Loving the Enemy

by Connelly, Clare

  Guilt speared him.

  Guilt, anger, all directed at himself.

  He’d been so thoughtless. So unknowingly cruel. And this time?

  He lifted the candlesticks from the box, placing them on the floor at his feet. A photo sat beneath them. The glass had cracked due to his careless packing away. He lifted it out, his heart turning over at the image. It was from their wedding day. She’d had a photo of them framed – the gold bore the inscription of a famous jeweller, but that didn’t grab his attention. It was the photo. Alessia. God, but she was beautiful, and so young.

  Her sweetness and innocence, her naivety, the feeling he’d been entrusted with something beautiful and fragile. He’d been wrong to not realise that she was a grown woman, but it was understandable that he’d felt that way. He’d neglected her out of a desire to protect her. Or perhaps out of a need to know he was a good enough man to resist his own impulses for the sake of protecting her.

  And yet, looking at the photo, he could see now what he didn’t then. Her happiness. The smile was radiant, her eyes intelligent and bright. She’d known what she was doing and she’d done it willingly.

  She’d loved him. It was in every line of her features, every part of her expression showed it. And him?

  His eyes shifted towards the photographic representation of how he’d been on that day and he tried to remember how he’d felt. The photo gave little away. He had an arm around her waist and he was holding her tight; he remembered that – how perfectly she fit against his side, how utterly right it had felt to have her tucked there with him. Frustration gnawed at him; he placed the photo on the floor – he’d have the glass replaced.

  Next, he pulled out a blanket. Beautiful and soft, made from pure wool, she used to lay it at the foot of one of the sofas – where she’d sat and studied. He remembered coming home and finding her asleep like that one night, her legs curled up, the book open on her lap. He’d removed the book and covered her with the blanket, and he’d felt it then – the stirrings of desire, the shock at finding himself married to someone so much younger than him, uncertainty, doubt, guilt. He’d gone to bed.

  He moved the blanket aside and his hands brushed something hard and metallic. He lifted it with curiosity and then felt a shift right in under his ribs. Alessia and Imogen. It was well into Imogen’s treatment. She was thin and pale, a vibrant blonde wig in place of her natural hair. She was holding Alessia to her side, and their smiles were so happy. Despite her sickness, Imogen’s love and contentment couldn’t be doubted.

  She would have told me that I deserved better.

  His stomach rolled. He lifted a finger to teenager Alessia’s face, brushing the tip over her nose, his heart thumping hard. He’d been right to let her go – he’d had no choice. Alessia unequivocally deserved better than he could ever give her. Why hadn’t he realised that sooner?

  Why?

  He turned the photo over on autopilot and then stilled. There was an inscription on the back.

  He read the cursive script with a blinding sense of clarity – it was as though Imogen was reaching through time and speaking directly to Max, telling him what he needed to know to understand everything. How strange that a photograph from so many years ago, forgotten in a box in his attic, should hold the key to his past, his present and his future.

  * * *

  “I’m fine, dad.” She stared out at Rome from her beautiful hotel room, feeling anything but fine. But Carlo didn’t need to know the truth just yet. She could wait to tell him her marriage had failed – again. After the baby was born, when he’d have more to focus on than this.

  “I thought I’d come to Rome,” she could hear Carlo’s smile down the phone line.

  Alessia’s stomach tightened. “Oh. Why not wait until next month, when the baby’s born?”

  “Why?” Suspicion was obvious. Then, a laugh. “I forget, you’re newlyweds again. You probably don’t want to be bothered now,” he said on a laugh that made Alessia feel like the worst kind of liar. Her grip tightened on the phone.

  “I have to go, dad.”

  “Maybe I’ll just come for lunch,” he said, still laughing.

  “Maybe. I’ll talk to you later. Ciao.”

  She hung up and cradled the phone in her lap, still staring out at Rome, the same frown on her face that she’d felt in the week since checking into the hotel.

  Her phone buzzed. She flicked it open without thinking, and saw the text message from Max.

  Please tell me where you are. It’s important.

  She closed her eyes and turned the phone off. It wasn’t the first such message he’d sent. Every day since she’d left he’d tried to make contact. But she couldn’t respond. She wasn’t ready, and she didn’t know what she could say to him – nor what he could say to her.

  They’d said it all, really.

  He didn’t love her.

  She did love him. Fool, fool that she was. Why was she cursed with this feeling? Why couldn’t she unite her head with her heart? She’d loved him once and should have learned from that, but instead she’d jumped right back into the same patterns, the same needs.

  No, not quite. She’d been stronger, if only marginally. For a time she’d kept him at a distance this time, against all her own instincts. She thought she was in control, but she hadn’t been. She’d been as beholden to this ridiculous love as she’d been then. Age be damned. It wasn’t because she was only twenty years old anymore.

  Damn it.

  Why couldn’t she control this? A tear slid down her cheek without her realising it. She continued to stare out at the city and at some point, fell asleep.

  She woke in the small hours of the morning with a pain in her neck and a pain in her back. She must have slept awkwardly – hardly surprising given she was sitting in an armchair.

