Italian Surgeon to the Stars (10 page)

I got home late after a staff meeting ran overtime. Normally I enjoy staff meetings. It’s a good chance to chat through any issues that have come up with the pupils or concerns
about the curriculum. But this time I was fidgeting like I had a bad case of intestinal worms. Miss Fletcher had glanced at me once or twice from over the top of her bifocals and asked if I was all right. I assured her everything was just fine and concentrated harder on taking down the minutes of the meeting.

Once inside the door of my flat I had just enough time to have a shower and do something with my hair. I rummaged through my wardrobe for something to wear, pointedly ignoring the wedding dress bagged in a silk bag, hanging at the back behind my hiking jacket. I selected the classic little black dress I’d bought in a sale when shopping with Bertie.

I’m not a slave to fashion. Unlike Bertie, who adores bright colours and quirky clothes, I have very little colour in my wardrobe. I stick to the basics: black, white, navy and grey. Boring as hell, but I’m not out to impress anyone.

I had only just finished with the hair straightener when the doorbell rang. My heart lurched as I glanced at my watch. It was only seven-thirty. Alessandro had said eight o’clock. I hadn’t even done my make-up.
Not that I use a lot at the best of times, but I’d figured a bit of facial armour wouldn’t go astray—especially since I’d blushed more in the last twenty-four hours than I had in the last five years.

I put down the straighteners and smoothed my hands down my dress, slipped my feet into a pair of heels. He’d seen me without make-up so what did it matter? He’d seen me without
anything
.

I opened the door and found my parents standing there, with big cheesy grins on their faces.

‘Surprise!’ they said in unison.

I mentally rolled my eyes. I think I did it in reality as well. My parents love surprises. I hate them. Not my parents. Just surprises. I don’t like anything spontaneous. I’m a planner. Surprises do not fit into neat plans.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said. ‘I thought you were on a yoga retreat in Salisbury?’

‘We cancelled,’ my father said. ‘Your mother was worried about you. We thought we’d come and stay for a few days.’

Stay?
My brain was like a neon sign, flashing PANIC in big red letters. I was about to say it was totally inconvenient and inappropriate
of them to turn up announced when I suddenly realised how tired Dad looked. He would have been driving for hours, because my mother had lost her licence a few months ago for speeding. I know… Talk about irresponsible. She maintains she was driving well under the limit, but because she got into a ‘discussion’, as she called it, with the traffic cop things got a little testy.

‘Aren’t you going to ask us in?’ Mum said with a beaming smile.

‘Oh, right—sure,’ I said, and stood stiffly as they both crushed me in bear hugs and smacked noisy kisses on my cheeks.

Mum did a full circle of my sitting room once I’d closed the front door. ‘Poppet, the feng shui in here is dreadful.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘That mirror is facing the wrong way.’

‘How can it be facing the wrong way?’ I said. ‘It won’t reflect anything if I turn it around the other way.’

My mother gave me a despairing look. ‘It should be on
that
wall. It’s bad luck to have it facing that way. All the energy will drain out through the front door.’

This time I did roll my eyes. Twice. ‘Look,
I’m about to go out, so why don’t you guys make yourselves comfortable and—?’

‘Out?’ My mother’s eyes were suddenly as bright as searchlights.

‘Yes. I have a parent-teacher meeting.’

‘Dressed like that?’ my father said.

I frowned. ‘What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You look lovely. Like you’re going on a date or something.’

‘See?’ My mother said to my father. ‘I told you she’s seeing someone. A mother just
knows
these things.’

‘I am not seeing anyone,’ I said. ‘I’m just having dinner with…a friend.’

‘Don’t worry about us,’ my mother said. ‘We’ll make ourselves at home. I’ll make some kale and quinoa muffins for you. We can chat when you get back.’

I glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Erm…you don’t want to go and stretch your legs after being in the car all that time?’

‘It’s dark outside,’ my father said.

‘And it’s starting to rain,’ my mother chipped in.

‘Right… Well, then, you guys settle in while I put on some make-up,’ I said, and headed back to my room.

