‘He was never comfortable with the fact that I was not just born and raised in England but stayed there even after my mother returned to Italy.’
‘But didn’t she leave you when you were still a child? You didn’t have any choice in the matter.’ She had never even spoken to his mother, let alone met her, and they hadn’t invited her to their wedding—although, to be fair, they hadn’t invited any of his family. Her parents weren’t able to make it on such short notice so they had decided to keep the ceremony very small and hold a big celebratory party at a later date—but somehow they hadn’t been able to find a date Matteo could commit to and the party had never happened. It was probably for the best. ‘Wasn’t she unfit to look after you? I thought your paternal grandfather had custody?’
‘Not quite. My father had legal custody but he left me with my paternal grandfather; a small kid would have just been in the way of his lifestyle. But when my mother remarried I was old enough to choose, and I chose England.’ He half shrugged. ‘So my Italian grandfather had a point, I guess.’
‘You didn’t want to live with your mother?’ How had they never discussed this before? She knew Matteo had been raised by his grandfather—if you called boarding school at seven and a series of nannies raised—and was pretty much estranged from his parents, but not that he’d had the chance to live with his mother and turned it down. With so much left unsaid no wonder they hadn’t managed to build the foundations a successful marriage needed.
‘Feelings didn’t come into it. It was clear by then that my father would never be fit to take over Harrington Industries, that I was the heir. It was clear back when my parents first divorced. I can see why my grandfather wanted to make sure he brought me up in the right way.’
By sending you to boarding school before you could even tie your own shoelaces? Charlie managed to bite back the words. It had felt like a meaningful coincidence when they’d discovered they had both been mainly raised by grandparents while their parents lived abroad. But she had soon realised that her own cosy, comfortable upbringing with frequent contact with her loving parents could not have been more different from Matteo’s cold reality: boarding school, his mother busy with a new family, an ageing playboy for a father and a stern, demanding grandfather he spent his life trying to make proud. She’d wanted to give him the family he’d never had, the unconditional love he needed and she’d failed. His scars were too deep for her to heal.
‘I hope they knew that, no matter what choices were made for you when you were still a child, you are proud of your Italian heritage.’
‘Proud? Of course I’m proud. But I’ve not visited the country much, not since my teens. And I barely use the villa, which I do feel bad about. As you’ll see, it’s far too nice to just be left empty, but as it’s entailed I can’t give it away or sell it. Truth is my mother uses it far more than I do.’ He reached over and squeezed her hand and once again her whole body responded, a sweet, almost painful ache of memory. ‘It will be good to spend some time there. Even if it did take concussion to make it possible.’
‘We need to talk about your skewed priorities,’ Charlie couldn’t help but tell him, even as every part of her focused on the casual touch of his fingers round hers, tightening her own grip, despite herself. She’d missed the feel of him like a deep breath of fresh air. ‘Whatever else comes out of all this, promise me that it won’t take nearly dying for you to take a holiday again.’
Matteo returned the pressure, his hand wrapping round hers. ‘As long as you promise to be there next to me.’
‘I…’ Charlie was saved from having to find an answer as the car took a sharp left and began to make its way up a vertiginously steep road. ‘Oh, look, Matteo.’ The world fell away beneath them, and as she twisted to look behind her she saw a beautiful small town at the foot of the cliff with whitewashed buildings clustered around the picturesque harbour.
‘That’s Amalfi,’ Matteo told her. ‘I can’t wait to show you around. You’ll never eat seafood anywhere else in the world to compare. And as for the gelato…’
‘I’ve been dreaming of the gelato for the last twenty-four hours,’ she said, transfixed by the scenery as the car kept climbing until they finally reached the small hillside town of Ravello, Matteo pointing out the sights as they went. He sat bolt upright, clearly delighted to be back.
‘That’s the Villa Rufolo,’ Matteo said as they passed a spectacular building poised on the edge of the cliff, surrounded by beautiful gardens. ‘Every year the village holds an arts festival—music, ballet, film—over three months, much of it centred there. World-famous performers take part. We should see what’s on; it will start while we’re here.’
‘That would be lovely, if you’re recovered that is. No loud noise or bright lights, remember?’
‘I remember. But I was thinking, concussion isn’t going to make this much of a second honeymoon, is it? And it sounds like the first one was cut way too short. So let’s spend some real time here, a week or so for me to recover and then a couple of weeks of proper holiday. What do you say?’
What could she say but, ‘That sounds lovely’? And it did, painfully so. Because this was how she had imagined her marriage to be—not the holidays or the private jets or the chauffeured cars, but the spending time together, the making plans, the spontaneity. After all, that had been their courtship—short, full of