  She moved a little, then went to stand, but as she did so, an almighty gush deluged the armchair and the floor at her feet, so in the darkness of the hotel room she had to fumble for a light, a frown on her face as her sleep-fogged mind tried to make sense of what had just happened.

  No glasses around. She hadn’t knocked something.

  It was her; her waters had broken.

  Seconds later, her professional training kicked in. She knew the importance of getting to a hospital immediately. She pressed a button on the nearby phone, dialling down to reception.

  “Si, Dottore Anando?” She’d checked in under her maiden name – it still wouldn’t take Massimo long to find her if he bothered to ring around the hotels, but it felt like a small step towards independence. Or perhaps it was just another pointless attempt to remain independent in the face of his magnetic pull?

  “I need an ambulance, immediately.”

  “We have a doctor on call –,”

  “I am a doctor. I need an ambulance.”

  She disconnected the call and moved as well as she was able towards the door. She hadn’t packed a bag – this was too early and she’d been too mired in grief and frustration, too lost to be able to think rationally. She needed nothing but to be in the hands of medical experts.

  No one was around. The lift was deserted. She emerged into the foyer with no recollection of how she must look – she hadn’t showered in days, she hadn’t put make up on, and a quick glance as she passed a mirror showed her hair was a mess. She didn’t care. She walked slowly towards the reception counter. A young man looked up, startled.

  “Dottore Anando? Please, sit down, an ambulance is on its way.”

  A contraction burst through her, making it impossible to respond. She dug her fingers into her palms, breathing through it, but every bone in her body told her she had to get to hospital immediately.

  “I’ll….wait…outside…” she grunted, pressing a hand to the small of her back and turning in that direction.

  “I’ll come with you.” He moved to her side, putting a hand under her elbow in an attempt to help or reassure. Either way, it was welcome.

  The night was cool and
crisp; she barely noticed. Another contraction hit her just as the ambulance arrived. She knew it wouldn’t take long for this baby to be delivered.

  The lights were wailing as it pulled up at the hotel but they muted the noise as the ambulance came to a stop, so it was only the flashing of the bulbs.

  She gave the attending paramedic her details in medical shorthand: her age, the baby’s gestational age, average blood pressure, and the lack of any complicating factors.

  The two paramedics helped her onto the stretcher while the young desk clerk watched, worry on his features.

  “I need you to call Massimo Montebello,” she said, as they prepared to lift the bed.

  “Who?” His eyes were huge, as though he hadn’t heard correctly.

  She’d left her phone upstairs, switched off, but she knew Massimo’s number by heart. She gave it to the desk clerk and then lay back as another sharp contraction gripped her. A moment later, the sirens were wailing once more and the ambulance was speeding through the backstreets of Rome.

  * * *

  “Montebello?” He waited, breath held, needing – more than anything – for it to be Alessia.

  It had been a week since she’d left. Six days since he’d found the photo in the attic and made sense of their marriage. Six days since he’d tried to see her, to tell her what he’d learned, and six days of nothing. No response. No call. Nothing.

  “Massimo Montebello?” A young man’s voice responded, nervously. Max scowled.

  “Yes?” The word was sharp. Impatient. Who the hell was this, calling him at four in the morning?

  “My apologies, sir. I’m a clerk at La Travilano hotel.” Max stilled. It was a small boutique hotel, not one of the bigger, more well-known establishments.

  “One of our guests, a Signorina – I mean dottore – Anando asked me to call you.”

  Max’s breath flew from his body.

  “What’s happened? Where is she?”

  “On her way to hospital, sir.”

  “Hospital?” He was pushing out of bed, grabbing for a pair of jeans and ripping them on.

  “I think she’s in labour. She asked me to call you.”

  Max hung up without a word of thanks, reaching for a shirt as he stalked through the room. His keys were on the hallstand – beside the photo of Alessia and her mother. He grabbed it without a second thought, exiting the townhouse and slamming the door shut behind him.

  His wife was in labour – he needed to be with her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, I cannot go in?”

  “Your wife is in labour,” the nurse spoke kindly but firmly.

  “Exactly. So where else should I be?”

  The nurse gestured to the chairs. “I will let her know you’ve arrived.”

  Max ground his teeth together. “Tell her –,” What? That he wanted to be there for her? Wasn’t that too little, too late?

  “Yes. Tell her I’m here.”

  Regrets exploded through him. He stood in the waiting room, staring at the peeling posters, their colours faded by sunlight which would, in daylight, stream in through the windows. This was not where he’d imagined her delivering their child. There was a private hospital not far from his home – he’d expected to drive her there, when the time came.

  Half an hour later, the nurse bustled past, carrying blankets in her arms.

  “Excuse me,” he moved to intercept her. She looked frazzled.

  “Not now, sir.”

  “I need to come in.”

  “You need to stay here.”

  “My wife –,”

  “Wishes to do this alone.” Her expression softened for a minute. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  Max felt as though he were being pummelled. He followed the nurse but at the doors, she issued him a look that showed how seriously she expected her edict to be obeyed.

