Playing the Dutiful WifeExpecting His Love-Child

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘Without you…’ Levander stared across the table, and Millie realised no one was talking; every eye was turned to Levander. ‘Is how I have lived my life. Don’t ask me to cry for you now. I mourn my mother instead.’

  ‘Levander.’ The same throaty voice that had begged him for reason the night they had met was pleading again. ‘Papa is sick, but he is here tonight for you. What is wrong with you, Levander? First you shout at Mama this morning…now this.’

  What the hell was wrong with him? He never referred to the past with his family—with anyone—never let them close enough for that. Yet Annika was right. This was the second time today he had flown at the slightest provocation. Usually he prided himself on the charming yet distant mask he presented to the world, but today he was wearing every emotion on the outside of his skin. Every comment from his family ripped into the wounds he kept carefully hidden; every exchange with Millie delivered an anger he hadn’t known since he was a boy.

  Downing his drink in one gulp, he had barely hit the glass on the table before the waiter refilled it.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Tonight was about backing Millie one step further into his corner—to find a way to hold on to her, to ensure she became his bride before she found out about his murky past—and yet here he was, goading his family to reveal the truth they never acknowledged.

  His truth.

  ‘Leave it, Annika.’ It was Nina who interrupted her daughter. ‘This is not the place.’

  As a waiter approached and placed a sumptuous seafood platter in front of them, the spitting insults melted into polite chatter, as if nothing had taken place.

  ‘So, when is the wedding?’ Nina asked, as Millie took a huge gulp of water.

  ‘We are here, Nina,’ Levander answered. ‘That is enough.’

  ‘For now.’ Nina shrugged. ‘You were the one who said to the press she was to be your wife—so now you must decide on a date. We fly to Milan in two weeks—and then on to Paris. Your father needs warm weather now. I think we will see out the European summer there…’

  ‘I really don’t need to hear your flight schedule, Nina,’ Levander drawled, deliberately missing the point. But Nina was determined to ram it home.

  ‘Sooner is better, Levander—if she is to have a hope of getting into the dress, then you need to get things going.’

  The dress.

  Nerves catching up, Millie almost giggled, but quickly she swallowed it, knowing not a single one of the Kolovskys would get her humour. Oh, she knew it was Nina’s rather limited English that had caused the slip, but Millie had a sudden vision of a wedding dress hanging in a wardrobe somewhere, waiting for any woman with a semblance of a waist to step into it.

  ‘Our wedding is our concern,’ Levander said darkly, stopping Nina in her tracks—temporarily at least. But the night just continued in the same bitter vein, and for an already wilting Millie it was beyond confusing.

  It was as if she wasn’t even there—the charade for the cameras had nothing on this. It was hideous, sitting there while the whole family discussed their relationship as if it were for them to decide the outcome. Her cheeks burnt with embarrassment and anger as Nina started talking in Russian—clearly about Millie—rudely gesturing towards her.

  The whole table joined in the loud conversation until Levander halted them. ‘Millie speaks no Russian—you will speak only in English when she is present.’

  ‘She might not want to hear what we have to say—’ one of Nina’s sisters attempted.

  ‘All the more reason you should keep quiet,’ Levander retorted, and even though his voice was even there was a warning glint in his eye that told all present he wasn’t joking—a warning glint in his eye that stayed trained on his stepmother. Millie watched as she flushed, watched as a cruel smile twisted his mouth as Nina finally turned and, with a nervous croak in her voice, addressed her sister.

  ‘We speak English.’

  It was awful—the worst meal of her life—and even though she’d only seen them a couple of days ago, Millie was gripped with longing for her own family. The gentle bickering that flared at their dinner table was a million miles from the poisonous atmosphere that shrouded this table. Even more bewildering was the fact that, though Millie spent the meal reeling, Levander seemed completely unfazed, sitting as brooding and as unmoved as he had with his sister on the night they had met, unperturbed by the toxic company…

  When the waiter came to take their orders for coffee, she made a last-ditch effort to talk to the reticent Annika.

