Intrusion: A Novel (18 page)

“To meet an Italian businessman. A possible client. It’s just drinks, conversation. It will be short.”

“Have fun.”

“She’d like you to come.”

Kat, ignoring Sarah’s advice to tread softly, looked at him defiantly.

“And why should I?”

“You might enjoy it. I would like you to be there.”

“Oh, really? Would you now? So I can help you snag the Italian client that Woodruff wants? Right? That’s so very, very important.”

“For Christ’s sake, Kat. It’s drinks in Malibu. I’m not asking you to walk over burning coals.”

“I’ll do anything to help you. You know that. Pity you don’t feel the same way about me. You don’t seem willing to do anything I might want.”

Scott gave a heavy sigh.

“What you want, Kat, is not my presence for something simple like drinks with a stranger. You want a lifetime commitment to something we are not ready for, cannot handle, are not even sure we can do.”

“Do? Of course we can do it. We did it once before.”

“I don’t mean having our own child. I mean being approved for the adoption.”

“We might be able to have our own child if you would agree to get checked out,” Kat snapped.

“Really? And are you planning an immaculate conception, because getting pregnant involves—” He stopped, froze. “Jesus. Sorry,” he said, swallowing.

Kat stared at him. She wondered if she’d heard correctly. The words were cruel. Scott was never cruel.

“Immaculate conception?”
she asked, her voice iced.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“What
did
you mean?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell is happening to us. Look, are you coming to this thing, Kat? Or not?”

He was expecting her to say no. She knew that.

“Well, damn it, yes. I’ll come,” she said. “Why on earth not?”

TWENTY

T
he interior of the car felt hollow and echoing on the drive to Malibu. Scott said little; Kat stared out the window. On this winter’s day, the ocean looked gray and choppy; clouds scudded across the sky as the wind picked up. The palm trees bowed like dancers. Kat wanted the evening to be over. She wanted to be in bed, with the comforter up to her chin.

Sarah’s Malibu house was a white stone villa right on the coast, surrounded by assorted cacti and swaying palms. Scott parked on the wide, curving driveway and then turned to her.

“You going to stay mad and sulk all evening?” he asked.

“I’ll be your little ray of sunshine, just watch me.”

“Kat, we have to get beyond this.”

She looked at him. He returned her gaze, unflinching, determined.
He is not going to change his mind,
she realized.
He is never going to change his mind.

“I wish I knew how,” she said.

“You think maybe you could just give it a try?”

“Well, yes. I think from now on, both of us should simply devote our entire lives to your career.”

“For Christ’s sake, Kat,” Scott snapped.

Kat blinked, startled. Her husband’s face was closed, tight as a fist. She had seen him angry before; she had seen him irritable. She had never felt so distant from him.

Then, Sarah was in the doorway, calling to them to come inside, to have a drink.

“Welcome, Caitlin,” she said. “To my little beach house.”

“Little?” Kat said.

The house had marble floors, and the view from all the windows was of the ocean and an infinity swimming pool that was designed to look like it was floating on top of the water. Kat paused at the entrance. To have Ojai and this house, too? Sarah, as a schoolgirl, must have dreamed of something like this.

Sarah, at her elbow, studying her reaction, asked, “You like it?”

“Of course I like it. Who could not? The pool is beautiful.”

Sarah led them out to the glassed-in patio, a light space that had views of the water from three sides.

“Come, have a drink. It’s a buffet meal and ready to serve. I’ve sent the car for Luca Bianchi. He should be here any moment. And, oh, here’s Glenda to translate for us. I hope her Italian is as good as she says it is.”

“Glenda doesn’t exaggerate,” Scott said.

Glenda had made an effort. She wore an elegant dress in a soft violet shade, had a new hairstyle, blunt cut and curling into her chin, that flattered her narrow face, and she wore earrings that sparkled with amethyst stones. She appeared anxious as she walked toward them.

“And looking very pretty today,” Sarah said, as if to a little girl just off to a party. Kat saw Glenda’s small smile at this, noted her glance at Scott.

“Thank you, Sarah,” Glenda said. She smiled at Kat, gave a little wave. “The client not here?” she asked.

“He’s not actually the client yet, remember,” Scott reminded her.

“He will be, I’m sure,” said Sarah. “Oh, look. Here’s the car.”

Kat turned to see an attractive middle-aged man step out of Sarah’s Mercedes. He looked like a stereotypical wealthy European playboy: a light linen suit, unnecessary sunglasses, thick silver hair brushed back from his face. His age was evident in the deep vertical lines that ran down each side of his mouth. He wasn’t very tall, but his view of himself as an alpha male was evident in the tilt of the head, the confident stance, the way he surveyed the house, the grounds, even the beach, as if he owned it all. As if he
could
own it all.

