The Mistress: The Mistress\Wanted: Mistress and Mother (30 page)

“We need a contact number, miss.” The young officer tapped on
the steamed-up car window as Matilda started the engine. She scribbled her
number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Can I help—with the search I
mean?

“Hold on a second, love.” The policeman halted her as his radio
crackled into life and Matilda waited, her heart in her mouth at the urgent note
in the officer’s voice, flashes of conversation reaching her ears.

“They’ve found her?” Matilda begged.

“I need to tell the child’s father first.” He was making to go
but Matilda shot out of the car and ran alongside him as he headed for the
house.

“How is she?” Matilda demanded. “Is she okay?”

“I’m not sure,” the officer reluctantly answered. “They found
her wandering in some dunes. She seems OK but she’s not talking. They’re taking
her to the local hospital...”

“She rarely speaks.” Matilda could feel relief literally
flooding her at the seemingly good news. “Oh, I have to tell Dante...”

“Miss I really think...” Something in his voice stilled her
and, despite the police officer’s youthful looks, Matilda saw the wisdom in his
eyes as he offered some worldly advice for free. “I think that for now at least
you need to leave this family alone. Emotions are already pretty high. Give it a
day or two and it will calm down, but I think the best thing you can do now is
take Mr Costello’s advice and go home.”

Chapter 11

E
verything
was hard—even tidying her tiny apartment required a mammoth effort, yet
she felt compelled to do it. Despite her fatigue, and utter exhaustion, she
needed to somehow clear the decks, to get things in order before she took on the
even bigger task of getting on with the rest of her life.

A life without Dante.

Pushing the vacuum around, Matilda wished the noise from the
machine could drown out her thoughts, wished she could just switch off her mind,
find some peace from the endless conundrums.

Two weeks ago she hadn’t even known he’d existed, he hadn’t
factored into even one facet of her life, and now he consumed her all—every
pore, every breath every cell of her. She was drenched with him, possessed by
him, yearned for him, but was furious with him, too. A molten river of anger
bubbled over the edge of her grief every now and then that Dante would have let
her leave without even knowing whether his daughter was alive or dead, assuming
that the world ran on the same emotionless clock as he did, where feelings could
be turned off like a light switch and the truth distorted enough to conjure up
reasonable doubt.

She’d been home four days now. Four days when he hadn’t even
bothered to pick up the phone and let her know about Alex—surly she deserved
that much at least?

For the first couple of nights Matilda had watched him on the
nightly TV news, striding out of the courtroom without comment. She had scanned
the newspapers by day for a glimpse of him, trying to read messages that weren’t
there in the tiny stilted statements that were quoted. But it had become
unbearable, seeing him, reading about him yet knowing she couldn’t have him, so
instead she’d immersed herself in anything she could think of, anything that
might turn her mind away from him and give her peace even for a moment. She knew
it was useless, knew that she could work till she dropped, could fill her diary
with engagements, could go out with friends every night, but she’d never fully
escape, that all she could hope was that the agony might abate, might relent
just enough to allow her to breathe a little more easily.

Kicking off the vacuum, Matilda gave in and padded towards the
wardrobe, as she had done repeatedly for the last four days. She pulled out
Dante’s dressing-gown, which in her haste she had inadvertently packed, feeling
the heavy fabric between her fingers, knowing that the sensible thing to do
would be to throw it into the washing machine, to parcel it up and mail it to
him. But it was the one task she was putting off, pathetically aware that apart
from her bittersweet memories it was the only reminder of Dante she had. Sitting
on the edge of the bed, she buried her face in the robe, dragging in his
evocative aroma. And it was like feeling it all over again, every breath
reinforcing the agony of his rejection, the blistering pain of his denial. A
scent that had once been so beautiful was tainted now for ever. In fact, it
almost made her feel nauseous now as she revisited the pain, the
devastation...

“Alex!”

For the first time in days, Dante left her mind, the name of
his daughter shivering out of her lips, but it wasn’t a sob. Her tears turned
off like a tap, thoughts, impossible, incredulous thoughts pinging in,
realisation dawning. She shook her head to clear it, because surely it couldn’t
be so...surely the thought that had just occurred would be flawed on
examination, that Alex’s problems couldn’t really be that simple. But instead,
the more she thought about it the more sense it made, the more she had to share
it.

“Hugh.” Her hands were shaking so much after several fruitless
attempts to reach Dante that she’d had to dial his number several times. “I need
to speak to Dante. His phone’s turned off, but is there any way when the court
takes a break—”

“He’s not here.” Hugh’s voice was so flat, so low, that Matilda
had to strain to catch it.

“Can you give me his assistant’s number?” Matilda asked, shame
and embarrassment pushed aside. Right now she didn’t care about Dante’s response
to her—this was way, way more important.

