Italian Surgeon to the Stars (13 page)

I
BLAME IT
on the wine. I only had one glass after I gave up on the cola. I suddenly found the cola too sweet—or maybe it was because I wanted to sit opposite Alessandro and appear sophisticated and cool instead of nervous and on edge. He had unsettled me by asking me such probing questions.

So I sipped the wine and because I hadn’t had alcohol in ages it went straight to my head… Or should I say straight to my tongue.

Alessandro took one of my hands—the one that wasn’t holding my glass to my lips and all but draining it—and asked, ‘Why were you so uneasy about sex when we first met?’

I gulped the last mouthful of wine down in an audible swallow—which is really saying something, as there was background music playing: romantic and emotionally stirring ballads that were just as powerful as the wine.

‘P-pardon?’

His hand was so gentle against my fingers it was like he was cradling a rare and precious butterfly. As if it was the very last one on earth. His gaze was soft. Supportive. Understanding.

‘I know you told me your first time wasn’t great, but it was more than that, wasn’t it?’ he said, and when I didn’t say anything he went on, ‘I’ve thought about it a lot over the years. It’s haunted me, actually.’

I swallowed again and wished I could have another glass of wine. Brandy, even. A whole bottle. No, make that a whole distillery.

‘Don’t use that sort of language around my mother,’ I said, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere between us. I didn’t want to do deep and serious with him. I had to keep things light and casual. Under my control.

He gave me one of those lopsided smiles that tugged so painfully on my heartstrings. ‘You do that a lot,’ he said.

‘I do what a lot?’

‘Use wisecracks and humour to escape intimacy.’

I laughed—which kind of proved his point. But then I blushed, and felt stupid and exposed and more than a little tipsy. I put my
wine glass down but misjudged the edge of the table, and it would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t reached out and steadied it with his free hand.

‘Jem.’

Maybe it wasn’t the wine’s fault. It was the way he said my name…the velvet quality to his voice that was like a warm, protective cloak over my scraped raw nerves. I looked at his hand sheltering mine, the long tanned fingers capable of such strength and yet such gentleness. Or maybe it was his melted chocolate gaze…holding mine in that tender way that made me wonder all over again if he had a remnant or two of feeling for me even after all this time.

I felt like I had a wishbone stuck in my throat. I had to swallow a couple more times to clear it. And then it all came tumbling out. Once I started I couldn’t stop. It was like I had been waiting years—sixteen years, to be exact—to tell someone what had happened.

‘I was living in a commune with my parents when I was thirteen,’ I said. ‘I hated it. I didn’t belong there and neither did my sister.’ I took a breath that scored my already tight throat. ‘I was worried about Bertie because she always got teased. She didn’t know
how to stand up for herself. The other kids were feral, but there was this one boy…a bit older than me…who seemed really nice. I felt like I could talk to him, you know? I felt like he understood because his parents were like mine… Although looking back I think they were much worse. They were stoned out of their minds most of the time. They didn’t have a clue what their precious son was up to when their backs were turned.’

I looked up at Alessandro’s expression and it gave me the courage to continue. I got the feeling if
he
had been at that commune no one would have laid a finger on me.

Not on his watch.

‘I was too naive to know I was being manipulated,’ I said in a hollow-sounding voice. ‘He made me feel safe and comfortable so he could… Well, you can probably guess the rest. He must have slipped something into my glass of orange juice because I woke up to find him…’ I blinked a couple of times and swallowed again before I could continue. ‘It was over in seconds. Thank God for trigger-happy teenage boys, huh?’

Alessandro’s hand gripped mine, as if he was pulling me back from a thousand-metre drop. His expression was full of anger
and disgust at what had happened to me, and yet there was compassion for me all at the same time. The muscles on his face twitched. Tensed. Pulsed. His jaw locked. His mouth flattened. His eyes flashed and then flickered with pain. Flashed again.

‘If I knew who he was I would tear him apart with my bare hands,’ he said.

I’m not one for violence or revenge or anything, but his words gave me a sense of closure I had never felt before. Or maybe it was because I felt safe. Finally.

‘Karma’s probably got him by now,’ I said. ‘He’s probably died of a drug overdose or is languishing in prison over some heinous crime.’

