Chapter 13 #4
The safe clicked open and he reached inside, pulling out something that Michelle couldn’t see at first because his hand was wrapped around it.
‘My chronograph,’ he murmured fondly. Moving over to the nearest bedside table, he laid on top of it a fancy gold wristwatch that had dials set into its face.
With fussy precision, he screwed the minuscule winding crown back into place. ‘Reunited,’ he breathed, stepping back to view the results.
Michelle heard the catch in his voice and saw him lay his hands on his heart. While admiring the extra luminosity that a flush of tears gave to his eyes, she couldn’t help being startled by the depth of his emotion.
It was only a watch, after all.
‘Grazie.’ He turned to her, tears brimming, and seized both her hands in a grip that was surprisingly powerful.
‘Thank you, thank you, tesoro mio! Grazie mille! Tu sei la mia salvezza e la mia dea!’ A frenzied delight must have chased every word of English from his brain, because he kept gabbling in Italian as he kissed her hands, over and over, his lips warm on her skin.
Michelle was as taut as an overstretched elastic band. If she didn’t snap in half, she thought, she might just scream. Somewhere in the back of her brain, a little alarm was chiming ‘no physical contact clause’. But she ignored it.
‘Non capisci . . . Scusami – sorry, sorry, English, I must speak English – you don’t know what you’ve done for me.
’ He drew her towards him, pressing her hands to his chest and squeezing them so hard they almost went numb.
By this time, she was almost nose to nose with him.
‘I swear, this watch is part of my soul. Before Nonno died, he had me take it off his wrist and strap it onto mine. I’ve been collecting watches ever since . . .’
Michelle’s knees were shaking and she hoped to God he hadn’t noticed. Unable to look at him, she dropped her gaze.
‘I’m so glad I could help,’ she whispered to his neck. God, he had a sexy throat. Her mouth on that throat, the rasp of that stubble on her lips. Oh, hell.
As she caught her breath and peered up at his face again, something shifted in it. His eyes widened, then narrowed. The fluttering heartbeat she could feel in his tight grip quickened. He swallowed and blinked.
Releasing her hands, he took a step back. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, with alarm. ‘I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’
What was he sorry for? In a daze, Michelle stammered, ‘No, it’s – it’s all right.’
‘It’s not all right, I broke our contract. My apologies. That was uncalled for.’
Before Michelle could offer any reassurance, a ringtone blared – ‘Habanera’, from Carmen. He stiffened, then snatched his phone off the bedside table. ‘I’m sorry, I must take this,’ he said, formally and politely, tapping as he turned away.
Bianca’s perfectly made-up face appeared on the screen in his hand. For a sickening moment, Michelle locked eyes with her.
‘Michelle?’ Bianca’s eyes narrowed.
Michelle ducked.
‘Do you know each other?’ Filippo sounded confused.
‘Of course I know her – we went to school together,’ Bianca snapped. ‘What’s she doing in your bedroom?’
Filippo grimaced at Michelle. ‘Scusa,’ he said, before swiping the screen and putting the phone to his ear.
Michelle’s iridescent bubble of happiness instantly burst. She stood there as he rushed into the bathroom; through the half-closed door she could hear him muttering, ‘. . . thanks for calling back . . . she’s not what you think – it’s business .
. . because we need to talk, and resolve things .
. . yes, I know, but it’s not that simple.
Yes, I have. With some help . . . un po .
. . but they’re our issues, not just mine . . .’
Should Michelle stay? Leave? The safe was still hanging open – did Filippo want her to close it?
‘Yes,’ he was saying, his voice deeply serious, ‘I understand that, but you need to understand my thoughts, also. We are both busy . . . To see what future there is for us, that’s why! Che cosa? Well, a shared house, for one . . . I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised . . .’
Mortified, Michelle touched her burning cheek.
All this talk of the future suggested some kind of ongoing relationship, as had the ringtone of Carmen warbling ‘L’amour’.
Because really, what did Michelle know about this couple?
Walking out on each other might be their love language, as might their subsequent reunion and passionate make-up sex – perhaps in the very bed she was standing next to. It might happen all the time.
The truth, she admitted to herself, was that she was pathetic.
She’d always been pathetic when it came to her love life.
Welling tears blinded her, and she realised she had to leave.
Eavesdropping wasn’t dignified – and anyway, she couldn’t bear it if Filippo saw how upset she was.
