by Donna Alward
He wanted to walk away; to tell her he didn’t want her help after all. But that would be a lie. He did need her help. And so did Isabella, his beautiful, inspiring, contrary-as-a-hungry-goat daughter. They could not go on as they were. As much as he hated to admit it, they were both miserable. He clenched his jaw as the constant slow burn of guilt for failing his family intensified under Carly Knight’s critical gaze.
Her brow wrinkled but then something softened in her eyes. She let out a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’ll take the lift.’
Torn between the relief that she had said yes and the deep wish that he had never needed to ask for her help in the first place, he took hold of her box, which she released reluctantly, and guided her out to his car.
She had resisted even taking a lift from him. How on earth was she going to respond when she learnt of everything he wanted from her?
Outside she folded her arms and stared pointedly at the double yellow line his car was parked on. He opened the passenger door for her, and nodded down towards the box. ‘Do I smell lavender?’
‘As part of bedtime routines, I recommend to parents that they use aromatherapy creams and oils in baths and in massaging their children—lavender and camomile being just some they can use. I take samples along to my talks to give to parents.’
He placed the box in the rear seat of his car, beside Isabella’s car seat, sure that Isabella would never tolerate him massaging her. Thankfully.
When she got into the car, Carly’s gaze flicked over the leather and walnut interior, her head twisting to take in the rear seat. ‘This must be the cleanest family car I’ve ever seen. Most of my clients’ cars are covered in toys and crumbs and empty wrappers.’
‘I’m away with work a lot. My daughter isn’t in my car that often.’
She frowned at that. Max punched the buttons of his satnav, wondering not for the first time if he had done the right thing. Was Carly Knight about to judge him, to confirm that, yes, he was an inadequate father? Knowing your inadequacy was one thing, allowing someone else to see it, exposing yourself to their criticism, was another matter.
Carly gave him the address of her appointment and he pulled away from the kerb, following the instructions of the satnav voice.
Beside him Carly asked with a hint of surprised amusement in her voice, ‘Is your satnav speaking in Italian?’
‘Yes... I like some reminders of home.’
Her bee-stung mouth carved upwards into a light smile. ‘I wondered if you were Spanish or Italian.’
Despite himself he smiled and faked indignation. ‘How could you confuse the two? I’m Italian and very proud to be.’
‘So why are you in cold and damp London? Why not the Amalfi coast or somewhere as gorgeous as that?’
‘I like London, the opportunities here. I’ve a home in Italy too—on Lake Como—but my work commitments mean I rarely get to visit there.’
‘I’ve never been but I would love to one day.’ She gave her head a small shake and, sitting more upright in her seat, she clasped her hands together. ‘Okay, tell me how I can help you and why it was so urgent that we talk today?’
Her voice had returned to its formal professionalism. Max waited for a break in the traffic to turn right out of Rowan Road, fighting the reluctance to confess the problems in his family. Eventually he forced himself to admit, ‘My daughter Isabella is twenty-two months old. She’s a terrible sleeper. The worst in the world. I thought as she got older it would improve but in recent months it has only worsened.’
Carly twisted in her seat and he glanced over to find her studying him carefully. ‘What do you mean by a terrible sleeper?’
Her tone held a hint of censure, as though she didn’t quite believe him. Frustration tightened in his chest. ‘She won’t go to sleep—it can take hours and has tried the patience of even the most chilled-out nannies that I’ve managed to employ. She wakes frequently at night and refuses to go back to sleep. It’s causing havoc. She’s tired and irritable during the day and my job is very demanding—her sleeplessness is killing my concentration. I can’t retain nannies. They all walk out eventually. My neighbours have a boy of a similar age who’s been sleeping through the night since he was five months old.’
‘No two children are the same. Don’t compare Isabella to other children—on this or anything else. Trust me, it’s the quickest route to insanity for any parent. Studies vary in their results but some say that fewer than half of all children settle quickly at night and sleep through. Isabella is in the majority by waking.’
Max shook his head, picturing Isabella’s brown eyes sparking with anger last night as she stood beside her bed and shook her head each time he told her it was time to go to sleep. ‘È ora di andare a letto, Isabella.’
His daughter’s word count was slowly increasing but her favourite word continued to be a defiant, ‘No.’ And last night she had used it time and time again, her chestnut curls bouncing about her face as she dramatically shook her head.
He had been so tempted to crawl into bed beside her, to hold her in his arms, sniff her sweet baby scent, listen to her soft breaths when she eventually fell asleep. But to do so would be to do Isabella a disservice. She needed to learn to go to sleep on her own, learn to be independent of him.
He rolled his eyes. ‘I bet she’s an outlier though; I bet she’s in the top one per cent for waking at night. My daughter doesn’t do anything by halves.’
She smiled at that. He felt a surprising pleasure that she got his attempt at humour. ‘Waking at night is normal. Children wake for a variety of reasons: shorter sleep cycles, hunger, being too hot or cold, their room being too bright, or the need for comfort and assurance. I find that unrealistic expectations cause parents the most stress. How does Isabella’s mother feel about her sleeping?’
