The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [16]
But Stevie had not escaped unharmed. Somehow she couldn’t shake the feeling, in her heart, in her stomach, that she had been found to be unlovable, that she had in some way failed as a woman. And she hated the fact that David knew.
‘Joss was so different. I thought artists were different—passionate and true—’ she stopped herself, realising how naive she sounded.
Rice said nothing. With a small gesture, he ordered Stevie another gin and tonic.
‘He made me believe he saw qualities in me that no one else did.
That’s very attractive. It makes you feel special. Unique. I loved him.’
Her voice trembled a fraction, the tiniest warble of pain.
‘Oh you poor darling.’ Rice’s words barely rising above a growl.
Stevie blushed. He had never called her that before. She took the clean napkin he was holding out to her; he had seen the secret tears in her eyes.
‘Your parents were both mad on artists, especially painters, had lots of them as friends,’ he said, trying to offer some consolation. ‘But painters are still people, you know, and share insecurities and desires and weaknesses with the rest of us humans.’ Rice took a long sip of his drink and fixed Stevie with his gaze. ‘You have to stop seeing yourself through that fool’s eyes. You are special, in my eyes—’ Stevie looked up, startled, her face suddenly hot.
‘—in the eyes of your colleagues at Hazard.’
The mad flutter in her heart died like a day-old moth. Professionally respected. Yes, she supposed she was now. But that was hardly enough to ensure her human credentials.
‘I just feel like a fool,’ she confessed. ‘I had no idea and I still don’t really understand why.’
‘And you’re still heartbroken.’ It was not a question. It was an outcome.
‘It’s hard to just turn love off. You despise them, but they can still make your heart jump.’ Stevie reached for a cigarette and held it in her long fingers, fiddling with the gold band. ‘I did ask him why, you know,
why he had destroyed us so completely.’ Her voice was velvety with pain. ‘He said he had found true love with Norah, that he had to follow his passion and that anything else would be hypocritical.’
Rice made a vicious noise in his throat. ‘I could kill him.’
Stevie gave him a small smile. ‘Thank you, David. He’s not worth it. But the ridiculous thing is, nothing’s felt the same since.’ She looked back down at her hands, still fiddling with the cigarette. ‘I hate it, but it’s the truth.’
Rice glared at her, then decided. ‘You need some time off. That’s all. You’re overdue to take leave. Take a week. Get some rest. You’re no good to me on less than top form.’
‘I’m not sure what I’d do with the time . . .’
‘Sleep, eat, get that worm out of your heart,’ he instructed. ‘One day the right person will come along and you need to be ready to see them when they do.’
‘Did you ever meet the right person, David?’ Stevie knew very little about Rice’s personal life, but she knew he wasn’t married.
Rice glanced at his watch, a Breguet with a brown crocodile strap that he had bought himself when he finished with active service. ‘Right.
Must go. I’m already late, all this nattering.’
Stevie wished he would stay, maybe invite her to dinner, but he didn’t. He left as quickly as he had come.
Watching him leave, Stevie felt very alone. She would book a flight back to Zurich tonight, she decided, and visit her grandmother Didi in the mountains.
Perhaps David was right, but it didn’t stop her hating herself for having placed her happiness in such unsafe hands—in the hands of another person at all. She would not be making that mistake again.
Stevie looked around. The bar had filled up. Elton John was playing at the Albert Hall. The shape of the overcoat standing at the bar was familiar. Her heart sank. Charlie was perfectly nice—in fact many people turned small somersaults just to meet him. He, or rather his father’s title, collected New Best Friends. But she wasn’t in a sociable mood, and Charlie was a close friend of Joss’.
Stevie and Charlie had met at Oxford. Together