Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  Now, as they drank their coffee, he said: ‘You should call your friend, Deidre, let her know you are safe. We can use the radio.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Madeleine answered. ‘Maybe later, when we get to Porto Cervo.’

  He nodded. ‘As you wish.’

  They sat quietly then, cradled by the Rosaria on the gentle rise and dip of the waves. The rhythm was soothing and Madeleine rested her head against the side of the boat. Enrico thought she would sleep, but when he looked at her again there were tears on her cheeks. He surprised himself by reaching for her hand, and when she turned to look at him he pulled her head onto his shoulder. Then she slept.

  Later, she found him sitting up on deck. The two crew members were at the helm, and quietly she crept past them and settled herself next to Enrico.

  He looked round. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Her eyes roamed over his tanned legs, which were covered in a mass of black hair. His sinewy shoulders were not broad, but their firmness reminded her that he was a sportsman, and his beaky nose added strength to a face that was almost handsome when he smiled. Turning away, she gazed into the vast, wide open space and followed the sparkling lines of sunlight along the water. It was so peaceful.

  ‘It is beautiful, no?’ Enrico said.

  Madeleine nodded, then swallowed hard against a sudden surge of emotion.

  He smiled. ‘It is a good place to bring sadness because nature is at her kindest when the sea is calm, the sun is warm and the sky is blue. She tells you there is no need to feel trapped by your sadness, because it is no more than one raindrop in the ocean. Here you may see your life as but one strike of a clock in the great passage of time.’ He lay back and closed his eyes. They had been Rosaria’s words the day they had sailed together and she had told him she was going to die.

  Madeleine said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You are sorry? Why?’ His eyes remained closed and she turned back to watch the waves.

  She wanted to say that she was sorry about his wife, but she was afraid to, so instead she said, ‘I’m sorry for foisting myself on you like this.’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe it is good that you did. Where else would you have gone?’

  She knew he was teasing, but the question bit into her anguish like a vice and she flinched against the physical surge of pain. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered quietly. ‘I haven’t got any money, I left with nothing, but I haven’t got any money anyway – not now.’

  ‘But you are famous. Your face is seen everywhere, surely you must . . .’

  ‘No, I’ve spent it all. There’s nothing left.’

  ‘So you are destitute?’ There was an irony in his voice that made her smile despite the way she was feeling.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Destitute. No money, no friends, no family.’

  ‘This is very sad,’ he said, opening an eye to look at her, but her face was turned away, and sensing that she no longer wanted to speak, he said no more.

  Some time later Madeleine turned to look at him again. ‘Somebody told me about your grandmother and your sons. It must be nice to have a family. Do you love them?’

  Surprised by the question, he laughed. ‘But of course.’ Then, when she didn’t go on, he opened his eyes. ‘And you, Madeleine? Do you love your family? Or do you really have no one?’

  ‘I’ve got an aunt and a cousin, Marian. She was more like a sister, really. But I’ve done terrible things to them, especially to my cousin. I wish I had the courage to do something about it, but I’m afraid it’s too late, that she’ll never be able to forgive me.’

  He raised his hand, as if her words were tangible things he could push away. She couldn’t know, of course, but her voice was like that of the accuser that had followed him everywhere since Rosaria had died. But the accusing voice had been there before, muted yet persistent, and he had ignored it because Rosaria had loved Sergio, and despite what had happened to Arsenio, she had wanted to protect him. Abruptly he stood up and walked to the other side of the boat, with Madeleine’s words echoing in his conscience. ‘I’ve done terrible things . . . I wish I had the courage to do something about it, but I’m afraid it’s too late.’

  It was now five years since he had sent his brother to the asylum, and hardly a day had passed when he hadn’t heard a voice demanding to know what had given him the right to act as Arsenio’s judge and jury. He could tell himself that it had been for Arsenio’s own protection, but he knew that it was the name Arsenio spluttered and screamed in his madness that had made him send him away. So that still only the Tarallo family knew of Sergio’s bottega, and only they knew that whatever had happened there that night – the night Olivia Hastings disappeared – had caused Arsenio’s insanity.

