Interview with a Playboy (17 page)

He caught her by the arm just as she reached the front door.

‘Izzy, wait.’ He swung her around. ‘That’s not how I think of you.’

‘Well, you could have fooled me. You haven’t answered any of my questions about your marriage and I haven’t pushed you.’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference if you had,’ he said
softly. ‘I never had any intention of telling you anything about my marriage. At first because you were a journalist, and then because…because we were having too good a time, and I found myself switching off from the past.’ He frowned. ‘Not something I do very easily, if the truth be told.’

She swallowed hard. ‘So what happened, Marco?’ she murmured.

Marco was silent for a long time before he finally answered. ‘Lucy was pregnant—eight months, to be precise—when she lost our baby.’

‘God, Marco—I’m so sorry!’ She looked at him in horror. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I thought…’

‘You thought like everyone else that our break-up had to be about infidelity.’ His eyes were harsh as they met hers. ‘But you don’t have to be unfaithful for a marriage to break apart. Our divorce was about loss—the loss of a baby—and our complete inability to deal with it.’

‘I’m so sorry, Marco! I’d no idea! There was never even any hint or rumour about the pregnancy.’

‘Yes, well…as you know we both worked very hard to have our privacy. And Lucy had a big part lined up in a movie twelve months down the line. She didn’t want any adverse publicity to ruin it for her, so she was waiting to sign the contract before breaking the news. She was small anyway, and carried quite neatly, so it wasn’t too hard for her to hide behind loose tops. And as the months went by she didn’t go out as much—became quite the homemaker. I think she was even starting to reconsider taking the part when it was offered to her.’

‘So what happened?’ Isobel murmured as he fell silent.

‘What happened was a car crash.’ Marco raked a hand through his hair. ‘One moment we were driving through the rain, making plans for the future, and the next I was swerving to avoid a vehicle on the wrong side of the road.’

Isobel looked at him in horror.

‘The strange thing was we were both unharmed…or so we thought. But I insisted on taking Lucy into the private clinic we were using—just to get her checked out. They thought everything was OK at first, and then she went into labour. Our son was stillborn three hours later. He was beautiful, Isobel…a beautiful little boy who looked so perfect…’

Isobel felt a cold shiver run through her as she saw the bleak expression in Marco’s eyes.

‘Marco, that’s so awful… There’s no words to say how—’

‘Words don’t help, Izzy… Believe me…nothing really helps. Because I will always feel guilty…always.’

‘Why?’ Isobel frowned. ‘It wasn’t your fault!’

He shook his head. ‘Wasn’t it? How do you know that? I was the one who was driving…’

‘Marco, you can’t think like that! It was just one of life’s cruel twists of fate!’

He shook his head. ‘Well, we will never really know that for sure, will we? The only thing I do know for sure is that it was the catalyst for our divorce. And I could have handled it better. We were both so devastated, both so driven to do anything to forget, that we started burying ourselves into our work. Things fell apart pretty quickly after that. But there was no affair, Izzy. Sometimes I wish there had been—it might have been easier. We could at least have hated each other.’

‘And instead you still love her…?’

She didn’t know if Marco didn’t hear that question, because her voice was so low, so tremulous, or whether it he didn’t want to answer it. But he made no reply, and at that same moment the limousine pulled into the drive behind him.

‘That’s my lift to the airport. I’d better go.’

She frowned. ‘Marco, is this the first time you’ve talked about this to anyone?’

‘Yes…and I picked a journalist…on my own front doorstep!’ He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. ‘Life can really throw some unexpected curveballs, can’t it?’

‘You know I won’t say anything,’ she whispered unsteadily.

‘Well, I’m in your hands now, aren’t I?’ He shrugged. ‘Izzy, I suddenly don’t care what you write…just so long as you go easy on it for Lucy’s sake…OK?’

‘You don’t even need to say that.’

For a moment neither of them moved. They just looked into each other’s eyes.

‘You’re a pretty special person,
cara
.’ He stroked a hand along the side of her face. ‘And if I had to tell anyone about my marriage, I’m glad it was you.’ Then he turned towards the car and was gone.

