Chapter Thirty-Two
The months since her official launch as an artist had been good to Emerald and she easily earned enough to move back to her apartment. She was financially secure and upbeat again, although acute loneliness tugged at her in the evenings. She had spent her life looking after herself and was used to her own company, but since rebuffing Marco, a different kind of loneliness emptied out her reserves of composure, even though she was busy most evenings, sorting out gallery pictures and interviews.
Marco had, as she had anticipated, returned to Italy — according to Finbar — and she endeavoured to forget all about him. She mostly failed, especially when she met up with Finbar, who talked non-stop about how loved up he was with one of the stewards he’d recruited specifically because he had “eyes you could drown in”. Finbar appeared to be running the new airline splendidly, and Marco had shown his face and then upped and left almost as soon as the first flight had become airborne, as if his sole purpose had now been completed and he’d lost interest.
Emerald felt incomplete — suspended in time, as if the present was transient and she was waiting for her real life to start again. It kept her on the wrong side of happiness and she was tired of being unhappy. She simply played out the role that was expected of her, listening to Anna’s sage advice and entering into the world of promotion and marketing with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
She appeared to have been allowed into an inner sanctum of eclectic artists who were in Anna’s care, and was more often than not ferried to her destinations in a private aircraft or helicopter as if it were no more than an Uber cab.
To this end, one sunny day in July, she boarded an aeroplane to Florence, her thoughts turning inevitably to Marco as she took her seat. It was a private business aircraft and there were four other passengers, accompanied by Anna, attending the opening of a large gallery that was going to display their work. All were Italian and their native tongue was music to her ears, although it brought a kind of sadness with it too. She was looking forward to visiting Italy once more and it made her wonder if she was perhaps cured of Marco, since she was feeling overall so positive about the trip.
The aircraft landed with barely a quiver of silver wings as rubber met tarmac, and the procedure she was becoming used to started all over again: handing their passports to a waiting representative who took them to customs, settling into a black Mercedes and sitting back enjoying the view from the window until they arrived at their swanky hotel. She supposed Marco had lived like this for all of his adult life. It certainly made life a lot easier. Money talks, they said. It certainly did.
She climbed out of the car at their hotel destination then froze, her senses on overdrive. She’d been to this particular hotel before — it was where she’d had the disastrous meeting with Rick, her almost then-boyfriend, as she thought of him now. That meant that Marco’s hotel was only minutes away, she realized with a pang. Although she knew that the odds on him being there were slight, she couldn’t shake it from her mind.
She showered and changed, flicked the television channels over, checked her notes and marked off in her iPad the pictures that were up for sale. But still she couldn’t settle. In the end she picked up her key card and popped it in her handbag. She knew where she was heading, even though she didn’t know why.
The hotel was no more than a short stroll away and she took in the surroundings that she remembered so well. She half expected a feeling of remorse and shame to consume her as she thought of the fateful night that she had met Marco, but her memories were surprisingly comforting.
She paused outside Marco’s hotel, unsure if she wanted to go inside, but she took a deep breath. Just for old times’ sake , she told herself striding determinedly into the Crepuscolo bar. She gazed up at the magnificent ceiling, wishing she could see the replica that he had created in the refurbished hotel in the Isles of Scilly.
She sat down on one of the bar stools, her movements mimicking those of that fateful day, except, of course, for the glaring absence of the lead male role. Ordering a sparkling water, she glanced at the bartender, but it wasn’t the same man as before.
As she sipped at her drink, annoyed at herself for dwelling on past events, the bartender pushed a bowl of olives towards her. She noticed with a jolt the plastic daggers spearing their tender hearts and felt as if she was on some kind of a time loop. Olives were one of those foods she wasn’t sure if she loved or hated, but she picked one up and toyed with it, anyway. She decided to try one and raised it to her mouth, when she was stopped by a voice behind her.
‘Careful, they’re tricky little buggers, if I remember rightly.’
She spun around, almost toppling off her seat. Marco stood there, eyes narrowed as his gaze skimmed over her drink. He looked away immediately, but not before Emerald had seen the movement.
‘Sorry, old habits and all that,’ he said.
Emerald’s heart was pounding. She had thought she wanted to put an end to the memories, but now that Marco was standing in front of her, she realized that wasn’t why she had come at all.
‘Why are you here? I thought we’d said all we had to say.’ His tone wasn’t aggressive, but neither was it the welcome home, darling , greeting she might have preferred.
