Chapter 36

London, Spitalfields

‘IMOGEN, IS THIS your box?’ Fiona appeared in the doorway. ‘It ended up in my room.’

Imogen looked up from where she was unpacking. She’d thought she had hardly any stuff, but there seemed to be mountains of it now. ‘Oh, yes, that’s mine. Thanks, Fi.’

‘No problem.’ Fi put it down and went back to her own unpacking. They’d been in the flat only a few hours and were both keen to get it sorted as quickly as possible, make it cosy and homelike. It was exciting – a first proper flat. No more rooms in shared houses or student digs. Life was going to be a bit more settled for a change. Imogen and Fiona, a sweet-natured Australian girl from Perth, had made friends at law school and now both had articles with Guthrie & Walsh, a high-flying City firm where they were now trainee lawyers, so it had made sense to get a place together near the office.

Her student days were behind Imogen. Now she had the business-like dark suits, the briefcase, the tiny laptop, the Blackberry, and all the other accoutrements of the young professional. She’d been with the firm for four months now, starting to move through the different departments, gaining experience in every area of their practice so that she could decide which she would specialise in.

Imogen got up and went over to the box that Fi had deposited by the door. She frowned. What was this? She couldn’t remember seeing it earlier that day when they’d packed up the van. It looked older than the others, and dusty. She knelt down, pulled the tape off and opened it. Inside, she could see piles of papers, exercise books and photographs.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. She knew what this was now. Her keepsakes from Westfield. Her father must have brought this down by mistake when he drove down some of her other boxes from home. ‘I haven’t seen this lot of years.’

She sat down on the carpet next to the box and started leafing through its contents. ‘Talk about Memory Lane,’ she muttered as she pulled out a photograph of herself, Allegra and Romily, sitting on desks in their classroom and grinning broadly at the camera. On the back was scrawled: ‘Midnight Girls 4 Ever!’

It was odd to look at her younger self, with that long mousy hair she’d clearly grown in imitation of Allegra’s, and those plump pink cheeks and wide, candid grey eyes.

She put a hand to her hair, which was now the colour known as ‘blondette’, a cross between blonde and brunette. A good hairdresser had taken her in hand and given her a flattering long bob with a loose fringe, adding light and bounce with some clever colouring. And she was a great deal thinner than the plump schoolgirl she’d once been. Had even discovered some cheekbones lurking below her puppy fat. She was never going to look like Allegra, who even at fifteen was clearly a beauty, but she made the most of what she had and tried to show herself off to her best advantage.

The biggest difference, though, she thought wryly, was that the innocence in those eyes had vanished. Imogen felt like she knew the big bad world pretty well these days.

And there was Romily, with all her sophisticated French flair. What the hell was she doing now? It had been two years since Imogen had seen her last, since the whole notion of the Midnight Girls and their unbreakable bond had come to a shuddering, terrible end. She traced a fingertip over the outline of Romily’s face, remembering what had happened on their last encounter and the choice Romily had asked her to make.

A letter had come just after Imogen had finished her finals – a mysterious and exciting invitation from Romily to visit her at Lake Como, but with no mention of Mitch or why she was in Italy.

Imogen had thought it would be a wonderful reunion; after all the romance and excitement of the wedding, they’d been close for a while. Imogen had sent her friend some photographs she’d taken of the day, and there’d been some happy telephone calls, and gushing postcards and letters raving about how happy she was, but then silence. It seemed as though marital bliss had swallowed her up entirely.

The trip had started well enough: arriving in Italy had been like stepping into a beautiful fairytale. Imogen left behind cold grey Scotland and arrived to balmy warm weather, with the sky a clear baby blue and the sun shining.

A driver met her at Milan airport and drove her out of the city and into the hills, along winding roads and through villages until they turned off down a long driveway. They were waved through electric gates by a guard, down a sun-dappled lane, and finally came to a halt in front of a large and beautiful villa. It was three storeys high and built of white stone, with swooping carved flourishes around the windows and ornate balconies. It was charming and graceful.

‘What a gorgeous house,’ Imogen breathed as she climbed out of the car.

