Bride By Choice

wondering how I know that?’

He pulled himself together. ‘Certainly not,’ he said with an attempt at dignity. ‘You’re a modern young woman with a wide knowledge of social conditions. And I wish I’d died before I opened my mouth.’

She would have forgiven him much for calling her a modern young woman. But no forgiveness was necessary. He delighted her.

The next moment he delighted her even more by putting his foot in it again, eyeing her identification badge and saying, ‘Besides, since you work here, you must meet all kinds of lady in the hotel-’

‘Not that kind of lady,’ Helen said virtuously. ‘The Elroy doesn’t allow them.’

This time he just covered his eyes in an attitude of despair. Helen regarded him with pleasure. He had reddened with confusion, and it made him look much younger than she guessed he was. Late twenties, she reckoned. Thirty, tops.

He uncovered his eyes, pulled himself together, and looked more closely at her badge. Something he saw there seemed to strike him, for he glanced at her in surprise. But before he could speak she refilled his glass and brought him some more to eat, trying to cover his confusion.

‘Are you going to be connected with the new Italian Restaurant?’ he asked, indicated a glossy brochure.

‘I don’t think so. I’m just here because Mr Dacre thinks of me as Italian, and it’s so unfair.’

‘Why is it unfair?’

‘Because it’s not true. I have an Italian name, which means that my parents are Italian, but I’m not. I can’t convince anybody of that-including them. I’m an American. I was born in Manhattan, I grew up in Manhattan, I’ve never set foot in Italy in my life. I have a career and my own apartment, but Mamma still says, “When are you going to settle down as a good wife to a nice Italian boy?”’

‘And what do you say?’ he asked, fascinated.

‘I say there’s no such thing as a nice Italian boy. They’re all like Poppa.’

‘And you don’t like your father?’

‘I adore him,’ Helen said truthfully. ‘I also adore my brothers, but I’ll go to the stake before I marry anyone like them. Honestly, they still think they’re back in the old country. And my brothers have never seen the old country.’

Indignation was bringing a sparkle to her eyes which turned them into pure magic, he thought. She should get mad more often. It suited her. But he knew better than to voice such an old-fashioned compliment. He didn’t want her wine poured over the shirt he’d bought only that afternoon. To draw her out he asked, ‘What part of Italy is the “old country”?’

‘Sicily,’ she said in tones of deep exasperation. ‘A land where “men are men and women know their place”. Would you believe, I’ve actually heard my father say that?’

‘Easily. If the men of Sicily are used to their privileges they’re not going to give them up without a fight.’

‘Well, I know how to fight too,’ she said darkly.

‘I’ll bet you do. If I was brave and foolhardy I might say that you show your Sicilian ancestry every time you open your mouth.’

‘What?’

‘I mean that Latin temper of yours. Pure southern Italian.’ Catching her wrathful eye on him, he added hastily, ‘But since I’m a coward I won’t say it.’

‘Very wise!’ Then she sighed and said, ‘I’m sorry. I go on about it too much, and I shouldn’t bend your ear. That’s not what you came here for.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he murmured. ‘I’m beginning to think that’s exactly what I came here for.’

Next moment a glamorous young woman detached herself from the crowd, flung an arm about his shoulders and planted a theatrical kiss on his mouth.

‘Bye, sweetie,’ she intoned breathily.

Helen recognised Angela Havering, a fellow trainee whom she’d never liked, she now realised. Angela bestowed a second kiss for good measure before floating off on the arm of another man.

‘I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with Angela,’ she observed.

‘Just met her this evening. Like you, really.’

‘But I don’t call you sweetie,’ she pointed out.

‘You can if you want to. Have a drink with me when this is over.’

She laughed and shook her head. ‘I can’t. I must be going soon. I have urgent things to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oooh-’ she mused, ‘really important things, like planning a slow, painful death for Lorenzo Martelli.’

There was a clatter as his glass hit the table and he struggled not to choke.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said, gasping slightly. ‘My glass slipped. Why do you want to kill Lorenzo Martelli?’

‘Well, it’s either that or marry him.’

‘Is-is it?’ he asked, slightly wild-eyed.

‘In a few minutes I have to go and join a family party at my parents’ house, to meet this Martelli character. He’s a Sicilian, over here on a visit. His family and mine were friends years ago, so he can’t be in New York without looking us up.’

‘But why have you got to marry him?’

‘Because my parents have set their hearts on it.’

‘But if you haven’t met him-?’

‘It’s crazy, isn’t it? They fixed tonight up while I was in Boston, and all I heard were hints about what a fine match he was and how he was bound to be looking for a good Sicilian bride-’

‘Couldn’t he find one of those in Sicily?’

‘That’s what I said. The truth is, he’s probably so fat and ugly that he has to scour the world.’

He nodded wisely. ‘Bound to be. You’re right to make a stand.’

‘Anyway, they’re welcome to him. Tonight I’ll sit there good as gold saying “Yes, Poppa”, and “No, Poppa”, like the perfect, dutiful Italian daughter.’

‘Dutiful?’ he couldn’t resist saying. ‘You?’

‘They want dutiful, so I’ll give them dutiful with knobs on. I may want to kick Lorenzo Martelli’s shins, but I won’t do it. Not tonight, at any rate. If I have to see him a second time, I won’t answer for the consequences.’

‘Hey, c’mon, he’s not really to blame.’

‘He is to blame,’ Helen said firmly. ‘Simply by existing he darkens the earth, and I’ll be doing everyone a favour by exterminating him.’

He looked nervous. ‘Have you decided exactly how?’

‘Well, I thought of boiling in oil, but it’s probably too good for him.’

‘And very unimaginative.’

‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Something with scorpions and spiders would be better.’

He shuddered.

‘Aren’t you being a bit hasty? You might fall for him and want to marry him.’

She gave him a speaking glance. ‘Death would be preferable,’ she said firmly. ‘Mine if necessary, but his for choice.’

‘Why have you got your knife into this guy? Is being Italian really so bad?’

‘Being an Italian man is like being the devil,’ she said firmly. ‘They’re old-fashioned, domineering, unreliable and faithless. Especially faithless.’

‘Why especially faithless? I mean, if you’re going to do them down, do them down on all counts, not just one.’

‘It’s the chief one. Do you know what they called Italian husbands? Married bachelors. It’s expected. A faithful husband is a considered a wimp. Creeps!’

‘But apart from that, you think they’re OK?’ he asked wryly.

‘Look, I know exactly what’s going through Lorenzo Martelli’s head at this minute.’

‘You don’t,’ he muttered.

‘What?’