Marriage In Peril

Brooke wondered if that was what her mother had believed about herself in the past. That the men in her life had been blinded by her looks, that none had ever really loved Phyllis the person. As a young woman Phyllis had been a stunner, with long blonde hair, creamy skin, big blue eyes, full, pouty lips and a body just made for sin. Brooke was often told she was the spitting image of her mother at the same age.

The years, however, had wrought many changes in Phyllis Freeman. Chain-smoking had aged her skin and bitterness had thinned her mouth. Her once lovely long blonde hair was now cut ruthlessly short and going grey at the roots. A dedicated feminist, Brooke’s mother never went to the hairdresser’s, or wore make-up. She was too thin as well, in Brooke’s opinion, living on cigarettes and coffee.

Brooke worried about her mother’s health.

‘I suppose you refused to consider an abortion,’ Phyllis scorned, ‘being the hopeless romantic you are.’

Brooke almost hated her at that moment. ‘I didn’t consider it for a moment,’ she said indignantly. ‘I love Leo, Mum. With all my heart.’

‘I have no doubt you do, darling,’ Phyllis returned, though her eyes remained cynical. ‘Why else would an intelligent girl sleep with a man without using protection unless she was in love? But why did he, I wonder?’ she mused.

Brooke refused to say a word on that subject. No way was she going to admit to being so instantly besotted with Leo that she’d been quite shameless in her swift surrender to his impassioned pursuit of her. Not to mention totally reckless. She’d stupidly deceived him in matters of contraception that first night because she hadn’t wanted him to stop, even for a second, and she had genuinely thought it was a safe time. The same thing had applied each night over the following week.

But it hadn’t been safe at all. When her period hadn’t arrived at the end of that first marvellous week, she hadn’t panicked. But when it hadn’t made an appearance by the end of another fortnight, and a pregnancy test had confirmed she was going to have a baby, Brooke had been too afraid to confess everything, so she’d pretended that she’d forgotten to take the pill on one of those first tempestuous nights together. At the time she hadn’t been trying to trap Leo into marriage. She’d just been unbelievably stupid!

But he’d been so wonderful when she’d confessed her pregnant state. And not at all angry. Comforting and caring when she’d cried. Solid and strong when she’d said she didn’t know what to do.

‘Don’t worry, mi micetta,’ he’d murmured soothingly as he held her close. He always called her that. It meant little kitten. He said she was like a kitten after they’d made love, practically purring as he stroked her as he liked to do afterwards. ‘We’ll get married as soon as it can be arranged. But not a big wedding. And no honeymoon, I’m afraid. I do not have time for that right now.’

Only occasionally did she feel a stab of guilt over deceiving Leo, but never when in his arms, never when he called her his micetta.

She felt a bit guilty now. Not over Leo. Over her mother. She was probably very hurt by being kept in the dark like this.

But Brooke refused to apologise. Or back down. Once you took a backward step with Phyllis Freeman she went for the jugular.

‘So what does your husband-to-be do for a living?’ her mother asked abruptly.

‘He’s a businessman. His family company imports Italian goods into countries all over the world. Leo’s in the process of opening an office and warehouse here in Sydney.’

‘How enterprising of him,’ Phyllis drawled. ‘And where did you meet this…Leo? He doesn’t sound like your usual style of boyfriend.’

‘He’s been living in a suite at the Majestic till he can buy a house,’ Brooke said, and watched that information sink in.

The Majestic was one of Sydney’s most expensive hotels, a lavish, luxurious concern which overlooked the Harbour and the Opera House, and boasted pop stars and presidents amongst its clientele. Brooke had been working on the main desk for just over six months, and it had been there, on a warm summer evening back in February, just over two months ago, that she’d looked up from the computer and straight into Leo’s incredibly sexy black eyes.

‘So what’s his full name?’ Phyllis asked sourly. ‘This fine, successful businessman called Leo, who’s impregnated my daughter but doesn’t have the courage to face me himself.’

‘He did want to face you,’ Brooke defended. ‘It’s me who insisted on coming in alone first.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really. His full name is Leonardo Giuseppe Parini,’ she said proudly, thinking it was a wonderful name, with a wonderful heritage. Leo had told her his family could trace its ancestors back for generations. In the eighteenth century one of his forefathers had been a famous poet.

‘He’s Italian?’ Phyllis exclaimed, horrified.

