“No,” he agreed quietly, his dark eyes probing her face gently. “I would say you don’t.” He shook his head, as if to physically shift the conversation. “I am sure you’ll enjoy whichever degree you choose.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes drawn to his face. She had never anticipated having such an easy conversation with him. Up close, he was so much more fascinating than from a distance. When they’d danced at the wedding, she’d been too nervous to properly appreciate the details. The light smattering of freckles across the tanned bridge of his nose; the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. She fumbled her fingers in front of her.
“What kind of sandwich would you like?” She asked, as she stepped ahead of him into the kitchen.
He shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Whatever you suggest, Carrie.”
Was she imagining the teasing note to his voice? Blood pounded through her seventeen year old body, as every dream and fantasy she’d conjured since meeting Gael came back to haunt her. She spun away from him to hide the betraying flush in her face. “Umm,” she whispered, her breath snatched in her throat. “I think we have some ham somewhere.”
“Ham will be fine,” Gael responded quietly, his manner so beautifully intriguing that Carrie thought she might have died and gone to heaven.
Under his watchful gaze, she spread butter and mayonnaise onto rye bread, then layered some ham in the middle. Her eyes flicked to his and then dropped back to the sandwich; her temperature soared and her stomach clenched in almost-painful awareness. She moved the knife through the bread, her fingers shaking a little as she placed the two triangles onto a delicate Royal Albert plate and handed it to the man who was technically her stepbrother.
“Gracias,” he said with the hint of a smile. The single Spanish word was like lemon and olives on a summer’s day. She let the sound of it flick over her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
“How is your mother?”
Again, Carrie wondered if she was imagining that slightly scathing tone to his voice. It made her pause for a moment, but she would do anything rather than cut short this delicious slice of time – this moment when Gael Vivas was hers. When he was actually interested in talking to her.
Carrie shifted her shoulders, her fingers toying with the lid of the butter. “She’s … fine.”
Gael nodded, and his dark eyes glowed as though they were comprehending so much more than she was saying. “I suppose you do not see her or my father often.”
“No,” she agreed. “They were away during the last term break.”
His brows knitted together thoughtfully. “And what did you do, Carrie Beauchamp?”
How intriguing her surname sounded, coming from his lips. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest. “I holidayed with a girlfriend and her family.” She was amazed at the way she had injected the sentence with a degree of easy going normality. The carefully phrased statement hid the nights of agonised hurt that her mother had yet again chosen not to see her. That her mother’s life swirled on far away from hers.
And despite the way she’d managed to sound unconcerned, she knew that Gael understood. That the slight deepening of his brow and lowering of his lips were because he disapproved of the fact she’d been left to spend her term break away from her only family.
She had to tread carefully. An ally was not something she had ever had before. She wasn’t sure she knew what she’d do if someone actually supported her in her very worst fear in life: that her mother didn’t love her enough.
She swallowed past a sudden knot of pain and replaced the lid of butter onto the plastic base. “Anyway,” her voice was overbright, “Most of my friends would love to get as much time to themselves as I have. I mean, I’m one of the lucky ones. To get the freedom I have.”
“Are you?” His sardonic disbelief was obvious.
She spun away and placed the ingredients back into the fridge. When she turned back to Gael, her mother framed into shot behind him. She was, as always, picture perfect.
Alexandra Beauchamp had reverted to her first surname after husband number two, and had kept it ever since. She told people it was to save the confusion over having a different moniker to her daughter, but Carrie knew better. It had more to do with the title that went along with the surname than the name itself.
Carrie couldn’t help the small sound of admiration that escaped her softly parted lips at the sight of her mother. Jeans that clung to her long, slender legs like a second skin, parted at the middle to expose just a hint of perfectly tanned midriff beneath the floaty peasant top she wore. Her blonde hair was long and worn flowing over her shoulders, and her skin boasted a caramel tan courtesy of a recent trip to Italy.