Max cursed under his breath at a car that swerved into his lane on the Hammersmith flyover without indicating. The tight fist of guilt that was his constant companion these days squeezed even fiercer. Would talking about Marta ever get easier? Would the guilt of her death—how they had fought in the hours before—ever grow less horrific? ‘Isabella’s mother, Marta, died in a car crash when Isabella was three months old.’
‘I thought...’ She glanced in his direction, confusion clouding her eyes. ‘I saw you from my office window earlier...’
Now he understood her confusion. ‘My wife’s friend Vittoria agreed to take Isabella this afternoon so that I could meet with you.’
He waited in the silence that followed for her response to hearing of Marta’s death. Most people responded with panic, a keen urge to change the subject or preferably, if circumstances allowed it, to find an excuse to get away.
‘I’m very sorry to hear about your wife. It must have been a very difficult time for you.’
Her softly spoken words sounded heartfelt. He glanced in her direction and swiftly away again, not able to handle the compassion in her eyes.
‘Do you have other children?’
‘No, just Isabella.’
‘Have you family or friends nearby, who support you?’
‘I have some friends, like Vittoria...but they have their own families to look after.’ Max paused, pride and guilt causing him to add more fiercely, ‘Anyway, we don’t need support.’
‘It can’t be easy coping on your own since Marta died.’
He didn’t answer for a while, focusing his attention on merging with the traffic on the Westway, but also thrown by all her questions, what she was saying...how easily she said Marta’s name. Most people skirted around ever having to mention Marta’s name, as though it was taboo to say it out loud. He swallowed against a tightening in his throat, suddenly feeling bone tired. At work he deliberately kept a professional distance from those who worked for him. The few friends he had in London, friends that in truth had been Marta’s friends and had probably stayed in his life o
ut of duty and respect to Marta, had stopped asking him about how he was managing a long time ago. In the early months after Marta had died, he had made it clear it wasn’t up for discussion.
He saw a gap in the traffic open up in front of him and he pressed on the accelerator. He needed to get back to the office and he was keen to get this conversation over and done with. He wanted Carly Knight to show him how to get Isabella to sleep, not ask all these questions. ‘I grew up in a one-parent household, my mother raised me single-handedly. It’s a fact of life for a lot of people.’
‘Yes, but it’s not the future you had envisioned, and losing that must be very hard.’
He wanted to thump the steering wheel hard with the palm of his hand. Carly’s words were resonating deep inside him. He didn’t just miss Marta, he missed the future they had mapped out together, he missed the support of co-parenting, he missed having someone to talk to. All selfish things that only added to his guilt that Marta had died so young, that she would never see Isabella grow up. Marta would despair over just how out of sync he and Isabella were—their relationship was more often than not a battle of wills, and at the moment Isabella was winning. Of course he adored his daughter but he worried deeply about how dependent she was on him, which only seemed to be worsening in recent months, given her tendency to cling to him and her refusal to be cared for by others. How would she cope if anything ever happened to him?
‘Isabella’s nanny walked out yesterday. Dr Segal referred me to you this morning when I took Isabella to see her. She said you have helped some of her other patients.’
‘Your nanny walked out on you because of Isabella’s sleeping?’
‘Yes.’ He glanced over and saw that she had an eyebrow raised, not buying it. He shifted in his seat, gripped the steering wheel tighter. ‘The fact that I’m away a lot of the time is probably a factor too.’
‘How often are you away?’
‘Two...sometimes three nights a week. When she was younger I took Isabella with me but the travel was too much for her.’
‘She’s probably missing you a lot—and the fact that you are coming and going means she has no consistency, which will have an impact on her ability to sleep.’
Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, which annoyed him as much as what she had to say. ‘It’s the nature of my work... I don’t have a choice.’
‘I’ve never come across a situation that doesn’t have alternative choices, or solutions. What is it that you do?’
Maybe she should try living his life some time. In architecture, you were only as good as your last design and winning bids was a never-ending cycle of late nights and client meetings. ‘I’m an architect and property developer—my main office is here in London with other offices in Milan and Shanghai. My clients are worldwide, as are my properties.’
‘My guess is Isabella needs more stability and routine to sleep better at night.’
Reluctantly he nodded. She was right. And he needed Carly’s help in establishing that routine. It was time he started broaching his plans with her. ‘I have to leave for my second home on Lake Como later this week. My in-laws live there, and my father-in-law is celebrating his sixtieth birthday on Friday evening, and on Sunday my brother-in-law, Tomaso, is marrying. I have no choice but to go—Isabella is a flower girl at the wedding. I’ve no idea how she will behave. I need her to sleep in the nights before—that way hopefully she might not throw a tantrum, which she’s prone to do at the moment.’
Along Harrow Road they came to a stop while the driver of a concrete mixer ahead in the road tried to manoeuvre into a narrow construction site entrance. He turned to her and asked, ‘Will you work for me for the rest of this week, come to Lake Como this weekend, to help me in getting Isabella to sleep? I’ll pay you generously.’
