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CHAPTER THREE
Ivy squinted atthe Italian countryside through tinted windows, passing at a rate of approximately seventy miles an hour. Antonio had spent almost the entire journey glued to his phone and she let the Italian wash over her in fits and starts.
Before the accident, she’d spent some time studying his language, inspired by Antonio and encouraged by her boss at Affogato, the job she’d kept to help pay the mortgage. Between the rehabilitation centre’s fees and a deposit on a flat, the money Antonio had given her to marry him hadn’t exactly been a free pass on living expenses, but it had been a measure of security and stability.
And those eighteen months had been some of the happiest she’d ever had. She’d even thought about going to university, maybe to study art like she’d always wanted to, but Jamie’s addiction hadn’t been a quick fix. He’d spent a year or two in and out of rehab, and another year getting himself fit to enrol in the army. She’d needed—wanted—to be there for him.
But Ivy still remembered some of her language lessons, so she was able to pick up some things Antonio had said into his phone and, while the business jargon was lost on her, it simply added justmoreto the fact that Ivy was inItaly. And, no matter what had brought her here, the sight of the tall cypress trees on the hill ridge in the distance, the patchwork quilt of farms and vineyards, the heat in the air, so different to anything she’d experienced in the UK, filled her with the kind of excitement that was foreign to her. She would make the most of this, she promised herself. For all she knew, it could be years before she had the money and the opportunity to leave England again.
Before long, the car turned off the main road, venturing deeper into the hills and valleys of the countryside and her curiosity as to what Antonio’s home was like increased. He’d explained that she’d have her own room, and that he was going to bevery busy—she’d all but heard capital letters—and that she could do whatever she wanted, as long as she was there for the appointed visits.
The lawyer, Simon, seemed to be working out the specifics and really, she didn’t need to get involved in what she was sure was a complicated process. She certainly didn’t want to mess it up.
‘A billion-dollar company hangs in the balance… I need to marry Maria.’
She felt a little sorry for Antonio. Not just because he was, six years later, in almost exactly the same position as he had been. But also that he seemed perfectly fine with throwing marriage around as if it meant nothing.
She stared out at the patches of land covered in the blurry yellows of sunflowers or the sunburnt greens of tobacco plants. She’d had some time to think about what marriage meant to her in the last six years, and while nothing in her experience had caused her to change her mind, she still couldn’t help but think that Antonio was just repeating a mistake he’d already made. But then, in some ways, wasn’t she too? Perhaps Antonio was meant to marry Maria after all.
The car pulled off the road again and, to her delight, the tree-lined avenue surpassed even her wildest dreams about Italy. Closing one eye to focus, she followed the winding track upwards and round a corner she caught the glimpse of a villa at the hill’s peak and her mouth dropped open.
Eyes glued to the sight of it, her heart soared. She’d never seen anything more beautiful. Through the tall green slashes of cypress trees, glimpses of soft yellow walls and carved stone features called to her. Here and there, she caught glimpses of another building in soft grey stone rather than plaster. They peered down at the verdant hills and valleys below.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she couldn’t help saying. His attention turned on her like a touch and she felt gauche for being so impressed by something he saw every day. But even that couldn’t take away from the awe she felt as they approached the villa.
The car drew to a halt and she got out as the driver, unable to discharge his duty to her, moved instead to open Antonio’s door. She missed the disruption she’d caused to routine etiquette as she took in the sprawling building that could clearly and easily house twenty people at least.
It was stunning and her fingers itched to reach for the camera in her bag. To peer through the viewfinder, to frame the image in single focus, rather than the double vision that had plagued her ever since the accident. But, feeling the tension rolling off Antonio, she knew that now wasn’t the time to ask.
Even with her vision impaired, the scale and breadth of Antonio’s villa—his wealth—was astounding. He hadn’t inherited this. She knew that he’d been cut off by his grandfather, presumably the moment Antonio had shown proof of his marriage to her. Even in the UK, news of the Italian tycoon’s decision to disinherit his grandson had made the headlines.
She looked back at him to find him watching her, his expression unfathomable, and once again she felt naïve, foolish, but most of all fearful that he thought all she saw was the money, rather than the beauty in his home.
The proud jut of his chin was a warning. His shoulders, drawn in defensive slashes beneath his shirt. He didn’t want her here. It was evident, but not because it washer. His discomfort didn’t feel personal, it felt… Likeshe’dfelt at the thought of him filling her cramped flat back in South West London.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she told him again, this time purposely, hoping that he saw the truth of her words.
He nodded, and turned to pass through the open doors beneath dark grey stone mouldings. The buzz of his phone echoed around the foyer she followed him into, bouncing off the terracotta tiles beneath her feet. He answered while pointing at a discreetly dressed older lady waiting at the bottom of a staircase so grand she expected it to be cordoned off by a red velvet rope. In rapid Italian he both answered his phone and conveyed to the woman, who appeared to be a housekeeper, that she was to take Ivy to her room, before disappearing into what seemed to be an office.
Ivy smiled apologetically at the woman who, Ivy imagined, drew on her professionalism to conceal her shock either at Ivy’s presence or simply her appearance.
‘Le borse, signora?’
Before Ivy could answer, Antonio yelled from the room that she only had the one bag, not to worry about it and just to show her to her room.
Ivy pinned her lips between her teeth to prevent the smile at the older woman’s huff, and was halfway up the stairs before a stream of loud curses turned the air blue.
Madonna mia, Antonio was going to kill his lawyer, burn this day to the ground and leave the ashes smoking, while he went to thetavernain the local village and drowned himself in a bottle of Valpolicella.
They could all go to hell. His family, his grandfather, the judge.
His housekeeper, Agata, began yelling at him before he’d even slammed down the phone, berating him for his coarse language with a few colourful terms of her own. He stalked back out into the foyer and found his housekeeper and his wife—Ivy—staring at him, one outraged, one concerned.
‘What’s wrong?’ Ivy asked.
Antonio drew in a deep breath.
‘It seems in his apparent hurry to ensure that our court-appointed visits are done with as soon as possible, Simon has arranged for the first assessment to take place in—’ he checked his watch ‘—one hour and forty-five minutes.’