by Joanna Rees
‘Gin, whisky, vodka or champagne? What can I get you?’
‘More champagne, I guess.’
He lifted out a vintage bottle and unwrapped the cork. ‘Find some glasses, could you?’
She opened some cupboards until she found some Tiffany flutes, and Reicke expertly popped the bottle and poured two glasses. She liked the feeling of playing ‘house’ with him, even if it was just in a hotel. Yes, she thought, she could do this. She must make herself relax. Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself? Why shouldn’t she have fun?
‘I haven’t shown you the best bit,’ Reicke said, his eyes glittering as he nodded for her to follow him into the bedroom past the huge bed with its red brocade cover. He pulled back the matching curtains and slid back the tinted glass door. Outside was a private terrace with a hot-tub. Reicke flicked a switch and the lights in the water came on.
‘Hang on,’ Reicke said, going to a panel in the wall. ‘That isn’t it yet.’
He flicked another two switches and the water started bubbling. Music came on through the speakers – the New Radicals album that Thea loved.
‘That’s amazing,’ Thea said, walking out onto the terrace to look closer and to see what was on the other side of the high wall. But when she turned round, she saw that Reicke was undressing.
‘What are you doing?’ Thea gasped.
‘We’ve got to try it out,’ he laughed, stamping out of his trousers. He stood on the wooden slats surrounding the hot-tub in his Calvin Klein underpants and stretched his arms out. She saw that, once out of his stiff dinner jacket and starched shirt, he was wearing a leather necklace with a small pendant, which nestled against his surprisingly toned chest. In fact his body was incredible, and Thea felt a dart of desire run through her. ‘Don’t leave me out here in the cold, Thea.’
She laughed, amazed at how comfortable he was in his own skin. But he had every right to be. She bit her lip as she watched him climbing into the water.
‘There. See, it’s easy,’ he said. ‘Pass me my champagne.’
Thea rolled her eyes and went to fetch him the glass he’d left on the bedside table. He grinned at her, the water in the hot-tub bubbling against his chin and steam rising into the night. He sighed as he stretched back.
‘I’ll close my eyes. Hop in,’ he said. ‘I promise I won’t look.’
Thea looked up at the stars. She should leave right now. Reicke was her colleague. What was she even thinking of – getting into a hot-tub with him? And yet . . . and yet . . . she sighed, exasperated with herself. What, or more precisely who, was she saving herself for? Tom? Still? After all this time?
‘Come on, it’ll be fun,’ Reicke coaxed. ‘I’m still not looking . . .’
Putting her champagne down, Thea quickly undid the zip of her dress, watching it slip down around her hips. She stared at her stay-up stockings, wondering whether to keep them on. In the end she rolled them off, having difficulty balancing on one foot.
Then, giggling, she stepped into the water, in her thin lace bra and panties, staring at Reicke’s face. She watched him peeping open one eye and squealed, clamping her arm against her breasts. ‘Don’t look,’ she wailed, plunging down into the water.
‘Can I open my eyes now?’ Reicke asked, and Thea laughed.
She stared at him across the water, but Reicke just grinned back.
‘You’re so American,’ he said. ‘Us Germans strip off in front of each other all the time.’
‘Yes, but this is different. We’re all alone. And, as you said earlier, I’m your boss.’
Thea suddenly regretted pointing out that glaring fact, but Reicke didn’t seem to be offended. He tipped his head back and looked at the stars.
‘It is rather lovely, isn’t it?’ he said.
Then he looked at her, and this time his face was serious.
Under the water she felt Reicke’s foot touch hers and then his leg. She held her breath. She could feel herself trembling, despite the warm water. But his closeness felt wonderful.
Then, before she knew it, he’d crossed the water and was next to her and his lips were on hers, kissing her. He took her in his arms and kissed her more passionately.
‘Let’s forget everything,’ Reicke whispered. ‘Let’s just enjoy each other. You and me.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
March 1999
Romy concentrated hard, as she wound the ancient pasta-maker on the worn wooden table. She felt Maria Scolari’s strong, floury hands cup her own as the soft doughy mixture fell in folds.
‘That’s it,’ Maria said, nodding her head.