Isobel stood where she was until the red lights of the car disappeared into the darkness.

‘W
HAT
was Marco Lombardi really like?’

Isobel was starting to wish she hadn’t come into the office today. Because if she’d had a pound for every time she’d been asked that she would have been able to fly first-class to the Caribbean tonight—or maybe New York. Not that she
wanted
to go to New York, she told herself categorically. It was just a passing thought.

‘He was very charming, as you would expect, Joyce.’ She answered the secretary’s question cheerfully, and then gave a sigh of relief as the woman nodded her head and seemed to accept the set turn of phrase.

‘I thought he would be. I really enjoyed your article about him, by the way. He sounds as if he’s a genuinely good man… all those charities that he has supported for years in secret… how lovely is that? And he seems to have been genuinely cut up by his divorce. And of course he’s gorgeous; you’re
so
lucky to have met him.’

The woman walked away before Isobel had a chance to comment on that. She wasn’t so sure about that last observation at all. Sometimes, as she lay alone in her double bed and thought back to those few days with Marco, she wished she had never met him…because she missed him too much. Other times she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

It was seven weeks ago now. Of course she hadn’t heard
from him, and she didn’t expect to.
Nor did she want to
, she reminded herself heatedly, because it was just a fling.

Best to chalk it up as an experience and forget it.

Trouble was, it was hard to forget Marco when everyone kept mentioning him. She had written quite a sensitive piece on him, focusing on his achievements and underlying it with his sense of loss about his marriage break-up. She hadn’t mentioned the child he had lost—had just said that pressures of work and the constant intrusion of the press had all contributed to put pressure on his relationship. And then she had talked about his tough upbringing and his early years in Naples.

Everyone had been fascinated as it had shown a totally different side to him—well away from his womanising image. The sales of the paper that weekend had gone through the roof, and her editor had been so pleased that she now wanted Isobel to do another article.

‘Let’s ring him up and see if we can do an informal “at home with Marco” item,’ she’d suggested excitedly earlier that day. ‘This time maybe he will allow us to send a photographer with you.’

Isobel had tried to tell her that Marco was a very busy man and probably wouldn’t take her call. ‘He doesn’t like the press,’ she’d reiterated over and over. ‘He said this was a one-off interview to put an end to all the speculation about him.’

But her editor hadn’t wanted to hear that, and she’d been summoned into the office today to discuss it.

Well, she was damned if she was going to contact Marco again, Isobel thought angrily as she gathered her notes together. She’d told her editor that she’d go with what she already knew. Maybe she could write about his house—describe the décor? Or write about his yacht or something? But nothing had been finalised.

As she put everything away into her briefcase Isobel was aware that she hadn’t used the photos Marco had given her in
France. Instead she’d gone with old ones from the newspaper’s archives for her article.

Which meant that she could have offered them to her editor today and taken some of the pressure off.

But for some reason she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.

They were too poignant. They opened up all sorts of questions in Isobel’s mind about Marco’s feelings for his ex-wife.

Did he still love her?

She needed to switch off from the subject—go home and get some rest. Because she was tired—really tired. Probably due to the fact that she hadn’t been sleeping too well. Her nights as well as her days seemed to have been haunted by thoughts of Marco Lombardi lately. Well, no more, she told herself firmly.

The rain was bouncing off the pavements outside, and Isobel lingered in the shelter of the lobby for a moment, wondering if she should ring for a taxi.

‘Evening, Isobel.’ Elaine, one of the receptionists, waved over at her. ‘Loved your piece on Marco Lombardi—hell, but that man is good-looking.’

‘Yes…isn’t he?’ Isobel tried to smile. If one more person mentioned Marco to her she thought she would scream—she was glad she’d been doing most of her work from home recently, because she couldn’t have stood seven weeks of this.

‘Are you writing another article about him? I believe he’s back in London at the moment.’

‘I think he’s still in New York,’ Isobel corrected her quickly.

‘No, he’s back in London. There were pictures of him in one of my gossip magazines a few days ago at JFK—it said he was heading back to London.’

