The Italian's Love-Child

She nodded. How easy it was to arrange and talk about practical things. And how easy to suppress feelings and emotions. To put them on the back-boiler so that they didn’t disturb the status quo.

‘It seems strange to think of our baby talki

ng,’ he said slowly.

‘Too…too far in the future to imagine?’ she questioned tentatively.

‘A little. But I was just thinking that his or her first language will be English, won’t it? The mother tongue.’ He thought then of the reality of what her being here meant. Or rather, what it would have been like if she had stayed in England. He wouldn’t have got a look-in, not really. It would have been false and unreal and ultimately frustrating and unrewarding. Suddenly, he understood some of the sacrifice it must have taken for her to have come here—to start all over in a territory which was completely unknown to her.

‘We’ll need to think about decorating a room,’ he mused.

‘Pink, or blue?’ She searched his face. What if secretly he was so macho that he would only be satisfied with a son—and what if she didn’t produce one, what then? ‘Which would you prefer, a boy or a girl?’

He frowned, as if the question had surprised him.

‘I don’t care which; there is only one thing I care about.’

‘Yes.’ Their eyes met and she smiled. ‘A healthy baby. It’s what every parent prays for.’ She looked at him. ‘So it’s yellow?’

‘Yellow? Sì. Giallo.’ A smile creased the corners of his eyes. ‘Say it after me.’

She felt giddy with the careless innocence of it. ‘Gi-allo.’

‘So, there is your first Italian lesson!’ He leaned back indolently in his chair and studied the lush breasts through narrowed eyes. ‘What would you like to do today? The Grand Tour of the city?’

She thought about it. What she wanted and craved more than anything was some kind of normality, for there had been precious little of it in her life of late. And even if such a thing were too much to hope for, she needed to start living life as she—or rather, they—meant to go on.

‘Will you show me round the immediate vicinity?’ she asked. Would something like that sound prosaic to such an urbane and cosmopolitan man? ‘Show me where the nearest shops are. Where I can buy a newspaper, that kind of thing. We could—if you meant it—go and buy some stuff for supper? Is there somewhere close by?’

He nodded. ‘There is the al mercato di Campo de Fiori and there are shops. Sounds good.’

She hesitated. She knew something of his life-style—the man with nothing in the fridge who rarely ate in, who travelled the world and went to fancy places. ‘Luca?’

‘Eve?’ he said gravely.

She drew a breath. ‘Listen, I know you’re usually out—probably every night for all I know. You mustn’t stay in just because of me.’

‘You mean you want to go out at night?’

‘Like this?’ She shook her head, and laughed. ‘I’m far too big and lumbering to contemplate hitting on Rome’s top night-spots!’

He frowned. ‘You mean you want me to go out without you?’

‘If you want to. I just want you to know that I don’t intend to cramp your style. You mustn’t feel tied—because of the baby.’

He stared at her. Did she have a degree in psychology, or just a witch’s instinct for knowing how to handle a man? That by offering him his freedom, he now had no desire to take it!

‘I am no longer a boy,’ he said gravely. ‘And “top night-spots” kind of lost their allure for me a long time ago. So I’ll stay in. With you.’

‘Sure you won’t be bored?’

‘Let’s wait and see.’

Her voice was wry. ‘That seems to be a recurrent theme with us, doesn’t it?’

‘Indeed.’ Their eyes met. He admired her mind, he realised, and her sense of humour, too. The baby was going to be a lucky baby to have her as a mother, he thought suddenly. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Eve,’ he said.

She put her coffee-cup down with a hand which was trembling. But he was merely being courteous, and he should be offered the same in return. She smiled. ‘And so am I.’