‘I was thirsty.’ She took a hefty swig of her drink to prove the point, offended by his bitter tone.
He picked up an olive and popped it into his mouth. ‘And I’m quite hungry.’ He looked at her. ‘Why don’t we go for something to eat?’
She hunched over her drink in the possessive way she had done the last time she was in this bar. ‘I’m fine right here,’ she mumbled into her drink, the hairs prickling on her neck as she felt his eyes on her back.
‘Fine. May I sit here?’
‘Your bar — sit where you like.’ She cursed her words. Why was she being like this?
Marco ran his fingers through his hair, clicked his tongue in annoyance and shook his head. ‘I’m so pleased to see you have matured since the last time I saw you.’
She couldn’t help but laugh. She was being childish but he brought out the worst in her sometimes. He was so bloody proper. She straightened her spine. ‘Hello, Mr Cavarelli. No, I don’t know why I came here tonight, either, except that I was passing and I thought I’d take a walk down memory lane, since I have such fond memories of our time together.’ She waved to the barman. ‘A white wine, please, a large one.’
Marco fired off some Italian at the bartender and he reached under the counter.
Something snapped in Emerald. ‘Don’t tell me I’m getting water again! I am a bloody grown up and if I want a glass of wine, I’ll have a bloody glass of wine.’
‘ Si, Signore .’ The bartender brought out a chilled bottle and two glasses. He kissed his fingertips. ‘One of the best in the house.’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Oh,’ she said, disconcerted.
Marco said, ‘I just thought that if you were determined to do this again, you might as well have a good vintage. Less of a hangover the next day, too.’
‘Oh, okay. Sorry.’ She huddled back over her drink. She should leave right now, but she felt an invisible thread pulling her towards Marco. Her mind told her she needed to break the thread and walk, but her body was egging her on to weave it tighter still.
Marco poured the pale liquid into each of the glasses and lifted one up towards her. ‘Cheers.’ He took a sip and put the glass back on its little mat. ‘That is a very good wine, try it.’
She looked at him, puzzled. What was he trying to do, pretend that nothing had changed, or act as if they were on a date? She lifted the wine to her lips and the aroma hit her before the taste. A heady mix of honey and vanilla assailed her and she closed her eyes, savouring the taste before the liquid slid gloriously down her throat.
Marco looked at her closely, a small smile playing around his lips. ‘ Si . That is how you should drink wine.’
She nodded, almost speechless as the flavours teased her palette. She gazed into her glass, aware that Marco continued to stare at her, his eyes gentle. He reached out a hand and although she recoiled at his immediate touch, he didn’t draw it away, but started trailing circles on the skin of her wrist until she felt obliged to look at him.
‘Emerald.’ His voice was gentle and he sounded weary. ‘Can we please move on from this?’
‘I gave myself to you and I trusted you — and you repaid me by sacking my colleagues — and me.’ She’d been through this before, told him this before, and yet she hadn’t been aware how deep her hurt ran as her eyes pooled with tears, even though she was boiling with anger. She dashed the tears away savagely and glared at him.
‘Emerald, I needed to get rid of dishonest staff, you must see that.’
Emerald was open-mouthed at such logic. ‘But not me!’ She picked up her wine glass and took a huge slug.
‘No, not you, that was never part of the plan, if you’d let me explain. And can I just mention — that is really not the best way to appreciate that particular wine.’ He pointed a finger at the bottle, but hastily withdrew it when Emerald shot him a withering look and drained her glass in a single gulp. ‘Quit telling me what to do, will you? I didn’t mind when I was in love — when I knew no better — but you have no rights over me now.’
‘Okay, you can drink it that way, if you wish.’
He winced as she slammed the glass down.
‘Emerald,’ his voice held a note of urgency. ‘Please take the time to listen to me, if nothing else.’
She sighed and thrust out her chin, looking at him mutinously. ‘Okay. Go on.’
‘Can we at least retire to my rooms to talk this through?’ He picked up the bottle of wine and his glass, indicating for her to follow.
She pulled a face behind his back and regretted it, feeling as if she’d betrayed Marco when she caught the eye of the bartender who sniggered conspiratorially. She snagged her glass and caught up with Marco. ‘You have rooms here?’
