She wanted to—how she wanted to. ‘I…’
‘Carlotta, cara,’ he said, low and intent. ‘Give me a chance?’
She was drowning in the intensity of his gaze and all the reasons, the many good reasons, to stand her ground slipped away as if they had never been. Could things be different? Could she trust him this time?
‘Okay,’ she said before she could think about it too closely. ‘But Matteo, please don’t let Rosa down.’
Or me, she wanted to add. Please don’t let me down again.
* * *
The sun was beating down, hot and fierce. Matteo had forgotten just how intense the early summer sun could be when he was away from the shady arbours of the villa, the sea breeze of the pool and the dark alleyways of the village itself. But he welcomed the heat, he welcomed the prickle on his skin, the tightening band around his head. The discomfort focused him and he forced himself to walk ever faster, ignoring the aching muscles still recovering from the accident just nine days before.
The path he was on was well known and well used. The whole coast was a mecca for ramblers and walkers, especially at this time of year with the early summer flowers blooming in such profusion. But Matteo strode grimly on, following the path as it wound downhill towards Amalfi, barely seeing the colourful displays on all sides or noticing the spectacular views as he rounded yet another curve in the road. Much of the path had steps, and he pounded on, overtaking walkers and botanists as they ambled at a more sedate pace down the steep hillside path, barely nodding at those taking the far more onerous route uphill from Amalfi to Ravello.
Something was wrong, and he couldn’t push that knowledge to the back of his mind any longer. His marriage was clearly no idyll and he was even more clearly no perfect husband. Ever since his conversation with Charlie yesterday grey shadows had been gathering at the corners of his mind. Words and hints of scenes, of empty rooms and pained silences, of misunderstandings and chasms and himself imprisoned in pride and isolation. He had no idea if they were real memories or his imagination working overtime with all the things she’d left unsaid.
Okay. Start with the facts. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus, to face the problem rationally, as if it were a thorny legal problem or a contract issue he needed to resolve. What did he know for sure? He was clearly an absent husband, clearly an unreliable one, at least in Charlie’s eyes. But that was it. He had no more, no idea how things could have come to such a pass in so short a time.
It seemed inconceivable to him, right now mentally and emotionally still at the cusp of married life, that in a year’s time his wife would tell him that she couldn’t rely on him. His work was demanding, time-consuming and international but that didn’t mean there was no room for a personal life. His work-life balance was skewed towards work, of course it was, but there had been time for girlfriends and events, to ski or rock climb or sail before.
It was so discombobulating. This difference between who he thought he was and who he actually seemed to be. Worse was the lack of control. He’d known since childhood that a man in his position couldn’t show any weakness. Yet not only were his ribs still sore, not only were his bruises protesting at the relentless pace, but his mind, the mind he relied upon to manage a multibillion-pound company, was also letting him down. No wonder he hadn’t pressured Charlie to give him a phone or access to the internet, no wonder he had been happy to let her manage his grandfather; he could only imagine what the old man would say to him about this current state of affairs.
Matteo cursed long and low in both English and Italian. He’d spent thirty years proving how strong he was to his grandfather, how fit he was to take on the generations-old family business, to show that he was not just better than his parents but free of all their taints, and yet here he was. Just fallibly human after all. Not just with his memory loss but, it seemed, with his inability to manage a marriage as well. Just like his father, on wife number five, or his mother, who had spent the decade between divorcing Matteo’s father and remarrying with a string of famous lovers. He’d wanted the opposite of that. He’d wanted stability. He knew all the best relationships required shared goals and compromise. So why wasn’t he compromising in his?
Or was he? Charlie was his only source; she could be an unreliable narrator.
Matteo had planned to take the walk in one go; it was only three kilometres or so after all. But when he reached the pretty and unspoiled seaside village of Atrani he realised that, despite the days of rest and recuperation, his body was still not fully recovered and he thankfully stopped at one of the local ristorantes for some much-needed water, the thick black espresso he so missed in London and an almond pastry.
He sat under
