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  He’d first gone there to work for a bank, but was now chairman of Jam, the biggest sportswear manufacturer in the world. It was fashion-victim clothing and he wouldn’t be seen dead in it, but he had been employed for his business acumen and had singlehandedly turned the company’s fortunes from loss to brand leader.

  It had taken him three weeks of sixteen-hour days to clear enough space in his hectic schedule to make the trip to Europe, but he was glad he had. New York was a vibrant, cutting-edge place to live, but it was also uptight and snobbish. You had to live in the right area, have the right friends, wear the right clothes, and go to the gym with monotonous regularity. Otherwise you didn’t fit in. And if you were seen hanging around the city on any weekend between April and November, you were considered the lowest of the low by those who migrated to the Hamptons every Thursday after lunch.

  Tony believed that Europeans had nothing to prove in the culture or lifestyle stakes, so they were much more relaxed and went with the social flow. He was ten years older than Mark, who’d been their parents’ little “surprise” when they’d all but given up hope of conceiving any more children, and his younger brother was the spitting image of their father, Derek, with his open face, hazel eyes and shock of pale brown hair. Tony took after their mother, Jean: with dark brown hair—her natural color—and royal blue eyes; and he had also inherited her thinner, foxier face. Most striking of all, he was six foot three to Mark’s five eleven.

  Because of the age difference, their relationship had always been that of mentor and pupil, and he was protective of his younger brother. Their differing personalities also meant that forthright Tony had unwittingly dominated the more malleable Mark for most of his life. It wasn’t until some distance separated them that Mark had been able to develop more independence and make his own decisions in life.

  But despite becoming more his own man, Mark had still balked at the idea of telling Tony about his forthcoming marriage. Although his brother had known he was dating, he hadn’t asked many questions about Faye, preferring in their brief conversations or emails to discuss their parents and Mark’s struggling career.

  But Mark knew that once the girlfriend became a prospective wife, Tony wouldn’t be able to resist asking all sorts of questions aimed at finding out whether his younger brother was making the right decision.

  Sure enough, when he received a long email containing the news, Tony had called immediately. However, instead of casting doubt, he had been thrilled and told a surprised Mark exactly that, adding that he couldn’t wait to meet his future sister-in-law.

  Later that night, though, his natural pessimism had kicked in, particularly because Mark and Faye had only been dating for a year. Rather than express any doubts to his brother, he had decided to consult the oracle.

  “Hi, Mum, great news about Mark,” he said, during a call that he had timed not to clash with their favorite television show.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Her response seemed muted for a woman who was desperate for one of her sons to tie the knot.

  “You don’t sound keen.”

  She cleared her throat. “Oh, it’s not that I don’t like her—in fact, she seems a lovely girl. It’s just that she and Mark are like chalk and cheese. She’s the cheese, and I suspect she’ll go off quickly, if you get my drift.”

  The comment had intrigued him, and he wondered what he would think of Faye when they met, whether he would approve.

  That was Tony’s main problem: his arrogance. Or, at least, that’s what so many of his ex-girlfriends had told him, particularly the ones he’d dumped. His favorite observation had come from a woman he’d dated casually for a couple of months before deciding she was too flaky.

  “You’ll never find another woman like me,” she’d pouted.

  “Thank God for that,” he’d muttered beneath his breath, before ushering her out of the door.

  Mark interrupted Tony’s silent reminiscences. “Here’s your key, and there were some faxes and a couple of envelopes for you too.” He handed them over. “You can leave New York, but you can never escape work, eh?”

  “That’s for sure.” Tony grimaced. “I can assure you that most of it will be in the trash in a few minutes’ time.”

  “You go up, the porter will follow with your luggage.”

  “Thanks, bruv.” Tony gave him another hug. “It’s so good to see you. You look great by the way.”

  “That’s love for you!” Mark’s whole face lit up. “I can’t wait to introduce you to Faye. You won’t believe what a lucky man I am.”