My mother followed and stood watching me as I applied a bit of powder and bronzer. I mentally prepared myself for one of her lectures on how using make-up was totally unnecessary and just a ploy for cosmetic companies to make loads of money out of women who felt insecure about their looks. But instead of lecturing me she handed me the bronzer brush like a scrub nurse hands a surgeon a scalpel.

‘What’s wrong, poppet?’ she said after a moment or two. ‘You seem so tense. I mean, more tense than normal.’

‘I’m fine.’ I put down the brush and picked up my mascara. It was almost empty, but I managed to get enough out to coat my lashes from practically invisible blonde to brown.

My mother tilted her head on one side as she took in my outfit. ‘You know, black really isn’t your colour. It washes you out too much. Have you got anything a little more colourful?’

She made a move towards my wardrobe but I cut her off at the pass. I moved so fast I was like greased lightning.

‘Don’t,’ I said, flattening my back against the wardrobe with my arms outstretched like I was guarding the Crown Jewels.

My mother looked at me oddly for a moment, and then with sparkling intrigue. ‘What on earth are you hiding in there?’

I worked hard to keep my expression clear of any of the dread I was feeling. The wedding dress was my skeleton in the closet. A taffeta and tulle skeleton of my hopes and dreams.

‘I’ve…erm…got your birthday present in there. I don’t want you to see it.’

My mother screwed up her forehead. ‘But it’s not my birthday until November.’

‘I know, but you know how I like to be super-organised.’

The doorbell sounded and my heart slammed against my breastbone. The choice between my mother rifling through my wardrobe or having my father answer the door to Alessandro was an easy one.

I snatched up my purse and dashed out of my bedroom—but my father was already doing the honours.

‘Well, howdy-do,’ he said to Alessandro, not just shaking his hand but clasping it between both of his as if Alessandro was the Prodigal Son. Or a big-time prophet. ‘
So
delighted to meet you. Well, well, well—look at you. A fine specimen of manhood. Mighty
fine indeed. Jem hasn’t been on a date in
years
—or none that we’ve known about. I’m Charlie and that’s Annabel.’

Thankfully my mother had followed me out of my bedroom and now stood with her hands clasped to each side of her face. ‘Oh, my God! It’s
him
! It’s the man in my vision!’

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me and spit me out in some other country. Outer Mongolia, preferably. Outer space would have been even better.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Clark…Mrs Clark,’ Alessandro said, somehow getting his hand out of the grip of my father’s and offering it to my mother. ‘I’m Alessandro Lucioni.’

‘Oh, please call me Annabel,’ my mother said. ‘We’re not married. We don’t believe in—’

‘Right, let’s go,’ I said, grabbing Alessandro by the arm and all but marching him out of the house before my mother read his mind, his palm, his aura, or whipped out a set of tarot cards and predicted his future.

‘Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!’ my mother called out in a singsong voice.

‘They seem like nice people,’ Alessandro said once we were in his car. ‘Do they live with you?’

‘God, no,’ I said barely able to suppress a shudder. ‘They’ve just dropped in to stay for a few days.’

I felt his glance come my way.

‘You don’t like it when they visit?’

I looked at my hands, gripping my evening purse. My knuckles were bone white. I forced myself to relax my grip but the tension was still in the rest of my body. It was like concrete setting along the column of my neck and spine. I get that way every time my parents land unannounced on my doorstep.

I’m a private person. I like my own space. My own routine and timetable. My parents have no concept of personal boundaries. It’s not that I don’t love my parents. But I like them in small doses—and preferably on neutral territory.

‘I would’ve liked a heads up first,’ I said. ‘They don’t seem to understand that I have a job that means the world to me. Their life is one big holiday. They flit from place to place like a couple of stoned butterflies. They drive me completely nuts. I’ll come home and find my furniture all rearranged because the feng shui isn’t right. Or my fridge and pantry will be cleaned out so there’s no processed food.’

I suddenly gasped.

‘Oh, my God!’

The car slowed as he applied the brakes. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I forgot to hide the steak.’

He glanced at me quizzically. ‘The steak?’

‘My parents are vegans,’ I said. ‘They were vegetarian before that. My sister and I used to sneak in a steak when they weren’t looking. I just bought the most delicious eye fillet. It cost me a fortune and now my mother will throw it in the rubbish.’ I groaned and banged my head against the headrest. ‘
Why
couldn’t I have normal parents?’

