by Lynne Graham
The next one was more difficult. Informing Ibrahim, her boss at the gallery, that the ‘three or four days’ she had taken off work to come here might actually now be more like three or four weeks was not going to go down well. He was prone to bouts of hysteria at the best of times and this was undoubtedly going to ramp up his rage levels. Still, it had to be done. So, punching his number into the phone, Lottie tucked her hair behind her ear, cleared her throat and waited for the soothing buzzing of the connection tone to be shattered by his familiar bark.
* * *
The palazzo was quiet and still when Lottie finally stepped out onto the landing, the air smelling of polish and freshly cut flowers. Descending the stairs, she looked cautiously around her, feeling the smooth mahogany banister run beneath her hand. She crossed the hall and, pulling open the heavy studded front door, took in a deep, restorative breath.
The Monterrato estate spread out in all directions, as far as the eye could see, sparkling with early-morning dew. In front of her stretched two rows of towering poplar trees, casting strong diagonal shadows across the long driveway that cut through the manicured lawns on either side.
Lottie descended one of the twin flights of stairs and crunched along the gravel path that followed the side of the palazzo. The crisp, cold air felt good against her cheeks and she breathed it in greedily, feeling it scour the insides of her body.
With her hands pushed deep inside her coat pockets she strode purposefully on, knowing exactly where she was going—past the kitchen gardens and the outbuildings, the deserted stables and the swimming pool, to a winding path that threaded through a wooded area.
The first signs of spring were starting to appear: snowdrops and crocus were defiantly poking their heads through the cold soil, scattered around the feet of the trees. The path gradually ascended until the trees stopped and there, perched on the top of a hill, was the Monterrato chapel, its burnt umber walls stark against the pearly blue morning sky.
A shallow flight of stone steps, overgrown with moss and weeds, led up to the chapel and the graves that were spread out around it, their headstones tipping drunkenly in the cold sunshine. This was the final resting place for generations of Revaldis, at peace in these beautiful surroundings.
Lottie moved respectfully between them, picking a pathway towards one particular very small grave. The sight of it clutched at her heart. There was the carved angel, still faithfully guarding the slab of painfully clean white marble, one cheek resting on her hands, her wings spread out behind her.
Squatting down, Lottie took a moment to steady herself as the memories came flooding back: the sight of the tiny white coffin being lowered into the ground, the sound of the first handful of soil as it had landed on the lid. Reaching forward, she touched the headstone, her cold fingers tracing the inscription, the words carved into her heart.
Someone had placed a posy of fresh flowers in a small urn and as she absently rearranged them a robin perched on the angel’s head, watching her with its beady eyes. All was peaceful and still. Savouring the precious moment, Lottie uttered a small, silent prayer to her daughter and watched as the robin took off, carrying her blessings up into the sky.
‘Lottie?’
Lottie swung round with a start. Rafael was standing a few yards away, tall and dark in a long black overcoat, the raised collar skimming his bruised jawline, like some dashing Victorian villain.
‘I thought I might find you here.’
Stumbling to her feet, Lottie pulled her coat closer to her. ‘I...I just needed to think—to be with Seraphina.’
‘Of course. You don’t need to explain. I will go...leave you in peace.’ He was already turning away.
‘No.’ Suddenly she knew she didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to stand with her, beside their daughter’s grave, together. Not to distance himself in the way he always had. ‘Why don’t you join us?’
If the words sounded flippant they both knew the very real intent that they held. Lottie watched as Rafael hesitated, wariness, uncertainty and pride crossing his face before he quietly moved between the overgrown graves to join her, standing sentry-tall beside the towering angel.
There was a short moment of painfully poignant silence, abruptly ended when Rafael shifted his position and gave a small cough.
‘You look cold, Lottie. We should go back to the palazzo. There are things we need to discuss.’
‘I’m fine.’ A shiver so violent that it shook her shoulders said otherwise.
