heartbeat he was behind her, his fingers tracing a line down her spine. ‘You cannot erase the passion we have shared.’ He planted a chain of soft kisses across her shoulders.
‘Passion?’ She tried to make a joke of it. But she could feel her resolve crumbling.
What is one last time? she reasoned as Alberto began to kiss her neck. His hands crept round and cupped her breasts, caressing her between a finger and thumb, covering her delicate frame with his bear paws. She turned, and in a flash his lips were on hers. In her heels she was almost as tall as him and could smell the ginger in his hair. When he placed his hands on her waist, they were so big they almost met round the middle.
Call it one last time before she walked down the aisle, Elisabeth thought. Call it a lucky charm before the show. Call it a poison she had to bleed. She ignored the voice that called it different. Call it infidelity.
47
London
Christmas in Hampstead had been bleak. England was grey and cold and Chloe couldn’t wait to get back to America. Brock had several castings lined up already-word had got out fast about her performance in Eastern Sky, helped along by Sam Lucas’s glowing approval.
The London house had been monopolised by Janet and her boys-it seemed the hole Chloe had left in her absence had rapidly been filled. Janet did Christmas in her own, different manner, and everybody knew you should only ever do Christmas one way: in the way you always had. She and her father had muddled through after the divorce, always digging out the same moth-eaten decorations, ripped streamers and balding tinsel, an angel with a smudged face she had chewed when she was four. Now everything was changed-it was all from Liberty and neat and good quality and none of it she recognised.
Chloe lay on her bed, black hair fanned out across the pillow, and stared up at the ceiling. Next week she’d be back in LA. It was a new year and she could start to get her head together-beginning with her finally finding the guts to dump Nate. She’d been wondering if maybe she could learn to live with her gruesome discovery, just get on and turn a blind eye-didn’t people do it all the time? But seeing her father again over Christmas, she knew she could not. The only person she was cheating was herself-and she’d been cheated on enough.
She rolled over, her stomach crunching at the thought. She’d been a coward these past few weeks, but she’d also learned a lot. It was time for a change.
Thursday was Nate’s album launch, a big fancy affair at some club in Soho. The event itself would be too public-she’d do it after, she could play the charade until then. The break-up would be painful, but she had to rip it off quickly, like a plaster. The scab would heal eventually.
‘Darling!’ Gordon French called up the stairs in a loud baritone. ‘Pamela and Freddie are here.’
Chloe sighed. Not even the militia of extended family was enough to distract her from her black mood. She swung her legs off the bed and headed downstairs to greet her jovial uncle, and an aunt who always smelled of soup.
Two days later Chloe arrived at Shaik, a celebrity hang-out in Soho, to celebrate the launch of The Hides’ new album.
She spotted Nate hanging about outside as the car pulled up. He’d told her to meet him there-the perfect stage management for their first UK shot together in months, no doubt.
‘Babe!’ he called as she exited the car. She knew she looked good in a clinging jersey dress and biker boots. Paparazzi surged forward.
‘Hi, Nate,’ she said coolly, fighting down the butterflies in her stomach. Cameras circled them like vultures. When Nate kissed her, she felt nothing.
Inside, the place was heaving. Designers and DJs, models and musicians, actors and artists chatted and drank in their cliques, most of whom had parents who were famous in the eighties. Long-legged beauties leaned, bored, against the bar, their feet crossed at the ankles; an up-and-coming male singer