To Frankie’s surprise, rather than ignoring Liana and staying with the shelves of new toys and distractions, Leo pushed to his sturdy little legs and padded over to Liana. He smiled up at the older woman, dimples dug deep in both cheeks.
‘He likes you,’ Frankie said, the words punctuated with the heaviness of her heart.
‘And I like him.’ She grinned. ‘We are going to be great friends, little master Leo. No?’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded enthusiastically.
Liana turned back to Frankie. ‘You go, relax. I keep him happy.’
Frankie was torn between a desire never to let Leo out of her sight again and a need to be alone, to have a bath, to get to grips with all that had happened. In the end, it was seeing Liana and Leo playing happily together, walking around the room and exploring it, holding hands, that made Frankie’s decision for her. She turned to leave, but at the door spun back.
‘Liana?’ The nanny looked up, her face patient. ‘Thank you. For this.’ She nodded towards Leo. ‘And for this,’ and she gestured around the room.
‘It is my pleasure,’ Liana promised after a beat of silence had passed. ‘It is good to have a child in the palace again, vasillisa.’
The servant who’d brought her to the apartment had left, so Frankie was free to explore on her own. She did so quickly, perfunctorily, looking upon the rooms as she might appraise a new subject she was painting. It helped her not to focus on the disparity in her own private situation and this degree of wealth and privilege if she saw it as an outsider rather than as one who’d been suddenly and unceremoniously sucked into these lofty ranks.
There was the small anteroom, into which they’d entered. The corridor that came this way branched off into Leo’s bedroom, and another room beside it, with sofas, a small dining table and glass doors that led to a small balcony. A children’s sitting room, she surmised, the décor clearly childlike yet lovely.
Another door showed a lovely bathroom—white tiles, deep tub, a separate shower and two toilets: one regular size and one lower to the ground. The last door revealed a separate bedroom and at first she thought it would be just perfect for her—and to hell with whatever form Matthias thought their marriage would take! But a longer look showed Liana’s shoes tucked neatly under the bed and her jacket hung on a hook near the door.
So this was to be the nanny’s accommodation?
At least that meant they wouldn’t be alone in this residence! Feeling ridiculously smug, given Matthias had no doubt approved the arrangements himself, Frankie moved down the corridor and into another sitting room, this one incredibly grand. Burgundy and gold damask sofas and armchairs formed a set for six, with a marble coffee table between them, and the dining table could easily accommodate ten. It was walnut, polished, imposing, and dark. There was a bar in the corner, beside heavy oak bookshelves, and glass doors led to yet another balcony.
She moved through the room quickly, feeling out of place, like an interloper. It was impossible to imagine she’d ever feel ‘at home’ here.
The next room offered some improvement. A study, with modern computers, paperback books and an armchair that at least looked as if it had been made this century.
The following room was another improvement! A kitchen and an adjoining sitting room, this was far more homely, despite the large glass doors that showed an exquisite pool beyond. She imagined Matthias swimming in it, his body on display as he powerfully pulled through the water, and her throat was dry.
She swallowed, trying to push away the image, and moved into the kitchen. She almost cheered when she saw a familiar coffee machine. She searched drawers and doors until she located coffee grinds, loaded them into the basket and pressed the button. The aroma filled the room at once and she stood very still, allowing the fragrance to permeate her soul, to reassure her and relax her as only coffee could.
The pretty cup filled, she wrapped both palms around it and continued her tour. Early afternoon sunlight filtered in through the windows as she moved to the next room, and the light was so dazzling, so perfectly a mix of milk and Naples Yellow, translucent and fragile. She stood in the light for a moment, her eyes sweeping shut, before a jolt of recognition had her opening them anew.
The bed was enormous, and it sat right in the middle of the far wall. Where the wall itself was white, the bedlinen was steel-grey, with fluffy pillows and bedside tables that were devoid of anything personal. No photographs, no books, not even a newspaper.
Her heart in her throat, she moved around the bed, giving it a wide berth, heading for another door. Hoping it might lead to a bedroom, she pushed the door inwards and saw only a bathroom—this one more palatial than Leo’s, with an enormous spa pressed against windows that seemed to overlook a fruit grove. No doubt if her friendly servant was nearby, he’d be able to tell her what fruit was growing there—she couldn’t see from a distance.
The shower was one of those large walk-in scenarios, with two shower heads overhead and several on the walls. The controls looked like something out of a spaceship.
She backed out of the bathroom as though she’d been stung, slamming her shoulder on the way and wincing from the pain. The last remaining door showed a wardrobe—as big as her bedroom back in Queens, but only half-filled. Suits, dozens of them, all undoubtedly hand-stitched to measure, hung neatly, arranged one by one. Then shirts, crisply ironed, many still with tags attached. There were casual clothes too, and they made her stomach clench because she could imagine Matthias as he’d been then. Before. In New York, when he’d been simply Matt.
She sighed, propping her hips against the piece of furniture in the middle of the room. What even was it? Square-shaped, with drawer upon drawer. She pressed one out of curiosity and it sprung open. Watches! At least ten, and all very expensive-looking. She shook her head in disbelief and pushed it closed once more.
The hint of a smile danced on her lips as she imagined for a moment the ludicrousness of her clothing in this imposing space, the look of her costume jewellery next to his couture, and a laugh at that absurdity bubbled from deep inside. And if she’d been about to wonder how the heck she was even going t
o get her clothes, the answer presented itself in the form of a rather stylish-looking woman who introduced herself as Mathilde.
‘I take your measurements,’ she said, her accent French. ‘And organise your wardrobe.’
‘My wardrobe?’
‘You will need things very quickly, but this is not your worry. I know people.’
Frankie thought longingly of the coffee she’d placed down in the immaculate bedroom next door, and the quiet time she’d been fantasising about disappeared. For, not long after Mathilde’s arrival, came Angelique and Sienna, hairdresser and beautician, who set up a beauty salon in the palatial bathroom. One worked on taming Frankie’s ‘mom’ hair, removing all traces of playdough and neglect while still managing to keep the length and natural blonde colour in place. The other waxed Frankie’s brows and did her nails—fingers and toes—both tasks Frankie had neglected for far too long.
‘I’m an artist,’ she found herself explaining apologetically as Sienna tried her hardest to buff a splash of oil paint from Frankie’s big toe nail. ‘And I like to paint barefoot,’ she added for good measure.