Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘Jesus,’ said Rufus, and crossed himself.

She nodded. ‘I can’t talk about this,’ she said.

‘No. I’m sorry. It must be painful for you.’

Orla looked up with a strained smile. ‘And what about you? How’s the world been treating you since we last saw each other?’

Rufus thought of Pikey going up in flames, Don’s unending fury. Losing himself in London, then in Paris and deeper in the heart of France, the flight into Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Tenerife – running and running until the weariness overcame him, and with it the need to touch the soil of home once more.

‘I’ve been travelling.’ He shrugged. ‘Here and there, you know. Europe. Paris. You’d love it there.’

‘Would I?’

‘I’m sure you would.’

‘Well, one day I must go.’ She smiled her sad, secretive smile.

‘I’ll take you,’ he said, looking into her beautiful eyes.

Orla didn’t answer. She drained her whisky, and stood up. ‘I’m off to bed. You can find your way to your room all right?’

She’d sorted him out earlier with the room he’d slept in as a boy, put clean linen on the bed, made it comfortable for him.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Sleep well then, Rufus.’

Just like that. He sat there in the empty kitchen for a long time, wondering had he misread those smiles, her evident joy at seeing him again. Perhaps it was wrong, a sin to think of a cousin in that way, but he would be her lover in the blink of an eye, given the chance. She knew that. He believed that she had always known it. He finished his whisky and went upstairs to his allotted room – which took him past Orla’s.

He stopped there outside the closed door, and thought, This is stupid. I want her. She wants me. Doesn’t she?

The thought of her in there, her silken skin, her hair on the pillow, inflamed him. He’d loved her so long, mourned her, and she was alive, she was his. He reached out a hand to open the door. Turned the handle.

It didn’t open.

The door was locked.

He stepped back in surprise.

Who the hell has a lock on their bedroom door? he wondered, frowning.

He tried once more. Yes, it was locked. And no word came from within, she didn’t ask who it was, she didn’t come running, throw the door wide.

Confused, he walked on to his own room.

Orla sat up in bed and watched the handle turn. Once. Twice. Her heart beating fast, her limbs frozen in fear, she clutched the sheets against her. Then she heard him move on, and go into his own room.

Slowly, inch by inch, she relaxed.

But after that, she couldn’t sleep.

London, 1985

‘I don’t think I’m up to this,’ said Annie to herself in the mirror.

No? Well, you’ve committed yourself to it now, so tough. Get on with it.

She stared at her reflection. She was wearing a vintage black lace Dior gown, with her hair swept up on top of her head. Before she set off this evening she had accentuated her eyes with flicked-up black eyeliner, outlined her mouth in her usual scarlet red. She looked sophisticated, worldly. Beautiful even. But she was shit-scared.

However, when she left the powder room and re-entered the busy restaurant her fear didn’t show. She sat down, and smiled across at her date. He smiled back. He was an attractive man with straight dark hair and expressive brown eyes. He wore a bespoke suit, navy blue. He looked good and smelled even better.

This was their second date. On their first one, he hadn’t tried to so much as kiss her goodnight, thank God. On this one, he just might. Annie wondered how she felt about that. Answer – she hadn’t a clue. She had met him through a connection of Dolly’s. He was divorced too. And a banker, so not sniffing round after her money: he had plenty of his own. Layla had no idea her mum had been on two dates: she’d been away for the first one and Annie had made damned sure she didn’t find out about this one either.

Annie had moved on, and she was proud of herself for that. After the divorce, she had crumbled. She knew she had. Good friends had helped her pull through a very tough, painful time. A time in which her daughter had completely blanked her. A time during which some days she couldn’t even get out of bed, comb her hair or clean her teeth, she felt so low.

Bad, bad days.

But she’d come through all that. She had slowly, surely, rebuilt her life. Layla was nineteen now – a young woman. Things between them were still… well, frigid would be a good word for it. Layla was polite but distant. No more, no less. She had a job in an accountancy firm, she was hyper-bright, could add a column of figures in record time.

As for Annie… well, she’d learned to drive. Bought herself a top-of-the-range car. Treated herself to some designer gear: a few Yves St Laurent pieces, a lot of Chanel, some cunningly constructed items from Betty Jackson and Balenciaga. She indulged in high-end holidays, regularly jetted back and forth to the States, checked out the Times Square club, visited with Alberto her stepson, made something of a life for herself.

And… she’d started dating.

She glanced at her date as he paid the bill, left a hefty tip for their waiter. No, her date wasn’t mean. But he’d been rude and snappy to the poor little bastard more than once this evening, trying no doubt to impress her or maybe the other diners with his standing as a gourmand, his expectation of only ever receiving the very best. David Fairbright. Good-looking, wealthy but not mean with his money, and tall – taller than Max.

Shit, now why had she thought of him?

As they went out to the taxi, she pushed her ex-husband out of her mind.

‘Nice dinner,’ David said as they sat in the back of the cab on its way to Holland Park.

‘Lovely,’ she replied, although she couldn’t even remember what she’d eaten. And his treatment of the waiter had annoyed her.

‘You haven’t been there before?’ he asked.

‘No. Never.’

Silence fell. Silence had been falling between them all evening, and it wasn’t an easy companionable one either. The fact was, he didn’t know what to say to her and she wasn’t interested enough to come up with something to say to him. Annie suspected that he found her slightly intimidating. A lot of men did. She was wealthy in her own right, and some men – David included, she thought, for all his pumped-up self-importance and yes he was a bit of a bolshy git – couldn’t handle that.

That, and her background. Which was colourful, to say the least.

They’d talked on their first date, about their divorces. She had mentioned Max’s name. And she suspected that since then David had been doing a little homework, because he seemed a fraction cooler this time. Now that he knew about Max, and about her, she suspected their second date would also be their last.

The taxi pulled up outside the Holland Park house. Annie got out, and David did too, paying off the taxi driver, who drove away.

Annie walked up the steps to the big navy-blue double doors, getting her key out of her bag. What the hell had he sent the taxi away for? Suddenly all she wanted was for him to be gone, to just be alone.

On the step underneath the porch light, he took her hand. Then, to her surprise, he pulled her in close, and started to kiss her. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and Annie jerked her head away.

‘Don’t do that,’ she snapped.

‘Oh, come on,’ he said, and she saw him smile. ‘The evening’s been a bit of a disaster so far, but that’s no reason to call it off altogether.’

He moved forward again. This time Annie shoved him, hard, and he half-staggered down the steps and nearly fell.