  Since that time, Sylvestra had banished Sergio from their home, though she was still protecting him for she had never told the police what she knew. Though what she knew fell far short of the full truth. Neither of them, Enrico, nor Sylvestra, knew what had really happened on that fateful night. If he could find out, he might be able to destroy this devil of guilt that lived within him and bring Arsenio home. But only Sergio had the answers, and he knew that Sergio would never tell.

  Easing himself slowly back to the present, Enrico looked around to find Madeleine. Whatever she had done to her cousin, it could not be as terrible as the way he had sat in judgement on Arsenio, drawing conclusions from circumstances of which he knew nothing. In consequence, he had labelled his brother a murderer, had expelled him from the love of his family and reduced him to a shell of a man, all for the sake of protecting Sergio Rambaldi.

  He found Madeleine in the galley, mixing eggs in a bowl. She was wearing one of his shirts now, the way Rosaria used to, and because she looked so much more beautiful than his wife, it offended him.

  Madeleine looked up from what she was doing, then laughed nervously at the harsh expression on his face. ‘I never was much of a cook,’ she said, ‘but I suppose we ought to eat.’

  He nodded, and seeing his bitterness intensify, she looked away. A few minutes later, with the omelettes rising in the pan, she turned back to him and smiled. He was watching her closely, but his eyes held no answering smile.

  She spoke hesitantly, unsure if this was the right thing to say, but she had nothing else to offer. ‘Paul always said that if he was feeling down or angry, it helped him to make love. Perhaps . . . I know how unhappy you are, so maybe it would comfort you if we . . . I feel I owe you something . . .’ She gasped as his face turned ugly with contempt.

  ‘This is my wife’s boat,’ he snarled. ‘You shame both me and her by even suggesting such a thing.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Enrico. Don’t be angry, please. I only thought . . .’

  ‘Take your hands off me!’ he spat. ‘Take that shirt off, put your own dress on and stay down here until we reach Porto Cervo. I do not want to see you.’ He slammed out of the galley and went back on deck, knowing that his anger and disgust were with himself – he despised the way his body could so easily have betrayed his heart.

  Sensing his mood, the crew kept their distance as Enrico stood on the forward deck, holding onto the guard rails and refusing to hear or see anything beyond the sough of the waves and the strident cry of the gulls. The sun slid slowly through its arc, uninterrupted by cloud, and his guilt was as uncompromising as the heat, burning him from the inside with more vengeance than the sun on his skin’s surface. He knew nothing about the girl apart from what he’d read, but his own experience of the press told him how unreliable that was. But she had behaved like all the English girls he’d met, offering herself to him because he was famous. Yet she was famous herself. She need not have done it, except to be kind to him. Maybe it was the only language she knew and he had spurned her as cruelly as the man she loved.

  By the time he went below again, the Rosaria was accompanied by her own dark shadow, billowing on the sea. He stood in the doorway looking at Madeleine, knowing he must say something,
but inside he was so tense that his words were strangled. She looked so young and timid, sitting on the edge of the bunk and wearing her dress just as he had told her to. If they could see her now, he thought. People knew so little about what went on behind the public face of women like her.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was a harsh whisper. ‘You have your own sadness and I should thank you for trying to help mine.’ She bowed her head, shielding her face with her hair, and he walked across to her and sat down.

  ‘You really loved your wife, didn’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw her once. After you’d won the race at Silverstone. It seems such a long time ago now. I thought then that you loved her. Was she ill then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know she was going to die?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Madeleine lifted her head, and seeing the anguish in his face she covered her own with her hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she cried. ‘I’m so sorry. I hate myself. I know I’m worth nothing, but I didn’t mean to make you angry or ashamed.’ She threw herself onto his chest and clasped her arms round his neck.

