Wanted: Mistress And Mother

‘Happy?’ Dante gave a disbelieving smile.

‘Yes, happy.’ Matilda nodded. ‘I happen to like my work, Dante. I just want to make sure that you’re fine with me being there.’

‘I’m fine with it.’ Dante gave a short nod.

‘Because Hugh’s sick?’

‘Does it really matter?’

Matilda thought for a moment before answering. ‘It does to me,’ she said finally. ‘And whether it’s ego or neurosis, I’d like to think that when I pour my heart and soul into a job at least my efforts will be appreciated. If you and your wife are only doing this to pacify Hugh, then you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. To make it effective, I’m going to need a lot of input as to your daughter’s likes and dislikes. It needs to be a reflection of her and I’d like to think that it’s going to be a place the whole family can enjoy.’

‘Fair enough.’ Dante gave a tight shrug. ‘I admit I do not believe that a garden, however special, can help my daughter, but I am willing to give it a try—I’ve tried everything else after all…’

‘I clearly explained to Hugh that this garden isn’t going to be a magical cure for your daughter’s problems—it might bring her some peace, some respite, a safe place that could help soothe her…’

‘If that were the case…’ Dante said slowly and for the first time since she had met him his voice wasn’t superior or scathing but distant. Matilda felt a shiver run through her as she heard the pain behind his carefully chosen words. ‘It would be more than worth it.’

‘Look.’ Her voice was softer now. ‘Why don’t I take the plans and have a look? Then maybe on Sunday I could speak with your wife about Alex…’

‘My wife is dead.’

He didn’t elaborate, didn’t soften it with anything. His voice was clipped and measured, his expression devoid of emotion as he explained his situation, the pain she had witnessed just a second before when he’d spoken about his daughter gone now, as if a safety switch had been pushed, emotion switched off, plunging his features into unreadable darkness as she faltered an apology.

‘I had no idea,’ Matilda breathed. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

He didn’t shake his head, didn’t wave his hand and say that she couldn’t have known…just let her stew in her own embarrassment as their food arrived, raining salt and pepper on his gnocchi until Matilda could take it no more. Excusing herself, she fled to the loo and leaned over the basin, screwing her eyes closed as she relived the conversation.

‘Damn, damn damn!’ Cursing herself, she relived every insensitive word she’d uttered, then peeped her eyes open and closed them again as a loo flushed and she was forced to fiddle with her lipstick as a fellow diner gave her a curious glace as she washed her hands. Alone again, Matilda stared at her glittering eyes and flushed reflection in the massive gilt-edged mirror and willed her heart to slow down.

She’d apologise again, Matilda decided. She’d march straight out of the bathroom and say that she was sorry. No, she’d leave well alone—after all, she’d done nothing wrong. Of course she’d assumed his wife was alive. He had a child, he wore his wedding ring. She had nothing to apologise for.

So why had she fled? Why didn’t she want to go back out there?

‘Everything OK?’ Dante checked as she slid back into her seat.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Matilda attempted, then gave up on her false bravado and let out a long-held sigh. ‘I’m just not very good at this type of thing.’

‘What type of thing?’

‘Business dinners.’ Matilda gave a tight smile. ‘Though I should be, given the number that I’ve been to.’

‘I thought that your business was new.’

‘It is.’ Matilda nodded, taking a drink of her wine before elaborating. ‘But my ex-fiancé was a real estate agent…’

‘Ouch,’ Dante said, and Matilda felt a rather disloyal smile to Edward twitch on her lips.

‘He was very good,’ Matilda said defensively. ‘Incredibly good, actually. He has a real eye for what’s needed to make a house sell well. It’s thanks to Edward that I got started. If he was selling a deceased estate often it would be neglected, the gardens especially, and I’d come in…’

‘And add several zeros to the asking price!’ Dante said with a very dry edge, taking the positive spin out of Matilda’s speech. She gave a rather glum nod.

‘But it wasn’t like that at first.’

Dante gave a tight smile. ‘It never is.’

‘So what do you do?’ Matilda asked, chasing her rice with a fork as Dante shredded his bread and dipped it in a side dish of oil and balsamic vinegar, wishing as she always did when she was out that she’d had what he’d had!

‘I’m a barrister. My specialty is criminal defence.’ Matilda’s fork frozen over her fish spoke volumes. ‘Ouch!’ he offered, when Matilda didn’t say anything.

‘Double ouch.’ Matilda gave a small, tight smile as reality struck. ‘Now you come to mention it, I think I know your name…’ Matilda took another slug of wine as newspaper reports flashed into her mind, as a lazy Sunday afternoon spent reading the colour supplements a few months ago took on an entirely new meaning. ‘Dante Costello—you defended that guy who—’

‘Probably,’ Dante shrugged.

‘But—’

‘I defend the indefensible.’ Dante was unmoved by her obvious discomfort. ‘And I usually win.’

