by Anne Mather
Smoothing her ink-stained fingers down the seams of her old jeans, she prepared herself for yet another family argument. She looked a mess, she thought, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror she had hung in the tiny hallway, but she hadn’t been expecting company and she had no intention of wearing good clothes to clear out dusty old boxes. Nevertheless, she had to admit that the cropped tee shirt had seen better days, and Karen’s husband, Dave, would probably have some sarcastic comment to make.
‘All right, all right,’ she muttered as the bell rang again, and, releasing the safety chain, she opened the door. ‘I was in the other—’
‘Ciao, cara.’
Grace broke off what she was saying in total confusion. At no time had she ever believed she would see Matteo di Falco again—except maybe on a wedding photograph, if Julia relented enough to send her one—and she could only stare at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.
‘May I come in?’
He looked beyond her, through the door into the living room, and, glancing behind her, she saw what he could see: boxes and books, and papers still strewn all over the floor.
‘I—what are you doing here?’ she asked, tugging the tee shirt over her bare midriff as several explanations, none of them admirable, tumbled through her shocked mind. Did Julia know he was here, or didn’t she? Were they still together, or—God help her!—had they parted, and if so what did that mean to her?
Matteo propped his shoulder against the jamb. It was the first time she’d seen him in a suit, and the fine dark blue fabric fitted his lean, athletic frame with loving dexterity. He looked—fantastic, she thought foolishly. And much more Italian in these essentially English surroundings.
‘How are you?’ he asked, not answering her question, and she wondered if it was only wish-fulfilment on her part that made her think there was a certain weary hollowness around his eyes.
‘I’m all right,’ she said quickly. ‘Um—is Julia with you?’
Matteo’s eyes grew sardonic. ‘Does it look like it?’ he asked, glancing up and down the landing, but she refused to let him disconcert her.
‘Why not?’ she asked defensively. ‘Unless—’ Her mouth felt as dry as old boots. ‘Unless you’re not together any longer; unless you’re not getting married, after all.’
Matteo straightened. ‘Oh—we are still together, cara,’ he told her in a tired voice, thereby dashing all the pitiful hopes she’d been trying to discipline ever since she’d opened the door. ‘Julia is arranging the wedding, even as we speak.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Please let me come in. We have to talk.’
Grace stiffened. ‘I don’t think we have anything to say to one another—’
‘You’re wrong.’
He didn’t move, and, telling herself she didn’t want her new neighbours to think she was in the habit of entertaining men on the doorstep, she moved out of his way. This might be the very last chance she had of telling him what she thought of him, she defended herself as common sense derided her weakness, and, closing the door behind her, she followed him into the living room.
‘You’re not living with your mother,’ he said, looking around, and she remembered that she hadn’t given him her address.
‘How did you know?’ she asked tautly, and Matteo’s mouth compressed.
‘Because I drove down to Brighton myself this morning,’ he told her briefly. ‘Fortunately, Julia had told me some weeks ago where you worked, and the receptionist at the museum was very...kind.’ As she was absorbing this astonishing news he asked, ‘Do you have anything to drink?’
Grace glanced towards the tiny kitchenette. ‘I’ve got tea or coffee,’ she said, wondering what Pauline and her mother must be thinking. ‘I don’t have wine, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Coke will do. Or beer.’ His voice was flat. ‘I’m thirsty, that’s all. It’s hot out, or hadn’t you noticed?’
Grace was once again reminded of the skimpiness of her top, but she refused to let him see that he’d embarrassed her as she walked into the kitchen. He’d seen her breasts, for God’s sake! Though that didn’t help much either.
She came back with a can of Coke to find him sitting on the worn leather sofa she’d bought second-hand. He wasn’t immediately aware of her return, and she was ashamed to admit that the weary slope of his shoulders disturbed her. His head was bent, his hands hanging loosely between his spread thighs, and just for a moment he looked totally vulnerable.
