Italian Surgeon to the Stars (18 page)

‘Ready?’ I said.

She nodded and jumped off the bed, and
went to pick up her bag from where it was on the floor.

‘Here,’ I said, and reached for it. ‘Let me take it for you. It looks heavy.’

It wasn’t—but I wondered wryly if I would turn out to be one of those musical-instrument-and-sports-equipment-carrying parents I had so roundly criticised.

You’re not going to be a parent
.

The internal voice was a jarring reminder of the obdurate stance I had taken as a result of my heartbreak. Five years on and I was still punishing myself for being naive. I was denying myself a lifetime of joy and fulfilment because I had been let down by a man who hadn’t loved me the way I thought he should have.

But the more I knew of Alessandro the more I worried that I might have got it wrong about him. He was not a man to turn his back on responsibility or a commitment he had made to someone.

Yes, we’d had a whirlwind affair, but people
did
fall in love quickly. It wasn’t unusual. Sometimes the most passionate and enduring relationships were the result of instant attraction.

And it didn’t come much more instant that ours.

I had allowed bitterness to cloud my judgement. Not only bitterness—insecurity. Loads and loads of insecurity. I swear if anyone knew how much baggage I was carrying around I’d be charged extra on flights. I had always thought of myself as damaged goods. It was what I’d believed since I was thirteen years old. I wasn’t worthy. I didn’t deserve to have it all because I felt it had all been taken away from me.

But what if I could get myself to the stage of wanting it all again? Believing I was not only worthy of it but actively
seeking
it? Expressing my needs without fear of rejection or ridicule?

Scary thought.

Claudia was silent for most of the journey to my flat. But then, just as I pulled into the one available space on my street, she turned to me and asked, ‘Are you going to marry Un-c-c-c-le Alessandro?’

My chest gave a tight squeeze as she struggled over the word ‘uncle’. The hard consonants were still a problem for her, but at least she wasn’t avoiding saying them. ‘What
makes you ask that?’ I said, in the most casual tone I could muster.

She gave a little shrug that would have looked out of place on a sixteen-year-old, let alone a six-year-old. ‘Just wondering.’

‘We’re…friends.’

Her big brown eyes were trained on me. ‘
Best
friends?’

I opened my mouth and then closed it. I had told Alessandro more than I had told anyone.
Ever.
Not even my sister, Bertie, had been privy to my darkest secrets. Did that make him and me best friends?

‘Why don’t you ask him?’ I said.

‘I will.’

Another scary thought.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
CLOSED THE BOOK
I had been reading to Claudia as a bedtime story and set it on the bedside table in my spare room. I’d read the same story to her four times because she’d said it was her favourite.

The Three Billy Goats Gruff
was a favourite of mine when I was a kid too. To tell you the truth it’s still a favourite. Particularly since the advent of social media, where there are more trolls around than ever.

But don’t get me started.

I watched Claudia’s dark spider-leg-like lashes resting on her cheeks. Her soft little rosebud mouth was parted slightly as she drifted into deep sleep. I had the most compelling urge to press a kiss to her little forehead.

Teachers these days aren’t supposed to have unnecessary physical contact with their pupils.

But right then I didn’t feel like her teacher.

We’d decided she was to call me Jem while she was with me. She would have to go back to addressing me as Miss Clark when she was at school. But I didn’t want her to be worried the whole weekend about her lisp and her stutter.

I tiptoed out of the spare room and gently closed the door. I had a sudden flashback to when my mother would sometimes tell Bertie and me a story when she put us to bed…or whatever it was we were sleeping on during that phase of our lives. I seem to remember a hammock at one point, and a yoga mat on the floor of a circus-sized tent.

My mother didn’t read the standard children’s books of the day. No way. She made stuff up. Fantastical stuff—whimsical tales that went on and on until Bertie and I were roaring with laughter at the absurdity of the characters and their adventures and mishaps. She even let us offer alternative endings. That had been so much fun.

How could I have forgotten those times? It was so easy to concentrate on the bad things, the times when things hadn’t felt right for me, but there were many times when things had been good.