  ‘You’re a designer…?’ Millie struggled to make conversation with Levander’s stunning half-sister. ‘Levander said you mainly do jewellery.’

  ‘I do both jewellery and clothing,’ Annika said warily, her eyes darting to her mother.

  Levander watched Millie try so hard to fit in with them, and watched as they stonewalled her—just as they had him. He watched them retreat into their diamond-crusted shells when a question might actually demand an answer, watched until it actually hurt to look—till he simply couldn’t watch any more.

  ‘Which do you prefer?’ Millie went on, and it seemed a perfectly reasonable question—especially from one artist to another—like Nina asking if she preferred to paint with water or oil. But, as Millie was quickly realising, nothing was normal in this family.

  ‘I’m equally good at both.’

  ‘Oh.’ Millie floundered, utterly bemused by her response, but accepting it, and steered the conversation to something hopefully more sustainable. ‘You were born here? In Australia, I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you ever get back…?’ Taking a slug of water, and praying they’d hurry with the coffee, Millie glanced over to Levander, who wasn’t even attempting to be nice. He appeared thoroughly bored with the night’s proceedings. He was glancing at his watch, drumming his fingers on the table as if at any second he might just get up and walk out. Hopefully he’d remember to take her with him, Millie thought darkly, as she attempted to get this wary woman to at least make small talk.

  ‘To Russia?’ Millie’s wide smile was so strained, so forced, she could almost feel her lips splitting under the strain. ‘To…’ She gave a tiny frown as she tried to recall the name Levander had cited. ‘To Detsky Dom?’

  If she’d stood up and danced naked on the table, if she’d passed wind and laughed, the response couldn’t have been worse. Annika knocked over her wine glass as she let out a shocked gasp, Nina just gaped at her for her boldness, and Ivan spluttered into a noisy fit of coughing. But most curious of all, as she turned anguished eyes to Levander for support, as she tried and failed to understand what on earth she had said that was so awful, she was stunned to see him put back his head and laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Millie floundered helplessly. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’ Still Levander laughed, but his eyes when he stood were as black as coal. ‘You see—Annika is too good for Detsky Dom—is that not right, Nina? Come…’ As the waiter placed a shot of espresso in front of him, Levander didn’t even give it a glance. ‘We go now.’

  ‘It is too soon—’ Nina started, but Levander was adamant.

  ‘Why?’ Levander challenged. ‘You have your pictures for the paper.’

  And so it started again—scarlet lips air-kissing her cheeks, perfume wafting in her nostrils as the table noisily farewelled them. And if she’d been confused before, Mille was perturbed now, her head whirring with questions as they stepped out of the restaurant and into a waiting car—sped the few hundred metres to the hotel and in a matter of moments were back in Levander’s sumptuous suite.

  ‘What did I say wrong?’ She was shaken to the core, but her voice was somehow strong. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You never will with my family.’

  ‘They were so rude…’ If the rules stated that no matter how much your partner did, one should never criticise his family, then it was way too late. ‘And yet when we stood up to go�
��’

  ‘Others were watching,’ Levander elucidated, and for Millie it was just too much. She shook her head in astonishment as Levander continued darkly, ‘What you just witnessed was a first-class production Kolovsky-style. All they care about is reputation—and how we appear to others. The truth matters nothing to any of them.’

  ‘You were rude, too…’ Millie said accusingly. ‘From the second we got in there you were poisonous. Why don’t you like him? Because he left your mother?’

  ‘Leave it, Millie.’

  ‘And Nina,’ Millie insisted, recalling the hate in his eyes, the cruel smile on his lips. ‘You don’t just dislike her, do you? You actually hate her.’

  How, Levander asked himself, did she do it? How did she know to ask the one thing he couldn’t answer? He could deal with a boardroom full of questions, deal with his family with his eyes closed, fob them off with half-answers, yet with her he wanted more than anything to confide in her, to give her the answers she sought. He had to crunch his hands into fists, so tempted was he to take hers, to finally share his hell.

