Wife in the Shadows (14 page)

‘Goodnight,’ Ellie whispered, and went to the door, fighting an impulse to look back and see if he was watching her leave.

Or whether he had already turned away in search of Silvia.

Because that was something she found she could not bear to know.

S
HE AWOKE SLOWLY,
and lay for a moment totally disorientated, staring at plain white walls and spring sunlight lying slatted across the polished boards of the floor, wondering why the bed was so much narrower, and why Donata was not here opening the shutters and bringing her morning coffee.

Of course, she thought. I must have been having a dream about Vostranto. That’s what threw me. But I’m actually at Casa Bianca. I drove down to Porto Vecchio yesterday. And I’m not going back.

A week had passed since the night of the reception. Seven days and nights had come and gone without a word from Angelo. He was in Rome, and she was at his house in the hills, but the real distance between them covered continents rather than miles.

‘Better apart’ she had told him, and it seemed that he now agreed with her, she’d told herself as she roamed restlessly round Vostranto. That he accepted that they should put an end to this ill-assorted marriage and start their lives again.

After all, she reasoned, there was nothing to keep them together, not even the hope of a baby, and she would agree without argument to whatever means he chose to achieve their mutual freedom.

She had her work—almost more than she could handle if she was honest—and she would find another apartment somewhere in the city. Re-start her life as it had been, and find some
peace. Regard the last months as a mistake—serious but not irretrievable.

She’d tried very hard during his absence not to think about him. Not to wonder where he was and what he did once the working day was over. Above all, she worked on not speculating who he might be with, especially now that she had the image etched on her mind of Silvia’s hand curling possessively round his sleeve to go with that other memory of her standing smiling at the bed she planned to share with him, as she’d done from the first.

Angelo must have decided that, in spite of everything she’d done, her cousin was the woman he really wanted. That she was too deep in his bloodstream for him to turn away again, and he would forgive her as everyone had always forgiven Silvia, because beauty was its own excuse.

He must genuinely love her, Ellie thought. And, in the end, that was all that mattered. Wasn’t it? She had to believe it was true, anyway.

And she—she would be Ellie Blake again, instead of this strange manufactured creature masquerading as the Contessa Manzini. She’d always felt that she was filling someone else’s shoes, and, no matter how she’d been dressed up, she’d never looked the part as Silvia, beautiful, stylish and totally single-minded, undoubtedly would.

She could only hope that her cousin would love Vostranto as much as she’d done and be content there, rather than regarding it as just another glamorous Manzini asset and hankering for the hectic social life of the city.

But that, she thought, would not be her problem. And perhaps, because she’d won as she always insisted on doing, Silvia’s attitude would change.

Whatever, there was nothing now to hold Angelo back from pursuing her again. He’d got his investment and the Galantana expansion was forging ahead, so the prospect of scandal over her divorce from Ernesto would no longer be of any great concern.

And Ellie resolved that she would play her part—assuring
her godmother and Prince Damiano that her marriage to Angelo would never have worked in a thousand years. Making it clear that it was no-one’s fault, that as a couple they would always be chalk and cheese, oil and water, so that bringing the whole unfortunate fiasco to an end had to be the best solution for all involved.

That she herself found the decision an actual relief. All the same, there would be anger, she knew and disappointment. She could imagine Nonna Cosima’s sadness, and Madrina’s bewilderment, while Zia Dorotea would have a field day, apportioning blame indiscriminately, and hoped they could understand why she had gone without saying goodbye to them.

Because she could never, ever explain why it had all become so impossible. Why she could no longer endure the dutiful ritual that might lead to conception from a man whose desires and passions had always been focussed elsewhere.

She could not even define to her own satisfaction why it had been so necessary for her to be the one to put an end to it all and walk away, and told herself it had to be pride.

Or perhaps it was the terse communication she’d eventually received from him by email, informing her that he would be returning at the weekend, because matters could not continue in this way between them and there were things that must be said.

