Chapter 9
JUNO
I feel dreadful. My head’s a cloudy mess and my body is tense with mortification.
I’d not meant to sound so critical when, for the first time ever, Sandro had come before I’d had a chance to. But I’d been so close to orgasm, with him hitting the perfect spot inside me, it was extremely frustrating when he suddenly stopped.
Not that he hadn’t made it up to me.
But now there’s a strange, fractious sort of atmosphere between us.
It hums in the air like a dangerous swarm of insects just waiting to strike.
My heart races as we make the short drive home, with Sandro sitting tight-lipped beside me, his powerful body rigid and his concentration fully focussed on the road ahead of us.
Perhaps he’s deliberately withdrawing from me now our time together is nearly up.
My heart contracts painfully at the thought of leaving Florence. Of leaving him.
How can I even think about going back to my steady, closeted life in London when I know there’s so much more for me here?
With him. Not that that had ever been on the cards.
He’s been pretty clear all the way through that he’s not interested in having anything serious with me.
And why would he choose me anyway? I’m nothing like the women he’s dated in the past. I don’t have the pizzazz or street smarts he seems to go for.
I wonder whether he’s beginning to worry that I’ve become too emotionally attached to him and that’s why he’s going cold on me – to make it easier on us both when I leave. It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s incredibly intuitive like that.
In fact, now that I’ve finally grown up, I realise he’s actually the kind of man I’d like to spend the rest of my life with.
Someone who excites and inspires me, brings me out of my shell, encourages me to explore new facets of myself without judgement.
There’s so much more depth to his character than I’d given him credit for when we first met.
I’m actually ashamed of myself now for judging him on such superficial terms. Clearly there’s a lot going on with him that he’s not been able to express because of the strictures of his family’s expectations of him.
‘Sandro?’ I ask tentatively. ‘Is everything okay?’ I’ve already asked him this once, but he ignored the question.
This time he gives me a nod, but it’s terse, and so unlike the warm responses I’m used to getting from him.
Tears burn at the back of my eyes, but I’m determined not to let them fall. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to emotionally blackmail him. That wouldn’t be fair at all. Not after what he’s done for me – without ever asking for anything in return.
I suppose I should start to get used to the idea of letting our time together go. But it’s such a horrible thought I immediately push it away.
Not yet.
Luckily, there’s a free parking space right outside our building and Sandro pulls into it and we both get out of the car.
I’m still so deep in thought I don’t realise what the bright flash of light that nearly blinds me is for a second.
‘Fuck off!’ Sandro shouts at the photographer who’s just run up to stick a camera right in our faces, pushing me behind him to try and shield me from the lens. ‘Leave us alone, you piece of shit!’
The guy just leers at him with a contemptuous expression. ‘You’ve changed your tune. Last week you were begging me to take photos of the two of you. What’s this meant to be – some kind of stunt to eke out your popularity in the gossip columns?’
‘I said fuck off!’ Sandro says again, this time stepping menacingly towards the guy.
The photographer takes a step back, dropping his camera to his side, as if he’s afraid Sandro’s about to snatch it. ‘You fucking celebrity socialites make me sick.’ And he spits on the ground at our feet before stalking away.
I stand rooted to the spot, paralysed with confusion.
All through that shocking incident I was mostly upset by the blatant disregard for our privacy – it brought back all those old feelings of humiliation from my teens – but now the guy has gone his words begin to penetrate my brain and a heavy feeling of dread sinks through me.
‘Sandro?’ I say shakily. ‘What did he mean by that?’ My heart’s thumping a heavy, painful beat against my ribs.
‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it,’ he says gruffly. But I’m not going to let him fob me off. I reach up and put my hand on his jaw, turning his face towards me so he has to meet my gaze.
‘What aren’t you telling me? Why did he accuse you of asking him to take photos of us?’
There’s a guilty look in his eyes now and cold panic spikes my chest.
‘Did you call him?’ I demand, with a sudden rush of fear.
‘Yes,’ he replies hotly, turning away from me so I can no longer see his eyes.
I stare at his rigid back as he strides towards the door to our building.
‘What? But… but you told me I was being paranoid about photographers following us round the city. You’ve actually been setting it up to happen?’ I shout after him.
