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“You look fine in jeans.” I stop, grab her hands, and raise them in midair as if we’re about to begin a folk dance. I let my gaze sweep over her body, ignoring the familiar tightening below my gut.
Caro’s right.
Alessia needs clothes fit for a countess. Not a student. “Let’s go shopping. You need clothes. Proper clothes.”
Alessia gapes at him.
“Yeah. Let’s do that.” I check the time. “Harvey Nicks should be open for another couple of hours.”
“But… but… I don’t know where we would start.”
“There’s a personal shopping service. We’ll start there.”
And it will be a wonderful distraction from all this genetic bollocks.
* * *
Alessia’s head is spinning. In less than ninety minutes, she’s become the proud owner of a “capsule wardrobe” with “key pieces” that will see her through the next few months. The cost is staggering, but Maxim seems delighted, and deep down, so is Alessia. She’ll no longer feel like a cleaner when standing beside Caroline.
Maxim scrawls the delivery address on headed notepaper for the personal shopper.
“These will be with you tomorrow morning, Mr. Trevelyan.” The young woman bats her lashes at Maxim, but he ignores her—and doesn’t correct her about his title.
“Shall we go eat?” Maxim takes Alessia’s hand.
“Yes. And thank you. For all this.” Alessia eyes the bags containing her new clothes and shoes.
“You don’t have to thank me.” He frowns as if a monumental thought has just occurred to him. “I want to provide for you.” He leans in and kisses her quickly. “We’ll go across the road to the Mandarin Oriental and have dinner there.”
Alessia grabs her new Saint Laurent tote, and hand in hand they head out of the store, with Maxim’s words ringing through her head.
I want to provide for you.
Alessia is not sure how she feels about this. She wants to be more than a chattel handed from her father to her husband. Her brief bid for freedom when she first came to the UK was an attempt to work for herself. Alas, that failed. But she found Maxim. Except now, she’s a little at a loss.
He wants a partnership.
What can she do to contribute to a partnership?
Maxim tightens his hold on her hand, distracting her from her thoughts, and weaves them through the traffic as they cross the road to the magnificent building that is the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park. “This way,” he says, and they walk toward The Aubrey restaurant.
* * *
Alessia’s tongue pokes out between her lips in studied determination as she grips her chopsticks, and I remember the first time she used them, in Mustique. Chef had prepared a sushi and sashimi extravaganza, and with her on my lap, I’d wrapped my hand around hers as I demonstrated how to use them. As ever, she was a quick learner.
“You’ve remembered how to use the chopsticks.”
She flashes me a quick hopeful smile as she reaches for some hamachi.
“So you like the house?”
“How could I not like the house, Maxim? It’s beautiful.”
“Good. Then I’ll make arrangements to have us move in. But if you want it redecorated, we should do that before we move.”
“I like it how it is now. Perhaps we should live there before we decide if it needs decorating.”
“That sounds sensible.”
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Maryanne.
Mama is at the airport.
She’s heading back to New York.
I give Alessia an apologetic glance and text back.
What? Why?
She didn’t say.
She texted from the gate.
That’s it. No explanation?
None!
What the hell?
She’s only just left New York, and now she’s on her way back.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to Alessia. I leave the table and press my mother’s number as I walk into the vestibule. As I feared, her phone goes to voicemail.
“Mama, please. What’s going on? What do you know? Is this serious? I just got married. I–I… we want children. Call me. Please.”
I’m tempted to head out to Heathrow and follow her to Manhattan, but I know I’ve missed the last flight out tonight. Maybe my plea will ignite a modicum of maternal feeling if she has any left.
Mate.
My mother is not renowned for her sentiment or her maternal feelings.
Fuck.
Perhaps Alessia and I should fly out to see her together?
Bugger. Alessia will need a visa.
I head back to the table, and she looks up. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I called Rowena again and left a voicemail. She’s returned to New York, so I won’t hear from her this evening. Let’s enjoy ourselves.” I take a swig of sake, and Alessia raises her small porcelain cup.
“Gëzuar, Maxim,” she says.
“Your good health, my dear wife.”
“In Japan, there is sake; in Albania, raki. What do the English have?”
“Gin, I suppose. There are many new distilleries popping up to quench the nation’s thirst for English gin.”
She smiles. “I would like to try this.”
I don’t have any meetings in the morning. “Okay. We can do that.”
It’s midnight, and my wife has had too much to drink. I’ve seen her tipsy before when we were in Cornwall, and she took a tumble into the sea, but she’s never been like this.
