by Liz Fielding
‘Old Romans and churches?’
‘Just going through the motions. No one is reading it.’
‘Shame. I enjoyed Horatius.’ Then, ‘Not even Lex?’
‘Not even my mother. I don’t imagine either of them are likely to visit the school website.’ And even if they did they wouldn’t find it now. It was just between the two of them. A private connection. ‘I was only doing it because the Head twisted my arm.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Metaphorically,’ she assured him. ‘He was concerned that people would think he’d got rid of me so that he could have Tom back. The school has a great sporting record, largely thanks to him.’
‘So this man is using your blog to protect his back.’
He sounded outraged on her behalf, a fact that made her heart beat rather faster. ‘Spot on. If anyone raised the issue he could point to my blog and say that I was still involved with the school, my pupils. That I will be back next autumn.’
‘But you won’t be.’
‘No,’ she admitted.
‘You must miss them. And your friends.’
‘Of course, but not as much as I thought. I’m enjoying my job here.’ She smiled. ‘And after my last post the Head removed the link from the school website as not suitable for family viewing. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve. I’d be absolutely no use as a female Machiavelli.’
‘Machiavella … The pursuit of ambition without conscience.’ He looked at her for what seemed like an eternity, then said, ‘Be glad.’ He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘I have had the misfortune to know two such women. Both pretended love. One betrayed my family, the other betrayed me.’
‘Matteo …’ she gasped.
‘I was a child when my nanny sold her story to the gossip magazines, but I was old enough to understand the results. I was wrenched away from everything I knew. Even my mother became a stranger.’ He turned away. ‘The other betrayal was more personal. She pretended love with such skill, such passion that I did not, could not believe the truth until she admitted it. Told me to my face what she had done.’
He turned, her hand in his, continued to walk, but she dug in, refused to move. ‘What?’ she demanded. He stopped. ‘You can’t leave it there. Tell me!’
‘Tell you …’ He lapsed into Italian, as if he could not say the words in any other language than his own and, even before he stopped, she slipped her arm through his and began to walk with him, knowing somehow that it was important to keep him moving.
‘Tell me,’ she repeated, when he’d run out of words, but softly this time. ‘Tell me what she did to you.’
They were walking through a small park, an avenue of trees lit in a gauzy haze of green, past some vast Roman edifice.
‘Compared to what was done to my mother, it was nothing so very terrible,’ he said at last. ‘She sold photographs she’d taken at Bella’s wedding. Not the big reception with film people, politicians, covered by a magazine paying a fee to charity for the privilege, but the ones she had taken at the private mass in the church at Isola del Serrone. At the party in the villa to which only family and the closest friends were invited. She had a camera built into a handbag that I had given her for her birthday.’
Family, friends and lovers. As his partner, this woman would have had access to everything.
‘Why?’ She could understand why someone might attempt to infiltrate the wedding. But to have a man like Matteo di Serrone love you and then betray him—and he had to have fallen in love or it wouldn’t have hurt him so much—how much money would ever compensate for such a loss? ‘Why would she do such a thing?’
‘For a starring role in a film. She was an actress and the publishers of the magazine owned the film company.’
‘I suppose the pictures must have been worth a great deal of money,’ she commented.
‘They put a picture of Bella and Nico at the altar on their front cover. A strap line which read, The “Real” Wedding. They produced five times their usual print run, sold out within hours and printed again.’
‘Didn’t the other magazine sue? I’m sure I read about a case where that happened.’
‘They couldn’t. They hadn’t bought the rights to those pictures. And Bella chose not to.’
For him, she thought. To save him the pain.
‘How long had you known her?’
‘Katerina? A few months. I met her at a party that the film studio threw for Bella’s engagement. I was—’ he searched for a word ‘—entranced.’
‘You were entranced—’ she forced herself to repeat the words ‘—and someone saw an opportunity.’
‘Who knows what came first? The egg or the chicken. She was lovely. I had a reputation as a man who found no reason to resist a pretty face. Does it make a difference?’ he asked bitterly.
Was it better if she had deliberately set out to snare him or, despite whatever feeling she had for him, had been seduced by an offer too good to refuse? If he had given her a ring, would she have changed her mind?
‘Did she get the part?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’m told that she is very talented.’
‘Maybe she would have got the part, anyway.’ Could have had both fame and Matteo. Did this Katerina ever wonder about that? Or was she truly Machiavella and didn’t care?
‘It’s a tough business. There are many actresses, few parts and the photographs did not matter. On the contrary. The combination of the public’s outrage at the intrusion, their desperation to actually see the photographs and her dignified silence turned Bella into a national icon.’ He managed a smile. ‘Fortunately, no one did anything shocking, there were no fights, no one got drunk and fell in the pool. No one was hurt by them.’
‘Except you.’
He didn’t deny it. ‘It was the realisation that every word, every kiss, every touch had been a lie.’
About to suggest that was unlikely, she thought better of it. No question, it was worse to be betrayed by someone who loved you.
‘Thank you for telling me. At least I understand why you were so suspicious when I turned up just at that moment. When everyone thought Bella was at the villa,’ she added. ‘Bad timing.’