Registering the challenge in her voice, he increased the authority of his own. ‘Then come into the chapel. It will be warmer in there.’
There was no point in arguing. Lottie followed him to the arched doorway of the chapel and watched as he turned the heavy iron ring on the door.
The small space welcomed them in with its domed sky-blue ceiling, sprinkled with hundreds of gold stars and the gilded altar at the back watched over by the Madonna and child. There was that particular, evocative smell—a mixture of wood and damp and incense.
Walking between the rows of ancient pews, Rafael went to light a candle at the altar, then joined Lottie on the front pew, his long legs stretched before him. They were quiet for a moment, neither wanting to break the spell.
‘So...’ Eventually Rafael spoke, his voice low and respectful of their environment. ‘Your decision last night...’
He turned guardedly to face her, and Lottie noticed that the cold had puckered his scar to a white slash.
‘...it still stands?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She returned his look defiantly.
‘Good.’ He let out a breath that lowered his shoulders. ‘Then I thank you again. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much this means to me.’
‘No, you don’t Rafael.’ Lottie clasped her cold hands together. ‘And, despite the novelty, please don’t think that you have to keep thanking me either.’
‘As you wish.’ He looked at her curiously, trying to gauge her mood. ‘Perhaps you would prefer me to move on to the practicalities?’
Lottie wouldn’t prefer it, as it happened, but she knew that she had no choice. She scuffed her feet against the ancient tiles.
‘Dr Oveisi will be arriving at two-thirty tomorrow.’
‘What?’ That stopped the breath in her throat.
‘Yes. We were fortunate. He had a free day.’
Of course he had. World-renowned IVF specialists were bound to have plenty of time on their hands—empty diaries just waiting for a call. At least that was how it always seemed to work in Rafael’s world.
‘Tomorrow.’ She repeated the word slowly, trying to get it to sink in.
She didn’t know why she was surprised. Rafael was a man who, once a decision had been made, acted on it there and then. He was hardly going to suggest a cooling off period—thirty days in which she could change her mind, cancel her contract.
And, despite the shot of panic she had to concede that there was no point in delaying things. She wasn’t going to change her mind. The sooner they did this, the sooner they would know if it had worked. And if it did...? Just the thought of that sent a giddy thrill of excitement all the way down to her wriggling toes.
Yesterday, when she had made her decision, it had almost felt as if someone else had taken over her body. Some reckless, feckless madam who had elbowed her sensible self to one side, gagged her with a frivolously decadent undergarment and said, Yes, Rafael, of course I will agree to this preposterous idea.
She had strongly suspected that the morning would see her deeply regretting the idea. But her sleepless night had produced more than the dark circles under her eyes. Those chilly hours of darkness had focussed her mind, made her see things more clearly than ever before. She had realised that Rafael was right; she did want to be a mother and, even though she hated to admit it even to herself, mor
e than anything in the world she wanted to be the mother of Rafael’s child.
This was her one opportunity to make it happen—the embryo’s one chance of life. To say no now would be closing the door on that dream for ever, effectively agreeing that their embryo should be destroyed. Something she knew she could never, ever do. Today she was surprised to find that she felt strong—empowered, even, by her decision. This was a huge, massive risk she was taking, but what was it that people said? That life’s biggest regrets came not from the things you had done but the things you hadn’t? Well, she wasn’t going to be accused of that—not this time. No way.
Gazing around the chapel, she felt a flutter of anticipation go through her. If their future chance of parenthood was now in the lap of the gods this felt like the right place to be: seated next to Rafael in this timeless capsule of calm, with the Madonna and child before them. She took strength from that.
‘Tomorrow is all right with you?’
Rafael’s question cut through Lottie’s thoughts and she realised he was waiting for her reply.
‘I thought we might as well move this on as fast as we can.’
‘Tomorrow is fine.’ She turned to face him full-on, even risking a bright-eyed smile. ‘The sooner we can do this the better.’