I had never felt unloved. I had never been abused in any way. I had never been smacked. I had never been spoken to with harsh or punitive or shaming words. I had long lamented and criticised the lack of structure in our lives, but I had overlooked the benefits of being allowed to find my own personal boundaries. I hadn’t had control and discipline enforced upon me externally. I had been allowed to develop it internally, which surely was far more powerful and lasting.

I looked at my phone, lying on the kitchen bench. Actually, it sort of looked at me—a bit like my wedding dress. Should I call my mother and apologise? I chewed at my lip. I hate apologising. I hate being wrong. Call it pride. Call it stubbornness. Call it avoidance. I had climbed so far up on my high horse I had vertigo.

But before I could call my mother, my phone started to ring. It was Bertie, who’d called to tell me about a bridesmaid dress fitting.

‘I hope you’re not going to make me wear some frothy, frilly thing I’ll never be able to wear again?’ I said.

‘I’ve got a lovely design picked out,’ Bertie said. ‘How do you feel about pink?’

‘What shade of pink?’

‘Hot pink. Fluorescent hot.’

I smothered a groan. ‘You’re going to make me wear fluorescent hot pink and stand in front of how many people, for how many hours, with a rictus smile on my face for all the photographs? That’s taking sisterly love
way
too far.’

Bertie giggled. ‘Just wait till Alessandro sees you in it. He’ll be knocked sideways.’

‘What makes you think
he’s
going to see me in it?’ I said.

‘You’ll bring him to the wedding, won’t you?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you’re seeing him.’

‘Your wedding is four months away,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t had a relationship last longer than a month since we broke up five years ago.’

‘Isn’t that telling you something?’

‘Yes—he’s a playboy who doesn’t want to settle down,’ I said. ‘He’s told me he’s not in it for the long haul. But then neither am I.’

Bertie made a tut-tutting noise.

‘What?’ I said.

‘You’re going to end up one of those crazy old ladies with a hundred cats for company in her dotage.’

‘Maybe I’ll have rats.’

‘Euueew!’
Bertie said, and then quickly changed the subject. ‘So, what are you doing this weekend? Are you seeing Alessandro?’

‘I’m minding his niece.’

‘Wow!’

‘There’s nothing “wow” about it,’ I said. ‘He’s got a research meeting in London and the school is closed. Claudia has nowhere else to go. It’s the least I could do. She’s a great little kid. No trouble at all.’

‘Wow.’

‘Will you stop it with the “wows”, already?’ I said.

‘So when will you see him again?’

‘Late tomorrow night, if he gets back in time, or maybe Sunday.’

‘Are you in love with him?’

‘Why are you asking me such a ridiculous question?’ I said.

Bertie gave a dreamy-sounding sigh. ‘I thought so.’

‘You
thought
so?’ I said. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I have to go,’ Bertie said. ‘Matt’s just got back from the hospital. We’re heading out for dinner. ’Bye-ee!’

I stared at my phone’s blank screen for a
moment before putting it on the coffee table. I had barely sat back against the sofa cushions when it rang again and the screen indicated it was Alessandro.

I put on my cool and businesslike voice as I answered it. ‘Jem Clark speaking.’

‘Hi.’

I wasn’t sure how he could make one syllable of greeting sound so sexy, but he did. I felt a shivery frisson go right through my body. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Did you want to talk to Claudia? I’m sorry—she’s fast asleep. She stayed up later than normal, because it’s not a school night, but—’

‘I should’ve called earlier but I was held up in Theatre.’

‘It’s fine—she understands,’ I said. ‘We’ve talked about your job. She likes the fact you save lives. It gives her street cred with the other girls. Not every girl has a famous uncle.’

‘Has she talked about her mother?’

‘A little.’

‘What did she say?’

‘It was when we were choosing a book to read before bed,’ I said. ‘She told me her mother used to read to her at night. I got the feeling it was quite a while ago. I didn’t press
her on it. I figure she’ll talk when she’s ready to talk.’

‘Thanks again for minding her. I’m not sure how to make it up to you.’

‘It’s not a problem—really. She’s an angel.’

There was a little silence. But then I heard a phone or a pager ringing in the background.

‘Sorry, Jem,’ he said. ‘I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow if I get held up.
Ciao
.’

I looked at my blank screen for the second time that evening. ‘’Bye,’ I said, and sat back against the sofa cushions with a sigh.