  Your wife wishes to do this alone.

  He pressed his back to the wall, his eyes shut, his breath hurting. The noise was awful. Her cries reached inside of him and tore him to shreds. He wanted to be there for her; hell, he wanted to do this for her.

  He stood there and because there was nothing else he could do, he stood and listened, hoping that a proportion of the pain he felt matched hers, because he deserved to feel pain, he deserved to feel like this.

  It went on too long. Each cry was worse than the other. The door burst open and a doctor emerged, covered in blood.

  “Please,” he called after the doctor, almost crazy with a need to know. “Tell me what’s happening?”

  The doctor kept moving, rushing.

  Rushing wasn’t good. Max had never been more afraid in his life. He wanted to push through the doors, to storm the room, to draw her close to him and whisper that it would all be okay, but he didn’t have the right. And he was done with making Alessia’s decisions for her. He’d never do that again.

  The doctor was back, walking towards him. “Tell her I’m still here.”

  The doctor’s eyes met his for a second, his head shifted in what might have been a nod and then he was gone. Another scream. Massimo banged his fist into the wall.

  The waiting was the worst thing he’d ever known. Not just waiting for their baby, but waiting for his life to begin. Waiting for this.

  Another cry, but this wasn’t Alessia. This was – unmistakably – the sound of a newborn. He stilled, straightening his back, his blood gushing through him, pride bursting inside of his chest.

  Their baby.

  He laughed – maniacally, with relief, because Alessia had done it, and she was okay. She was okay, wasn’t she? He stopped laughing. What if she wasn’t?

  His stomach flipped – this was no longer about respecting her wishes. It was about knowing that she was okay – he needed that. He pushed the door inwards, striding towards the sound. He’d just take a look, just enough to see that she was okay, and then he’d wait.

  The glass was solid with a small window. He moved towards the window and froze. Alessia was…so beautiful. Radiant and exhausted with pink cheeks and wet hair and so full of…love. He watched as their daughter was wrapped in a blanket and lifted to Alessia’s chest, and Alessia laughed in just the same way he had a moment ago, dropping her head and pressing a kiss to the little one’s head, and his heart exploded right out of his chest.

  His family.

  And he’d all but ruined it.

  Christo, he was a fool.

  * * *

  “Dottore Anando will see you now.”

  He barely registered the use of her maiden name.

  He stood, his expression grim – fully aware of the mountain he had to climb and the likelihood he wouldn’t ever reach its peak – and followed behind the nurse.

  Alessia had been moved into a different part of the hospital. This room was far nicer, less sterile and medical than the delivery suite. Here there was a window overlooking a small garden, and the walls were adorned with childish artwork. Alessia looked refreshed as well. Her hair was dry now, soft and glistening, pulled into a loose bun on top of her head, and she was wearing a pale pink hospital gown.

  Their baby was asleep beside her in a small plastic crib.

  Max had a few seconds to observe her as she was before Alessia registered his arrival and arranged her features into a tight mask of cool calm. Emptiness overtook his gut.

  “Max,” her smile was uncertain. “I’m sorry to have bothered you in the middle of the night.”

  Damn it. It wasn’t what he’d expected. He had so far to go.

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “I thought you should know. I didn’t realise you’d come here.”

  It was another indictment. He filed it away with the rest of his sins and moved across the room, towards the crib. He looked inside, unaware of the way Alessia’s eyes feasted on him. He was aware of nothing in that moment but the perfect, sleeping baby at her side.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Alessia agreed, and whe
n he looked at her, her gaze had dropped to their baby.

  “How do you feel?”

  Her laugh was soft, and it warmed him, reminding him that she was still Alessia. “Like I’ve done something no human should ever have to do.” Her nose wrinkled, and then she frowned. “I feel tired. Exhausted.”

  His stomach tightened. “Of course you do. You should sleep.”

  Her eyes showed surprise, as though she’d expected him to say something else. “I’ll watch the baby.”

  It was something neither of them knew they needed, but leaving the little child while Alessia slept felt counter-intuitive.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured, but her eyes were already heavy. It was only once she’d fallen asleep that he realised she’d removed her wedding ring.

  All hope felt lost.

  * * *

  He was still there when she woke, and she woke with a sense of intense disorientation, her eyes shifting from the window overlooking a pretty little garden to the door of the room – it was still daylight – to the crib and finally to Max. He stood, rather than utilising the chair in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest, a look on his face that almost took her breath away for how intense it was. How determined.

  She dropped her eyes away again, finding it hard to look at him, impossible not to experience a welling in her throat and rolling sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  She loved him. She’d always loved him, but it was useless and futile. No, not futile. Perhaps the sole purpose of her love was to make this beautiful little girl? Their daughter was worth all the heartbreak and hurt. Their daughter was everything.

  Her eyes swept to the side table, looking for water, but landed instead on something she hadn’t seen in a very long time, something that felt too painful, too desperate, to contemplate.

  She drew in a harsh breath, reaching for the photo. “Where did you get this?”