An Elusive Desire

by Anne Mather

  Jaime shook her head. ‘I don’t blame Rafaello—–’

  ‘You blame Nicola?’

  ‘No!’ Jaime was vehement. ‘I blame myself. If Raf and I had not split up—–’

  ‘My child, forgive me, but that is nonsense!’

  ‘Why is it nonsense? Raf believes it.’

  ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘Among—among other things.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is nonsense.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My dear Jaime, you cannot be blamed for what happened after you and my son separated. Rafaello was not a child; he was—he is—an adult. He was not compelled to marry Nicola because you walked out on him.’

  ‘No, but—–’

  ‘I know now that Nicola was jealous of you. She has told me so. Oh, not in so many words—she would not be foolish enough to admit to something like that, but her behaviour has left little doubt that she would have done anything in her power to split you two up.’

  Jaime bent her head. ‘Even so—–’

  ‘You cannot deny that the situation might have ended differently if Nicola had not interfered.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Jaime lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘I did want my independence—I can’t deny that. But whether I would have been strong enough to leave Raf if he hadn’t forced me to—–’

  ‘Eccoti! Who can tell? The dice is cast, and we can only take so much of the responsibility for what may be ordained.’

  Jaime glanced towards Rafaello’s mother. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do not thank me.’ The Contessa braked with her usual lack of consideration for her passenger. ‘I just wonder why Nicola brought you here.’

  Jaime hesitated. ‘Well, I did try to tell you yesterday.’

  The Contessa’s lips tightened. ‘I wonder now that you should have suggested what you did.’

  ‘Why?’ Jaime frowned. ‘I promised to try and help Nicola. What else could I do?’

  The Contessa took her eyes from the road to gaze at her for so long that eventually Jaime had to guide the steering wheel herself. However, the old lady dragged her eyes away at last, and shaking her head said: ‘I do not know what to make of you, signorina. Sometimes I think I have been wrong about you, and at others I wonder if I know you at all.’

  Jaime felt confused. ‘Why should it surprise you that I might want to help Nicola? We were friends.’

  ‘Tell me, signorina …’ the Contessa chose her words with care, ‘did you ever love my son?’

  Jaime gasped. ‘You must know I did!’

  ‘Then in God’s name, why do you hate him now?’

  ‘I don’t hate him—–’

  ‘But you would have him father a child he knows is not his!’

  Jaime’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, do not sound so shocked! You said you knew what was wrong with Nicola. Surely you did not—you could not believe that the child was Rafaello’s?’

  Jaime felt quite faint. It was warm in the car, and although the windows were open, the breeze offered little respite. The collar of her shirt was sticking to the back of her neck, and there was the dampness of moisture along her spine. But now the backs of her knees were sweating, and there were beads of perspiration along her brow; however, what caused the Contessa to bring the car to a halt was the sudden pallor of Jaime’s face, and the doubtful suggestion that she was on the point of losing consciousness.

  ‘You did not know?’ she demanded, turning to the prostrate girl, and Jaime mutely shook her head. ‘But what were you talking about yesterday? I thought you must know about her and Lorenzo. What else could you think would cause me such distress?’

  Jaime’s mouth felt parched, but after a few minutes she managed to speak. ‘I thought—I thought you were talking about Nicola drinking,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t know—-I never connected her—her morning sickness with—with a baby.’

  ‘Then you are extremely naïve,’ remarked the Contessa drily. ‘Or—–’ she shrugged her shoulders in a typically continental gesture, ‘your own feelings of guilt have blinded you to anyone else’s.’

  Jaime gulped. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes, so am I.’ The Contessa expelled her breath wearily.

  ‘So—so that was what you meant when you said Raf knew, that everybody knew?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Nicola and—and Lorenzo?’

  ‘Rafaello’s half-brother,’ declared the Contessa bitterly. ‘My husband got one of the kitchen staff with child.’

  Jaime gasped. ‘So that’s why Lorenzo is so—so—–’

  ‘Arrogant? But yes. Can you imagine how I felt the day I arrived to find you and he together?’

  Jaime caught her lip between her teeth. ‘You had no need to feel concerned on my account, Contessa. I’ve worked with men like Lorenzo Costa. That’s one of the advantages of having a career—one learns to be wary of a certain type of man.’

