Taming the Notorious Sicilian

Trying on what was probably her dozenth dress in the plush changing room, she reflected on his words.

Okay, so her appearance had never been a priority, but did she really look like a bag lady?

Her clothes were mostly bought online when the items she already owned started wearing out. She selected clothes based on suitability for work and comfort. Clothes were a means of keeping her body warm.

Her hair... Well, who had the time for regular haircuts? Not hardworking doctors fighting their way up the food chain, that was for sure. And if the rest of her colleagues managed to fit in regular visits to a salon, then good for them. Still, she had to admit her hair had become a little wild in recent years, and racked her brain trying to remember the last time a pair of scissors had been let loose on it. She came up with a blank.

She could remember the first time her mother had let her and Beth go to a proper hairdresser rather than hack at their hair with the kitchen scissors. It had been their twelfth birthday and the pair of them had felt so grown-up. How lovingly they’d attended their hair after that little trip, faithfully conditioning it at regular intervals.

She tried to think of the last time she’d conditioned her hair and came up with another blank.

Was it really possible she’d gone through the past fifteen years without either a haircut or the use of a conditioner? A distant memory floated like a wisp in her memories, of her mother knocking on her bedroom door, calling that it was time for her appointment at the hairdresser’s. She remembered the knots that had formed in her throat and belly and her absolute refusal to go.

How could she get a haircut when Beth wouldn’t be there to share it with her? Not that she’d vocalised this particular reasoning. She hadn’t needed to. Her mother hadn’t pressed her on the issue or brought the subject up again. Haircuts, make-up, all the things that went with being a girl on the cusp of womanhood were banished.

How had she let that happen?

After selecting a dress, a pair of shoes and matching clutch, and some sexy underwear which made her blush as she fingered the silken material, she handed the items to the manager, along with her credit card.

‘Signor Calvetti has made arrangements to pay,’ the manager said.

‘I know, but I can pay for my own clothes, thank you.’

‘It is very expensive.’

‘I can afford it.’ And, sadly, she could. She didn’t drink and rarely socialised—Melanie’s hen do had been Hannah’s first proper night out that year. After paying off her mortgage and other household bills every month, her only expenditure was food, which, when you were buying frozen meals for one, didn’t amount to much. She didn’t drive. Her only trips were her monthly visits to her parents’ home in Devon, for which she always got a lift down with Melanie and her soon-to-be brother-in-law.

Her colleagues, especially those around the same age as her, regularly complained of being skint. Hannah, never spending any money, had a comfortable nest egg.

How had she allowed herself to get in this position?

It was one thing putting money aside for a rainy day but, quite frankly, she had enough stashed away that she could handle months of torrential rain without worrying.

Despite her assurance, the store manager still seemed reluctant to take her card.

‘Either accept my card or I’ll find a dress in another shop,’ Hannah said, although not unkindly. She smiled at the flustered woman. ‘Honestly, there’s enough credit on there to cover it.’

‘But Signor Calvetti...’

Ah. The penny dropped. It wasn’t that the manager was worried about Hannah’s credit; rather, she was worried about what Francesco would do when he learned his wishes had been overruled. ‘Don’t worry about him—I’ll make sure he knows I insisted. He’s learning how stubborn I can be in getting my own way.’

With great reluctance, the manager took Hannah’s card. Less than a minute later the purchase was complete. Hannah had spent more in one transaction than she’d spent on her entire wardrobe since leaving medical school.

‘I don’t suppose you know of a decent hairdresser that could fit me in with little notice, do you?’

The manager peered a little too closely at Hannah’s hair, a tentative smile forming on her face. ‘For Signor Calvetti’s lover, any salon in Palermo will fit you in. Would you like me to make the phone call?’

Signor Calvetti’s lover... Those words set off a warm feeling through her veins, rather as if she’d been injected with heated treacle. ‘That’s very kind, thank you—I’ll be sure to tell Francesco how helpful you’ve been.’