“Matilda, have you seen the newspaper, the television?” Hugh
asked, as her free hand flicked on the remote, wondering what on earth Hugh was
going on about. “The charges were all dropped, the trial finished two days
ago...”

“Two days ago?” Matilda’s mind raced for comfort but there was
none to be had. She couldn’t even pretend it was because of the trial, because
of work that he hadn’t called her. But she dragged herself to the present,
forced herself to focus on the reason she needed to talk to him so badly. “Hugh,
I need to speak to him urgently.” Her voice was the most assertive she’d ever
heard it. “Now, can you, please, tell me how I can get hold of him?”

“He’s in Italy.” And even though she wanted to have misheard,
even though at the eleventh hour she mentally begged for a reprieve, Matilda
knew from the utter devastation in Hugh’s voice that there wouldn’t be one.

Dante really had gone.

“He’s asked me not to ring for a few weeks, Matilda. He wants
some time to sort things out and I’ve tried to respect that—not that it matters.
I know that his housekeeper won’t put me through and I’m pretty sure she
wouldn’t put...”

He didn’t say it, didn’t twist the taut knife any further, but
they both knew the words that filled the silence that crackled down the
telephone line. If he wouldn’t even speak to Hugh, what hope was there of Dante
speaking to her?

“Hugh.” Matilda’s mind was going at a thousand miles an hour.
She knew she couldn’t tell Hugh what she thought she knew, couldn’t build him up
just to tear him down, knew she had to tread carefully now. “Could I ask you to
give me his address?”

“I don’t know.” She could feel his hesitation, knew that she
was asking him to cross a line, but she also knew that Hugh wanted Dante back in
Australia more than anything in the world, and if something Matilda said could
make that happen then perhaps it was worth a try. “I guess it wouldn’t do any
harm to write to him, then it’s up to Dante whether or not he reads it.”

Matilda held her breath as she scrabbled for a pen, then closed
her eyes in blessed relief as finally, after the longest time, Hugh gave it to
her.

“Thanks, Hugh.” Matilda said, clicking off the telephone, and
even though it was the biggest, possibly the most reckless decision of her life,
amazingly she didn’t hesitate. She flicked through the phone book before making
her second call of the day, knowing that if she thought about it, tried to
rationalise it, she’d never do it.

“I’d like to book a flight to Rome, please.”

“When did you want to go?” Running a shaking hand through her
hair, Matilda listened to the efficient voice, could hear the taps on the
keyboard as the woman typed in the information. Taking a deep breath, she
uttered the most terrifying words of her life.

“I’d like the next available flight, please.”

Chapter 12

“I
’m sorry
the flight has been overbooked.”

Matilda could barely take it in, just blinked back as the
well-groomed woman tapped over and over at her computer. She was scarcely able
to believe what she was hearing, that the seat she’d booked and paid for just a
few short hours ago had never been available in the first place, that flights
were often overbooked and that if she read the fine print on her ticket she’d
realise that there was nothing she could do—that she’d just have to wait until
the next flight.

“When is the next flight?” Matilda’s trembling voice asked,
watching the long, immaculately polished nails stroking the keyboards.

“I can get you on tomorrow at eleven a.m.”

She might just as well have said the next millennium, Matilda
realised, because her conviction left her then, the conviction that had forced
her to pick up the telephone and book her flight, the conviction that had seen
her pack at lightning speed, cancel work, persuade her family, hissed out of her
like the air in a balloon when the party was over. And it
was
over, Matilda realised.

If ever she’d wanted a sign, this was it—and it wasn’t a subtle
one. Neon lights flashing over the ground steward’s head couldn’t have spelt it
out clearer.

She’d been stupid to think she could do it, could convince
Dante what she felt in her heart was wrong with Alex. Her family, her friends
had all poured scorn on the idea, even she herself had when she’d attempted to
write down what was screaming so clearly in her mind. That was the reason she
had to see Dante face to face,
had
to tell him now,
couldn’t put it in a letter, couldn’t wait for tomorrow, because only now could
she really believe it—only now, before her argument was swayed, before she
attempted to rationalise what she was sure was true.

Was true because she’d felt it herself.

Had felt it.

“We can offer a refund.”

“I don’t want a refund.” Matilda shook her head. “I have to get
this flight.” She heard the words, knew it was her own voice, but even she
couldn’t believe the strength behind it. “I have to get this flight because if I
don’t get on this plane tonight, I know that I’m never going to...”

And she’d watched the airport shows, had watched passengers
pleading their cases, shouting their rage, and had winced from the comfort of
her sofa, knowing that no matter how loud they shouted, if the flight was full,
if the gate was closed, then they might as well just give up now.

“Gate 10.”

“Sorry?” Matilda started, watching as a tag was swiftly clipped
around a rather shabby suitcase before it bumped out of view, watching as those
manicured fingers caught the boarding pass from the printer and offered it to
her.

