A Twist of Fate Page 33

  Roberto sighed. ‘Perhaps they will. And, if so, then that is fine. I know it is not fashionable, Romy, perhaps not even legal these days, but I am the sixth male heir to inherit the responsibility of running this business, and I want Alfie to be the seventh. With your help and guidance.’ His grip renewed the pressure on her arm. ‘I’ll need to start training you up straight away.’

  Romy’s panic only intensified. ‘But I’m not a businesswoman, Roberto. I wouldn’t know the first thing—’

  ‘You have good instincts, and it’s all up here,’ he interrupted. The way he tapped his head reminded Romy of Herr Mulcher in the clothing factory in Berlin all those years ago. Was that what this was? Had Roberto too seen something raw in her? Something he felt he could sculpt?

  The implications of it all rushed through Romy’s mind. What if he was wrong? Helping to run a business like Scolari was a million miles from suggesting cost-cutting measures for a clothing factory. What if she let him down? And not just him, but Maria and Flavia and Anna, and the other sisters, not to mention all the thousands of employees who relied on Scolari for their livelihoods?

  But the biggest question of all she asked out loud. ‘But what about Alfie? If I’m working with you, then who’s going to be looking after him?’

  ‘You can live with us. Maria can look after him whilst we’re at the office. It won’t be long before he has to go to school.’

  Romy’s mind was still reeling. He’d clearly thought all of this through already. Between the time he’d heard he had a grandson and their arrival here, he’d planned their whole future.

  ‘We need Scolari to move forward into the future,’ he said. ‘We need to expand into future technologies. The Americans and Chinese are taking over. Our competitors are getting stronger and stronger. We need someone at the helm who can be an ambassador for us, who can be the new face of Scolari. Who can get us noticed.’

  ‘And you really think I could do that?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’ Roberto grinned at her, and that’s when the realization really hit her – not only was he looking forward to this, but he genuinely thought it would work. But most of all, he trusted her. Still. After all this time. He saw in her not only the successful international model who’d married his son, but the new face for his company. He hadn’t ever thought of her, as she did of herself, as a single mother living in obscurity. Guiltily. Secretly.

  ‘I think Alfonso would have wanted you and Alfie to be with us,’ he said, nodding to where Alfie had now got back to the others and was giggling with delight, as his cousins chased him through the jet of a sprinkler. ‘I know it is a lot to think about, but look . . .’ Roberto pointed to Maria, clapping her hands with delight. With the sunlight streaming through the vines, it couldn’t have looked more idyllic.

  Romy had made her decision then. She’d do what Roberto asked. She would honour Alfonso’s memory by submitting to his family’s wishes. She would work harder than ever. She would do whatever it took to make Roberto and Alfonso and, most of all, Alfie proud.

  And, for the last two years, she’d done just that. She’d worked every day and every night, when Alfie had been asleep. She’d learnt everything there was to know about Scolari. In the last three months she’d spearheaded a massive publicity drive, which had brought her even more attention than when she’d been at the height of her modelling career.

  It had only been recently, however, that she’d stopped having to answer questions about Alfonso’s death. Slowly and surely Romy had managed to switch the media’s attention from the past to the future. Which was why this interview on women in business was important, and why she’d juggled her schedule to get here.

  And now, here she was. The red light switched to green. They were finally on air.

  Romy focused as she listened to Antonella Medici read from her notes about the economic climate and how healthy Scolari was looking, and Romy nodded and smiled. Then Antonella turned her attention to Romy. She had blonde hair, swept high away from her smooth forehead, her deep eyes made up with glittering brown eyeshadow. Her full lips were outlined in dark pencil.

  ‘But there have been many reports,’ Antonella continued, ‘that the need to raise capital will mean that many Italian private companies will be forced to decide between going public or being acquired by a major international group, which would then of course be diverting many of whatever profits they made out of the domestic Italian market. Would you agree with that? I was reading a piece only last week in the New York Times, in which Thea Maddox from the Maddox Corporation was quoted as saying yet again that a company like Scolari would be the icing on the cake for their European expansion plans. Are you a company that would ever – how shall I put this? – sell out?’