  ‘Men like my husband,’ declared the Contessa flatly. ‘Oh, I loved Ricardo dearly, but I was not blind to his faults. Nicola, I regret to say, does not learn by her mistakes.’

  Jaime rubbed her damp palms down over her knees. ‘I just don’t understand what she wanted of me.’

  ‘Nor do I, now you tell me you do not know the truth,’ mused the Contessa thoughtfully. ‘Unless she thought you might help her to find a way to lose the child, as she did before.’

  Jaime blinked. ‘Surely it wasn’t Nicola’s fault that the baby she had was born dead?’

  ‘That, no. But losing it—oh, yes, I am afraid Nicola was to blame for that.’ She sighed. ‘I expect Rafaello told you about it. It was a terrible affair.’

  ‘As—as a matter of fact, Raf didn’t tell me,’ Jaime admitted uncomfortably. ‘It was Lorenzo, the morning after I arrived. He told me there had been a child that died.’

  ‘He would!’ muttered the Contessa vehemently. ‘He has always been jealous of Rafaello, even though my son has supported him for years.’ Her lips curled. ‘And what did he tell you about it? Did he cast doubt about the child’s parentage? He would not be the first to do so.’

  Jaime’s colour returned slowly, but she still had that peculiar sense of unreality, that feeling of a situation totally beyond her comprehension. No wonder Rafaello was so bitter, she thought with dismay. No wonder there was so much bitterness between them. Nicola had brought her here under false pretences, and although her heart ached for Rafaello, Jaime knew she had no choice but to leave.

  The Contessa did not accompany her into the airport itself. They said their goodbyes outside—two women who might have been related, separated by a gulf neither one of them could breach.

  ‘I will tell Rafaello the truth,’ his mother promised, after Jaime had climbed out of the car. ‘Not that you love him. I am too good a Catholic for that, and I do not know what he might do if he believed it. But I will tell him you did not know of Nicola’s condition. Perhaps that may give him some consolation.’

  Jaime was trembling as the old Mercedes drove away. In a few words, the Contessa had exposed the deepest secret of her heart, and left her vulnerable …

  It was late in the evening when Jaime got back to her apartment, and she half expected Mrs Purdom to be out. But that lady was watching television in her sitting room when she heard Jaime’s key in the lock, and her greeting was warmly reassuring as she helped her mistress off with her jacket.

  London, predictably enough, was suffering the effects of a seasonal downpour, and it was a relief to get into the apartment, where an efficient central heating system soon dispelled the chilling dampness of the evening.

  ‘I must say, you’ve chosen the wrong night to come home,’ the housekeeper tutted, shaking the moisture from Jaime’s jacket, which had accumulated in the short dash from the taxi. ‘And you don’t look particularly rested either. Are you sure you haven’t been camping out at the office?’

  Jaime forced a polite chuckle, but her heart was not in it, and as if gleaning thi
s, Mrs Purdom gave up her attempt to be facetious. ‘I’m sure what you need is a good hot meal,’ she declared, carrying Jaime’s suitcase into her bedroom. ‘You take off these wet clothes and relax for a while, and I’ll soon have something ready for you.’

  ‘Oh, really, Mrs Purdom—–’ Jaime found it difficult to find the right words without sounding ungrateful. ‘I’m not particularly hungry, honestly. A—a sandwich, perhaps, and a cup of tea. I don’t think I could eat anything else.’

  ‘Hmm! Well-’ Mrs Purdom arched her brows in some disdain, ‘if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is.’ Jaime sank down on to the side of her bed wearily. ‘In about three-quarters of an hour. I’m going to take a bath first.’

  Relaxing in the scented water, Jaime tried to empty her mind of thoughts of Rafaello and Nicola and the old Contessa, but it was impossible. Already she was wondering what both Rafaello and Nicola had made of her hasty departure, and while she guessed Rafaello would be glad she had gone, about Nicola she was not so sure. She hoped the other girl would not do anything foolish now she was no longer there to dissuade her, but if Nicola’s bid to divert attention had rebounded on her, she had only herself to blame. Surely she could not really believe that Rafaello was in ignorance of her condition? And what had possessed her to get involved with Lorenzo Costa? Jaime couldn’t believe it was her desire for a baby that had driven her into the other man’s arms.

