He soon discovered
that, once word got round that his wife had gone back to England, he was being seen as being ‘back on the market’, with a corresponding flurry of interest from the opposite sex. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. The women who came onto him repulsed him and he found their conversation dull. He realised that Lily had been excellent company on their many evenings out—as well as having many other obvious attractions once they’d returned home. Dinner suddenly seemed either a too-solitary meal, or a ritual to be endured amid company he had no wish to join.
He phoned the London office of his lawyers, wanting to hear that she had grasped the very generous settlement he was offering her—as if hearing that would remind himself of her mercenary nature. But she had done no such thing. Slowly, Ciro registered what the bemused voice of his lawyer was telling him. That Lily D’Angelo was walking away from the marriage with nothing.
‘Nothing?’ Ciro echoed in disbelief.
‘Niente,’ came the answer in Italian, just so there could be no misunderstanding.
Ciro brooded. He asked someone he knew in London to investigate what she was doing and the answer which came back surprised him. She was still living in the apartment above the tearoom and had resumed her job as a waitress. She had gone back to Chadwick Green. It perplexed him to think she had settled for so little when she could have had so much—and it threw all his certainties into doubt. Until some news came to him from the same investigator, which he regarded with a grim kind of satisfaction.
She had put her mother’s pearls up for auction!
Ciro felt a resigned satisfaction as he read that the beautiful necklace had exceeded its reserve price many times over. The necklace which had reminded her of her dead mother had been sold to a mystery buyer in America. So much for sentiment! He remembered the way her blue eyes had clouded over when she’d told him that her stepmother had taken them. And her touching gratitude as he’d recovered them and placed them around her neck. He’d imagined that she had been thinking of her mother at the time, when the truth was far more materialistic. She had realised, of course, the enormous value of the jewels—and known that they would always provide her with a sizeable little nest-egg until she found herself some other poor sucker to support her.
Ciro threw himself into work in an attempt to get her out of his mind, but that very same week brought a postcard from England. It was from Lily’s brother—an odd composition of clashing colours which he’d clearly painted himself. The message on it was brief.
Hi, Ciro. Got thumbs-up from art school this a.m. due to exam results. Start September. Just wanted to thank you (or perhaps I should say mille grazie!) for making it all possible. See you soon, Jonny.
Ciro stared at the card in confusion. The sentiment expressed seemed to suggest that Jonny had no idea his sister and her new husband had parted. More than that, he also seemed to be under the illusion that Ciro had financed his art-school funding. What the hell was going on?
He walked out onto the terrace, his heart beating very fast as he tried to piece it all together. Until he realised that there was only one possible source for the funding—and all the implications which came from that. He bunched his hands into two tight fists which hung by the sides of his tensed thighs. Had Lily sold her mother’s precious pearls to put her brother through school? Had he misjudged her all along?
He stared out at the dark blue blur of the bay but he could see nothing except the glitter of his wife’s eyes as she said goodbye to him. He felt a terrible regret wash over him. What had he done?
He stood there as the sun sank into the water, until the terrace was lit only by the silver light of the rising moon. Was it too late to go to her and ask for a forgiveness he did not deserve? One which his proud and defiant Lily would probably not give. His mouth hardened as he went back inside to get his passport. Maybe it was too late, but he knew he had to try.
But first there was something he needed to do.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE windows weren’t dirty by any stretch of the imagination, but Lily was still determined to give them a polish. Danielle had repeatedly teased her and said that these days she was nothing but a ‘clean freak’ and Lily hadn’t bothered to deny what was essentially the truth. Because she did find housework oddly soothing. It didn’t demand too much and it helped make her little apartment look as good as possible. She would listen to the radio, her thoughts easily distracted by the phone-in conversations. And listening to other people talking was much easier than having to talk herself. When people asked her questions these days, she didn’t know how to answer. But there was no point worrying about it. It was still early days after the break-up of her marriage and she was still trying to settle back into her old life.
Her old life which had become her new life.
