The Italian's Virgin Bride

by Morey, Trish

  She dropped the foil and discarded the wire with the efficiency of a practised veteran. She popped the cork theatrically, laughing at the gush of foam before looking around frantically. ‘Oh, quickly. Glasses!’

  He strode to the concealed wine cupboard and pulled out one glass, holding it to the streaming bottle.

  ‘Only one?’ she asked, her eyes wide and her mouth pouty and petulant. ‘Aren’t you going to share a toast with me to celebrate the new year? I was so excited when I learned you were here. I’m so sick of that dull publicist of mine—couldn’t wait to get away from him.’

  ‘No, nothing for me,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think it would be better if you left. I’m expecting someone any minute.’

  Her glass stopped, mid-swig, and she pulled it from her lips, her skilfully blue-shadowed eyes narrowing. ‘A woman?’

  ‘As it happens, yes.’

  Her eyes glinted, calculating. How had he ever thought her attractive? Of course she was classically beautiful and perfectly packaged, the blonde hair, the tapered nails, the spray-on sequin dress showing way too much leg and lashings of cleavage.

  But for all her high-gloss exterior, she had none of the colour of Opal, none of her spirit and strength of character. None of her warm, lush curves that moulded to him perfectly at night. He sighed. He missed her more than he realised.

  ‘So it’s over, then, with the Australian piece. I knew that wouldn’t last.’

  ‘My wife,’ he said, taking her arm and pulling her bodily towards the door, ‘is home in Australia, expecting our first child.’

  ‘Already!’ She shrugged out of his grip, making a sound of revulsion. ‘Well, congratulations, I guess. Let me collect my bottle and we’ll have a toast.’ She lunged to where he’d left the bottle while he stood at the door, hands on hips, waiting for her to leave.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he snapped after she’d filled her glass and raised it to him, before taking a hefty swallow.

  ‘Oh, okay, I can take a hint. Just as soon as I powder my nose. You don’t mind if I just powder my nose, do you, Dommy?’

  He stood there, holding his breath, waiting for her to come back so she could get out of his room, out of his life.

  The buzzer sounded and he cursed. He didn’t need Emma here now, not when there was so much at stake. He raked fingers through his hair, his other hand on the knob. It buzzed again and he knew he couldn’t risk waiting for Emma to return in the hopes of getting her out of the door before she could do any real damage. The woman outside might not wait. It had been difficult enough persuading her to come in the first place. He didn’t want to spook her now, not when he was this close.

  He turned the handle and pulled, and in the same instant the phone rang.

  Damn. Whoever it was would have to leave a message; right now it was more important to talk to the woman standing so sheepishly at his door.

  In the distance he was vaguely aware that the phone had stopped ringing, but his eyes were busy drinking in the details of his visitor. She was dressed elegantly, of medium height and still nicely proportioned, though her greying hair and softly lined skin betrayed her age a little. But it was her eyes that sealed it. They looked up at him, uncertainty clouding their greenish blue depths, panic edging them with flashes of colour.

  He took her hand, knowing he’d done it.

  He’d found her.

  Emma chose that precise moment to make her exit, taking in the tableau in front of her, a frown undoing all the expensive work of her botoxed brow.

  ‘Do I know you?’ she said, peering at the older woman, obviously trying to unravel the mystery of how she could possibly know someone so not in her own league. Then she shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  Domenic wasn’t about to bother with introductions, just happy for her to get out of there before the woman changed her mind and fled. He moved back to let Emma pass, getting a hefty dose of the perfume cloud she’d just sprayed herself so liberally into.

  ‘Oh, and I answered your phone, seeing you were busy.’

  ‘And?’ he said, impatient.

  ‘No message.’ She shrugged, making her breasts almost spill out of her dress. ‘Must have been a wrong number.’

  She huffed and turned on her heel and took one step before turning back. ‘Oh, and Domenic, I must say your taste in women is not improving.’ Her lips curled into a sneer and she set off towards the lifts at an exaggerated saunter.