‘No.’ He lifted his arm over her head and wrapped it around her shoulders, so that she was closer. ‘There was nothing wrong with your timing. Nothing at all.’ He pressed his lips to her hair. ‘Your arm goes around my waist,’ he prompted.
‘Matteo—’
‘Shh …’
‘But—’
‘No more talking.’
They walked on through gardens, narrow streets, stopped at a café, leaning against the counter as they tossed back an espresso, putting off the moment when they would arrive at her front door. Not wanting the evening to end.
But end it must and not in the tear-your-clothes-off heat of its beginning.
Matteo had said that to make love was a journey of discovery. They had both stumbled on the road, been hurt to the quick. They needed time to learn about each other. Learn about themselves. Take time to enjoy the scenery.
They climbed the cobbled stepped street to her ‘palazzo’, the four flights of stairs to her front door.
He took her key, unlocked it, then took her hand and kissed her palm.
‘Thank you for a truly memorable evening, Sarah. I will call you.’
When …
‘Grazie, Matteo. Buonanotte. Sogni dolci.’
He smiled.
She had gone to the web to look for ‘sweet dreams’. Had she got it wrong?
‘Sogni dolci, Sarah,’ he said, then took a step back and, with a final nod, took to the stairs.
She forced herself to close the door the minute he was out of sight when what she wanted most in the entire world was to run to the railings, lean over like a besotted fifteen-year-old to catch every last glimpse of him, every sound until the street door shut behind him.
Not cool.
Instead, she leaned back against her own door, the just-kissed
palm against her heart.
She’d had boyfriends.
She’d been in love with Tom.
But Matteo was the first man who had ever taken the time to make love to her.
Matteo hit the street in record time, stood against the wall, his legs shaking.
He’d forgotten this desperate want, the need for a woman who lit you up like fireworks at the harvest fiesta.
Slow … Slow down.
They had both lost something important, something that could not be replaced with meaningless sex.
He began to walk, striding out through the city, ignoring the passing cabs until he reached a square with a bar. He ordered espresso and a shot of grappa.
What would she be doing now?
Sitting on the tiniest terrace in Rome breathing in the scent of the lemon thyme he’d dug from Nonna’s garden with his own hands? He pictured her there, wearing a white lace-trimmed nightdress—she would certainly wear a nightdress—brushing her hair. Pictured her lying in bed, her hair spread out across her pillow.
He tossed back the grappa.
CHAPTER NINE
ITALIAN FOR BEGINNERS
I finally made it to the Trevi Fountain tonight, tossed in a coin to ensure that I will return to Rome …
SARAH picked up the broken crocks, wrapped them in newspaper. Mopped the kitchen floor. Smoothed out the spicy vanilla-scented petals of the poor broken roses, cutting off their heads and tucking them into a bowl of water that she placed beside her bed.
She hung up her clothes. Reached up to turn on the shower, brought her wrist to her face as she caught again Matteo’s elusive scent clinging to her skin where he’d touched her. Turned off the shower, wanting to sleep with that.
She cleaned her face, brushed her teeth, pulled on a knee-length T-shirt-style nightie with a teddy bear on the front.
Not exactly sexy.
Should she buy something sexier? In black.
No. Nothing that obvious.
White then. Long. With tiny shoe-string straps and a touch of lace at the hem.
No. Too much the bride.
Then, remembering the hunger of the kiss they’d shared in the kitchen, she smiled. There was no need to worry about nightwear. Like Marilyn Monroe, all she’d need to wear in bed was a touch of scent. A thought that banished any chance of sleep.
She took her netbook out onto the terrace and opened up her blog, reread what she’d written.
… I will return to Rome …
She sighed. This was supposed to be about life in Rome and it was, but it was no longer for her students. It had become a personal odyssey, a journey to discover herself.
Matteo gave me the coin, but wouldn’t let me throw it until I was sure I wanted to come back. It was a special moment—letting go of the past, looking forward to a new future. But right now, I’m sure of only one thing. That the journey is the thing. That I have to take my time, enjoy the scenery, treasure the stops along the way.
She posted the blog, logged off, closed the shutters, slid into bed, not to sleep—her brain was still whirring from late-night espresso, the zinging excitement of something new—but to relive every single moment since she’d opened the door to Matteo di Serrone.
Every touch. Every smile. That dreadful moment when his English had deserted him. Their walk through the park while he’d told her about the woman who he had loved. Who had betrayed him.
She was asking a lot of a man who had been so badly hurt, she realised.
Or maybe she was giving him exactly what he needed. If she could make him feel good about himself, give him memories that would make him smile years from now, then they would both win.
Her phone, lying beside the bowl of roses, began to ring. It was late and for a moment her heart flipped over, certain that it was bad news. Then it flipped again as she saw who was calling.
‘Matteo …’
‘I said I would call you. You were not asleep?’
‘No, I was not asleep. I was lying here thinking.’
‘What were you thinking about, cara?’
‘I was thinking that you never told me three things about yourself that I don’t know.’
