Back in 1944, and in the days after she had written to Matteo telling him it was over between them, that she would not be responsible for destroying his marriage, her emotions had ricocheted wildly, bouncing between heartbroken despair,self-pity and wild fury. In truth, her anger was mostly directed at herself for not being more careful. For allowing her reckless behaviour to get her into the mess she was.
Then one night, when she was alone in the cottage in Hamble, exhausted and feeling sorry for herself, she drowned her sorrows in a bottle of wine. By the time she had drained it to the last drop and made it upstairs to bed, she was consumed with drunkenself-pity. Her last conscious thought before passing out was that she wished she could make the baby disappear from her life just as she had banished Matteo.
The next morning she woke with her stomach cramping painfully. Staggering to the bathroom, the pain causing her to cry out and double over, she realised that she was miscarrying: her wish had been granted.
She wept with guilt for hours afterwards. But she never told a soul. Not then, not since. She could never bring herself to admit the dreadful thing she had wanted to happen, that she had literally wished the baby’s life away. The rational part of her could reason there was a world of difference between wishing something and it actually happening. But shame and remorse would not allow such an easyget-out clause. She was convinced that drinking so much alcohol had caused her to lose the baby; that a part of her had done it deliberately. That child would be eighteen now.
Remembering that shameful night, and the depths to which she had sunk, was as painful now to recall as it was then. She had tried to bury the memory inside that wooden box of letters she had hidden in the attic. It would have been better to destroy the letters, but she had kept them to punish herself, to ensure she never forgot. As if she ever could.
She never heard from Matteo again. For all his protestations of loving her and wanting to divorce his wife, he never did. He returned to Italy when the war was over and became an artist of some repute, many of his paintings portraying life through the changing seasons as a prisoner of war in England. She learned of his success when she came across one of his paintings that was due to be auctioned in London. The auctioneer’s catalogue had written a piece about him, including his death two years previously. The article highlighted his time spent as a POW at Tilbrook Hall in Norfolk and that he was survived by his devoted wife, Maria, and their two adopted children.
In honour of the child she lost, Romily bought the painting and ever since it had hung in her drawing room. It was another punishing reminder of her culpability.
The taxi driver came to a stop in front of the address she had given him. She settled the bill and with her handbag and fur coat hooked over her arm, she followed him up the path while he carried her heavy suitcase and typewriter case. Watching him drive away, and taking a deep breath to quell the resurgence of butterflies in her stomach, she rang the doorbell.
When the door was opened by an attractiveflame-haired woman in tennis whites, the shortness of her skirt showing off a pair of shapely legs, Romily’s heart sank.
But then why was she surprised? Of course he would be seeing other women while she was out of sight!
‘Hello,’ theflame-haired beauty said cheerfully. ‘Presumably you were hoping to see Red?’
She was certainly seeing red right now, Romily thought, trying to think of something polite to say. Out of everything she had rehearsed during her journey here, this was not the scenario she had imagined. ‘Yes,’ was all she could muster.
Her hand on the door, the woman stepped back to let her enter, but then she noticed Romily’s luggage. ‘Oh, are you staying?’ she asked.
‘I doubt that very much in the circumstances,’ answered Romily.
The woman closed the door and for the longest and most uncomfortable moment, stared at her. ‘Are you English by any chance?’ she asked, her head tilted to one side.
There was no faulting her detective skills. Or Red’s taste in women; this one was a stunner. But at least she wasn’t young enough to be his daughter. ‘I’m as English as they come,’ Romily said.
Her reply was met with an unexpected smile. ‘I’ll go and find Red for you,’ she said, ‘the last I saw of him he was bashing away at that typewriter of his. Come on through and make yourself at home. Here, let me take one of those cases for you.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said curtly, ‘I’m perfectly capable of carrying them.’
Her comment elicited another smile. It was as if this beautiful woman was in on some kind of joke. Maybe she was used to foolish women turning up on Red’s doorstep like this.
Well, Romily would have her say to him, and then insist he ordered a taxi to take her back to the airport where she would catch the first available flight home. So much for living more impulsively. Never again!
Ignoring the invitinglycomfortable-looking sofas, she prowled round the large airy room she had been shown in to. She remembered it from her last visit. Thewhite-painted walls were adorned with oversized abstract paintings, the colours rich and vibrant. The sight of a pile of her own novels on the glass coffee table made her want to hurl them through the sliding glass doors that led out to the garden.
She heard Red before she saw him; clearly her untimely visit had triggered a loud exclamation of shock from him. She heard laughter too from theflame-haired beauty, followed by a comment she couldn’t make out.
The next thing Red was hurtling through the doorway. ‘Romily! Oh my God, it is you! I don’t believe it!’ The shock on his face was priceless. But it was for the wrong reason; it was because she had caught him out.
‘You better believe it,’ she said coolly. ‘Large as life.’
He rushed over to her and before she could stop him, he’d gathered her up in his arms to kiss her.
She pushed him away. ‘I think you have some explaining to do,’ she said, indicating theflame-haired beauty now standing behind him.
‘I told you she had the wrong end of the stick,’ the woman said with another of her infuriating smiles. ‘For which, given your reputation, you have only yourself to blame.’
Even more infuriating, Red laughed. ‘Romily, meet my sister, Patsy.’
Romily did a double take. ‘Yoursister?’
‘Yep, she’s a regular pain in the proberbial butt, always has been. I told you about her.’