‘Did you tell anyone?’

I bit my lip until I felt pain. ‘I considered it…but who was going to listen? My parents weren’t the over-protective sort. They were—still are—into free love. I was terrified they might think I was making too big a deal out of it. That I was too uptight and probably gave out the wrong signals and should get over myself…blah-blah-blah. The usual victim blaming that goes on. I didn’t tell Bertie because… Well, she’s my little sister and I didn’t want her worrying about me.’

His fingers gently stroked my hand. ‘So you bottled it all up and put on your tough face?’

I wasn’t anywhere near locating my tough face right then. It was like suddenly finding myself naked at a black-tie function. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so exposed. And yet oddly enough I didn’t feel shame. Not in Alessandro’s presence. Not while he was wearing that protective and compassionate expression.

I glanced at my empty wine glass with a rueful look. ‘I should never drink alcohol. Or orange juice.’

He brought my hand up to his mouth and ever so gently placed his lips against my bent knuckles, all the while holding my gaze.

‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For trusting me enough to tell me.’

I screwed up my mouth but for some reason I couldn’t find anything funny and diverting to say. I had to swallow again and blink. Rapidly.

‘I wish they wouldn’t play such soppy music in restaurants.’ I gave my eyes a quick swipe with the back of my free hand. ‘I bet they do it so the patrons comfort eat.’

He blotted one of the tears I couldn’t quite control with the blunt tip of his thumb. ‘Do you want to get out of here?’

‘Where would we go?’ I said. ‘My parents are probably working their way through the
Kama Sutra
by now.’

He looked into my eyes. I got the feeling he was seeing behind the humour. Behind the smart-ass wisecracks. It was a strange but pleasant feeling, having someone come that close and not be fooled by the facade.

‘How about my place?’ he said.

I gave him a speaking look. ‘Do you even have electricity at your place?’

He smiled one of his heart-stopping smiles. ‘We can make our own.’

***

It was as we were on the way to his place that the enormity of what I’d done hit me.
I Had Told Someone
. I had told Alessandro—the man I had hated for the last five years. I had unzipped my chest and retracted my ribs and laid my bleeding heart bare.

I had never done that before. Not with anyone. I am not a confidence sharer. I don’t even do it with Bertie. Sure, I tell her stuff. We chat like sisters do. But I have never told her of the doubts and fears and anxieties that have
plagued me since…that night. Or even before that night.

I’m the strong one in our family. I’ve had to be. I took on that role at a young age and no one was going to wrench it off me.

Not even some lousy scumbag of a teenage boy who didn’t know the meaning of the word
consent
.

But now I had allowed Alessandro to see behind the mask of ice that had served me so well. Global warming had nothing on me. The big melt had set in. I could feel it. I had a warm, mushy feeling right in the centre of my chest. Had I made a mistake in telling him? Would it make him feel sorry for me? Pity me?

I looked down at my hands. One of my cuticles was bleeding and I hadn’t even realised I’d been picking at it.

But then Alessandro’s left hand reached for my right one and brought it up to his chest, laying it right over the steady beat of his heart. His eyes were still on the road but the deep burr of his voice reverberated through my palm and somehow soothed the pitching-paper-boat-in-a-whirlpool panic in my stomach.

‘You’re safe with me,
ma petite
.’

I didn’t answer. I would have if I’d been able to locate my voice. Instead I sat there wondering how on earth I could have thought I’d hated him for the last five years.

***

We were almost at his house when my phone rang. I didn’t hear it at all, because I’d had it on vibrate for while we were in the restaurant, but Alessandro glanced at my bag and said, ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

‘Answer what?’

‘Your phone.’

‘Gosh, you must have excellent hearing,’ I said as I fished it out.

I grimaced as I saw it was my mother. I considered not answering it, but then I thought I might as well tell her I wouldn’t be home for another hour or so.

‘Hi, Mum. Listen. I’ve had a change of plan—’

‘You have to come home,’ my mother said in a strained and panicky voice. ‘Your father’s not well and I don’t know what to do.’

Alessandro must have heard my mother’s voice for he asked, ‘What are his symptoms?’

‘Mum, what are his symptoms?’ I relayed his question.

