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She walked right past the car that waited on the Tarmac at the private airstrip. Walked past and kept walking, her huge, heavy bag battering against her back with each step. Her feet ached and she was miles from home. But she would not relent. Not even when the car purred alongside her, the window rolled down, and some faceless employee of Romano Publishing tried to persuade her to get in.
By eight in the morning she was outside the door of her little flat in Islington. By eight-fifteen she was fast asleep in her bed and by one in the afternoon she finally felt able to get up and make a cup of tea. Her phone was glowing with messages and calls.
That was the worst thing of all.
Most of them seemed to be from her mother.
How was she going to explain to her that she had made the stupidest mistake in the book? That she had jumped straight into bed with her boss and then been marched off the premises.
She had been given the opportunity of a lifetime—the chance to work with the best in the business, to get her name known in the circles that she aspired to belong to… Yes, she’d been given all of that, but she had ground it into the dirt like the butt of a cigarette because…
Because she’d got greedy. Because she’d wanted it all. The whole nine yards. The job and the man. And now she had nothing. Worse, she was in a minus situation—her reputation was in tatters before it had even been formed.
She made her third cup of tea of the day and then poured it straight down the sink without even tasting it. At least she’d made an attempt to drink the other two, but nothing—not even tea, it turned out—could make her feel better.
At six p.m. she steeled herself to read her messages and catch up on her voicemails.
At six-thirty she texted her mother a summary of the whole sorry tale.
At seven p.m. she opened the door and braced herself for the biggest guilt trip of her life.
She stood back, held the door open, put her head down.
‘Oh, my sweet child,’ said Lynda Dahl. ‘My sweet girl. I am so sorry.’
‘Please, Mum, please don’t be sorry for me. I messed up. I’m so dumb and I really just want to put it behind me.’
‘I could have prevented this. It should never have happened this way. I nearly told you so many times but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear the pain all over again.’
Her mother was rambling. On top of everything else, her mother was having another meltdown.
Coral staggered back indoors, her head in her hands. ‘Mum, just come in. We’ll talk this through. It’ll be all right. Have you been taking your meds?’
They were in the tiny hallway, halfway to the lounge, when Lynda stopped.
‘Oh, my God, you think I’m having a breakdown. Did he get to you? Did he poison you against me?’
‘Mum, what are you talking about?’
Coral leaned back on the wall. She needed to sit down quietly. She simply didn’t have the energy to deal with her mother right now.
‘Salvatore Di Visconti. That’s who I’m talking about.’
‘What? Yes, I met him, but it was the other one—his adopted brother, Raffaele—that I was dealing with.’
She was exhausted. Every word took such an effort.
‘Raffaele?’
‘Yes. I was supposed to stay to photograph Salvatore and his fiancée. It’s a long story, but that never happened. I took some pictures of Kyla—she was sweet. But the men were horrible. Horrible, nasty people.’
‘So you met him? What did Salvatore say?’
She looked at her mother. Looked at her under the harsh light of the little hallway—a far cry from the chandelier she’d stood under the night before. Lynda’s normally flawless ivory skin was blotchy and drawn.
‘I don’t know. We didn’t really get along. He took some sort of dislike to me. And the other one—Raffaele. Mum, I’m afraid we—’
‘Of course he did. He’d have been terrified the minute he heard your name.’
‘My name?’
Her mother turned away. ‘I can’t believe that this is how you’re finding out. I’ve tried for years to protect you, and now this.’
‘Find out what? You’re not making any sense.’
‘I’m sorry, Coral. There’s no other way to say this. Giancarlo Di Visconti was your father. Salvatore is your half-brother.’
‘What?’
But as her mother closed her eyes and nodded something finally settled into place, like a rock rolling into a gaping hole—harsh and heavy and immovable.
‘Giancarlo Di Visconti is my father? I have a father?’
She turned around, aware of her mother’s sobs and her arms on her shoulders. Aware of her warmth but unable to feel anything.
