The Italian's Token Wife

But now she needed Rafaello’s pay-off to buy the caravan outright—make a home for herself and Benji, however humble—and have a nest egg to tide her over for a while. As for the rest of the money Rafaello had promised her—she knew she could never take it.

Just as she had not been able to take the clothes he had bought for her, nor the gold necklace he had given her. Besides, they would hardly fit her lifestyle now.

She smiled, painful though it was to do so. At least she had her memories.

They would need to last a lifetime.

Across the shingle the grey tide churned the pebbles, plucking and knocking. Benji was crouched down, picking up the shiny sea-wet stones. His feet were in wellingtons, his little figure clad in a waterproof jacket. Rain swept in from the west, slanting in chill, unrelenting strokes that stung her cheeks and blurred her vision.

Magda stared across the bleak, drear English Channel. Far out to sea was an oil tanker, ploughing its slow way eastwards. There were no sailboats today, hardly anyone on the beach. She had ventured out because she could stay indoors no longer. Benji was pettish, refusing to be entertained by anything. She was restless, heart aching like an ague in her bones.

Day by day the reality of it was sinking in. Rafaello had gone from her life. Gone completely. Gone as abruptly as he had come.

Sternly she tried to pull herself together. She had no right to mope like this. She was blessed with Benji, she had her health, her strength—a home of her own. This would be a good place to bring up Benji—fresh air, and the seaside on her doorstep….

And here, at least, she could stand in the rain and the wind blowing up the Channel and stare southwards, towards Italy, with a hopeless longing in her heart never to be fulfilled.

Her cheeks were wet. But not with rain.

Benji picked up one last stone, and threw it with all his tiny might into the sea. It landed with a plop that was quite inaudible in the noisy surf. Then, bored, he turned and tottered off.

Magda followed him, hugging her anorak around her, facing into the endless rain. Her booted feet crunched the shingle, slowing her down. Raindrops spat in her face. As she pushed back her wind-whipped hair, twisting her neck to try and refasten it into the clip it had escaped from, she stilled. And stared.

On the shingle shelf, above the high tide, a figure stood. Quite immobile.

She blinked. Something caught at her.

She reached for Benji’s hand blindly, halting him. She went on staring landwards. The figure at the top of the beach started to walk towards her. A gust of wind buffeted her and she hung on to Benji’s hand to steady him. And went on staring.

Time was slowing down. Slowing right, right down. The rain seemed to be stopping, slowing and stilling in mid flight. The wind dropped.

Silence drummed all around her. She felt Benji’s fingers pressing into hers. Felt him tugging her. She was unresponsive. Her feet were leaden; she could not move.

Nor could she breathe. The air was solid in her lungs.

The figure kept on walking towards her.

His face resolved itself, through the rain, through the blurring of her vision.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Then, suddenly, Benji’s hand pulled free of hers. She saw him totter forwards, arms outstretched.

‘Ra—’ he said. ‘Ra—pick up!’

Rafaello picked him up.

‘Hello, Benji,’ he said.

Then he looked at Magda. His dark eyes pierced her like a knife, cutting straight into her heart.

‘Come home,’ he said. He held out his free hand to her. ‘Come home, cara.’

She didn’t move, couldn’t move.

‘I don’t understand.’ Her words were a whisper, lost in the wind.

His mouth twisted. ‘Nor did I. Not when I came back from Rome that night, to find you gone. Not when Maria took one look at me and threw up her hands, saying that you had set off after me that very morning. It made no sense. And then she said you’d had a lift—a lift from a very helpful visitor.’ His face darkened. ‘And when she told me who your visitor had been—then I understood.’ His eyes shut, lashes sweeping long, before opening again. ‘Dio! When I heard that I understood, all right!’

She was swaying in the wind. It went right through her bones, scouring her heart.

‘How—how is your father?’

‘My father? Ah, yes, my father.’ His voice was heavy. ‘Making an excellent recovery, you will be glad to know—from his non-existent heart attack.’

She stared.

His mouth twisted again. ‘My father has the constitution of an ox. Don’t you see? Lucia lied to you.’

‘Why?’ Her voice was faint.

‘Why? To get rid of you, of course!’