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He’s a better fuck than my husband.
Present tense.
Chapter Six
Mrs. Demachi has cooked a monumental breakfast for us all. From her huge smile and the little song she’s humming as she makes coffee and busies herself around the kitchen, I know she’s in her element and loving every moment. It’s heartening that we’re not too much of a burden on her.
“Good morning, Maxim.” She greets me, radiating happiness.
I give her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Good morning, Shpresa. Thank you for feeding my friends and family.”
“Dear boy.” She places her hand on my cheek. “It is my pleasure. I know you bring great happiness to my Alessia.”
“And she to me.”
She grins. “Sit. Eat. Big day, today. And the weather has been kind to us.” She directs my gaze to the window, and outside the sky is glorious—a bright February blue. I hope it’s not too cold.
Maryanne and Joe are already seated at the table. They’re in high spirits as they tuck into omelets and Mama Demachi’s delicious bubble bread. There is cheese, olives, local honey, and stuffed vine leaves too. Jak sits at the head of the table, slathering butter and berry jam on his bubble bread. He is the definition of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He’s been positively upbeat since last night. There’s a smudge of soot on his hand, and I know he’s been outside to light the stove in the garage to warm up our wedding venue.
The Demachis are the most excellent hosts.
Apart from the cockblocking, of course.
The only person not full of the joys of the day is Caroline, who sits quietly, looking pale and morose as she nurses a cup of coffee. I suspect she’s hungover. Maryanne casts an occasional anxious glance at her and then at me.
What? What’s happened?
Maryanne gives me a quick, subtle shake of her head.
Leave it, she’s saying.
Of course, missing from the table is my beautiful bride. Alessia is being prepped for the wedding, and I’ve not seen her since we left for my stag night. And what a night it was—Kukës can party. Well, the men of Kukës can. And it ended happily—meaning I wasn’t handcuffed to any street furniture without my trousers, which Tom threatened at one point during the night.
You don’t have any handcuffs.
I’ll improvise, old boy.
And I feel fine this morning. That’s probably because I ditched the raki. Now, I’m excited and a little anxious to get on with the day, and I’ll be glad when it’s over.
“Can I talk to you?” Caroline asks as I take my seat. I glance at her, sensing she’s on edge. And Maryanne is being evasive. Has something happened? If so, what?
My stomach churns.
“Of course.” My tone is brusque.
This is it. The moment of reckoning I’ve been dreading.
“In private?”
“After breakfast. You should eat something.”
She grimaces, and I know she has a Grade A hangover.
* * *
Alessia stares unseeing at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She’s seated at her dressing table as Agnesa, her cousin, who’s a hairdresser and makeup artist, curls her hair with a styling iron. Agnesa chatters away, excited to be involved in all the preparations and eager to see Maxim, the handsome fiancé, again.
Alessia tunes her out. She’s numb, and she’s not sure if it’s her nerves or if she’s still reeling from Caroline’s drunken revelations.
Darling, he’s slept with most of London.
This is not news to Alessia. She used to empty his bin of condoms every time she cleaned for him. She wrinkles her nose in disgust at the recollection—sometimes, there were many discarded condoms.
And then they suddenly stopped appearing.
She rubs her forehead, trying to remember when that happened. So much has occurred since then, and her memory of the timeline is confused. She attempted to figure it out last night while trying to sleep but couldn’t because Caroline’s thoughtless words echoed through her brain, taunting her.
He’s a better fuck than my husband.
So, they were together.
Maxim and Caroline.
But when? When did this fucking happen? It sounds recent, and an unwelcome image of Caroline in Maxim’s arms in the street outside his apartment forms in her mind.
No.
Her imagination is choking her and making her doubt herself. Making her doubt him—her man. Her Mister. On her wedding day.
She feels like she’s going to suffocate under the weight of these awful thoughts.
“I need a minute,” she says.
“Okay,” Agnesa responds, a little surprised, but she steps aside. As only half her hair is curled, Alessia finds a scarf and ties it around her head, concealing it all. She grabs a robe, hastily wraps it over the slip she’s wearing, and leaves the room. She needs the one thing that will bring her solace.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs and hears everyone at breakfast. Ignoring them, she hurries to the front room and sits at the piano.
She takes a deep breath and places her fingers on the keys, feeling immediately more grounded as her fingers touch the cool ivory. She closes her eyes, then launches into Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, the tricky third movement. In C-sharp minor. It’s the most fitting piece, in the correct key to reflect her anger. The music flows. Loudly. Easily. Blistering off the walls, through the room. Her anger and resentment pour into the keys, emphasizing the loud accents of the sonata in brilliant oranges and reds until there’s nothing but her and the colors of the music.
