Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (6 page)

The inevitable had happened; proximity had worked its magic. Serena had fallen hard for Joe, as he was soon called, and they’d married immediately after he finished his degree.

Now they lived just round the corner from the restaurant in Clerkenwell. That was convenient for Serena, of course, but also convenient for Joe, who lectured at the University of London in nearby Bloomsbury.

It wasn’t very far from Mark, either. He had left home a few years earlier and had moved into a flat off High Holborn,
sharing
with a chap who worked in the City. His mother had been dismayed and distraught: why should he leave home? And to live with a stranger at that, when he could be surrounded by his loving family? Looked after—and fed—by his loving mother? It was unnatural. Incomprehensible. Italian men stayed at home with their mothers until they married and were passed over into the care of their wives. That was the way it was supposed to work.

He hadn’t really expected that much drama. But even if he’d anticipated it, Mark still would have made the effort. It was essential to him to have his own space, even if that space was shared with a virtual stranger. The flatmate—Geoff—was the price he’d had to pay; he never could have afforded the flat on his own. They got on just fine, with no conflict, and in fact seldom
saw each other. Geoff worked long hours and so did Mark, and these days when Mark wasn’t working, he was seeing Callie.

Callie. He was thinking about her as he ate his cornflakes; he thought about her most of the time, when he didn’t have other things he had to give his attention to. Often even when he did.

What was he going to do about Callie?

Part of the problem with Callie, of course, was her profession. She was ordained in the Church of England. A deacon. Not a priest yet, but she would be in a few months’ time. And that, though he hated to admit it to himself, was an issue for him.

Not the Church of England bit; he was okay with that. His parents—his mother in particular—would find that very
difficult
. For them there was only one Church, and it wasn’t the Church of England.

For Mark, though, the issue was her priesthood. He’d grown up in the Church, suitably in awe of Father Luigi and Father Giovanni and Father Giorgio and all of the other priests who kept their flock on the straight and narrow. They were
different
— set apart. Not like real people, with flesh-and-blood needs and desires. His mother had fostered that idealised view of the priesthood, and it went very deep into his psyche.

Yet Callie
was
made of flesh and blood: very desirable flesh at that. She was attractive, warm, and—yes—sexy.

Under other circumstances…

But she was nearly a priest. She had standards to uphold, a whole way of life that set her apart. It would be wrong to push her into a physical relationship. Not when he wasn’t in a position to offer her anything in the way of commitment.

It was too soon for that. His parents didn’t even know she existed.

Christmas was approaching, with all its family demands. And he’d want to see Callie as much as possible over Christmas. He couldn’t go on like this, concealing her existence from
la famiglia.

The time had come, he realised, to talk to Serena. She was sensible and sympathetic. She wouldn’t freak out like his mother would. She would know how to handle it, how best to broach the subject with Mamma.

He would see her now, on his way to work. Now, before he lost his nerve.

Serena di Stefano was as unlike their mother as it was possible to be, apart from having inherited her unfortunate tendency to miscarry. While Grazia Lombardi was small and dark,
conforming
to the stereotypical image of Italian women, Serena had inherited the genetic characteristics of some long-ago Venetian ancestor: like a true Venetian, she was tall, beautiful, and
possessed
of a glorious mane of reddish-gold hair. (Considering that their father, too, was dark and not above middling height, there were always the inevitable family jokes about the milk man or
il postino
.) And while Grazia Lombardi was excitable, Serena’s temperament lived up to her name. Whether her name had been bestowed because even as a newborn infant she had displayed a sanguine and calm nature, or she had simply grown into the name, was a moot point. Her serenity was deep-rooted; she was unflappable in the most trying circumstances, from domestic upheavals to crises in the kitchen of La Venezia. When Grazia Lombardi lost her head, Serena di Stefano could always be counted upon to keep hers.

She greeted her brother with a kiss on both cheeks and a smile which reached her eyes. ‘Come in, Marco. There’s fresh coffee.’

The coffee was made the Italian way, in a tiny pot on the hob, rich and dark and served black in a cup the size of a doll’s tea cup. A thimble-full of pure caffeine. Mark accepted it gratefully.

They settled down at the kitchen table; in this household, as in their parents’, the kitchen was indeed the heart of the home, where day-to-day living and significant family moments alike transpired.

‘How is everything?’ Mark asked.

‘Things are mad at the restaurant.’

‘Christmas, I suppose. Works parties?’

She nodded. ‘It gets worse every year. Starts earlier and earlier—this year we began before the beginning of December. Every lunch-time, every evening. We’re fully booked. If this trend keeps up, in a few years’ time, we’ll be serving Christmas lunches during the summer holidays, just to get them all in.’

Mark laughed. ‘How is Mamma coping?’

Serena’s anwering laugh was rueful. ‘Need you ask?’

‘She thrives on it,’ Mark reminded her.

‘Oh, absolutely. Without it, she’d just sit round and…get old. The excitement keeps her young.’

Observing the wrinkles at the corners of Serena’s eyes when she smiled, Mark suddenly realised that his sister herself was no longer young. She’d turned forty that year. Middle-aged, no matter how you looked at it. And he wasn’t that many years behind: it was a sobering thought.

‘How is Joe?’ he asked automatically, after a bracing sip of coffee.

‘Joe is…Joe. Works long hours, especially coming up to the end of term. He says he has lots of marking to do. And he says he can’t work at home, with Chiara making so much racket. She’s been practising her lines for the school nativity play.’