But that was stupid, she told herself crossly, even as her heart went out to him. He wasn’t going to inspire her sympathy no matter what he did, and she was a fool for letting him in here in the first place.
‘Here you are.’
She held the can and a glass out to him, thereby removing any pathos from the situation, but he only took the can from her. He flipped the tab and raised it to his lips, the muscles in his throat moving rhythmically as he swallowed. Then, panting a little, he licked a curl of foam from his upper lip before saying, ‘Thanks.’
Grace shrugged, making no response, and, deciding she couldn’t go on towering over him, she subsided onto an upholstered chair at the other side of the room. She thought a faint look of self-mockery crossed his face at this rather obvious separation, but he finished his Coke before going on.
‘I spoke to your mother,’ he said, returning to the subject of her changed circumstances. ‘She said you’d moved back to London.’
‘Did she?’ Grace nodded. ‘Well, as you can see, I have.’
‘Did something go wrong at home?’ he asked, and although she told herself it was nothing to do with him she found herself explaining that her sister’s husband had lost his job, and that it was obviously easier for them if they didn’t have a household’s bills to pay.
‘This would be—Giles, am I right?’ he enquired, and she acknowledged that very little escaped his attention.
‘Giles, that’s right. He used to work for an insurance company in Brighton.’
‘And what happened? Were they downsizing, or what?’
Grace thought how crazy it was that they should be discussing her brother-in-law, but it was easier than talking about the real reason Matteo was here.
‘My brother-in-law likes—gambling,’ she conceded after a moment. ‘Unfortunately, he can’t always afford to do so.’
‘I see.’ Matteo nodded, and she was quite sure he knew exactly what she was talking about. ‘So he was fired.’
‘That’s right.’ Grace sighed, and then muttered barely audibly, ‘If only that was all.’
‘So he is to be—charged with—what? Embezzlement?’
‘Something like that.’ Grace felt as if she’d said more than enough. She squared her shoulders. ‘But that isn’t why you came, is it?’
‘No.’ He subjected her to the kind of intent appraisal that had always been able to turn her knees to water. ‘I had to see you again.’
‘Oh, please—’
Grace’s hands came to grip the edge of her seat in an instinctive preliminary to flight, and he spread his hands in a desperate gesture. ‘Listen to me,’ he begged. And then, as if realising he was still holding the empty can, he crushed it with savage fingers and tossed it onto the coffee table between them. ‘You have to know,’ he went on in a harsh voice. ‘I did—I do—care about you—’
Grace sprang to her feet. ‘I think you’d better go.’
‘Why?’ He got to his feet, too, and although there was at least eight feet between them Grace was sure she could feel his frustration. ‘I’m not suggesting I abandon my responsibilities to Julia. God knows, if she is expecting my child, then naturally I owe her my name and my support.’ He paused for a moment, as if to calm himself, and then went on, ‘Nonna told me that she’d explained to you about the way Luisa died, so I know you’ll understand when I say that I would not have been thrilled about her condition in any circumstances, but be assured she will have the best of care.’
Grace nodded. ‘I never doubted it.’
&nb
sp; ‘No.’ Matteo’s lips twisted. ‘No, you didn’t, did you? From the very beginning of our association, you tried to tell me that I was wasting my time, but I didn’t want to listen.’
Grace swallowed. ‘Julia should have told you sooner.’ ‘Yes, she should.’ Matteo conceded the point. ‘She should have trusted in the fact that we are Roman Catholics. We do not believe in taking the life of an unborn child, however inconvenient its existence might be.’
Grace looked down at her hands. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why are you sorry?’ Matteo took an involuntary step towards her and then halted when he saw the apprehension in her face. ‘Oh, Grace, this whole sorry mess is my fault. Mine! You have nothing to reproach yourself for. Be thankful you can forget it, move on with your life, find someone else who will not bring the pitiful baggage of a weekend’s madness to destroy your future—’
‘Don’t.’ Grace couldn’t bear it. She had thought she could handle this, but she couldn’t. Watching him visibly destroying himself just tore her up and she couldn’t let him go on. ‘It was as much my fault as yours,’ she told him doggedly. ‘I knew—I knew about the pregnancy all along, but I still—I still—’
‘What? What?’