  That depends, thought Tony, but—as always in a sensitive situation—he stayed quiet. He wanted to equip himself with the full facts before passing judgment, so he just smiled encouragingly. “When am I going to meet her?”

  Mark flushed. “Well, as a nod to tradition, we’re not sharing a room tonight, so I won’t be seeing her until dinner, and I doubt you will either.” He took a step back and studied his brother. “If you make dinner, of course, I’d forgotten you’ll probably be jet-lagged.”

  Tony shook his head. “Nope. I flew to London last weekend, but I didn’t want Mum and Dad to know, and I knew you’d be up to your eyes with all this . . .” he made a sweeping gesture with his arm “. . . so I didn’t bother calling to try to meet up.”

  “Oh.” Mark looked nonplussed. “Was it a business trip?” His voice was barely audible.

  Tony looked around him, checking for anyone in earshot. “It was Melissa business.”

  Mark’s expression slowly changed to one of understanding. “Crikey. No wonder you wanted to keep it quiet from the Groans, he said, using their pet name for their parents.

  “Precisely. The last thing I wanted was Mother weeping all over me at your wedding.” He grinned suddenly. “Unless it’s tears of happiness at seeing you get hitched, of course.”

  “So what’s the state of play, then?”

  Tony’s face clouded. “Well, after all these years of us both avoiding the issue, she finally asked for a divorce.” He held up the envelopes Mark had handed him. “I suspect one of these is the decree nisi.”

  “Sorry, mate. It must be tough for you to come to my wedding just as your marriage is ending.”

  “Not at all.” Tony shrugged. “These days, I barely think about her. I saw her in the solicitor’s office a couple of days ago, and she felt like a stranger to me.”

  As an eight-year-old, Mark had seen Tony’s girlfriends come and go with bemusement. At fifteen, he’d watched enviously as twenty-five-year-old Tony moved to London, started to earn more, and occasionally came home for Sunday lunch with a succession of women who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Vogue. None had ever enjoyed a repeat visit, until a twenty-three-year-old makeup artist called Melissa arrived on the scene.

  From the moment Tony first brought her home, Mark had been transfixed by her beauty. She was exquisite, just like a porcelain doll that might snap in the wrong hands. Her jet-black hair was cut into a short bob that drew attention to her large green eyes, and she spoke softly with a slightly high-pitched tone, like that of a small child.

  To the gauche, inexperienced Mark, she was the embodiment of femininity, and he wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and look after her. Luckily, she also seemed to have this effect on Tony, who lavished attention and gifts on her with equal measure.

  Jean adored Melissa because she was quiet, unassuming, and clearly devoted to Tony.

  “We’ll never have any trouble with her,” she said to Derek, after the first visit. After the second she could barely contain her excitement as she predicted they’d just met their future daughter-in-law.

  She was right.

  Six months later, Tony had brought Melissa home again to announce their engagement. The wedding, held at Chelsea Town Hall followed by a reception at the Waldorf, had been a networker’s dream combination of the fashion and business worlds. Tony and Melissa were one of the hottest couples in town, and before long they had bought into the dr
eam of big-house-in-the-country with a London pied-à-terre.

  Melissa went part-time, taking on only London-based assignments so that she and Tony could see more of each other. Two years later, they seemed more in love than ever. Then, one summer weekend in 1998 when Mark and Kate were visiting Southampton from London, Jean and Derek got a call to say Tony was on his way.

  Jean could barely contain her excitement: “He wouldn’t tell me on the phone, but I have a strong suspicion Melissa might be pregnant! We could be grandparents by next year!”

  Later that night when Tony walked in, Mark knew immediately that something was painfully wrong. His brother’s face was alabaster white, and his eyes were shot with red thread-veins of sleep deprivation. He looked so devastated that even Jean remained silent.

  “There’s no easy way to say this . . .” Tony stared down at the wedding ring he was twisting. “Melissa and I are going our separate ways.”

  Mark, his parents, and Kate sat still, looking like experienced poker players, their faces devoid of emotion.

