‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m just wondering if he could be behind the man who threatened me,’ she said.
‘Maybe. Did you let the police know?’
She shook her head. ‘No, but I’m leaving Strait Street. The thing is I haven’t heard from Bobby and I’m thinking of going to England. I’ve had enough of dancing. I need a new start.’
‘Look,’ he said, seeming hesitant and dismayed at the same time. ‘I’ve been wondering what to do about this.’ He delved into his jacket pocket and drew out a newspaper cutting. ‘I didn’t know if you’d already seen it. Or what you might know. But from what you’ve said … well. You’d better read it.’
He unfolded it and then passed it to her.
She read the small item cut from an English newspaper and her heart almost stopped.
Sir Robert Beresford, Baronet, to marry blonde Texan oil heiress Joanna Walton in May 1930.
The waiter arrived with their customary high tea, but Otto waved him away. Riva’s eyes stung, blurring with unshed tears. She rose to her feet and crashed her way out of the Hotel’s tea rooms and into the street. It couldn’t be true. She was carrying his child. He couldn’t be doing this, not after their four years together. His eyes full of sincerity, he had told her he would always love her. She had believed him. He was her life. Had become her life. She became aware of Otto steering her by the elbow.
‘Let’s get away from here – is there anywhere you’d like to go?’
She nodded. ‘Mdina. Can you take me there?’
He ushered her away from the crowds to where his car was parked. Numbly she got into the vehicle.
‘Shall we stop to get your things?’
She shook her head. She just wanted to get away from Valletta, from Kalkara too, as quickly as she could before anyone could see her breaking down. After that he drove in silence. When they arrived at Mdina a little later, she said, ‘Could you tell Gianni I won’t be coming back to the club. He knows I’m planning on leaving anyway. Tell him I’m sorry.’
Otto opened the car door for her and she stumbled out.
‘Can I do anything?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
He got back in and as she unlocked the huge front door, she knew she was going to be sick. She raced up the stairs to their apartment.Hisapartment. Then reached the bathroom just in time.
After she had splashed her face, she glanced in the mirror expecting the desolation to show. It didn’t. She wandered into the bedroom and there on the bedside table was an envelope. She ripped it open and read four words.I am so sorry.That was all, followed by his name. She shredded the paper into tiny pieces and went out onto the terrace where she let them float away in the breeze.
So, he’d had time to come here and leave that pointless note. What a fool she’d been. He could never have married someone like her, a cabaret dancer for God’s sake. But it hurt so much to know she would never be good enough. She’d given herself to him, trusted him, and he hadn’t even had the grace to tell her himself.
She remembered all the nights they’d spent in this apartment and now she wouldn’t be able to come here again. He would come here with his wife.His wife. It was unbearable. Worse than unbearable. Had she been wrong about what he’d felt? It had seemed so real, so true, the love they’d had. The ways they understood each other. All the little things. The newspaper must be mistaken, because if it were true, how could he not have told her himself?
As the sitting room became saturated with evening sunshine, she opened a bottle of wine and drank it all. Then she opened another and howled and howled while her heart broke over and over.
She wanted to hide in the apartment, in their bed, but eventually fell asleep on the sofa. That night she felt the first wrenching pains in her tummy. She ran to the bathroom and felt warm liquid trickle down between her thighs. In the brightly lit bathroom she saw the blood, touched it with her fingertips, and tried to wipe it away. But she couldn’t. Too fast, it kept on coming. She wrapped her arms around her belly, panicking now, her heart galloping. No. Please no. The baby,theirbaby, was all that she had left of Bobby. She hadn’t even known if she wanted it, but now? Yes. Yes. Now she wanted it with all her heart. Lying on the bathroom floor with a towel under her head, she drew her knees up to her chest as the cramps grew worse. It went on and on. Then later, as well as blood, she saw the first thick clots and she knew it was far too late. Everything was coming out of her, and she could do nothing to stop it. She wept, shocked, terrified, and feeling more alone than she had ever been before.
In the morning she felt hollowed out. She cleared up the blood, filled a bath, made a cup of tea, and then wrapped herself up in bed where she slept all day and most of the next night, where the shock, grief and loss could not reach her. Except that in her dreams they did. She didn’t dream of the broken child who had so briefly been inside her and who hadn’t even had a chance of life. Instead, she saw a little boy playing with a ball and a golden retriever puppy in the garden of a house. In England, she thought. A little boy who called her Maman. A little boy with blonde hair who looked just like Bobby.
With tears drying on her cheeks, she woke to the sound of the apartment door opening and went through. He was back.
‘Bobby,’ she called out and tried to stand but then fell onto the sofa as Addison entered the sitting room.
‘I have coffee,’ Addison said and scrutinised her. ‘Heavens you are looking pale.’
‘I …’
‘No need to speak. Try to drink some coffee. I have aspirin too.’
‘My head,’ she muttered feebly. She couldn’t tell him about the miscarriage, nor the pain in her belly, nor the awful mix of emotions that coursed through her in its aftermath. She felt numb, angry, sad, confused, all of those and all at once.