  The enigma still remained as to why Nicola had invited her to Italy. What could she have possibly hoped Jaime would achieve? Her pleas for Jaime to intercede on her behalf had a hollow ring now, and as she had not been completely honest about that, why should Jaime believe anything she said?

  It was strange to climb into her own bed later, but infinitely reassuring to anticipate the resumption of her normal life. It would be quite a relief to get back to the office. The usual abrasive relationship she had with her contemporaries was exactly what she needed to shake off the sense of depression that was gripping her, and she forced herself to think of the new promotion and its implications for her career.

  Martin Longman poured more champagne into Jaime’s glass and raised his own towards her. ‘A great success, wouldn’t you say?’ he declared, with obvious satisfaction. ‘I think my fellow directors are going to be pleased. Lady-Free is going to break all records.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  Jaime sipped her champagne thoughtfully, and her boss regarded her with troubled eyes. ‘Don’t you? Don’t you feel we’ve got a winner on our hands? Jaime, it’s all down to you. Don’t get cold feet now.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not.’ Jaime forced a faint smile to her lips. ‘I just don’t like—anticipating success, that’s all. Hmm, this is delicious, but I really think I’ve had enough.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the launch, is it?’ Martin put down his own glass and regarded her solemnly. ‘You’ve not been yourself since you came back from Italy. What is it, Jaime? What’s wrong? I thought you said your friend had recovered. You’re not still worrying about her, are you?’

  ‘Worrying about Nicola?’ Jaime’s voice lifted an octave. ‘No. No, I’m not worrying about anything.’

  ‘But something’s wrong, Jaime—I know it.’ Martin came round his desk to prop his hips against the corner. ‘You don’t have the same enthusiasm you used to. I’m not saying your work is suffering—you’re too conscientious for that. But, quite frankly, you’re beginning to worry me. It’s obvious you’ve lost weight, and I want to know why.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Martin.’ Jaime buried her nose in the slim glass she was holding. ‘I’ve been on a diet, that’s all. All that Italian food, it’s awfully bad for the figure.’

  ‘Jaime, stop it!’ Martin’s fair features were flushed with impatience. ‘I know you too well. Good heavens, we’ve worked together for almost a year. I thought we were friends.’

  ‘We are. And it’s sweet of you to worry about me, honestly, but—–’ She looked up at him hopefully, and then, recognising the stubbornness of his expression, she sighed. ‘It’s a personal matter, Martin, something I have to work out myself. There’s nothing I can do about it. I just have to give it time. Really, I’m not about to desert the company.’

  ‘Thank God for that!’ Martin was fervent. ‘And you don’t want to talk about it? You don’t think another opinion might help?’

  Jaime shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s a man, obviously.’ He paused. ‘Someone you met in Italy?’

  Jaime hesitated. ‘You might say that,’ she conceded, putting down her glass. ‘Do you mind if I go now, Martin? I do have the beginnings of a headache.’

  ‘And I was going to ask you to join me for dinner,’ said Martin wryly. ‘I don’t suppose you …’

  ‘I’d rather not. Not tonight,’ replied Jaime apologetically. ‘An early night is in order. I’ve used so much nervous energy today, I need to recharge my batteries.’

  ‘I wish I believed that was all it was,’ commented Martin flatly. ‘It’s nearly two weeks, Jaime. How much longer is it going to take?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’ Jaime tried to make light of it. ‘I’ll see you on Monday, Martin. And—thanks. For everything.’

  Martin Longman was not the only person who was worried about Jaime. Mrs Purdom was too, and Jaime knew her housekeeper expended a lot of energy at mealtimes, trying to tempt her with some new delicacy. Lately, there had been fragrant broths and light soufflés, fluffy eggs that melted on the tongue; there had been tender green vegetables, served with mouthwatering sauces, and crisply-flaky vol-au-vents, oozing with ham or cheese or chicken. Jaime felt obliged to at least try everything that was put before her, which she guessed was Mrs Purdom’s intention, but her appetite had dwindled and she found it almost impossible to make the effort. Martin was right, she had lost her enthusiasm—-for everything—and her life which had once seemed so full now seemed frighteningly empty.

