The Reluctant Husband

Disobliging to the last in his innate belief that he always knew what was best for her, Santino lifted her up as if she were a very fragile glass ornament and laid her carefully down on the bed, slipping off her shoes. She rolled over and bawled her eyes out. ‘Leave me alone!’ she sobbed in between times, b

ecause he kept on trying to put his arms round her and smooth her hair and do sympathetic things that only made her feel more wretchedly guilty than ever.

Never had Frankie been more deeply ashamed of herself. She couldn’t even meet his eyes now. That she had been prepared to use a baby to keep Santino made her feel like a shockingly selfish and wicked woman. It would’ve been so desperately unfair to him when he didn’t love her. And all the love she could give him could never compensate him for being denied the opportunity to find a woman he could love.

‘You really...seriously...genuinely...want me to leave you alone?’ Santino prompted with astonishing persistence, crouching athletically down by the side of the bed in an effort to get a look at her tear-swollen face. ‘You usually don’t mean it...in fact, if I do go, I’m the worst in the world. You taught me that a long time ago.’

Tell him, her conscience urged, and the very words of admission formed on her lips, but unfortunately another great wail of misery forced an exit and somehow took over and she thrust her face weakly into the pillows. ‘I n-need a breathing space,’ she gasped in stricken defeat, borrowing heavily from his terminology.

Vaulting upright again, Santino made no response. He seemed to take a terribly long time walking to the door, but Frankie kept her head down until the door thudded softly shut on his departure.

She had to pull herself together before she could face discussing the end of their marriage. And what was Santino likely to think after she had treated him to such a hysterical display? Could she plead an episode of howling premenstrual tension? Dear heaven, she would tell any lie sooner than let him suspect the true source of her distress. She had worked so hard at being bright, breezy and casual. She had behaved as if they were engaged in a brief affair. Pride demanded that when she left Santino this time she would leave with her chin up high and her shoulders square.

She had known why he continued to sleep with her. He could hardly have suggested that they live in suspended animation while they waited to learn whether or not she was pregnant. Indeed every tender, caring thing Santino had done recently had simply been part of his pretence that their marriage was and could be normal. He had been fatalistically convinced that she would conceive... and he had been wrong.

Exhausted by her emotions, she decided to skip dinner. Falling into an uneasy doze, she was awakened by the phone beside the bed ringing. Still half-asleep, she snatched it up. ‘I’m in Milan,’ Santino’s dark drawl informed her coldly.

‘What are you doing there?’ Frankie demanded at full incredulous volume. She had asked him for a breathing space. She had expected him to go downstairs, not transport himself to the far end of the country!

‘I sense a certain contrariness in that question. What you are really saying is...how could you leave me?’ Santino translated huskily.

‘No, I just wondered...that’s all,’ Frankie breathed shakily, waking up enough to recall that there wasn’t much point in missing him when soon she was going to be missing him every day for the rest of her life.

‘I’m attending an EC banking conference.’

‘That must be exciting.’

‘I’ll be here for two days,’ Santino informed her punitively.

‘Two d—?’ Frankie bit her tongue and swallowed hard. ‘Oh, how lovely for you,’ she completed limply.

‘I’m getting very mixed signals here. I was about to suggest that you join—’

‘Have a really good time,’ Frankie cut in chokily, before he could voice that invitation and tempt her into what would be an insane act. She snatched in a shuddering breath, despising herself for stalling on giving him the good news. Santino had every right to know that she wasn’t carrying his child just as soon as it was within her power to tell him. ‘Oh, y-yes, by the way,’ she added flatly, ‘I’m not pregnant.’

The answering silence pounded as noisily as her heartbeat in her eardrums.

‘Isn’t that just wonderful news?’ Frankie gushed with tears running down her cheeks. ‘I know you must be as relieved as I am. Look, we’ll talk when you get back.’

She set down the cordless phone. There, it was done and she felt better for it. And telling Santino on the phone had been the best way. It had allowed them both the privacy to conceal their personal reactions. She could not have borne to see Santino’s relief, not when she herself still felt so gutted by disappointment.

She now had two days to sort herself out. And it would probably take two days for her swollen face to shrink back to normal proportions. She would find out exactly when he was returning and meet him at the airport. She would be cheerful, friendly and calm. There would be no drama and no tears when they returned to the villa to discuss their divorce and the next morning she would fly back to London.

By dawn the following day, Frankie was becoming increasingly perplexed about what was going on inside her own confusing body. Her period had still not arrived. In addition, she had not experienced a single further twinge but, most unusually, her breasts were now feeling the tiniest bit tender. What if...? What if she had been premature in giving Santino that reassurance?

By noon of the same day, having still received no confirmation of her condition, Frankie was panicking. Santino’s chauffeur, Mario, drove her into the pretty medieval town of Anguillara. Too enervated even to appreciate her lovely surroundings, Frankie purchased a pregnancy test. When the kit provided her with incontrovertible proof that she had conceived, she went into shock. Joy and dismay then tore at her simultaneously as she appreciated how very foolish she had been to rush into disabusing Santino of the idea that she might be pregnant. How on earth was she supposed to tell him now that she had made a mistake?

The following morning, the very day of Santino’s return, Frankie began worrying that that one little cramp she had felt might be the warning of an approaching miscarriage. Appalled by the idea, already having developed powerful feelings of protectiveness towards her unborn child, she visited a busy medical practice in Bracciano. A brief examination confirmed the test results.

Then she sat feeling rather like a toddler being taught the basics while the woman doctor gently explained to her that her experience had not been unusual, nor indeed was it anything to worry about. During the earliest stages of pregnancy it was apparently quite common for a woman to misinterpret the signs that her body was giving her because it was a time of tremendous hormonal upheaval. Leaving the surgery, Frankie went shopping in a very expensive shop. She bought an elegant daffodil-yellow dress and toning shoes, her version of armour.

At three in the afternoon, Frankie arrived in the limousine at Fiumicino to meet Santino off his private jet. Of course, she could have waited until he came home, but the truth was that she just couldn’t wait to see him again and gauge his reaction to the mistaken news she had given him on the phone. If he was happier than a sandboy, it would be a challenge to disenchant him.

But one thing she did know: she could not keep such news from Santino, nor could she even consider any suggestion that they should remain married for the baby’s sake. It wouldn’t be fair. It just would not be fair to either of them.

As Frankie watched from the VIP lounge, the jet taxied in and the steps were run up. A slim blonde woman clad in an eye-catching fuchsia-pink suit appeared first. The stewardess? No, the stewardess was still at the exit door. Santino emerged next, luxuriant black hair ruffling in the slight breeze, vibrantly handsome dark features unreadable at that distance. In odd visual conflict with his stunning, elegant appearance, he had something large and awkwardly shaped stuffed under one powerful arm.

The blonde waited at the foot of the steps for him. A bank executive? His secretary? But as Santino and the woman crossed the tarmac, drawing ever closer, their heads bent in animated conversation, Frankie began to stiffen and stare fixedly because she could not immediately accept the powerful stirrings of recognition firing danger signals from her memory banks. Her stomach gave a sick, fearful lurch, perspiration breaking out on her brow.