The Reluctant Husband

‘Once again...louder and with real commitment,’ Santino encouraged raggedly.

‘Santino...please...’ Frankie moaned.

‘No, I’m completely impartial on this,’ Santino insisted stubbornly, his palms pressing her hips down on him in the most tormentingly exciting way and lingering to ease up the nightdress inch by suggestive inch and then stop dead. ‘Friendship means that you have to ask to be ravished within an inch of your life. I wouldn’t want to risk overstepping my boundaries. Only a husband would be confident enough of his reception to proceed without a clear invitation.’

‘Santino...you are my husband!’ Frankie practically sobbed in her frustration.

Instantaneously Santino arched up and let the tip of his tongue sensually trace the tremulous line of her generous mouth. ‘You are such a fast learner, signora...you take my breath away...’

‘Just think...’ Frankie breathed headily two weeks later. ‘This was the place to be buried in 28 BC.’

‘Just think.’ Santino surveyed the Mausoleum of Augustus, a rather undistinguished mound covered with weeds. He wore the look of a male striving against all the odds to rise above prosaic first impressions.

‘You’ve got to use your imagination,’ Frankie scolded.

‘You’ve got enough for both of us, piccola mia.’ Santino sent her a winging smile full of megawatt charm and appreciation. ‘You have taught me to view this city of mine through new eyes.’

Frankie swiftly looked away from him, heart banging fit to burst with suppressed excitement, but as he moved fluidly closer she wandered away, pretending to be absorbed in her guidebook. By being elusive during daylight she protected herself. Everything that went on at night in bed she kept in a separate compartment. Wonderful entertaining days, endless erotic nights. It was almost like a honeymoon, she reflected with a stark pang of pain, but in her heart of hearts she knew that Santino was merely engaged in hedging all his bets.

What else could he be up to? He had been so certain she would be pregnant. Admittedly, he hadn’t once mentioned that subject again, but his behaviour had helped her to work out for herself that if she did turn out to be carrying his baby there would be no divorce. Now that he knew she hadn’t stolen from him, if she did prove to be pregnant, Santino would make the best of things. After all, he was fond of her. But suppose she wasn’t pregnant? It was ironic that what she had once feared she now badly wanted to happen.

A top society photographer, who was a personal friend of Santino’s, had come to the Villa Fontana to record their togetherness for posterity, and one picture had been released to a very gushy glossy international magazine without any accompanying interview. In advance of that event, Frankie had been surprised to find herself presented with a new wedding ring and a gorgeous emerald engagement ring.

‘I guess I need those or we wouldn’t look convincing,’ she had sighed.

‘I am giving you these because you are my wife,’ Santino had countered levelly.

Sinking back to the present, Frankie was deeply conscious of Santino’s scrutiny while she continued to finger frantically through her guidebook in search of a fresh ruin to visit.

‘I think we’ve run out of sites,’ Santino commented without a shade of irony, indeed contriving to sound deeply regretful. ‘I didn’t think that could be done in Rome but we have done it. Deprived of the need to tramp about like tourists from dawn to dusk, what will we do with ourselves?’

‘If you’ve been bored, you only had to say so.’

‘I don’t get bored with you.’

‘You’ve got so flattering recently...’

‘But you’re not listening,’ Santino breathed with a slightly raw edge to his intonation.

During the drive back to the villa, Frankie tensed in dismay. A tiny little twinge had cramped low in her stomach. Instantly she knew what that sensation meant. She turned away from Santino, eyes anguished, face draining of colour. Well, now she had her answer. She wasn’t pregnant. She ought to tell him right now, let him off the hook, but right then she hated him for hanging himself on that hook.

But she was no better, was she? Hoping to hang onto him and their marriage on the strength of a baby? That wouldn’t have been right either, and she had the lesson of her own parents’ marriage behind her, so she didn’t even have the excuse of optimistic ignorance. Physical attraction had brought her parents together but it hadn’t been enough to keep them together.

A muffled choking sound escaped her as she clambered out of the car.

‘What’s wrong?’ Santino demanded.

‘Nothing!’ she cried, and ran into the villa and didn’t stop running until she reached the bathroom off their bedroom and locked the door behind her.

‘Francesca!’ Santino rapped impatiently on the door.

‘I’ll be out in a minute!’ she promised, struggling to face courageously up to the destruction of all her hopes.

She finally shuffled out, tear-stained and looking tragic. As yet there was no actual proof that her period had arrived, but she just knew there very soon would be. In her view that one tiny twinge was utterly foolproof confirmation.

‘You’re not feeling well, are you? Do you think we should do a pregnancy test?’ Santino asked, with an award-winning lack of tact and what she interpreted as a vastly unconvincing look of excitement and anticipation.

Reacting to that unfortunate question as if it had been a cruel and deliberate taunt, Frankie burst into great gulping sobs. ‘I hate you...go away!’