‘What did Lar—Mrs Sant’Angelo take with her when she left?’
He listened for a moment and then hung up, sitting down on the bed. She’d taken one suitcase. And he knew which one. The one she’d come with. The battered one.
The puppy crept towards him and got into his lap. Ciro stroked her absently. After a while he stood up, taking her with him. He left her with the housekeeper in the kitchen.
Still feeling restless, Ciro went into the reception room. It was filled with priceless paintings and objets d’art... Persian rugs. It could be a museum it was so still and stuffy.
When he’d bought this property he’d felt as if he’d reached a pinnacle. One of the many he’d set himself. Then, when he’d proposed to Lara, he’d imagined her here as his wife and hostess. Charming people with her natural warmth and compassion.
Giving you access to a higher level of society, reminded a voice.
A crystal decanter glinted at him from the drinks tray nearby. It seemed to mock him for thinking he’d had it all worked out. For believing that he’d had his fill of Lara. That he was done with her. For believing that all this excess around him actually meant anything.
The tightness in Ciro’s chest intensified, and with an inarticulate surge of rage he grabbed the decanter and threw it at the massive stone fireplace, where it smashed into a million pieces.
He heard footsteps running, and for some inexplicable reason he thought it might be—
But when he turned around it was just a shocked-looking staff member.
‘Is everything okay, Mr Sant’Angelo?’
He felt ragged. Undone. Empty.
‘Everything is fine.’
But he knew it wasn’t.
* * *
‘Two pints of bitter, love!’
Lara forced a smile. ‘Coming up.’
After-work drinks on a warm Indian summer evening in London meant packed pubs with people spilling out onto the pavements. Laughing, joking. Delighted that the end of the week had come and they had two days off stretching ahead.
Lara didn’t have two days off. At weekends she worked in a small Italian restaurant, near where she was living at a hostel in Kentish Town. But she refused to feel sorry for herself as she went outside with the two pints and collected money and dirty glasses.
A man leaned towards her. ‘You’re far too pretty to be working here, love. Let me take you out of this cesspit and we’ll run away.’
His friends guffawed loudly, but ridiculously Lara couldn’t even force a fake laugh. She felt tears sting her eyes. Which was pathetic. She was lucky to have found two jobs. She was earning her own money for the first time in her life. She was finally free... If only that freedom didn’t feel so heavy.
She never thought about...him. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to keep it together.
‘Hey, gorgeous! A pint and a white wine, please!’
Lara looked up at the flushed face of a city boy and forced herself to smile. ‘Coming up.’
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