A Whisper of Disgrace

He could feel the rapid flare of rage, but somehow he kept his expression neutral. ‘I thought you’d decided that wasn’t a good idea?’

‘I don’t remember saying that.’

‘Maybe not in so many words.’ His eyes narrowed as he tried not to dwell on the area of her breasts which was not concealed by the sheet. ‘But in the cold light of morning, perhaps you’ve considered the general unsuitability of a sheikh’s wife flaunting herself on television.’

‘I wasn’t planning to do anything to bring your name into disrepute, Kulal.’

‘No pole dancing, then?’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘You think so? You wish to deny the past, perhaps?’

She met the accusation in his eyes and she wanted to tell him to stop doing this. To stop it right now before he did irreparable harm to what they had. She wanted to rewind the clock back to yesterday morning, when his words had been tender, not harsh. ‘You know why I pole danced,’ she said quietly. ‘I was drunk and I was running away from an impossible situation. You know that.’

His black eyes continued to bore into her. ‘So what are you running away from this time, Rosa?’

She could feel the hammering of her heart as she clutched at the sheet. ‘I’m not running from anything,’ she said. ‘I’m just trying to find out what talents I have. I want to grab every opportunity which comes my way, because I’m aware that the clock on this marriage is ticking away. And that when we part, I want to know who the real Rosa Corretti is and what she’s capable of.’ She stared at him in appeal, wanting him to understand. Praying that he would understand.

He picked up a file of papers. ‘Then I must wish you well,’ he said.

His words were dismissive and Rosa could feel her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands as he headed out of the room without even bothering to kiss her goodbye. Damn him and his prissy attitude, she raged silently as she heard the front door slam behind him.

Defiantly, she showered and dressed—and although she always felt at her thinnest in black, she remembered reading somewhere that you should never wear black in front of the camera. So she put on a green silk dress which brought out the emerald flecks in her eyes, and after a couple of cups of strong coffee she rang Arnaud Bertrand.

‘Madame de la Désert,’ he said slowly. ‘This is a surprise.’

Rosa sucked in a deep breath, wondering if his offer had just been something meaningless which he’d tossed out during a lull in the dinner party conversation. ‘Did you mean it when you suggested the screen test?’

There was a pause. ‘But of course I meant it,’ he said smoothly. ‘I never say anything I don’t mean. Can you come in for a test this afternoon?’

She thought afterwards that if he’d scheduled the test for the following week, then she might never have taken it. Maybe that was why he did it so quickly. All Rosa knew was that later that day she had the car drop her off at the TV studio, which was situated on the Avenue de la Grande Armée. The building overlooked the Arc de Triomphe and Arnaud told her that the iconic backdrop was often hired out to visiting foreign broadcasters.

‘You don’t seem too nervous,’ he observed as he ran his eyes over her silky green dress.

Rosa gave an automatic smile. My husband doesn’t want me to be here, she found herself wanting to say. I keep thinking about him, instead of the reason I’m here—and that’s the reason why I’m not nervous. But she forced herself to push the memory of Kulal’s face from her mind and to flash a bright smile at the TV executive instead. ‘Surely nerves in front of the camera are a bad thing?’

‘They certainly are.’ Arnaud smiled back as he led her into the studio, where the lights were belting out a heat as fierce as a tropical sun. ‘How good are you at ad-libbing?’

Rosa shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

They stood her in front of a giant green screen and explained that the weather report was one of the few things on television which didn’t require an autocue. They told her that Paris was going to have sunny spells throughout the day, but that there would be scattered showers overnight. And then they asked her to talk about it on camera for thirty seconds, without a script.

She was a natural. Or at least, that’s what they said afterwards, when she’d finished her slot. Just as the last few seconds were ticking away, she had turned to the camera and said, ‘Sometimes I wish I was back in Sicily, where the sun always shines.’ She’d heard shouts of laughter in her earpiece, and when Arnaud came to collect her from the studio floor, he’d been grinning—as if he’d just done something very clever.