Winning Back His Runaway Bride

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I just found some of those dinners and concerts and balls we attended a bit hypocritical,’ she said carefully. ‘There were people wearing outfits that cost more than the money they donated, sipping fine champagne and doing business deals while ostentatiously writing huge cheques. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is how much of the world works and the money raised can be life-changing. It’s just not my style. Meanwhile, these children will have a wonderful experience and learn the value of thinking about others. What’s wrong with that?’

  Matteo held up his hands as if in mock surrender. ‘Wrong? Nothing at all. It’s just as I said, it’s an awful lot of work.’

  ‘In this case, work you volunteered me for,’ she pointed out, and he laughed.

  ‘Point taken.’

  They were nearing the village now and the path thinned so they were forced into single file. Charlie fell behind Matteo, her mind still tumbling with thoughts stemming from their brief conversation.

  The truth was that Matteo’s careless suggestion that she step in to help his goddaughter had stirred up the still unresolved hurt and anger from the night of the Kensington gala. The night when they hadn’t even argued, just stared at each other in mutual inability to empathise with the other. The night that had led her to tell Matteo she couldn’t see a way their marriage would work and maybe she should leave. The night he had said that maybe that would be best. She didn’t know if he had expected her to go through with it but while he was in New York she’d packed her things and returned to her grandmother’s.

  He still didn’t know how much he’d hurt her—no, he knew how much but had no real idea why. He understood that he’d closed down emotionally, been physically as well as mentally absent, but didn’t realise that his lack of interest in her activities, in her life had been equally hurtful. But was it fair to dredge up that argument again? After all, he was committed to trying to put things right. And, truthfully, she couldn’t deny that the last two weeks had been among the best of her life.

  But if she didn’t say anything then how could they solve all the problems that had led to the breakdown of their marriage in the first place? If she wanted to just enjoy these weeks in Italy and then head off in their separate ways then brushing the past under the carpet was the best policy—and that option was available to her; Matteo had made that very clear. But, with every day, Charlie knew that she didn’t want that outcome. That this marriage, this man were worth fighting for—and that meant that, sooner rather than later, she needed to be completely honest.

  At that moment they reached the hall where Natalia taught dancing and the rehearsals were to take place. The gala itself would be held in the gorgeous surroundings of the Villa Rufolo on an evening when it wasn’t holding one of its famous concerts, the audience for once made up primarily of locals, not well-heeled visitors—although the illustrious line-up of stars had led to tickets selling to plenty of outsiders.

  Charlie inhaled. The parents would think their children perfect no matter what they did on stage, but knowledgeable outsiders raised the stakes and the children had lost well over a week of rehearsals already. She only had ten days until the dress rehearsal, which meant she had just ten days to make sure each dance was perfect and every one of the children knew every step, cue and mark. It was down to her.

  No more delaying, she told herself. Straightening her shoulders, she pushed open the door and walked confidently into the hall as if she did this every day.

  Which in her old life she had.

  She could hear an excited buzz as she walked in, the high-pitched squeals of children playing, the low confidential hum of gossiping parents, all undercut with anticipation for the strange new teacher that only Lucia had met. She was aware of every head swivelling to look at her and Matteo, what felt like hundreds of pairs of eyes sweeping up and down her, judging her posture, her walk, her outfit and bearing as silence descended so suddenly it was as if someone had switched the volume down.

  Still displaying an utmost confidence externally, despite her inner trepidation, Charlie walked up to the front of the room and turned to face the parents seated in rows at the back, the children sitting cross-legged and expectant on the wooden floor. Matteo stood just a step away.

  ‘Buon giorno,’ she said calmly, projecting her voice with every bit of stage training she possessed, ensuring that her words reached every corner of the room despite not raising her voice. ‘I’m sorry to say my Italian is not up to the job of teaching you in your own language,’ she said, and waited for Matteo to translate. ‘I know some of you can understand English, and I will speak slowly for those of you that do and my husband, Matteo, will translate for the rest of you. It’s not ideal, I know, but luckily much of the language of dance is universal. I’m sure we will muddle through.’

  Charlie was relieved to see some answering nods as she went on to explain that she’d met Natalia and had all her notes and thoughts, noting the ripple of relief that ran around the room at those words, before giving a brief introduction of her own training and experience.

  ‘I know you are all excited,’ she concluded, addressing her words to the seated children. ‘So am I. This is a great opportunity and should be a wonderful experience for all of you. It’s my job to make sure you’re all in the best place that you can be and I am sure you know that means we have some hard work ahead of us. We will start with a warm-up and then some barre work before we head into rehearsal. I want you all to skip around the room to start off with. Like butterflies, please. Ready? Go?’

