Lucy Gordon - The Millionaire Tycoon's English Rose

‘But-why Italy?’

‘Because you may recall that I spent some time learning Italian in case you and I ever came here together. It seemed a shame to waste it. So if you had any idea that I’d come trotting after you, you can just think again, oh, conceited one!’

‘That wasn’t what I-’

‘Yes, it was. It’s the first thing that came into your head.’

‘Well, I didn’t expect to find you sitting in my mother’s front room. Does she know who you are?’

‘I think she guessed as soon as she saw Jacko.’

‘Who the hell is Jacko? Your latest romance?’

‘You might say we’re constantly in each other’s company. He takes me everywhere.’

‘I’ll bet he never gets told to keep his hands to himself because you’re better off without him,’ Francesco said bitterly.

Celia’s voice rose slightly in indignation.

‘For pity’s sake, Jacko is my dog! ’

He swore under his breath.

‘Don’t be vulgar, my son,’ Hope said.

‘I didn’t see you there, Mamma. This is-yes-well…’ His voice trailed off as he realised the incongruity of what he was saying.

‘I’ve been here over an hour,’ Celia said merrily. ‘Your mother knows who I am by now. I came to return some things that belong to you. They’re in that bag by my feet, next to Jacko.’

‘He’s black,’ Francesco said, regarding Jacko. ‘I didn’t see him in the shadow.’

‘Come and say hallo to him,’ Celia offered.

He came forward uneasily and reached out to stroke the dog, who stretched up his head for a moment, then settled down again. Francesco seated himself close enough to Celia to talk quietly.

‘I don’t believe this is happening. What the devil are you doing here?’

‘I’ve told you. But well done for being honest! None of that stuff about pretending to be glad to see me.’

He bit his lip. So often in the past he’d snagged himself on her sharp wits, and clearly nothing had changed.

‘Is there any reason why I should be glad to see you?’ he growled.

‘None that I can think of.’

‘Good. Then, as you say, honesty is the best policy.’

‘I expect you’ve got someone else by now,’ she said casually. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to make trouble.’

‘There’s no-’ He checked himself but it was too late. Now she would know.

‘Then I’m not causing you any problems by being here?’ she said.

‘No problem at all,’ he agreed briskly. ‘I’m glad to see that you seem to be on top of the world.’

‘Right on top,’ she agreed. ‘I love your country.’

She repeated the last words in Italian, for the benefit of Hope, whose footsteps she could hear. Delighted, Hope explained in Italian that her husband was here, too, and introduced him.

Celia responded with a few more words in Italian, which made Toni tease, ‘Ah, but can you speak our dialect?’

He proceeded to teach her a few words of Neapolitan, which she mastered at once, and demanded to learn more.

‘You learn very fast,’ Toni said admiringly. ‘I expect you’re good at that?’

‘Yes, I depend on my mind a lot more than sighted people have to,’ Celia said calmly. ‘My parents, who are blind, too, used to teach me all sorts of memory tricks when I was a child. I’m still proud of my memory, but, of course, now there are all sorts of gadgets to make life easy.’

‘Easy?’ Toni echoed, smiling at her kindly. ‘Well, perhaps.’

Hope drew Francesco aside.

‘I think she’s marvellous,’ she said. ‘What possessed you to leave her?’

‘I didn’t leave her, Mamma. She threw me out. She actually said, ‘I don’t want to see you here again.’ She talks like that-like a sighted person-because she almost doesn’t realise that she’s any different to anyone else. And I can’t make her realise it.’

‘Perhaps you’re wrong to try,’ Hope says thoughtfully. ‘Why do you want to force her to realise something she doesn’t want to know?’

‘Because she can’t live for ever in a fantasy. I only wanted her to be a little realistic-’

‘Realistic?’ Hope echoed, aghast. ‘Do you think you have anything to teach that girl about realism? I don’t wonder she threw you out. I’d like to do the same.’

‘You’ll probably get around to it,’ he said with a wry grin.

Before she could say any more there was a small buzz from Celia’s wrist.

‘It’s my watch,’ she explained. ‘I set the alarm to go for six o’clock. I have to get back to town and meet a customer.’

‘But I want you to have supper with us,’ Hope mourned.

‘I’m sorry, I’d have loved to, but I’m still making my mark in a new job, so I have to try to impress people.’

‘But you will come another night?’ Hope asked anxiously.

‘I’ll look forward to it. Can you call me a taxi?’

‘I’ll take you,’ Francesco said at once. ‘I’ll be home later, Mamma.’

‘Thank you,’ Celia said. ‘Jacko?’

Hope saw Francesco lean forward, as though about to take her arm, then check himself and pull his hand back quickly. Something told Hope that Celia was fully aware of this, although she showed no sign of awareness.

‘Until we meet again, signora, ’ she said to Hope, before following Jacko out of the door.

‘W HEREare we going?’ he asked as he started up the car.

‘It’s a little café called the Three Bells.’

‘I know it.’

Silence. This was the first time they’d been alone together since the split, and suddenly there was nothing to say. Francesco, taken totally by surprise, was full of confusion.

When he first arrived in Italy he’d been sure she would contact him, but as the silence had stretched out he’d begun to realise that she’d really meant their parting to be permanent.

But parting was too light a word for it. Celia hadn’t left him, she’d cruelly dismissed him, tossing him out of her home as though desperate to rid herself of all traces of his presence.

Even then he hadn’t believed in the finality of what had happened. How could he when their love had been so total, so overwhelming? For him it had been unlike any other love. Transient affairs had come and gone. Women had spoken to him of love and he had repeated the words with, he now knew, only the vaguest understanding of their meaning.

Real love had caught him off-guard, with a young woman who was awkward, provocative, annoying, difficult for the sake of it-it had often seemed to him-unreasonable, stubborn and full of laughter.

Perhaps it was her laughter that had won him. He wasn’t a man who laughed often. He understood a good joke, but amusement hadn’t formed a major part of his life.

She, on the other hand, would never stop. With so much stacked against her she would collapse with delight at the slightest thing. Often her laughter was aimed at himself, for reasons he could not divine. At first it had been an aggravation, then a delight. Let her laugh at him if she pleased. He was her happy slave. Nothing would have made him admit that to anyone else, but within his heart he had known a flowering.

In her arms he’d become a different man, shedding the tough outer shell like unwanted armour and being passionately grateful to her for making it happen.

He’d known what had happened to him, and had assumed it was the same for her. He’d tried to take reassurance from this, reasoning that the sheer violence of her feelings meant that she was bound to change her mind about their parting. She would calm down, understand that their love was worth fighting for, forgive him whatever he’d done wrong-for he still wasn’t quite sure-even, perhaps, apologise.