‘How could it not have?’ Emma gave a tight shrug.
‘I warned you,’ Evelyn said, but there was no accusatory note in her voice. She had seen it before and she would no doubt see it again—but it felt different with Emma. ‘You don’t have to go to this—’
‘But I do,’ Emma interjected.
‘He’ll hurt you,’ Evelyn warned. ‘Please don’t get too involved… Luca’s incapable of commitment.’
‘I know that.’
‘And he can’t stand to look at his mistakes.’ Evelyn spoke from years of experience. ‘I’ve seen it happen so many times. Sooner or later, you’ll end up leaving. Oh, you’ll get a glowing reference, a fabulous payout…’ Each word was like an arrow to Emma’s heart, because it washed away the last dregs of the uniqueness that she’d been sure had been them. ‘He’ll hurt you,’ Evelyn said again and then the car tooted its summons and they both stood, Emma tempted to follow Evelyn’s advice—to just walk away now, before he hurt her even further.
‘He already has,’ Emma admitted finally.
‘Then tell him you can’t go with him, tell him that you’ve changed your mind.’
The doorbell rang and the two women stood in silence for a moment, but then Emma picked up her bag and opened the door. She stared into navy eyes that were glassy, and saw a taut, guarded face that, for a little while longer at least, needed her there.
Real love did make you strong, Emma realised.
It wasn’t just for Luca she would go to the funeral.
It was for their baby. For the little bit of history that she would one day have to repeat to their child whose grandfather had just died.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EVERYTHING seemed different. As the helicopter swept them from the airport, Emma could see the bare vines and naked trees and as they made their way towards Luca’s home, the Mediterranean pulsing swollen and grey as they came in closer to land.
They walked into the house. All the curtains were drawn and a wail went up, women dressed in black sobbing as Luca and Emma entered.
She had never seen such raw emotion and it made her flinch—this wall of pain that hit them with force. In the middle of them all was Mia, who sat dignified and silent. She stood as her son entered and accepted his embrace, and suddenly Emma experienced a stirring of memory within her. Tears and black and grief… She could remember holding her hands up to her father, who didn’t notice, could feel again the bemusement she had felt as a child, seeing her brothers weep, her aunts, everyone… Emma had been holding Luca’s hand for appearances’ sake but suddenly he was holding hers.
Mia led them both past the kitchen where the men stood in strained, respectful silence and into Rico’s study, where she spoke with her son about the arrangements. But despite what was expected of them, Luca put his foot down. For his mother he would do it, would stand in the kitchen with the men and drink whisky and play the dutiful son, would put himself through whatever was expected of him this one last time, but he would not do it to Emma.
‘Luca!’ She could hear his mother’s annoyance, and had no idea what they were saying, but Luca seemed adamant, his voice, firm and non-negotiable, then he led her away, up to the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed.
‘What was all that about?’ Emma asked. ‘Surely now is not the time to argue with your mother?’
‘You are expected to sit and weep with the women while I stand with the men.’ He watched her eyes widen in horror. ‘So, perhaps now is a good time to state my opinion, hmm?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she conceded. ‘What did you say?’
‘That you are tired, upset…’ He gave a thin smile. ‘That you are English.’
Emma managed a watery smile back. ‘We English have emotions too, you know.’
‘Ah, but you hide them so well.’ She was quite sure he was talking about them, about these past hellish weeks. ‘When it hurts, when it really hurts…’ His hand reached out, pushed a few stray curls back from her strained face and he just stood there, his hand resting on the side of her cheek as her skin warmed to his slight touch. ‘You just keep it all in.’
‘Crying and screaming doesn’t change anything. I learnt that long ago.’
‘You just get on with it?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe living in England, some of your ways have rubbed off on me.’
She felt as if he was giving her a message, as if beneath his blandness, beneath the void of emotion there was a deeper meaning in his words—which was the edge of madness, Emma reasoned. There was no deeper meaning with Luca, he had told her that from the start, so she jerked her head, removed herself from his contact and wished him gone.
‘I must go back down, I will bring you some supper.’