  Romy let out a sardonic laugh. ‘Believe me,’ she told Medici. ‘The Maddox corporation can only dream. Scolari is Italian and will always stay that way. Sure, I can imagine why the Americans would look at us with envy. Our publishing arm goes from strength to strength,’ Romy said. ‘In the media division too, we have extended our cable and digital channels threefold in the last year, but it is our online development that has been the big success story.’

  She went on to recite her carefully rehearsed statistics. She would leave the listeners in no doubt: Scolari was not vulnerable in any way and was able to raise sufficient capital for expansion from private sources.

  What she didn’t say, for reasons of confidentiality – even though it would have stamped on any speculation over Scolari’s future ownership like a bug – was that Scolari’s shareholders were so few and so loyal that they’d never be tempted to sell out to any outside aggressor. Roberto had already signed over 5 per cent of his shareholding to Romy, leaving him with 45 per cent. Maria had always had 10 per cent for tax purposes. And the remaining 40 per cent was owned by Roberto’s trusted business partner, Franco Moretti.

  But even so, she was annoyed. Idle speculation could be damaging, in terms of employee confidence as well as reputation.

  She made a mental note to find out everything she could about Thea Maddox. How dare she continue making comments like that about Scolari? Romy knew that Roberto had already pushed her overtures firmly away.

  ‘Yet, despite all this expansion, Scolari has been voted one of the most employee-friendly companies in a recent survey,’ Antonella continued, keen to keep the focus on women in business.

  Romy smiled, glad that this particular achievement had been picked up.

  ‘I’m doing what I can to create a community-style ethic in our company.’

  ‘It hasn’t always been like that at Scolari, though?’

  Romy chose her words carefully, knowing that Roberto himself could well be listening in. ‘We have moved with the times. In our new main headquarters, here in Milan, we now have a full-time crèche and have actively encouraged successful job-shares. As a working mother myself, I know how important it is to have children nearby.’

  But as she continued to talk about the importance of women in the Scolari workforce, Romy knew that she was putting a positive spin on it all. The truth was that she was still operating in a very male world. She didn’t understand half of the behind-the-scenes deals that went on at the various functions Roberto attended. The last time he’d been to the Grand Prix, he’d come back having secured a controlling shareholding in a football club. She was beginning to wonder whether Alfonso’s rise in the Formula One scene had been entirely to do with his talent, or whether his father had arranged it all for him.

  But she would never say a word against Roberto. She would be loyal. No matter what. No matter what the sacrifice. Roberto trusted her. Why else would he have signed those shares over to her? She was family. She would never let him down.

  Outside in the corridor Romy’s press officer, James, smiled and put his hands up in applause.

  ‘That was great,’ he said. He was a young guy – the youngest Romy had interviewed – but he worked hard and was just the kind of dynamic, fresh blood that was m
aking Scolari thrive. She liked his slim-line brown suit and trendy rectangular black-framed glasses. Nico would have adored him, she thought.

  ‘Hey, you know that piece you wanted me to do the other day, for that American magazine?’

  ‘Sure,’ James said.

  ‘Call them up,’ Romy said. ‘We’ll do the family piece. You’ll have to manage it. Make sure they make us look untouchable.’ She knew Roberto and Maria resented intrusion into their lives, but Romy knew that the only way for Scolari to bury these takeover rumours was through a PR offensive – and where better place to launch it than in the country from which the offensive was rumoured to be coming?

  Already on the move, James started rattling off a series of new appointments and summaries of phone messages, all the things that needed dealing with just in the short time she’d been in the studio.

  ‘The children’s charity have been in touch again,’ he added. ‘Did you decide whether you’d be their patron?’

  Romy sighed. ‘I haven’t got time, but tell them I’m still thinking about it,’ she said, looking at her watch. She was already late to pick up Alfie.

