Lucy Gordon - The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage

The young woman in the picture was dressed in the fashion of fifty years earlier, and her face was the one Harriet saw in her own mirror.

‘I really am her granddaughter,’ Harriet said, in a slow, wondering voice.

‘Much more than Olympia,’ Lucia confirmed. ‘She would have been quite unsuitable. A sweet girl but an airhead, although, of course, I thought of her first because I’d known her for years. I wish I’d known you better. If only your mother hadn’t kept you from us!’

‘If only- what? ’

‘Your father said she wanted nothing to do with any of us after the split. She insisted on going home to England and raising you to be English.’ She was looking at Harriet’s face. ‘Isn’t that true?’

‘No,’ Harriet seethed, ‘it most certainly isn’t. He forced her to go back to England and just shut us out.’

‘That woman!’ Lucia said at once. ‘He’s always been in thrall to her. I never liked your father. He’s a spineless weakling and quite unworthy of his mother. Now I’m totally disgusted with him.’

‘So am I,’ Harriet fumed. ‘He denied me my Italian heritage.’

‘Well, now you can claim it back again,’ Lucia said warmly.

‘Yes,’ Harriet mused. ‘I can.’

‘Would it be tactless of me to suggest that you start by dressing in our country’s fashion?’

‘You mean my clothes look as if I bought them secondhand?’ Harriet asked bluntly.

‘Of course not. But among the many English talents haute couture is not perhaps-’ she left the sentence delicately unfinished.

‘No, it’s not,’ Harriet said decisively. ‘You’re right. It’s time I started being who I am.’ Then her confidence wavered. ‘Whoever that is,’ she added uncertainly.

‘Never say such a thing again,’ Lucia commanded. ‘From this moment, you start life again.’

Next morning they went to the Via dei Condotti, the most exclusive shop in Rome. There Lucia cast a critical eye over the parade of garments, loftily dismissing this one, ordering that one set aside.

Slowly the pile of clothes grew, some to be taken as they were, some to be altered. The total wipe out of her wardrobe gave Harriet the feeling of being another person. It was strange, but she liked it.

Then she was introduced to Signora Talli, an ultra-fashionable modiste who spent a whole afternoon studying her face and redesigning it. Harriet had barely bothered with make-up. A touch of lipstick, a hint of eye shadow, and who needed more? That was her philosophy. She was soon shown the error of her ways.

Her eyes-such a magnificent shade of green, they must be highlighted, made larger-‘How?’ she asked nervously. The colour of the lipstick must be balanced with the colour of the eyes. Apparently any shade other than the one she normally wore would be preferable. She relapsed into cowed silence, convinced that she’d stumbled onto a branch of the higher science.

At last everything was in place. The woman who looked back at her from the mirror was a stranger with enormous, shadowy eyes and a mouth whose width had been cleverly emphasised. She herself had always tried to minimise that width.

Then Signora Talli took up a pair of scissors.

‘Not my hair,’ Harriet said, alarmed.

‘Your face needs to be seen,’ Lucia explained. ‘You can’t hide it behind that curtain.’

But Harriet, so pliable until then, became suddenly stubborn, inexplicably dismayed by the thought of losing her mane. The other two finally yielded, but insisted that she wear it up. In a few moments her long hair was piled high, altering the whole shape of her head, and revealing an exquisitely long, slender neck that she’d almost forgotten that she had. She surveyed herself, torn between dismay and a tingle of excitement. Unbidden the thought came into her mind that she would enjoy Marco’s surprise when he saw her.

They finally selected six garments, five to be altered and delivered by the following day, and one, an olive-green trouser suit and satin shirt, that they took home with them. Harriet could see that it suited her perfectly, and when she sat down to supper with Lucia she felt good. Marco too, she thought, would approve if he happened to walk in now.

But the evening passed with no sign of him, and no word. Lucia called his mobile phone and growled with displeasure at finding herself talking to a machine.

‘No, I will not leave a message,’ she snapped.

‘He’s very busy,’ Harriet placated her, although in truth she too felt like snapping.

‘It’s been several days. So he’s busy. He can’t spare some time for his-his-?’

‘But I’m not his anything,’ Harriet said quickly. ‘I’m only here so that Marco and I can get to know each other.’

Lucia gave her a speaking glance. ‘Well, you’re certainly getting to know my son. Selfish, blinkered, indifferent.’

It seemed to be true. Was this really Marco’s idea of courtship, to leave her here to win his mother’s good will, as though that was the only thing that mattered?

By the time they went to bed neither woman was in a good mood.

The rest of the clothes arrived next day at the end of the afternoon, and Lucia made her parade in them while she surveyed her critically.

‘I’m not sure about this evening dress,’ Harriet said. ‘It’s tight.’

‘And why not? You have the figure for it. It shows off your curves admirably.’

Harriet twisted before the mirror. ‘I don’t have cur-goodness, yes I do.’

She turned around, trying to see as much of the saffron satin as possible, without being too alarmed at the way it revealed her figure.

‘Hmm!’ she said, beginning to feel good.

‘You should have bought yourself decent clothes before, instead of wasting your time on ancient history. Dead men are all very well in their way, but they don’t wolf whistle.’

‘Maybe I don’t want to be wolf whistled.’

‘Are you a woman or not? You have a splendid bust. You should show it off.’

‘I am showing it off,’ she said, tugging at the bosom in a vain attempt to get it higher. ‘Lots of it. Oh, dear! This satin is so tight that you can tell I’m not wearing anything underneath.’

‘Good. Excellent. Marco, my dear boy! ’

Startled, Harriet swung around to see that Marco had come quietly into the room and was watching them with pleasure. Lucia rose and gave him an embrace which he returned affectionately before dropping a kiss onto Harriet’s cheek. His aftershave reached her faintly, tangy, sharp, intensely masculine.

She wondered if he’d heard what she said about being naked under the dress. Or did he just know anyway? She wished she could stop being so conscious of her own body with only the thin satin to protect it. She resisted the temptation to tug again at the material over her bosom. She had the sensation that Marco was looking at the swell of her breasts; which was nonsense, because he wasn’t even facing in her direction.

‘Don’t you think Harriet is improved?’ Lucia demanded robustly.

‘I think she’s very beautiful,’ Marco agreed. ‘But her hair should be up.’

‘I agree,’ Lucia said. ‘Etta, why haven’t you put it up today? It looked so nice.’ She seized a handful of hair and swept it up onto Harriet’s head.

Startled, Harriet said, ‘No,’ sharply, and pulled it down again. It covered her exposed bosom a little, but there was another reason, that she couldn’t understand.

She began to turn away but Marco’s hands were on her shoulders, bringing her around to face him. Then she felt his fingers on her neck, twining in her hair, drawing it up and back.

‘Why do you want to hide your face?’ he asked.

‘That’s not what I-’