* * *
Carly looked at him and then turned to stare at a nearby billboard advertising happiness via a deodorant, trying to contain her irritation. He was a client, clearly in need. But seriously! She turned back to him, cursing once again that he was so distractingly handsome, and tried to keep her voice calm. ‘I’m a sleep consultant, Mr Lovato, not a nanny.’
‘I know that.’
She forced herself to hold his gaze, even though his misty green eyes did something peculiar to her heartbeat. ‘Do you?’ She waited a pause before adding dryly, ‘I’m busy with other clients all of this week and have my own plans for the weekend.’
‘Nina told me earlier that you were on annual leave Friday—can’t you at least come to Lake Como with us?’
Nina! What had got into her this morning? ‘No—I’ve rented a cottage in Devon; I like to surf. I’ve been planning this trip since the New Year.’ Why was she telling him this? Why did she feel she had to justify saying no to him?
‘I’ll pay for you to rebook.’
‘I don’t provide the type of service you are looking for. Yes, I visit clients’ homes but I don’t stay overnight or get involved in childcare. I provide a bespoke plan that parents follow over a period of months. Isabella is not going to be sleeping through the night any time soon—it doesn’t work that way. My approach to your child sleeping contentedly takes time, patience and consistency.’
The traffic ahead of them began to flow again. Max eased his car forward, the expensive engine barely making a noise. ‘I’m not asking you to get involved in the childcare.’ His tone was one hundred per cent exasperation. ‘Isabella barely slept last night. I flew in from Chicago yesterday. She’s exhausted. I’m jet-lagged.’ He rubbed his brow and continued to stare forwards. ‘We need help.’ His voice was so low, Carly had to lean towards him to hear him. ‘This weekend...with Marta’s family, the wedding...it’s going to be trying. I want them to see that Isabella is happy and well cared for.’
Carly dropped her head and studied her hands, thrown by the honesty of his words. ‘I’ve bookings all of this week. I can’t—’
‘Come to Lake Como with us this weekend.’
She closed her eyes to the soft appeal in his voice. The image of him standing alone on the street staring after Isabella’s stroller, looking so alone, and then the anguish she had witnessed when he had turned towards the building had her tempted to say yes. But she needed to think this through. How many times had she believed others only to find out a very different truth? Not only did she have a stepfather who used his wealth to keep her at a distance, who thought throwing cash at her made up for a lack of love and affection and his poorly disguised belief that she would never be as good as his own three daughters, but Carly had trusted her own father when he promised he would visit her when her mother had ended their marriage. That promise had lasted all of twelve months until he decided to emigrate to New Zealand. Men had a habit of smashing her trust in them—her ex, Robert, had told her he loved her only to break off their engagement weeks before their wedding, telling her that he couldn’t marry her because he was still in love with his ex. Carly had learned never truly to believe or trust in others, always to dig deeper to find out the truth.
She needed more facts and details before she made any decision...and Isabella’s father needed to understand that she provided no magical cure for disturbed sleep. She buzzed down her window, needing some air. ‘I don’t sleep train. I don’t give you any magical formulas. I just assist in building a routine and developing the correct expectations in parents as to how children sleep. There’s no instant cure. There’s just slow improvement over weeks, if not months.’
‘I will take on board everything you have to say.’
‘Yes, but will you actually implement what I suggest? It takes a lot of time and patience.’
His jaw worked for a moment. ‘It depends on how persuasive you are.’
The hint of humour in his voice was matched by a glint of defiance in his eyes when he glanced in her direction.
Despite herself, Carly found herself having to fight the temptation t
o smile. ‘That sounds like a challenge.’
‘Lake Como is beautiful. You said earlier that you’d like to visit it some time. Why not now? The forecast is great for the weekend. Unlike here in England where rain is predicted. Surfing in the rain or boating in the Italian sunshine on Lake Como...there’s not much competition, is there? I promise you lots of free time. Isabella and I will show you around the area, even take you for the best ice cream, not only in Italy, but in the entire world.’
She folded her arms, telling herself not to fall for his promises that were so, so tempting. ‘That’s some claim.’
He shook his head, clearly amused. ‘What’s your favourite flavour of ice cream?’
‘Dark chocolate.’
He nodded. ‘Good choice. I meant it when I said I’d pay you well. I’ll quadruple your fees.’
Carly closed her eyes, disappointment slamming into her. Why did he have to ruin it all by mentioning money again? ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said sharply.
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘It was not my intention to insult you.’
‘I don’t like people who use their wealth to get what they want in life regardless of the consequences and how they affect others.’
‘And what are the consequences of you coming to Lake Como with me?’
Carly held his gaze for a moment too long, felt heat travel up along her neck at his softly spoken words. She grabbed her phone from the central console where she had placed it earlier, checking the time, trying to ignore a deep instinct that in going to Lake Como with Max Lovato her life would never be the same again. It wasn’t a rational feeling, yet it sat there in her stomach like a long trail of worry beads. ‘I’ll be cancelling my holiday. And I don’t know you—for all I know you could be an axe murderer.’