A wave of humiliation skittered across her skin as her brain unhelpfully replayed the moment when Ettore had reared away from her as if he were a vampire and she were holding out a bunch of garlic.
It was so embarrassing. All of it. Her physical response to his body, the fact that it had gone so far, and, worst of all, that he had been the one to put a stop to it.
And yet she could understand why it had happened. Could almost forgive herself.
Surely it was the most likely outcome if you put two former lovers in close proximity and said ‘pretend to be married’. Sex with an ex was a thing. And seeing him every day had churned everything up. Made it harder to know what was real and what was pretend. And yes, she had allowed the past to overlap the present and blur into something that felt real and current and mutual.
And it was mutual, briefly, she thought as she remembered the urgency of Ettore’s hands and mouth.
But even if there was a connection that went beyond this marriage of convenience, clearly it was not one that Ettore wanted to acknowledge. He might have struck the match with her, but he had swiftly extinguished the flame.
Now, though, was not the time to be thinking about any of this. Some people had real problems that were not of their own making.
The day had not got off to the most promising start. In fact, she had spent most of the morning alone. Which would have been a blessing only a few days earlier, but that was before she had made an idiot of herself with Ettore.
He had joined her for breakfast momentarily but as soon as he could, he had made his excuses and left. His excuses had been vague enough that she knew he simply wanted to avoid her. And even though she had spent the last few days trying to avoid him, it didn’t feel like an equal trade.
She had still been sitting at the breakfast table some twenty minutes later, trying not to remember the look on his face when she asked him not to leave last night, when he had suddenly reappeared.
‘I have an appointment this morning at St Maria’s. It’s been in the diary for months.’ He pushed a folder across the table. ‘If you’d rather stay here and just relax by the pool, I quite understand But if you’d like to come with me, I’d like that.’
Was he ill? She felt swamped with panic but when she opened the folder, she realised that it wasn’t a hospital, as she’d assumed from the name, but a children’s home.
It was a coincidence. Obviously, but it still made her fingers bite into her thighs beneath the table.
Oscar’s time in care was a permanent reminder of her betrayal. It was because of her. She had failed to protect him. She had abandoned him, knowing that her mother couldn’t cope. But this was a chance to see for herself what Oscar had experienced.
Now, as Signora Rossi led them into what looked like an oversized family home, Dulcie said slowly, ‘I imagine that joy and love are very important to your work here.’
She nodded. ‘They are. We have children who have experienced great suffering in their lives. Children who have lost one or both parents. Children with parents in prison or who are struggling with addiction and poverty.’
Pushing back against the unwieldy mass of guilt and regret and recrimination and shame that she carried with her at all times, Dulcie nodded.
Was this the kind of place where Oscar might have stayed? She had no real idea, she realised with a distant jolt. Her brother didn’t so much refuse to talk about his time in care as shrug it off. But she knew that at least half his childhood had been spent in children’s homes with the occasional, unsuccessful stay with foster parents.
‘Is this a typicalcasa-famiglia, Signora Rossi?’ she asked as they walked into a large, bright kitchen. Turning, she screwed up her face apologetically. ‘Sorry, am I saying that right?’
‘Perfectly. And please, call me Giulia. How long have you been learning Italian?’
‘I started about two years ago, but then I stopped and now I’m trying again, but I do find some of the combinations of letters difficult to pronounce and my vocabulary is currently limited to ordering food and complaining about it before I ask for the bill.’
She felt Ettore’s gaze seek her out and she fixed her eyeline on the large pine table in the centre of the room.
Signora Rossi laughed. ‘I remember it well. When I was learning English, I thought I would be forever ordering fish and chips and a pot of tea.’
‘Your English is perfect.’
‘My husband is English, and we lived in Oxford for ten years so it should be perfect, but I still speak with an accent.’ She lowered her voice. ‘One of the best ways to learn a language is to watch TV. Just watch your favourite shows with Italian subtitles or Italian shows with English subtitles. Talking to children is also a good way to learn.’
‘It is? Why’s that?’
‘Children are less self-conscious.’
Dulcie blinked. It was Ettore who had answered, not Giulia. Looking up, she found his gaze resting intently on her face.
‘They’re more forgiving of grammatical errors and imperfect pronunciation. They won’t try to correct you, they’ll just talk, which helps you learn the rhythm and flow of a language.’
‘Exactly that.’ Giulia nodded. ‘Your husband knows what he is talking about. Now, to answer your question, St Maria is quite typical, although we are lucky to have extra financial support from the Marchesi family, so we’ve been able to create a games room and an outdoor play area.’
