The Helen Bianchin Collection. Helen Bianchin
looked at him with incredibly sad eyes.
It would be so easy. Just hold out her hand and follow wherever he chose to lead.
For a moment she almost wavered. To deny him was to deny herself. Yet there were words she needed to say, and she wasn’t sure she could make them sound right.
‘I know.’
He lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles gently across her cheekbone. ‘Go to bed, cara. Tomorrow is another day.’
Then he released her hand and turned towards the door.
Seconds later she heard the refined purr of the engine, and saw the bright red tail-lights disappear into the night.
He’d gone, when she’d expected him to employ unfair persuasion to share her bed. There was an ache deep inside she refused to acknowledge as disappointment.
If he’d pressed to stay, she’d have told him to leave. So why did she feel cheated?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, this was ridiculous!
With a mental shake she locked the door and activated security, then she set the alarm and climbed the stairs to her room. ‘Mamma,’ Aysha protested. ‘I don’t need any more lingerie.’
‘Nonsense, darling,’ Teresa declared firmly. ‘Nonna Benini sent money with specific instructions for you to buy lingerie.’
Aysha spared a glance at the exquisite bras, briefs and slips displayed in the exclusive lingerie boutique. Pure silk, French lace, and each costing enough money to feed an average family for a week.
After a sleepless night spent tossing and turning in her lonely bed, which had seen her wake with a headache, the last thing she needed was a confrontational argument with her mother.
‘Then I guess we shouldn’t disappoint her.’
Each garment had to be tried on for fit and size, and it was an hour before Aysha walked out of the boutique with bras and briefs in ivory, peach and black. Ditto slips, cobweb-fine pantyhose, and, the pièce de resistance, a matching nightgown and negligee.
‘Superfluous,’ she’d assured her mother when Teresa had insisted on the nightgown, and had stifled a sigh at her insistent glance.
Now, she tucked a hand beneath Teresa’s arm and led her in the direction of the nearest café. ‘Let’s take five, Mamma, and share a cappuccino.’
‘And we’ll revise our list.’
Aysha thought if she heard the word list again, she’d scream. ‘I can’t think of a single thing.’
‘Perfume. Something really special,’ Teresa enthused. ‘To wear on the day.’
‘I already have—’
‘I know. And it suits you so well.’
They entered the café, ordered, then chose a table near the window.
‘But you should wear something subtly different, that you’ll always associate with the most wonderful day of your life.’
‘Mamma,’ she protested, and was stalled in any further attempt as Teresa caught hold of her hands.
‘A mother dreams of her child’s wedding day from the moment she gives birth. Especially a daughter. I want yours to be perfect, as perfect as it can be in every way.’ Her eyes shimmered, and Aysha witnessed her conscious effort to control her emotions. ‘With Carlo you’ll have a wonderful life, enjoying the love you share together.’
A one-sided love, Aysha corrected silently. Many a successful marriage had been built on less. Was she foolish to wish for more? To want to be secure in the knowledge that Carlo had eyes only for her? That she was the only one he wanted, and no one else would do?
Chasing rainbows could be dangerous. If you did catch hold of one, there was no guarantee of finding the elusive pot of gold.
‘Your father and I had a small wedding by choice,’ Teresa continued. ‘Our parents offered us money to use however we chose, and it was more important to use it towards the business.’
Aysha squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘I know, Mamma. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.’ Their love for each other wasn’t in question, although she’d give almost anything to be able to break through the parent-child barrier and have Teresa be her friend, her equal.
However, Teresa was steeped in a different tradition, and the best she could hope for was that one day the balance of scales would become more even.
It was after eleven when they emerged into the arcade. Inevitably, Teresa’s list had been updated to include perfume and a complete range of cosmetics and toiletries.
Aysha simply went with the flow, picked at a chicken salad when they paused for lunch, took two painkillers for her headache, and tried to evince interest in Teresa’s summary of the wedding gifts which were beginning to arrive at her parents’ home.
At three her mobile phone rang, and when she answered she heard Carlo’s deep drawl at the other end of the line.
‘Good day?’
Her heart moved up a beat. ‘We’re just about done.’
‘I’ll be at the house around seven.’
She was conscious of Teresa’s interest, and she contrived to inject her tone with necessary warmth. ‘Shall I cook something?’
‘No, we’ll eat out.’
‘OK. Ciao.’ She cut the connection and replaced the unit into her bag.
‘Carlo,’ Teresa deduced correctly, and Aysha inclined her head. ‘He’s a good man. You’re very fortunate.’
There was only one answer she could give. ‘I know.’
It was almost five when they parted, slipped into separate cars, and entered the busy stream of traffic, making it easy for Aysha to hang back at an intersection, then diverge onto a different road artery.
If Teresa discovered her daughter and prospective son-in-law were temporarily occupying separate residences, it would only arouse an entire host of questions Aysha had no inclination to answer.
The house was quiet, and she made her way upstairs, deposited a collection of brightly-coloured carry-bags in the bedroom, then discarded her clothes, donned a bikini and retraced her steps to the lower floor.
The pool looked inviting, and she angled her arms and dived into its cool depths, emerging to the surface to stroke several lengths before turning onto her back and lazily drifting.
Long minutes later she executed sufficient backstrokes to bring her to the pool’s edge, then she levered herself onto the ledge and caught up a towel. Standing to her feet, she blotted excess moisture from her body, then she crossed to a nearby lounger and sank back against its cushioned depth.
The view out over the harbour was sheer magic, for at this hour the sea was a dark blue, deepening almost to indigo as it merged in the distance with the ocean.
There were three huge tankers drawing close to the main harbour entrance, and in the immediate periphery of her vision hundreds of small craft lay anchored at moorings.
It was a peaceful scene, and she closed her eyes against the strength of the sun’s warmth. It had a soporific effect, and she could feel herself drifting into a light doze.
It was there that Carlo found her more than an hour later, after several minutes of increasing anxiety when he’d failed to locate her anywhere indoors.
His relief at seeing her lying supine on the lounger was palpable, although he could have shaken her for putting him through a few minutes of hell.
He slid open the door quietly, and stood watching her sleep. She looked so relaxed it was almost a shame to have to wake her, and he waited a while, not willing to disturb the moment.
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