‘Yes, on the top floor. My family and I use them when we are on business, but I find that recently, I have been staying here more often.’ This was the first Emerald had heard about it — but then, she knew little about Marco’s private life. They walked to the top floor, Emerald puffing a little. ‘Haven’t you heard of lifts?’
He threw her a smile. ‘It would be sacrilege to change this beautiful building, would it not?’
She gazed around at the intricate panelling and the large entrance hall that could be seen from the first-floor gallery and had to agree with him. Stone statues and formidable portraits brought back uncomfortable memories, and she turned away from the imposing figures, lest they remembered the drunken girl of earlier and looked down their aristocratic noses once more.
Marco unlocked a large oak door at the very top of the building with an old-fashioned brass key and kicked it open with his foot, holding the wine bottle and his glass in the other hand. Light flooded in through slatted blinds and Emerald blinked as her eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine. She looked around as she waited by the doorway for Marco to invite her in, noticing a decidedly feminine touch in the Italian decor. She wondered if his wife had chosen the furnishings.
As if reading her mind, Marco said, ‘My mother collects the Royal Copenhagen figurines. She comes here in the winter when it’s cold in the mountains.’ He studied Emerald, apparently wondering what to do with her now she was in front of him. ‘Let’s sit on the balcony. The sun isn’t so fierce now.’ He opened the large French windows and stepped outside inviting Emerald to join him.
She followed him outside and sat on a rattan sofa with big squashy cushions. Marco sat down next to her, closer than was comfortable and she shifted over a few inches.
He breathed in, pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and took a long breath out as he studied her and considered his words. ‘Emerald.’ He reached out a hand and touched her hair, running a rogue tendril through his fingers. ‘Emms.’ He smiled weakly, testing her, and she smiled back, suddenly shy. It was such an insignificant moment but it seemed to melt away all of the hostility that had backed up, festering in her mind and stopping her from living.
She looked at the man she’d missed so much, and wanted, right then, to turn the clock back. ‘I’m so sorry about how it’s all been, Marco.’ Tears pricked her eyes and she wondered when she had become such a baby. She was always blubbing these days. ‘It’s just . . . I’m so lonely without you.’
But if she thought Marco would fall at her feet at her apology then she had read him all wrong.
‘I understand that you were hurt by my actions, but you misunderstood them. As you know, I take the security of my business very seriously and let me assure you that none of my actions came from anything you told me in the Scilly Isles. I needed people I could trust. It was purely business and there was no room for emotion.’
Emerald nodded, taking in his proud face, his jaw with just a hint of stubble, his impeccable business suit, and the tie — undone just slightly, adding to the overall package of a successful man in control of his life. She wanted him to kiss away her own unhappiness. She wanted him to love her in return, and if he didn’t react soon she thought she might throw her arms around him and beg him to make love to her there and then.
‘I am sorry that we can’t be together but I realize we are too different, yet too similar in our determination and our principles.’ Marco looked down at his hands, unhappily.
What the . . . ? ‘Sorry, I wasn’t concentrating. What did you say?’ She was convinced she’d misheard him, but her fingers started to tremble.
‘I said I’m sorry that we could not make it work, and I understand. I just wanted to explain why I acted the way I did.’
‘That’s all?’
He nodded. ‘Thank you for giving me this opportunity.’
Emerald had to remind herself to close her mouth. ‘So, when I saw you at the exhibition and . . . I, err, became undressed.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Is that what you were going to tell me?’
‘Became undressed?’ He smiled at her words but nodded in acquiescence. ‘In essence, yes.’
Heat flashed across her cheeks at the memory of what she’d done — enticing him to stare at her in an almost naked state. She closed her eyes. Dear God, would it never end? ‘Okay, thanks for putting the record straight.’ She picked up her bag. ‘I’m glad we’ve sorted that out. I’d better get going now.’
‘No, please . . . Finish your drink first.’ Marco tried to grasp her hand but she was too quick for him.
‘Gotta go, bye. Thanks again,’ she added for no discernible reason other than inherent good manners, and was out of the door before he could stop her.
She didn’t stop until she had fled down the stairs and out of the hotel, where she leaned against the outside wall, gasping for breath, screwing up her eyes against the pain. It hurt too much. Everything to do with Marco hurt too much. It had to stop. This was the end of it.
She pushed herself away from the wall, resolutely. She would finish her tour at the end of the week and start afresh. She would not dream of what might have been, or look over her shoulder every time she heard an Italian accent.
Her old life was finally done.