She went back downstairs, where she collected her books and possessions, and all the remaining snacks in the living room.
Then she loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the benchtops, telling herself that her sessions with Filippo had been a huge success.
She’d done what she came to do. He obviously felt so confident about his ability to live with someone that he was reaching out to his ex.
That was good, surely? A vote of confidence in her job as a Dreamwife?
One little frisson did not a romance make, Michelle thought.
She’d been ridiculous to expect otherwise, and now she had to restore things to a professional footing.
The hand-kissing had thrown her, but then Filippo was Italian.
Italians were always throwing kisses around. They were a touchy-feely nation.
Hearing the rapid tattoo of Filippo’s feet on the stairs, Michelle began to scrub fiercely at her mother’s wok. When he finally appeared in the doorway, she offered him a big, fake smile.
‘Mi dispiace,’ he said, his brow crumpling, ‘that was so rude – the call, and what I did up there – and I had no idea you knew Bianca—’
‘It’s fine! Don’t worry!’ Her brisk and cheerful manner seemed to throw him. ‘I think it was a pretty successful evening all round, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I was going to finish off with a quick fridge clean-out, which would be a lesson in how to compromise on what to keep and what to get rid of, but I don’t know if it’s necessary.’ Michelle just wanted to get out of there. Now, before she blew it. ‘How about we call it a night?’
He frowned. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘You seem pretty confident to me, and you’ve obviously abandoned a lot of self-sabotaging habits.
I’m really impressed with the strides you’ve made.
And you must be too, or you wouldn’t be communicating with your ex .
. .’ Michelle rambled on for a while, cobbling together some account-manager jargon with a dash of therapy-speak she’d picked up from Katrina.
‘And if you feel yourself reverting, try a few corrective exercises. Give your cleaner a day off. Eat a meal of microwaved leftovers.’
‘This is because of what I did.’ Filippo’s voice was bleak. ‘I’m so sorry. I broke the physical contact rule. It’s my fault. You felt harassed.’
‘No, no,’ she said, waving her hand airily. Actually, it was his fault, but not in the way he was thinking. ‘Don’t worry about it. Please, this is just my professional assessment of your progress.’
‘But it’s early!’
‘A little, yes. That’s why I’ll only charge you for three hours instead of four.’
He fell silent, apparently shocked by that. Michelle gathered up her wok and her bags and headed for the front door, feeling a lump in her throat that she hoped wouldn’t transform into a howl before she reached her car.
Filippo followed her, saying, ‘You’ve helped me so much. You’re a worker of miracles. I don’t like to think – is there nothing . . .? Oddio, can we keep in touch?’
Oh, yes. A quick, friendly coffee with Filippo (and Bianca?), six months down the track. How unfraught that would be! Michelle knew from long experience that it would be best to cut things off quickly and cleanly, like an amputation. A lot of pain up front, better in the long run.
She paused on the doorstep, turning to take a mental photo of him. That jaw, the strong shoulders, the dishevelled hair . . . those eyes. ‘Do you feel you can handle some of the challenges of a shared domestic life, now?’
He raised his eyebrows, then gave a cautious nod. ‘Yes, I think I’m better than I used to be . . .’
‘Then my work here is done. No reason to contact each other again. Good night.’ Michelle strode off briskly, taking care not to look back.
Her car was parked across the street, and as she climbed in, she saw Filippo still standing in his doorway, a dark figure framed by light.
Godammit! She was going to have to drive, even though she was so deeply distressed she could barely breathe, let alone steer.
But first she had to send Katrina a message. Leaving early, she texted with unsteady hands, adding another champagne-bottle emoji though she’d never felt less like celebrating. The whole world seemed suddenly desolate. What was she going to do with herself for the next hour – day – week – year?
Pulling out from the kerb, she saw that Filippo hadn’t moved. She tossed him a cheery little wave, reminding herself that he had perfect manners; as a hotelier, he would be expected to make sure his female guests didn’t get mugged on their way to the car park.
Turning a corner, Michelle finally lost sight of his house. Up ahead, there was an empty spot beside a couple of industrial bins. She parked there, pulled out her phone and scrolled down to ‘Vissi d’arte’ from Tosca.
As the soaring soprano filled the little car, Michelle gave in to her wretchedness and let the hot tears spill down her cheeks.