‘Let’s talk inside,’ he says, glancing around as if he’s worried there’ll be more press hiding in the shadows, taking down our every word.
He heads up the stairs before me, not slowing his pace so I can keep up with him as he usually does.
I’m out of breath by the time I reach our apartment and my blood rushes thickly through my veins as I try to prepare myself for what I’m about to hear.
I’m already vibrating with tension, knowing it’s not going to be good.
Why would he do something like this to me?
I just can’t reconcile it with the Sandro I know. It has to be a mistake.
He’s already inside as I walk through the door on shaky legs.
‘Why?’ Anger permeates my voice, along with panic. ‘Why would you do something like that when you know how much I hate being photographed by the press?’ I ask him.
He doesn’t answer, just kicks off his shoes and shrugs off the tux jacket, then starts to walk towards the living area.
‘I need a drink,’ he mutters, his back to me.
‘Sandro? Talk to me!’ I demand, running to catch up with him and putting my hand on his arm to try and stop him.
‘Because my father told me to!’ he shouts back.
I physically recoil, horror sinking through me. ‘Why would he do that? I don’t understand.’
‘Because I needed to give the press some good pictures of us together in order to navigate a situation I created,’ he says, roughly shoving his hands through his hair.
‘What situation?’
He sighs and rubs at his forehead. ‘A photo of me appeared in the society press the day after the party in Chelsea and my father wasn’t happy about it.’
‘Why wasn’t he happy? What’s the photo of?’
‘I got in a fight at the party after you’d left.
A guy there insulted a woman I was talking to, so I hit him.
’ He holds up both hands. ‘But I swear to you, it’s not like me to lose it like that, which is why I didn’t mention it.
I didn’t want you to think I was a violent person and walk away from our deal.
I was just in a bad mood that night and I overreacted. ’
‘Was the bad mood because of me? Because of what I… implied?’ The idea that I’d set this awful chain in motion horrifies me.
‘No, of course not,’ he says, batting away my words.
‘I was drunk and the guy was out of line. But my father wasn’t pleased about it getting into the press and wanted me to make amends.
Which is why I needed you to act the part of adoring “good girl” girlfriend to help me convince him I was serious about restoring the family’s reputation. ’
‘Why didn’t you just ask me to go along with it?’ I ask, not quite able to believe I’m hearing this.
‘Because I thought you’d refuse after what you said about your experience with the press. I thought you wouldn’t agree to come to Florence with me, and I needed it to look real. I was afraid it wouldn’t look right if we were both pretending.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I can be a good little actress when I need to be. I’ve done it all my life. Pretending I’m okay when I’m not,’ I spit angrily.
‘Well, I didn’t want to ask you to do that.’
‘No, because you’re too bloody proud to ask for help, aren’t you?’ I jab my finger at him. ‘So you lied to me instead.’
‘I never meant to lie,’ he shouts back. ‘And I didn’t think you’d ever find out about it.’
‘So you’ve just been pretending to find me attractive all this time? Playing dumb to gain my sympathy, when actually you’re a smart, conniving con artist. You’re the one who’s been manipulating me.’
‘Playing dumb? I fucking knew it. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? How many degrees and awards someone has.’ The look in his eyes is so full of hurt, I take a step backwards and wrap my arms around my body.
Shame slides sickeningly down to my gut as I remember how I misjudged that side of things before I met him.
‘How much of what you told me about yourself was made up?’ I counter in defence.
‘None of it. It’s all true, every word,’ he bites back.
‘How do you expect me to believe that now though, Sandro? How can I believe anything you say to me?’
All those memories of us together, where he’d shown me affection and been so kind, take a dark turn in my mind. Were all of them fake? They hadn’t felt it at the time, but maybe I’d been kidding myself, wanting them to be real. Wanting him genuinely to like me as I am.
Had I gone and fallen all over again for the same trick that Malcolm had played on me?
Panic and pain well inside me, making my head throb. I really want to cry, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of an emotional response.
‘You were so offended when I accidentally mentioned money to you, when we first talked,’ I blurt, using my anger to hold myself together. ‘But you were more than happy to whore yourself out for a few photographs in a newspaper. For publicity.’
I can see a muscle working in his jaw. ‘Yes, but only to restore my reputation and my family’s good name.’