‘And I suppose your donation to the hospital was an attempt to soften your rather brutal image.’

‘You suppose correctly.’ Dante nodded, only this time his arrogance didn’t annoy her—in fact, his rather brutal honesty was surprisingly refreshing. ‘I try to give back, sometimes with good intentions.’ He gave another, rather elaborate, shrug. ‘Other times because…’

‘Because?’ Matilda pushed, and Dante actually laughed.

‘Exactly as you put it, Matilda, I attempt to soften my rather brutal image.’ She liked the way he said her name. Somehow with his deep Italian voice, he made it sound beautiful, made a name that had until now always made her cringe sound somehow exotic. But more than that it was the first time she’d seen him laugh and the effect was amazing, seeing his bland, unfathomable face soften a touch, glimpsing his humour, a tiny peek at the man behind the man.

They ate in more amicable silence now, the mood more relaxed, and Matilda finally addressed the issue that they were, after all, there for.

‘It would help if you could tell me a bit about Alex—her likes and dislikes.’

‘She loves water,’ Dante said without hesitation. ‘She also…’ He broke off with a shake of his head. ‘It’s nothing you can put in a garden.’

‘Tell me,’ Matilda said eagerly.

‘Flour,’ Dante said. ‘She plays with dough and flour…’

‘The textures are soothing,’ Matilda said and watched as Dante blinked in surprise. ‘I found that out when I was researching for the hospital garden. A lot of autistic children…’ She winced at her insensitivity, recalled that it was only a tentative diagnosis and one that the family didn’t want to hear. ‘I’m so—’

‘Please, don’t apologise again,’ Dante broke in with a distinct dry edge to his voice. ‘It’s becoming rather repetitive. Anyway,’ he said as Matilda struggled for a suitable response, ‘it is I who should apologise to you: I embarrassed you earlier when I told you about my wife. You can probably gather that I’m not very good at telling people. I tend to be blunt.’ He gave a very taut smile and Matilda offered a rather watery one back, reluctant to say anything in the hope her silence might allow him to elaborate. For the first time since she’d met him, her instincts were right. She watched as he swallowed, watched as those dark eyes frowned over the table towards her, and she knew in that second that he was weighing her up, deciding whether or not to go on. Her hand convulsed around her knife and fork, scared to move, scared to do anything that might dissuade him, might break this fragile moment, not even blinking until Dante gave a short, almost imperceptible nod and spoke on.

‘Fifteen months ago, I had a normal, healthy daughter. She was almost walking, she smiled she blew kisses, she waved, she was even starting to talk, and then she and my wife were involved in a car accident. Alex was strapped in her baby seat. It took two hours to extricate my wife and daughter from the car…’ Matilda felt a shiver go through her as he delivered his speech and in that moment she understood him, understood the mask he wore, because he was speaking as he must work, discarding the pain, the brutal facts, the horrors that must surely haunt him. And stating mere facts—hellish, gut-wrenching facts that were delivered in perhaps the only way he could: the detached voice of a newsreader. ‘Jasmine was unconscious, pronounced dead on arrival at hospital.’ He took a sip of his drink, probably, Matilda guessed, to take a break from the emotive tale, rather than to moisten his lips. But other than that he appeared unmoved, and she could only hazard a guess at the torture he had been through, the sheer force of willpower and rigid self-control that enabled him to deliver this speech so dispassionately. ‘At first Alex, apart from a few minor injures, appeared to have miraculously escaped relatively unscathed. She was kept in hospital for a couple of nights with bruising and for observation but she seemed fine…’

Dante frowned, his eyes narrowing as he looked across to where Matilda sat, but even though he was looking directly at her, Matilda knew he couldn’t see her, that instead he was surveying a painful moment in time, and she sat patient and still as Dante took a moment to continue. ‘But, saying that, I guess at the time I wasn’t really paying much attention…’ His voice trailed off again and this time Matilda did speak, took up this very fragile thread, wanting so very much to hear more, to know this man just a touch better.

‘You must have had a lot on your mind,’ Matilda volunteered gently, and after a beat of hesitation Dante nodded.

‘I often wonder if I failed to notice something. I was just so grateful that Alex seemed OK and she really did appear to be, but a couple of months later—it was the twenty-second of September—she started screaming…’ He registered Matilda’s frown and gave a small wistful smile. ‘I remember the date because it would have been Jasmine’s birthday. They were all difficult days, but that one in particular was…’ He didn’t elaborate, he didn’t need to. ‘I was getting ready to go to the cemetery, and it was as if Alex knew. When I say she was screaming, it wasn’t a usual tantrum, she was hysterio, deranged. It took hours to calm her. We called a doctor, and he said she was picking up on my grief, that she would be fine, but even as he spoke, even as I tried to believe him, I knew this was not normal, that something was wrong. Unfortunately I was right.’

‘It carried on?’