  He was drawing the older woman into his room but there was time for one parting shot before he closed the door. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. My taste in women has never been better.’

  Opal stared at the phone in disbelief. A sleepless night, tossing and turning and twisting sheets into knots, had suddenly got unbelievably worse. She’d had two days to think about their last argument. Two days to be plagued by self-recrimination and breast-beating.

  She’d been so wrong in arguing with Domenic before he left, so childish and churlish and just plain stupid. So she’d decided in the night. She’d ring to apologise and wish him a happy new year and just let him know she was thinking about him and was looking forward to his return.

  And at first she’d thought they’d put her through to the wrong room until something about the woman’s heady American drawl had made her skin crawl and her heart clench. Right then her sleepless night had suddenly become a nightmare.

  Emma was there—in his room.

  And she’d hung up and stared at the phone, damning it with her eyes for being the bearer of such bad news. Awful news. Devastating news.

  She choked in a deep breath. Yet was it so surprising? All along she’d known he was a playboy, had known that women like Opal didn’t keep someone like Domenic happy for long, especially not when they were pregnant and there was no need to sleep with them any more.

  And with whom had Domenic spent his wedding night, after all? It certainly hadn’t been his new wife. No, Emma had been with him then, just as she was with him now on New Year’s Eve in London. That explained his hastily arranged trip, at any rate. He’d been anxious to get reacquainted with his lady-love.

  The details didn’t matter. All along she’d known with her head that this would happen, that no good could come of their marriage. All along she’d known that, despite whatever she felt in her heart, she couldn’t change the man, the fundamental being that was her husband. She’d seen it with her mother. Now she was living it for herself.

  Despair rolled her tight into a ball, rocking her in the midst of tangled sheets and twisted dreams until she tumbled sideways onto the bed. There’d been times when she’d really thought they could make this marriage work, become a real family. There’d been other times when she was sure he was just a whisper away from telling her he loved her too, when the feeling she got from him was so pronounced, it was as if their hearts had spoken to one another.

  But she’d been wrong. It had all been an act. He would never love her. He wasn’t capable of it.

  She couldn’t stay.

  She couldn’t live like her mother. No way could she live with Domenic, waiting for him to come home and throw her some scraps of affection until leaving for his next jaunt, his next lover. She wasn’t strong enough to live with the humiliation. If he didn’t love her, she’d rather go.

  Her hand found her belly, still barely apparent, tucked away under which grew her precious cargo. She had a responsibility to her child, to let it grow up in an environment surrounded by love, in a family bound by love.

  No way could she subject her child to a childhood like the one she’d had, growing up in a family where love and obligation were at odds, with a mother who was so obsessed with getting her husband’s attention that she sometimes forgot that her children wanted and needed hers.

  She rolled off the bed and lumbered to the en suite, getting there just in time to duck her head before her stomach rebelled and she dropped to her knees, gagging and retching into the bowl.

  She wasn’t answering the phone, any
phone. The staff hadn’t seen her. But then it was noon on New Year’s Day, and she could be anywhere. Except Domenic was worried. If Opal had been the one calling when Emma had picked up the call…‘Merdi,’ he whispered under his breath. That didn’t bear thinking about.

  It was long after midnight and the revellers had largely dispersed, the flurries of snow convincing all but the hardiest party-goers to go home.

  It had been a late night. Tomorrow, or rather later today, he’d board his plane and head back to Sydney. In the meantime he should get some sleep but he couldn’t, not before making sure Opal was all right.

  He couldn’t wait to see her, to see her face and watch her eyes light up. Soon, very soon, he thought, as he picked up the receiver yet again.

  Her new bedroom was on the first floor, looking out over the street. It was small but clean, with cheery floral-print curtains at the windows and with nothing to remind her of Domenic. Deirdre had looked puzzled to see her appear with her bag on the doorstep, but one look at the younger woman’s swollen eyes and she’d ushered her into one of the rooms without a second glance. For that Opal was immensely grateful. There was no way she could explain any of this to anyone. Especially when she wasn’t sure she completely understood it herself.