‘He’s got chest pain and he’s sweating and pale.’

‘Call an ambulance,’ Alessandro said to me. ‘Tell her we’ll be there in five minutes.’

And then, giving me a reassuring look, he swiftly pulled in and did a U-turn to take us back to my house, not quite speeding but with measured urgency.

The ambulance hadn’t yet arrived when we got there. Alessandro took charge in a manner that was both calm and professional, which went a long way to allay my panic—not to mention my mother’s. But even so my inner hysteria ran on wildly for a bit.

My father sick?
He was
never
sick. I can’t remember the last time he was ill, apart from a brief back-pain episode when he picked up Bertie and pulled a muscle or two, which he always reminds her of when he sees her. A bit like my mother and her birth canal. My father was usually robustly, disgustingly healthy. Now he was going to hospital in an ambulance.

My stomach clenched. What if he didn’t come out?

My father was in the spare bedroom, lying on the bed. He was dressed as Superman. My mother had put on my bathrobe but I had
a feeling that was all she had on. I know. Dead embarrassing. But it could have been much worse. I once came home to find my dad dressed in a dungeon master’s costume and my mum in a skimpy leather bikini with a whip in her hand.

To his credit, Alessandro didn’t mention what either of them was wearing. He went straight into highly trained specialist mode. He took a history while at the same time measuring my father’s pulse and taking his blood pressure, and listening to his heart with the stethoscope he’d produced from the doctor’s bag he’d sourced from the boot of his car.

Within a few minutes the ambulance arrived and Alessandro filled in the paramedics with my father’s details and directions on what should happen by way of tests when they got to hospital.

‘I’ll call the hospital to let them know he’s coming in under me,’ he added.

My mother looked at Alessandro as if
he
were Superman. ‘You’re going to take care of him?’

‘If that’s what you’d both like,’ Alessandro said. ‘Of course I can always refer Mr Clark to someone else if you’d prefer?’

‘No!’ My mother was emphatic. ‘You’re the
best. Everyone says you are. That’s what you want, isn’t it, Charlie?’

My father gave a thumbs-up sign, because he was wearing an oxygen mask, and the paramedics wheeled him out to the ambulance.

‘Do you want to go with him in the ambulance?’ Alessandro asked my mother.

My mother clutched the edges of the bathrobe together. ‘I don’t want to get in the way.’

‘Mum,’ I said, taking her arm, ‘why don’t you get dressed and we’ll follow in my car?’

‘I’ll drive you,’ Alessandro said.

My practical nature had thankfully overridden my panic by now. ‘But you’ll need to stay in London, and I’ll have to get back to school in the morning.’

He gave a brisk nod, but then reached for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Try not to worry,’ he said. ‘He’ll be leaping from tall buildings in a single bound in no time at all.’

The door was barely closed on his exit when I turned to my mother and hugged her. Yes, I actually hugged her. It’s not something I feel comfortable doing, as my mother has a tendency to lean right in and smother me.

‘He’ll be fine,’ I said, hoping it was true. I couldn’t imagine my parents without the
other. Mum and Dad. They were a team—a weird and wacky team at times, but still a team.

Mum’s arms all but cut off my circulation as she wrapped them around me. ‘I was so scared,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what to do. It was so terrifying to see him like that. I thought he was going to die while we were having—’

‘Yes, well, that would certainly have been incredibly embarrassing,’ I said, somehow managing to extricate myself from my mother’s octopus-like hold. ‘What were you
thinking
? Dressing up is for kids, not adults.’

‘Don’t go all preachy on me,’ my mother shot back with uncharacteristic heat. ‘We weren’t doing anything wrong. We often dress up for sex. It makes it more exciting. I didn’t even realise he was ill. He never said. He could have died.’

‘And how mortifying would
that
have been, with him dressed as bloody Superman?’ I said.

My mother pouted. Yes. And a woman of fifty-five pouting is even worse than one wearing a skimpy leather bikini, in my opinion.

‘You’re just jealous because you’re not having
sex,’ she said. ‘You’re too uptight to let anyone close enough to touch you. You stand like a shop mannequin when someone hugs you. What’s
wrong
with you? Loosen up, for God’s sake.’