Authors: Karen Swan
They were quiet for a long time, Flora feeling increasingly sick and sickened at how this universal act – cruel and vicious and devastating and total – had cleaved both their
families; she felt buckled by the irony of how difficult it must have been for Natascha to tell the truth, how easy it had been for Milly, Freddie’s alleged victim, to lie. Flora had
remembered her vaguely from some group jaunts to The Phene in Chelsea, a satellite contact of Aggie’s from university who had never quite made her way into the crowd . . .
‘But your parents must have understood,’ she said quietly. ‘When she told them, they must have understood why she was acting up? I mean, surely?’
‘Yes. They did.’
A ‘but’ hovered between them.
Xavier’s expression changed again – the raw anger receding behind that mask he wore so well, a closing-down of the light in his eyes. ‘They explained that it was a delicate
situation. Time had passed. There was no physical proof by then and with her reputation being what it was . . . it would be his word against hers.’ He shrugged. ‘They said that if she
tried to pursue a conviction, yes, his career and reputation would be in ruins – but in all reality it would be harder for her to go through the trial by media. She would be victimized all
over again and there’d be no guarantee of justice at the end of it.’
Flora covered her mouth with her hand. ‘And it almost happened again tonight . . .’ she whispered.
He looked away, sadness and exasperation intermingling in his features. ‘Sometimes I think it’s like a death wish. She’s deliberately reckless, provocative, pushing too hard
all the time, almost like she’s trying to make it happen again – only this time she’ll do it right and they’ll catch the bastard. I try to keep my eye on her, I stay with
her when we go out but I can’t be by her side twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Of course you can’t.’ She remembered the sight of him, alone in the crowd in Saint-Paul this morning, and she looked at his bandaged hands again. Was it really those hands
that had sculpted such beauty? She knew the lightness, the deftness of touch in them, she’d felt it for herself now, his hands expert on her body as though she were a map he knew by heart.
But what about the soul that had crafted such an ethereal vision of love? Was that the man he would have been if he hadn’t been forced to become his sister’s minder? Was it the man he
might still be? ‘Can I ask you something?’
He looked at her, still lost, his eyes hard at first but softening as they took in her face. ‘Anything.’
‘Why wouldn’t you see me earlier, in the studio?’
It took him a moment to catch up, realign his thoughts. He gave a careless shrug. ‘You were too close.’
She was confused. ‘To what?’
‘To me.’ He blinked, unknowable to her. ‘I’m not looking for
this
, for you. It’s not what I do.’
What I
do
? She swallowed, feeling as though she’d been slapped. Of course. The playboy.
He saw her expression and shifted his position, his hands on his knees, his back long. ‘I made a vow a long time ago that I’d never leave her alone again. I’m all she
has.’ He looked across at her. ‘But you . . . it’s like you haunt me. Everywhere I look, you’re there – in my parents’ home, in the street, Chantilly. Even when
I close my eyes at night and you’re
not
there, I still see you.’ He looked away, his jaw squeezed tight again. ‘. . . But at the studio? Even Natascha doesn’t know
what I do – no one does apart from Laurent, the old guy you met . . . It’s the only thing that’s truly mine but even there you found me . . . I feel like you see every part of me.
I can’t pretend with you. I don’t know how to keep you out.’
They fell silent, Xavier getting up, walking over to the basin, his head bowed low as he leaned on the counter. Flora watched him – handsome, fearsome, fierce, wounded. She’d learned
more about him in the past half-hour than she had in the past month, none of it easy to hear.
‘So you’re saying you don’t want me close to you,’ she said quietly.
He came back over, pulling her up to standing again so that she was almost on tiptoes, his hands on her upper arms, their bodies pressed together. ‘I’m saying I don’t want to
want you. But being close to you is all I want.’ His eyes roamed her face as he grazed a finger over her cheekbone. ‘You’re different to the rest, Flora.’
She swallowed, sure he could feel her heart thumping against her chest, against his – knocking to be let in. ‘How do you know? Maybe I’m not. We don’t know anything about
each other. You don’t know me. Not really.’
‘I know you’re not in awe of my family – I know you stood up to Natascha and me. I know you’re independent, that you’ve got a great career.’ He grinned.
