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But she didn’t feel fine. She felt headachey and out of sorts—with a kind of heaviness which seemed to have entered her limbs and which she put down to the new tension which had sprung up between them. She understood now why he was emotionally distant, but she still didn’t know how to solve it.
Vasos called several times from London but instead of saying something like, sorry, but I’m on my honeymoon—Alek took every call and spent as much time as possible on it. Or so it seemed to Ellie. She would be left sitting on the terrace, her book stuck on the same page while he spoke in a torrent of Greek she couldn’t understand.
She stared at the unread pages of her novel. Had she thought this was going to be easy? Had she been naive enough to think that extracting information about his painful childhood might make him warm and open towards her? If she’d known that the opposite would be true, she might have thought twice before quizzing him about the mother who had deserted him. She slammed the book shut. No wonder he was so closed off. So lacklustre about their baby.
Feeling queasy, she glanced up to see him standing framed by the miniature orange trees which grew on their leafy terrace and frowning as he slid his cell phone back into his pocket.
‘That was Vasos,’ he said.
‘Again?’
‘The new deal on the Rafael building seems to be nearing completion earlier than planned and the architect is flying into London later this evening.’
‘And let me guess.’ Her voice was light. ‘You need to get back?’
‘I’m afraid I do. My business in Pisa will have to wait.’ His frown deepened as he seemed to look at her properly for the first time. ‘You’re sweating, Ellie. Are you okay?’
No, she was not okay. She felt hot and dizzy and disillusioned. Maybe it was time to stop grabbing at rainbows and settle for reality.
‘I’m fine,’ she said tightly. ‘I’d better go and pack.’
Something dark and unwanted rose up inside him as Alek watched her go, her shoulders tight with tension. Something which clutched at his heart and made it twist with pain. Damn her, he thought. Why hadn’t he slapped her down? Why hadn’t he refused to answer all those intrusive questions which had done nothing but open up a dark can of worms?
And yet now that he had pushed her away, the sense of relief he’d been anticipating hadn’t happened. They’d been doing that thing of sleeping on opposite sides of the bed—their breathing sounding unnaturally loud in the darkness of the night—each knowing the other was awake and yet not speaking. Because they had nothing left to say.
Was it some cruel twist of fate which had left him feeling so lost without the softness of her arms around him? A taunting reminder of just how empty and alone rejection could make you feel. And yet wasn’t it better this way? For him to do the rejecting rather than risk being pushed away for a second time?
When she returned from packing, he thought her face looked almost translucent beneath the brim of her straw hat, which she had worn during most of the trip. The Italian sun had barely touched her skin and her grey eyes seemed shadowed, and even though he knew he ought to say something he could think of nothing which would fall easily into the empty silence. She was quiet all during the journey back to London and the moment their plane touched down and he turned on his phone, it began to vibrate with a flurry of calls. And deep down, wasn’t he glad to have the opportunity to lose himself in the infinitely more straightforward problems of work? Far better than having to confront the silent reproach or the lip she kept biting as if she was trying to hold back tears. He had the car drop her off at the apartment while he went straight to the office.
‘You don’t mind?’ he questioned.
She gave an unconvincing laugh, as if she recognised the question for what it was—a meaningless platitude. ‘And if I do? Would you be prepared to put your precious work aside and spend the afternoon with me, if I asked you to?’
‘Ellie—’
‘I’ll take that as a no,’ she said with another brittle smile. ‘Anyway, I want to have a lie-down. I’m tired.’
After he’d gone she closed the bedroom curtains and, switching her phone to Silent, left it in her handbag on the far side of the room. But she could hear it vibrating like a persistent fly as she lay on the bed drifting in and out of an uncomfortable doze—too lazy to get up and switch it off completely.
By five o’clock she forced herself to get up and saw there were three missed calls from a number she didn’t recognise. Muzzily, she took a shower but her mood was still flat as she pulled on a pair of linen trousers and a T-shirt. She was drinking a glass of water when the doorbell rang.
Touching her fingertips to her belly, she went to answer the door to find a blonde woman standing on the step—someone she didn’t recognise but who looked oddly familiar.
‘Can I help you?’ questioned Ellie.
‘You don’t remember me?’
Ellie shook her head. ‘Should I?’
‘Probably. I knew you before you were married. I was staying at The Hog when you were working there. Remember now?’
And suddenly the mist cleared. Of course. It was the journalist. The sneaky blonde who had asked those questions which Ellie had stupidly answered, and which had ended up with her getting the sack. She looked into the woman’s glacial eyes.
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ said Ellie.
‘Maybe not. But you might be interested in what I have to say to you.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She started to close the door. ‘My husband doesn’t like journalists and neither do I.’
