‘Thanks,’ he mumbled, collapsing thankfully, and doing it so fast that she went down onto the bed with him.
‘OK, let me go,’ she said.
‘Hmm?’
‘Let me go.’
But the grip of his arms was unrelenting. He was too far out of it to heed her protests, but he was holding her against his chest in a grip she couldn’t break.
She told herself that there was nothing lover-like about his clasp, and she must be as unaware of him as he presumably was of her. But the warmth of his great body was reaching her, enveloping her, taking control in a way that was alarming.
For a moment she was almost tempted. It was so long since she’d known the first moments of thrilling sensation with their implicit promise of what was to come, and it was hard to turn away now.
Yet she forced herself. Weakness was something she couldn’t afford. That was the code she lived by, and she wasn’t going to forget it now. Putting out all her strength, she managed to prop herself up a few inches, just far enough to deliver a well-aimed sock on his jaw.
Like magic he went limp, and she managed to get free.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said, untruthfully.
‘Mmm?’
She tucked a blanket around him, and slipped quietly away.
At dawn Luke awoke and lay with his eyes still closed, trying to sort out his impressions. They were very confused.
A soft, warm, female body lying against his own-his head spinning-
He opened his eyes.
He was in a place he didn’t recognise. The narrow bed beneath him stood in the corner of a small room which had a chest of drawers, a chair and a lamp. Nothing else.
He rose and pushed open the door leading to a living room with a small kitchen leading off. Like the bedroom it was sparsely furnished, containing only a sofa, two chairs and a table. The only other room was a small bathroom.
If only he could remember, but he’d been barely awake and had received only impressions. He’d held a woman close to his body and she’d been moving urgently-in the motions of love? Or trying to get away?
And who? Not the gazelle-like Olympia, who had sometimes filled his dreams, but someone shorter, more strongly built, with a powerful right hook he thought, as he recalled the reason his jaw was tender.
The sound of the front door made him turn. It was Signora Pepino, sauntering in and standing there, surveying him with a cheeky grin.
He barely recognised her. He’d seen her as ‘Portia’ in an elegant black gown, giving a commanding performance in the courtroom. Last night at the party she’d been glamorous in silk and velvet. Both of those women had been ‘Signora Pepino’.
But this was ‘Minnie’, an urchin in old jeans and blue T-shirt. He wished she would stay the same woman for more than a few hours.
‘So you’re up at last,’ she said with an air of teasing. ‘This is the third time I’ve been back. You were dead to the world. Do you feel better?’
‘Ye-es,’ he said cautiously, making the word half a question, and feeling his jaw tenderly.
To his relief, she burst out laughing.
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘It was you?’
She surveyed him with hilarity. ‘Another woman would feel insulted by that question. Do women thump you so often that you can’t remember them?’
‘You’re the first-I think.’
‘Are we back to your misspent youth again? I’m not sure I want to know the details.’
‘Fine, because I can’t recall them.’ He felt his jaw again. ‘But I won’t forget you in a hurry.’ He looked around. ‘Where did I see a bathroom?’
‘No use. Everything’s turned off. Come up to my place and I’ll make you some breakfast.’
Now he could see the courtyard in broad daylight, and appreciate how cleverly the tenants had made the best of it. It might have been a dreary place with its dark bricks, plain construction and the staircase that ran around the inner wall looking like a fire escape. Indeed, it probably doubled as a fire escape, but it was also the way to get from one home to another.
But the dwellers here had fought back with flowers. There were several different kinds, but mostly geraniums, for Italians had a passion for geraniums, with their ability to spread colour and cheerfulness over the grimmest scene.
They were everywhere-white, red, purple, rioting over railings, trailing from pots, smothering ugliness. Just the sight of them lifted his spirits.
Minnie’s apartment turned out to be opposite the one they’d left, but one floor higher. Whereas his had been a shoe box, barely big enough for one person, hers could manage two, three at a pinch, and had a cosy, friendly air.
She produced some towels and directed him to the bathroom.
‘Breakfast will be ready when you’ve showered,’ she said.
She hadn’t quite finished cooking when he came out, and it gave him a chance to look around and see her home. Anything he could learn about her would be useful in the coming battle.
It was cosy and unpretentious, slightly shabby but delightful. He suddenly noticed a photograph standing on a shelf, with a small vase of flowers beside it. The man resembled Charlie, although he was older, and Luke realised this must be Gianni.
‘That was my husband,’ Minnie said, coming to stand beside him.
Gianni had a wide, laughing mouth, gleefully wicked eyes and the same air of irresponsible charm as Charlie.
‘You can see that he’s a Pepino,’ Luke observed.
‘Yes, they’re a tribe of madmen,’ she said with a slightly wistful smile. ‘I love them all. He used to say that I’d have married any one of his brothers, just to be part of the family, but he knew he was special to me as no other man could be. Put it away, please.’
When he hesitated she took the picture from his hand and replaced it on the shelf.
‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pry,’ he said.
‘You weren’t. It’s just that I find him hard to talk about.’
‘After four years?’
‘Yes, after four years. Sit down and have your breakfast.’
She was still smiling, still pleasant, but unmistakeably a door had been shut.
She served him eggs done to perfection and coffee that was hot, black and sweet. He was in heaven.
‘I’ve seen people collapse at the end of a party before,’ she said, sitting opposite him, ‘but never from orange juice.’
‘That’s right, rub it in. At one time I could have seen that crowd under the table.’
‘I doubt if you could ever have competed with Charlie,’ she advised him.
‘Was he really named after the Emperor Charlemagne?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘Because of Charlemagne’s father. He was a king called Pepino.’
‘And since the family name is Pepino-?’ he hazarded.
‘It stands to reason that they’re descended from royalty.’
‘But that was twelve hundred years ago.’
‘So?’ She shrugged. ‘What’s twelve hundred years to an ancient and royal family?’
‘Do they really believe it?’
‘Absolutely.’
