200 Harley Street: The Proud Italian. Alison Roberts
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had been only a few minutes since she’d been doing exactly this, watching to see if Ella would be happy for a few minutes while she went to… What had she been going to do? Go to the bathroom? Make a coffee in the staffroom?
Whatever her intention had been, she’d forgotten it the moment she’d heard Rafael call her name and she’d had to brace herself for their reunion.
And now it was over.
They’d seen each other again. They’d talked.
But had anything been resolved?
If anything, Abbie felt more unsure than before.
Slow tears were leaking from her eyes and rolling down the side of her nose as she watched Rafael gather up his daughter into his arms and press his cheek against the top of her head. He had his eyes closed so he couldn’t see that she was watching. And…oh, God…did he have tears tracing the edge of his nose, too? No… Rafael would never cry. But if he ever did, his face would look exactly the way it did right now.
The love he had for his daughter was almost as palpable as the wall Abbie had to reach out and touch for support.
He’d never expected to be able to hold her again, had he?
Or to see her smile. To hear that noise she made when she was really happy—a kind of cross between cooing and giggling that sounded like water going out of a sink.
Being a plughole, they’d called it. Ella’s being a plughole, they’d tell each other and then they’d both hold each other’s gaze and smile because they knew it was such a happy noise and it had been such a rare thing amongst the pain and sickness. Those poignant smiles and the silent communication of eye contact had been moments of connection that had given them strength to go on. That had made them feel that sharing this heartbreaking journey was making their relationship stronger. But, in the end, like it did so often with this kind of unimaginable stress, it had torn them apart.
Yes. Rafael still adored his daughter. She could see him rocking her now and hear his voice as he spoke rapidly in Italian. She caught the word fiorella. Ella’s proper name. His little flower. And he was singing now. Softly. Still in Italian. Stroking the odd patches of wispy hair on Ella’s head so gently. It was one of the things she loved about this man, that he could be so passionate. So demonstrative.
And for a moment when he’d been out here with her, he’d looked as if he still loved her like that, too.
Just before he’d stupidly said how hard it had been for him.
He hadn’t been there. Hadn’t sat for countless hours amongst the bank of monitors in the intensive-care unit, wondering if each breath Ella took would be her last.
Maybe she shouldn’t have taken the bait and reignited the old conflict but…it still hurt, dammit.
It wasn’t going to just go away by itself.
Being together in the same place wasn’t enough because it felt like there was no common ground between them.
Or if there was, the only person inhabiting it was a baby called Ella.
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