That would explain the question about Internet dating, then.
“The last nine months have been a living hell for me, knowing he’s been forced to stay with her when he loves me.”
It wasn’t true. Obviously, it wasn’t true. Emile didn’t care about Prada in the slightest.
“But when he called and asked me to fly out to Rio, I couldn’t refuse him. It’s the most important match of his career, and he needs me there.”
He’d called her? That couldn’t be right. Emile wouldn’t have done that. Maybe someone had set them up? What if a reporter had faked Emile’s voice to get the story?
Her phone started ringing.
“Hi Mum.”
“Theresa Mary Chartley, what on earth have you done? It’s all over the papers, you know. I don’t know how I shall ever be able to go back to the golf club now.”
Half an hour later, she’d just about succeeded in calming her mother down, having assured her that the wedding had been legitimate, that Emile had not bribed her to marry him, and that he wasn’t being unfaithful. Her phone rang again instantly, with her boss wanting reassurance that Theresa hadn’t done anything to jeopardize her license to practice as a lawyer. His concerns were swiftly dealt with, and she ended the call.
She slumped into one of the cream leather armchairs and rubbed a hand over her face. She wanted Emile. But as Prada had so publicly reminded her, he wasn’t really hers. He never had been. A contract, a marriage—it wasn’t enough to hold a man like Emile. She had to let him go. Now, while there was still a chance of escaping with minor wounds.
…
Afterwards, she couldn’t remember a single moment of the final. She assumed that she’d cheered for the goals and groaned for the near misses and the penalties given against them. She hoped she’d remembered to cheer for France and not for England. She knew that Emile had been out there, playing the whole ninety minutes, as he’d hoped. She remembered someone screaming in her ear when he’d scored. Later, she noticed the red grooves in the palms of her hands where she’d had her fists clenched so tightly that the nails had pushed into her skin.
Hours after it had ended, the team was finally released, sky-high on the adrenaline of victory. The team buses were commandeered to take everyone to a nightclub on the seafront. Waiters brought trays of champagne and cocktails in every color of the rainbow out to them while the players slowly made their way through the crowds. Theresa took a glass of champagne and watched Emile, surrounded by adoring fans, all wanting to tell him how brilliant he’d been. She’d have her chance to tell him later. Now she was going to dance.
She walked towards the entrance of the club, pausing when there a disturbance blocked the path.
A tall, tanned, blonde disturbance about to ruin the best day of his life.
Prada, with a retinue of paparazzi to capture the moment for posterity.
“Emile.”
He turned his head, handing back the pen he’d been using to autograph people’s shirts. The moment when he recognized his ex was obvious. His face blanked, and he stepped backwards.
Prada strutted towards him.
“Congratulations,” she murmured in a low, husky voice.
“Thanks,” he said coldly.
She placed a scarlet fingernail at the top of his shirt. “I knew you’d be celebrating.”
He pushed her hand away, but she was clever. She took the chance to grasp his wrist.
“You don’t have to pretend any more, silly. Not now that you’re a hero.”
“Prada.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down so she could whisper in his ear.
A smile spread across his face, and he said something in reply.
Theresa couldn’t watch any more of this. Strike three for Project Fall Out Of Love, and she was done. There wasn’t any point loving a guy who’d drop you in an instant for a woman he despised, just because she had the spotlight for a moment. She’d been fooling herself if she thought Emile had ever been serious about her. She turned her back on them and went gratefully into the dark, throbbing heat of the nightclub, letting the music crowd everything else out of her mind.
She danced with a string of Brazilian men who showed her how to samba, shaking their hips against hers while they shimmied their chests to the music. It was a carnival dance, fun and crazy and she let it roll over her black mood, blocking out every thought of Emile and Prada. She stamped her feet and rolled her hips and joined in the wild yelps and cheers of the dancers. Eventually, she became aware of one man dancing close behind her. She could sense the warmth of his breath on her neck and feel the touch of his groin against her bottom. His hand slid around her waist, and there was no mistaking the bolt of desire, which coursed through her veins. Her body knew he’d make love as perfectly as he danced. He’d be a hell of a one-night stand.
Hellish as a husband.
She turned into his body, maintaining the rhythm of the dance.
“Shall we go?” he mouthed over the music.
She didn’t want to go with him. She didn’t want to hear about Prada. She wanted to stay in this safe place where all that mattered was that the pulse of the music matched the pulse in her heart.
He put a hand around her wrist and tugged gently. She couldn’t hide forever. She took a deep breath and followed him.
…
He took her down to the beach after checking that the ring box was still in his pocket. He slung his jacket over her shoulders, though there was still some warmth in the air. She’d taken her shoes off to walk through the sand. He watched her closely. She was tired, and there was too much tension in her shoulders. She needed a break.
“You know, you haven’t told me how brilliant I was.”
She shook her head. “I assumed everyone else had told you. I didn’t want to be boring.”
“You’re never boring.” Crazy, frustrating, and incomprehensible sometimes, but never boring.
“Fine, then. You were utterly brilliant. Will that do?”
He hooked his arm round her shoulders. “It’ll do for now.”
The moon hung full and clear in the sky, but the beach had its own lighting from the endless run of clubs and bars that ran alongside, as well as the parties that were dotted along its length with torches and bonfires. Theresa’s hair glinted, the spikes appearing silver-tipped in the moonlight. Her face was shadowed, but he’d grown to know it well enough to fill in all the contours he couldn’t see. She was so beautiful in her simple green dress, effortlessly outshining all the other wives and girlfriends.
Emile grasped Theresa’s hand more firmly as they approached their spot. He needed to know she wasn’t going anywhere without him.
“It’s here, I think.” She’d stopped and was measuring their location by eye.
Emile led her a little closer to the waterline, to where the waves just lapped over their feet and back again.
“Here.”
He looked out to sea, made a wish on the moon, then turned to Theresa.
“I have something for you.” He took the ring box out of his pocket and offered it to her.
“What’s that? A farewell present? I don’t want it, Emile.”
He blinked. Where the hell had that come from? “Farewell?”
She sighed and looked away. “Why don’t you go back and find Prada. I’m sure she’ll be waiting for you.”
Bloody Prada. She’d whispered an apology in his ear and, fool that he was, he’d let her off the hook. He’d just won the World Cup, who’d care about a few headlines with an ex-girlfriend hoping to boost her flagging career? “This is nothing to do with Prada.”