  He hadn’t wanted to cry. He had sworn to himself that after the savagery of his grief in those solitary days at sea, he wouldn’t again. But he couldn’t help himself.

  Feeling his shoulders begin to shake, Madeleine sat up. He turned away, but she took his head and leaning back, she cushioned him in her arms, smoothing her hand over his hair. She remembered Marian once telling her that sometimes it took great strength for a man to cry; she hadn’t understood at the time, but now she did. If only Marian were here, to tell her what to do.

  She clung to Enrico, the tears for herself spent, though she wept again now for him. She had never felt this kind of tenderness with Paul, but looking down at Enrico’s dark head, she couldn’t stop herself wishing it was Paul’s blond one she held. The selfish thought stabbed at her with a quick pain, but Paul had no vulnerability, no need of her the way Enrico did now. As if in a daze, she kissed the top of Enrico’s head – and for a brief moment she felt like Marian. She was doing what her cousin would have done, and for the first time she understood Marian’s kindness and humility. She understood what a rich person Marian was to know such feelings, and she understood too how Marian must have felt when she stole Paul away. Marian had lost everything then, and now, so had she.

  Eventually Enrico lifted his head. He expected to feel shame, but when he saw the compassion in Madeleine’s eyes he laughed and rubbed the tears from his face. ‘Maybe I shall open the whisky and for a while we will be sad together, no?’ he said.

  Madeleine nodded, and when their glasses were on the table she relaxed against him and they sat quietly.

  ‘Your cousin,’ Enrico said, after a while. ‘I think, whatever you have done it cannot be so terrible that she will not forgive you.’ He knew he was speaking for himself too, but he continued, ‘At a time like this you need your family, Madeleine. It is only your family who can forgive and love without condition. Does she know, your Marian, what it is you have done?’

  ‘Partly, yes. I think she might have forgiven me that already. But you see, I lied to her, I cheated and stole from her, and I was really cruel when she came to see me in New York. The strange thing was that I didn’t mean to be, but I felt so guilty that I couldn’t stop myself. I’ve been thinking about her ever since, and I know now that I’ve never really been happy ever since I did what I did. But you see, I wanted Paul so much I’d have done anything to get him away from her.’ Her voice caught in her throat but she went on, ‘He’s tried to destroy me. I’ve got no home now, no money, no friends, no family, I’ve got nothing. But I still want him, can you believe that?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I can believe that. Love doesn’t go away so easily.’

  She sighed. ‘You’re so lucky, Enrico, that Rosaria loved you.’

  ‘Yes, for that I was very lucky.’

  ‘Why is love so important?’

  He chuckled. ‘I do not know, cara. But I do know that without it we are nothing. And there are so many different kinds of love, but being in love is the greatest and the saddest of them all. Now you have achieved your fame, and I have become the great racing driver, maybe we can look at love and appreciate its greatness, because we know that success is pale beside it and fame has not protected us from its sadness. It is a lesson I think we both had to learn, and now we must do right by our families because it is from them we must draw our strength to continue.’

  Madeleine turned in his arms to look at him. ‘You sound like Marian,’ she said. ‘Sometimes she would say things like that.’

  He laughed. ‘Then Marian must be a very wise person, just like me, no?’

  Madeleine laughed too. ‘I wish I could see her right now. I don’t even know where she is, she might still be in New York, but do you know what? As soon as I get back to England I’m going to find her. My aunt will know where she is, and then the three of us will sit down together and I shall confess everything I’ve done.’

  ‘And they will forgive you, because in your heart you love them. But now, unless we plan to sail right past Porto Cervo I think I had better, how do you say, get my act together.’