  This evening Mrs Purdom had some rather disturbing news to impart, however. There had been a call for her, from Italy: ‘That woman who rang before,’ she admitted with some reluctance. Like Martin Longman, the housekeeper could only attribute Jaime’s unhappiness to something that had happened in Italy, and she was loath to revive a memory that was evidently painful to her. ‘I told her I didn’t know when you’d be back.’

  Jaime kicked off her shoes and walked into her living room. ‘Why did you tell her that, Mrs Purdom?’ she asked, her thoughts already racing at this long-delayed development. She had expected Nicola to ring two weeks ago. Why had she waited so long?

  ‘I didn’t know whether you’d want to speak to her, Miss Forster,’ the housekeeper replied stiffly, aware of the rebuke. ‘I—she said she would ring again tomorrow. I assumed that was for the best.’

  Jaime sank down on to the couch, loosening her hair, and as she did so, her impatience at Mrs Purdom’s behaviour evaporated. ‘You’re probably right,’ she conceded, her smile relieving the housekeeper’s taut expression. ‘I am rather tired this evening, and Signora di Vaggio can be rather—demanding.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Mrs Purdom, recovering her composure. ‘Now, I’ve got a nice piece of fish for you this evening. Would you prefer asparagus tips or broccoli?’

  With the irrelevant question of which vegetable to choose behind her, Jaime slumped back wearily against the cushions. Nicola had rung! After two weeks of wondering what was going on, she had finally chosen to enlighten her, and although Jaime did not look forward to her call, she knew it was inevitable. Sooner or later she had to speak to Nicola, and perhaps, with that burden behind her, she could shake off this feeling of despair and misery.

  The phone rang again as Jaime was having dinner. Even though Mrs Purdom had said Nicola had promised to ring back the next day, Jaime sensed who was calling, and it was no surprise when the housekeeper confirmed her suspicions.

  ‘Do you want to speak to her now?’ she asked, her hand over the mouthpiece,
and although Jaime was tempted to decline, she nodded her head.

  ‘I might as well,’ she said, getting up from her chair. ‘Thank you, Mrs Purdom.’

  Jaime waited until the housekeeper had left the room and then took a calming breath. ‘Hello, Nicola,’ she said, unable to keep her tone as expressionless as she could have wished. ‘What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting you to ring.’

  ‘Weren’t you?’ Nicola sounded amazingly casual. ‘I was sure you would be.’

  ‘Two weeks ago, yes,’ conceded Jaime shortly, ‘I did anticipate some reaction to my departure. But now …’

  ‘Well, you know how it is.’ Nicola was indifferent. ‘I was pretty mad at you, really—running out on me like that.’

  Jaime steeled herself. ‘I didn’t exactly run out on you, Nicola. Your mother-in-law knew where I’d gone. I—thought it was the only thing to do.’

  ‘Did you?’ Nicola paused. ‘I didn’t realise you’d be so sensitive, Jaime.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Nicola made a careless sound. ‘Well, taking offence at what I said, of course. I assume that was why you felt the need to make your point.’

  Jaime sighed. ‘You lied to me, Nicola. You brought me out to Vaggio on a totally dishonest pretext. You said you were desperate to have a child. You omitted to say that you were already carrying one!’

  ‘I thought you guessed.’ To Jaime’s amazement, Nicola did not sound perturbed. ‘That morning I was sick, I thought you knew.’

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘I thought you were experienced, Jaime. I thought you were a woman of the world.’

  ‘You forget—–’ Jaime paused a moment, calming her outburst. ‘You forget, you told me you wanted me to plead with Raf on your behalf!’

  Nicola sighed. ‘Oh—well, yes, I did say that, didn’t I? And to a certain extent it was true. But I knew if I told you the truth before you left England, you never would have come.’

  ‘You can bet on it!’

  ‘You sound vehement, Jaime—–’

  ‘I am. How could you, Nicola? How could you? You wanted me to intercede on your behalf for another man’s child!’