‘You don’t get to choose your family—only your friends.’ It was a well-used axiom, but the way he said it gave it a level of gravitas.

‘Tell me about it.’ I swivelled in my seat to look at him. ‘Tell me about
your
family.’

His expression got that boxed-up look on it. ‘I don’t want to ruin your appetite for dinner,’ he said. ‘How did Claudia go today?’

‘She was quiet in class, but she seems to be settling in,’ I said.

I explained about the speech therapist we had as a consultant to the school and how we would need his approval to engage her services.

‘Fine—do whatever needs to be done,’ he said. ‘I don’t care about the cost.’

‘For a kid you hadn’t met until a couple of weeks ago, you seem to really care,’ I said.

He lifted the shoulder nearest me in an indifferent shrug but it didn’t fool me for a second.

‘She’s an innocent child,’ he said. ‘She deserves a chance to be the best she can be, no matter what her circumstances. As does any other child.’

I let silence slip past while I studied him covertly. He had a grimly determined look on his face. It etched his features into harsh lines that gave him an intimidating air. I liked the fact he was prepared to do anything to protect and provide for his niece. I didn’t want to like anything about him, but how could I not admire him for that? Didn’t I have the very same values?

‘Claudia is a little behind academically, but that’s probably because of her language difficulties,’ I said. ‘I’m working on a special programme for her. She’ll get extra tuition from me, and from Jennifer at the boarding house.’

There was a long silence as the car’s tyres swished over the rain-lashed roads.

‘My sister has a drug problem,’ Alessandro
said heavily. ‘She’s had it since she was sixteen.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

He flicked me a bleak look. ‘I blame myself for not doing more to protect her.’

I frowned. ‘But how can it be your fault? You’re not her parent. You’re her brother. Besides, sometimes teenagers do stuff regardless of the parenting they’ve received.’

He let out a jagged-sounding sigh. ‘I spent most of my life resenting her. My father spoilt her. She could have anything and do anything she wanted. There were no boundaries.’

‘Wasn’t he like that with you?’

He gave a scornful laugh that had a sharp edge of bitterness to it. ‘No.’

There was a lot of information in that one word, I thought. Not just the way he said it, as if spitting out something vile-tasting, but also the way his body was set. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly I could see each of the tendons bulging on the backs of his hands. And there was a storm of suppressed anger in his gaze as it fixed on the road ahead.

I had an unbearable urge to reach out and touch him. To soothe the pain he was obviously feeling. It was unlike me to be so sympathetic—especially
to someone who had hurt me so badly. I would have to watch myself. I wasn’t as armoured up as I wanted to be.

I shifted in my seat and held my purse a little tighter. ‘What was he like with you?’ I asked.

‘Tough.’ The tendons on his hands now looked like they were going to burst out of his skin. ‘Demanding. Strict.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Occasionally violent.’

I swallowed thickly. ‘That’s awful… It must’ve been so hard, having to live with him after your mother died.’

There was another swishing silence. I watched the windscreen wipers go back and forth like twin metronome arms. I couldn’t stop thinking about his childhood. How had he coped with his mother’s death? How had his sister coped? What responsibilities had Alessandro taken on that made him feel so guilty for his sister’s problems? How difficult must it have been to live with the man who had exploited his mother? Was that why he hadn’t told me anything of his childhood? Because it had been too bleak and lonely and Dickensian to verbalise?

‘He hated me for defending my mother,’ he
said finally. ‘He believed a son should stick with his father, no matter what. He was of the opinion that women were inferior. That they only existed to service the needs of men.’

‘Yes, well, I’ve met a few of that type in my time.’ I couldn’t stop myself from saying it.

His eyes cut to mine. ‘I didn’t use you, Jem. I know it probably felt like it at the time, but I really wanted things to work out for us.’

I wanted to believe him. Even after all this time, and with all the simmering hurt that weighed me down so much, I still wanted to believe him. The foolish hope that refused to die annoyed the hell out of me. I thought I’d packed that part of myself away and thrown away the key.