Matteo was waiting for her answer with an anguished expression, and Grace had to steel herself against the urge she had to go and comfort him. ‘I—I still wanted you,’ she confessed helplessly, and heard the agonised moan that escaped his lips.
‘Dio, Grace,’ he said, his voice ragged with emotion. ‘What have I done?’
Grace turned away. ‘It doesn’t matter—’
‘Don’t say that.’
He was behind her now. She could feel the draught of his breath against her neck, and she expected any moment for his hands to descend on her shoulders and for him to turn her towards him. She didn’t know what she’d do when that happened; she hadn’t got that far in her reasoning, but—
A door slammed.
The thud echoed in her head long after the sound had died away, and her shoulders began to shake as the tears she’d been fighting for weeks streamed down her cheeks. She didn’t need to look round to know he’d gone. Something, some extra sensitivity they shared, was gone, and she knew it wasn’t coming back...
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN THE weeks that followed, Grace did her best to put her life back together.
She was glad to be able to give up working at the pub, but now she applied herself to her job at the museum with renewed enthusiasm. Keeping busy was the only way she knew to keep her personal demons at bay, and she was seldom home before seven o’clock.
She also started accepting the odd social invitation that came her way. It used to be rare indeed that she attended the theatre or the opera with a male companion, but she’d decided that dating was all part of her emotional convalescence. And, if no one actually got across the threshold of her St John’s Wood apartment, it wasn’t through want of trying.
But it was a hollow existence. She knew she was only fooling herself by thinking that anything—or anyone—could banish Matteo from her life. He was there; he was a fixture; and everything else was just a passing diversion.
The only person who came close to discovering the truth was her mother. All Grace’s family had been curious about the sexy Italian who had come to the house in Islington Crescent looking for her, but only Mrs Horton had guessed that Grace’s flippant dismissal of his appearance was just an act.
‘Are you in love with him?’ she asked frankly, a couple of weeks after Matteo’s visit when Grace had driven down to see her. She frowned. ‘What is it? Is he married?’
‘He probably is by now,’ replied Grace with assumed brightness, but her mother wasn’t letting her get away with that.
‘Did he—hurt you?’
‘Not intentionally,’ said Grace, deciding she had to put an end to all these questions before she broke down completely. ‘Now—’ she got out of her chair ‘—I’m going to make us both a nice cup of tea, and then you can tell me how things are working out with Pauline and Giles.’ She managed a conspiratorial wink. ‘Before they get back from Giles’s parents’, eh?’
‘Well, that was the funniest thing!’ exclaimed Mrs Horton before she could get out of the room, and Grace was forced to pause by the door to hear the latest gossip. ‘The firm have decided not to bring any charges. Against Giles, I mean, of course. It took us all by surprise when the letter arrived. You can imagine what Giles thought when he saw the company logo on the envelope.’
‘I bet.’ Grace frowned. ‘Did they say why?’
Mrs Horton said, ‘I can’t remember the exact wording, but it was something to the effect that as all monies had been recovered there’d be no further action taken.’
‘All monies recovered?’ echoed Grace blankly. ‘What does that mean? He didn’t take the money in the first place?’
‘No. That’s not in question.’ Her mother regarded her with mild impatience. ‘It appears that someone has paid the money back.’
‘Who? Giles?’
‘No. How could he?’ Mrs Horton pulled a face. ‘He’s got no money, has he? Well, not enough to pay back what he owed anyway.’
Grace frowned. ‘So what are you saying? That you’ve paid it off for him?’