She had sat staring at it, scanning the message over and over again, before pressing the delete button, because she knew these would be things she could not bear to hear.

Even if their marriage had been doomed from the outset, she’d played her part in its failure, she’d thought, as she went upstairs to begin preparations for her departure. And she could give no hint to anyone—Angelo least of all—that the prospect of Silvia’s triumph was like the intolerable pain of a knife being turned in an open wound.

When she’d come down with her travel bag, smiling cheerfully, she’d told a concerned Assunta merely that she intended to have a little holiday, but her plans were fluid, and she was
not sure when she would return. Which, she thought, was her only untruth.

And there had, of course, only ever been one place to come to.

She sat up slowly in the bed, pushing back her hair, looking round the familiar room. The cottage had always been her refuge, and never more so than now. It was her own space, she thought, with no disturbing resonances of anyone else.

As she pushed back the covers, she saw the faint pale mark on her finger where her wedding ring had been. She never wore it when she came down here, anyway, because it belonged to another life, which, for a short while she was leaving behind her.

But, this time she was going for good, so she’d left it in Angelo’s bedroom with all the other jewellery he had given her, and her handwritten letter telling him simply that in view of the disaster their marriage had become, she was leaving in order to save them both further embarrassment and unhappiness. She added in conclusion that she wanted nothing from him except the legal dissolution of their relationship, and that she wished him well for the future.

She’d brought away little more than the clothes she stood up in. The designer gear on the padded silk hangers had never been her choice anyway, so she wouldn’t miss it, and besides there was plenty of stuff here in the cupboard and drawers that suited her purpose far better—cotton skirts, pants and tops and some swimwear, although, admittedly, it was rather too early in the year for sea-bathing.

She padded barefoot out of the bedroom in her brief cotton nightshirt, and walked to the kitchen. Signora Alfredi, the stout elderly widow next door, who kept an eagle eye on Casa Bianca when Ellie was not there, had left a bag of groceries on the kitchen table, including some bread, sliced ham, eggs and a pack of coffee, so breakfast was taken care of.

Later, she would supplement her supplies at the local shops, and, for lunch, she would probably see what the fishing boats had brought in. Then, tonight, she would eat as usual in the
little
trattoria
on the quayside, where Santino and Maria would welcome her back.

My routine, she thought, spooning coffee into the machine. Sweet and reassuringly familiar. As if I’d never been away and the last wretched months had never happened. This is what I need. And it’s all I need.

Yet in spite of her resolution, it was a couple of days before Casa Bianca began to work its usual magic. She slept poorly for one thing, and was glad she could not remember her dreams. Also she found it difficult to concentrate on her work, making elementary and annoying mistakes.

After one particularly trying session, she decided to close down her laptop and get some fresh air to see if that would get rid of the cobwebs in her mind.

On the way out, she called at Signora Alfredi’s house to pick up her dog, Poco, who was her usual companion on such walks. He was an odd-looking little animal, with a round amiable face, drooping ears, a long body and short legs, and he possessed seemingly boundless energy. However, the Signora’s health and increasing girth meant she could not give him the exercise he needed, so this had become a task which Ellie gladly assumed when she stayed at the cottage.

He scampered happily beside her along the promenade and down the shallow flight of wooden steps to the almost deserted beach, then took off like a rocket along the sand with a bark of sheer joy, eventually returning with a piece of stick that Ellie was required to throw for him. A game, experience told her, that she would tire of long before he did.

In spite of a breeze from the sea, there was real heat in the sun today, and she moved her shoulders pleasurably inside her thin shirt as she walked along the edge of the water, watching the golden light dance on its ripples.

When Poco returned from his umpteenth foray, once more dropping his stick expectantly at her feet, she picked it up and, slipping off her espadrilles, ran laughing into the shallows, splashing along regardless of the soaking of her white
cut-offs as the dog chased her, yapping excitedly, leaping up to retrieve his treasure which she was holding teasingly just out of reach.

