She had her work—almost more than she could handle if she was honest—and she would find another apartment somewhere in the city.
Re-start her life as it had been, and find some peace.
Regard the last months as a mistake—serious but not irretrievable.
She’d tried very hard during his absence not to think about him.
Not to wonder where he was and what he did once the working day was over.
Above all, she worked on not speculating who he might be with, especially now that she had the image etched on her mind of Silvia’s hand curling possessively round his sleeve to go with that other memory of her standing smiling at the bed she planned to share with him, as she’d done from the first.
Angelo must have decided that, in spite of everything she’d done, her cousin was the woman he really wanted.
That she was too deep in his bloodstream for him to turn away again, and he would forgive her as everyone had always forgiven Silvia, because beauty was its own excuse.
He must genuinely love her, Ellie thought.
And, in the end, that was all that mattered.
Wasn’t it? She had to believe it was true, anyway.
And she—she would be Ellie Blake again, instead of this strange manufactured creature masquerading as the Contessa Manzini.
She’d always felt that she was filling someone else’s shoes, and, no matter how she’d been dressed up, she’d never looked the part as Silvia, beautiful, stylish and totally single-minded, undoubtedly would.
She could only hope that her cousin would love Vostranto as much as she’d done and be content there, rather than regarding it as just another glamorous Manzini asset and hankering for the hectic social life of the city.
But that, she thought, would not be her problem.
And perhaps, because she’d won as she always insisted on doing, Silvia’s attitude would change.
Whatever, there was nothing now to hold Angelo back from pursuing her again.
He’d got his investment and the Galantana expansion was forging ahead, so the prospect of scandal over her divorce from Ernesto would no longer be of any great concern.
And Ellie resolved that she would play her part—assuring her godmother and Prince Damiano that her marriage to Angelo would never have worked in a thousand years.
Making it clear that it was no-one’s fault, that as a couple they would always be chalk and cheese, oil and water, so that bringing the whole unfortunate fiasco to an end had to be the best solution for all involved.
That she herself found the decision an actual relief.
All the same, there would be anger, she knew and disappointment.
She could imagine Nonna Cosima’s sadness, and Madrina’s bewilderment, while Zia Dorotea would have a field day, apportioning blame indiscriminately, and hoped they could understand why she had gone without saying goodbye to them.
Because she could never, ever explain why it had all become so impossible.
Why she could no longer endure the dutiful ritual that might lead to conception from a man whose desires and passions had always been focussed elsewhere.
She could not even define to her own satisfaction why it had been so necessary for her to be the one to put an end to it all and walk away, and told herself it had to be pride.
Or perhaps it was the terse communication she’d eventually received from him by email, informing her that he would be returning at the weekend, because matters could not continue in this way between them and there were things that must be said.
She had sat staring at it, scanning the message over and over again, before pressing the delete button, because she knew these would be things she could not bear to hear.
Even if their marriage had been doomed from the outset, she’d played her part in its failure, she’d thought, as she went upstairs to begin preparations for her departure.
And she could give no hint to anyone—Angelo least of all—that the prospect of Silvia’s triumph was like the intolerable pain of a knife being turned in an open wound.
When she’d come down with her travel bag, smiling cheerfully, she’d told a concerned Assunta merely that she intended to have a little holiday, but her plans were fluid, and she was not sure when she would return.
Which, she thought, was her only untruth.
And there had, of course, only ever been one place to come to.
She sat up slowly in the bed, pushing back her hair, looking round the familiar room.
The cottage had always been her refuge, and never more so than now.
It was her own space, she thought, with no disturbing resonances of anyone else.
As she pushed back the covers, she saw the faint pale mark on her finger where her wedding ring had been.
She never wore it when she came down here, anyway, because it belonged to another life, which, for a short while she was leaving behind her.
But, this time she was going for good, so she’d left it in Angelo’s bedroom with all the other jewellery he had given her, and her handwritten letter telling him simply that in view of the disaster their marriage had become, she was leaving in order to save them both further embarrassment and unhappiness.
She added in conclusion that she wanted nothing from him except the legal dissolution of their relationship, and that she wished him well for the future.
She’d brought away little more than the clothes she stood up in.
The designer gear on the padded silk hangers had never been her choice anyway, so she wouldn’t miss it, and besides there was plenty of stuff here in the cupboard and drawers that suited her purpose far better—cotton skirts, pants and tops and some swimwear, although, admittedly, it was rather too early in the year for sea-bathing.
She padded barefoot out of the bedroom in her brief cotton nightshirt, and walked to the kitchen.
Signora Alfredi, the stout elderly widow next door, who kept an eagle eye on Casa Bianca when Ellie was not there, had left a bag of groceries on the kitchen table, including some bread, sliced ham, eggs and a pack of coffee, so breakfast was taken care of.
Later, she would supplement her supplies at the local shops, and, for lunch, she would probably see what the fishing boats had brought in.
Then, tonight, she would eat as usual in the little trattoria on the quayside, where Santino and Maria would welcome her back.
My routine, she thought, spooning coffee into the machine.
Sweet and reassuringly familiar.
As if I’d never been away and the last wretched months had never happened.
This is what I need.
And it’s all I need.
Yet in spite of her resolution, it was a couple of days before Casa Bianca began to work its usual magic.
She slept poorly for one thing, and was glad she could not remember her dreams.
Also she found it difficult to concentrate on her work, making elementary and annoying mistakes.
After one particularly trying session, she decided to close down her laptop and get some fresh air to see if that would get rid of the cobwebs in her mind.
On the way out, she called at Signora Alfredi’s house to pick up her dog, Poco, who was her usual companion on such walks.
He was an odd-looking little animal, with a round amiable face, drooping ears, a long body and short legs, and he possessed seemingly boundless energy.
However, the Signora’s health and increasing girth meant she could not give him the exercise he needed, so this had become a task which Ellie gladly assumed when she stayed at the cottage.
He scampered happily beside her along the promenade and down the shallow flight of wooden steps to the almost deserted beach, then took off like a rocket along the sand with a bark of sheer joy, eventually returning with a piece of stick that Ellie was required to throw for him.