evening they treated Sol to the best dinner in Naples, and drove him to the airport early next day. On the drive back, Carlo said casually, ‘Now we’ll clear your things out of the hotel and take them home.’
‘Home?’
‘Our home.’
‘I haven’t said I’m moving in with you.’
‘I’m saying it, so quit arguing.’
‘And this man calls himself a hen-pecked mouse,’ she observed, to no one in particular.
‘I promise when we lock that door behind us I’ll be as docile as you like.’
‘Once you’ve got your own way, huh?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ he said outrageously.
His home was a compact bachelor apartment, three storeys up in a condominium. On two sides were large windows, looking out onto the sea and the volcano. While she was rejoicing in the view Carlo took gentle hold of her from behind.
‘It seems ages since I made love to you,’ he murmured.
‘Shouldn’t we be getting to work?’
‘Everything in good time …’
After their lovemaking she assuaged her conscience about neglecting business by spending an hour sending e-mails and making calls. Then she mapped out some more plans for the series, and when Carlo awoke they worked together for an hour. It was fascinating to see him don a new personality—serious, dedicated, knowledgeable. She’d briefly glimpsed this ‘professor’ before, but the change was so startling that it was almost like meeting a different man each time.
But then he would catch her eye, and she’d realise that the other Carlo hadn’t gone away. He was merely biding his time. As was she.
In the afternoon they drove out to Pompeii and strolled through together, discussing camera angles and working out a script. Inevitably they ended in the museum where, after looking around for a while, Della returned to her favourite figures, the lovers curled up in each other’s arms. Carlo stood close by, watching her intently, as though he could read something in her manner.
‘It’s such total love,’ she murmured. ‘Completely yielding, reducing everything else to nothing.’
He nodded.
‘You wonder how they could really ignore the lava closing in on them,’ he said. ‘But of course they could—as long as they had each other.’
‘“How do I love thee?”‘ Della murmured. ‘“Let me count the ways.”‘
‘What was that?’ He looked at her intently.
‘It’s a poem, one of my favourites, written by a woman. She lists all the different ways that she loves her husband, and finishes, “If God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.” Elizabeth Barrett Browning lived nearly two thousand years after this couple, but she knew the same thing that they knew.’
‘What all lovers know,’ Carlo said. ‘When you meet the woman you want to marry—that you know you must marry—then it’s to death and beyond. If it’s not like that, it isn’t real.’
He was watching her in a way that suddenly made her heart pound, waiting for an answer she couldn’t give.
‘But this is real,’ he persisted. ‘I’ve known that from the start. Tell me that you’ve known, too. Tell me that you love me.’
It was a plea, not an order.
‘You know that I love you,’ she said.
He took her hand, turning it over to kiss the palm.
‘How do you love me?’ he asked with a touch of humour. ‘Can you count the ways?’
‘I’d better not,’ she said tenderly. ‘You’re quite conceited enough already.’
But he shook his head.
‘Not where you’re concerned. You do as you like with me, but that’s all right, as long as you love me.’
‘I could never begin to tell you how much I love you.’
He contrived to put both arms around her, leaning his head down so that his forehead rested against hers.
‘I think you might try,’ he murmured. ‘It’s the only thing I want from you—no, not the only thing. There is something else—but you know that. We can talk about it later.’
‘Yes, later,’ she said.
He was drawing her closer to the decision she dreaded facing.
‘Any time will do,’ he replied softly. ‘Because I know you won’t refuse me the thing I want most on earth. It’s what you want, too, isn’t it? You’ve made me wait for your answer, but—’
‘Darling—’
‘I know, I know. I said I wouldn’t hurry you, and that’s what I’m doing. I’ll try not to.’
‘But you can’t help it,’ she said, trying to tease him out of the dangerous mood. ‘You’re much too used to having your own way.’
‘That’s true,’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘I like to have what I want, and what I want is—’
‘Hush!’ She laid her fingertips over his mouth. ‘Not here. Not now.’
‘As my lady pleases.’
The entrance of a party of schoolchildren made them pull apart and hurry away.
For the rest of the day he was relaxed and happy, content simply to be with her. Sometimes she would look up to find him smiling, at peace with the world.
And yet it was that which made her uneasy. Clearly he had no worries—like a man completely sure of her answer. The doubts that tormented her seemed not to trouble him. She wished that she could dismiss those doubts so easily.
Soon she must have a sensible talk with him, beginning, I’m far too old for you—
But that wouldn’t be the end, she reassured herself. Marriage was impossible, but they could stay together while they made the series—perhaps for a year. By then he would realise that she was too old for him, and things would come to a natural conclusion.
It was bliss to live with Carlo, to wake up with him, to be with him every moment and go to sleep in his arms, without having to wait for his arrival, bid him goodbye or worry about anyone else.
The only awkward note came one night when they dined at the villa. Luke and Primo had returned home, but Francesco was still there, also Ruggiero, who had brought Myra.
‘It was Mamma’s idea,’ he murmured to Della.
‘So
