Читать книгу Italian Surgeon to the Stars - Melanie Milburne, Melanie Milburne - Страница 10

I WAS AT SCHOOL early the next morning … earlier than usual. So shoot me. I’m a lark, not an owl. I like to get on with the day from the get-go. I bounce out of bed and hit the ground like a lightning bolt. It’s because I’m a listmaker. I thrive on being organised. It’s like an addiction. I even write down things I’ve already done, just so I can get that little buzz of satisfaction at seeing it ticked off.

My parents think I’m crazy not to start my day with some peaceful mindfulness practice or yoga poses or chanting. They sleep in until midday when they come to stay, which drives me completely nuts. And I use the term ‘sleep in’ loosely. They do a lot of things in bed when they come to stay, and not much of it involves sleeping.

Everyone thinks their parents don’t ‘do it’, but my parents make sure everyone knows they do. At least these days they’re only doing it with each other. Up until a couple of years ago they had an ‘open relationship’, which meant they could have sex with anyone they fancied and the other wouldn’t mind. Bertie and I found it completely and utterly weird.

My mother is embarrassingly open about sex. My dad too, although he doesn’t drop it into every conversation like my mother does. It’s the first thing she asks me when she calls. ‘How’s your sex life?’ Or, yesterday’s cracker: ‘Did you know having an orgasm every day is good for your pelvic floor?’

Seriously, I think she’s obsessed or something.

I like being at school early because I like being prepared. I like getting my lessons organised, with all the little extra touches I’ve designed that are tailor-made to each child’s learning style and personality. I like watching the girls come in through the school gate or walk over from the boarding house. I guess it’s my version of people-watching.

I learn a lot about the dynamic between parents and their children by watching what happens in the hand over. You can see the parents who have a tendency to do too much for their kids. They’re the one carrying the kid’s backpack or tennis racket or lacrosse stick or musical instrument. I have nothing against parents helping little kids with their things, but senior girls …? Honestly …

I also learn a lot about the dynamic between the girls and what sort of mood they are in as they file into the building. I can tell which girl has had a bad night, or which one is homesick, or which one is lauding it over another. I can almost read their little minds.

Maybe I’m more like my mother than I realise. Scary thought.

After a few of the regulars had arrived I noticed a shiny black sports car pull up in front of the school. A lot of expensive cars pull up in front of the Emily Sudgrove School for Girls, but this one stood out. It was a top-model Maserati, with tinted windows so you couldn’t see who was behind the wheel or inside the car. It had a throaty roar I swear you’d be able to hear from the next suburb. Possibly from across the English Channel.

I watched as Alessandro got out from behind the wheel with the sort of athletic grace I privately envied. It’s not that I’m clumsy or anything, but I’ve never mastered the art of alighting from a vehicle without showing too much leg or, on one spectacularly embarrassing occasion, my underwear—which was unfortunately not the sensible sort.

Alessandro opened the back passenger door and leaned down to speak to the little girl inside. I saw him take her by the hand and gently help her from the car. When I saw him smile at his niece a hand reached deep inside my chest and squeezed my heart. He gave Claudia’s ponytail a little tug and then led her by the hand towards the entrance of school, carrying a suitcase, presumably full of her belongings, in the other.

When we’d been together Alessandro had spoken openly about his desire for a family. I’d been ecstatic. So many men were either not ready or didn’t want kids at all. I was so thrilled that I’d found a man who wanted the things I wanted. Back then I wanted to have kids and do all the things with them my parents hadn’t done with Bertie and I.

I wanted to live with them in a proper house—not a commune or a tree house or a bark hut. I wanted to toilet train them instead of letting them go wherever or whenever nature called. Don’t ask, but rest assured I’d sorted it out by the time I was four and taught Bertie in the process. I wanted to be interested in their education, supervising it so they got the help and encouragement they needed. I wanted to go on holidays—not communal ones, with a guru dictating the programme, but relaxing ones where I could play with my kids and enjoy the magic of their childhood.

And I wanted to share the whole experience with a man I loved and trusted to stand by me no matter what.

Yeah, I know. What a deluded fool I was.

I was waiting in my classroom, pretending to be sorting out flashcards, when Alessandro arrived at the door. I put the flashcards down and smiled at the little girl standing meekly by his side.

‘Hello, Claudia,’ I said, and squatted down so we were eye to eye. ‘My name is Miss Clark. It’s lovely to have you in my class.’

Claudia had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen, fringed with thick lashes that were like miniature black fans. Her skin was olive toned but quite pale, as if she spent a lot of time indoors. She was small for her age, delicate and finely made, with thin wrists and ankles, and she had a pretty little cupid’s bow mouth that was currently finding it difficult to smile.

‘Go on, Claudia,’ Alessandro prompted gently. ‘Say hello to Miss Clark.’

Claudia’s little cheeks turned bright red and she bent her chin to her chest as she mumbled so softly I could barely hear her. ‘Hello, Mith C-C-C-C-Clark.’

My heart gave another painful squeeze when I heard that shy little voice with its lisp and stutter. It reminded me of myself at that age, when I had a terrible speech impediment. I was mercilessly teased about it.