Italian Surgeon to the Stars. Melanie Milburne
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Was he waiting for her to divorce her husband so they could be together?
I glowered at Alessandro as I stalked past to lead the way on the rest of the tour. I pointed out the bathrooms, and then the games room, and the juniors’ and the seniors’ common rooms. I spoke in a flat monotone, stripping my expression of anything other than excruciating boredom.
If he was annoyed by my little show of defiance he didn’t show it on his face. His expression was mostly blank, apart from that faraway look I caught a glimpse of now and again. Finally we made our way outside into the sunshine, where the children were playing just before the lunch break ended.
One of my pupils, a little girl called Harriet, came gambolling up with a cheeky grin on her freckled face. ‘Is that man your boyfriend, Miss Clark?’
I’m not one to blush easily, but right then I could feel heat spreading like a grass fire across my cheeks.
When I was a little kid I didn’t think teachers were anything but teachers. I didn’t think they had a personal life. To me they were like police or firemen or other authority figures. They didn’t seem like real people. Not so today’s kids. They know too damn much and way too early.
‘No, Harriet,’ I said. ‘Dr Lucioni is enrolling his niece into our school. I’m giving him a guided tour.’
Harriet scrunched up her face as she peered at Alessandro. ‘Are you a movie star?’
Alessandro’s smile at Harriet made something at the backs of my knees go fizzy.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
Harriet wasn’t convinced. ‘You look famous.’
‘Run along, Harriet,’ I said. ‘The bell is about to ring.’
As if I’d summoned it, the bell sounded, and Harriet scampered off to join the rest of the girls as they prepared to enter the building for the afternoon’s lessons.
I turned to face Alessandro. ‘That’s my cue as well. When shall I expect Claudia to come to class?’
‘I’ll bring her tomorrow.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘With a temporary nanny.’
‘Why didn’t you bring her with you today?’ I said. ‘It would’ve helped her to get her bearings. Meeting the other girls and so on.’
His eyes tethered mine in a lock that made my insides flutter as if a handful of flustered moths were trapped in the cavity of my stomach.
‘I thought it best for us to meet alone first,’ he said.
I didn’t think it was wise for me to ever be alone with him. I didn’t trust myself. He had a frightening way of dismantling my self-control with a look or a casual touch. My chin was still tingling from where his thumb had stroked. My wrist was still burning as if he had left a brand on my flesh. My inner core was still pulsating with the memory of how his body had moved within mine.
Again I wondered if he was remembering all we had shared in that brief mad fling I’d stupidly thought would last for ever.
His gaze was dark and bottomless … inscrutable, enigmatic. Mesmerising.
The sound of the second end-of-lunch bell startled me out of my stasis. ‘Excuse me,’ I said with a formal quirk of my lips that passed for a smile. ‘I have to get to class.’
He put out his hand, and because we were in full view of the school admin office, as well as Miss Fletcher’s office, I had no choice but to slide mine into it.
His fingers closed around mine in the same way they had before. There was nothing formal or polite about it. It was purely erotic. Wickedly, shamelessly erotic.
I drew my hand away from the temptation of his touch and turned and walked into the school building. But it was not until school finished that day that my hand finally stopped tingling.
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