Her Last Night of Innocence

by India Grey

  ‘Hey.’ Dominic came round the bed and put his arm around her rigid shoulders. ‘It’s just the machines and things, lovey. He’s doing really well. Just look how peacefully he’s sleeping.’

  He didn’t add that Alexander had been screaming the place down earlier, and that it had taken a doctor and three nurses to carry out the lumbar puncture, or that the peaceful sleep was partly due to the morphine drip in his arm. He was shocked by how terrible Kate looked. The doctors seemed to think that Alexander would get through this and recover fully, but Dominic wasn’t so sure that the same could be said of Kate. In that black dress, with her ashen face and the deep shadows beneath her eyes, she looked as if someone had already died.

  ‘When did it start?’ she rasped through dry lips. ‘How did it happen?’

  Dominic sighed, going over to the window. ‘Just like I told you,’ he said wearily. ‘He wasn’t his usual self when he woke up yesterday morning, but we thought it might just be because he was missing you. But then he said he had a headache, and Lizzie noticed that he had a temperature. We gave him paracetamol, and he perked up a bit, but by bedtime he seemed to be worse again. It was Lizzie’s idea to ring the doctor.’

  ‘I tried to phone.’ Kate closed her eyes in pain as she had a sudden flashback to the kitchen in the chalet, standing at the window watching Cristiano chopping logs, the phone ringing in her hand. ‘I tried to phone last night just to check that everything was OK, but there was no reply.’

  ‘We didn’t want to lie to you, but we didn’t want to worry you for nothing either. I’m so sorry, Kate, I should have—’

  He broke off, rubbing a hand over his face, and for the first time Kate was jerked outside of her own misery enough to notice how tired he looked. His kind, familiar face was pale and unshaven, his hair sticking up where he’d repeatedly run his fingers through it.

  Guilt ripped through her.

  ‘Oh, God, Dominic, I’m so sorry,’ she moaned, carefully withdrawing her hand from Alexander through the tangle of equipment and going over to where Dominic stood. ‘You and Lizzie have been so good—to have him for me and to go through all this. I can never thank you enough for looking after him and knowing what to do.’ She dropped her head. ‘It’s me I’m angry with. I should never have gone.’

  ‘Was it worth it?’ Dominic said after a pause. ‘Apart from this, was it worthwhile?’

  Kate sucked in a deep breath, feeling lightheaded for a moment as she recalled the bone-melting bliss of being in Cristiano’s arms again. The profound, inexpressible wonder of making love with him. The fierce joy of touching his hair, smelling the scent of his skin, listening to his voice—even though what he’d said had only confirmed her worst fears.

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyelids flickered for a moment, and then she looked up at Dominic through a haze of pain. ‘Because now I know. There’s no future for us. There never really was.’

  It was almost dark by the time Cristiano returned to the chalet. His whole body ached from nine hours out on the mountains, pushing himself—and his luck—harder and further than was safe or sensible.

  The delicious lethargy that had gripped him when Kate was here had disappeared at the same time as she did, leaving him with an edgy restlessness that only adrenaline could calm. Or so he’d thought. However, having spent the day hurling himself down black runs, skiing off-piste in a blizzard, and latterly in the gathering dusk as well, he had to admit defeat.

  Walking into the warm house, he breathed in the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering traces of red wine and herbs from the meal Kate had cooked the other night—and was almost knocked sideways by the wave of physical longing that smashed into him.

  He had to get away from here, he thought irritably, his battered body protesting as he took the stairs two at a time. There was no point in staying. The relaxing break that Francine had prescribed had ended up being anything but, and he knew he was deluding himself if he thought that his memory was going to come back any time soon.

  Or that Kate was.

  The thought caught him off guard, and sent another surge of unwelcome lust pulsing through him. He didn’t want her to come back, he told himself angrily. It was just because he was bored, stuck here with nothing to focus on, getting restless without the routine of training. Because the pillows still smelled of her hair, and the glass she had drunk from in the hot tub still stood on the bedside table and he hadn’t spoken to another soul since he’d said goodbye to her.

