At last, at long, long last, the nightmare was over. Once and for all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER…
THE WOMAN WALKED INTO THE STARBUCKS unnoticed. There was already a long line. It was nine in the morning, right after school drop-off time, and the place was packed with moms picking up their iced lattes en route to the gym. The woman wore the same mommy uniform as everybody else: Hard Tail yoga pants, Nike sneakers and a Stella McCartney for Adidas running top just tight enough to emphasize her pert breasts and flat stomach without bein
g showy. Her pretty face was hidden behind a pair of Chloé aviators, and her shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
Matt Daley didn’t look up from his computer. He was supposed to be working, coming up with a first draft for a piece for Vanity Fair on the comedy business in Hollywood. Having left Azrael behind him, Matt had returned to his first loves, comedy and writing, and was enjoying something of a renaissance in his career. This morning, however, he was goofing off, scouring Marie Chantal online for cute baby clothes. They’d found out a few days ago that, quite unexpectedly, Cassie was expecting. An elated Matt was convinced that the baby was going to be a girl.
“Is this seat taken?”
The woman was hovering next to him, coffee in hand.
“Oh, no. Please…” Matt moved politely to one side to make room for her to sit down. She did so, putting her coffee cup down on the table first. Something about her hand and the languid way she moved her arm caught his eye. She reminded him of someone, but at first he couldn’t remember who.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I? It’s just that the place is so packed…”
The voice. Matt felt the hairs on his forearm stand on end.
Aware of him staring at her, the woman took off her sunglasses. “What’s the matter?” She smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
THE PHONE WAS RINGING. CASSIE DALEY dragged herself from the bathroom, where she’d just finished throwing up for the second time that morning, into the kitchen.
“Hello? Hello?”
Typical. The moment she got there, the person hung up. Perching at the kitchen counter, Cassie poured herself a tall glass of filtered water and sipped it slowly, nibbling at a piece of dry toast. She’d forgotten about morning sickness and how rotten it made you feel. It had been so long since she’d given birth to Brandon, and almost three years since her last hangover. Nausea felt like a novelty.
The ringing of telephones, on the other hand, was grimly familiar, the sound track to Cassie and Matt’s marriage ever since they got back from Tahiti. Claire’s warnings at the airport that day about the media circus following Sofia Basta’s death had been depressingly prophetic. They’d walked into the hallway of their house to a cacophony of ringing telephones, home, office and cell, all competing for Matt’s attention. Even the fax line buzzed insistently like an angrily trapped bee.
“Mr. Daley? This is CBS News. Do you have any comment on Sofia Basta’s death…?”
“Mr. Daley, do you buy the coroner’s verdict of accidental death…?”
“Matt, hi, this is Piers Morgan. I’m sure you must be inundated with offers right now, but I wanted to call personally to see if I could persuade you to talk to us first.”
Some callers were pushy, others respectful. The magazines, though, were the worst. The bitch who called from Star actually implied that unless he agreed to give them an exclusive interview, they were planning to run a story about Matt and Sofia having met up for “trysts” on the days she’d been allowed out of the hospital. “Your wife would be shocked to read the stuff our sources have told us,” the reporter had the gall to say. “This is your chance to set the record straight.”
When Matt told her where she could stick her sources, the woman was as good as her word and ran the story anyway, a preposterous hodgepodge of grainy, blatantly Photoshopped pictures and conspiracy-theory nonsense. It was the biggest-selling issue of Star that year.
Cassie was furious. “Sue them! Sue them for libel. Force them to print a retraction.”
But Matt had persuaded her that engaging with tabloid morons would only add more fuel to the fire. That eventually, if they continued to maintain a dignified silence, the story would fizzle and die. And he was right. Two Altacito guards lost their jobs and the hospital’s director was forced to resign. With public lust for vengeance at least partially satisfied, and no more salacious revelations forthcoming, the calls finally stopped. But not before Cassie Daley had developed a powerful aversion to the sound of ringing phones.
The message light was flashing. Hitting play, Cassie smiled when she heard Matt’s voice.
“Hi, honey. It’s only me. Listen, something came up with this Vanity Fair thing. I…I have to go meet someone. Anyway, I might be late tonight, so don’t worry and don’t cook for me. Okay, see you later.”
He’s a terrible liar, she thought lovingly. She wondered what surprise he was planning this time, what secret it was that he didn’t want her to know. Probably something for the baby. Or earrings to go with the necklace he got me last week. Or maybe he’s finally booked that trip we’ve been planning, our “babymoon.” Always generous, Matt had gone into gift-giving overdrive since Cassie became pregnant. He’d even started spoiling Brandon with a cell phone (at nine!) and a cool new thousand-dollar diving watch.
I’ll talk to him when he gets home. He has to stop with the spending. The baby is blessing enough.
MATT CLOSED THE DOOR BEHIND THEM, his hand shaking. The hotel was expensive, exclusive and discreet, just the sort of place where rich men brought their mistresses.
Is that what I am? A rich man with a hard-on?
Sofia Basta sat down on the bed. There was so much to say, to explain. She’d run through this scene a thousand times in her mind, but now that she was actually here, she had no idea where to begin.