The Italian Matchmaker(2)

She touched his arm. ‘The girls will survive. I did.’

‘You were lucky. Your mother married again very quickly. Fitz picked you up before you had time to fall on your nose. Your mother’s not vindictive like Claire. She’s sensible. She didn’t poison you against your father.’

‘It’s still bewildering when you discover your parents don’t love each other any more and want to be with someone else. However amicable, you still feel you’re in some way to blame – they don’t love you enough to stay together. But children are resilient. They adapt quickly. Yours will too.’

‘John Tresco is no Fitzroy Davenport. It makes my skin crawl to think of him being a father to my daughters.’ He paled and took a final drag before stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Why don’t you disappear for the summer? You were just telling me about that amazing palazzo your parents have bought. The Amalfi coast sounds the perfect place to go and check out for a few months. Decide what you want to do. London is stifling in the summer and everyone goes away. You’ll only be miserable if you stay. Perhaps your girls could join you there in the holidays. Children love palaces.’

‘There’s nothing peaceful about my mother! I’ve spent most of my adult life avoiding her.’

‘At the expense of your father.’

‘She’s relentlessly social. Can’t think how he puts up with all those people. That’s not what I need right now.’

‘A change of scenery will do you good – sun, sea, time to reflect.’

‘On all my mistakes!’

‘No one’s perfect.’

‘I’m carrying a heavy load, Freya.’

‘Then drop it. Go and visit your parents. I know Romina can be a bit over the top but she’s got a good heart. Blood is thicker than water and besides, I’m sure they’re longing to show you their palazzo.’

He looked at her and grinned. For an instant her stomach lurched as she glimpsed the handsome rogue of her youth in his now jaded features. ‘You see how good you are for me,’ he said, the twinkle in his eyes restored. ‘I should have married you while I had the chance. It’s taken me years to discover that the woman I have always loved has been right beside me all along. Miles is a lucky man.’

‘You’ll laugh at this conversation one day. You don’t really love me, you love what I represent. I’m like a sheltered harbour, but once you’ve taken time to recharge, you’ll realise that you don’t want a sheltered harbour. You’ve always been a man for the high seas. I’m far too placid for you, you’d get bored with me again like you did in seventy-nine.’

‘You’re wrong. I was never bored of you, I wasn’t ready to settle down, that’s all. Bad timing.’

‘Come, let’s go back to the drawing-room. Mum and Fitz will be arriving soon for lunch.’

‘No, let’s go for a walk.’

‘In this drizzle?’

‘You’re meant to be a country girl!’

‘It’s a huge pretence. I have to keep it up for Miles. He won’t touch London with a bargepole. Are you sure you don’t want to give Annabel a try?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘I can tell she fancies you.’

‘She’s got that lean and hungry look that turns my blood cold,’ he replied, watching Freya’s nose crinkle with laughter. ‘I’ve begun to notice it in the eyes of single women pushing forty – as well as the loud tick-tock of their biological clocks. Thank you, Freya, for thinking of me, but I’ll pass.’

‘A good hostess thinks of all her guests’ needs.’

‘My only need is one that you are unable to give me.’

‘And one you shouldn’t mention under my roof,’ she retorted swiftly.

‘You never used to be so proper.’

‘I’m married,’ she repeated, with emphasis.

He sighed. ‘That’s not how I like to remember you.’

‘I don’t want to know how you remember me.’ She blushed again.

‘Car bonnet, your parents’ barn, midnight, summer . . .’

‘Enough! I don’t know what you’re referring to! I’m ready for that walk now. Let’s see if the others want a brisk route march before roast lamb.’

Luca wished she hadn’t asked the entire house party – of adults, children and dogs – to join them on their walk. He didn’t feel in the least bit sociable. Besides, there was no one except Freya he wished to talk to. Miles, every bit the landowner in Barbour, boots and tweed cap, led them up the track towards the wood, his wife dutifully walking a few paces behind with her brother-in-law and his wife. Luca found himself accompanied on both sides by women. Annabel, whom Freya had picked as his date, was pretty but dry like a chicken roasted too long in the oven, while Emily, whose vertically challenged husband hung behind with their children, was red-faced and plump as a goose force-fed for foie gras. He disguised his scowl by lifting his chin, his height giving him a great advantage, and watched Freya’s streaked blonde curls bounce against her back as she marched through the long grass to keep up with her husband. He couldn’t imagine what she saw in Miles, nice as he was. Two of their children hurried past, chasing a black Labrador, and he observed their golden hair and skin, inherited, as fortune would have it, from their mother. Miles had that pale, Celtic skin dappled with freckles, his thinning hair a dull reddish blond. It irked Luca to see Freya with a man like that. Had she married a man like him he would have raised his glass and bowed out of the game, graciously accepting defeat from an equal player. Miles wasn’t his equal; Miles was inferior on every level. Freya had clearly compromised.