Lucy Gordon - The Secret That Changed Everything

On the train from Naples to Rome she thought of Don, the man she’d briefly thought she loved. She’d wanted commitment and when Don didn’t offer it she’d demanded to know where they were headed. His helpless shrug had told her the worst, and she’d hastened to put distance between them.

She had no regrets. Briefly she’d wondered if she might have been cleverer and perhaps drawn him closer instead of driving him away. But in her heart she knew things had never been quite right between them. It was time to move on.

But where?

As the train pulled into Roma Termini she reckoned it might be interesting to find the answer to that question.

She took a taxi to the Hotel Geranno on the Via Vittorio Veneto, one of the most elegant and expensive streets in Rome. The hotel boasted every facility, including its own internet café. She found it easily and slipped into a booth, full of plans to contact family and friends. She might even get in touch with Don on her social networking site, just to let him know there were no hard feelings, and they could be friends.

But the words that greeted her on Don’s page were ‘Thanks to everyone for your kind wishes on my engagement. Jenny and I want our wedding to be—’

She shut the file down.

Jenny! Charlotte remembered her always hanging around making eyes at Don. And he’d noticed her. Pretty, sexy, slightly voluptuous—she was made to be noticed.

Not like me, she thought.

Some women would have envied Charlotte’s appearance. Tall, slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed; she wasn’t a woman who faded into the background. She’d always had her share of male admiration; not the kind of gawping leer that Jenny could inspire, but satisfying enough. Or so she’d thought.

But Don hadn’t wasted any time mourning her and that was just fine. The past was the past.

She touched a few more keys to access her email, and immediately saw one from her sister Alex, headlined, You’ll never believe this!

Alex liked to make things sound exciting so, although mildly intrigued, Charlotte wasn’t alarmed. But, reading the email, she grew still again as a family catastrophe unfolded before her eyes.

‘Mom—’ she murmured. ‘You couldn’t have— it’s not possible!’

She had always known that her father, Cedric Patterson, was her mother’s second husband. Before him Fenella had been married to Clay Calhoun, a Texas rancher. Only after their divorce had she married Cedric and lived with him in New York. There she’d borne four children—the twins Matt and Ellie, Charlotte and her younger sister Alexandra. Now it seems that Mom was already carrying Matt and Ellie when she left Clay, Alex wrote. She wrote and told him she was pregnant, but by that time he was with Sandra, who seems to have hidden the letter but, oddly enough, kept it. Nobody knew about it until both she and Clay were dead. He died last year, and the letter was found unopened, so I guess he never knew about Matt and Ellie.

What do you think of that? All these years we’ve thought they were our brother and sister, but now it seems we’re only half-siblings! Same mother, different father. When Ellie told me what had happened I couldn’t get my head around it, and I’m still in a spin.

Quickly Charlotte ran through her other emails, seeking one from Ellie that she was sure would be there. But she found nothing. Disbelieving, she ran through them again, but there was no word from Ellie.

Which meant that everyone in the family knew except her. Ellie hadn’t bothered to tell her something so momentous. It had been left to Alex to send her the news as an afterthought, as though she was no more than a fringe member of the family. Which, right now, was how she felt.

Returning to the lobby she again knew the sensation of being lost in a desert. But this desert had doors, one leading to a restaurant known for its haute cuisine, the other leading to a bar. Right this minute a drink was what she needed.

The barman smiled as she approached. ‘What can I get you?’

‘A tequila,’ she told him.

When it was served she looked around for a place to sit, but could see only one seat free, at the far end of the bar. She slipped into it and found that she could lean back comfortably against the wall, surveying her surroundings.

The room was divided into alcoves, some small, some large. The small ones were all taken up by couples, gazing at each other, revelling in the illusion of privacy. The larger ones were crowded with ‘beautiful people’ as though the cream of Roman society had gathered here tonight.

In the nearest alcove six people focused their attention on one man. He was king of all he surveyed, Charlotte thought with a touch of amusement. And with reason. In his early thirties, handsome, lean, athletic, he held centre-stage without effort. When he laughed, they laughed. When he spoke they listened.

Nice if you can get it, Charlotte thought with a little sigh. I’ll bet his volcano never falls silent.

Just then he glanced up and saw her watching him. For the briefest moment he turned his head to one side, a question in his eyes. Then one of the women claimed his attention and he turned to her with a perfectly calculated smile.

An expert, she thought. He knows exactly what he’s doing to them, and what they can do for him.

Such certainly seemed enviable. Her own future looked depressing. Returning to New York smacked of defeat. She could stay in Italy for the year she’d promised herself, but that was less inviting now that things were happening at home; things from which she was excluded.

She thought of Don and Jenny, revelling in their love. All around her she saw people happy in each other’s company, smiling, reaching out. And suddenly it seemed unbearable that there was nobody reaching out to her. She finished her drink and sat staring at the empty glass.

‘Excuse me, can I just—?’

It was the man from the alcove, easing himself into the slight space between her and the next bar stool. She leaned back to make space for him but a slight unevenness in the floor made him wobble and slew to the side, colliding with her.

‘Mi dispiace,’ he apologised in Italian, steadying her with his hand.

‘Va tutto bene,’ she reassured him. ‘Niente di male.’ All is well. No harm done.

Still in Italian he said, ‘But you’ll let me buy you a drink to say sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Another tequila?’ asked the barman.

‘Certainly not,’ said the newcomer. ‘Serve this lady a glass of the very best Chianti, then bring another round of drinks to me and my friends over there.’

He retreated and the barman placed a glass of red wine in front of Charlotte. It was the most delicious she had ever tasted. Sipping it she glanced over at him, and it was no surprise to find him watching her. She raised her glass in salute and he raised his back. This seemed to disconcert the women sitting on either side of him, who asserted themselves to reclaim him, Charlotte was amused to notice.

Despite being in the heart of Rome they were speaking English. She was sitting close enough to overhear some of the remarks passing back and forth, half sentences, words that floated into the distance, but all telling the tale of people who lived expensive lives.

‘You were on that cruise, weren’t you? Wasn’t it a gorgeous ship? Everything you wanted on demand…’

‘I knew I’d met you before… you were at the opening of that new…’

‘Look at her. If she’s not wearing the latest fashion she thinks…’

Leaning back, Charlotte observed the little gathering with eyes that saw everything. Two of the women were watching Lucio like lions studying prey, but they were in alliance. She could have sworn that one murmured to the other, ‘Me first’. She couldn’t hear the words, but she could read their expressions: watchful, confident that each would have their turn with him.