“Gael, darling, how wonderful,” she remarked in her clipped, aristocratic tone. “Why am I not surprised to find you loitering about the fridge, Carrie?”
Embarrassment, hot and sharp, speared through her impressionable teenage soul. “Oh… I…”
“Carrie was kind enough to make me a snack,” Gael responded with a quiet yet unmistakable note of condemnation.
Alexandra was oblivious to his disapproval. “Yes, well, if there’s food about, my daughter is guaranteed to be somewhere nearby.” She rolled her eyes in a failed attempt at humour and pressed her lips to Gael’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, anyway.”
Carrie couldn’t help but notice the way her mother’s red-painted fingernails dug into Gael’s broad shoulders; nor did she miss the way they lingered for longer than was necessary. “Goodness,” Alexandra said with a lilt of admiration in her voice. “Anyone would think you spent your days sweating in a field rather than slaving away behind a desk. You’re all muscle, Gael.”
He stood, shoulders squared, body tense.
Behind them, Carrie’s young teenage heart was experiencing its first rush of agonising, confusing heartbreak. Her mother, so beautiful she only had to look at a man to have him fall at her feet, was creating the impression that she wanted Gael to join the hordes of her admirers. Carrie told herself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just Alexandra’s way of interacting with men, but the sensual flirtation still hurt.
“I have some reading to do,” Carrie said quietly, not sure if either of them heard her, initially, for neither reacted.
It was only as her feet crossed the threshold of the door that she caught her mother remarking, for Gael’s benefit, “She spends too much time reading, if you want my opinion. A run wouldn’t kill her.”
Carrie didn’t linger to hear Gael’s reply. Stupidly, hot tears stung her lilac eyes. She knew her mother just wanted the best for her, and that it was impossible for someone like Alexandra Beauchamp to comprehend that anyone could be happy in a figure that wasn’t supermodel svelte. Especially not one as curved and rounded as Carrie’s teenage shape. But the judgement, at times, stung. Particularly when it served to reinforce Carrie’s own insecurities about her appearance.
Ensconced in her bedroom, she pulled an emergency stash of chocolate from her rucksack and selected a single bar. She peeled the wrapper off and breathed in the heady scent before taking a lingering bite. She groaned as the sweet taste sent waves of calm through her body.
Bite by bite and bit by bit, her equilibrium righted itself.
Alexandra meant well. She hadn’t intended to embarrass Carrie, only to apologise for her ample roundedness. Carrie was the one who should feel bad, for never being able to match what her mother expected of her. What a burden it must be, to look like Alexandra did, and have someone as ordinary and unfashionably curvaceous as Carrie for a daughter.
She pushed the wrapper into the waste bin and pulled Persuasion from beneath her pillow. In the pages of Jane Austen’s witty observances, she found even greater release. So much so that when she realised it was time to join her mother and Gael for dinner, it was with far greater composure than she’d left them with earlier in the afternoon.
2
Gael studied the two women with well-concealed inte
rest. The mother was like so many women he’d met before. Stunning and obviously aware of the fact, she was designed to corner a man’s attention and hold it. With her body and her nature, she was a woman men would go to war for. He was almost thirty, and known for his taste in women, and even he couldn’t fault his father’s choice of bride. At least when it came to beauty.
As for the daughter, Carrie was an entirely different type of person. He watched broodingly from across the table as she lifted her water glass and sipped it, her pale pink lips soft and full against the rim. She replaced it on the table, and snuck yet another furtive glance at him.
Her crush was obvious.
Sweet, and well-intentioned, but totally unwanted. She had changed, since they’d danced at the wedding. It was remarkable, the difference that eighteen months could make. Then, she’d been child-like and innocent. Now? There was still an obvious innocence to her, but her curiosity and interest showed her sensual awakening. That he was a person of interest to her in the midst of that did not sit easily on his shoulders.
He had not come to England to flirt with either his stepmother or his stepsister. He had come to see the man who had given him life; the man who would surely not last much longer.
