Moth To The Flame

Juliet’s thoughts were frankly sombre as she tidied the apartment and washed the breakfast dishes. Any pleasure she might have derived from the prospect of her first day’s sightseeing in Rome had been almost destroyed by Jan’s news—or at least her attitude to it.

She supposed she should have been relieved for all their sakes that Jan’s lover was willing to stand by her and give their child a name, and that Mim would not have to be burdened with a scandal that would wound her deeply. It was all very well to argue with herself that this was the age of the permissive society, and that unmarried mothers were no longer treated as outcasts. The world had not changed as far as Mim was concerned. If Jan had come home confessing that she was pregnant and deserted, Mim would have instantly supported and comforted her, but Juliet knew just what the cost would have been to her mother whose principles had been formed in a gender, more old-fashioned mould. Quite apart from anything else, the fact that it was Jan, the lovely and the beloved, who had betrayed Mim’s deeply held views of chaste behaviour would have been a blow from which Mrs Laurence might never have recovered no matter how brave a face she might put upon it.

Life had not been easy for her since her husband had died leaving her a widow in her late thirties. Materially they had been provided for, but Mim had never been able to hide the fact that she needed her husband’s strength, and Juliet had often considered that it was a pity that her gentle, rather diffident mother had never remarried.

In their younger days, both Juliet and Jan had always taken care to protect Mim from the seamier side of life, as revealed in the media and often in the lives of those about them. There was much, they had tacitly agreed, that it was better for Mim not to know. Now Jan herself had spoiled this tender conspiracy, but what troubled Juliet was not so much the mess her sister was in but her attitude towards it and its solution.

For one thing, she had never given Juliet the slightest indication that she was in love with the unknown Mario. Juliet even had a clearer picture of the hostile and disturbing Santino than she had of her future brother-in-law. All she had really gathered about Mario was that he was in awe of Santino to a certain extent and apparently dependent on him. It was also clear that if these considerable hurdles could be cleared he was capable of giving Jan the standard of living she had apparently decided she wanted, and glancing round at the luxurious fittings of the apartment, Juliet decided wryly that this was no small consideration. But she had no idea at all how the couple actually felt about each other.

They were obviously physically attracted to each other, and presumably, if he was going to marry her in defiance of his brother’s wishes, then Mario must be in love with Jan. Perhaps that was enough, Juliet thought unhappily. Hadn’t someone once said cynically that in every relationship there was one who loved, and one who allowed such loving? It was not an idea that appealed to her. Juliet had no very clear idea of the man she wanted, but she had always taken it for granted that their feeling for each other would be totally mutual. Where love was concerned, half a loaf would certainly not be better than no bread at all.

On the other hand, maybe she was worrying unduly. Jan had always condemned her for being too sentimental. Perhaps now she was in love and shy about exposing her deepest feelings even to her own sister. After all, as Juliet was forced to admit, they had never been close confidantes. Jan had always had her own friends to talk and giggle with for hours on the telephone and presumably to confide in even before she left home.

Perhaps, she thought sadly, if I’d encouraged her to trust me in the past, I’d have some insight now into what she’s thinking. If she doesn’t love this Mario, if it’s all been a terrible mistake, then it would be much better not to marry him, no matter how wealthy he may be. Even Mim would say that.

Yet at the same time she couldn’t believe that Jan was marrying just for the respectability of a wedding ring. Her sister had never seemed to care much for such conventions.

She must love him, she told herself. After all, she’s carrying his child.

She was torn from her reverie by the sound of the front door buzzer. Rather hesitantly, she walked over to the intercom and pressed the switch.

‘Hello,’ she said, feeling inadequate.

‘Scusi, signorina.’ The answering voice was male and a little startled. ‘I bring flowers. You open, please.’

Juliet unfastened the chain and opened the door. Sure enough it was a delivery man in a green uniform carrying a long box, filled, as she could see through the cellophane which wrapped it, with long-stemmed red roses.

The delivery man was staring at her. ‘Signorina Laurence?’ he asked, producing a clipboard from beneath his arm, and indicating where she was required to sign for the flowers. For a moment Juliet hesitated, wondering whether she should explain that she was not the actual recipient for whom they were intended, but another Signorina Laurence altogether, but eventually the horror of having to explain the ramifications to someone who clearly spoke only broken English convinced her that the easiest thing to do was smile and accept the flowers as if they were hers, and she hastily signed ‘J. Laurence’ where his finger pointed.

‘Grazie.’ He tipped his cap, gave her a look of full-blooded admiration and departed.