Suddenly she felt exhilarated, the sense of freedom she’d longed for actually within reach as she danced in and out of the water, singing to herself.

When eventually, she turned to run back the way she’d come, something made her glance up at the promenade, and, in the blinding dazzle of the sun, she seemed to catch a glimpse of a man’s dark figure standing there motionless, as if watching her. Blinking, she put up a hand to shield her eyes, but when she looked again there was no-one there.

I can’t sleep, she thought in self-derision, and now I’m seeing things. Time to get a grip, Ellie my dear.

She threw the stick for Poco one last time, then called him to heel and went home.

The
trattoria
was busy that evening, enjoying its usual brisk local trade. Ellie made her way to her corner table, acknowledging the smiling greetings from other diners, and sat down, in the comfortable certainty that Santino would soon appear with her Campari and soda.

The plate of mixed meats that would precede her asparagus risotto had just been placed in front of her when she became aware that the hum of conversation around her had suddenly stilled—that something like a
frisson
had run through the crowded room.

She looked up and saw the reason, her eyes widening involuntarily.

He was standing in the doorway, glancing round him, relaxed and faintly smiling as he took in his surroundings. Assured and undeniably good-looking, she summarised him objectively, as if completing some mental check list. Casually but expensively dressed. And sexy in a way that transcended mere looks. Even across a crowded room.

Someone she’d never seen at Santino’s before—or anywhere else in Porto Vecchio for that matter, otherwise she’d have remembered, along with every other woman in the room.

But however memorable, he was simply not her type, she told herself, dismissively. Experience, it seemed, had the distinct advantage of conferring immunity.

Although, to give him his due, the newcomer seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on the female clientele at large.

Ellie decided that he must be staying at the big white hotel on the promontory, which was pricey and fairly formal and had just re-opened for the summer. Quite a few of its residents, especially the foreign tourists, eventually found their way down to the port in search of less stuffy surroundings. But not usually so early in their stay, she thought drily, then realised with shock that he was strolling towards her corner.

Oh, no, she thought with sudden breathlessness. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible …

‘Buona sera, signorina.’
The swift charm of his smile touched her like a finger stroking her cheek as she looked up, stiffening defensively. ‘As we are both unaccompanied tonight, I hope you will allow me to join you.’

‘No! I mean—I don’t think so.’ She set down her glass with something of a jerk. ‘I’d prefer to be alone, thank you.’

His shrug was graceful.
‘Che peccato.
I am desolated.’ He paused. ‘Do you think you might relent by the time coffee is served?’

She swallowed. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be staying that long, but—but have a pleasant meal,’ she added almost wildly.

‘I am sure I will,’ he returned. ‘But it could have been a delight.’

Very smooth, Ellie thought stonily, as he walked away and she addressed herself to the Parma ham on her plate. But cuts no ice with me.

All the same, she’d found the incident disturbing, even though she felt she’d handled it well, letting him see that any approach was unacceptable. But it was annoying that the only free table was right in her sightline against the opposite wall, so that she only had to look up to see him there. And to find
that, most of the time, he was looking right back at her, his gaze intent, even considering.

He has no right to do that, she thought smouldering. No right at all. Why couldn’t he have stayed where he belonged—up at the hotel or—wherever?

However, she was careful to complete her meal without undue haste, choosing
panna cotta
served with a fruit
coulis
for dessert, then paid her bill and left, staring rigidly ahead to ensure there was not one more atom of eye contact. Safely outside, she was almost tempted to run, but told herself she was being ridiculous.

For one thing, the newcomer was far too occupied with Santino’s
pollo Milanese,
while, for another, and more importantly, he had almost certainly got the message by now. For his kind, making a beeline for any single woman in his orbit was a mere reflex action like breathing, and she’d be stupid to read any more into it than that.

It was just that it had been—so unexpected. Nothing like it had ever happened to her before. And she could not risk getting involved.