They spent their honeymoon in the Caribbean – Domenico’s choice, of course, just as he had decided they should marry in Milan cathedral, with a full nuptial mass, and a heavenly choir of boys in lace-decked white cassocks singing the Latin liturgy; he had chosen the five-star hotel, in the centre of Milan, for the wedding breakfast and spent some time discussing with the manager what food would be served and with which wines.
Oh, he made much play of discussing everything with her, but it was always Domenico who made the decisions. She told herself it was natural to him, he was used to authority, both in his home and at the university, with his students. Vittoria still felt afraid to argue with him in case the wedding was called off, so she always said yes to everything he suggested.
‘The West Indies are wonderful,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve been there a couple of times. I love the hot colours, the light is so brilliant and the local people are fun. The place has natural drama – everything is explosive, exciting. You’ll love it, too.’
Looking down from the plane as they landed she did love it. It was so green, the sea so blue, the sands white as spilt sugar. The hotel was luxurious, with a pool set in tropical gardens full of astonishingly bright flowers and feathery, blowing palms, and smiling waiters in white coats served delicious drinks and food. Outwardly that honeymoon was blissful. It should have been the happiest time of Vittoria’s life. It wasn’t.
Domenico slept with her each night, but much though she wanted to believe he enjoyed it, she couldn’t persuade herself of that. His lovemaking was brief, reluctant, she almost felt he had to force himself to touch her. Was he shy? She thought at first, incredulously. Or was it just that he did not enjoy sex?
Vittoria did. She had always known that she would. Her body had ached for it, and now she discovered how sensual, how passionate, her body naturally was. ‘I love you,’ she groaned that first night, holding him between her open thighs, her naked body hot and eager. She felt the shudder that went through him but misunderstood, believing he was as desperate for satisfaction as she was, and moaned, ‘Darling, darling …’ as she arched up towards him, her hands touching, stroking the lean, smooth body on top of her, able at last, at long, long last to do what she had been dying to do for years.
She explored his body hungrily, fingered along the deep indentation of his spine, down under his buttocks, caressed the curly black hair from which his cock sprang, pressed her face into his chest, kissed with open mouth the faintly sweaty skin, sucking at his nipples, holding his back while he rode up and down on her, and went into orgasm long before he did, crying out, hoarsely, almost in agony, her body jerking wildly, as if in a death throe.
Domenico came as she finished, and she lay there with exhausted contentment, holding his body tightly as his seed leapt up inside her.
‘I want to have a baby right away,’ she whispered, kissing his hair.
He rolled off her. ‘I’d like that.’ Yawning, he lay on his side, face turned away. ‘You must be very tired. Goodnight, Toria.’
Next day, after a breakfast of fresh fruit, rolls and coffee in their elegant bungalow, he went off to paint down on the beach below the hotel grounds.
She lazed by the pool, in the sun, swam, put on brief shorts and a skimpy top bought in the hotel shop, then walked down to see Domenico’s painting and tell him to come back for lunch.
Wearing black swimming trunks, his tall figure gleaming golden, oiled, in the sun, he barely glanced at her, too intent on the brilliant seascape he was painting: blues so bright they hurt the eye, girls half naked on the yellow sand, umbrellas fluttering in the breeze. Life burst out of the canvas and Vittoria was breathless with admiration for his talent.
‘Lunch?’ he muttered. ‘No, I don’t eat much in the middle of the day. I brought some fruit down here with me. You go back and eat lunch. I’ll see you later.’
She stood there, staring at his profile, a chill stealing up her skin in spite of the hot sun.
‘But … we’re on our honeymoon. Please, Nico, don’t leave me alone on our first day here. After all, there will be plenty of time for you to paint, later.’
He didn’t even look at her and his voice was curt, indifferent. ‘I have to finish this, I have to work fast, before the light changes. Off you go, have fun, enjoy yourself.’
She couldn’t make a scene in public. People were watching, listening. ‘See you later, then,’ she said flatly, and walked back up the sands to the hotel garden.
That first night, first day, set the pattern for their weeks there. She had suspected that Domenico didn’t love her the way she loved him; now she knew it, and learnt, too, that when you love someone who doesn’t love you life is agony. Pain became her constant companion, walked with her in the tropical gardens, beat in her head, in her blood, slept beside her every night.
At dinner on their last night in the Caribbean, Domenico said, ‘Have you decided what you want to do about your firm? Are you going to continue run
ning it, put in a manager or sell it?’
They had discussed all three options before they got married but she hadn’t, then, been able to make up her mind. Now she had.
‘I’m going to sell the firm and the house. Now that we’re married I can’t be in both places at once, and you can never trust other people to run a company for you if you don’t keep an eye on them. I won’t rush into it, I’ll go on as I have over the past year, waiting for offers, and make sure I get the best price I can. I’ll spend the weekends with you at Ca’ d’Angeli, and four days during the week in Milan at the factory.’ She smiled at him, her dark eyes passionate. ‘It will be hard – I hate the thought of being away from you so much – but with any luck it won’t take too long to find the right buyer.’
‘And if you find you’re pregnant?’
‘Then I’ll think again.’
Next day they flew home. Vittoria was sick with excitement and nerves at the thought of reaching Ca’ d’Angeli. She found it hard to believe that she would walk into the palazzo as its mistress; the schoolgirl who had not been thought good enough to go into the house all those years ago, who had been permitted into the gardens only on sufferance, and given haughty looks by the maidservant who had brought them a tray of food and drink. Did that girl still work there?
If she does, I won’t get rid of her, thought Vittoria. No, that isn’t the way to get your own back. I want her there every day, waiting on me, jumping when I give her orders. I’ll rub her nose in it.
They were met at the airport by one of the servants in the family’s motor-boat and arrived in style at the landing-stage in darkness. As they docked, somebody inside switched on the electric lights over the front door.
Domenico helped Vittoria out of the boat and she turned to face Ca’ d’Angeli. The front door was open and, framed in the yellow light, Vittoria saw a woman so beautiful she almost thought she was imagining her. Hair of Titian red, swept up on top of her head, wearing a sleek black dress that clung to every curve of her slender body, large, glistening pearls around her pale throat.
For a moment Vittoria thought she was a stranger. Then it hit her.