The Last Heir of Monterrato

Dropping a teabag into her mug, she doused it with water. She     couldn’t begin to face that problem yet. She might never have to, of course. And     that, in itself, would bring an anguish all of its own that she refused to think     about now. Squeezing the life out of the teabag, she dropped it into the metal     bin with a clang.

For now she would concentrate on the positive. She had     twenty-four hours to herself—twenty-four hours when she could breathe normally,     without the constant shadow of Rafael being around to torment her. She decided     she would make the most of the time—starting with a solid day’s painting.     Channelling her pent-up energies into something creative seemed like the best     idea.

Picking up the note for one last look, Lottie screwed it into a     ball and dropped it into the bin before heading upstairs with her tea.

* * *

The next day arrived, clear and blue. Day fourteen. The     day that would alter the whole course of her life. Without Rafael around Lottie     had slept surprisingly well and now, up and dressed, she was already on her     third cup of decaffeinated coffee.

She had had a good look at her body in the shower that morning,     sure that if she really was pregnant it would have to show somewhere. She knew     that sore boobs were one of the first signs, so she had paid particular     attention to soaping them under the pummelling of the water, desperately trying     to convince herself that they were more tender than usual. By the time she had     finished they had felt a little different—but then so would any part of her body     that had been mercilessly scrubbed for five minutes. The fact was there were no     signs; she had absolutely no idea if she was pregnant or not.

Now she fiddled with the mobile phone in her hand. There had     been no messages from Rafael. But why would there be—even if she had been     obsessively checking for the past hour? No doubt he had enjoyed his night of     freedom as much as her. Why would he spoil the relief of not being around her by     bothering to text her?

Not for the first time she found herself imagining what he had     done last night, her tortured mind immediately flinging him into the arms of     some exotically beautiful woman who would be only too happy to soothe his     scarred brow, give him a night of pleasure to take his mind off his troubles.     She forced herself to stop right there. This day was going to be momentous     enough without chucking in any unnecessary masochism.

She realised that she had no idea what time Rafael would be     back, and she certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking.     Absently feeling the weight of her phone, she considered what to do. He might     well be on his way now, but she was damned if she was going to be sitting here     waiting for him. No. Her decision was made— she was going to go out and buy a     pregnancy testing kit.

The very thought of it made her shiver, every nerve-ending     zinging with excitement and anticipation and fear. With a shaky hand she started     to look up the number of a local taxi firm to take her into the nearest town.     But then she stopped. She had a better idea.

* * *

The villa was deserted when Rafael arrived back later     that day. He could sense the silence as soon as he strode in, even before he had     checked the downstairs rooms and started pounding up the stairs, two at a time.     Pushing open the first door, he could smell the oil paint and turpentine as he     gazed about him, taking in the large canvas that was on an easel in the middle     of the room, the vibrant colours of an evening sunset vividly portrayed by     Lottie’s unmistakable sweeping brushstrokes.

But no Lottie.

Turning, he felt his heart-rate increase as a terrible thought     took hold. He marched across the landing to her bedroom, his eyes raking over     the untidy room, searching for clues. Going over to her wardrobe, he flung open     the doors; there were her clothes, swinging gently on their hangers, a small     pile of shoes scattered beneath.

Breathing heavily, he went and sat down on the edge of her bed,     relief pulsing through his veins. Grazie a Dio. She was still here,     then. He glanced down at her bedside table. There was the book she was reading,     opened face-down, its spine cracking, along with a jumble of bracelets, some     make-up, a lipstick. Picking up the latter, Rafael felt it between his fingers,     removing the top and twisting it to reveal the raspberry-red colour. She had     been wearing this the night they had gone out for that meal. The same night they     had ended up having passionate sex on a wet gym mat.