* * *
Dr Oveisi turned out to be a rather dapper, middle-aged man with blue-black slicked-back hair and a fondness for gold jewellery. As Lottie nervously shook his outstretched hand she could feel the chunky rings against her sweaty palm.
They were seated in the grand salon—Lottie and Rafael side by side on the sofa, Dr Oveisi on a high-backed chair opposite. It soon became apparent that he was both highly intelligent and not a man to mess around. Rafael’s kind of man. After the briefest of introductions he launched straight into questions about Lottie’s fertility history, the failed IVF attempts and her current ovulation cycle.
All the while his fountain pen scratched over the notepad he held on his lap, making indecipherable black marks. But for all his lack of social skills Lottie quickly found herself trusting him. There was no schmoozing, no small talk—here was a man in the business of making babies, and everything about him said that was exactly what he intended to do for them.
Beside her Rafael sat quietly, listening intently. Lottie could sense his concentration, the significance of the conversation only really evident in the stiff posture of his body.
Moving on from Lottie’s fertility deficiencies, Dr Oveisi turned his attention to the precious embryo. More notes were taken as Rafael confirmed that, yes, it had been frozen at five days old, and gave the name of the fertility clinic where it was stored.
‘And there is only one blastocyst?’ Looking up briefly, Dr Oveisi directed the question at Rafael.
They both knew the term blastocyst: an embryo that had been cultured for five days. Three gruelling rounds of IVF had left them horribly familiar with all the medical terminology.
‘Yes.’ The lack of emotion in Rafael’s clipped reply was telling. ‘Just the one.’
‘Right.’ Screwing the top back on his fountain pen and stowing it in his inside pocket, Dr Oveisi stood up. ‘I think that is everything. I will arrange a visit from one of our fertility nurses to discuss Contessa Revaldi’s hormone injections. Once we have a date for the transfer I will see you at the clinic.’
Allowing himself the smallest of smiles, he held out his hand to shake Lottie’s, bowing slightly before leaving the room with Rafael.
Lottie found herself gazing at his vacated seat. This was all happening so fast. Dr Oveisi, for all his brusque impersonality, had made it seem real, tangible. Was it really possible that a few weeks from now she could be pregnant? Pregnant with Rafael’s child?
* * *
As promised, the fertility nurse turned up the next day, carrying her bag full of potions. Lottie immediately liked her—a young Eastern European called Gina, obviously very bright, and attractive with it. Her crisp white uniform set off her slender figure nicely, her hair was scraped back into a bouncy ponytail and her intelligent blue eyes held a steady gaze.
Until she saw Rafael, of course. Lottie could almost see her trying to control the phwoar! response, fighting to remain professional in the face of this alarmingly handsome man.
Rafael treated her to a polite smile before announcing that he would leave them to it. Alone together, the two women exchanged a glance, and the flush on Gina’s face took its time to recede as she turned away to open her bag, fumbling inside for her equipment.
Gina had intended to come and administer the hormone injections every day, until Lottie told her that she could do it for herself. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done it before. She watched as Lottie pushed her first injection into her thigh and, obviously satisfied that she knew what she was doing, left her with instructions on the strict routine she had to follow until her next visit.
‘And I don’t need to tell you about the possible side effects either?’ Gina gave Lottie a sympathetic smile.
‘Headaches, stomach cramps, mood swings, hot flushes... Looking forward to it already.’ Lottie grinned back. ‘Been there—got the tee shirt.’
‘Well, I hope it’s a baggy one,’ Gina replied. ‘You’ll need it to cover the baby bump!’
‘Let’s hope so.’
The two women looked at each other.
‘This is Dr Oveisi we are talking about here,’ said Gina. ‘He takes hope and turns it into reality.’
Gina’s faith was touching, even if it did sound a little like a line from a fertility clinic brochure.