Brooke was taken aback by her mother’s reaction. ‘Well…yes. He was born in Milan. But he speaks English perfectly,’ she hurried on, full of pride and praise for her handsome and clever husband-to-be. ‘He travelled a lot with his parents as a child. And he studied business at Harvard. He spent a few years working in New York, then London and Paris. And now he’s here in Sydney. He hardly has any accent at all.’ Just enough to be very, very sexy.

‘His accent isn’t the problem, Brooke,’ her mother bit out. ‘Accent or no accent, he’s a born and bred Italian.’

‘What’s the problem with that?’

‘At least I now understand why he’s marrying you,’ her mother muttered. ‘An Australian man would probably have run a mile. Italian men have this thing about their offspring, especially sons. I hope you realise, Brooke, how Italians treat their wives once a wedding ring is on their finger and they have them under lock and key at home. Like second-class citizens. Chattels. Italian wives are never partners. Just possessions and producers of children.’

‘Leo’s not like that!’ Brooke defended, her face instantly hot with resentment and fury. Trust her mother to start criticising before she’d even met the man. ‘And you’re wrong about Italian men. That’s an ignorant and very offensive opinion!’

Why, her best friend in high school had been Italian, and her father had been a wonderful man. Brooke had loved going over to Antonia’s house. It had been so much warmer than her own. No tension or arguments. Just a whole lot of warmth, and closeness, and love.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Phyllis snapped. ‘All men are like that, given the opportunity. But chauvinism is bred into Italian men. They think they’re gods within their own family circles and demand to be treated as such, no questions asked. Italian women seem to be able to cope. They’re brought up with different values and expectations. But you’re not Italian, Brooke. You’re Australian. You’re also my daughter. There’s more of me in you than you realise, whether you admit it or not. He’ll make you miserable. You mark my words.’

‘You’re wrong!’ Brooke lashed back. ‘He won’t make me miserable because I won’t make him miserable. And I’m not like you. Not in any way. In my eyes, Leo is a god. Nothing is too good for him. I’m never going to drive him away like you did Dad, with your constant arguing and criticising. No wonder he left you. I’m going to give my husband whatever he wants. I’m going to be there for him whenever he needs me.’

‘Become a doormat, you mean.’

‘Not a doormat. A wife!’

‘Same thing, in some men’s eyes.’

Brooke shook her head in despair and frustration. ‘You have no idea how to make a man happy. You never did.’

‘Not if it meant suppressing every thought, wish and opinion in my head! You’re an intelligent girl, Brooke. And you’re quite stubborn and wilful in your own way. If you think squashing everything you are will bring you lasting happiness, then you’re in for a shock one day.’

Brooke said nothing, gritted her teeth and just counted to ten. ‘Are you going to come to my wedding or not?’

‘Would it make any difference?’

Brooke sighed a weary sigh. ‘Of course it would make a difference. I want you there at my wedding. You’re my mother.’

‘Then I’ll be there, I suppose. Just like I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when the honeymoon is over. And it will be over one day, Brooke. I hope you realise that.’

‘Leo and I are never getting a divorce, no matter what!’

‘You say that now,’ Phyllis said as she lit up another cigarette. ‘I wonder what you might say in five years’ time.’

‘The answer will be the same.’

‘I truly hope so, darling. Now…’ She dragged deeply on the cigarette and let it out slowly. ‘Am I going to meet this handsome Italian of yours or not?’ The corner of her mouth lifted in a knowing little smirk. ‘He is handsome, I presume? Never known you to go out with an ugly bloke. Not you, Brooke.’

Brooke’s chin lifted. ‘He’s very handsome.’

‘Then go get him. I’m beginning to be just a little bit curious about Leonardo Giuseppe Parini.’

Brooke was the one smiling when she led Leo back into her mother’s presence, her arms linked tightly around his. For she knew her lover of two months and imminent husband-to-be wasn’t just handsome. He was simply magnificent. In every way.

A mature and sophisticated thirty-two, he was tall for an Italian, at six foot two, with an elegant but well-shaped body and a face Valentino would have envied. It combined the best of all things Latin, with slightly hooded and absolutely riveting black eyes, a classic nose and a highly sensual mouth. His hair was even blacker than his eyes, its glossy thickness giving added style and shape to its up-to-date fashion of being cut quite short. Brooke thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

But it was his presentation which really impressed. His utter perfection in matters of dress and grooming. His coolly confident bearing. His grace of movement.

Brooke’s smile broadened as she watched her mother’s eyes widen and her mouth fall rather inelegantly open.