The room was suddenly filled with noise, laughter and tears.
‘Come on, Mamma, don’t cry. I’m here now. These are for you, Zia Carmela.’ Kissing his aunt, he handed her some flowers, and then, crouching down, he kissed his mother on both cheeks. ‘And these are for you, Mamma,’ he said gently, his heart swelling with love and relief as she took the huge bunch of palest pink roses.
Her ankle was a little swollen, and she looked pale, but she was still his mother—and she was smiling now as Imma stepped forward, also smiling shyly.
‘And here is my beautiful nuora. Imma, thank you so much for coming to see us. I really am so glad you came.’
‘Thank you, Signora Trapani—’
‘Mia cara, call me Audenzia, please. Now, come and sit next to me. Both of you. And you, Carmela. I want to hear all about your beautiful wedding, and of course see the photos. Carlo, will you take these flowers, per favore, and put them in water?’
Lazing back in his seat, Vicè watched his mother scroll down through the pictures on his phone, clutching Imma’s hand and occasionally wiping away a tear. He felt relaxed, calm and happy. Life had never felt sweeter.
‘I would like a copy of this one, Vicenzu.’
His mother was holding up his phone and, glancing at the photo, h
e felt his pulse stumble. It was a beautiful picture—a close-up, not a selfie. The registrar must have taken it. They were gazing into each other’s eyes and there was a sweetness in Imma’s face that made him want to pull her into his arms right now and hold her close.
And apologise. Again.
How could he have married her in that two-bit way? He’d let her wear that same dress she’d worn to her sister’s wedding and exchanged vows with her in a ceremony that had lasted only slightly longer than it would have taken to open a bottle of Prosecco.
That photo was a beautiful lie, and he was ashamed of being a part of it, but he was even more ashamed of having made her part of it too.
‘And this one, too. You look just like when you were a little boy. I have a photo in one of my albums...’
‘Maybe after lunch, Mamma,’ he said, smiling mechanically at Carlo’s expression of despair.
As Carmela led Imma away, to show her the rest of the apartment, his mother took his arm and gave it a quick squeeze.
‘I know you must have wanted to give her a more special day, babà. But you were in a rush—I understand.’
But she didn’t. Not really. He’d seen his parents’ wedding album and, although their day had clearly not been as over the top as Ciro and Claudia’s, it had been undeniably romantic.
He felt sick with remorse. For a fraction of a second he was glad for the first time that his father was not alive to bear witness to his incompetence and insensitivity.
‘I’m sorry, Mamma—’ he began, but his mother shook her head.
‘For what? Falling in love and wanting your life with Imma to start as soon as possible?’ Her eyes were gentle and loving. ‘You will make every day from now on special. And you are so simpatico together. I wish your father was here to see the two of you. He would be so very happy, and so proud of the man you have become. A man who can love and be loved in return—isn’t that how the song goes?’ She patted his cheek. ‘He loved that song.’
He smiled down at her, but inside he could feel something tearing. It was crazy, but he kept forgetting that he and Imma were not a real couple. Watching her with his mother and aunt, he’d almost forgotten that theirs was a marriage of convenience not love.
Only now his mother was praising him for something he hadn’t done, something he wasn’t capable of doing, and he felt guilt and panic unfurl inside him.
He knew what his father had wanted him to be. But he wasn’t that man and nor could he ever be him. And besides, in the long-term Imma wanted her freedom. They both did.
‘Oh, Carlo, you clever man! How perfect!’ Audenzia looked up at her brother-in-law, her eyes sparkling like the glass of Prosecco he had handed her. ‘A toast to my darling son and his beautiful bride. To Vicenzu and Imma. Cent’ anni!’
* * *
A hundred years.
It was just a toast, Imma told herself, glancing at the hibiscus flower at the bottom of her glass of Prosecco. But every time she remembered Audenzia’s joyful words she felt a sharp nip of guilt. And something else—something she couldn’t quite place.
They had just finished lunch on the balcony overlooking the garden. The food had been sublime and the view was incredible, but she kept losing concentration, her mind returning like a homing pigeon to that moment when Vicè had held up his glass and toasted their marriage.
As his eyes had met hers she’d forgotten to breathe, much less raise her glass. But it wasn’t those few shared half seconds that were making her heart pound—it was the memory of that half hour in the car, when he had let his mask slip and needed her for something more than sex.