Diego was weaker than he’d expected. Weaker, and pale, and devoid of any of his usual acerbic disapproval. It had disturbed Gael, to see the man in such poor health.
He had not been close to his father for many long years, but still it shook him to realise that he might have seen him for the last time. He thought of the specialists he’d engaged, who would soon descend on Forrest View, and held out hope that something could be done. If not for his prolonged life, perhaps at least for his comfort.
“Darling?” Alexandra reached over and padded a fingertip across Gael’s hand. “Have some more wine.”
He shook his head, and broke the intimate contact, on the pretence of lifting his glass to his lips. “Thank you, I’m fine.”
Alexandra’s bright red lips twisted into a ‘suit yourself’ smile as she loaded a third beaker of Pinot Noir and raised it to her mouth. Her eyes locked with his over the rim of the glass, and she sipped it with slow, purposeful intent.
“I’ll have some,” Carrie interrupted quickly, her eyes wide as they shifted from her mother to Gael.
“You? Drink?” Alexandra’s laugh was shrill. “Good heavens, I had no idea my perfect little daughter had an interest in alcohol.”
Carrie’s cheeks flashed pink. In truth, she’d never had more than a sip of cider. She bit down on her lower lip and reached for the bottle at the same time as Gael. Their fingers connected and she almost jumped out of her chair at the shockwave of desire that flared inside of her.
“Allow me,” he murmured, pouring a very small amount into her glass.
“Thank you.” She stared at the deep red liquid rather than meet his eyes. She lifted it to her lips, too embarrassed to back down from drinking it now. It was not as bad as she’d imagined. Fruity and rich, with a slightly acidic after taste. She covered a cough with the back of her hand.
Gael watched this young woman, so obviously desiring to be seen as an adult, and had to hide a smile. He’d never experienced that longing. He’d been thrust into adulthood before he’d been ready, though he hadn’t known or understood that at the time. He’d simply been glad to be away from his father; to be able to operate under his own steam.
His fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass as he thought back to his twelfth birthday, when he’d been packed onto a private jet and sent over to Switzerland. The school had been exceptional, the program tough and demanding; designed to get the best out of its elite group of students. He credited the tough schedule for his unwavering approach to life now. He rose every morning at five o’clock, so that he could fit in a five mile run. Rain, hail, sun or snow, no matter where he was, he started his day with the burst of physical activity. It cleared his mind and focussed him for the day ahead.
He worked long and hard, but smart too – never procrastinating or doubting himself. It was how he’d amassed the fortune he had in such a short space of time. Sure, Vivas Industries had been a good start in the business world, but it was small-time compared to what he’d achieved.
His evenings were devoted to pleasurable pursuits. The counter-balance to his no-nonsense days was the certainty that he could enjoy his evenings with beautiful women, fine wine, great food, in any city of the world. Sleep was a luxury and he indulged it minimally. Five hours a night was all he needed. If he’d been coddled by his parents, and kept at home to grow soft and complacent, would he have found that hunger in his belly? The fire in his soul?
He looked again at Carrie. She had the world at her feet, not only because of the wealth at her disposal, but also because she was clearly intelligent. And yet she dithered. She doubted. She was insipid and uncertain, balanced on the precipice of two opportunities, afraid to properly grab one for that would mean shutting the door on the other.
Such doubt bored him.
He didn’t understand it.
“Darling, save some for Gael. You’ve had enough. And you know men have healthy appetites,” Alexandra chided, as Carrie moved to help herself to a second portion of the risotto.
Carrie replaced the spoon without saying anything, and clasped her hands in her lap.
Gael felt something stir inside of him. A protectiveness that was foreign – as unwanted an emotion as Carrie’s childish crush. “I’m fine, Alexandra,” he contradicted, but the mother was not to be put off.
“Nonetheless, Carrie would do well to leave it for tonight.”
