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‘I thought it might be nice if we went out for a meal,’ she said.
‘Fish and chips?’ Gina asked hopefully. ‘Do you like fish and chips, Dad?’
‘I…I love it.’
‘Nice try,’ Charlotte said dryly. She looked at Riccardo in a moment of unthinking shared honesty at the wiles of an eight-year-old. ‘We try and limit the greasy food, so we’ll take you to the Italian on the corner. They do a very nice, and very healthy, pomodoro pasta.’
‘Mum hates junk food. Do you hate junk food?’
‘Junk food?’ Riccardo asked.
‘That’s not something your dad’s probably ever had in his life before.’
‘You’ve never had junk food? Ever?’ On which subject Gina maintained a steady and incredulous conversation as they gathered up their coats and headed out of the house, Riccardo on one side, Charlotte on the other and Gina between them.
‘What do you eat, then?’ she demanded as they perused the menu and she perused them.
‘Oh, all sorts of things.’ Riccardo smiled, liking her directness but alarmed by it as well. ‘Mostly I eat out.’
‘Isn’t that very expensive?’
‘Gina, please!’
‘Mum says you’re not married. Do you have a girlfriend?’
‘Well, no.’
Gina smiled triumphantly at both of them, but before she could really and truly put her eight-year-old feet firmly in it Charlotte said hurriedly, ‘And let’s just leave it there.’
She looked at Riccardo and could see him processing his daughter’s stray remark, putting it somewhere safe for future reference.
Later, with an overtired and overexcited Gina finally in bed, Charlotte made her way downstairs to find Riccardo in the kitchen, scrutinising all the childish bits of schoolwork that had been stuck to the noticeboard on the wall behind the kitchen table.
‘I thought that went okay,’ she said cautiously.
‘I think we need to talk.’
‘What about?’ Charlotte had seen hundreds of sides of Riccardo in the past, all the bits and pieces that went to make up this complex man, but she now realised that she had only ever seen a fraction of what he was all about—because tonight had been a revelation. She had watched him listen with humour and consideration, and ask questions to which he patently knew the answers. It had been a bizarre situation, a brush with true domesticity that she had never had. There had been times during the course of the evening when she had had to remind herself that they weren’t a happy little family unit straight out of The Waltons, but two people united in a false situation for the sake of their child.
‘Where to begin?’
‘Not with accusations.’
‘Then let’s start with this fiancé of yours, shall we?’
‘Okay, but—’
‘No, no buts, Charlie.’ Riccardo thought of the way his daughter laughed, the way she grinned, the way she pulled herself up straight when she thought she was on the verge of making an important point to adults. When he thought of another man sharing those moments, he felt physically ill.
‘You kept my daughter from me for eight years. You tell me you won’t marry me, allow me to legitimise my own daughter, and I can’t force you to walk up an aisle with me.’
She thought he looked as though he’d like to have given it a good try, however.
‘I explained that.’
‘Keep quiet!’ He banged his fist on the kitchen table and Charlotte jumped. ‘I…Tonight has been one of the hardest nights of my entire life. I’ve had to watch my daughter and wonder at all the missed years.’ He looked at her and raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I won’t have another man bring my child up.’
