‘I’ve been busy. As have you.’
‘Sì, weddings don’t organise themselves. Maybe you’ll find that out one day.’ She linked her arm through his and gave a small tug. ‘Come, Marco, take coffee with me. Let’s have a proper catch-up.’
Words guaranteed to strike a chill through any dutiful child’s heart. ‘No coffee for me, Mamma. I have a lot to do.’
She stepped back and looked up at him. It was many years since she had topped him yet he still had the urge to look up—she carried herself as if she were seven feet tall. ‘You work too hard, Marco. A young man like you should be out, enjoying himself. Sophie must be feeling sadly neglected.’
‘I doubt it. She’s making herself a dress for Bianca’s wedding. I’m not sure I would be of much help.’
‘Clever girl. She’s so creative.’ Her eyes flickered over his face and Marco stayed as expressionless as possible. ‘We lack that in our family. We’re all good at facts, at figures, at making money, but none of us has any creativity. It would be nice...’ Her voice trailed off, but he knew exactly what she meant. Nice to breed that creativity in. ‘She has such lovely colouring as well, the peaches-and-cream English complexion.’ As if Sophie were a brood mare, waiting to be mated with a prize stallion.
The old feelings of being imprisoned, stifled, descended like physical bars, enclosing him in, trying to strip all choice away. His mouth narrowed as he fought to keep his cool. ‘Yes, she’s very pretty.’
‘Oh, Marco, she’s beautiful. And so sweet. Bianca adores her, says she is just like a sister. We’ll all miss her when she returns to London. We’ll miss you as well. It’s been lovely having you home.’
‘Luckily for Bianca they have invented these marvellous little devices which make it possible to communicate over large distances. In fact she usually has one glued to her hand. I’m sure she can speak to Sophie as much as she would like to.’
His mother walked over to the desk and picked up the fountain pen his father had always used. ‘My own mother always said one of her greatest joys was watching you and Bianca grow up.’
This was a new one. ‘Nonna was a very special person. I miss her.’
‘She was in her early twenties when I was born, and I, of course, was very young when I had you. She was still only in her forties when she became a grandmother. Young enough to be active, to be able to play with you. Of course, her dearest wish was to see you marry, have a family of your own.’
‘She was taken from us too early.’
‘I will be sixty next year, Marco. Sixty.’
He was impressed; she didn’t usually admit to her age. ‘And you don’t look a day over forty-five. Are you sure you have the right year?’
But she wasn’t in the mood for gallantry, barely raising a smile at the compliment. ‘I want to see my grandchildren, Marco. I want to know them, watch them grow up, not be an old lady, too tired and ill to be able to play when they finally arrive.’
Marco sighed. ‘Mamma...’
‘I want you back home, back here, where you belong, heading up the Santoro family. I want you settled down and married with children of your own.’
‘I know you do. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.’
‘I just want you to be happy, Marco.’
He fought to keep his voice even. ‘I know. But you have to accept that happiness comes in many different forms, in many different ways. I like what I do. I like London.’
‘And what of me? Of the business?’
‘There are other options. Bianca, for instance. Come on, Mamma, you must have considered it. Bianca is more than fit to take over from you. She’s the best of us all when it comes to figures, she’s ambitious and she’s a Santoro to her fingernails, no matter who she marries and what her last name is. Don’t overlook her. You’ll be doing all of us a disservice.’
His mother only smiled. ‘You think I haven’t considered her? That your father didn’t? Of course we have. You’re right, in many ways she’s the cleverest of us all and when it comes to the finances there’s no one I would rather have in charge. But she doesn’t have what your father had—what you have—she doesn’t have the flair, the inspired spark.’
Guilt flared as she compared him to his father and Marco’s hands curled into fists involuntarily. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do,’ she said, staring at him as if she could imprint her words into him. ‘Bianca and I can manage, we can audit, we can run—but you and your father can build. Can take an idea and make it grow, see where opportunity lies and grab it with both hands. I’m not discounting Bianca because she’s a woman and getting married, I’m discounting her because she won’t grow the company like you will. Because you are the heir your father wanted.’
Bitterness coated his mouth. ‘Papà didn’t want me to be inspired. He didn’t want me to be anything but an obedient clone. He sat in this room, at this desk, and told me if I went to England, continued to mess around with antiques, we were finished.’
‘They were just words. You know what he was like. Words came too easily and he never meant them—it was what he did which counted. And he was proud of you, Marco. He followed your every move. People would tell him of you, people you worked with in Venice, further afield, would seek him out to talk of you and he would drink in every word.’
The ache in Marco’s chest eased, just a little. ‘He never said, never showed that he even knew what I was doing...’
‘You didn’t give him the opportunity. Besides...’ she shrugged ‘...he was too proud to make the first move. He was proud, you are proud and here you are.’
‘He sat there and disowned me and when I disobeyed him he...’ But he couldn’t say the words.
‘He had a heart attack,’ she finished calmly. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Marco.’
Easy for her to say. He knew better; he’d always known. ‘Of course it was. If I had settled to be what he wanted...’
‘Then you wouldn’t be you. He knew that. But it hurt him that you barely returned. That from the moment you went to London you never again spent a night under our roof.’
