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‘Yes, I’m fine.’
They spoke like strangers—intimate strangers—and the journey back to the flat was punctuated by long silences broken only by the little sucking sounds the baby made. Perhaps Gianluca was as inhibited as she was by the chauffeur’s presence—or maybe it was just the confined space and claustrophobic intimacy of the car. All Aisling knew was that when she emerged into the unseasonable drizzle of the summer day she had begun to shiver.
There was no excitement in her heart as they walked into her apartment—the place had a disused and empty feel to it, even though she’d only been away for a little more than a day.
‘Shall I put him in his crib?’ questioned Gianluca.
She nodded. ‘Yes, do. He shouldn’t be hungry. I fed him before we left. I’ll go and make coffee.’
Not that she wanted coffee and neither, she suspected, did he. But she needed something to occupy her hands and her thoughts—anything to avoid staring across the room at him and wondering where they went from here. Slowly, she slipped off her raincoat and automatically hung it in the hall, then she went to put the kettle on.
It felt weird just doing something as normal as making coffee and she had to force herself to remember the mechanics of it. It was as if the experience of childbirth had detached her from the rest of the world and made her look at it differently. A kettle was no longer just a kettle—overnight it had become a baby-hazard!
When she came back into the sitting room it was to see that Gianluca was back from the nursery and was standing looking down at the rain-washed garden.
Almost guiltily, she ran her eyes over him—as if sexual fantasy were out of bounds now that she had a new role to play as mother.
Today, he was dressed casually and his dark hair was ruffled, and slightly longer than he usually wore it. Aisling swallowed down the salty threat of tears which threatened to prick at the backs of her eyes.
How strange that, despite the icy politeness which had existed like a thick wall between them since she’d gone into labour, her heart could still turn over with longing for the love he would never give her.
With an effort, she fixed her face into a smile. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked.
He turned round and his mouth hardened. ‘What I would like, Aisling,’ he responded softly, his black eyes glittering, ‘is for us to come to a few decisions.’
She eyed him in alarm. ‘Can’t this wait?’
‘Until when?’ he demanded. ‘Until he’s six months old? A year? Until you decide you’re ready to talk? But this isn’t about you, Aisling—not any more. You kept me out of his life before he was born—but those days are gone. There are three of us now—and you’d better get used to that.’
Three of us. In a way his harsh words mocked at what she most wanted—a secure unit in which to raise her son, the kind of unit she’d never known herself. And now it looked as if that was a legacy she was about to bequeath to the baby—giving him all the insecurities attached to having a single mother. ‘What do you want to talk about, Gianluca?’
He registered how washed-out she looked. How her skin seemed almost transparent, and he wondered briefly if she needed more time, but then he steeled his heart against her pale face. Madonna mia—but he wasn’t asking her to go out and work in the fields! What he wanted wasn’t unreasonable—not to his way of thinking.
He let his eyes drift over her. She had woven her hair into two thick plaits, knotted raven ropes which contrasted against her skin, a style which made her appear ridiculously young—much too young to have a baby. But at least that hated chignon was gone!
‘His name, for a start.’
Aisling nodded. The name she could cope with. ‘Do you have any more suggestions?’ ‘Do you?’ he questioned silkily. ‘You still don’t like James?’ He shook his head. ‘William?’
He laughed. ‘I think we both know that I won’t be satisfied with any name which isn’t Italian, mia bella.’
Yes, she knew that. And didn’t he have a point? With his jet-black hair and huge, dark eyes, their son would look all wrong with a name like Andrew, or James or William.
‘Okay. Fire some suggestions at me.’
‘I thought of Claudio.’ He studied her reaction. ‘It was my father’s name—it’s strong and I like it. Do you?’
‘Claudio.’ She tried the name. Closed her eyes and pictured the image of her son—already burned there for the rest of her lifetime. Yes, it suited him. It suited him very well. She opened them again, to find Gianluca watching her—a wary expression on his face, as if he were expecting something unpredictable. So start being yourself again, she reasoned. Stop being this shaky bag of post-partum insecurities. Bring back the woman who can cope with anything life throws at her. ‘Yes. I like that.’
‘Good.’ He poured them both coffee and handed her one and as she moved forward he noticed the swollen heaviness of her breasts and felt the unexpected beat of desire. A sudden yearning to go over there and kiss her.
Did men usually want their women this quickly after birth? he wondered—aware that this was completely new territory to him. Mercilessly, he swamped the feeling—because desire could cloud judgement and he needed his to be crystal-clear right now. ‘But this was about more than just a name—we also need to make some pretty big decisions.’
Her senses prickled. ‘Such as?’
‘Oh, come on, Aisling. There is Claudio’s future at stake here. Just out of interest—how do you see that future?’
It was strange to hear him say their son’s name. As if the baby had suddenly become a real person. And she would have been a fool if she had not anticipated this particular question either. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot and I think we can come to some sort of perfectly amiable agreement.’