The front door opened and Romily came dashing out. She was simply dressed in a plain white shirt, black trousers and flat sandals, but Imogen knew that with her such simplicity was deceptive: nothing that Romily wore would be anything less than the best.

‘Midge, Midge!’ she called, and flung her arms around her old friend, kissing her cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. How are you?’

‘Hello! I’m great – but all the better for seeing you. You look wonderful. What are you doing here? Is Mitch with you?’ Imogen glanced around for him.

‘We can talk about all that later. Come in, come in!’ She put her arm through Imogen’s. ‘I can’t wait to hear all your news.’

They walked together into the hall. ‘It’s a Liberty-style villa from the turn of the last century,’ Romily explained. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Imogen sincerely. Inside, the floors were covered in intricate Art Nouveau mosaics of wide-petalled flowers and twirling vines in soft greens, oranges and yellows, and the walls were frescoed with more flowering plants and fruit.

‘Wait until you see the back,’ Romily said. ‘This way.’

She led Imogen through the cool rooms and out on to a weathered stone balcony wreathed in ivy. They were high up and the rear aspect seemed to rise from the steep summit of the hillside, with the ground beyond plummeting away beneath them. ‘What do you think of that?’ With a wave of her hand Romily indicated Lake Como lying below them, a great dark body of water surrounded by mountains, stretching away in every direction. The view was stupendous.

‘How amazing!’ cried Imogen. She leant on the balcony and gazed out over the tranquil lake.

‘We’re on the western side,’ Romily explained. ‘I keep a mooring down by the water so we can get to Como quickly by motorboat. We’ll go over later for dinner perhaps. Or tomorrow if you don’t feel like going out. How was your flight?’

‘It was fine. I was feeling tired when I got off, but this place has completely reinvigorated me.’

Romily smiled. She held Imogen’s hand and said, ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’

‘You too.’ Imogen smiled back. ‘Thank you for asking me.’ Then she looked about. ‘Is Mitch coming?’

‘Oh, he’s not here,’ Romily said lightly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later. For now, let’s go to your room. I’m sure you’d like to get yourself together after your trip.’

In her bedroom, Imogen luxuriated in a feeling of comfort and ease. Her room had a magnificent high ceiling painted with frescoes of flowing drapery and cherubs proffering baskets of grapes. Tall shuttered windows looked out over the lake beneath. She had said that she was more than up to dinner in Como, so Romily had left her to take a long lazy bath in the pink marble bathroom that opened off her bedroom before she dressed for their outing.

An hour and a half later she ventured out, feeling refreshed and ready for a good gossip. She’d packed carefully, knowing that, with Romily, she’d need to keep up with a world-class wardrobe. She’d done her best, with a scallop-edged short skirt in pale pink organza that had the look of Chloé about it, even though she’d bought it in a chain store. With that she wore a loose dove-grey silk T-shirt with ruffles down the front, cinched in with a grey snakeskin belt. A row of enamelled bracelets in pastel colours ran up one arm, and she finished the outfit off with nude patent peep-toe heels it had taken her an age to find because she wanted the look of Louboutin without the price.

She’d pulled her honey-brown hair back from her face, and emphasised her eyes with lots of mascara and her lips with shell-pink gloss.

‘Oh, you look gorgeous!’ Romily announced as Imogen joined her in the main sitting room, having found her way there with the help of directions from a housemaid. She herself was wearing an elegant black Prada shirtdress which she’d dressed up for the evening with a silver belt and platform heels. ‘I love your outfit. That skirt could definitely be Chloé!’

‘Do you think so?’ Imogen said, pleased. After all, Romily really knew her designers and if she thought the skirt looked good, she must be right.

‘Mmm. And all the lovely pastels … just right.’ Romily looked quizzically at her. ‘Imogen, what’s happened to you? You’ve really blossomed! Last time we talked, I got the distinct impression you were nursing a broken heart.’

She flushed a little. ‘Well … that was ages ago … I’m over it now.’

‘Was it that boy you told me about? Sam?’ Romily gestured to the place on the sofa next to her. ‘Come and sit down.’