  But how could he?

  ‘It is complicated.’ Levander closed his eyes as he tried to come up with a suitable answer, trying to buy himself just a little more time till she was his to tell. ‘It is family business—my father’s story as much as mine.’

  ‘Well, given I’m carrying his grandchild, when am I allowed to know?’ She watched his face quilt with tension. She didn’t want another row, but she wanted to know what the hell was going on. ‘He’s not just sick, is he…?’

  ‘No, he’s not just sick; he’s dying—happy now?’

  ‘Happy?’ She shook her head in disbelief at his coldness, reeling at the impossibility of him—the memory of the tenderness that she had surely once seen in him was dimming further with every bitter twist of his tongue. ‘Your father’s dying and you talk to him like that…’

  ‘I said leave it, Millie.’

  ‘I wanted to leave it.’ Millie was shouting now. ‘I wanted to leave it, but you were the one who sent me into that minefield—I want to know—’

  ‘Men’she znayesh’-krepche spish’.’ He shouted his answer in Russian, which really was no answer at all, but his voice was so hoarse, so angry, so full of pain it scared her—only not for herself, for him. ‘You need to go to bed.’

  ‘You’re really good at telling me what I need to do—especially when I ask a question that you don’t want to answer.’

  She scared him—not the little five-foot-three ball of anger who stood angry and defiant before him now, but the woman she was, the questions she asked. And more than that it was the feelings she triggered—dangerous feelings that confused him, made him think he must somehow be losing his mind…

  ‘Go to bed…’ His voice was a croak, but his actions were insistent and he guided her to the bedroom.

  It should have been familiar, but in the few hours they’d been away the bed had been re-made and turned down—strangers had crept in and changed the landscape again. That Levander wanted her gone rather than try to talk things through, explain his family to her, was for Millie the worst. With a sob of frustration she headed to the bathroom, ripping the beastly clips out of her hair, pulling off the Kolovsky silk dress and leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  Not even bothering to take off her make-up, too angry to even tie up her robe, she wrapped a towel around her and stormed back into the bedroom as he was heading out of the door. ‘You know…jealousy really doesn’t suit you, Levander.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, but I think I do—you’re jealous of them, aren’t you?’ She watched his face whiten, watched a muscle leaping in his cheek as she taunted him with vicious words—furious, hurt-fuelled words for the way he had treated her. She was missing the man she had met oh, so briefly, and hating what he had become. ‘You’re jealous that while you had to struggle on the other side of the world the rest of your family was living in luxury.’

  ‘You think I am jealous?’ He spat out a mirthless laugh. ‘You think that is what makes me like this? Well, then—you don’t know me at all.’

  ‘I’m trying to,’ Millie shouted. ‘But at every turn you silence me with your mouth. Kissing me, sending me to bed, answering me in Russian… What does it mean?’ she jeered. ‘Come on—what you said before; what does it mean?’

  ‘I can’t even remember what I said…’

  ‘Men’she znayesh’—krepche spish.’ She watched his hand tighten around the door handle as she said it—his back stiffened, the muscles across his shoulders so taut she could have bounced a ball off them. His expression was unreadable when finally he turned around. He must have thought she’d have forgotten, but the words, even if they hadn’t been understood, had been so hollow, so full of hurt, they’d stay with her for ever.

  ‘Okay, then—it is a Russian saying—a proverb…’ He couldn’t even look at her as he spoke, and perhaps she’d misread him—because he looked more jaded than bitter, more resigned now than angry. And somehow, even though she was standing there, even though they had been with his family tonight, never had she seen someone look more alone. ‘It means—the less you know, the more soundly you sleep.’

  ‘But what if I want to know?’ Before she had even finished speaking he had left, closing the door behind him. And even though there was no turn of a key Millie knew, knew Levander was locking her out.