‘I thought she was going to be the Virgin Mary.’

Serena nodded. ‘She is. A great honour, of course. Mamma’s over the moon.’

‘Since when does the Virgin Mary have lines?’ Mark demanded. ‘I thought she just sat about and looked…you know. Happy about giving birth to the Son of God.’

‘Don’t forget the Annunciation,’ Serena smiled. ‘You know. When the angel lays it all on her, all the “Ave Maria” stuff. “Be it unto me according to thy word,’ Mary says. And later on, the Visitation to Elizabeth. That’s when she says the Magnificat. “My soul doth magnify the Lord.” Then there’s Mary’s soliloquy at the manger.’

‘Huh?’ Mark put his cup down. ‘I know I’m no Biblical scholar, but I don’t remember Mary’s soliloquy.’

Serena lifted her eyebrows. ‘Poetic license, from what I understand. The teacher fancies herself a bit of a playwright. Anyway, it gives Chiara quite a few lines to learn.’ She added, ‘You
are
coming, aren’t you?’

‘It’s in the diary,’ he assured her. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for
anything
. Especially now that I know about the soliloquy.’

She picked up the coffee pot and held it invitingly over his cup. ‘More coffee?’

Mark stole a glance at the clock on the wall; he really needed to get round to the reason for his visit, so he could go on to work. ‘Yes, okay. I’ll have another drop.’

After refilling her own cup, Serena opened a packet of biscotti and dumped them on a plate. ‘Have one,’ she urged. ‘I really bought them for Angelina—they’re her favourites.’

‘When is she coming home?’

A momentary shadow, so fleeting that Mark thought he might have imagined it, crossed Serena’s face. ‘I’m not quite sure. Her term ends next weekend. But she says she isn’t coming home until a few days before Christmas. Probably not in time for Chiara’s play.’

‘Oh, well. I’m sure she’ll make it if she can.’

Now there was no doubt about Serena’s expression: she was not happy. ‘That’s not all there is to it,’ she said slowly.

Mark couldn’t imagine what she meant. Angelina was an intelligent and sensible girl, not one to cause unnecessary worry or concern to her parents.

‘She has a new boyfriend,’ Serena blurted.

That was hardly surprising. In addition to being intelligent and sensible, she was also a very pretty girl, and she was almost twenty years old, in her second year at university. The surprising thing was that this hadn’t happened years ago. ‘So, what’s the problem?’ As he said it, Mark knew, with a hollow feeling in his stomach, exactly what the problem was. ‘He’s not Italian,’ he said slowly.

‘No. He’s not Italian. He isn’t even English. He’s…well, he’s from Hong Kong. Chinese. And she’s bringing him home for Christmas.’

Brave girl, thought Mark. She must know how that would go down.

Serena traced the pattern on the tablecloth with her finger. ‘It doesn’t matter to
me
. As long as she’s happy, I don’t mind whether he’s Italian or…or a Red Indian.’

‘But Joe minds,’ he guessed.

‘Joe has gone spare.
Pazzo
. Raging round the house, carrying on.’ She shook her head. ‘Well, he’s her father. There’s always been something special between them.’

‘It doesn’t mean she’s going to marry this…Chinese bloke,’ Mark pointed out. ‘It’s her first boyfriend. Not necessarily
serious
.’

‘She wouldn’t bring him home if it wasn’t serious,’ Serena stated. ‘She must know how her father would feel about it. And,’ she added, ‘Joe was
my
first boyfriend. Papa was Mamma’s first boyfriend.’

Yes, they took relationships seriously in this family, Mark reflected. That was part of the problem. Part of
his
problem. ‘What about…Mamma?’ he asked. ‘Have you told her yet?’

Serena sighed. ‘No. Not yet. I’m still trying to figure out how to break it to her. You know what she’ll say. What she always says. “
Mogli e buoi dei paesi tuoi
.”’

It was a common phrase in the household, poetic in Italian if prosaic in English, meaning that spouses and cows should always come from your own country. ‘Yeah,’ Mark groaned. ‘That’s what she’ll say, all right.’

‘Maybe I’ll tell Papa, and let him do the deed. But that would be the coward’s way out.’

‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘it sounds like it’s going to be an
interesting
Christmas.’ He drained his coffee cup and stood up. Today was not the day to burden Serena with
his
problem. That would have to wait for another time.

It was a Friday: Callie’s day off. She hadn’t made plans for the day, hoping that perhaps Marco’s schedule would allow them to spend some time together. But he would be tied up till evening, he’d told her on Thursday night.

The rain was pitching down, which meant a brisk—and brief—walk along the edge of Hyde Park with Bella. Even so, Bella was drenched, and had to be towelled off and brushed. Then Callie took the sort of long, restorative bubble bath which wasn’t usually possible on the other six days of the week. After that she dressed in jeans and a colourful stripey jumper—no dog collar on a Friday.

While soaking in the bath, she’d considered going out to buy a few Christmas decorations for the flat. Maybe even a tree and some fairy lights. But this wasn’t really the sort of weather which was conducive to the holiday spirit. And besides, it would be nice if she and Marco could do that together. It would be fun to put up the tree and decorate it with him, whereas by herself it would be just another chore.

Just another chore. That brought her thoughts, inevitably, to her mother. During the last weeks of her developing relationship with Marco, she had rather neglected her mother, and this was a niggling source of guilt. Laura Anson was supremely skilled at sensing guilt, and exploiting it to the full.