  She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Thank heavens she’d never told Domenic about Pearl’s Place. In the longer term she’d need to find something more permanent, but for now she was safe. By the time he discovered her secret, she’d be gone. For now, though, she could take her time and work out what she should do.

  Soon she’d get out and talk with the others in the lounge and settle into the routine of the refuge, sharing in the meal preparation and clean-up, doing her bit with the chores. But that could wait just a little while. Right now she needed time alone and a chance to catch up on some sleep.

  Children’s laughter filtered in from the hallway. Brittany Scott. She’d been playing on the landing above the stairs, dressing and redressing a collection of old dolls. She’d adopted the space as her own special playroom and she was play-acting with them, giving them different voices. The sound was surprisingly soothing, restful.

  Opal smiled to herself. She was having a child. Would it be a girl? She’d like a girl. Or maybe a boy? That would be good too. He’d look like Domenic and grow up tall and strong and handsome and then he’d go and break some girl’s heart the way his grandfather had broken his grandmother’s, and his father had broken hers.

  She turned her face into the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. There were too many broken hearts. Far too many for such a small planet. But why did hers have to be one of them?

  Summer was on with a vengeance. The next two days were hot and humid, the sun beating down with a ferocity it saved for just a few special, scorching days. People piled into their cars and headed for the beach or the harbour, anywhere there was water and the chance of a cooling breeze. The street was quiet, those who stayed at home sensible enough not to venture into the baking hot atmosphere.

  Deirdre offered to drive to Bondi Beach for the day and nearly everyone jumped at the chance. Jenny Scott stayed back, suffering a migraine made worse by the heat. Brittany wouldn’t go without her mother so Opal agreed to stay and help. It suited her. She wasn’t ready for crowds and fun. She was still too raw.

  It was quiet with them all gone. Brittany was playing with her dolls, playing quietly on the landing so she didn’t annoy her mother, who was flat out in the tiled ground-floor bathroom, trying to keep cool. Opal was in the lounge room, reading a book she’d picked out of the bookcase. It was dark inside, the curtains closed, a barrier against the heat, the hum of a fan the only sound.

  It was quiet and restful and still.

  A window smashed upstairs, crashing glass followed a low boom, the smell of petrol and smoke, and the heady, piercing, terrified scream of a child.

  Brittany. Opal dashed halfway up the stairs, trying to reach the child, but already there was no getting through. Whatever had been thrown in had spread and done its work—the top of the stairs was well alight, the flames building in intensity, smoke coming off in thick black clouds. The smoke detector over the stairs tripped, setting off a piercing shriek. Jenny staggered from the bathroom.

  ‘What’s going on? Where’s Brittany?’

  Brittany screamed again and Jenny looked up, the blood draining from her face. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said, lumbering up the stairs. ‘Brittany!’ she screeched.

  Opal grabbed her shoulders. ‘We can’t go up. Run next door,’ she said. ‘Call the fire brigade.’

  ‘Brittany,’ she cried, trying to push past to climb the stairs. ‘My baby!’

  ‘Go,’ she screamed. ‘Get the fire brigade.’ Jenny stumbled down and out of the front door. Brittany was weeping now, her cries for her mother barely discernible over the thunder of the consuming fire. With the stairs blocked off by fire there was no way up. No way down. Her own bedroom at the front would be well alight.

  ‘Brittany,’ she yelled, her throat thick with smoke, praying the child could hear her. ‘Go into your bedroom and close the door. The fire brigade is coming.’

  At least she hoped they were coming. She ran out the back, coughing, and looked up. Brittany’s bedroom was at the back above the kitchen. Had she made it there?

