she walked back upstairs alone.
Always alone.
Valentina Baden took another sip of her perfectly made espresso and leaned back in her chair contentedly. She adored Cabo San Lucas, adored their villa here, with its private whitewashed balcony off the master bedroom with views over the formal gardens and tennis courts and then out to the clear, azure-blue sea. Before Willie bought the LA Rams, they used to come down to Cabo a lot. But ever since his obsession with that godforsaken football team, getting Willie out of Los Angeles had been like trying to pry a barnacle off the keel of a rusty boat.
And it wasn’t only the Rams that had been keeping him homebound. There was the girl too, Lisa, the ridiculous brunette tramp Willie had been running around with for the past eight years, mooning after her pathetically like a lost puppy.
Not any more, though, Valentina smiled smugly. The girl was gone. Good riddance.
Truth be told, Willie and his young mistress had been on the outs anyway. Even before Lisa Flannagan’s untimely demise, Willie had started suggesting that he and Valentina spend more time together in Mexico. ‘We should head down to the villa before the hoi polloi descend,’ Willie had told Valentina over dinner last month, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Spend a few weeks in Cabo. Maybe more, depending on business.’ Apparently, Willie had some property deal brewing down in Punta Mita and another in Mexico City, Valentina’s hometown. His plan was to travel for work during the weeks and head back to Cabo at weekends.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, darling?’ he purred at his wife. ‘The whole summer in Mexico?’
Valentina replied that she would like it, very much. And she had liked it, despite the unexpected irritation of the paparazzi following her around like a swarm of flies ever since Lisa Flannagan inconveniently went and got herself murdered and the news broke that the dead model had been Willie’s latest lover.
Valentina had read the details of Lisa’s grisly death and the meager ‘facts’ the press had been able to glean about her relationship with Willie, but the Badens hadn’t discussed the matter between themselves at all. The time had long since passed when Valentina cared a fig about Willie’s extra-marital activities. Indeed, if some girl was willing to sleep with him for a few paltry gifts of jewelry and a cheap condo on the wrong side of Beverly Hills, the way Valentina saw it they were doing her a favor, keeping the revolting old toad out of her bed and allowing her to enjoy her lavish lifestyle – not to mention her own freedom – in peace.
The one part of the whole episode that troubled her was that the Los Angeles police had asked to speak with her, as well as Willie, about the murder investigation ‘as soon as possible’, even going so far as to request her immediate return to the States, a request Valentina Baden had no intention of granting. She had no desire to speak to the police about Willie’s murdered whore, or anything else for that matter. In her bitter experience, the police were no help at all when you needed them, but when they needed you they were prepared to harass you at the drop of a hat.
Draining her coffee cup, Valentina picked up the binoculars Willie kept on the balcony for birdwatching and trained them on her beloved spouse, down on the tennis court with his new young coach, Guillermo. The two of them made a ridiculous pair, Guillermo tall and young and athletic, exactly Valentina’s type, his broad shoulders rippling beneath his tennis whites and his thick dark hair blowing in the breeze as he moved gazelle-like across the court. And on the other side of the net, Willie, short, fat and bald as a coot, mimicking the young coach’s movements, his frail, liver-spotted limbs performing a grotesque parody of Guillermo’s effortless forehand.
He is old and disgusting, Valentina thought, sweating like a pig ready for the slaughterhouse.
But, she had to admit, Willie had kept his side of the bargain. Valentina’s credit cards were limitless. Willie made generous, annual donations to her pet charity, Missing, without ever delving deeper into their ‘work’. Just like Valentina’s poor, long-lost sister María, Willie could be gratifyingly trusting when it mattered most. Plus, he rarely made demands on her, either sexually or socially, the way that Richard, her last husband, used to do. On top of all that, until now anyway, he had kept his affairs low-key and discreet.
If only the stupid girl, Lisa, had kept her mouth shut, instead of bragging to all and sundry about her trysts with Willie, she might well be alive today. She’d even gone and poured her heart out to a therapist, the strikingly photogenic Dr Nicola Roberts. As it was, it was Lisa Flannagan who’d become the slaughtered pig, while Willie, her ancient lover, lived to sweat and wheeze his arthritic, self-centered way through another day.
Ah well. We all make our sacrifices, I suppose, Valentina Baden thought wryly. Our deals with the devil.
She only hoped that at some point Willie’s mood would improve, ideally before they both had to face the music and head back to LA.
Down on the tennis court, Willie Baden mopped his brow and glared bad-temperedly at his coach.
‘That last point was in,’ he snarled, doubled over and panting with exertion.
‘If you say so, sir,’ the boy, Guillermo, replied indulgently.
Patronizing asshole, thought Willie. Guillermo was a talented coach but he practically shone with the arrogance of youth. Willie’s players on the Rams were the same, most of them. Arrogant. Lisa had been arrogant too. Narcissistic little slut, may she rot in hell. She’d actually believed she could switch Willie off like a light when she grew tired of him, throw him out like a discarded toy. But it was Lisa who’d ended up discarded, tossed onto the side of the freeway like a rag doll. And now he, Willie, was paying the price for that too, being chased by photographers everywhere he went and having his good name dragged through the mud. It was a headache he could have done without.
‘Willie!’
Glen Foman, Willie’s attorney, was waving at him from the sideline.
‘We need to talk!’ Glen shouted. ‘Can you take a break?’
Wordlessly, Willie handed Guillermo his racket and stalked off the court.
‘What is it now?’ he barked at Glen, unscrewing his water bottle and taking a long, shaky gulp.
‘I’ve finished wording our statement,’ said the attorney, unfazed by his client’s rudeness. ‘You need to take a look. Then I think we should fly back to LA tomorrow and go to the police voluntarily.’
Willie shook his head.
‘You give them the prepared speech,’ said Glen, ignoring him. ‘Let the media take pictures, let me handle any questions—’
‘We can’t leave tomorrow,’ Willie interrupted him. Glen Foman followed his client’s gaze up to the balcony of the villa’s master bedroom, where Willie’s wife sat reading the newspaper, as cool and calm as Lady Macbeth. He’s scared of her, Glen thought. Even with a possible murder charge hanging over him, he’s too afraid to cross Valentina.
‘Mrs Baden wouldn’t need to come,’ Glen reassured him. ‘It would only be you and me. We could turn around and be