‘And you’re sexy as hell when you whistle . . .’
Her mouth opened in surprise. So it
had
been him at the window, that day in Paris! But she had no time to object, as he bent down to kiss her again, a lingering kiss that drew their
bodies tighter, closer, stirring up all the hunger she felt for him.
‘Why are you even letting me do this to you?’ he murmured, raking his hands in her hair, pulling it back slightly so that she lifted her chin.
‘Because I want you to.’
‘But you could have anyone.’
‘I want you.’
He kissed her again. His towel dropped to the floor and he picked her up, her legs wrapping around his hips as he carried her into the bedroom and threw her down on the bed. She laughed,
delighted.
He knelt over her, kissing her tummy, before looking up at her. ‘Wait – what happened to that guy? The one at Chantilly?’
‘Noah?’ She shrugged, folding her hands behind her head. ‘I dumped him in the car on the way back to Paris.’
He didn’t reply but she could tell from his smile that he was pleased – and relieved. He began kissing her tummy again but she put her hands on his head, making him look at her.
‘And your girlfriend? Or should I say
girlfriends
?’ How many different women had she seen him with in the past few weeks? Three?
He shook his head dismissively. ‘They were just distractions.’
‘Distractions from what?’
‘
You.
You’ve been driving me out of my mind.’ He kissed her stomach again, making her sigh, her arms thrown back over her head as she sank into the pillows. He inched
his way up her, his lips like feathers on her skin, raising goosebumps and making her wriggle. He lay atop her on his elbows, a hand on either side of her head, gazing down at her. He stroked her
hair away from her face. ‘I never did anything so good to deserve you.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is . . . I’m no angel, Flora.’
‘Who said I want you to be?’ she asked. ‘I’m not looking for whatever
this
is, either. I don’t want a white knight, thanks.’
‘Good, because I can’t be that.’
She looked up at him. ‘You always do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘It’s like you’re determined to lower people’s expectations of you.’
His dark eyes flickered and she knew she was getting too close again. ‘But you don’t fool me any more. I know you’re not what you want people to believe. That’s just a
mask you wear to keep everyone away, so it’s just you and Natascha. It’s how you think you’ll keep her safe.’
He didn’t reply.
‘I get it. You’re an amazing brother to her.’ He went to demur but she reached up and kissed him, stopping the words. ‘Don’t argue. You are.’
He smiled. ‘Do you have any brothers? Sisters?’
‘One big brother, God help me.’ She rolled her eyes, as she always did when asked this question. Her stock comic response.
‘And is he protective of you? What I mean is, will he beat me to death for falling for his sister?’ He grinned.
It was a moment before Flora could reply. He’d fallen for her?
‘Freddie? Oh, well . . . h-he’s so relaxed he’s practically horizontal.’
Xavier watched her. ‘And you are close to him.’
She nodded. ‘Very. There’s only two years between us.’
‘So then I need to get Freddie onside. He’s the one who can convince the rest of your family to like me.’
Her hands cupped his cheeks. ‘They will love you.’
He stared down at her and a moment full of an unspoken, unspeakable truth passed between them. It was too soon to say it, to even think it.
And then in the next instant, it was erased altogether. ‘No. Being with me is . . .’ He looked away, shame flooding his face, but she grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place.
‘Xavier, listen to me. You are not accountable for what your grandfather did. You are not him. Your father’s taking every step open to him to make amends.’ But still he
wouldn’t look at her. She put her hands either side of his face. ‘Listen to me. I am
not
ashamed to be with you – I couldn’t be prouder.’ She hesitated.
‘You’re not the only family to have lies written about you, you know.’
He looked back at her sceptically. ‘Oh, really? And which lies have been written about your family in the national papers then?’
He meant it ironically but she felt the tension set in her bones. He’d shared so much with her tonight, he was laid bare: his family’s humiliation, his sister’s attack . . .
How could she not respond in kind? She couldn’t avoid it anyway; the trial was just a few weeks away now and it would be her family’s turn to grace the tabloids. How could she not tell
him she understood him better than he could possibly know?