Imogen obeyed. It felt so lovely suddenly to be back with Romily, with her serenity and her poise and her attitude that everything could be worked out in the end. ‘Actually,’ she said, a little hesitantly, tracing her finger over the embroidery of a cushion, ‘there was someone else. Someone I was crazy about. And we had a couple of passionate encounters but it didn’t work out. He wasn’t keen enough in the end. I offered him my heart and he said “Thanks, but no thanks”.’

Romily leaned forward, her brown eyes full of sympathy. ‘Oh, Midge, I’m sorry. He must have been an idiot.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it was for the best. I moped around for a couple of terms, then decided … you know … sod him. I needed to get on with my life, so I had a bit of an image makeover and put him out of my mind. I’ve been out with plenty of guys since – no one special yet but I’m still hoping.’

‘Of course you’ll meet someone! Especially now you look so gorgeous. No man could resist you.’ Romily put a hand on her arm and smiled encouragingly. ‘And I think it’s brilliant that you’ve moved on.’

‘I have. Completely.’ Though it wasn’t entirely true, Imogen knew that. There was still a bit of her heart that belonged to Xander, and always would, no matter what.

‘I want to hear more over dinner. We ought to go now. But I know what you need …’ Romily jumped up. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, and dashed away. When she reappeared a few moments later, she was carrying a camel-coloured trench coat over one arm and, over the other, a grey leather tote with a gold chain and gold charms hanging off the strap. ‘A coat for the boat!’ she declared. ‘It’s cold on the water. And a Dior bag. I love my Diors and this will look just perfect with your outfit. It needs a tiny touch of gold to lift it.’

Imogen sighed over the beautiful bag. Romily was absolutely right, of course: the richness of the gold transformed her high-street outfit into something special. ‘Never underestimate the power of accessories,’ Romily said wisely. ‘Now, shall we go?’

She pressed a buzzer to the side of the massive fireplace and, a moment later, a burly man came in, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. With his solemn expression and pumped up muscles, he could only be one thing.

‘Carlo, we’re leaving now,’ she said, slipping on a white mackintosh. ‘Carlo is my bodyguard,’ she explained as they left the villa. ‘It’s a bore, but there it is. I’ve got so much security here, you wouldn’t believe it. But I make them be as discreet as possible. I can’t bear the thought of being surrounded and watched all the time – although I am. Once we get to town, you’ll forget he’s there.’

Imogen thought they’d be climbing into one of the expensive-looking cars parked in the driveway but instead they walked through the gardens and out of a small gate at the back, opened by a code taped into an electronic keypad.

‘We’re going to the water the quick way,’ explained Romily, her eyes sparkling. ‘You’ll enjoy this.’

A few moments later they emerged by a cable-car station. A small red car was already waiting for them and they boarded.

‘Come and see,’ Romily said, indicating the window overlooking the descent. ‘It’s an amazing view as we go down.’

A moment later the engines began to grind and the cable car bumped into life, then they were descending the mountain face.

‘Good thing I’m not afraid of heights,’ said Imogen, seeing the great drop yawning below. ‘Wow!’

Darkness was beginning to fall. The water of the lake was fading to black, the sky above to a misty charcoal. Along the shore, lights sparkled and twinkled in the exquisitely pretty little towns.

Romily said, ‘We’ll be in Argegno in four minutes. That’s where the boat is.’

A few minutes later the cable car swung to a stop in the lakeside station and they disembarked, their burly escort keeping close by and evidently alert to everything around them. They walked down cobbled streets, stepping from stone to stone on tiptoes to save their heels, until they came to the water. There, a powerful motorboat with a handsome young driver was awaiting them.

‘Ciao, Marco. Come stai?’ called Romily cheerfully, and chattered away to him in a flood of Italian as they boarded. They took their seats as he started up the engine. The next moment the boat was moving a trifle bumpily out of its mooring and towards the middle of the lake.

Romily was right, it’s much colder down here, Imogen thought, grateful for the coat.

As soon as they were out on the open water, Marco opened the throttle and the boat zoomed off across the water, almost flying as it skimmed lightly over the surface and then took off again, throwing up spray. The feel of the cold wind whipping their skin and hair was exhilarating.

