Chapter Twelve #2
He’d taken over one of the many unused downstairs rooms and turned it into an office, filling it with high-tech comms, enthusiastically telling Eleanora it would enable him to cut down on the time he needed to be in Rome and Milan.
Her heart had twisted. How painful it would be when, living their separate lives again, he would spend so much of it here at the Palazzo.
How will I bear it? Him being so close—and yet I won’t be part of his life any longer.
Would it be too painful to bear? A terrible sense of irony assailed her.
The Palazzo she loved so much would be restored, made a home again—but for them separately, not together.
She would have to see him living here, coming and going as he would, no longer his wife.
He would entertain here, filling the Palazzo with his guests.
Bringing other women here.
She felt a chill go through her. What if, in that unbearable time ahead, he brought Tonia?
No. She silenced that poisonous thought immediately.
Her sister’s venomous claims were only malice, designed to wound and undermine.
Or figments of her vanity, her alley-cat morals when it came to adultery.
Some men might stoop to an adulterous affair.
With absolute certainty, she knew Sanzio was not one of them.
Nor, despite Tonia’s assertions, did he have any interest any longer in Tonia—he never spoke of her without condemnation.
Not that he spoke of her at all. Nor did Eleanora.
She hoped only that Tonia had taken herself off to France with Edouard.
A passing shaft of pity for Tonia’s husband went through her.
How long would it take Tonia to show her true colours to him?
Well, he had wealth to lavish on her, all of Paris to display herself in, a grand title to enjoy and a chateau on the Loire to amuse her—that might keep her happy for a while.
And far, far away from the Palazzo.
Where, day by day, my happiness is ebbing away, heading to the end of my time with Sanzio.
And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about it.
* * *
It was the weekend, the fourth since they’d arrived back at the Palazzo.
Summer was nearing its end, they’d had rain several times, good for the gardens, Sanzio allowed.
The nursery had delivered the plants they’d selected earlier, and they’d been bedded in.
Furniture from the antiques specialists in Rome Eleanora had visited had been delivered, and now the grand rooms, both reception saloni and upstairs bedrooms, all freshly painted, architraves regilded, draperies rehung, were starting to be habitable.
Soon the Palazzo would be fully restored. He was looking forward to it.
His mood was good, very good. In Milan he’d persuaded Eleanora that even if she liked to dress down, she didn’t have to resort to cheap casualwear, not when she wasn’t immersed in physical labour.
Now, when they relaxed or went off shopping locally, or even ate out sometimes, she would wear what he had urged her to buy in Milan, smarter and more stylish, even if not formal and dressy.
All the same, his eyes went to her now, looking good in well-cut, lightweight fawn trousers and an equally well-cut darker collarless shirt with turned-back cuffs, accessorised by stud earrings and a couple of bangles, as they headed off in his car, ready to make a day’s expedition to the region’s principal town some fifty kilometres away—bedlinen and cookware from the upmarket department store was on Eleanora’s shopping list—he wouldn’t mind seeing her glammed up again…
‘Shall we hit Rome again before too long?’ he put to her now. ‘Have some grand nights out! You haven’t worn your finery in a while.’ He smiled encouragingly.
Her answer wasn’t immediate. Then, ‘I’m… I’m happier at the Palazzo,’ she answered.
Sanzio glanced at her. There was something in her voice—her expression—that made him say more.
‘It’s very nearly all done now. We can afford to take our foot off the pedal and have another break from it all.’
‘Yes, it is nearly all done,’ she echoed.
Again, he caught something in her voice, her expression, as he glanced at her again, that made him continue.
‘It’s been quite a slog,’ he mused. ‘When you think what it was like when we first married.’
‘Yes—’
She didn’t say any more. Sanzio frowned, decelerating slightly.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. There was something about her today that disquieted him. And not only today. He was being increasingly reminded, he realized, of how she had been in Milan at first. Withdrawn. Distracted.
Then it had been, he was pretty sure, the aftermath to that showdown with Tonia. But what could account for it now? He could think of nothing.