  * * *

  Matteo leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and watched his wife. He’d never seen her in her natural habitat before, never seen her teach a class, although he’d picked her up from them, seen her bid farewell to excited children who would bob little curtseys and call her Miss Charlie. He’d found it charming, cute—and told her so. Which, he was realising, had been pretty damn condescending of him, as if her dance teaching was just a hobby.

  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realised he’d regarded her whole life as some kind of quirky hobby, easy for her to put aside when they married, barely listening when she’d suggested they live in Kent and he mix commuting with working from home. She’d love London when she was used to it, he’d told her, as if she hadn’t grown up in several capital cities all over the world. As if her existing life was inferior to his.

  In reality, she’d been as busy as him. Teaching primary school was exhausting; he knew he couldn’t do it. And yet she’d finished a busy day of teaching maths and English and science and music and PE to over thirty children still of an age to find sitting still a chore, before heading to her second job and another two or three hours of teaching several dance styles to pupils aged as young as two all the way to her senior citizens’ beginners ballet. No wonder she’d been bored at home all day. Charity committees, entertaining and shopping were never going to satisfy her. And yet he’d been the one who had persuaded her out of applying for jobs. He’d liked knowing that Charlie was available when he needed her to accompany him to a function or on a business trip and knew that the demands of the school term would have made her presence impossible.

  He’d known then that his decision had been selfish, quietened his conscience with the reminder that it wasn’t unusual in his social group and that once they had children she’d find more to occupy her. As if he were some fifties businessman, lord and master of his home. As if he were his grandfather. He could only now recognise the influence his grandfather’s comments had had.

  It was painful watching her because she was so clearly in her element, despite the language barrier. One minute she was demonstrating a step, the next gently straightening a small hip or curling an arm, nodding approval or smiling a word of praise. How could anyone miss how quickly the children had taken to her? How their faces lit up with happiness at every word of praise and how diligently the
y copied her when she gave a correction. The parents seemed impressed too, sitting watching with narrowed eyes, nodding in agreement when Charlie made a suggestion.

  Matteo’s fists curled. He had taken her at face value, his mercurial, impulsive wife, but there was a depth to her that, although he’d known it was there, he’d never bothered to explore. A depth obvious in this room, with every dedicated moment she spent on the tiniest detail, the genuine laughter and happiness when a series of steps were executed perfectly.

  It was a long morning, with three classes and three rehearsals before everybody came together to rehearse the finale. The afternoon sun was high overhead when they were finally over.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Matteo said as Charlie stopped to stretch her arms out, oblivious to the curious looks of passers-by. ‘I had no idea what I was signing you up for. You must be exhausted.’

  But, to his surprise, she laughed. ‘Oh, no, I could teach all day. I love it.’

  ‘So I’m forgiven for volunteering you?’

  Putting an arm through his, she kissed his cheek, warm and sweet and undeserved. ‘I think you’re punishing yourself enough. That was a lot of translating today and there’s far more to come. But it was fun to hear the children make fun of your attempts at ballet terms.’

  ‘Funny for you, maybe,’ he half grumbled, although he suspected that she knew that by the end he’d been hamming up his misinterpretation, charmed by the peals of giggles every time he’d said jeté or plié. ‘I loved watching you teach; it’s like a dance in itself. And you notice everything. How are you correcting a wrong leg in one corner and a misstep the other side of the room?’

  ‘I don’t know. Practice, I guess.’

  Their route took them through the main square and he nodded at a table in a shady corner. ‘I don’t know about you but I could do with a drink and something to eat after that.’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ Charlie agreed and they took a seat, ordering small beers, water and some antipasti.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Matteo said once their drinks had been delivered, along with a bowl of olives and some piping-hot arancini. ‘I didn’t realise how much teaching means to you, not until today. You came alive in there. Is it the same in the classroom?’

  ‘Different in the classroom in some ways. I have them for much longer, of course, and there’s no diversity in age. I do like the difference between tots and teens; it’s a lot of fun. But I get the same buzz of connection. When a child gets something you’ve been trying to convey, that moment of clarity is really special. My first primary school class are all in secondary school now but they come back and visit sometimes, and knowing I had a small role in shaping these curious almost-adults is inspiring.’

  ‘And your classes in Kensington? Were they more like today? You were working towards a gala there as well, weren’t you?’

  Charlie took an arancini ball and pulled it apart on her plate, the hot mozzarella stringy between her fingers. ‘I wish you’d come to see the Kensington Community Dance project; it had an incredible vibe. Classes are classes; they all have a similar feel, although I didn’t teach ballet there, just jazz and musical theatre, but our gala was very different. No guest artists, very few proud ballet mums making sure their budding prima ballerina was suitably recognised. Not every child had the right clothes or shoes.’

  Putting the remains of her arancini down, Charlie took a gulp of water. ‘I know it’s hard to see, living like you do with your beautiful house in your beautiful square, a driver to take you to work, reservations for all the best restaurants, but there is so much poverty almost right on your doorstep.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, stung. He might not volunteer, might not have time to actively participate in the community the way Charlie had, but he donated enough. He was very generous with local initiatives. ‘I’m not oblivious, Charlie.’