‘I forgot we needed to wear headscarves!’ Romily laughed above the roar of the engine. ‘Never mind, I have a hairbrush!’

It was too noisy to talk much. Imogen watched the shoreline, the bright colours of the houses fading with the setting of the sun as they roared past over the water. Twenty minutes later they were approaching Como itself, a beautiful medieval town built around the bay at the south-westerly point of the lake. Semi-circles of tall pink, yellow and terracotta buildings were stepped against the dark green mountains behind, all dominated by the verdigris dome of the cathedral. In the marina, rows of white yachts were moored, masts flourished like a battalion of spears against the lake-front.

Marco steered the boat to a temporary mooring so they could disembark.

‘Può tornare alle dieci, per favore?’ Romily called and waved him off as he turned the boat round. They walked into the town with Carlo following at a discreet distance, now wearing a pair of mirrored aviator shades and looking exactly like a bodyguard.

‘Don’t you think he just draws attention to you?’ Imogen asked, feeling self-conscious.

‘I suppose so. But at least I’m not surrounded by eight man mountains like some of those pop divas – that’s really attention-seeking. But I suppose they need protecting from their adoring public, whereas I need protecting from something altogether more sinister.’ She shrugged. ‘The downside of being rich, I guess. Carlo was trained by the best – the SAS. He knows exactly how to look out for me and he’s got a very scary-looking gun in his armpit. Now, let’s find the restaurant.’

They were dining in a simple, stylish restaurant where Romily appeared to be a regular. Carlos was shown to a separate table where he could keep them in his eyeline without overhearing their conversation.

‘I love Italian food,’ Romily confided as they sat down, spreading out the large linen napkins on their laps. ‘I might learn to cook it one of these days.’

Imogen laughed. ‘I seem to recall you used to have trouble working the toaster at Westfield!’

‘It’s true.’ Romily giggled. ‘I’ve never cooked so much as a boiled egg. In fact, I don’t think I’ve been in a kitchen more than a few times. Silly, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not exactly normal.’ Imogen picked up her menu. ‘Goodness, this looks amazing. Lobster risotto … how wonderful. I’m starving!’

When they’d ordered their food and each had a large glass of sparkling water, Imogen leant across the white tablecloth to ask the question that had been intriguing her since she’d arrived. ‘So, where is Mitch? Is he away working or something?’

Romily’s face grew serious. ‘No.’ She looked down at her water glass and turned it slowly on the tablecloth. ‘I wasn’t going to talk about this until tomorrow,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve got some other serious things I want to discuss with you then. But of course you want to know, it’s only natural. After all, the last time you saw me, I was getting married and that was only last year. You must imagine I’m still living in love’s young dream.’

Imogen watched her friend’s eyes fill with sadness. Oh, God, she thought, panicked. Mitch has died – he’s been in a car crash or something. Poor Romily! She put her hand out to cover her friend’s.

Romily looked up and smiled wanly. ‘When I talk about this, I feel such a fool. You see, it seems whatever I touch, I manage to mess it up badly. I wanted to start my own chain of shops and dreamed of having outlets all over the world – I couldn’t manage even one. It failed miserably. Then I thought I’d found the love of my life. You saw us and what we were like. We were head over heels for each other …’

‘I’ve never seen any two people more in love,’ Imogen put in softly.

Romily gave her a grateful look. ‘That’s good to know. You were the only one who really knew me well enough to see that. I’m glad you did. But, as you can imagine, my parents were far from pleased. Mitch and I spent a glorious honeymoon in London, and then we had to go back and face the music. My mother virtually had a nervous breakdown and my father hit the roof. But Mitch and I weren’t going to be deterred by that. I couldn’t live my life in order to please my parents. They’d had their love story, so why couldn’t I have mine? I couldn’t understand why they wanted to me to marry a rich man. I’ve got more money than I can ever spend! I’m one of the few people in the world who never has to worry about that, so surely if anyone can marry for love, it’s me! But they didn’t see it that way. Not at all.’

