were would-be writers, but there was also an ex-soldier, a hand model and a man who had once trained in Paris as a clown. And a part-time girl called Sandy who painted portraits of cats, which then went on to grace the covers of greetings cards.
It was Sandy who was beside her on the day Cathy turned on the Internet, and—when she thought nobody was looking—typed ‘ZAFFIRINTHOS’ into the search engine the way she did every morning. And Sandy who gripped her by the elbow as the world swam horrifically before Cathy’s eyes and the large London bookshop became a blur.
‘Cathy? For heaven’s sake—what’s the matter?’ Sandy demanded. ‘Cathy, are you all right?’
But Cathy barely heard the voice, which seemed to come from a hundred miles away; she was too busy waiting for the dizziness to clear from her eyes and she uttered a small, disbelieving whimper as she took in the words which leapt out at her.
‘Young royal fights for life: Zaffirinthos waits.’
‘No!’ she whimpered, shoving her fist into her mouth and feeling her knees begin to sway.
‘Sit down!’ urged Sandy.
Her head was placed between her knees and water was fetched for her to drink—and when the colour returned to her cheeks the section manager insisted that she go home for the rest of the day. She wanted to read the rest of the article but she could hardly start browsing the Internet in the store if they thought she was sick. Better get outside and buy a paper, or go to an Internet café or something.
‘Are you pregnant?’ muttered Sandy.
Cathy flinched at the unwitting hurtfulness of the remark. Actually, no, she wasn’t—and hadn’t that discovery proved unbearably poignant? For hadn’t there been some crazy little part of her heart which had longed to hold onto some precious part of him, and to feel his child growing inside her belly? A hope banished when she’d stood in her tiny bathroom looking at a trembling stick which had stubbornly refused to turn blue.
‘No, I’m not pregnant,’ she said flatly.
Outside, the autumn wind was blustering in a cold funnel along the street, turning the newspaper she bought into a wild, flapping creature. She took it into a little café and ordered a cappuccino and then raked her way through the windblown pages. Zaffirinthos was a relatively small principality which was rarely newsworthy, but a young prince hovering between life and death would always make the international pages.
Her teeth chattering, she read:
King Casimiro of Zaffirinthos was today fighting for his life following a violent fall from his horse.
Cathy began to shake as the first thought which washed over her in a wave of intense relief was that…it wasn’t Xaviero. But this was quickly followed by a second—a lurch of terrible guilt and sorrow—to realise that his brother should be lying stricken.
Poor Casimiro. Poor, poor Casimiro, she thought painfully as she read on.
The dashing royal, 34, who recently acceded to the throne of the tiny island kingdom, has been airlifted to the capital’s hospital, where he remains in a coma. Doctors are refusing to comment on claims that the King is near death. His younger brother, Xaviero, 33 (pictured, right), is tonight on his way from South America to be at his stricken brother’s bedside. This is not the first time that tragedy has struck the fabulously wealthy di Cesere family. In a cruel twist of fate, Queen Sophia—the King’s mother and a noted beauty—died of a brain haemorrhage a quarter of a century ago.
Instinctively, Cathy began to examine the snatched photo, taken at Bogotá airport. Xaviero looked grim-faced and ravaged—his hand raised as if to strike the camera from the hands of the person taking the photograph. He looked haunted, she thought—and her heart went out to him.
Staring blandly at her now-cold coffee, she wondered if there was any way she could help. But Xaviero would be home by now, surrounded by advisors and guided by protocol, no doubt—what on earth could she possibly do?
Until she remembered that he had given her his cell-phone number—though possibly it was the only time a number had been handed out with the instruction not to use it.
‘Only if it is absolutely necessary,’ he had told her, his stern face leaving her in no doubt that he meant every word. ‘If, for example, you were to discover that you were pregnant.’ He had acknowledged her shocked little intake of breath, and had nodded, his face grim. ‘And yes, I know we have taken every precaution, but accidents can and do happen—though, obviously, we both sincerely hope that this is not the case.’
Cathy bit her lip. What would she do if it were anyone else? If it were a friend or a colleague, someone she cared about or even someone she had cared about? Why, even if it were Peter—her errant fiancé—she would send him a message straight away, telling him to hang on in there and that she was thinking of him. But this was different. Imagine the amount of people who would be trying to get in touch with a man as important as Xaviero. She was crazy to even think of trying.
As the days dragged by she couldn’t settle. She kept thinking about Xaviero and wondering how his brother was faring—but even though she scoured the newspapers and the Internet for news there was no new update on his condition.
But one evening her conscience got the better of her and she knew she had to contact him. Who cared if it was the wrong thing to do, or if it was some diplomatic no-no? Or even if he thought her a fool for doing so? This wasn’t about her—it was about him.
Sitting down on the rather scruffy sofa, she carefully composed words of comfort in her head before she dared translate them into a text message—terrified that he might think she was writing to him simply because she had an ulterior motive. In the end, she simply wrote: ‘DESPERATELY SORRY TO HEAR YOUR BROTHER SO SICK. MY THOUGHTS WITH YOU. CATHY.’ She hesitated before adding a single ‘X’, and then she pressed the ‘send’ button before she could change her mind.
She didn’t expect to hear anything and when the phone began to ring a bit later on she thought it was probably Sandy, who’d been trying to persuade her to go to a comedy stand-up evening in town. But a quick glance at the screen of her cell phone set her heart racing in disbelief. It said…it said…
Xaviero?
Heart pounding, Cathy snatched up the receiver. ‘H-hello?’
‘Cathy?’
‘Yes, it’s me. Oh, Xaviero, I’m so s—’
His words cut across hers. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. Xaviero—how’s your bro—?’
Again he interrupted. ‘I can’t talk for long and I can’t guarantee the security of the line. I need you to listen carefully, Cathy—and then to answer me. Can you come out to Zaffirinthos?’
‘Wh-when?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? But, Xaviero—I don’t understand—’
‘I told you.’ His voice sounded strained. ‘I can’t talk now—all I need is your answer—a simple yes, or no?’
Her mind was spinning