  And because he had never been left before. It was always him that did the leaving.

  Impatiently he undressed, stripping off his ski gear and stuffing it back into his bag, collecting up the clothes that lay scattered all over the floor and the end of the bed and the chair by the window. Picking up his dress shirt, he paused, closing his eyes and remembering how sweet and sexy she had looked in it as she’d sat cross-legged on the bed, telling him about the night they’d met in Monaco.

  Bundling the shirt up, he shoved it viciously into the bottom of the bag, underneath everything else, almost as if that would help him bury the memory and the ache of unfulfilled desire. Turning round, he surveyed the room, checking to see if he’d left anything.

  There was something on the floor, sticking out slightly from under the chest of drawers. Cristiano’s head pounded and his stiff shoulders ached as he bent down to pick it up.

  A black velvet evening bag.

  Perhaps it was Francine’s. Although it was unlikely that she’d use anything so formal out here, he thought, unfastening the catch.

  Inside was an invitation to the Campano party at the Casino. Cristiano’s heart skipped as he realised the bag must belong to Kate. Beside the invitation was another piece of paper. He took it out.

  It was a letter. Turning it over, he stared hard at the writing on the front of the envelope.

  Cristiano Maresca

  Personal and Private.

  His heart started to beat faster. For a moment he considered ripping it into pieces, or throwing it into the embers of the fire downstairs on his way out.

  The coward’s way out, a cold voice sneered in his head. Mother Superior’s voice.

  Gritting his teeth, he sank down onto the bed and tore open the envelope, sliding the paper out and unfolding it with clumsy fingers.

  He was shaking now. It wasn’t a long letter, he noted with relief as his eyes scanned quickly over the lines. Kate’s writing was neat and confident. Clever, he thought with a stab of bitter self-loathing. Pushing the hair back from his forehead, he focused hard on the strokes her pen had made on the paper, forcing himself to look hard at the individual letters. They jumped slightly in front of his eyes, rearranging themselves.

  Dai sbrigati, Cristiano! You’re not trying!

  He let out a low curse, tipping his head back and looking around the softly lit bedroom as if to reassure himself that he wasn’t back in that classroom, with the Mother Superior standing over him, her cane poised to strike him across the palms of his hands at the next word he got wrong.

  Concentrarsi.

  Well, he had come a long way since those days, he thought bitterly. He had taught himself to concentrate to world-championship standard. But it had been hard enough to get the words to keep still and to stay in order in Italian. English was another matter altogether.

  Dear Cristiano…

  I don’t know if you remember me…

  Kate’s voice was in his head as with painstakingly slowness he forced his eyes to move from one word to the next. And suddenly it was as if she was there with him again, smiling that smile that made the dimples appear in her cheeks, looking at him with those gentle blue eyes…

  Eyes that would be full of pity and scorn if she really was here watching him now, he thought disgustedly, getting abruptly to his feet and tearing the paper in half, and then in half again. He didn’t need to put himself through this—didn’t need to take himself back to that place with its smell of chalk and pencil shavings and feel again the horror of being expo
sed as stupid. A failure.

  Dropping the torn fragments of paper onto the bed, he strode into the bathroom and turned on the cold tap. His reflection in the mirror above the basin shocked him. He was unshaven and hollow-eyed, his hair badly in need of cutting.

  You’re a waster, Cristiano. Just like your father. You’ll never amount to anything.

  His mother’s voice this time. He stooped, splashing icy water over his face. Gesu, he was going mad. He really needed to get back to Monaco and training. He needed to get back to being the person he’d worked so hard, sacrificed so much to turn himself into—three times World Champion racing driver. Francine had been wrong—he didn’t need to remember, he needed to forget.

  Back in the bedroom, he zipped the bag shut and pulled it off the bed. As he did so the torn pieces of the letter fluttered onto the floor like confetti. Impatiently he bent to pick them up, glancing down at the top one as he crossed the room to the door.