  She made five calls and answered three urgent emails as she took the short ride back to the Scolari headquarters to drop off James, and then went on to where Sara, Alfie’s teacher, was waiting with him. As usual Romy was the last parent to pick him up and she smiled at Sara and ruffled Alfie’s hair, gesturing her apology that she was still on the phone.

  ‘Where were you?’ Alfie said as she took his hand. But just as she finished one call, her phone rang again. She growled in frustration. Sometimes she didn’t have a second to catch her breath.

  It was Franco, Roberto’s finance director, and she braced herself. Despite his show of benevolence towards Romy, she’d never forgotten the time she’d first met him and how dismissive he’d been of her modelling career. He’d been jealous, she remembered, that Alfonso had jilted his daughter and had fallen for Romy instead. Roberto had assured her that it was all in the past and that Franco adored her, but Romy wasn’t so sure. She knew how men like Franco could hold a grudge, and Roberto appointing her to the board had done nothing to quell Franco’s privately held suspicion of her. How can you be sure, Franco had once demanded of Roberto – in front of Romy – that our new director isn’t planning on running away again?

  ‘I’ve got to take this, darling,’ she told Alfie, answering the call and imagining Franco on the company yacht in Sardinia – a perk that Romy had yet to have time to take advantage of.

  He explained that he’d been hosting a dinner for the various heads of their media interests. It annoyed her that she’d not even been informed, but she decided to bite her tongue. He wouldn’t be calling just to inform her of that.

  ‘We’ve had approaches again,’ he said, finally cutting to the chase. ‘From Russia, as well as America this time.’

  First Thea Maddox, and now this.

  Alfie was scuffing a stone on the pavement. It flicked up and hit a parked car. ‘Don’t,’ she mouthed to him.

  ‘Do you want me to email the details?’ Franco asked.

  ‘No. I’m not interested. Don’t tell Roberto. You know how worked up he gets about these things.’

  ‘Romy, you’re the one who has to look to the future of Scolari. At least consider a merger—’

  How dare he. Looking out for the future of Scolari was exactly what she did. Every hour of every day. A merger was out of the question. Scolari would go intact, just as it was now, to Alfie. That was Roberto’s heart’s desire, and Romy was damned sure she was going to deliver on it. ‘The answer is no.’

  ‘Do you have to talk on the phone the whole time?’ Alfie asked. He scowled petulantly at her as she made her excuses and rang off. She wondered whether he ever thought about how much she had to juggle even to pick him up from school at all.

  The sensible thing would be to do as Roberto and Maria had suggested and send him to a good private boarding school. But sending him away wasn’t a sacrifice Romy was willing to make. He was still all that was left of Alfonso. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him too.

  Romy shut her phone. ‘You’re right,’ she said, crouching down to his level. ‘I’m sorry, darling. It’s just that I have lots of people waiting for me to make important decisions. But you know what? They can wait. Why don’t we go to the cinema? Just you and me.’ She knew the new Harry Potter film he’d wanted to see – The Order of the Phoenix – was showing at cinemas.

  ‘Right now?’ Alfie’s face broke into a grin.

  ‘Right now.’

  ‘Is it a premiere?’ he asked as she ushered him into the car, but Romy saw in his swagger that he already expected it was. That he’d be once more on the red carpet, as he had been a few times in recent months. That he would stroll in and be the centre of attention.

  Alfie had already changed so much, she thought, her conscience pricked. She remembered how he used to be. How just going out on his scooter used to make him happy. But now he was getting used to this privileged life.

  Maybe I should get involved in the children’s charity, she thought, as the chauffeur opened the door for them and they climbed into the back of the bulletproof limousine. Maybe it would do Alfie good to realize how little others had.