  A sob broke the silence. “What do you mean?” Jean had asked the question so many do when told bad news, as if, somehow, they’ll be told second time round that it’s all been a misunderstanding.

  “It’s over, Mum,” he said quietly. “She’s left me.”

  “Why, son?” Derek had his arm round the now inconsolable Jean, but remained calm.

  Tony sat down at the kitchen table and rubbed his eyes. “It’s been a long time coming, but I guess I ignored the signs.”

  Mark glanced at Kate and cleared his throat. “Is there . . .” he faltered, “. . . someone else?”

  “Yes.” His brother’s voice was hard. “Apparently, he doesn’t work the hours I do and gives her more love and attention.”

  “Who is he?” inquired Derek.

  “Some bloke from our local gym. Turns out he was teaching her a bit more than just Pilates.” He couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice.

  “The little cow.” Jean had stopped crying and found the strength to speak. “Does she think that the lovely houses, cars, and designer clothes all grow on trees? Someone’s got to work hard to pay for it all.”

  Tony patted her hand. “I know you mean well, Mum, but I probably do spend more time at work than I should. It’s a terrible habit and it’s certainly not good for a marriage.”

  “Oh, so it’s your fault she’s run off with another man, is it?” Jean asked incredulously.

  Tony sighed. “No, Mum, of course not. That’s her doing.” He massaged the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. “But I do accept that I neglected her emotionally. She tried to warn me several times, and I just kept right on working, working, working . . .” He petered out and stared at the table.

  They all lapsed into silence.

  Then Mark spoke. “Where is she now?”

  “At the flat in London, packing her things. She’s going to rent a room with a girlfriend for a while.”

  Several hours later, when Jean and Derek had gone to bed and Kate was luxuriating in the bath, Mark and Tony had adjourned to their father’s study for a brandy.

  “How did you find out Melissa was seeing someone else?” Mark asked, as he lit his brother’s cigarette.

  “Strictly between ourselves?”

  Mark nodded. “Absolutely.”

  Tony stretched his legs in front of him, leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. “You get a hunch about these things. Mine came when I got home earlier than usual one day and she arrived back from the gym wearing makeup.”

  “That was unusual?”

  “Correct. She never wore makeup to the gym, so I made the assumption she was doing it to impress someone there.” He tapped his cigarette on the ashtray.

  “Then what?”

  Tony took a drag and narrowed his eyes against the smoke as he exhaled. “I went to work as usual, then took the afternoon off and turned up at the gym unannounced.”

  Mark’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

  “They were in the bar, holding hands” he said flatly.

  “Is that it?”

  “It was enough,” said Tony. “They sprang apart when they saw me, and as soon as we got home she confessed everything . . . said she was in love with him . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Mark grasped his brother’s forearm and squeezed it. “I’m so sorry . . . I really thought you two were for keeps. “He let go and sat back. “Are you sure there’s no way you can get it back on track?”

  Tony gave him a thin smile. “Nope. I did suggest that. I said I’d try to forgive and forget . . . but she insisted it was over.”

  For the next half-hour, the two of them sat in the half-light, Tony shedding silent tears and Mark consoling him with the occasional hug.

  It was the first time he’d seen his brother cry.

  Friday, June 28

  3:12 p.m.

  “Have Mum and Dad arrived yet?” said Tony, in a valiant attempt to change the subject from his imminent divorce.

  Mark looked relieved to move on too. “No. They’re not due for another couple of hours because Mum wanted to stop off at some scenic village or other. But Kate’s here.”

  “Your Kate?” Tony’s surprise was undisguised.

  “Well, not mine anymore, but yes, that one.” Mark looked awkward. “I know it seems a little strange, but both Faye and I have invited a couple of our exes to the wedding. Jenna’s coming too.”

  Tony threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Bloody hell, you like to live dangerously, don’t you? I’d never let my exes anywhere near each other. They might swap notes.”