Carrie’s throat was thick with embarrassment. Beneath the table, she pressed her legs together, wishing that she weren’t so fat. Wishing she could be slim and beautiful and perfect, like Alexandra.
“Do you make a habit out of telling people when they’re sufficiently full?” Gael pondered, a note of challenge in his voice that made both women regard him with interest.
For Carrie’s part, she was beyond mortified. “It’s fine, Gael. I really have had enough. I was just being greedy.”
Alexandra’s lips pursed together in silent approval. “I wish they wouldn’t cook so much. With your father indisposed, Carrie and I really don’t need this amount. I eat like a sparrow.”
“Yes,” Gael’s boredom was increasing by the moment. His father might have chosen well when it came to looks, but Alexandra’s personality could do with a significant tweak. Such vanity would get old fast, if he were to spend any real time with her.
“Carrie, darling, don’t you have some reading to do?”
The subtext was clear. Her presence had been tolerated at dinner, but now, Alexandra wanted to be alone with Gael. Carrie dug her fingernails into her palms to resist the very strong urge to point out that Gael was technically Alexandra’s stepson, and that his father – Alexandra’s husband – was lying ill upstairs.
She didn’t, though. Standing up to her mother would have required Carrie to break a lifelong habit of obedience and fear, and she was not yet ready to do so. The time would come, but it would not be for many, many years.
It was a glorious Summer’s night. The sun had dipped down, low in the sky, but it was still sending little whispers of peach towards them, breaking up the blackness of night with remembered warmth of the day. The air smelled like honeysuckles and gardenias, and the night birds were singing mysteriously to one another, telling tales of what they’d witnessed.
Carrie perched on the edge of the rose garden, staring down at the arrangement of standard bushes that surrounded the less formal collection of blooms in the middle. The garden had been her father’s pride and joy, and Carrie adored it for that reason alone. Though it was a triumph in floral artistry, it was memories of her father lovingly tending the roses, pruning them with such particular care, that kept her coming back to it time and time again.
And even when she was away from Forest View, she made sure to have a bunch of real roses on her desk
– not hot-house ones. She made a habit of sourcing proper, wild, over-grown blooms – even if it meant scaling a fence in the dead of night to crop them illicitly from someone’s garden. She’d done that in the village, near their school, creeping out once a week to gather a suitable bunch. Not, as the other girls had done, to go to the local pub and chat up the unsuspecting tourist trade. She’d crept out and risked detention to collect armfuls of roses.
She smiled now, dropping her feet from the stone-wall and falling elegantly onto the gravelled path. She was drawn to her favourite; the Albertine. She reached up and touched one of the buds – it was soft like silk. She held her fingers to her nose and let the gentle fragrance wash over her as a wave. It was glorious.
She broke the bud from the bush between her finger and thumb, making sure the stem was long enough to sit in a vase, then moved onto the next bush. A robin crested over her head and settled on a thin sprig of rose bush, eyeing her with undisguised curiosity.
“Hello, little one,” she said quietly, reaching a finger out and stroking its chest. It didn’t flitter away. Instead, it released a beautiful song. A happy tale that made Carrie smile. “You don’t care that I like second helpings of dinner, do you?”
The Robin’s song took on an indignant note, and she laughed. “Exactly my thoughts,” she agreed, lifting her hand in the air and watching as the bird took flight towards the forest.
Gael was too far away to hear the exchange, but the moon shone perfectly on Carrie’s face. He saw the happiness and beauty in her, and he froze. Midway back from his car, he had spotted her, leaping from the stone wall into the sunken garden. And a strange feeling had made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The word perfection came to mind, but he quickly brushed it aside. Gael did not believe in such sentimental stupidity.
He took another step towards the house, but then Carrie began to sing, and the sweet sound of her voice mingled with the cry of the nightingale and the robin, and he was powerless to resist. He changed direction, walking in long strides towards her location. He was quiet and it wasn’t until he was almost upon her that she saw him. She stopped singing and cleared her throat self-consciously.