  Or perhaps this is just how it was – how life always would be for her son. After all, both he and she were Scolaris now. And there was no going back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  November 2007

  Thea put on her sunglasses and took a sip of icy water. The late-afternoon sun was beating down. Maybe she should have chosen a table in the shade, she thought, but she’d wanted to be as conspicuous as possible. Besides, she told herself, she shouldn’t grumble. After the howling, icy winter days in Manhattan, which she’d temporarily escaped, anywhere warm like this wasn’t so bad. Particularly when the view was this fine.

  Her gaze moved slowly east from the fixed billowing sails of the Sydney Opera House towards the Harbour Bridge and the myriad of boats criss-crossing the wide blue bay, thinking how illicit it all felt – and, yes, she admitted, almost enjoyable because of that – to be away, even for just a few days, from the office.

  She checked her phone and then put it back in her soft leather tote bag, chastising herself. She had an intermittent signal, but Michael still hadn’t replied to her text. But then, it occurred to her, he might actually be fast asleep back home in the States. Even so, she couldn’t help wondering what he’d think when he did read her message. Would he be proud of her for taking the plunge and coming to Australia?

  Stop it, she told herself. Why was she seeking Michael’s approval – or even such regular contact with him – when she knew there was no hope of anything more than a limited friendship ever developing between them? He’d said as much himself a few email exchanges ago: that he doubted he could ever be in a profound relationship again.

  Damaged goods. That’s how he’d described himself.

  But not to me, Thea had wanted to reply.

  But she knew it wasn’t only Michael’s lack of faith in his own emotional ability that was keeping them apart. It was her own fear of the barbed tangle of emotions that she’d swallowed deep down inside herself. Because what was the point of even dreaming about one day perhaps being closer to Michael if she could never tell him the truth about herself?

  The more he’d told her that he was proud of her and amazed by her success, the more of a fraud she’d felt. He might think he was weak in comparison, but he wasn’t. He was brave. He was strong. He’d faced his demons and found a way to talk about them. When she’d never done anything of the sort.

  Even here in the bright sunshine, the thought of it – what Michael would say, what he’d think about her, if she ever opened up to him – sent a wave of shivers crawling down her spine.

  And yet despite herself, as she took another drink of water and checked her watch and the faces of the people passing by, she couldn’t help wondering about Michael. And
thinking too that their last meeting, a month ago now, had put a different perspective on their burgeoning relationship. It had left her feeling full of – there was indeed no other word for it – hope.

  When Michael had called her to say he was back in the States and going to visit his mother, Thea had suggested straight away that she go and spend the day with him at the Brightside Home. Michael had agreed. After all, it had been something they’d touched on during her visit to Landstuhl. Thea had cancelled everything to be there.

  She drove way too fast from the airport in her hire car, only slowing as the vehicle’s tyres crunched over the last few yards of the rest-home’s gravel drive. It was only now that she was here that she realized why Brightside was costing her so much money. The main house, an old sawmill owner’s mansion, was an attractive stone building surrounded by dark yew trees. Manicured gardens stretched down towards a glittering lake.

  Thea’s heart swelled to see that Mrs Pryor was ending her days in such a lovely place. She’d forgotten too how much she loved being in this part of the world. The fresh air and clear blue sky smelt of home. But any joy Thea felt was soon eclipsed by sadness as she remembered how ill the old lady was. Even so, Thea knew Michael must surely approve.

  She checked her face in the driver’s mirror one more time, feeling her heart thumping. She’d changed five times before she’d come, finally opting for a dressed-down look, with jeans and cowboy boots. She applied a slick of lip-gloss, then grabbed her bag and stepped out on the pathway.

  ‘Thea!’ She heard Michael’s voice before she saw him.

  He was waving at her from the porch at the front of the house and started down the steps to meet her. As Thea approached, she could hardly believe that he was the same man she’d seen at Landstuhl. He’d grown his hair and looked fit and lean in a pair of well-cut designer jeans and a soft blue cashmere jumper. He was tanned and clean-shaven and was no longer trying to hide his scar. But even that no longer seemed nearly so inflamed and had somehow grown to suit him.