Isobel turned slowly. She hadn’t seen anything about that! But then she hadn’t been as efficient with things as she usually
was. Normally she bought a range of papers and magazines to keep abreast of current affairs, but she’d been feeling so tired that most of them were still unopened back at her flat.

‘There are rumours that he will still be here to attend his ex-wife’s film premiere. It shows in Leicester Square next month.’

‘That will be a good photo opportunity, I wonder if Lucinda’s coming over for it.’ It took all of Isobel’s willpower to try and keep businesslike.

‘I don’t know—I was going to ask
you
that.’ Elaine laughed.

‘Afraid I don’t know anything more than you. I hardly know the man.’ Isobel turned up the collar on her raincoat. She really needed to get out of here.

‘Hey, do you want me to ring for a cab for you? It’s a horrid night.’

‘No, it’s OK, Elaine. Some fresh air will do me good.’

Isobel stepped out onto the street. It was a relief to get out of the building and away from the awful, never-ending reminders.

The rain was icy cold, and it was more like winter than summer. She couldn’t help comparing it to the warm rain in France. She remembered running hand in hand with Marco through it, laughing with him, kissing him… The memories made tears merge with the rain on her face.

Marco was back in London and he hadn’t contacted her.
She didn’t know why she felt so hurt. It was hardly a surprise. He hadn’t phoned her whilst he’d been in the States, so obviously he’d no intention of keeping in contact.

She was drenched by the time she reached the underground station and joined the throngs of people hurrying down the steps. It was the usual Friday night mayhem, and the platforms were packed.

Isobel hated the underground when it was like this. She tried to keep back, so that the crowds didn’t hem her in, but
as soon as the train pulled in she found herself swept along with everyone else and jammed into a small standing space in one of the compartments. She closed her eyes as the doors closed, and tried to imagine that she was somewhere else.

She only had three stops before she could get off, and usually the visualisation trick helped to make her feel less claustrophobic. Only today all she could visualise was Marco—and that definitely didn’t make her feel any better.

Was
he here for his ex-wife’s premiere? she wondered.

Not that she cared.

The train stopped and more people got on. There was a smell of damp clothing and wet hair. Isobel started to feel a bit queasy.

Maybe next stop she’d get out, she thought frantically. Because she’d rather walk in torrential rain than feel like this.

Come to think of it she’d been feeling a bit queasy on and off all day.

Isobel’s eyes snapped open.

In fact she’d been feeling tired and queasy and a bit tearful for a few days.

Weren’t they the symptoms of pregnancy?

It was raining so heavily that Marco could hardly see out of the windows of the limousine. He was parked across the road from Isobel’s address…and he’d been there for the last twenty minutes.

Where had she got to? he wondered impatiently as he glanced at his wristwatch. She surely should be home by now; the receptionist at her office had told him that he’d only just missed her, and her offices weren’t so far away.

He was just wondering if he should come back later when he saw her rounding the corner—her head down against the rain, a bag of shopping in her hand.

‘OK, thanks, Henry. I’ll ring you when I want you,’ he told his chauffeur as he climbed out from the warmth of the car.

Isobel had just opened her front door when Marco reached her side. ‘Hello, Izzy.’

The familiar Italian tones made her whirl around in surprise.

‘Marco!’ She was so surprised that she could only stand and stare at him as the rain lashed down over her. Was he a figment of her imagination? she wondered hazily. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Getting as wet as you.’ He reached and took the shopping bag from her, noticing how cold her fingers were, how pale her skin was. ‘Come on—let’s get you inside, out of this.’

Isobel’s apartment was on the first floor, and as she went up the stairs ahead of him she still felt as if she was dreaming—that he wasn’t really here. It was only when he followed her in through her front door and carried her shopping bag over towards the kitchen that reality seemed to set in.

He was wearing a dark raincoat over the top of his suit, and he looked as incredibly attractive as ever. By comparison she felt like a total mess. Her hair was soaked through, and the grey trousers that she had felt so smart in earlier were sticking to her like a second skin.