‘There’s . . . there’s something you should know. It’s about Freddie.’
‘My ally?’
‘Yes. Because he
is
nice – he’s the kindest, sweetest, gentlest guy you’ll ever meet.’
Xavier shrugged, tracing a finger down her nose, clearly not taking her seriously. ‘OK.’
‘The thing is, he’s . . .’ She didn’t want to say the words, didn’t want to give them shape, put flesh on the bones of this lie. ‘He’s . . .’
‘What is he, Flora?’ he murmured, bending down to kiss her again, his mind clearly moving on to other matters.
‘He’s been charged with a crime he didn’t commit.’
He chuckled again. ‘You sound like the voiceover person on a film.’
When she didn’t reply, he pulled back and looked at her. ‘OK, sorry. What’s he been charged with?’
‘. . . Rape.’
A silence as loud as a thunderclap shook the room. Xavier’s body changed completely, his languid weightiness suddenly transformed with a rigidity that almost lifted him off her, as though
he were levitating.
‘Xavier, it was a one-night stand, they were drunk – but it was consensual. The girl who’s doing this, she’s angry because he rejected her. He had a girlfriend he loves
very much. It was all just a horrid mistake that’s been twisted into this
lie
.’
It was true. His crime wasn’t even that he’d cheated, but that he’d scorned. Just the way he’d recounted the events to her – ‘I freaked . . . told her it was
a mistake . . . high-tailed it out of there’ – had told her exactly why lust had turned into revenge.
Flora herself had realized how often she’d catch Milly’s gaze on Freds on the few times they’d all been out together. She’d thought it sweet, if anything, but it required
no stretch of the imagination at all to know that Milly had seized her chance when she’d bumped into Freddie out with the boys, Aggie away for a hen weekend.
But the truth wasn’t going to save her brother. It was telling the truth that had brought him to his knees: telling Milly, the morning after, that it had been a mistake; confessing to
Aggie before she’d heard it from someone else; admitting to the police that they’d slept together when they first hauled him in. He hadn’t thought to protect himself with lies,
too lacking in guile to think that anything other than honesty was the best policy.
The prosecution’s entire case rested on the text he’d drunkenly sent her in the club:
Where are you???
Separated, Freddie told her he’d sent it trying to find her
and
the others.
But Milly’s barrister claimed it proved premeditation, his client desperately trying to escape him as he ‘hunted’ her down.
It was a joke. The only person hunted in any of this had been Freddie, Milly even coming to his flat the night after when she heard Aggie had dumped him, trying to jumpstart things between them
and only succeeding in forcing him to reject her again. But there was no proof of that, even though they’d been over it a thousand times – she’d been too clever to leave any
digital trace of her harassment, there were no telltale texts or phone messages from her; she’d even been astute enough to keep her face covered from the street cameras as she’d climbed
out of her cab. Her brother had been no match for this woman scorned.
She brought her thoughts back to the present and saw that Xavier was standing, staring down at her with an expression more devastating than a slap. It wasn’t anger or contempt – the
glares she was accustomed to him throwing her way – but the worst of all: disgust.
She scrambled to her knees, watching in horror as he turned and picked up his still-wet trousers from the floor. ‘Xavier, did you hear what I said? It’s not true. I promise you. If
you’d met Freddie you’d know I’m telling the truth.’
‘Yeah, it’s funny that,’ Xavier said, zipping his fly. ‘Rapists never look like you think rapists will look, do they? Monsters are masters of disguise. Most of France
thinks Desanyoux’s a top guy too.’
Flora felt a chill of fear spread through her blood. ‘No, it’s . . . it’s not the same thing. Freddie didn’t . . . he couldn’t hurt anyone. He’s nothing like
Desanyoux.’
‘Do you have any idea what that crime has done to my family? That monster, masquerading as a family man, a liberal? He’s completely destroyed my sister’s life! Every day, she
lives with the horror and the shame of what he did to her, every day she wakes up believing she’s nothing and she goes to bed thinking the same. She spends her every waking moment being what
he told her he was, because she doesn’t – she
can’t
– believe she’s worth more than that. Because of what
he
did. What
he
said. And now
you’re telling me your brother’s the same?’