  ‘The community centre where the project is based tries to reduce some of that inequality. There are so many children living in the same borough and yet they might as well be on different planets. Some, the privileged children of embassy staff, our neighbours, go to private schools with every kind of activity you could imagine, from musical instruments to learning Mandarin to fencing. In their spare time they play tennis in the park at exclusive clubs, they go horse-riding, they learn ballet with the top companies. Whereas the children who come to the community centre, many of their parents don’t even speak English, their schools are too strapped for cash to offer any activities, they’ve never picked up a tennis racket or ridden a horse. We try and plug some of that gap but it’s not always easy. Cultural differences, family expectations, even having somebody who is free to bring you to the centre for your class: when your parents are working three jobs, getting you to tap class on time each week just isn’t a priority. But the gala, that was their chance to shine. It was about showing off their achievements, celebrating them as much as about funding the next year’s activities. They all put in so much work. I just wish you had been there to see it.’

  Her voice was filled with sorrow, with hurt and an undercurrent of the anger that had flared up the day of the gala when he had come home, not to escort her there, but to pack for an unexpected trip to New York.

  ‘I’m really sorry that I was called away at the last minute. I did offer to donate whatever it was you needed to raise that night...’

  Charlie looked up at that, her gaze holding his, cold and proud. ‘And that’s just it. All that work was to give the children a chance to show a world which writes so many of them off before they have even left school just what they could do, about showing that they were important, that they mattered. But they didn’t matter to you, and the work I did meant nothing to you. You thought a cheque would make up for your lack of interest. We did need the money, but just writing a huge cheque bigger than everything else we raised that night didn’t make you some kind of hero. It made you someone who devalued every carefully donated prize, every saved-up-for ticket, every home-made costume.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ he protested, but the words rang hollow and he knew it. He hadn’t been interested in spending an evening in a local hall watching children he didn’t know dance and sing.

  ‘You didn’t listen when I talked about it,’ Charlie continued. ‘You thought it was a cute way of keeping me occupied, that because it was unpaid it had no intrinsic value. And that was a problem, that is a problem. I’m not just your wife; I’m a person in my own right and what I do matters. It should matter to both of us, not just to me. But you think what I do is worthless and until you recognise that, until that changes, we have no chance of a lasting future, Matteo.’

  Matteo stared at Charlie, devastated by the truth in her words, by the cold, proud hurt in her eyes, in her voice. He was responsible for this. He had made his beautiful, vibrant wife feel worthless, let her think that he thought her worthless, that she was nothing more than his consort. He’d made her feel that her actions and passions didn’t matter. Of course, of course that had never been his intention, had never ever been his meaning and yet in this case he couldn’t deny that his actions definitely spoke louder than words.

  He inhaled, low and deep, trying to find the right words. ‘You’re right.’

  Charlie looked up from a plate where she had been examining the remains of the arancini intently as if they held the secrets to the universe. ‘Pardon?’

  Sitting back, he kept his gaze on hers, tried to make sure his expression was as open and honest as possible, even though emotions had never been easy for him to show. ‘You’re right. I was an absolute idiot and it’s a miracle you are here, that you didn’t leave me in the hospital. Of course what you do has value and just because I might not always recognise that value is no excuse for not seeing that. What’s important to you should be important to me as well because you’re important.’

  ‘I...’ It wasn’t often that Charlie was at a total loss
for words but she didn’t finish the sentence, just shaking her head in disbelief. ‘A bit of an idiot, maybe. I know things were difficult.’

  Typical Charlie. One moment furious at him, the next minute giving him a get-out clause. Not this time. If they were to have any chance then he had to be totally honest, painful as that was. ‘I put myself first, my company first, expected you to fit into my life, and there is no excuse for that. All I can say is that I didn’t plan it that way. I had no intention of marrying you and then trying to change everything that makes you so special. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t intentional—and the crazy thing is it’s definitely not even what I wanted. It’s not what I want. The truth is, the time I spent with you before we married, and those too brief days of our honeymoon, were the happiest days of my life. It was like stepping out of my confined reality full of expectations I never quite lived up to into a world I hadn’t imagined possible. Everything seemed brighter, sounds were more musical, even the smells were fresher...’

  He laughed, slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure what’s worse, that I sound like a terrible poet or that I mean every word. That’s the way it was. For the first time ever I questioned everything I thought real. I questioned my decision not to live with my mother. My decision to put work before everything, to try and live up to my grandfather’s standards even though I knew full well he would just keep moving the goalposts, that I would never quite be good enough. Even though I knew that somehow it was my job to atone for the sins of my father and to accept that role willingly. With you, all that melted away. I dared to be happy, really happy. But then Grandfather had his stroke...’