Zoe opened the shutters and walked out onto the wide terrace. The Mediterranean Sea sparkled beneath her. The sky was a cloudless blue, the sun already beating down. It could have been a July day in England; even the maid had commented how unusually hot it was for late February in Menorca.
The villa she and Art were staying in was simply beautiful. Owned by one of the King of Spain’s brothers, its whitewashed, turreted outer shell was nestled in forty acres of lush grounds. Inside the villa, the warm breeze blew in gently through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the vast tiled floors were kept sparkling by invisible hands. It was built high up, overlooking the sea, so unless the paparazzi were prepared to scale sixty feet of rock face, or dodge the Rottweilers that patrolled the high walls topped by lethal electrified wire, Zoe and Art had the comfort of knowing they could enjoy each other’s company undisturbed.
Zoe sat down on a lounger and gazed into the distance. Art was still asleep inside and she had no wish to wake him. To all intents and purposes, the past week had been blissful. For the first time, there was nothing and no one to drag them apart. The world was going on somewhere else, managing to turn without either of them.
Night and day, Art had sworn undying love to her, promised that he’d let nothing stand in his way. He loved her, he wanted to be with her, and if others wouldn’t accept it, then he was prepared to take drastic action.
It was a scenario she’d dreamt of for years. And Zoe could not understand why she didn’t feel ecstatic with happiness.
Maybe it was simply the stress of the past few weeks catching up with her; people often said that their honeymoons were less than perfect – the reality being less than the expectation. Or maybe Zoe had come to realise that she and Art hardly knew each other on a day-to-day basis. Their brief affair years ago had been as teenagers; immature and vulnerable human beings, blindly seeking their way towards adulthood. And, in the past few weeks, they’d spent no more than three or four days together, and still fewer nights.
‘Snatched moments . . .’ Zoe muttered to herself. Yet here they were, and rather than feeling relaxed, she was undeniably tense. Yesterday evening, the chef had cooked them a wonderful paella. When it was served, Art had pouted and suggested that next time the chef consult him on the menu before he presented it to them. Apparently, he loathed shellfish of any kind. Zoe had tucked in to the paella with gusto and praised the chef fulsomely on the recipe, which had sent Art into a sulk. He’d also accused her of being ‘too friendly’ with the staff.
There had been numerous other small things over the past few days that had irritated rather than angered Zoe. It seemed they always did what he wanted. Not that he wouldn’t ask her opinion first, but then he would talk her out of her ideas and she’d end up agreeing to his plans for the sake of a quiet life. She’d also discovered that they had very little in common, which was not surprising, given that their worlds had been so vastly different. For all Art’s fine public school and university education, his broad cultural knowledge and his grasp of politics, he had little idea of the kind of routine staples that filled the average person’s day. Like cooking, watching soaps on TV, shopping . . . just normal, pleasurable activities. She’d realised how difficult he found it to relax, how he was full of nervous energy. And even if he had agreed to watch a film with her, she doubted they’d be able to reach a consensus on which one to choose.
Zoe sighed. She was sure most of these differences were discovered by every couple who suddenly began living together twenty-four hours a day. It would work itself out, she assured herself, and their magical romance of the past could be sparked into life once more.
The problem was exacerbated, of course, by the fact that they were held captive in the most luxurious prison imaginable. Zoe looked beneath her and thought how much she’d like to leave the house and go for a long walk on the beach alone. But that would mean alerting Dennis, the bodyguard, who would then tail her in the car, so that the whole point of being solitary was lost. Yet for some reason, she thought, she hadn’t objected to Simon being around her. She’d found his presence and his company calming.
Zoe stood up and rested her elbows on the balcony railing, remembering the twenty-four hours she and Simon had spent together at Welbeck Street. The way he’d cooked for her, soothed her when she was in such distress. She’d felt like herself then, like Zoe. Comfortable to be who she was.
Was she herself with Art?
She didn’t know.