***

I spent a fun day on Saturday with Claudia. I had some grocery shopping to do in the morning, and Claudia seemed to enjoy helping me with it. I planned to do some baking with her during the afternoon, as it was something I’d missed out on as a child. My mother would have freaked out at the sight of white sugar, white flour and butter. I never got to lick the beaters or scrape out the bowl after making cupcakes or brownies.

Not that I’m bitter about it.
Much
. I really had to stop harping on about my mother. Anyone would think I needed a therapist. I still hadn’t called her. My mother—not my
therapist. I don’t have one. But I was starting to think maybe I should.

After we dropped the shopping at home Claudia and I went for a walk to my favourite park, where we fed the ducks and ate a picnic lunch. Then we spent a lovely afternoon baking. The smells coming from my kitchen were amazing.

I had never really thought of my flat as a home before. It was just my accommodation. My place of residence. But filled with the smell of cupcakes and chocolate crunch slices and lemon meringue pies—I’d gone a little overboard on the sweet stuff, but Claudia didn’t seem to mind—my flat began to feel like home. Especially with a little girl propped at my kitchen bench, with sticky hands and cake batter around her smiling mouth and a swipe of flour across her cheek.

I had another flashback. Mum and me at a campsite, with the warm glow of the fire and the smell of a delicious beany sort of curry that she was showing me how to cook. It was a Mum-and-me moment. We didn’t have too many of them, as there were always a lot of other people around. It’s like that in communes. No privacy. But that time we had the campfire to ourselves.

I can’t remember how old I was…maybe seven or eight. But I do remember the way she made sure I wasn’t too close to the hot coals—made sure I kept my sleeve away from the heat as I stirred the pot that was propped on the stones that surrounded the fire. I remember thinking at the time how many generations of people must have done that, from way back in primitive times to the present day. Cooked around a campfire. Swapped stories. Shared wisdom. Shared recipes for food, for life, for love.

I looked at my phone but didn’t pick it up. The excuses were there, like scouts turning up for a parade. The kitchen was a mess. My arms were up to the elbows in flour. I had Claudia to mind. I had a cake just about ready to come out of the oven.

Truth was—I was a coward.

***

I think it was all the sugar that made Claudia resist going to bed that night. Or maybe it was because she was hoping her uncle would make it back in time to say goodnight before she went to bed.

I’d read several stories, and even made up one or two of my own, thinking of my mother with a sharp little pang. But after a
while I realised it was pointless unless Claudia was tired.

I left her playing with some of the toys I’d managed to salvage from my childhood. There wasn’t much. My parents hadn’t believed in giving Bertie and I gender-specific toys. We’d made our own out of sticks and twigs and bits of fabric—which, now that I thought about it, was pretty cool. Kids today get given so much they don’t have to use their imaginations. Bertie and I had played shops with shells and stones and sea glass behind a sandcastle counter. It had been brilliant fun.

‘Do you have a dress-up box?’ Claudia asked when I went in to check on her after I’d done the dishes from supper.

‘Give me a second,’ I said, and went to my bedroom.

I heard the soft pad of her little feet following me. She was like a loyal little puppy, following its new owner. I couldn’t help feeling chuffed that she’d bonded so well to me.

I slid the wardrobe door back just far enough to get out a pair of heels and a hippie kaftan my mother had given me for my birthday. Needless to say I had never worn it. It was a bright vomit-coloured swirl, but I thought Claudia wouldn’t mind so long as
it was long and floaty and grown-up. There was also a hat I’d worn to a friend’s wedding, a couple of handbags and scarves, and a long string of fake pearls.

The satin bag with my wedding dress inside was still safely at the back of the wardrobe, still behind my hiking jacket. Even though I knew it would be the ultimate in dress-up for a six-year-old girl, I left it where it was.

The doorbell sounded, but Claudia was too engrossed in putting her tiny feet into a pair of my heels so I left her there while I answered it.

Alessandro was standing there, with a box of handmade chocolates and another bunch of flowers. Lovely old-fashioned cottage flowers—white lilacs and blush-pink peonies that would have filled my flat with their gorgeous fragrance if it wasn’t for the lingering smell of home baking.