Sarah hurried toward him, and he greeted her warmly with kisses, hugs, exclamations in Italian. She laughed as she led him to them. Kat took a breath. She noted the flash of slightly prominent white teeth, the smooth, graceful walk. The song “Mack the Knife,” with the shark and its pearly teeth, played in her head.

As he approached, he removed his sunglasses and looped them into the top pocket of his jacket. Sarah introduced him to Scott.

“Scott Hamilton, my attorney,” Sarah said as Bianchi shook hands with Scott. “I hope he can advise us today. And this is his wife, Kat.” Bianchi lifted Kat’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, his eyes meeting hers. His eyes were the palest blue, like a winter sky. It was a cool, careful assessment. She tried to smile but was made shy by the measuring gaze.

“Kat with claws? Or Kat with a soft purr?” he asked.

“Both,” she said. He laughed.

“And this is Glenda,” Sarah said. “Scott’s associate and our legal terminology translator.”

“Ah, and your Italian is good enough for this big job?” Bianchi asked Glenda.

“I hope so,” Glenda said.

He raised an eyebrow and unleashed a torrent of language, the rising notes at the end of each sentence indicating that they were questions.
He’s testing her,
Kat thought.
He’s a games player.

Glenda gazed back at him, her smile in place, and she answered at once in Italian, fast and fluently. Kat and Scott smiled. Sarah actually laughed out loud.

“Aha. Our Glenda has obviously been to Italy often,” Sarah said.

“Every summer when I was a child,” Glenda said. “My grandmother lives in Positano.”

“A beautiful place,” Bianchi said, smiling warmly now. “I am glad you are here,” he added. “My English is, I think, good. But with legal matters, I must be clear. Yes?”

“Of course. I’ll help all I can.”

Bianchi gave a low, formal bow. Kat noted that Scott grinned as Glenda looked to him for approval, obviously proud of her score for the home team.

Immediately, Sarah’s cook began setting out food. Kat looked at the table laden with cold salmon, sliced rare beef, cheeses, salads, fresh fruits. It was an impressive spread for just five people.

“Wow, this looks good, Sarah,” Scott said.

Kat turned, surprised, to look at her husband. The jovial voice, the easy smile. There was no trace of the cold anger he had exhibited in the car. He appeared comfortable and at ease, ready to enjoy the evening, as Sarah waved an arm for them all to sit.

“Please. Help yourselves,” she said.

Bianchi was seated opposite Kat. She watched as, superficially charming and alert, he switched from only slightly accented English to fast Italian, which Glenda immediately translated. Occasionally, he would exchange private words with Glenda, and they would laugh together. Glenda had relaxed, blossoming under his attention.
She’s really quite attractive,
Kat thought as Glenda giggled at something Bianchi said. Scott, always curious about European politics, asked Bianchi about the new players on the political scene in Italy, but Bianchi was not inclined to discuss politics. He talked of his trip to New York, of his recent visit to the UK.

Kat, uncomfortable and awkward, listened and thought—
a year ago I might have enjoyed this. I would have found it amusing at least. Most people would think themselves lucky to be here: a beautiful view, a lovely house, good food, and the company, if not quite as charming as it appeared on the face of it, was at least interesting. I have lost the ability to feel pleasure,
she thought.
Feel joy. Feel love. Is my life now to be this quiet, claustrophobic panic?
She wondered how long she would need to sit there, pretending to be a normal person, wondered how long it would be before the people around this table talked of work and she could escape to sit quietly inside Sarah’s house or to walk around the pool, stare at the ocean.

Sarah picked up the conversation, guiding it back to the Milan merger. Kat, trying to follow Glenda’s swift translations, Scott’s interventions, found her mind drifting again and wondered if Bianchi would remember her as the woman at the dining table who had nothing to say. She caught Sarah looking at her. As the maid cleared the table, and documents were produced for Scott to check, Sarah tapped Kat’s arm.

“Would you excuse us?” she said to the group. “You don’t need us for a moment. Must show Kat my little den.”

As they walked into the main house, Sarah said, “Kat, you’re so quiet, so pale. You’re not ill?”

“No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

Sarah gave her a long, sympathetic look.

“You haven’t been able to change Scott’s mind yet, then?”

“He’s never going to change his mind no matter what I do,” Kat said. “I’m quite certain of that.”

Sarah stopped in her tracks and turned to Kat.

“Even though he knows how you feel? What this adoption means to you?”

“Even so.”

“I’m sorry, Caitlin. So very sorry. No wonder you feel so . . . well. Damn.”

“Yes. Anyway, what do you want to show me?”

“Come look.”

A few moments later, Sarah opened a door off the main entrance hall. The room she showed to Kat was enormous, with a private terrace looking out onto the ocean. The walls were a pale blue, the sofas a cream linen; the French doors opened to the patio and had a view of the coastline. The fresh-air smell of the ocean filled the room.