Gazing at the array of medication spread out on the table in front of her forcefully brought home to Lottie what she had to go through—what she had agreed to do. But there was no going back now.
* * *
‘Yes, I promise I will tell you all about it when I get back. Yes... No... I’m fine. Honestly, Alex, there’s nothing for you to worry about. Now, you get back to your Pinot Grigio and let me get some sleep. It’s gone midnight here, I’ll have you know.’
Lottie ended the call and twisted round to put her phone down on the bedside table. She loved Alex, she really did, but she was becoming increasingly difficult to fob off—especially after a glass or two of wine fuelled her slightly slurred determination to find out, ‘Just what is going on over there, Lots?’
Lottie had lived the past few days in a bubble of unreality—the situation being so crazy that she could hardly come to terms with it herself, let alone try to explain it to someone as excitable as Alex.
She had arrived at Monterrato convinced that she would be signing divorce papers, severing all ties with Rafael, and yet now here she was, trying to get pregnant with his baby and wanting it more desperately than she dared admit even to herself.
Turning out the light, she curled up under the duvet. Her life back in England seemed very far away right now, even though she knew she was going to have to face up to it again at some point—especially the small matter of her job at the Ibrahim Gallery. Ibrahim himself had made it quite clear that he would not authorise any extended leave and that if she wasn’t back at her desk within the week there would be no desk for her to come back to. Bearing in mind that threat, she was now left wondering whether she actually had a job at all.
Meanwhile her time at the palazzo had settled into a bizarre pattern. Business took Rafael away a lot, and even when he was there Lottie saw very little of him. If he wasn’t buried in his office he was chairing meetings in the boardroom, or out and about somewhere in the principality, dealing with the many and complex issues that being the Conte di Monterrato involved.
When their paths did cross he would politely enquire after her well-being. It felt genuine enough, even if he was just checking up on her—checking that she was following Dr Oveisi’s instructions to the letter. But something about the way he’d glance
at his wristwatch or feel in his pocket for his phone made it quite clear that he had no intention of prolonging their conversations.
It felt almost as if Lottie was just another of the many projects he was dealing with, but even though it still hurt his cool disregard didn’t fool her for one moment. She knew this was typical Rafael Revaldi behaviour. That the more something meant to him the less he would let it show.
It was the nights that were the worst—especially when she knew Rafael was around. The thought of him so close, asleep in his bed just the other side of those dividing doors but so far removed from her emotionally, filled her with a yearning sadness. She realised that she had never felt more alone.
Now, as she lay very still, she could hear sounds from next door. Straining her ears, she listened to the creak of Rafael’s footsteps on the wooden flooring, the faint hum of the shower. With her imagination intent on torturing her she pictured the low-slung towel around his hips, the damp-slicked hair on his chest and forearms, his biceps bunching as he roughly dried his hair...
Hearing the creak of the bed, she knew that the towel had now been dropped to the floor and he was sliding, muscular and naked, between the cool linen sheets...
* * *
Finally the day of the embryo transfer arrived. It had been arranged that Lottie would drive herself to the clinic and Rafael, who had been in Paris for the past few days, would meet her there.
It was about a two-hour journey, but Lottie knew the way well enough. It was the same clinic where she had undergone the treatments before—where their last remaining precious embryo was stored. But somehow this time, with Dr Oveisi in charge, everything felt different.
As the countryside flew by Lottie settled into the journey. She loved driving this car—one of the fleet of vehicles that Rafael owned. It was a sleek black beast that ate up the miles with silent ease. And it was a relief to finally get away from the palazzo—away from the inquisitive eyes of the staff.
She knew they had to be curious about what was going on between the Conte and his bolter of a wife. She would have been, in their shoes. If it was a reconciliation it was a most peculiar one. Half the time Rafael wasn’t around, and the other half he kept her at a distance so respectful it bordered on frigid. Hardly the behaviour of a reunited pair of lovebirds.