Romy glanced up at Alfonso’s mother and smiled. She had neatly curled salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing a striped apron made in the local pink and white patterned cloth. Despite being married to one of the richest men in Italy, when she was here at the family’s Tuscan farmhouse the matriarch of the family liked to get her hands dirty in the way of all her ancestors before her.
Romy found it fascinating. Where she herself had done everything to sever all contact with her own roots, Maria positively embraced hers. In fact Romy had never been somewhere where family tradition was so obvious – from the hand-painted plates on the oak dresser to the tiniest rituals. Like the way in which Maria sang to the hens as she collected eggs in the morning, or the secret recipes for the giant dishes that Maria prepared for the family to eat in the evenings under the vine-covered terrace. Even the family dog was seventh-generation, from the same litter born in the farmhouse during the war.
Romy loved being amongst it all and learning the family ways from Maria, who treated all her children with total joy and devotion. And none more so than Alfonso, whom Maria – as well as Roberto, and all Alfonso’s sisters – worshipped. Romy had thought when she’d first seen how they spoiled him that they’d never accept her, but somehow they had. Which was why she felt particularly blessed that Maria had singled her out to help in her kitchen this morning.
Alfonso swung round the kitchen door, the sunlight streaming in behind him. He was carrying a towel over his shoulder and announced that he was going for a swim in the lake with his father.
‘It’ll be freezing,’ Maria said. ‘You’ll catch a chill,’ she went on, tutting at him.
Alfonso smiled and came over and hugged Maria from behind, putting his arms around her shapely waist, making her bustle and slap his hand, and then tut as he stole a cherry tomato from the vine cuttings on the table. But there was no mistaking the love in her eyes as Maria watched her son, who now winked at Romy and kissed her dramatically, bending her over backwards in his arms. As usual she felt a dart of pleasure run through her, not dented for a minute by the fact that he was showing off in front of his mother.
She laughed as Alfonso started singing a loud opera aria as he made for the door.
‘Did he tell you that he used to want to be a singer,’ Maria said when he’d gone.
Romy felt herself blushing. ‘Yes, of course . . . ’
‘Romy,’ Maria said, putting her floury hand on Romy’s wrist. ‘Don’t play games with me. Not any more. He can’t sing for toffee.’
Romy felt the colour rise even more in her cheeks.
Maria chuckled at her. ‘I knew the first time you came here that you hardly knew a thing about my son. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re still here now. Do you love him?’ Maria asked, shocking Romy with her directness.
‘Yes,’ Romy told her, amazed that she was admitting it. But somehow this beautiful farmhouse kitchen demanded the truth. And Maria herself seemed to demand the truth too. ‘I’ve never felt like this about anyone.’
Maria nodded, taking over the machine and letting another sheet of pasta spill expertly into her hand.
Romy couldn’t help feel that this short exchange had propelled her relationship with Alfonso to a whole knew level. She wondered what he would say when she told him that his mother had seen through them all along. Would he be angry that she’d been so easily caught out?
But looking at Maria now, Romy realized that this formidable woman, who appeared so motherly and keen to please her husband, was in fact the backbone of the Scolari family. Nothing her children did had probably ever got past her.
Which is why her acceptance meant so much. But even so, Romy was surprised at how readily she’d admitted her own feelings. Not that there was any point in trying to hide them. She had been hopelessly besotted with Alfonso Scolari ever since he’d proposed the crazy trip to meet his parents for the first time, ten magical months ago.
It had felt so naughty, so illicit. As if they’d been on an adventure together, sharing a huge secret. She smiled, remembering how they’d talked the whole way – on the small private plane from Nice to Pisa. And then in the black Ferrari that was waiting for them on the private runway at the Galileo Galilei airport, which Alfonso drove at a terrifying speed onto the motorway and then along the winding roads north into the mountains. They’d spent the whole time trying to remember facts about each other.
‘What do I like about you?’ she’d asked him, as they drove through the countryside, the rolling poppy fields and the dark Cyprus trees across the landscape so perfect that she could barely take in its beauty.
‘I have nice hair,’ he’d replied. ‘And I cook a fantastic vongole. Be sure to tell Mamma that.’
