The Italian's Token Wife

She looked at Magda. Her dark eyes were not unsympathetic. ‘You did not believe it meant anything to him, did you? You did not think that it could last, this brief affair?’

The pain was running down every limb of Magda’s body. She tried to fight it, desperate to deny what Lucia was saying to her despite the resonance it found so readily in her own heart.

‘I can’t just go—without Rafaello’s say-so. He may not want me to go yet…’

Even as she spoke she knew she was deceiving herself. Rafaello was not concerned with her now—he was concerned only, as he should be, with his father.

Lucia was taking something out of her handbag, something pale that fluttered as she held it out to Magda.

‘He asked me to give you this.’ Her voice was strained and she would not quite meet Magda’s eyes. As she took the piece of paper and looked at it Magda knew why.

It was a cheque. It was made out to her—for ten thousand euros. As she stared, her heart crushed in a vice that squeezed the blood from every pore, Rafaello’s strong, black signature wavered in front of her eyes.

Lucia was speaking again.

Magda forced herself to listen, though inside herself she could hear only a terrifying, deafening silence that just went on and on without end.

‘Rafaello said…’ The woman hesitated again, as if only too aware what Magda must be going through. ‘Said that he would be in touch later, to sort everything out. But that right now his first duty is to his father. He hopes you will understand…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. You see, he won’t have realised what you have come to feel for him. For him this marriage was always just a…business transaction.’

Magda could say nothing—nothing except a dull, broken assent. The crushing weight in her heart was agony.

Lucia was saying something again, glancing at her watch.

‘Forgive me, I do not mean to…upset you further, but I have merely stopped here on my way to the airport. I am catching the next flight to Rome, so that I can be with Tio Enrico if…if he still lives.’ There was a strain in her voice Magda could not ignore. ‘If it will not take you long to pack, I can take you to the airport with me. Rafaello has asked me to arrange your ticket and so forth.’

She looked pityingly at Magda, still standing there, Benji at her side gazing uncomprehendingly, clinging to his mother’s leg.

‘It would be best not to linger.’ Her voice was as pitying as her expression.

With feet of lead, Magda collected her things and headed indoors.

It was raining. Rain pattered on the thin roof of the caravan, splattered on the glass in the windows. Benji whined irritably at Magda’s knee.

‘I know, muffin, it’s horrid—all this rain. Perhaps tomorrow will be sunny.’

A gust of wind caught the caravan. It was old, shabby inside, and no one wanted to rent it on the beachside site. But that was what made it cheap—cheap enough to hire for a month in high season. Cheap enough to buy.

The enormity of what she was planning to do swept over Magda again, but she put her doubts aside. The south coast seaside just had to be a better place to raise Benji. There was nothing for her in London—her bedsit was gone, and so was her job.

There’s nothing for me anywhere…

Angrily she pushed the despairing thought aside. That wasn’t true; she still had Benji.

She stroked his head and opened up the jigsaw box, tipping out the pieces. Refusing to let the memories come back.

They came all the same, crowding in, impossible to push away.

Rafaello. So impossibly beautiful, so impossible not to adore. Rafaello holding her in his arms, smiling at her, laughing with her, kissing her. Making love to her.

It wasn’t love. It was just an affair for him—a dalliance. She had known from the start it must end.

More memories rushed in, though she tried even harder to keep them out. But they pushed in, piercing her like knives.

One final memory, from the last time she had set eyes on him. He’d stood there, looking down at her, his face grave. I shall take care of you—

Well, he had. He had taken care of her. Made sure she had gone home with what she came for. Money.

That was why she’d married him. For money. Money to make a home for Benji. Not for love, for money.

She hadn’t wanted to cash his cheque, had resisted for two weeks while she lived on the money she had got back from the airline company at Pisa airport after exchanging Lucia’s business class ticket for a humbler fare. She’d landed at Gatwick, not Heathrow, and on impulse had taken the train to the south coast, found a caravan camp which still had vacancies this wet summer.