The Italian's Token Wife

So she smiled, and feasted her eyes upon him, and revelled at the closeness of his body to hers, the casual wrap of his arm around her shoulder, the way he held her hand as they gazed at the glories of the Renaissance masters. And she crushed down the dull foreboding deep within her.

They were taking time out with a much needed coffee on one of the piazzas—Magda half watching the world go by, half watching the way the sinews of Rafaello’s bare forearm with its rolled back shirtsleeve combined such a miraculous artistry of strength and grace as his hand covered hers warmly—when someone approached them.

‘Rafaello! Ciao!’ A stream of Italian followed, and Magda saw that the chicly dressed female greeting Rafaello was Lucia. Hovering at her side was a louche young man with tight curls and full lips.

Rafaello returned the greeting civilly, and Lucia turned her attention to Magda.

‘So, you have been enjoying Tuscany to the full?’ Her voice was pleasant enough, and Magda nodded, making an appropriate reply.

Lucia’s head tilted very slightly in Rafaello’s direction.

‘And all that Tuscany has to offer you, I expect—no?’

This time there was a clear alternative meaning to her words. Magda found herself slipping her hand away from under Rafaello’s and managed merely to smile slightly, as if she did not understand what Lucia had been so obviously referring to. The woman shrugged slightly.

‘Well, enjoy what you can while you can. Now, do please excuse me—Carlo is impatient to show me his latest masterpiece.’

She tucked her arm proprietorially into the young man’s, and with an elegant little wave took her leave.

Something that sounded like a dismissive rasp sounded in Rafaello’s throat.

‘Dio, to think she ever thought I would marry her!’ He glanced contemptuously at the man at his cousin’s side.

‘She doesn’t seem to be pining for you,’ Magda agreed. Lucia was leaning into her lover now, making it clear that was exactly what he was.

Rafaello’s eyes suddenly flicked to hers.

‘And you, cara, would you pine for me?’

The question had come out of the blue. Magda froze. She dipped her head, unable to meet Rafaello’s eyes.

‘I…I don’t think you’d want me to pine for you, would you?’

Her reply was low-voiced, but she tried hard to make it unemotional. As she finished speaking she made herself lift her eyes again, keeping her expression steady.

He was silent a moment, and for that instant he looked into her eyes and she could not read his expression. She felt frozen still.

Then, with a little shake of his head, he said, ‘No, I wouldn’t want you to pine for me.’

There was a note in his voice she did not know. It seemed to her to be a warning. She slipped her gaze past his, towards the medieval church on the far side of the busy piazza.

How much human happiness and sorrow its stones must have seen—and mine is just one more…

The thought should have brought her comfort.

But it did not.

She knew at once the next morning that something was wrong. When she woke Rafaello was standing by the window, looking out over the beautiful gardens of the villa, bathed in early sunlight. He had his back to her and he was wearing the same business suit he had worn the day he’d married her. It made him look dark, and forbidding.

As he heard her stir, he turned. His figure was outlined against the brightness of the day outside, and it came to her that it was earlier than they usually woke.

‘Magda?’ His voice was querying. Then, realising she was awake, he crossed to the bed. He looked taller, more austere as he looked down at her, freshly shaven and with his hair subdued into crisp businesslike neatness.

‘I must go to Rome. The board meeting takes place today and I must be there.’

His voice was clipped, his tone impersonal. The Rafaello she had come to know and love so deeply seemed a million miles away. In his place was the man who had paid her to marry him, hired her for a job he could find no one else to do. Something chilled inside her. Oh, she knew he was not always this man—knew that the Rafaello who had made her a fairytale princess was there still—but not today. Not this morning. This Rafaello had put the other one aside—it was time to go back to his real life.

‘Oh,’ she heard herself say blankly, lifting herself clumsily onto her elbow, keeping the bedclothes around her. ‘Of course.’

He went on looking down at her. There was something formidable about him standing there, looking like the rich powerful businessman he was, as remote and alien as when she had first laid eyes on him, cleaning his bathroom on her knees.