  Over and over she replayed the night—reviewed his short but brutal history. Simultaneously she recalled the tiny snippets she’d gleaned, like ominous thick drops of rain pelting on a windscreen, warning her of an impending storm: Annika’s horrified reaction when she’d spoken of his home town, his sudden arrival in Australia, his odd relationship with his father and his family, and his clear bemusement when she’d questioned his choice of home.

  The truth she had so desperately sought was less than appealing now as realisation hit that in her search for answers she’d missed out on a question—had taken for granted the misinformation she’d been fed. She had never actually asked Levander when his mother had died.

  Dressed in nothing more than a silk wrap, Millie pushed open the bedroom door and saw him standing, staring unseeing out of the window, more beautiful than any model in art class, so still, so tense, so loaded with pain it made her want to weep.

  He didn’t even turn his head—didn’t move a muscle as she approached.

  ‘How old were you?’ She didn’t need to elaborate, knew when he closed his eyes that he understood the question. But she waited an age before finally he gave his hollow answer.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘So, when she died, did her family…?’ She couldn’t go on for a moment. She wanted so much for him to interrupt her, to tell her that whatever she was thinking surely she was wrong. ‘Did they raise you?’

  ‘They would have had to take food out of their own child’s mouth to do that… You do not understand poor…’ He wasn’t being derisive or scathing, Millie realised. Quite simply he was stating a fact. Her lips trembled in horror. She was trying not to cry, and somehow to absorb the information he was giving her—because even if she didn’t know Russian…no guessing was needed now.

  ‘Detsky Dom isn’t a town, is it…?’ Her hand reached for him, fingers gentle on his taut shoulders. ‘When she died you were put in a children’s home.’

  ‘No.’

  For the first time since she’d come into the room he looked at her, or rather towards her. His eyes were fixed on her, perhaps, but somehow not focusing. His voice was detached and formal, and listening to him, watching his tense mouth form the most vile of words, was like being plunged into boiling water—like blistering pain on every cell of her skin as she tried and failed to fathom all he must have been through.

  ‘Before she died, when she was too sick to look after me, I was put in dom rebyonka—the baby house. Later, when I was four, I went to detsky dom.’

  There was nothing sh
e could say.

  A million questions for later, maybe, but there was nothing she could say now…

  ‘And, no—before you suggest it again—I am not jealous. I accept the past, and the impossible choices that were made. I accept what they cannot.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How could you?’ His voice was hollow. ‘Now your curiosity is satisfied—perhaps it is better you go…’

  ‘Go?’ Her hand was on his arm and she could feel him now—could feel him. For a second or two she hadn’t been able to, hadn’t been able to feel anything at all. Shock was a kind of anaesthetic at times, blocking the pain that consumed her, numbing everything in its wake. Only feelings were creeping in now. The two of them were still there, still standing after his revelation. That he would push her away after she’d forced her way in was almost more than she could bear. ‘Why do you want me to go…?’

  Because you will.

  He didn’t say it, just stared—stared at eyes swollen from the tears he’d provoked at the once happy face, now devoid of her ever-ready smile—and hated himself for tainting her, for soiling what had once been perfect.

  ‘It is better if you go to bed.’

  It really wasn’t her place to argue, Millie realised, pulling her hand back. She respected his decision and turned to go, because it wasn’t her place to tell him how he should feel, to say that whatever he privately thought of her surely at this moment he shouldn’t be alone.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Those two words had surely never sounded so paltry, but they came from the bottom of her heart. ‘I’m sorry for all you must have been through.’

  She turned to go, then changed her mind—and leant forward to kiss him. It was with the least provocative of intentions—a kiss goodnight she would give to any mortal in agony, any friend who had bared a piece of their soul.

  Only he wasn’t a friend.

  Leaning over him and dusting his lips with comfort had been the intention. But when she felt his lips beneath hers, that quick kiss goodnight lingered just a fraction too long. So easy to kiss, so easy to close her eyes as she did and chase away the atrocities… A sweeter feeling was rushing in, replacing the horror, but after a moment of indulgence she felt his hands on her shoulders, felt him pushing her back.