‘I will tell you one thing tonight,’ he said. ‘To go with my comic opera title, I have a box. At the opera.’
She didn’t answer. It was as if she’d been wading into a warm sea and suddenly stepped off a ledge, plunged out of her depth in the cold, dark water.
Who on earth did think she was, telling him what she wanted and expecting him to deliver?
He was Conte Matteo di Serrone. His father had been a racing driver. His cousin was a film star and the nearest anyone had come to a box at the opera in her family was her father’s season ticket to Maybridge United Football Club.
‘You say nothing,’ he said eventually. ‘You do not like opera?’
‘I’ve never been to a live performance,’ was the best she could come up with.
‘But you have no objection in principle?’
‘None,’ she whispered. In principle.
‘To Tosca in particular?’
‘Tosca …’ She tried to think which one that was. ‘Doesn’t she die?’
‘It is opera, carissima. Someone always dies. Actually, in Tosca everyone dies. Do you think you can bear it? If I bring an extra handkerchief.’ He waited. ‘Sarah?’
‘Sorry, I was just thinking about that scene in Pretty Woman. The one where Richard Gere took Julia Roberts to the opera and an old dowager asked her if she had enjoyed it.’
‘I don’t believe I have seen it.’
‘You wouldn’t. It’s a girl movie. Cinderella is rescued by the prince. The bad guy gets the sack. The prince …’
‘Yes?’
‘The prince is rescued by Cinderella. No one dies.’
‘An equal opportunity fairy tale with a happy ending. So? Did she? Enjoy the opera?’
‘Yes, she …’ She stopped. ‘Is it formal?’
‘Black tie but no tiaras.’
‘That’s just as well. When?’
‘In a couple of weeks. I’ll have to check the exact date. Or maybe you will be busy interviewing other prospective candidates for the job?’
‘And miss out on an evening sobbing into your monogrammed handkerchief?’ she teased.
‘I don’t have monogrammed handkerchiefs, but I’ll see if I can find one of my grandfather’s. He had the same initials. We’ll have supper afterwards.’
‘It sounds …’ Very grand. A black-tie night at the opera followed by supper with a Conte was a long way from Friday night at the pub in Maybridge. A game of skittles or shove ha’penny. Fish and chips on the way home. Then, as she heard noises in the background, ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m not sure. I stopped at a bar for a shot of grappa.’
‘Grappa?’ She’d heard of it, but never tried it.
‘It is wholly Italian. The distilled essence of the grape. The pips, the skin left over from the wine-making. You will taste it when you come to the vineyard.’
‘Will I like it?’ she asked, storing up the fact that he wanted her to return to Isola del Serrone, to his home, to be taken out and explored later. Reminding herself that this was an equal opportunities affair. That she intended to give him as much as he gave her.
‘Who can say? But you should try everything once.’
‘Matteo …’
‘I called to tell you that I will be away for the rest of the week. I did not want you to think I was a here-today-gone-tomorrow lover.’
‘I’m a hardworking teacher,’ she reminded him. ‘I can’t be gallivanting out every night with the aristocracy.’
‘Of course. I am chastened.’
She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘Maybe not,’ he admitted, ‘but you will be free on Friday evening?’
‘Certo.’
‘Grazie. I will see you then. Sweet dreams, amore mio.’
‘Take care,
’ she said, but he had gone. He did that, she thought. Left her wanting more. A heck of a lot more.
It was as if a jolt of electricity had been fed into her emotional mains and jump-started a part of her that she hadn’t even realised had shut down.
How long had her life been simply ticking over?
Idling …
She lay back against the pillow, the phone still clutched in her hand as if it was still connected to Matteo.
The opera?
At least he hadn’t sprung it on her. She had plenty of time to think about what to wear. Formal for evening meant what exactly? Long? Maybe. Classy—definitely.
Nothing in her wardrobe fitted that description. Forstunately, classy, in Roman terms, meant timeless.
So far there had been no call for evening clothes of any kind, but it was clearly time for an investment.
Something simple. Black, obviously …
It would be expensive but so well made that, with care, she would be able to take it out of her wardrobe ten years from now and it would still look good. And she’d smile at the memory of the first time she wore it. At the memory of the man she had worn it for.
Matteo took the long way back to the palazzo, forcing his steps away from Sarah, even while his head was filled with the image of her lying in bed. Bare shoulders golden in the lamplight, hair spread loose across her pillow.
Slow down …
Slow. Down.
He walked beside the river, attempting to burn off the restless sexual energy flooding his system, that fizzed through his veins like new wine whenever he saw her. Talked to her. Thought about her.
It would once have given him a power rush. A sense of being invincible. An adrenalin charge that would have powered him through all-night stints in the laboratory with his mind crystal-clear. Answers coming before he’d even thought of the questions.
But right now he was feeling a lot more like that fifteen-year-old boy in the lift. Wanting everything, but not entirely sure what everything was.
A few days away from her, he reasoned, would be no bad thing. This was too fast. He distrusted the intoxicating rush of desire. This feeling of being out of control was too much like last time. And yet at the same time nothing like it.