  He stopped dead, as if he’d just walked into a glass wall. Dropping the bag, he held the fragment of paper in both hands, staring down at it in disbelief as his pulse rocketed and the breath whooshed sickeningly from his lungs.

  Ragazzo stupido. Read it again. You’ve got it wrong. Scowling, he looked at the paper again, staring hard at each word until he could be sure there was no mistake.

  You

  Have

  A

  Son.

  Chapter Nine

  LIFE in the hospital had a completely unreal quality. Kate felt as if she’d been abducted by aliens and taken to a different planet—a parallel universe of hushed voices and sympathetic smiles, of squeaking linoleum and rustling uniforms.

  Another day was beginning. Through a gap in the geometric print curtains the light was pearly grey. Distantly she could hear the sounds of the city outside waking up, but she felt a million miles from it. It was amazing how quickly this had become her world, Kate thought dully, flexing her stiff back as her gaze moved automatically to her son. A world which had at its centre the bed in which Alexander lay, and which extended only as far as the strip-lit corridor outside, the nurses’ station, and the parents’ kitchen and bathroom.

  She ventured to those outposts as little as possible, preferring to spend every moment at Alexander’s bedside, even when he was asleep. The nurses, her mother, Lizzie and Dominic had all tried to persuade her to go home and catch up on her own sleep, or at least shower and change her clothes, but there was no way she was going to leave him.

  Not again.

  She blinked, fighting exhaustion as she gazed down on the small body in the bed, and a crushing weight of love and anxiety descended on her like a landslide, so that she had to catch her breath. He was so precious. So beautiful. And, with his dark hair falling back from his forehead and his sweet face serious and remote in sleep, so like Cristiano…

  A steel door inside her mind clanged shut, blocking off that forbidden area—but not before a convulsion of pure, hot longing had gripped her, making her insides tighten and her skin tingle. She dropped her head into her hands, pressing her fingers into her eye sockets. God, what kind of mother was she? To be feeling such things when her child lay in a hospital bed? It was bad enough that she hadn’t been here when Alexander was taken ill, but to be still thinking—still longing for Cristiano now…

  It was unforgivable, and it had to stop.

  All that mattered now was Alexander.

  She opened her eyes, suddenly aware that the sandpapery rasp of his breathing with which she had measured the hours of the night was quieter now. Panic quickened inside her. His chest, which had previously had to suck and labour for each hard-won breath, was almost still. Getting to her feet, she bent over him, her heart racing as she laid her hand on his cheek. His skin felt cool and the hectic flush was gone. In the grey light of early morning he looked milky-pale…

  ‘Please…’

  It was a harsh, dry whisper. Stumbling away from the bed, Kate rushed out into the corridor, terror burning like acid in her veins. ‘Nurse…Oh, please!’

  Her voice echoed baldly off the walls of the starkly lit corridor, and the Little Mermaid stared at her with wide eyes—as if Kate had just shouted a rude word. There was the sound of a chair being scraped back and hurried footsteps. Kate threw herself back into Alexander’s room and picked up his limp hand, squeezing it tightly.

  ‘Mrs Edwards, what is it?’

  It was Nurse Parks—the one with the dyed platinum-blonde hair and the uniform that looked a size too small. The one who always made Kate feel like an over-anxious geriatric from Planet Weird.

  ‘He’s so quiet—he’s hardly breathing at all.’ Kate’s voice broke. ‘And he f-feels icy cold…’

  Calmly the nurse checked the trace on the machine beside the bed, and then picked up Alexander’s other hand, gazing nonchalantly through the gap in the curtains as she took his pulse. After a minute she turned to Kate with a slightly patronising smile.

  ‘He’s breathing fine, Mrs Edwards, and he feels cold because his temperature has come down.’

  Kate’s pent-up breath escaped her in a gasping sob. ‘You mean he’s OK?’

  ‘Absolutely—and he’s sleeping peacefully.’ Picking up the clipboard from the foot of the bed, she scribbled some notes. ‘I suggest you do the same. Why don’t you go and use the relatives’ room?’

