‘I don’t believe that you are saying what I hear you to be saying,’ she said very slowly, her voice hollow. ‘You cannot be. It’s impossible.’
Rico felt anger welling in him, and fought to subdue it.
‘I appreciate,’ he began again, ‘that this is difficult for you to fully take on board, but—’
‘Stop saying that. Stop saying I don’t understand.’ She jerked to her feet again. Her eyes were flaring with emotion. ‘What I’m saying is that it’s insane. It’s grotesque.’
Rico’s expression froze.
‘Grotesque?’ The word echoed from him, as though it were in a foreign language. Hauteur filled his face. ‘In what way?’ he bit out. He got to his feet without realising it, discarding his brandy glass on a side-table as he did so.
She was staring at him wild-eyed, her face working.
‘What do you mean, “In what way?”?’ she demanded. ‘In every way. It’s grotesque—absolutely grotesque—to think of me marrying you.’
Cold anger filled Rico. To use such a word about such a matter—
He had taken a great deal from this woman, made allowance after allowance for her circumstances, but for her to stand there and tell him that his offer was grotesque—
‘Would you do me the courtesy of explaining why?’ His voice was like ice.
She stared at him. For one long moment she met his gaze, and then, as if in slow motion, he saw her face seem to fracture.
‘What else can it be?’ she said, in a low, vehement voice.
His voice was stiff with tightly leashed anger. ‘I do not see why—’
She cut across him.
‘Look at me.’
She stood dead in front of him.
‘How can you even think of it? Look at me.’ Her voice was taut. ‘It’s grotesque to think of me…of me…marrying…marrying…you—’
She broke off. Her head dropped.
Rico stood looking at her. His anger had gone. Vanished. In its place…an emotion he was unused to feeling.
Embarrassment.
And pity.
Then, quietly, he said, ‘We’ll find another way to sort this out.’
Lizzy lay in bed, but she was not asleep. Beside her, on the far side of the bed, Ben’s breathing rose and fell steadily, soundlessly. Lizzy stared into the darkness. Even now, if she did not steel herself, she could feel the hot tide of all-consuming mortification flooding through
her. It had been one of those excruciating moments—like a dream in which she found herself walking down the street naked—that she would remember all her life.
How could he have done it? How could he have actually sat there and said that to her face? How could anyone in his insane family have thought of it?
She felt a cold sweat break out on her.
Grotesque, she had called it, and that was the only word for it. The very idea of someone who looked like her marrying someone who looked like him—for whatever reason.
As if someone were running a sadism course in her mind, she made herself think about it. Made herself see it as if it were real.
Made herself see the headlines. Forced herself to.