Sara Craven - Moth To The Flame

Juliet compressed her lips tightly together. ‘I see,’ she said with sarcasm. ‘Your future relationship with your husband is obviously going to be founded on mutual trust.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be so damned suburban,’ Jan said crossly. ‘We don’t all suffer from the same romantic illusions as you seem to. They may sing “O Perfect Love” at weddings, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it exists. Mario suits me very well in a number of ways, and it’s time I was thinking of getting married anyway. Modelling’s fine while you’re young, but people are too fond of relegating you to the scrap heap once you’re over twenty. All these schoolgirls, just waiting to claw their way over you on their way up the ladder. It’s almost worth the prospect of being fat and hideous for months to think that I’ll be kissing all that goodbye.’

‘I thought you loved it.’ Juliet stared at her. ‘Mim and I always thought that this was your world—your life. You could always have come home.’

‘To what?’ Jan demanded. ‘This is all I know. I’m not trained for anything else, and I can’t imagine things are any different in London from what they are here. Or do you imagine that I’ll get some kind of second-rate job showing dresses in some tatty provincial department store? Thanks, but no, thanks. I’ll settle for Mario instead and put up with whatever I have to from his family.’ She glanced at her plain and very expensive-looking gold wristwatch. A present from Mario? Juliet found herself wondering. ‘Lord, I must fly, or I’ll have that Di Lorenzo bitch breathing down my neck.’ She gave a slight giggle as she rose. ‘I might offer to model maternity gear for her, just for the pleasure of seeing her face. ’Bye, love. See you tonight.’

Juliet’s thoughts were frankly sombre as she tidied the apartment and washed the breakfast dishes. Any pleasure she might have derived from the prospect of her first day’s sightseeing in Rome had been almost destroyed by Jan’s news—or at least her attitude to it.

She supposed she should have been relieved for all their sakes that Jan’s lover was willing to stand by her and give their child a name, and that Mim would not have to be burdened with a scandal that would wound her deeply. It was all very well to argue with herself that this was the age of the permissive society, and that unmarried mothers were no longer treated as outcasts. The world had not changed as far as Mim was concerned. If Jan had come home confessing that she was pregnant and deserted, Mim would have instantly supported and comforted her, but Juliet knew just what the cost would have been to her mother whose principles had been formed in a gender, more old-fashioned mould. Quite apart from anything else, the fact that it was Jan, the lovely and the beloved, who had betrayed Mim’s deeply held views of chaste behaviour would have been a blow from which Mrs Laurence might never have recovered no matter how brave a face she might put upon it.

Life had not been easy for her since her husband had died leaving her a widow in her late thirties. Materially they had been provided for, but Mim had never been able to hide the fact that she needed her husband’s strength, and Juliet had often considered that it was a pity that her gentle, rather diffident mother had never remarried.

In their younger days, both Juliet and Jan had always taken care to protect Mim from the seamier side of life, as revealed in the media and often in the lives of those about them. There was much, they had tacitly agreed, that it was better for Mim not to know. Now Jan herself had spoiled this tender conspiracy, but what troubled Juliet was not so much the mess her sister was in but her attitude towards it and its solution.

For one thing, she had never given Juliet the slightest indication that she was in love with the unknown Mario. Juliet even had a clearer picture of the hostile and disturbing Santino than she had of her future brother-in-law. All she had really gathered about Mario was that he was in awe of Santino to a certain extent and apparently dependent on him. It was also clear that if these considerable hurdles could be cleared he was capable of giving Jan the standard of living she had apparently decided she wanted, and glancing round at the luxurious fittings of the apartment, Juliet decided wryly that this was no small consideration. But she had no idea at all how the couple actually felt about each other.

They were obviously physically attracted to each other, and presumably, if he was going to marry her in defiance of his brother’s wishes, then Mario must be in love with Jan. Perhaps that was enough, Juliet thought unhappily. Hadn’t someone once said cynically that in every relationship there was one who loved, and one who allowed such loving? It was not an idea that appealed to her. Juliet had no very clear idea of the man she wanted, but she had always taken it for granted that their feeling for each other would be totally mutual. Where love was concerned, half a loaf would certainly not be better than no bread at all.

On the other hand, maybe she was worrying unduly. Jan had always condemned her for being too sentimental. Perhaps now she was in love and shy about exposing her deepest feelings even to her own sister. After all, as Juliet was forced to admit, they had never been close confidantes. Jan had always had her own friends to talk and giggle with for hours on the telephone and presumably to confide in even before she left home.

Perhaps, she thought sadly, if I’d encouraged her to trust me in the past, I’d have some insight now into what she’s thinking. If she doesn’t love this Mario, if it’s all been a terrible mistake, then it would be much better not to marry him, no matter how wealthy he may be. Even Mim would say that.

Yet at the same time she couldn’t believe that Jan was marrying just for the respectability of a wedding ring. Her sister had never seemed to care much for such conventions.

She must love him, she told herself. After all, she’s carrying his child.

She was torn from her reverie by the sound of the front door buzzer. Rather hesitantly, she walked over to the intercom and pressed the switch.

‘Hello,’ she said, feeling inadequate.

‘Scusi, signorina.’ The answering voice was male and a little startled. ‘I bring flowers. You open, please.’

Juliet unfastened the chain and opened the door. Sure enough it was a delivery man in a green uniform carrying a long box, filled, as she could see through the cellophane which wrapped it, with long-stemmed red roses.

The delivery man was staring at her. ‘Signorina Laurence?’ he asked, producing a clipboard from beneath his arm, and indicating where she was required to sign for the flowers. For a moment Juliet hesitated, wondering whether she should explain that she was not the actual recipient for whom they were intended, but another Signorina Laurence altogether, but eventually the horror of having to explain the ramifications to someone who clearly spoke only broken English convinced her that the easiest thing to do was smile and accept the flowers as if they were hers, and she hastily signed ‘J. Laurence’ where his finger pointed.

‘Grazie.’ He tipped his cap, gave her a look of full-blooded admiration and departed.

Juliet closed the door and stood looking at the flowers in her arms. She could see no card to indicate who had sent them, but she thought it must be Mario, and that it was odd of him to send them at a time when he knew Jan must be out working at Di Lorenzo. But at least it was the sort of gesture which gave indisputable evidence of his devotion. However, if she left them in the box, they would probably be dead by the time Jan got home this evening.

She hunted round in the kitchen cupboards until she found a suitable jar and arranged the roses in it before carrying it through to the salotto. There was a small occasional table positioned by the window and she lifted it across to stand behind the sofa, and placed the vase on it where it could be seen as soon as anyone entered. It would be a nice welcome for Jan when she returned, she thought.