Imogen had a feeling something awful lay unspoken and was almost relieved when the waiter arrived with their starters. But when he’d put the plates before them and gone, she said, ‘So what happened?’

Romily picked up her fork and toyed with some rocket at the side of her plate, her mood sombre. ‘We bought a little flat in the Marais, and I made it so cosy and comfortable. I loved it – so different from that grand house on the avenue Foch with all its gilt and mirrors and chandeliers. I was tired of all that. I wanted to be normal – to live an ordinary life with my husband. They said I’d be kidnapped or shot if I didn’t live behind their iron gates and bullet-proof windows surrounded by guards, but I thought that I would be fine with Mitch to protect me. I didn’t want to be the de Lisle heiress any more, just plain Mrs Romily Mitchell.’

Imogen smiled. ‘I don’t think you could ever be plain anything, Rom.’

‘I can try, dammit!’ she laughed. ‘Maybe I wasn’t going to give up my couture habit, but I was sure I could do without the gold-plated taps and the ridiculous cars.’

There was a pause before Imogen said quietly, ‘And then?’

‘Something terrible happened.’ Romily pushed her plate away. ‘My father got to Mitch. He offered him money to divorce me. And Mitch took it.’

Imogen gasped, shocked. ‘No! I can’t believe it!’

Romily looked sorrowful. ‘It’s true. He left me. We’d been married only six months.’

‘But that’s astonishing! I saw the two of you on your wedding day. I never would have imagined he would leave you so easily.’

‘There’s no accounting for men and their motives. Perhaps he was the most accomplished actor in the world. So …’ Romily put down her fork. ‘Having been a blushing, hopelessly smitten bride, I was suddenly an abandoned divorcee – in just over than six months.’

Imogen was flooded with sympathy for her friend, mixed with incredulity at Mitch’s behaviour. She never would have believed it of him. So much for my ability to judge character! ‘Oh, Rom … I’m so sorry! How could he? What an unbelievable shit.’

‘The pain was … terrible. Still is. That’s why I’m here. My parents got what they wanted: they destroyed the love between Mitch and me, poisoned it with their money. But they didn’t realise that in doing so they would lose me forever. Outwardly I’m still the perfect daughter, dutiful and loving, and my father hasn’t cut me off without a cent or whatever it is that angry fathers are supposed to do, but in reality I’ve gone far away from them. I couldn’t stay in Paris, it was too painful and difficult, so I decided to move to Italy and spend some time alone to get over my grief. I came looking for somewhere I could lick my wounds, and when I found the villa, set high above the lake with those views … well, I knew at once that I could find some peace there.’

‘Oh, Romily. You’re here all alone?’ Imogen could hardly bear the thought of it.

‘For now. But even so, I’m always surrounded – the servants, the bodyguards. My little brother Louis comes to stay sometimes and so do a few friends, when they’re passing through. I’ve found it a relief just to be still for a while.’

The girls sat in silence for a moment. I have no idea what to say¸ Imogen realised. She’s just like a young nun, shutting herself away from the world. The waiter came and removed their plates, Romily’s almost untouched, and they were both grateful for the interruption. After it, Romily said in a more cheerful voice, ‘So that’s why you won’t see Mitch here. Just like you, I’ve put it all behind me and I’m moving on. I have a wonderful life otherwise so don’t feel sorry for me. But what about you, Midge? Tell me about what you’re doing. What are your plans now that you’ve finished at Oxford?’

Imogen realised she wanted to change the subject and obediently tried to move the conversation to happier matters, but all the time she felt the sadness that had enveloped her friend and wanted to weep for Romily’s broken heart.

It wasn’t until the next day that Romily dropped her bombshell.

They’d spent a happy day sightseeing and then lazing around the villa and were soaking up the warm afternoon sun on the terrace when she said casually, ‘How is Allegra?’

‘Fine, I think,’ Imogen answered, enjoying the feeling of sunshine on her face. She looked over at Romily, who was in a loose linen top and casual slouchy trousers. Her eyes were hidden behind a large pair of Versace sunglasses. She said nothing. Imogen continued, ‘I’ve hardly seen her over the last year. She’s been in London and I’ve been slaving away in Oxford. We’ve swapped the odd email but that’s about it. I hope we’ll see more of each other when I get to law school.’