She’d laughed, nodding. Because it wouldn’t be hard to remember, she thought. He did have great hair. Hair that she longed to run her fingers through.
‘Oh, and I am a terrific lover,’ he’d added. ‘That’s why you’ve fallen in love with me. But you can’t tell Mamma that. Tell Flavia, my eldest sister.’
Romy had laughed again, but she’d found herself wondering whether that were true.
‘What do you do, Romy? I mean . . . what are your hobbies?’ he’d asked, turning his attention to her.
‘I read books – romances especially,’ she’d admitted. ‘I take photographs of the places I’ve been, but I’m terrible at putting them in albums. I like shoes. Expensive shoes. My favourite ones are yellow, and this high.’ She’d put her fingers out to show him and Alfonso had whistled, impressed.
‘But you don’t wear them that often,’ he’d clarified. ‘Because you’re taller than me in them.’
Romy had shaken her head, alarmed and amused by their deception and whether they’d ever pull it off. ‘I have a thing for nice underwear. And stray dogs.’
‘That’s good. That all fits,’ Alfonso had said. ‘You chose me. A stray. You have tamed me.’
‘Is that possible?’ she’d asked.
He’d grinned over at her, putting his foot down on the accelerator, making her tummy jump. ‘Anything is possible.’
And Romy had felt it right then, she remembered. That feeling. That feeling she’d had ever since. That this man was wonderful . . . amazing. That he had the power to make her happy in a way she’d never thought possible.
Now, as she watched Maria call to Alfonso’s big sister, Flavia, who sauntered into the kitchen and stirred the meat sauce bubbling on the state-of-the art range in the ancient chimney-breast, Romy blanched, remembering the first time she’d ever eaten pasta in that seedy flat, on the first night she’d arrived in London. And once again she was assaulted by terror that these lovely people – that anyone in this, her new life – would ever know the truth about her past.
Now Flavia smiled at Romy. ‘Mamma is teaching you how to sprinkle her magic into food then?’ she asked.
Flavia had long wavy dark hair and rich olive skin and their father’s proud nose. But she had her mother’s softness of character and Romy had found herself feeling excited when Flavia had called her and suggested meeting for a coffee in Milan. She liked the fact that Alfonso’s eldest sister wanted to be her friend, and they’d been on several shopping trips together. It had been the first time in Romy’s life she’d ever thought how lovely it would be to have a sister of her own.
Romy was interrupted by a commotion in the hall, and Alfonso’s other sister, Anna, came in with her two daughters. Maria threw out her arms to gather her granddaughters up. Romy smiled, watching as the family all kissed each other, talking and fussing over one another the whole time.
Did they realize how lucky they were? she wondered. To have all the money in the world and still to have this? This gorgeous family. This sense of belonging. Just being around it made Romy feel warm in a way she never had before. The more time she spent with the Scolaris, the more time she wanted.
When she’d told Alfonso how much she liked them all, he’d sulked and told her that they were annoying and nosy. She’d told him off and had been amazed at how he’d reacted. He’d been furious, she remembered – the first taste she’d had of his fiery temper. She didn’t understand, he’d railed at her. Nobody understood how he felt. Romy had been so surprised by this childish outburst that she’d fallen about giggling, before doing an impression of him strutting about like an angry duck.
‘Don’t take their side,’ he’d pleaded with her, softening only a little, his anger turning to embarrassment.
‘Now, why would I do that?’ she’d soothed, pinning his arms by his sides in a tight embrace and kissing him, marvelling that, even with his monstrous ego, he could still reveal his insecurities.
Anna too, by all accounts, had Alfonso’s fiery streak, but they’d never met until now, and Romy couldn’t help but stare at the small, athletic-looking woman in tennis whites. She went to shake Anna’s hand, but instead the smaller woman embraced Romy tightly, leaning up to kiss her. She smelt of a familiar perfume.
‘You got Alfonso to come back. Thank you,’ she said, looking relieved, and Romy saw immediately that they too would be friends.
‘Are you the famous model?’ Anna’s daughter, Cesca asked, adding, ‘You’re just as pretty as Mamma said you would be,’ as she stood with one hand on her hip.