‘Morning, darling.’ His voice called her from the bed as she tiptoed across the room to the bathroom.
‘Morning,’ Zoe replied brightly.
‘Come here.’ Art’s arms stretched towards her.
She walked towards the bed and let Art embrace her. His kiss was long, sensuous, and she lost herself in it.
‘Another day in paradise,’ he murmured. ‘I’m famished. Have you ordered breakfast?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Why don’t you go and see Maria and have her bring us some fresh orange juice, croissants and some kippers? She said she could have them flown in yesterday and my taste buds are tingling for them.’ He gave her a fond pat on the bottom. ‘While you do that I’ll take a shower. I’ll see you on the terrace downstairs.’
‘Oh, but Art, I was going to take a show—’
‘What, darling?’
‘Nothing,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
They spent the rest of the morning sunbathing by the pool, Zoe reading a novel, Art scanning the English newspapers.
‘Listen to this, darling. Headline: “Should the son of a monarch be allowed to marry a single mother?”’
‘Really, Art, I don’t want to know.’
‘Yes, you do. The newspaper had a phone poll, and twenty-five thousand of their readers called to register their opinion. Eighteen thousand of them said yes. That’s over two-thirds. I wonder if Mater and Pater have read it.’
‘Would it make any difference if they had?’
‘Of course. They’re terribly sensitive to public opinion, especially at the moment. Look, there’s even a Protestant bishop interviewed in The Times who’s come out in support of us. He’s saying single mothers are part of modern society and that if the monarchy is going to last into the new millennium, it has to throw off its shackles and show it can adapt too.’
‘And I’ll bet there’s some whinging moralist in the Telegraph who’s saying it’s the duty of public figures to set an example, not use the sloppy sexual behaviour of the general public as a get-out,’ Zoe muttered darkly.
‘Of course there is. But look, darling.’ Art got up from his chair and sat on her sunbed. He took her hand in his and kissed it. ‘I love you. Jamie is my flesh and blood anyway. From whichever moral standpoint you look at it, our marriage is the right thing to happen.’
‘But no one can ever know that, can they? That’s the point.’ Zoe got off the lounger and began to pace. ‘I just don’t know how I’m ever going to tell Jamie about us.’
‘Darling, you’ve given up over ten years of your life for Jamie. He was a mistake that—’
Zoe swung round, her eyes blazing. ‘Don’t you dare call Jamie a mistake!’
‘I didn’t mean it like that, darling, really. All I’m saying is that he’s growing up now, forging a life of his own. Surely this is about you and me, and our chance for happiness before it’s too late?’
‘We’re not talking about an adult here, Art! Nowhere near. Jamie’s a ten-year-old boy. And you make it sound like a sacrifice that I brought Jamie up. It wasn’t like that at all. He’s the centre of my world. I’d do it all over again.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. Gosh, seem to be getting it all wrong this morning,’ Art muttered. ‘Anyway, I’ve got some good news. I’ve arranged for a boat to come and collect us this afternoon. We’re going to cruise over to Mallorca and pick up my friend, Prince Antonio, and his wife Mariella in the harbour. Then we’re going to sail the high seas for a couple of days. You’ll love them, and they’re very sympathetic to our predicament.’ He reached out an arm to her and stroked her hair. ‘Come on, darling, do cheer up.’
Just after lunch, as the maid was packing Zoe’s clothes ready to take on the boat, her mobile rang. She saw it was Jamie’s headmaster and answered it immediately.
‘Hello?’
‘Miss Harrison? It’s Dr West here.’
‘Hello, Dr West. Is everything all right?’
‘I’m afraid not. Jamie has gone missing. He disappeared this morning, just after breakfast. We’ve searched the school and grounds thoroughly and there’s no sign of him so far.’
‘Oh God!’ Zoe could hear the blood pumping round her body. She sat down on the bed before she crumpled to the floor. ‘I . . . has he taken anything? Clothes? Money?’