“Gate 10,” came the clipped voice. “Business and first class
are boarding now—you’d better step on it.”

And the most infrequent of frequent flyers Matilda might have
been, but she wasn’t a complete novice either. Her overwrought mind worked
overtime as she made it through passport control then dashed along the carpeted
floors of Melbourne airport, walked along the long passageway, knowing that the
comfort level of the next twenty-four hours was entirely dependent on a single
gesture.

Right for Economy.

Left for Business.

“Good evening, Miss Hamilton.” Blond, gorgeous and delightfully
gay, the flight attendant greeted her and Matilda held her breath, playing a
perverse game of he loves me, he loves me not. He checked her ticket and
gestured her to her seat.

“Straight through to your left, first row behind the
curtain.”

And it didn’t matter if he loved her or he loved her not,
Matilda decided, slipping into her huge seat and declining an orange juice but
accepting champagne in a glass. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t really afford
the air fare and that if she lived to be a thousand she’d never be able to
justify flying to the other side of the world on a hunch. If she’d wanted a sign
then she had one. She really was doing the right thing, not for herself, not
even for Dante...but for Alex.

* * *

Rome, Matilda decided, had to be the most beautiful city
in the world, because jet-lagged, at six a.m. on a cold grey morning and nursing
a broken heart, nothing in the world should have been able to lift her spirits,
but hurtling through the streets of the Eternal City in a taxi, Matilda was
captivated. So captivated that when the hotel receptionist informed her in no
uncertain terms that her room wouldn’t be ready for a couple more hours, Matilda
was happy to leave her rather small suitcase at the hotel and wander the
streets, plunged from the boskiness of a late Australian spring to a crisp
Italian autumn.

A fascinated bystander, Matilda watched as the Eternal City
awoke, the roads noisily filling up, cars, scooters, cycles, the pavements
spilling over with beautiful, elegant people, chattering loudly in their lyrical
language as they raced confidently past or halted a moment for an impossibly
strong coffee. Everyone, except for her, seemed to know their place, know where
they were going. Matilda, in contrast, meandered along cobbled streets which
were rich with history, yet welcomed the modern—buildings that had stood for
centuries housing a treasure trove of modern fashion, glimpsing a part of
Dante’s world and knowing that he was near. Wondering how to face him, how to
approach him, how to let him know that she was there.

* * *

Message Sent

Matilda stared at the screen of her much-hated phone and for
the first time was actually grateful to have it. Grateful for the ease of rapid
contact without speech. Well, not that rapid, Matilda thought ordering another
latté to replace her long since cold one, watching as some fabulous,
twenty-first-century Sophia Loren managed to drink, smoke, read and text at the
same time. After a few failed attempts she’d managed to get her message across,
had told Dante where she was now and where she would be staying later and asking
if they could meet for a discussion—snappy, direct and impersonal.

Everything she’d tried and failed to be.

But when her message brought no response, when, looking at her
watch, Matilda realised her room would be ready and she pulled out her purse and
unpeeled the unfamiliar money, only then did the magnitude of what she had done
actually catch up with her. Nerves truly hit as she realised that for all she
knew, Dante might not even be in Italy—he could have stopped in Bangkok or
Singapore for a break. It had seemed so important to see him at the time, it had
never actually dawned on her that Dante might not want to see her, that she
could have come all this way only to find out that he didn’t even care what she
had to say. Maybe she should have made it clear that she’d come to talk about
Alex. Perhaps if she texted him again...

“Matilda.”

Thankful that her fingers were still in her purse and not
creeping towards her phone, Matilda took the longest time to look up—truly
unsure how she felt when she finally stared into the face whose loss she had
been mourning. He looked older somehow, his skin a touch paler, the shadows
under his eyes like bruises now, as if all the trouble of the past eighteen
months had finally caught up with him—nothing like the dashing young barrister
who’d walked out of a Melbourne courtroom a few days ago. Clearly he hadn’t
shaved since then, but instead of looking scruffy it gave him a slightly
tortured, artistic look. Matilda decided, as he slid into the seat next to her
and consumed her all over again, there was still more than a dash of the old
Dante, still that irrefutable sex appeal.

Odd that when there was so much to say, when it was so
outlandish that she was actually here, that the silence they sat in for a few
moments wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. Matilda gathered the images that
fluttered in her mind, knowing she would take them out and explore them later.
Dante accepted the coffee and plate of
biscotti
from
the waiter and pushed them towards her.

“No, thanks.” Matilda shook her head and Dante obviously wasn’t
hungry either because he pushed the plate away untouched.

“Seems I was wrong about you,” he said finally. “You’re not
afraid of confrontation after all.”