Misunderstandings, pride, stubbornness. Family traits passed on from father to son. ‘I couldn’t. I didn’t dare. I couldn’t let his health blackmail me into compliance, nor could I let him work himself into one of his passions. It was better to stay away.’ He stopped, bleak. ‘He died anyway.’
‘Sì. But not because of anything you said or didn’t say but because he didn’t listen to his doctor, didn’t listen to me, didn’t exercise or take his pills or cut down on red meat. Stubborn. But it’s not your fault, Marco. That first heart attack would have happened anyway, you must know that. We’re lucky we had him for another ten years.’
But Marco hadn’t had him; he’d lost his father long before. ‘And now it’s too late, he’s gone and he didn’t even know I said goodbye.’
Her eyes were soft with understanding, with love. ‘He knew. You came straight away. He was conscious enough to know you were there. Forgive yourself, Marco. Nobody else blames you for any of it, nobody ever did. But I would like you to come home, at least to be here more often. To advise me even if you won’t take over. I just want to see my son more than a couple of hours once or twice a year.’
‘Yes.’ His mind was whirling. Why had his father never told him that he was proud of him, never said he hadn’t meant a word of the bitter denunciation that had left him in the hospital and Marco in exile? But his mother was right. Marco hadn’t stayed away just out of fear he would trigger another heart attack, he’d stayed away out of pride. Just as bad as his father. Maybe it was time to let some of that pride go.
‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I can be here more often. And I can’t promise you I’ll take over, but I can advise—and make sure you have the right people in place to help you. You need to delegate m
ore, Mamma, and accept that people who aren’t Santoros can still care about the company.’
‘It’s a deal.’
Relief flooded through him. They had compromised and, for the first time, he didn’t feel that she had tried to manipulate him; she had respected his decision. He would, should spend more time in Venice. It was only right that he at least took a board role in his family company.
He bent, kissed his mother’s cheek and turned to leave but stopped as she called his name softly. ‘Marco?’
‘Yes?’
‘Ten years wasted, Marco, out of pride, out of anger...’ She paused. ‘Don’t make that mistake again. I know you say you aren’t ready to marry and I know you are angry with me, with your father, for what happened ten years ago. But don’t let that pride, that anger, push Sophie away. She’s a lovely girl, Marco. But I don’t think there will be second chances with that one. You need to get it right.’
‘Mamma, we’ve only just met.’
‘I know, and I am staying out of it.’ Despite his prickle of annoyance he couldn’t help an incredulous laugh at her words. ‘Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking. Just take care with her.’
‘Okay.’ He could promise that with an easy mind. Taking care came easily to him; he knew how to tread for an easy relationship and an easier exit. ‘I’ll take care. Now I really have to get on.’ But as he walked away her words echoed in his mind. No more second chances. He didn’t need a second chance. He liked Sophie, he liked her a lot, enough to know that she deserved a lot better than anything a man like him could offer. He should thank her though, for all her help. He might not be able to offer her happy ever after—and she probably wouldn’t take it if he did—but he could offer her one perfect day. It was the least he could do. It had to be; it was all that he had.
CHAPTER NINE
TO SOPHIE’S AMAZEMENT Marco was still in the breakfast room when she came down, having overslept again. She stopped and hovered at the door, stupidly shy.
How she could feel shy when he’d left her bedroom just four short hours ago, how she could still feel shy after the things they’d done in that bedroom, eluded her and yet her stomach swooped at the sight of him and her tongue was suddenly too large for her mouth, like a teenager seeing her crush across the hallway.
They hadn’t eaten breakfast together since that first morning. He was usually already out working when she came downstairs, their first communication of the day at lunch. Lunch was civilised, easy to navigate, but breakfast? Breakfast was an intimate meal. She wasn’t ready for breakfast...
His presence wasn’t the only thing that had changed. The atmosphere in the palazzo seemed lighter somehow, less fraught. Less weighted with the air of things left unsaid, when the silences were more eloquent than words. For the first time since the party she and Marco had stayed at the palazzo for dinner last night and Marco hadn’t tensed up too much when his mother had quizzed Sophie once more about her future plans and shot him meaningful glances every time she did so. Marco’s mother was very charming, but over the space of the evening she’d ramped up the inquisitional levels to almost overbearing, her hints so broad Sophie hadn’t known where to look half the time. She’d aimed for obliviousness, but it was difficult to look unknowing when she was invited to try on Marco’s dead grandmother’s engagement ring, asked about her perfect honeymoon plans or how many children she wanted and didn’t she think her eyes with Marco’s colouring would look cute in a baby?
She might, possibly, have been able to laugh the whole thing off if it weren’t for the pregnancy. Guilt, embarrassment and fear mingled in a toxic concoction every time Marco’s mother opened her mouth. Every time Signora Santoro mentioned children guilt shot through Sophie, like a physical pain. It took everything she had to sit and pretend everything was okay, not to jump up and announce her pregnancy in a rush of tears. She still thought it was fair to wait until after the wedding, it was just a week’s delay after all, but she knew in her heart she was deceiving Marco, lying to him by omission.