For the most part it was absent, and she was the way she always was with him, had been from the first—except that now, of course, there was so, so much more between them. And in that respect, he felt himself relax again; he had no reason for any disquiet.
In my arms she is all that I want her to be! Clinging to me in her ecstasy as if she would never let me go—
No, that was all just as he wanted.
So why then, at times like this, could he pick up that feeling that she was withdrawing from him? For what reason?
A road junction loomed, and he had to focus on driving. As he made the turn it struck him that she had not answered the question he had just put to her.
‘Is everything all right?’
He wondered why she had not answered.
But he did not want to ask it again. For himself, he could think of no reason why it should not be.
* * *
Eleanora carried the coffee tray, plus some freshly baked savoury Parmesan and rosemary biscotti, to serve as a pre-lunch nibble, out to the pool area.
Sanzio was in the water, his powerful body scything swiftly from one end to the other.
He’d been talking about having a gym set up in one of the several spare ground floor rooms, another sign that he meant to spend time here at the Palazzo.
She gave a silent sigh. In the distance, carried over the clear air, the attenuated sound of the village church bell some five kilometres away sounded Sunday morning.
Memory pierced her. How she and Sanzio had explored the medieval church in that old walled town in Lazio, and she had lit a candle, Sanzio making a generous donation. How long ago it seemed.
How swiftly the time had passed since then. Far, far too swiftly.
She set down the tray on the table, sitting down, pouring herself some water to sip, nibbling at a biscotto.
Yesterday, on the way to buy bedlinen and cookware, Sanzio had asked if everything was all right. She had given no answer.
How could she?
How could she do anything else except cling to each precious day that passed? Each precious night?
Because she could not bear to think of these precious days, these so-precious nights, coming to an end.
An end that was inevitable. Getting closer with every setting of the sun.
Bringing the future she could not bear to think of, that was rushing closer and yet closer still.
All she could do was cling to what remained to her—cling to Sanzio, while he was still hers to cling to.
While he still wanted her, wanted her to want him.
Because soon, so frighteningly soon now, the time to part would come.
She looked about her, out into the gardens beyond the pool, the Palazzo behind her, both now so very, very close to needing no more work at all. Oh, there might be artworks still to be recovered but, other than that, the Palazzo was habitable now.
Signalling, as agreed, the end of any reason for her and Sanzio to stay married.
She felt anguish fill her. It had seeped into her, day by day by day, ever since their return to the Palazzo.
And none of it, none of it, was Sanzio’s fault.
He hadn’t asked her to feel what she was feeling, to be anything other than a pleasant companion by day, an ardent lover by night.
Not wanting, expecting, anything more than that of her.
While all the time, to her, he was so, so, so much more.
But that was not his problem. It was hers and hers alone. Dreading what the future would bring—their sure and certain parting.
It’s for me to face it—deal with it. And that is what I must do.
Sanzio still never made any mention of it.
Neither by casual reference nor by raising the subject of how the practicalities and legalities would need to be addressed, and when.
Yes, the pre-nups were all in place, but divorce took time, and if Sanzio wanted to get his own life back now that the restoration was all but complete, the process of separation, then divorce, needed to be instigated.
She felt the pressure of it weighing her down. Almost as if it were the elephant in the room, looming over her. She might not want to think about it, but it was there all the time, and getting larger with every passing day.
I have to face it—face it and confront it. Prepare for it. Not hide from it or speak of it.
Not behave as if it were not going to happen—neither to herself nor to Sanzio.
I have to show him I know perfectly well that the time is coming.
Show him that I’m facing up to it. That I know that just because we now share a bed does not mean I expect to share the rest of my life with him.
Show him that I know our marriage will end, just as we planned from the outset, and we shall go our separate ways.
She had to steel herself, find an opportunity to make mention of it, make it obvious to him that he would not need to remind her of it. That she knew perfectly well what was going to be happening very soon now.
I have to be brave—start talking about it.
She watched him reach the end of the pool, haul himself out on his strong arms, water peeling from him as he helped himself to his towel, shaking drops from his hair and patting dry his torso. He looked across at her.
‘Give me five minutes,’ he said, scooping a handful of biscotti as he headed off.