The Italian's Token Wife

For a moment she wondered what it must be like to live in an apartment like this. To be so rich you could have a two-storeyed flat as big as a house, overlooking the River Thames, with a terrace as big as a garden. The rich, Magda thought wryly, really were different.

Not that she ever saw the inhabitants. Cleaners were only allowed into the apartments when the owners were absent.

She flicked open the cap of the toilet freshener bottle and upended it, ready to squirt the contents generously into the bowl.

‘What are you doing here?’

The deep, displeased voice behind her came out of the blue, and made her jump out of her skin. The reflex action made her squeeze the bottle prematurely, and turquoise fluid spurted out of the bottle onto the marble floor.

With a cry of dismay Magda fell on the blue puddle and mopped it furiously with her cleaning sponge.

‘I spoke to you—answer me!’

The voice behind her sounded even more displeased. Hurriedly Magda swivelled round, and stared up.

A man stood in the doorway of the bathroom, looking down at her. Magda stared back, blinking blindly. Her dismay deepened into horror. The apartment was supposed to be empty. The caretaker had told her so. Yet here, obviously, was someone who definitely did not use service lifts.

And he was quite plainly furious. With dismay etched on every feature, she just went on kneeling beside the toilet pedestal, cleaning sponge in her hand.

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she managed to croak, knowing she had to sound servile for someone like this, even though it was not her fault that she was where she apparently should not have been. ‘I was told it was all right to clean in here this morning.’

The man’s mouth tightened.

‘There is a baby in the hall,’ he informed her.

With one part of her brain Magda registered that the man could not be English. Not only was his skin tone too olive-hued, but his voice was definitely accented. Spanish? Italian? Too pale to be Middle-Eastern, he must definitely be Mediterranean, she decided.

‘Well?’ The interrogative demand came again.

Clumsily Magda scrambled to her feet. She could not go on kneeling on the floor indefinitely.

‘He’s mine,’ she blurted.

Something that might have been a flash of irritation showed in the man’s dark eyes.

‘So I had assumed. What is it doing there? This is no place for a baby!’

A child that age should be at home, not being dragged around at this hour of the day? What kind of mother was this girl? Irresponsible, obviously!

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said again, swallowing, hoping some more abject servility would soften his annoyance at finding her cleaning when he was in residence. Clearly he was furious his pristine apartment was being cluttered up by something as messy as a baby. She bent to pick up her cleaning box, cast a swift glance around the bathroom to make sure it was decent, and said, as meekly as she could manage, ‘I’ll go now, sir. I’m very sorry for having disturbed you.’

She made for the door and he stood aside to let her pass. It was uncomfortable passing him so close. He was so immaculately attired, obviously freshly washed and showered, and she had just spent several hours cleaning. She was dirty and sweaty, and she had a horrible feeling she smelt as bad as she felt. She hurried out to Benji, who, blessedly, was still asleep, and made to scoop up his chair.

‘Wait!’

The order was imperative, and Magda halted instinctively, Benji a heavy weight on her arm. Hesitantly she turned round.

The man was looking at her. Staring at her.

Magda froze, as if she were a rabbit caught in headlights. Or rather an antelope realising a leopard had just come out of the undergrowth.

Oh, help, she thought silently. Now what?

Rafaello let his gaze rest on the girl. She was slightly built, drab in the extreme, with hair the colour of mud and unmemorable features. She also—his nose wrinkled in disdain—smelt of sweat and cleaning fluids. There was a smut of dirt on her cheek. She looked about twenty or so.

He found himself glancing at her hands. They were covered by yellow rubber gloves. He frowned. His gaze went back to her face. She was looking at him with a look of deepest apprehension.

‘You don’t have to bolt like a frightened rabbit,’ he said. Deliberately he made his voice less brusque, though it didn’t seem to alter her expression a jot. She still stood there, poised for flight, baby in one hand, cleaning materials in the other.

Rafaello took a couple of steps towards her.

‘Tell me—are you married?’

The brusqueness was back in his voice. He didn’t mean it to be, but it was. It was because part of his mind was telling him that he was completely mad, thinking what he was thinking. But he was thinking it all the same…