  Kate was shaking her head before the nurse had even finished speaking.

  ‘No, thank you. I want to stay here.’

  Nurse Parks shrugged, tucking the pen back into the breast pocket of her uniform and going to the door. ‘Suit yourself, but there’s no need. I’ll let you know if he wakes up, or if there’s any change, but by the look of him I’d say he’s definitely on the mend now. He just needs some rest—and so do you. He’ll be up and about in no time, and you’ll need all your energy to keep up with him.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Kate whispered. Her throat ached with sudden emotion so her voice came out as a strangled croak.

  ‘Uh-huh. I’d get some sleep while you can.’

  Walking back to the nurses’ station, Nurse Parks smiled to herself. Mrs Edwards was sweet, but she really needed to get a grip. Sitting down behind the desk, she picked up the cup of tea she’d just made and the romance novel she’d been reading, leafing through the pages and trying to find her place. She’d just reached a really good bit, where the heroine had vowed that she’d rather die than let the gorgeous Italian hero know about the child she was carrying.

  That was all very well in books, Nurse Parks thought, stifling a yawn. There was nothing fun about single parenthood in real life—just look at Mrs Edwards. No—if a gorgeous Italian walked into her own life she’d definitely think twice about sending him packing…

  The entry buzzer on the door to the ward made her jump. Spilling her tea, she swore crossly.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped, glancing irritably at the CCTV screen.

  ‘I’ve come to see Alexander Edwards.’

  Her jaw dropped. There, in grainy black and white, stood every female fantasy made flesh. Tall, broad-shouldered, with untidy dark hair falling forward over a face that she would have expected to see on the silver screen rather than a small security monitor in the Children’s Ward of Leeds City Hospital. Even over the crackly intercom there was no denying the sexiness of the husky Italian voice

  ‘I’m sorry, but visiting hours don’t start until ten,’ Nurse Parks stammered, aware that she had circles under her eyes from a long shift, and wasn’t wearing lipstick. ‘I’m afraid I can only make exceptions for next of kin.’

  ‘I am. Alexander is my son.’

  Cristiano had been preparing himself for this moment for the last twelve hours or so—since he had seen the words written on that torn piece of paper. But it was the first time he had said them out loud, and they felt strange on his lips.

  My son. Mio figlio.

  Head down, he walked towards the desk at the end of the corridor. The antiseptic smell transported
him instantly back to the months he’d spent in hospital after his accident, and he felt sweat break out on his forehead. The blonde nurse who had let him in appeared from the office behind it, hastily pressing her lips together as if she had just put on lipstick. Smiling like an air hostess, she directed him to a room along the corridor to the right.

  ‘Grazie,’ Cristiano said curtly, and began to walk in the direction she indicated. Then he stopped and turned back. His throat felt raw.

  ‘How is he?’

  The blonde nurse’s pink lips spread into a smile. ‘He’s been pretty poorly, but he’s definitely over the worst now. He’s a real fighter.’

  Cristiano had a curious feeling in his chest—as if someone had reached in and taken hold of his heart. Wordlessly he nodded, and carried on down the corridor.

  Throughout the last twelve sleepless hours, as he had driven through an Alpine blizzard and waited interminably for the runways at Lyon to be cleared enough for take-off, anger had burned and pulsed inside him like a fever. But now, as he approached the room where his son lay, he realised it had deserted him. As he opened the door he just felt…

  Dio. Dio mio…

  It was Kate he saw first, and once he’d seen her he found he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. She was sitting beside the bed, her arms folded on its edge and her head resting on them, like a very tired Botticelli angel. Her eyes were closed, but in the dead grey light of the early morning the violet circles of exhaustion beneath them stood out starkly against her bleached skin.

  She looked so very weary and anxious and defeated that for a moment he had to grip the doorframe to stop himself from rushing around the bed and gathering her up into his arms. And then he looked at the little boy on the bed.