‘No!’ Mrs Horton clicked her tongue. ‘Weren’t you listening to me? Didn’t I say it was totally unexpected? For all of us.’
Grace shook her head, and, leaving her mother to marvel anew at her son-in-law’s good fortune, she went into the kitchen and plugged in the electric kettle. Well, she thought ruefully, at least it would make things easier for Pauline and the children. And maybe for Giles, too, when he tried to get another job. At least he wouldn’t have the handicap of a possible conviction hanging over his head.
* * *
It was towards the end of the following week when Grace had an unexpected visitor at the museum.
She was in the basement, unpacking a box of ceramics which had just arrived from their warehouse in Purfleet, when Mr Seton himself came to tell her there was someone asking to see her in Reception.
Grace had been kneeling on the floor, but now she got to her feet, dusting off her hands as she pondered the fact that the curator should have chosen to deliver the message personally. For a heart-stopping moment, she wondered if Matteo was in London and had decided to pay her a call, which might account for Mr Seton’s involvement, but her boss soon disabused her of that notion.
‘You might tell Miss Calloway that I do not approve of personal visitors during opening hours,’ he stated brusquely as Grace hurriedly rinsed her hands at the sink. ‘And particularly not when they’re—’ his lips showed his distaste ‘—intoxicated!’
But Grace had heard nothing beyond the words ‘Miss Calloway’. ‘Julia,’ she breathed incredulously. Julia was her visitor! She could hardly believe it.
‘You will tell her, won’t you?’ Mr Seton called after her as she preceded him out of the basement, but once again Grace wasn’t listening to him. Julia? she said to herself again. Miss Calloway? Surely she should have been Signora di Falco by now.
She fairly ran up the stairs, only coming to a halt a couple of steps from the top when she realised she hadn’t bothered to check if her hair was tidy and her face was clean. Wetting the tips of her fingers, she smoothed a few errant strands of hair behind her ears and then continued more sedately into the foyer. Julia wouldn’t care what she looked like, anyway, she assured herself. She only hoped she hadn’t come to make a scene.
The museum comprised several exhibition halls on three floors, with the reception area to the right of the entrance. The steps from the basement emerged immediately outside the reception hall, but Grace could hear Julia long before she pushed through the heavy glass doors. Her friend was harangueing the receptionist in a loud, demanding voice and suddenly Grace understood why Mr Seton had been so tetchy. Dear God, was Julia drunk, or was she just spoiling for a fight?
‘I’m telling you, Grace
will be very happy to see me,’ she was proclaiming angrily as Grace pushed through the door. ‘I don’t care if she is working. I’ve come all the way from Italy to see her.’
‘And here I am,’ said Grace quietly, attracting the other woman’s attention. ‘I’m sorry about this, Sally,’ she added to the young girl behind the desk. ‘I came as quickly as I could.’
Julia swung round on heels that Grace was sure she wouldn’t even be able to stand in, let alone walk in, and surveyed the new arrival with a jaundiced eye. ‘Yes, there you are,’ she said, swaying back against the desk for support. ‘At last I was beginning to think they’d buried you among all the other old artifacts.’
‘And hello to you, too,’ said Grace drily, noting the unmistakable cut of the designer suit her friend was wearing with an unwelcome hollowness in her stomach. Evidently Julia hadn’t wasted any time in spending Matteo’s money.
Julia’s eyes glazed over for a moment, and Grace was very much afraid she was going to pass out. But then she seemed to pull herself together, and, leaving the security of the desk, she started across the floor.
‘Come on,’ she said, slinging an arm around Grace’s waist, as much for support as in affection. ‘Let’s get out of this crappy place. I saw a little bar round the corner. I’ll buy you some champagne, just for old times’ sake.’
‘I can’t, Julia.’ Grace allowed the other woman to hang onto her, but she made no move towards the door. ‘It’s only half-past two, and I don’t finish till six, at the earliest. You can go back to my apartment and wait, if you want.’