“The Sussex cottage,” said Sarah. “Expanded!”

Kat looked around, astonished. This was the room Scott had mentioned, but he had no way of knowing how perfect it was in every detail. It was as if Sarah had exactly re-created the Sussex gatekeeper’s cottage they had stayed in years ago: the colors, the furnishings, even the framed Mary Cassatt prints and bookcases along one wall. A cobalt-blue glass bowl holding sharp-green apples had been placed on a side table. Kat remembered one just like it.

“It’s exactly right,” Kat said. “Only bigger.”

“I know. I was there recently. Had it painted but kept the same color scheme and just updated the kitchen. I so love the place.”

“I remember it well. It was beautiful.”

“A retreat,” said Sarah. “I use it for a bolt-hole. Mrs. Evans brings me an evening meal down from the main house, and the rest of the time I fend for myself and walk and hike and do a lot of physical things. Get back into shape. Walk along the cliffs with the wind on my face. Breathe that lovely fresh air.”

Kat could taste the Sussex wind, the salt in it.

“You’re lucky to have such a place,” Kat sighed. “A place to hide.”

“But you can use it, too. I’ll give you a key,” said Sarah. “Come on, so I don’t forget. Have a key. If you need to go, it’s there. You remember where the cottage is?”

“Yes, but really, I can’t,” Kat began. But Sarah was already heading toward her office.

“Come on,” she called. “The key’s in my desk. An extra one. Go whenever you like. You don’t even have to tell me. Call in at the main house and tell them you’re staying, and Mrs. Evans will cook dinner for you.”

“Sarah, I can’t do that. Really, it would be impossible. It’s not so easy just to drop everything and pop over to Sussex from LA.”

“You don’t
have
to go,” said Sarah, turning to look at Kat. For a moment, Kat felt like a schoolgirl again. How difficult it was, always, to deny Sarah. She would insist and cajole, and in the end people just gave in. She made it seem churlish, mean-spirited, to refuse. Kat felt a bit like that now. She followed Sarah to a large office at the back of the house. A mahogany desk was littered with files. Kat saw one labeled with a company name:
J. De Beaugrand
. It sounded familiar, and for a moment she struggled to understand why. Was that the name of the company Brooke had joined? No. How could it be? Then, Kat spotted another folder labeled
Falconbridge
and felt a sharp bite of recognition. That name was definitely familiar. She turned to Sarah.

“Richard Falconbridge?” she said. “Wasn’t he the solicitor who controlled your trust fund?”

Sarah nodded.

“Yes. And about to get his comeuppance. No more than he deserves. He betrayed a confidence. The oily snake.”

“He never told Helen the whole story, though, did he?” Kat said.

Sarah looked hard at her.

“Ah, you remember that? The baby-sale threat?” She gave a short laugh. “I thought the blue blood might be worth rather a lot of money. No. He didn’t tell Helen that part. But he should have given me the money. I needed it. And it was
my
trust fund. What was left of it. You know what was funny that day? I told him if he didn’t give me the cash, I’d tell everyone he’d tried to touch me—and he laughed, just laughed in my face. He said that half of London would know I was lying, that he had no interest in the fair sex of any age or type, and Charles, his partner of twenty years, would happily testify to that. Then, he must have called Helen. Slimy little worm.”

She turned back to the desk, fumbled in the drawer.

“Here,” she said, handing Kat a silver key to a Yale lock. “The cottage key. This is it.”

Kat held it in her hand. It felt heavier than it should.

“I’m not sure—” she began.

“My goodness, nobody’s
making
you go, Kat,” Sarah said. “But keep the key in your pocket. Just in case. That place is soothing. It soothes the soul.”

She turned, touched Kat’s arm.

“Come on, back to the fray. Let’s see how Scott and Glenda are managing Luca Bianchi.”

Kat hesitated, staring out through the windows at the group, talking loudly now on the patio. She saw Bianchi gesticulating and then laughing, his white teeth flashing. Scott appeared to be laughing, too. Her husband looked like a stranger.

“They all seem to be getting along rather well,” Sarah said. “That’s good.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t find Luca amusing?” Sarah asked.

“Not much impressed by polished playboys.”

“Oh, he’s not exactly a playboy. Tough businessman underneath all that polish. Women usually adore him. Look at Glenda—she’s positively glowing. Though much of that, I suspect, is because he’s making her look good in front of Scott.”

As they watched, Bianchi leaned forward as if to whisper something. This was followed by more laughter, and Kat felt herself shrinking inside, not wanting to return to that table and produce more false smiles. She touched her head. A headache was beginning behind her eyes. Sarah, noticing the gesture, frowned.

“This is hard for you, isn’t it, Kat? Feeling as you do.”

“Yes. Well, tonight I’m not really able to—”