  “It’ll be fine.” Mark looked less than certain of this. “Kate’s brought her new boyfriend with her and Jenna would never cause trouble.”

  Idly tossing his room key in the air and catching it again, Tony looked at his watch. “Right! A bit of a nap, I think. I’m feeling a little jaded from the past few days.”

  “Well, if we don’t see you at dinner, I’ll understand,” Mark told him.

  “Miss dinner?” Tony looked horrified. “Are you mad? With all those exes in attendance, I’m sure it’s going to be the best night I’ve ever had.”

  Soon after eight, resplendent in his shiny aquamarine suit, Adam was first down to the library for the predinner drinks. He propped his elbow on the ornate fireplace, looked up at the oil painting of a doleful King Charles spaniel hanging above it, and waited.

  The room felt steeped in history, with its mahogany-paneled walls and uneven parquet flooring, worn away from hundreds of years of use. Its freshly painted white ceiling was squared off by ornate cornicing, and the leaded windows looked out over the rear gardens.

  “Champagne, sir?” A waiter appeared with a bottle of Krug and, not for the first time that day, Adam wondered how much it was all costing.

  Faye had told him that Mark’s parents were bearing most of the expense as their present to the “happy couple,” but it wasn’t so much the amount that worried him as the waste on a marriage he was convinced wouldn’t last.

  Adam had only known Faye for a couple of years, but they had spent an inordinate amount of time together, and he probably knew her better than anyone else. They were similar in character, both attention-seeking, equipped with an acerbic wit and a perilously low boredom threshold.

  He knew that the novelty of the wedding was holding Faye’s interest for the time being, her own little piece of theater in which she was the central character. But once the limelight had faded and everyone left the château to carry on with their lives, Adam thought that she would tire of Mark. It might be weeks, months, or even a year, but he was certain it would happen.

  Adam might not have been an expert on women as lovers, but in Faye he recognized his own mother. She, too, had been a feisty, compelling woman. His father was a pleasant man who had let her make all the decisions, purely because he was easygoing. Eventually, she had perceived this as weakness and became frustrated by it. They were now just good
friends, happier apart.

  As a child, Adam had watched all this at close hand, and he thought the same pattern might develop between Faye and Mark. She needed someone to give her a verbal slap every now and then, to let her know loud and clear that she couldn’t get away with shabby behavior. But Mark wasn’t that man. He was too laid-back, not to mention smitten.

  But it was Adam’s heartfelt belief that there was a man out there who could find the right balance with Faye, and whom she in turn would make happy.

  “Mark’s too nice, too much of a Romeo for you,” he had said to her one day.

  “You’d do, but you’re too much of a homo,” she replied, and blew him a kiss.

  “Homosexuality is God’s way of ensuring that the truly gifted aren’t burdened with children,” he’d retorted.

  Adam smiled now as he remembered the exchange. He sipped his champagne and hoped that his prophecy of doom would turn out to be wrong. He dearly wanted Faye to find long-lasting happiness.

  Just as he was wondering if he’d got the wrong time for the predinner drinks, the door opened and a stunningly handsome perma-tanned man walked in. Hanging on his arm was a full-size Barbie doll, with inch-thick foundation and blond hair extensions. She was wearing leopard-skin trousers with a plunging lace corset that made her waist look no bigger than a Cheerio.

  Adam smiled thinly. “Hi, Nat.”

  “Hello, mate . . . Alan, isn’t it?” Nat shook his hand.

  “Adam, actually,” he muttered, through gritted teeth. Nat might be a bit of an arse, he thought, but he looked incredibly stylish in a black Comme de Garçon suit with a crisp white shirt underneath. “And you are?” He extended a hand towards the blonde, who was flashing her best Colgate smile at him.

  “McLaren,” she rasped, in a voice that could cut glass.

  “Sorry?”

  “That’s me name. McLaren. It’s a sort of stage name, really.”

  “Yeah, it means she’s sleek and extremely racy.” Nat clutched a large chunk of her backside and squeezed hard, causing her to squeal with delight.