‘Thank you,’ Romy laughed, bending down to kiss the little girl with dark curls in the white smock-dress. ‘So are you. But being a model isn’t about being pretty, it’s just about being tall and having lots of luck.’
‘I like your sparkly hairclip,’ Cesca said, reaching out to touch it.
‘Do you?’ Romy said. ‘Here. Why don’t you have it?’ she continued, taking it out of her hair.
‘Cesca,’ Anna scolded, apologizing to Romy for her daughter’s forthrightness, but Romy wouldn’t hear of it. She liked Cesca and, as she fastened the clip in her hair, she had a vision of being a mother herself. A mother to a Scolari. She stood up, shocked at how happy the thought made her. Just then her phone rang. She pulled it out of the back pocket of her jeans shorts.
It was Nico.
‘Where are you?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve left you loads of messages.’
‘I can’t talk,’ Romy said, turning away. ‘I told you. I’m with Alfonso’s family.’ In the rustic farmhouse kitchen, with the hot sun streaming through the doors, her world of airports and model shoots seemed a million miles away.
‘I don’t care. Pack your bags now,’ Nico said. ‘I’ve got us an amazing job. We’re doing an airline commercial. Filming in Peru. I’ve bent over backwards to see you in it, but they’ve agreed.’
‘When would we have to leave?’ Romy asked, thinking of Simona as much as Nico. Romy didn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, especially after all Simona had done for her, and especially when she knew that Simona would do anything for Romy to keep her safe and happy.
‘Tomorrow evening. I’m booking the flights now.’
‘Nico, I can’t . . . I’ve got to think about it. I can’t just leave.’
‘Romy,’ Nico wailed. ‘I’ve broken my back for this one. You can’t let me down. Please, darling.’
Romy hung up, but as she put her phone back in her pocket, she caught the expression on Maria Scolari’s face and realized, without a shadow of a doubt, that taking the job and leaving in the middle of this family weekend was the wrong decision.
She was either in the Scolari cla
n or out.
As the family gathered for supper under the vine on the terrace, later that evening, Romy was still in turmoil. She hadn’t had a second to talk to Alfonso alone, but had been swept along by the arrival of all his sisters. Lola and Serena as well as blonde Bianca, the baby sister, who brooded in the corner and couldn’t be won over until Romy started discussing novels with her. Now she helped Cesca light all the candles on the table and laughed as Anna chattered, while she folded the napkins, filling Romy in on the family history and gossip. The only sister missing was Gloria, who Alfonso said had taken his gauntlet as the black sheep of the family. Maria arrived tight-lipped after talking to Gloria on the phone.
‘She’s not coming, Mamma?’ Serena asked.
Maria shook her head. ‘She won’t come until your father accepts Marc.’
‘Who’s Marc?’ Romy asked Anna.
‘He’s Gloria’s latest squeeze,’ Anna confided. ‘Papa found out that he went to jail for drug-dealing when he was a kid, so he won’t think about acknowledging him, or accepting him. It’s breaking Mamma’s heart. Gloria was always the brightest of us, but she’s determined to stick by this Marc guy and has pulled out of her PhD.’
Now Romy watched as Roberto Scolari arrived at the table, smart as always in a pink shirt, which complemented his olive skin and silver hair. She squeezed Alfonso’s hand under the table, secretly wondering whether he’d be as attractive as his father when he was old and grey.
‘We’re so lucky with the weather. So warm for March,’ he declared. ‘So. We are all here?’ He smiled at everyone around the table. ‘But where’s Gloria?’
‘She’s not coming,’ Maria said. ‘You know that.’
Roberto sighed. ‘Her loss.’
‘Doesn’t she deserve a second chance, Papa?’ Alfonso said.
Roberto turned to him, his features stern. ‘I will not have that boyfriend of hers associated with this family. You know that.’
His tone was decisive, his eyes steely, and Romy saw then that Roberto Scolari was black and white. You were either in or out. There were no second chances. Romy watched Maria leave the table to collect something from the kitchen, but her silence spoke volumes about her disappointment.