She’d been back in Chadwick Green for almost a month now and, in many ways, it was almost as if nothing had changed. The tearoom was still there and so was her little apartment. And her friends. A concerned Fiona had told her that of course she could have her old job back, and Danielle had been overjoyed to see her. But of course, they were worried about her—even though they did their best to hide it. The sight of her radical haircut had visibly shocked them—as had her unmistakable weight-loss.
Danielle had come right out and asked her what had happened in Naples and Lily had been tempted to offload some of her terrible heartache. But how could she possibly explain the convoluted chain of events which had led to her return? She thought about Ciro. She thought about him nearly all the time. About all the hopes he’d had for their future—hopes which she had shared. About each of them wanting to build something strong and permanent: a unit which would last. But look at how they had failed. She’d been so quick to condemn him for his old-fashioned immovability on the subject of her virginity. She had been so frustrated by his inability to adapt to what was, rather than what he wanted it to be. She could see that in a way it had been a relief for him to think that she was some kind of gold-digger and predator, like the other women he’d known.
Yet she had deliberately kept her sexual history a secret, hadn’t she? She couldn’t deny that. She’d done it because she’d wanted to hang onto the dream he’d been offering her. She had allowed herself to paint a false image of reality, to pretend it was the way she’d wanted it to be. It didn’t matter what her motives had been—that had been wrong. So it followed that she had an equal part to play in the breakdown of their marriage. Their brief love and the subsequent fall-out was intensely private. She would not blacken her husband’s name—not to anyone. How could she, when she still loved him?
Outside, the weather had been sunny and golden. It had been one of the best English summers on record and there had been times when Lily wished it had been otherwise. Wouldn’t it have reflected her mood if they’d had the usual downpours of rain, or a spot of unseasonal cold which meant you were tempted to put the heating on? As it was, she had no desire to go out and get some sun on her pale skin—or to join Danielle on a train trip down to the coast. It was bad enough having to listen to the loud revelry of the drinkers who were currently cluttering up the front of the pub next door.
Determined to make the windows look diamond-bright, she filled a bowl with hot water and placed it on the window sill, aware of how bare her neck felt without the tickle of a long strand of hair which occasionally used to tumble down. Her shorn hairstyle still took some getting used to and it made her smile when people who knew her did a double take when they first saw it. She’d been to the nearest big town and put herself in the hands of a hairdresser recommended by Danielle, emerging with her corn-coloured hair shaped close to her head and feathered around her face. After the initial shock, she was beginning to like it. It made her look different, yes—but maybe that was a good thing. She was different and there was no denying that. She’d been through a big, painful experience and something like that always changed people.
She cleaned and polished the windows, then opened them wide to let in some fresh air. Cars slid past on the road outside and as she listened to the rising laughter of drinkers outside The Duchess of Cambridge she wondered if she would always feel this way. Would she ever feel like part of the real world again, instead of someone who didn’t fit in? Or was she doomed to be one of those shadowy figures who always sat on the sidelines, for ever mourning their lost love?
She was just about to go and make some tea when her attention was caught by the sight of someone walking across the village green towards her. She blinked. An instantly recognisable man with jet-dark hair and a towering physique. He was wearing a snowy shirt and some fine grey trousers and the similarity to the first time she’d ever seen him was so marked that her heart clenched painfully in her chest.
Ciro!
Ciro?
She gripped the window sill for support, sucking in a ragged breath. Because it hurt to see him. It hurt because it reminded her of what she could have had. And because she still loved him.
His powerful stride quickly brought him beneath her window where he stopped and looked up to see her framed there and their eyes met in a long moment. She drank in the sight of him—the angled slant of his cheekbones and the thick lashes which made his dark eyes look so smoulderingly sexy. His hair gleamed like tar in the bright sunlight and his olive skin had a soft, golden glow. But his expression was grim as he nodded his head in greeting, like someone giving themselves a silent pep talk.
Lily was aware that the sound of the drinkers had died away and it seemed as if the whole world were silent and holding its breath, save for the birdsong which twittered through the air. She leaned forward, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he must be able to hear it. She opened her mouth to speak, trying to keep the quaver from her voice—to make herself sound stronger than she actually felt. Because she hoped she’d got through the worst of the hurt and she didn’t think she could bear to go through it all again. ‘What are you doing here?’