Juliet closed the door and stood looking at the flowers in her arms. She could see no card to indicate who had sent them, but she thought it must be Mario, and that it was odd of him to send them at a time when he knew Jan must be out working at Di Lorenzo. But at least it was the sort of gesture which gave indisputable evidence of his devotion. However, if she left them in the box, they would probably be dead by the time Jan got home this evening.

She hunted round in the kitchen cupboards until she found a suitable jar and arranged the roses in it before carrying it through to the salotto. There was a small occasional table positioned by the window and she lifted it across to stand behind the sofa, and placed the vase on it where it could be seen as soon as anyone entered. It would be a nice welcome for Jan when she returned, she thought.

On her way out, she paused at the front door to make sure the key Jan had given her the previous evening was safely tucked away in an inside pocket of her shoulder bag, and to take one last look at the apartment and make sure she had left everything secure.

As she turned away, the red roses in their flamboyant beauty caught her eye. The traditional symbol of love, she found herself thinking as the lift carried her swiftly downwards, and that being so, why the sight of them should have sent an involuntary shiver down her spine, she had not the slightest idea.

CHAPTER TWO (#u8d5f4bc7-81c8-5e5f-a034-26088a082e04)

BY the time she was ready to return to the apartment, late in the afternoon, Juliet had forgotten her earlier unease in the sheer joy of finding herself in Rome for the first time.

She’d had no difficulty in deciding what to see first. She knew that Jan would draw the line at ecclesiastical architecture, no matter how renowned, so her first day’s sightseeing was spent touring St Peter’s.

Accordingly she found herself walking slowly up the Via della Conciliazione and into the huge Piazza which Bernini had designed centuries before. This was the scene she had glimpsed so many times on television at Easter and other festivals, and today the square seemed almost deserted in contrast, with the knots of tourists concentrating their ever-busy cameras on the famous colonnades and their statuary.

For a moment she felt almost disappointed because it all seemed so familiar, and then she saw someone going up the steps in front of her towards the church itself, and its sheer immensity took her by the throat.

She spent the rest of the day touring the church itself, exploring St Peter’s from the dizzying view over Rome from the tiny balcony high up in the dome, to the early Christian grottoes. She wandered around the Treasury, gazing in awe at some of the priceless treasures which had been presented to the Vatican over the centuries, her imagination constantly stirred by them, in particular by the cloak that legend said the Emperor Charlemagne had worn at his coronation. Later, as she stood before Michelangelo’s exquisite Pietà, shielded now from possible vandalism behind a glass screen, she felt involuntary tears welling up in her eyes. No photograph or other reproduction could do it justice, she realised.

She was physically and mentally exhausted by the time she had seen everything she wanted to see, and it was a relief to find a taxi and make her way back to the apartment, her mind still reeling from the overwhelming size and magnificence of the church.

As she went into the foyer of the apartment block, she looked towards the porter’s cubicle to smile at the man who had wished her a cheerful happy day as she left that morning, but it was a strange face looking back rather sourly at her through the glass partition, and she guessed that the shift must have changed. She felt rather foolish as she rode up in the lift. You simply did not go round in Italy beaming at strange men, she reminded herself sternly as the lift halted and the door opened.

Glancing at her watch, she supposed it would still be some time before Jan returned, although she had little idea of the sort of hours her sister worked. Sure enough, the apartment was empty as she let herself in, and yet she had the immediate feeling that it was not quite as she had left it.

Again, she found her eyes travelling to the vase of red roses, and her heart gave a small painful thump as she saw a large white envelope leaning against it. Cool it, she told herself. You’re getting as bad as Mim with her premonitions.

The envelope was addressed to her and it was Jan’s writing. She could not repress a feeling of alarm as she tore it open, and the contents were hardly reassuring.

‘Darling,’ wrote Jan, ‘Sorry to leave you in the lurch like this, but I must go away for a few days. Big brother is out to make trouble, and I simply can’t risk waiting any longer. Next time I see you, I shall be Signora Vallone. Wish me luck. Yours. J.’

Juliet stared down at the note, her heart pounding, then a sudden feeling of anger overwhelmed her and she tore the paper into tiny pieces. Her own sister was getting married, and these few curt lines of explanation were all the announcement or involvement that she could hope for. And for Mim, of course, it would be even worse.

It had apparently not occurred to Jan that her sister might wish to witness the ceremony, even if she was dispensing with such luxuries as bridesmaids. She had not even permitted her to meet the bridegroom before the wedding took place.

She went through to the kitchen and disposed of the torn fragments and the envelope in the refuse bin, telling herself to calm down. There was little point in wishing that Jan was other than she was. She had always been very lovely and very selfish, and the spoiling that her loveliness had induced had merely increased the selfishness, she thought rather desolately.

