‘I’m talking about the way you looked at me tonight, trying to find Sapphire.’
He stared. ‘Why have you got to drag her into this?’
‘Because she’s there. I saw it in your face.’
‘If you did, you put her there yourself,’ he said, becoming really angry. ‘Why are you obsessed with her?’
‘I’m not. You’re the one who’s haunted.’
‘I told you-that’s done with.’
‘Yes, you keep telling me. Too often. Can you really dismiss a ghost that easily?’
‘I might if you’d let me.’
She stared, thunderstruck.
‘What?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Don’t you know that? It’s a lot more complicated than you’ve realised.’
‘Is it me?’ she whispered. ‘Is that really what’s happening?’
‘You bring her into every conversation.’
‘Only because you-’
‘No, don’t push it onto me. I’ve fought my ghost, but yours is still there-and maybe she’s harder to fight because she’s been there all your life. All those comparisons you’ve told me about, with you always coming off worst. But why should you think like that? You were the brainy one, she needed you as much as you needed her. Who did who’s homework?’
‘But she was the one with the beauty and charm and-’
‘Give me patience!’ he groaned. ‘Polly, did anyone ever tell you that you’re an FCP?’
‘What on earth is an FCP?’
‘A Female Chauvinist Pig. You didn’t know there was such a thing, did you? Hah! At least I’ve managed to take you by surprise. If a man implied that a woman should be defined by her looks rather than her brains he’d be condemned up hill and down dale, and probably sued as well. But you’ve just said exactly that. Polly, it’s nonsense! You’re a wonderful person-bright, funny and beautiful.’
‘I’m not beau-’
‘Don’t say it,’ he warned, wagging a finger in mock threat. ‘Don’t say you’re not beautiful or I’ll get annoyed.’
‘Not in comparison to her-’
‘But why must you always compare yourself to her?’
He read the answer in her expression and said, almost violently, ‘She’s not here. There’s just you and me. I’m looking at you, and I tell you you’re gorgeous. Why do you look at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘With that disbelieving expression, as though I was crying to the moon. Oh, to hell with everything!’
He’d grasped her shoulders before she knew what he meant to do, and his lips were on hers before she could protest. His arms were like steel rivets about her, and his lips were fierce and angry as they moved over hers again and again. It was a kiss without tenderness. The kiss of a man tearing down a brick wall to make his point. And it left her physically excited as nothing in her life had ever done before.
She tried to get sufficiently free to embrace him back, but before she could manage it he released her suddenly and stepped well away from her with a growl of fury.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’m sorry-I’m sorry. I-promised nothing like that would happen. I didn’t mean to break my word, but-’ He took a long, shaking breath. ‘I guess the truth is I’m a bit of a bully.’
‘A-a bully?’ she asked, trying not to let her voice shake as much as his own.
‘People have to see things my way, and if they don’t I’ll go to any lengths to make them. It’s not nice and it makes me behave badly, but do you get the point now?’
‘What-what point?’ she stammered, wondering which universe she’d stumbled into.
‘That you’re beautiful. Did I convince you of that before I forgot my manners?’
For a wild moment she was temped to say no, and let him make the point again, and perhaps again. But common sense, the quality that always seemed to ruin things, intervened.
‘I’m convinced,’ she said, trying to laugh and failing. ‘A practical demonstration is always useful.’
‘You’re angry with me.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You are. I can hear it in your voice-a terrible edge, as though you’re wondering how much more of me you can stand. But don’t worry. I’m on my best behaviour from now on.’
He neared her again, while still keeping a safe few inches between them, and she could sense that he was still trembling-almost as much as herself.
‘I never really thought you looked like her,’ he said, glancing at her shorn head. ‘Not after that first mistake. But now-I don’t know you at all.’
‘Let’s go from there.’
‘Where to?’
‘How about that meal you promised me? I’m starving.’
‘It’s not far away.’
In the next street they passed a jewellery shop, where something attracted him in the window. He drew her inside and made the proprietor show him the little brooch.
‘A buttercup,’ he said to Polly.
‘Well, I told you they were everywhere. Common as muck.’
‘Not this one. This is rare and valuable-perfect for you.’
Then Polly saw that the little flower was made of solid gold, and very expensive.
‘I can’t take this-’ she gasped.
‘You must. It might have been made for you.’
He pinned the brooch onto her dress and she realised that it did indeed look perfect, glowing under the lights as though it had were a glamorous flower instead of a prosaic one.
She twisted her head, trying to see her own shoulder, beaming with delight.
He led her to a tiny restaurant where the odours wafting out were delicious and the proprietor greeted him by name.
While they were eating maccheroni with Neapolitan ragu sauce Polly began to rub her neck self- consciously.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I must look very weird.’
‘Not weird, but it’s a little unsettling. And that’s because you’re a combination of someone I know and someone I’ve never met before. I’m definitely nervous.’
‘So you should be,’ she teased. ‘I don’t know the new-comer myself, so she might spring some surprises on both of us.’
‘That’ll be nothing compared with what it’ll do to Brian.’
So absorbed was she in her new territory that she almost said, Who? But she recollected herself in time.
‘He’s used to my funny ways,’ she said vaguely.
‘Oh, he’s like that? Ready for anything? A man who can’t be surprised, dominant, bestriding the world?’
‘Stop it,’ she said, laughing.
‘You mean he’s not like that? No, on second thoughts I picture him with glasses and the start of a paunch.’
‘There’s no need for you to picture him at all,’ she said, trying to sound firm.
‘But you never talk about him. For a man who’s won your passionate love, he doesn’t seem to make much impact on you.’
The memory of his kiss seemed to hang in the air between them. She was saved from having to answer by the waiter, bearing wine.
‘Lacryma Christi del Vesuvio,’ Ruggiero said as he poured it into her glass.
Suddenly she held out her hand across the table.
‘Hallo,’ she said, ‘I’m Penelope. We’ve only just met.’
Ruggiero shook her hand.
