A glimmer of hope flickered in her heart, and for a second she considered the possibility. Then common sense prevailed.
‘Kelly? Kelly, are you still there?’ Gianfranco asked urgently.
‘Yes,’ she responded, hardening her heart against him. ‘And where are you calling from?’ she demanded in a tone laced with sarcasm. ‘Genoa—isn’t that where you were supposed to be visiting? Yet I could have sworn I saw you in Verona last night.’
‘Sarcasm does not become you, Kelly. I know I made a mistake; when I see you again I will explain everything. But I can’t talk now. I have a flight to catch to New York, a flight I delayed for a week to be with you. Surely that must count for something?’ Gianfranco Maldini could not believe what he was saying. He was virtually pleading with the girl for a date.
‘Then don’t let me delay you any further.’ It was no good prolonging the agony; Judy had told her about his countless girlfriends, and, even if she could fit into his lifestyle, Kelly did not want to. Eventually she wanted marriage and a husband, not to be a rich man’s plaything for a few weeks.
Gianfranco cleared his throat. ‘Will you still meet me on Friday as we arranged?’ And he held his breath as he waited for her answer.
‘No,’ Kelly said flatly. ‘The more I think about it I realise that last Friday was a disaster.
Personally, I am going to put it down to experience and forget we ever met; I suggest you do the same.’ She glanced across at Andrea; he had put down the bread and was wriggling uncomfortably in his high chair.
‘Dio! Kelly?’ Gianfranco’s patience snapped. His ego had taken enough bruising from this woman, and it did not help to be reminded he’d been a failure in bed. ‘You be there on Friday, or I will be around at Bertoni’s to get you. Understand?’ he shouted. He was not used to having his commands disobeyed.
Andrea was watching her with an open mouth and worried brown eyes; he had never heard her angry before, and, though she doubted he understood the words, he could sense something was wrong, and he did not deserve to be upset.
‘Yes, OK.’ She hung up the telephone. When pigs fly, she thought, moving to lift the young boy from his chair and hugging him tightly to her; she nuzzled his neck while blinking a stray tear from her eye.
Gianfranco slipped the telephone into the inside pocket of his expertly tailored jacket, and strode across the concourse to the boarding gate for his flight. It was a new experience for him to have to persuade a woman to see him, and one he was not sure he liked. His hard mouth twisted in a wry grimace. He’d give it one more try. If Kelly turned up on Friday night, fine. If she didn’t he was not pursuing her. His decision made, he handed his boarding pass to the female attendant with a broad smile, and quite unconsciously made the girl’s day.
‘Who was that on the telephone?’ Judy asked as she walked into the kitchen, wearing only a blue satin robe.
‘It was for me,’ Kelly mumbled as she held Andrea in her arms.
‘Ah, the boyfriend,’ Judy said, and, moving to where Kelly stood, took Andrea from her. ‘And this is my favourite boyfriend.’ She kissed her son good morning, then placed him on his feet on the floor.
Kelly smiled; whatever Judy’s faults, she did love her son.
‘It’s no good hanging around with a silly smile on your face, Kelly,’ said Judy, totally misinterpreting the reason for the smile. ‘Take my advice and drop the local boy. You are a good-looking woman—you should set your sights a whole lot higher. Go after someone like Count Maldini, a real catch. Last night I could see he was interested—yours was the only hand he kissed,’ Judy opined with a sigh. ‘But then, even if you got him, keeping him would be the problem.’ Picking up a cup, she filled it with coffee from the pot and walked out with the comment, ‘For Carlo, poor dear; he is feeling very sorry for himself this morning.’
Judy’s comment gave Kelly pause for thought. She was intelligent, educated and considered herself as good as any other person on the planet. Gianfranco was a count. So what? Perhaps she had overreacted. He had called this morning, as promised. He did still want to see her and explain—well, according to him anyway. Surely he deserved a hearing, or was she the inverted snob he had intimated?
By the next morning Kelly had reached a decision: she would meet Gianfranco on Friday and hear what he had to say…
On Thursday afternoon Kelly was sitting on a plane winging its way back to England, glad to be going home and back to reality. On Tuesday Carlo Bertoni had declared there was no point staying in Italy any longer, since, as he could not compete in the yacht race, he might as well get back to work in London. Generously he had suggested Kelly stay on, on holiday, until the end of her contract in ten days’ time. Marta was staying that long anyway, and Kelly had immediately accepted his offer.
But on Wednesday morning she had been leafing through the pages of the national newspaper and seen a picture of Count Maldini taken at a reception in New York on the Monday evening, with a stunning-looking redhead on his arm. Kelly had been able to fool herself no more; the affair, fling, was over, and there was no point in deluding herself otherwise. It was time she cut loose any connection whatsoever with Count Maldini.
On Thursday evening she said goodbye to the Bertoni family at Heathrow Airport. They were heading for their London townhouse and Kelly was heading for her family home: a small three-bedroom house in a quiet area of Bournemouth.
‘Pregnant,’ the doctor declared, and Kelly groaned. Her periods had always been irregular, and she had not been sick or dizzy, or had any of the complaints usually connected with pregnancy. She had felt lousy in general, but she had put that down to crying herself to sleep most nights over Gianfranco. It had only been a month ago, when she’d realised she could not fasten her jeans, that she’d been brave enough to check dates. It was only what she had feared for the last four weeks, but to hear Dr Jones confirm it was still a shock.
‘You really should have seen me a lot sooner, Kelly. Still, no harm done, you’re remarkably fit. I gather there is no father on the horizon?’ he prompted gently. He had known the young girl before him all her life, he watched her mother die in childbirth, and her father die of cancer, and now this. ‘By the date you gave me, you are thirteen weeks pregnant.’
‘Yes, that would be right. Thank you, Dr Jones.’ Kelly exited the surgery, clasping a card in her hand for her first ante-natal appointment.
Sitting in the coffee shop of the largest department store in Bournemouth, gazing dazedly at the Christmas decorations, Kelly was sure things could not get worse. But they did.
Judy Bertoni appeared out of nowhere. Apparently she was visiting her parents for the day. Kelly cursed the fact she had taken off her coat and hung it on the stand provided, and spent the next half-hour wondering how she could leave without revealing when she stood up that she had filled out somewhat. The jersey wool tube skirt and matching sweater did nothing to disguise it. Eventually she had no option but to get up, as one of the side-effects of her pregnancy was a constant desire to visit the bathroom.
Eagle-eyed, figure-conscious Judy noticed immediately, and Kelly was subjected to a long speech on the inadvisability of dating a local Italian boy, and ‘I told you so’.
Kelly was sorely tempted to blurt out who the father was, but managed to restrain herself. Judy, in her Mother Teresa act, promised she would keep in touch and send her Andrea’s cast-offs. Kelly should have been grateful, but she wasn’t; she felt sick and fat and fed-up.
She was even fatter and more fed-up when she returned from work at six on a cold Friday night in January. After a refreshing shower, and a meal of chicken and chips, she finally settled down on the sofa, prepared to spend the evening relaxing. With a Mozart tape in her Walkman, she held the earplugs to her stomach. She had read somewhere that music was good for the unborn baby and she hoped it was true.