And part of her knew it wasn’t Bianca’s welfare really driving her, it was fear. She’d spent so long living her mother’s dreams, only to crush them when she’d walked away, the rift still no way near repaired. Then she’d allowed Harry to set her course, making him the sole focus of her life. This family was so certain, so overbearing, so grand and overwhelming—what if they tried to take control as soon as they knew about the baby? Had the last year and a half given her enough strength to hold firm and make her own choices?
Time would tell, but she needed these days to prepare. To try to work out exactly what she, Sophie Bradshaw, wanted, before the Santoro expectations descended onto her.
She took a deep breath and walked into the room, hooking a chair and sitting down, swiping a piece of brioche off Marco’s plate as she did so. The key to fighting off both the tiredness and nausea, she’d realised, was carbs and plenty of them. The way she was eating she’d be sporting plenty of bumps long before the baby actually started to show.
‘Good morning. All on your own?’
Marco folded his newspaper up and pushed it to one side. Sophie really liked the way he focussed his full attention on the people he was with, apologising if he checked his phone or took a call. He never kept his phone on the table when they were out, never scrolled through it when she was speaking. Harry had never made any secret of the fact every contact in his phone, every game, every meme, every football result came before her. ‘You just missed Mamma and Bianca. They told me to remind you that you can join them at any time. Apparently the twenty times they asked you last night wasn’t a pressing enough invitation. Are you sure you don’t want to go with them?’
Sophie grinned. ‘Your mother, Bianca’s future mother-in-law, all five of her future sisters-in-law and her three best friends all alternately talking in Italian so I sit there gaping like a goldfish before switching to English to quiz me on your intentions and my potential wedding plans? There’s not a spa luxurious enough to tempt me.’ She realised how ungrateful that sounded and backtracked quickly. ‘I like them all well enough, in fact I love Bianca and your mother individually...’
‘But together they strike fear into the heart of the bravest warrior?’
‘They really do. Besides, the day after tomorrow it’s the wedding and I fly back to London the morning after that. I’m making final adjustments to Bianca’s and the bridesmaids’ dresses tomorrow, which makes this my last free day here. I want to make the most of it. Explore Venice one final time.’
‘Do you want some company?’
Happiness fizzed up at the casual words. ‘Of course, but don’t you need to work? Don’t worry about me if so...’
Giuliana, one of the maids, set a cup, a small teapot and a plate laden with sweet bread, slices of fruit, cheese and a couple of pastries in front of Sophie. Her preference for herbal tea first thing had caused some consternation in the caffeinated household at first, but the staff had eventually adjusted to both tea and her very un-Venetian need for a breakfast more substantial than a few bites of something quick. Sophie nodded her thanks, grateful as the familiar ginger aroma wafted up, displacing the bitter scent of coffee and settling her queasy stomach.
‘A few days off seems like the perfect plan right now,’ Marco said as Sophie started to tuck in. ‘I need time to think about where my business is headed, how I can continue to grow and still meet my obligations to the family business.’ His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. ‘I realised yesterday that even if I don’t want to take over I still need to be involved. Besides, when I started out I used my contacts here to source antiques, but it was important for me to be in London to build contacts for the other side of the business, the people I would sell to. I’ve been based there ten years, own a house in Chelsea. In many ways it’s my home.’
Right there and then the chasm between them widened even
further. Sophie rented a shoebox on the top floor of a building on a busy road. Buses thundered past at all hours of the day and night, streetlights lit up her room, casting an orange glow over her dreams, and the bass from the flat below provided a thudding soundtrack to everything she did. Half her pay went straight to her landlord. Owning a home of her own was a distant enough dream, her city shoebox well out of her range. A whole house? In Chelsea? Not for the likes of her.
It was all going to make telling him about the baby even harder. If only they were equals financially... She pushed the thought away, adding it to her ever-lengthening list of things to worry about in the future. ‘But now?’
‘I still need an office and a base in London, but those contacts are secure. I have a whole global network of dealers, buyers, designers who know and trust me. I’m having to work a little harder on the Italian side now. There’s a new generation of suppliers coming along and I don’t have the same links with them, the same trust. It means I’m no longer the automatic first choice and that could impact my future stock.’
‘So, you need to spend more time here?’ Her heart twisted. She had no idea what her future held, but she hadn’t expected to have a baby with a man she wasn’t committed to, a man who spent half his life out of the country.
Suck it up, she told herself fiercely. This will be your reality. Deal with it.
‘I do. But these are thoughts for another day. I’m very much aware how much we owe you, Sophie. Bianca would have imploded if you hadn’t stayed. Let me make it up to you. Anything you want. How do you want to spend the day? A trip to the lakes? To Roma? Buy out the whole of the lace shops on Burano?’
Guilt twisted again. She’d had her own selfish reasons for staying, for getting close to Marco’s family. But she couldn’t pass up this opportunity to spend a day with the father of her child—and she didn’t want to. She wanted to spend the day with him, to get to know him a little better, to have one last carefree day before she shattered his world. ‘Nothing so elaborate. Show me your Venice, Marco, the things you love most about the city. That’s what I’d like to do today. If you’re okay with that.’
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