Romily nodded, her expression inscrutable. ‘You know, I never understood why Allegra went cold on me. For ages she didn’t reply to any letters or texts or emails, and I wondered what I’d done to offend her. Then, after I got married, Mitch and I went to London on honeymoon and I contacted her at Colette’s. You told me she worked there, remember? We went out for tea together at the Ritz. That was the last time I saw her.’

‘And how was it?’ Imogen said cautiously, surprised. She had told Allegra all about the wedding, and often spoken about Romily to her after it, but Allegra had never mentioned their meeting at the Ritz. Romily was right: Allegra had gone cold on her, though she would never say why.

Romily said nothing while she poured out some tea. Imogen waited, sure that she was going to add something that would clear up the mystery of the coolness between her and Allegra.

‘Do you remember school?’ she said at last.

‘Of course.’

‘Our silly little club. The Midnight Girls. The three of us against everyone else.’ Romily laughed with an edge of bitterness to her voice. ‘I believed in that and everything we promised each other, just like I used to believe in love. Well, all that’s been kicked out of me.’

‘Has something happened between you and Allegra?’ asked Imogen slowly.

Romily took off her sunglasses and fixed her with a serious stare. ‘She betrayed me, Imogen. In a way I could never have believed her capable of.’

‘What did she do?’

‘She colluded with my father in persuading Mitch to divorce me.’

‘What? No!’ Imogen was amazed. She clutched the table. ‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Yes.’ Romily’s face became stony and her voice cold. ‘Mitch was played a recording in which I appeared to be saying that I didn’t love him, had only married him for fun and that I would buy him off when I was tired of him. Of course, it was a fake. A perfectly innocent conversation had been recorded and then cleverly cut and edited. It was so well done it was almost impossible to tell that it was a forgery, but I managed to buy the original recording from my father’s assistant, thanks to some bribery and very sweet talking. I gave it to a sound expert who analysed it and discovered exactly where my words had been pasted together.’

‘Did you play that to Mitch? Tell him it was a set-up?’

Romily shook her head, and looked out over the lake for a moment. The late-afternoon sun caught the gold of her earrings and they sparkled. She turned back to Imogen. ‘It was over by then. There was no way back. He hadn’t trusted in me. Refused to listen when I tried to defend myself. That was enough for me. It showed he wasn’t the man I thought he was. That he didn’t truly love me.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ Imogen said, confused. ‘What does this have to do with Allegra?’

There was a pause and then Romily said clearly, ‘She was the one who recorded me.’

Imogen’s mouth dropped open and she could only stare at her friend, hardly able to take in what she had just heard.

‘I know it without a doubt,’ Romily continued. Her firm tone brooked no argument. ‘There were two voices on the tape, mine and hers. There is no way anyone else was present or that we could have been recorded without her knowledge. We only decided on the Ritz at the last minute – we had been going to the Wolseley. No one else knew our plans. The conversation was recorded in such a way that whoever it was had to have been present the entire time.’ Romily shrugged. ‘It was her.’

‘But why would she?’ Baffled, Imogen stared at her fine china tea cup, not seeing what was in front of her as questions whirled round in her head.

‘I don’t know, Imogen, and if you can’t tell me, then we’re both in the dark.’ Romily’s eyes flashed and her face coloured with anger as she said bitterly, ‘I’ve never been anything but a friend to her! She came to stay with me in Paris, we had a wonderful time and then … I never heard from her again. I was hurt but kept on trying because I treasured our friendship and meant to stand by our promises. When she agreed to see me after the wedding, I was elated because I thought that whatever it was had gone away and we were friends again. But she only did it in order to betray me … to ruin my life. It is beyond any doubt.’ Her eyes glittered, although whether with tears or anger Imogen couldn’t tell. ‘I don’t know why she wanted to destroy me, but I do know that I can never forgive her. And I also know that no friend of hers can be a friend of mine. That is why I had to see you, do you understand now? So, Imogen, who do you choose? Her or me?’