  Later, each dressed in a pair of Enrico’s shorts and shirts, they strode along the busy jetty at Porto Cervo to hunt out the noisiest café where, over succulent pizzas and glasses of chilled Frascati, they laughed and talked quite oblivious to the crowded tables around them – and for those few precious moments they allowed themselves to forget. Enrico told her about racing, and Madeleine could almost feel the thrill of speed and danger as he described the moments of sheer terror that were so soon followed by an unsurpassable exhilaration, and she teased his modesty when it came to telling her about his victories. Then he asked her about modelling, and feigned shock when she told him how often she removed her clothes for the camera.

  ‘You don’t really think it’s so terrible, do you?’ she asked, uncertainly.

  ‘Oh, sì, it is very terrible,’ he told her. ‘It is very, very, terrible.’ His face was grim, but as he peered at her from the corner of his eye, he laughed at her look of dismay. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Madeleine, I am certain you have given much pleasure by showing to the world such a magnificent body. And you, do you like to do it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, but she was frowning.

  ‘You seem to have doubts. Maybe you do not want to do it any more?’

  ‘I don’t know. It all seems as if it doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Did it matter once?’

  She shrugged. ‘I think so. I know it was all I ever wanted to do.’

  ‘Then you have achieved an ambition, that is good. But there will always be others, so I wonder what you will do next?’

  She looked across the table at him and her eyes were sparkling with mischief. ‘Become a racing driver?’ she suggested.

  He burst out laughing and reached across the table to tweak her nose. Neither of them saw the photographer sneak up, nor the one that followed him. They were blissfully unaware of having attracted any attention at all, until the first flash-bulb popped.

  Enrico’s horror at being discovered in such a situation, and so soon after his wife’s death, was total, but he only made matters worse by leaping from his chair and knocking the photographer to the ground. Suddenly the night was lit up as if by fireworks, as the press fought to capture this remarkable and unexpected scoop on film. Madeleine tried to push her way to Enrico, but someone grabbed her arm and started pulling her through the crowd. She screamed and struggled to break free, but her assailant shouted for her to get out fast. And before she knew what was happening, a hand was over her mouth and she was being bundled into the back of a car.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Stephanie exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She handed the newspaper to Hazel and sat down. ‘The damned cousin’s gone missing now.’

  It was their first day back in the office since filming had finished in New Y
ork. They were beginning again the following day in London.

  Hazel didn’t bother to read the article, she’d already seen it.

  Stephanie looked at her watch. ‘I suppose Matthew’ll be here any minute. I just can’t wait to see what sort of Sir Galahad stroke he pulls this time.’

  Hazel perched herself on the edge of the desk. ‘Steph,’ she began haltingly, ‘he’s already gone to Devon. He went last night.’

  Stephanie looked suddenly haggard and slumped forward, burying her head in her arms. ‘I should have known. Oh, Haze, what’s happening? Why is he doing this?’

  Hazel put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I don’t know, Steph. It just doesn’t add up. She’s young enough to be his daughter and that simply isn’t Matthew’s style. He’s still in love with you, I’m certain of it, but he seems obsessed with the girl.’

  ‘What shall I do? Tell me, for God’s sake, before I go out of my mind.’

  Hazel gave a long sigh and shook her head. ‘I wish I knew. But you can’t give up, Steph. I don’t know how you fight it, but you can’t have come this far to lose him now. Did you talk about any of this after she’d left New York?’

  Stephanie sat up, rubbing her hands over her tired face. ‘Not really. If I broached the subject he just reminded me that I was the one he’d asked to marry him, and said that nothing had changed as far as he was concerned.’

  ‘Did you ask him right out what his feelings were for Marian?’

  ‘Only once. He flew off the handle and told me to grow up. You know, it was as if he had a guilty conscience. It’s that I can’t forget. What’s he got to feel guilty about if he isn’t in love with her?’

  Hazel knew she was clutching at straws, but she had to try. ‘Maybe you were imagining it. You know what it’s like when you’re so madly in love with someone, you read all kinds of things into situations that mean nothing.’

  Stephanie smiled. ‘Haze, we both know that there is something to be read into this one. But what, for heaven’s sake? Is he bringing her back to London with him, did he say?’