threw her arms about her friend in a sudden burst of emotion. ‘Darling, I’m so glad for you! At least one of us is going to have a happy ending.’
Although Angie had some qualms about leaving Heather she soon realised that Bernardo had been right when he said her friend needed to find her own way through this. For the first time she understood Heather’s inner strength. When Lorenzo crept back home she didn’t flinch from their meeting, confronting him with a cool dignity and even a touch of humour that made him ashamed. This she learned from Bernardo, who saw Lorenzo straight afterwards.
Heather was there too when Baptista returned from hospital, much recovered. Despite what had happened the old woman still clung to her as a daughter, and refused to accept back the gift of Bella Rosaria.
‘They’re very alike in many ways,’ Bernardo told Angie. ‘Heather has both my brothers creeping around her on hot coals. They can’t make her out, and it puzzles them. Do them both good. I can see why Baptista likes having her here.’
Angie and Bernardo spent as much time as they could together, growing closer, relishing the sweet understanding that was developing between them. Angie began to see why Baptista said he lived as a relatively poor man. In contrast to the armies of servants at the Residenza, he had only Stella who cleaned the house and did some, but not all of the cooking. Some meals he made for himself, and insisted on her trying them, watching with a touching anxiety until she said they were delicious. His home was frugal to the point of austerity. The only modern comfort was central heating which, he assured her, the bleak winters made vital.
Once he’d spoken of this place as their future home, but after that he made no formal suggestion of marriage. Yet she noticed that he frequently offered these explanations, as though he felt a duty to make everything clear to her.
She thought she understood. It wouldn’t be the comfortable life she was used to, but neither was his dwelling the bleak, impoverished hovel that he seemed determined to paint.
Once he said, ‘I wish it was winter now and you could see for yourself how unpleasant it is-it can’t be described-’
‘Darling-’ she stroked his face gently ‘-there’s no need for this.’
It made her heart ache to see how just her touch and a few words could bring him peace. She knew that he loved her, but it was his need that set the seal on it. She didn’t know what the years ahead might bring, but she was sure nothing could separate them now. They clung together, arms tightly wound around each other, exchanging warmth and reassurance.
‘Let’s have a picnic this afternoon,’ he said at last. ‘On a day like this, we should be out.’
‘Lovely.’
‘I’ll make us some snacks.’
‘While you’re doing that, can I use your computer to get onto the net?’
‘Of course. I’ll log on for you.’ He typed in his password, pulled out the chair for her and said, ‘I’ll bring you some coffee.’
Angie called up her father’s web site and emailed him through it. Then she browsed through the site, checking out his latest updates. Dr Harvey Wendham was proud of his site, which he maintained himself, almost as proud as he was of the luxurious Harley Street clinic it advertised.
‘The old devil,’ she chuckled. ‘He doesn’t stint himself.’
He was a well-known plastic surgeon whose patients included several film stars and the occasional top-ranking politician, prepared to pay over the odds for his total discretion as much as for his skill. For years he’d worked at the lower-paid end of the medical profession, ‘putting in his time’ as he called it, but now he’d struck gold and was enjoying it.
Angie knew that he was disappointed that neither of her brothers had joined him in the clinic, and was hoping that she, his youngest child, would make good their de-ficiencies. But she’d hesitated. She had several other job offers, some attractive, some offering little more than hard work and low pay, plus a lot of satisfaction.
Now all her plans seemed to have been made for her. She loved Bernardo and he loved her. How could she ever think of leaving him?
‘Coffee for
‘Oh, lovely!’ She began pouring while he looked at the screen over her shoulder.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, for he’d muttered something she didn’t understand, but which sounded both disbelieving and contemptuous.
‘This fellow who calls himself a doctor, when he cares nothing for the sick, only lining his own pocket.’
‘He’s supposed to be very good at what he does,’ Angie observed, enjoying the thought of Bernardo’s face when he learned the truth. Her father’s name wasn’t visible on-screen at the moment. She settled back to relish the joke.
‘And what does he do?’ Bernardo said derisively. ‘While there are people in the world with real needs, he does cosmetic surgery, to make himself money. He has a gift that comes from God, and he used it to make himself a million.’
‘Several million actually, but a lot of that-’
She was about to say that much of it was given to charity but Bernardo was in full spate. ‘Several million, because he’s a man who must have money.’
‘He also does a lot of good,’ Angie said, beginning to be cross. ‘It’s not just film stars. It’s disfigured children. He happens to be my father, and I’ll thank you not to abuse him.’
He looked at her strangely. ‘This man is your father?’
Angie flicked back to a previous page, showing her father’s name: Dr Harvey Wendham, then glanced at Bernardo’s face, expecting to see him look rueful and uncomfortable. Then they could laugh together.
But he looked as if someone had given him a savage blow over the heart.
‘Bernardo-what is it? You look ill.’
‘Nothing-nothing,’ he recovered himself quickly, and smiled. But it was a painful smile, as though he were dying inside.
‘What is it?’ she begged, suddenly scared.
‘I just hadn’t realised-that you came from a wealthy family.’
She shrugged. ‘All right, we’re well off but-’
‘Your father is a multi-millionaire.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not-it
‘No, it shouldn’t. I’m still me.’
‘I thought you were poor,’ he burst out. ‘You and Heather-’
‘Heather’s always been as poor as a church mouse.’
‘But you share a home.’
‘We’re friends. The house belongs to me. I rent her space in it because I like her company. It’s never come between us.’
‘And this house-it wouldn’t happen to be in the wealthiest part of London, would it?’
‘It’s in Mayfair, yes. So what?’
‘So what?’ he echoed in a shaking voice. ‘So I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise.’
The flicker of alarm inside her was growing higher, resisting her attempts to quench it. This wasn’t something that could just be laughed aside, after all.
‘You don’t mean this makes a difference to us?’ she demanded, trying to keep it light. ‘Why should it? I’m not some spoilt brat. I’m a hard-working and very tough professional woman. That hasn’t changed.’
‘No, it hasn’t,’ he said in a voice that was just a little too decided, as though he were trying to reassure himself. ‘You are still Angie, still the woman I love. Nothing can change that. After all, it’s your father who is rich, not you.’
She drew a slow breath and turned away, so that he shouldn’t see the indecision in her face. She ought to tell him now that her father had settled a million on her the year before, but she knew, with terrified certainty, that it would be a dangerous admission to make to this man whose face had suddenly become so aloof.
She would tell him one day, of course she would. One day soon. But surely she could wait just a little, until he
