Chapter Eight
Hennessy
IT IS HARD to swallow, to breathe. My throat is full of panic, despair and regret.
Because I shouldn’t have let this happen.
I should have known that last time was an anomaly, a one-off miracle, a fire caused by a lightning strike.
I was greedy when I should have been satisfied with the memory of that one perfect night in New York.
But I thought I was cured. Of course, I was kidding myself.
There is no cure. I can tell myself that I relaxed my guard too early—or not early enough.
But the truth is I don’t know what it is that lets in that slippery, suffocating panic.
All I know is that it creeps in, under my skin, blotting out my heartbeat, stifling my breath…
and the weight of it is pressing down on me.
‘I need to move,’ I say, and I push my hands against his chest, letting my hair fall in front of my face as he shifts his weight. ‘I’ve got a cramp in my leg,’ I lie, rubbing my calf.
‘I can do that,’ he says, and he starts to massage my leg, but the firm press of his fingers makes my lungs seize up. He can never know that I faked it.
His other hand moves against my hip, a caress that I want to reciprocate but can’t, because then he will see that I am a fraud.
That I am damaged, incomplete, a let-down.
And I don’t know why that would feel like the worst thing.
I only know that it would be. Worse even than him finding out that I have spent most of my life feeling like a stray cat.
So, I need to confuse what is happening now.
‘It’s fine. I just need to stand on it.’ I edge backwards to a kneeling position and then get to my feet, still avoiding his gaze. ‘And I need to get up anyway.’
‘You do?’ His gaze is like a tangible thing, and I want to push it away with my hand, but instead I start to pick up my clothes.
‘I want to go to bed. My bed.’
I can feel the pounding of my heart. For a moment he doesn’t speak but I can sense his confusion, his disbelief. But then this has probably never happened to him before.
‘Of course, if that’s what you want.’
It isn’t.
It is.
It’s both. But to explain why would be too complicated, too unbearable.
‘I think it would be a good idea.’ I pull the dress over my head. ‘I’m not saying it wasn’t fun—it was—I just think we don’t need this complication.’
His gaze moves over me. Is he relieved? Angry? Indifferent? I don’t know and I can’t let myself care.
‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ Snatching up my clothes, I walk swiftly out of the living room. As soon as I reach the hallway, I practically sprint up the stairs and into my bedroom. I close the door and press my hand against my throat and the ache that is building there.
I thought it was going to be okay. That I was okay.
And it was, at the start. It wasn’t a performance.
My hunger was real. The noises I made, the pulse between my thighs, all of it was real.
I felt powerful, alive and demanding. But then he changed tempo, slowing things down, changing position, moving on top of me—and all that power and hunger just evaporated.
There is no lock on the door, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t be sleeping in the bedroom anyway.
Now I am on autopilot. I have a routine, and I snatch Albert from my bag, pick up the top and shorts I sleep in and a pillow from the bed. I have a momentary panic when I can’t find my phone, but I will just have to wing it.
I lock the door. My heart is still thumping against the confines of my ribs, but I strip off, ignoring my reflection, and wrap the bath robe around my body, swaddling myself.
If only there was someone out there for me.
Someone who would see me and still hold me close.
For a few seconds downstairs, I thought it might be Renzo, that together we might have cracked this paralysis that comes over me.
But I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone.
What would be the point? He could have any woman in the world. Why would he ever want a woman like me?
I sleep badly, even for me, jerking awake multiple times throughout the night. At some point dawn starts to creep into the room. I get up and switch off the bathroom lights, then I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
It has gone ten when I wake. My shoulders tense as I open the door, but the bedroom is empty, and I do my usual trick of pulling back the duvet and thumping the pillows to make a head-shaped indent.
Finally, I go downstairs and breezily greet Paola.
‘Buongiorno.’
‘Buongiorno, Signorina Wade. I can bring coffee and cornetto to the terrace. Signor Valetti asked me to tell you that he will see you for lunch.’
I feel relief and a sting of rejection, which is stupid and irrational, because I pushed him away. But at least it will give me longer to get my game face on.
Breakfast revives me, and I ask Paola if she has seen my phone.
She hasn’t, but I can’t face looking for it right now, not if it means going into the living room and replaying what happened yesterday.