She looked round her irresolutely. There was plenty of food, she knew. All she had to do was prepare some. And things could be very much worse, she reminded herself. True, she was disappointed that Jan was getting married in haste and secrecy, but judging by the reference to Santino Vallone in her note, she had her reasons. But she had the free run of the apartment in Jan’s absence, and only herself to consider for the next few days.

But she did not feel like a lonely meal after her solitary day. Jan would probably not have been particularly interested to hear about her experiences, but she would have lent an indifferent ear all the same. Now there was no one to share even at the remotest level her sense of wonder at all she had seen, or listen to her plans for the following day, and she felt almost childishly hurt.

Oh, damnation, she thought angrily, brushing the stinging tears from her eyes with a dismissive hand. She was in grave danger of relapsing into self-pity, which was not a failing she usually suffered from. What she had to do now was make the most of her remaining time in Rome, because when Jan returned she would be on her honeymoon, and that was a situation which she would not be able to intrude upon no matter how lonely she might feel. Jan’s return in fact would have to be the signal for her departure.

But she wouldn’t spend the evening brooding. She would shower and change and go out for a meal. The decision made, she felt infinitely more cheerful. As her stay was going to be inevitably curtailed, she could afford to splurge a little bit more on her daily spending. She walked through the bedroom and into the bathroom beyond, discarding sandals and clothes as she went.

It was bliss to wash the dust and heat of the day from her body under the shower, and she didn’t bother to use the shower cap hanging on the peg by the tiled cubicle. There was a range of talcs and toilet waters on a glass shelf above the bath and she sampled a few of them before scenting herself liberally from the most exotic. She picked up a towel and rubbed at her damp hair which tumbled in a copper cascade about her naked shoulders. She was just on the point of returning to the bedroom when she heard the door buzzer sound.

There was a towelling robe hanging on the back of the door and without pausing she grabbed at it, thrusting her arms into the sleeves and tying the belt round her slim waist. At the top of her mind was that it could be Jan, or even Mario come to invite her to go with them to what was, after all, a family occasion. As she hurried barefoot along the gallery towards the door, it occurred to her that the robe was much too large for her. In fact it would also have been much too large for Jan as well, and flushing slightly she realised it must belong to Mario. Perhaps he had merely moved out for a few nights to accommodate her, she thought as she fumbled for the chain on the door. In any case, it was none of her business.

The buzzer sounded again, loud and imperative, and in her haste she forgot all about the preliminary precaution of using the door intercom. Even as the door swung open, a warning note sounded inside her head, but by then it was too late, because the man who had been waiting impatiently on the threshold was already pushing his way past her into the apartment.

Juliet controlled a gasp of fury. Who does he think he is? she raged inwardly as the newcomer strode down the steps to the salotto and stood looking around him. If it was Mario, brother-in-law or no, she would give him a piece of her mind, but suddenly it was borne in upon her that Mario would surely be a younger man, and an unpleasing conviction began to take hold of her mind as she studied her peremptory visitor.

She felt at an utter disadvantage, of course—her hair hanging round her face in damp tendrils, and wearing nothing except this robe which plainly didn’t belong to her. She was in no fit state to cope with anyone—least of all this stranger who behaved as if he owned the place.

He was very dark, she saw, with thick hair untouched with grey, growing back from his forehead. He was deeply tanned with a high-bridged nose and a mouth that despite its sensual curve looked as if it had never uttered the word ‘compromise’ in its life. His eyes, when he swung back to look at her, were surprisingly light in colour—almost tawny, she found herself thinking, and oddly sinister against the darkness of his skin. And he was good and angry. About that there wasn’t the slightest doubt.

For reasons she could not have explained even to herself, Juliet found that she was instinctively tightening the sash of that stupid robe.

He rapped a question at her in Italian, and she shook her head.

‘I’m sorry.’ She was ashamed to hear a slight tremor in her voice. ‘Sono inglese. No comprende. Do you speak English?’

‘Of course I speak English,’ he snapped furiously, and so he did, faultlessly with barely a trace of an accent. ‘But I understood, signorina, that you spoke fluent Italian. Or is that merely another of the fairy stories that my impressionable brother has chosen to believe about you?’

Juliet swallowed. So her instinct had been right. His height alone should have warned her. He was certainly taller than most of the men she had seen that day, lean too, in an expensive dark suit with a silky texture. He had pushed the jacket back and was standing watching her, his hands resting lightly on his hips. But there was no relaxation in his pose. She was reminded all too strongly of a mountain lion about to spring.