Nikos reached for the decanter, pausing in the act of pouring a second. The temptation was strong, but clear-headed was the only way to be tonight, because tonight was the beginning of the end, the face-to-face to get it all out in the open. Whatever it was that Martin thought had been hidden away in Maria’s legacy, this was the night when they’d sort it out, because it was draining—and not just financially.
Despite what Martin’s lawyers and the Inland Revenue seemed to think, there were no hidden assets, no secret stash of cash, no offshore investments. She had drunk them all, or snorted them all. And that was that. It would be a hard story to tell her doting brother, but Nikos was damned sure he wasn’t going to leave anything out, because he’d had enough.
The tit-for-tat legal wrangling had gone on for too long so he’d done it the old-fashioned way; lifted the phone, and asked for a meeting. When Martin suggested this black-tie event in one of his chain of luxury hotels, Nikos didn’t hesitate. It was that or wait another six weeks until they’d even be on the same continent.
He could barely wait six more minutes now that he finally had the end in sight. Five years since Maria’s death—but it was only his wedding ring he’d tossed into the cool, blue Aegean; the pain and the memories had been much harder to shift.
Too late to stop himself, he touched his ring finger. Empty space, smooth skin. Even though House, his high-end chain of department stores, was now in the Forbes 100, with turnover almost hitting the four billion mark, that feeling of bare skin felt better than anything. It was the feeling of freedom. More than that, it was the cast-iron knowledge that he was on his own now. On his own, forging his path, no wife hanging off his arm, or around his neck, no damage to clean up after—just these final few crumbs and then he really was home free.
He filled up a fresh glass with water and walked to the window. The estate was impressive, immense, expanding off into horizons of oak trees and lawns, and willow-draped lakes. He could just see the roof of the lodge house he’d passed and the huge iron gates at the end of the road, where a car had just pulled up. Something about it made him strain forward to see better…
But just then a knock sounded on the door, and he turned.
‘I heard you’d arrived.’
Martin Lopez stood in the door and for a second they looked at each other. The same dark hair, dark eyes, sallow skin and high cheekbones as Maria—a look that he’d once found ravishing, irresistible, forging a love so strong he’d moved from delinquent eighteen-year-old biker to husband, in three years.
Looking back, which he had done all too often in the ten years they’d been together, it had been a predictable car crash of wrong place, wrong time. The minute he’d rescued her from the Bentley she’d wrapped around a lamp post on the side of the Sydney highway, they’d been inseparable—he was tennis coach, swimming coach, personal trainer, anything she could do to keep him in her life, and, after where he’d been, it had felt like arriving at the Promised Land.
Unfortunately some promises were very hard for Maria to keep.
‘Martin. Good to see you.’
He walked towards him, stretching out a hand, reading in the light press of Martin’s palm and the shifting of his gaze that he was on edge.
‘Nikos. I’m glad you came. It’s been a long time.’
‘Too long,’ said Nikos, holding the handshake a second longer, reassuring him that they were friends, no matter what had gone before.
‘Yes, and I wanted to get in touch, but it’s not been easy since Maria died.’
‘I guess not. Our lives have taken different directions.’
‘But we’ll always have her in common.’
‘I can’t deny that,’ said Nikos, staring hard at Martin, wondering what was really going on in his mind. He had done everything for the Lopez family; they were all set up for life. He had nothing left to give.
But something was eating the other man up. Martin dropped his gaze and turned back to the door.
‘Shall I show you around, before the guests start to arrive?’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘Absolutely,’ Nikos said, strolling out to the grand hallway, where the faces of various English rose aristocrats in grand gilt frames hung around the walls, no doubt wondering what the hell had happened to the old house now that the Lopez Hotel Group had transformed it.
‘Yes, it’s great to see you,’ Martin said, stepping alongside him now like a best buddy. ‘And I’m really grateful that you’ve agreed to present an award. We sold an extra fifty seats when it was announced yesterday.’
Nikos shrugged. ‘It’s no problem. I was on the way back from Sydney when I got the call.’
‘Visiting your mother? How is she?’
They were at the top of a wide sweep of carpeted stairs, no doubt a prime photo opportunity for the hundreds of brides who used Maybury Hall.
‘Ah, she’s OK. Thanks for asking. She doesn’t know me any more but she seems quite happy, and they look after her well.’
His monthly visits to Sydney were the one fixed item in his calendar. He knew they wouldn’t last for ever…
‘So how’s business?’ he asked, keen to change the subject.
They walked down the stairs, as staff carrying huge displays of flowers and cakes criss-crossed over the black-and-white floor beneath them.
‘I’m getting out soon,’ said Martin, with a mirthless laugh. ‘This is the last sponsorship I’m doing. I want to end on a high. The hotels are doing well, but the wedding industry’s being choked to death by overseas competition.’
‘China?’
Martin nodded. ‘It’s hitting the dress side worst of all. With the volume they can produce overseas, there’s just no profit margin for the little guy. Unless it’s high-end, bespoke, but even then it’s tough.’
‘People will always want to get married,’ said Nikos. People other than himself.
‘Yes, but it’s not what it was. Even the ones that have been on the go for years are feeling it. Another one of them is just about to hit the buffers, and it’s one of my old pals who once owned it. It’s his daughter’s now.’
They rounded the corner of the staircase and fell into step walking on through the lobby. All around, the paraphernalia of an industry built on hormones and fiction—love and marriage. A sham that left Nikos stone cold.
‘It’s a pity, because she is a lovely girl—at least she was last time I saw her. But she’s out of her depth.’
‘As in overinvested, or out of her depth because she doesn’t have the skill?’
‘A bit of both probably. Which makes it awkward. She’ll be here tonight and I’ve got a feeling she’s going to make a pitch. And I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s the problem.’
‘Yes, that’s a tough one,’ said Nikos, who had his own tough message to deliver to Martin, as soon as they got the chance to talk in private.
They turned the corner of the hall and stood on the threshold. Tables, heavy in white linen, spread off in all directions; the band at the side of the stage was tuning up a series of mismatched sounds.
Soon the movers and shakers of the wedding world would all be here to congratulate themselves on their achievements in this phony industry, and he, the man least likely to marry ever again, would be presenting one of them with a cube of etched Perspex that would wind up displayed on a shelf somewhere. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Suddenly screens at either side of the stage flickered to life with images of Titian-haired brides in long flowing