  There should be sirens. Where was the fire brigade? Where was everyone? She had no idea of time, she just knew that there wasn’t much. She looked around the tiny back garden, searching for something, anything that might help. An old ladder lay propped along the fence, paint peeling and rungs splintering. But it looked solid enough to take her weight. She dragged it out, wrenching it from the tangle of creeper that had tried to claim it and heaving it to the back wall. She propped it up, steadying it as best she could. It was three feet short of the window, but at least she should be able to see something from there.

  She looked around, straining her ears. Where were the sirens?

  She took a deep breath and looked up. Smoke was starting to seep from the cracks around the window. She had no choice. She started to climb.

  It’s not that high, she told herself, trying also not to think about the wobble. Don’t look down! Instead she focused on the window sill above, coming ever nearer. She stopped on the rung three from the top and reached her hands up the wall, grabbing onto the brick sill to support herself before risking the final ascent. She peered through the glass, there was a gap in the curtains, only slim, but she could see the door—it was closed—with smoke seeping under the bottom.

  Please God, let Brittany be safe. Her eyes scoured what parts of the room she could. And then she saw a shoe, a leg. She was huddled under the bed, terrified, hoping the monster outside the door would go away.

  ‘Brittany,’ she screamed. The leg trembled but pulled in further. The door looked as if it was glowing hot and the smoke grew thicker. Any minute the fire would be in the room and upon her. She knew all the advice about not entering a burning building, but she had to do something. And she’d have to be quick. There was a child’s life at stake. If Brittany were her child, she’d like to think that someone would care enough to try to rescue her.

  Neighbours started coming out of their doors, curious as to the ruckus and then running around with hoses and buckets, spraying down the adjoining houses.

  Still no reassuring sirens pierced the air. She was going to have to risk it. She looked around for something to break the window with, knowing she had to do it before that door came down. There was nothing, no loose bricks, no old pot plants. Desperate, she pulled up one foot, slipped off her flat slip-on shoe and smashed the heel against the glass. It went straight through on the first attempt. She strained a hand upwards, twisting the latch on the inside of the sash window, and then heaved against the frame for all she was worth, edging it up. Once she could get her fingers underneath, it came easier and she pushed it high. Smoke billowed over her.

  ‘Brittany,’ she yelled, over the roar of the encroaching fire and trying n
ot to cough, ‘I’m coming. Stay low.’

  Down low, close to the floor, there would be a thin layer of breathable air, at least for a little while. There was still a chance.

  But the curtains were in her way. She tugged them and they fell from the rod easier than she expected. They were more use down there, covering the shards of glass from the window. With a jump she pushed herself up onto the sill, her ears picking up a new sound over the roar of the fire.

  Sirens. At last!

  Should she wait? Could Brittany wait?

  Now she was less than three metres from Brittany. The heat was incredible, the air super-charged as flames licked under the door. In a moment the full force of the fire would be on them.

  She couldn’t stop now.

  On her belly she pushed herself through the window, landing with a crunch on the fallen curtains and the bed of glass. Something stuck into her but there was no time to look and less chance to see. She got into a crouch, keeping her head right down, and set off across the floor towards the bed that was the young girl’s sanctuary. She called out to her, trying to reassure, trying to keep her calm and in one spot. If Brittany panicked and moved now she might not find her in the red-tinted ashen gloom.

  Her head hit the bed. She ducked her arm under it, flattening herself right down, groping, searching. Until she found what she was looking for and her hand descended on a tiny ankle, a child’s thin calf. She tugged gently.

  ‘Brittany!’ No response.

  Panic gripped her. But she’d just seen her move. She couldn’t be dead. She tugged harder on the leg. She didn’t want to hurt her but right now that was the least of their worries as the door glowed hot, flaming around the edges.

  The child was so light, she came easily into her arms, a tangle of bony arms and legs, but then sat in her arms a dead weight, Brittany’s head rolling life-lessly. But there was no time to check if she was okay. She turned.

  Where was the window? Everything was black and grey, choking smoke and ash. She clutched the child tightly, unable to crawl close to the floor with Brittany in her arms and battling to breathe, and struck out in the direction she hoped would lead her to the window, their ticket to life.