“Actually, you were right.” Matilda gave a pale smile. “I’m not
here to confront you, Dante.” She watched as his eyes narrowed. “Whatever your
opinion of me, please, know that I’ve got a better one of myself, and chasing
after a man who clearly doesn’t want me has never been my style.”

She watched his face harden, watched his jaw crease as if
swallowing some vile taste down before speaking, his voice almost derisive
because clearly he thought he knew better than her, clearly he assumed that she
was lying. “So why are you here, then, Matilda? If not about us, why are you
here in Rome?”

“I’m here about Alex.” It was obviously the last thing he’d
expected her to say because his face flickered in confusion, his eyes frowning
as she continued. “I think I know what’s wrong with her. I think I’ve worked out
what causes her to get upset, why she continues...”

“Matilda.” In a supremely Latin gesture he flicked her words
away with his hands. “I have consulted with the top specialists, I have had my
daughter examined from head to toe and you, after one week of knowing her, after
barely spending—”

“It’s jasmine.” The two words stopped him in mid-sentence. His
mouth opened to continue, to no doubt tell her she had no idea what she was
talking about, but her urgent voice overrode him, her frantic eyes pinning him.
Matilda knew if he would only listen to her for a single minute then it had to
be a valuable one, that even if he didn’t believe her now then maybe tonight,
next week, next month, when they were both out of each other’s lives for ever,
when the pain of this moment had passed, he would recall her words objectively
and maybe, maybe they’d make sense.

“The
scent
of jasmine,” Matilda
specified, as Dante shook his head. “That first day she lost her temper, the
first day you called for a doctor, you told me you were on your way to the
cemetery.”

“So?”

“Did you take flowers?” When he didn’t respond she pushed
harder, her heart hammering in her chest, because if she’d got this bit mistaken
then her whole theory fell apart. But as she spoke Dante blinked a couple of
times, his scathing face swinging around in alarm as she asked her next
question. “Did you take some jasmine from the garden?”

“Of course. But—”

“You sent flowers the day Jasmine died, Dante,” she said
softly. “And Katrina told me you’d had every florist in Melbourne trying to find
some jasmine. Alex was trapped in a car for two hours with her mother, calling
out for her, desperate for reassurance, trapped with that smell...”

“But a scent cannot trigger such a reaction.” Dante shook his
head in firm denial, absolutely refusing to believe it could be so simple. But
at least he was listening, Matilda consoled herself as she carried on talking,
her own conviction growing with each word she uttered, the hunch that had
brought her to this point a matter of fact now.

“Alex’s trouble started in spring, Dante, when the jasmine was
flowering, and when it became too much, when all she got was worse, you took her
back to Italy...”

“Things were better for a while,” Dante argued. “She was fine
until...” His hand was over his mouth, his eyes widening as Matilda said it for
him.

“Until spring came again. Dante, she didn’t run away because
she saw us in bed. Alex ran away because you opened the window. It was humid,
the scent would have filled the room...”

“She was trying to get away from it?”

“I don’t know,” Matilda whispered. “I don’t know what she’s
thinking. I just know that I’m right, Dante.”

“Suppose that you are.” His eyes were almost defiant. “What am
I supposed to do? I can hardly rid the world of jasmine, ensure she never
inhales that scent again...”

“Why do you always have to go to such extremes, Dante? Why does
it always have to be black and white to you? Oh, this isn’t working so I’ll
leave the country. She seems nice, so I’ll just be mean. Alex reacts to jasmine,
so I’d better get rid of it. Just acknowledge it, Dante, and then find out how
to work through it. Tell the experts, the doctors...” She gave a helpless shrug,
then picked up her purse and put it firmly in her bag—hell, he could buy her a
coffee at least.

“You’re going?” Dante frowned as she stood.

“That’s all I came here to say.”

“That’s all?” Dante scorned, clearly not believing a word. “You
could have put that in a letter, rung me.”

“Would you have read it?” Matilda checked. “Would you have
picked up the phone? And even if you had, would you really have believed it
without seeing me?”

“Probably not,” Dante admitted.

“Well, there you go,” Matilda said, heading for the door and
out into the cool morning. She stilled as he called out to her, his skeptical
voice reaching her ears.

“You’re asking me to believe you flew to the other side of the
world for a child you have seen four maybe five times.”

“I’m not
asking
you to believe
anything, Dante.” The lid was off now, rivers of lava spewing over the edges as
she turned round and walked smartly back to where he was standing, her pale face
livid as she looked angrily up to him. “I’m
telling
you that I didn’t come here to discuss us. Get it into your head, I don’t
need a grand closing speech from you, there’s no jury you have to sum up for
here. You walked out without so much as a goodbye and that’s a clear enough
message even for me. I’m certainly not going to hover on the edges of your
emotions, either waiting for permission to enter or to be told again to
leave.”