‘No clothes, although it was pocket-money day yesterday, so he might well have that. Miss Harrison, I don’t wish to panic you, and I’m sure he’s fine, but the truth is that I’m concerned that, under the circumstances, there’s a very small chance that Jamie may have been abducted.’
Zoe put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, oh God! Have you called the police?’
‘That’s obviously why I’m calling you. I wanted to ask your permission to do so.’
‘Yes, oh yes! Do it immediately. I’ll make arrangements to fly home as soon as possible. Please, Dr West, ring me the instant you have any news.’
‘Of course. Try to keep calm, Miss Harrison. I’m only erring on the side of caution. This kind of thing is relatively common: a spat with a friend, a telling-off from a master . . . The boy is usually back within a few hours. And it may just be that simple. I’m going to interview all the boys in his class now, see if they can shed any light on his disappearance.’
‘Yes, thank you. G-goodbye, Dr West.’
Zoe stood up from the bed, her entire body shaking, trying to garner her courage. ‘P-please G-God . . . anything, I’ll give anything, just let him be okay, let him be okay!’
‘Señora? Are you all right?’
Maria received no response.
‘I go get ’is Royal ’ighness, okay?’
Art entered the room a few minutes later. ‘Darling, whatever is it?’
‘It’s Jamie!’ She looked at him with agonised eyes. ‘He’s gone missing from school. His headmaster thinks he might have been abducted!’ Zoe palmed the tears from her eyes. ‘If anything has happened to him because of my selfishness, I—’
‘Hold on now, Zoe. I want you to listen to me. All boys run away from school. Even I did once, sent my detectives into a spin, and—’
‘Yes, but you had detectives, didn’t you?! I asked you if Jamie was going to get some protection but you said it wasn’t necessary, and now look what’s happened!’
‘There is absolutely no reason to suspect foul play. I’m sure Jamie is fine and will arrive back at the school as right as rain in time for supper, so—’
‘If there was no reason to suspect foul play, then why on earth did you give me a bodyguard and not your own son? Your own son, who is far more vulnerable than I am! Oh God! Oh God!’
‘Zoe! Will you calm down. You’re blowing this out of proportion.’
‘What?! My son goes missing and you accuse me of being overdramatic! Get me on a plane home, now!’ Zoe began throwing things on top of the half-packed suitcase.
‘Now you really are being silly. Certainly, if he hasn’t turned up by tomorrow morning, then we’ll get you home, but for tonight, come on the boat and enjoy supper with Antonio and Mariella. They’re so looking forward to meeting you. It’ll help take your mind off it.’
Zoe threw a shoe at him in frustration. ‘Take my mind off it! Jesus Christ! It’s my son we’re talking about, not some family pet that’s gone off for a wander! Jamie is missing! I can’t float round the Med enjoying myself while my child, my baby –’ Zoe gave a huge sob – ‘might be in danger.’
‘You’re going completely over the top.’ Art’s lips pursed together in irritation. ‘Besides, I doubt we can get you home tonight. You’ll have to fly out in the morning.’
‘No, you can get me home tonight, Art. You’re a prince, remember? Your wish is everyone else’s command. Get a plane here now to take me back, or I’ll find one myself!’ She was shouting now, past caring what he thought of her.
‘Okay, okay.’ He put his hands out as he backed away towards the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Three hours later, Zoe was standing in the small VIP room at Mahon airport. She was travelling on a private plane to Barcelona, and then from there on a late BA flight to Heathrow.
Art had not accompanied her to the airport, boarding the boat to Mallorca instead. They had said a terse goodbye as Zoe had climbed into the car, kissing each other politely on the cheek.
She fumbled in her handbag for her mobile. It would be midnight before she stepped onto British soil to search for her son. And in the meantime, there was only one person she could trust completely to help her find him.
Zoe dialled his number, praying he’d answer. He did.
‘Hello?’
‘Simon? It’s Zoe Harrison.’