Besides, all I would do is end up scrolling through all the negative stories with the word ‘Wade’ in the headline.
Instead, I wander round the garden. There are little brick archways and rough-edged paths that remind me of my grandmother’s garden in New York, and there’s a tree with wide, flat branches that looks like the perfect place to hide from the world—or, more specifically, Renzo.
I pull myself up onto the lowest branch and hunker down against the warm bark.
What would have happened if I’d stayed living with her?
Would my life have been different? Would I have finished school and gone to university?
Would I have had normal relationships because I wouldn’t have been carrying around this unwieldy mess of fear and doubt that makes it so hard for me to let people get close?
‘Hennessy?’
Renzo is frowning up at me through the leaves. My body tenses for a variety of reasons I choose to ignore, but he looks so beautiful with the sunlight gilding his face that I can’t help but stare at him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I wanted to see if I could still climb trees.’
‘Clearly you can, so perhaps you could come down.’
There is an edge to his voice, and I want it to be concern, but it’s probably irritation given that every single day he has to clear up a mess made by one or more members of the Wade family.
Hopefully he isn’t going to bring up yesterday’s encounter on the sofa.
I climb down slowly, feeling his gaze on my back.
‘I thought we could go and grab some lunch. There’s a restaurant I like in Praiano. It’s only five minutes away in the car.’
He wants to do what…? My relief that we aren’t going to discuss last night is forgotten as I gaze up at him in confusion.
‘I don’t understand. Aren’t we trying to stay off-grid? Isn’t that why we came here?’
‘We came here because I thought you needed some time away from the spotlight.’ He hesitates. ‘Back in Milan, I know it must have seemed that I was angry with you. But I was angry for you. The party was a triumph. I didn’t want all your hard work or your sleep to be wrecked by one stupid photo.’
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out my phone and holds it out.
‘I didn’t want you torturing yourself. Obviously, that photo of your parents hasn’t disappeared entirely, but there’s a hurricane brewing off Florida, so they’ve been relegated to a couple of paragraphs.
I thought we might celebrate at a quiet little restaurant I know that just so happens to serve world-class food… ’
Cantina Caterina is very small, so small that I think we have mistakenly wandered into someone’s front room.
‘Don’t worry,’ Renzo says as we walk to our table. ‘The clientele are local people. If you don’t grow up in Praiano then you are irrelevant. Plus, I’m pretty sure most of them still use landlines, not smart phones.’
Renzo is clearly relevant. As we walk through the tiny restaurant, the two waitresses trip over themselves to welcome him and the other diners get to their feet and greet him warmly. But as soon as we take our seats everyone returns their attention to their food.
Which is understandable, I think a little later, putting down my cutlery after finishing what has to have been the most delicious home-made ricotta I’ve ever eaten.
‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Signor Valetti?’ the waitress asks as she takes away our plates. She glances at me but seems dazzled by Renzo.
‘Yes, thank you, Monica.’
‘You know her name? You must come here a lot, and tip large—or is there some other reason that she’s being so nice to you? Because I’m famous—infamous, some might say—and she’s only got eyes for you.’
‘And that bothers you?’ He sounds amused but there is an intensity to his gaze that makes me feel agitated.
‘No,’ I say quickly, too quickly. He smiles now, and I’m not just agitated but adrift, because Renzo’s smile feels like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm.
‘Okay, maybe it does a little.’ I pinch the grissini he is holding to hide my reaction. ‘But it’s not often my star power gets eclipsed.’
‘Your star power could light up the whole of Italy,’ he says, snatching back his grissini. ‘And the reason the staff here are so attentive to me is because I own the restaurant.’
Of course he does. Because this is his world. The rest of us are just living in it. Leaning back in my seat, I shake my head. ‘So, this is your restaurant. And we’re staying in another of your properties, and we flew here in your helicopter. Do you ever let anyone else call the shots?’
‘Not often. Although there is this one woman…’ I feel a blistering rush of dizziness as his eyes lock onto mine. ‘When I’m with her I’m more than happy to get down on my knees.’
We stare at one another for what feels like centuries in a silence that is only broken by the return of Monica bringing us our mains.