Page 68 of His Housekeeper's Twin Baby Confession
But her past loomed like a large, malevolent spectre behind her. Reminding her not to be so weak.
She looked at Massimo. ‘I want to go back to London now.’
Tension crackled between them. When he spoke, Massimo’s voice was as cold as she felt.
‘Luckily, Tom has cleared the drive and most of the snow has already melted. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.’
Carrie fled the room on shaky legs. She closed the door between them and with a numb brain had a shower, avoiding looking at the faint marks of Massimo’s hands on her body.
She dressed in her own clothes again and roughly dried her hair, pulling it back.
Downstairs, Massimo was waiting, grim. Sheila and Tom were there, and Carrie said goodbye to them. The older couple seemed to sense the tension and weren’t overly chatty. Carrie was glad. Her emotions bubbled too close to the surface, raw and volatile.
The journey back into town was silent. But the tension was mounting to an unbearable pitch.
When they were driving through central London, not far from Massimo’s house, Carrie acted on impulse. ‘You can let me out here,’ she told him.
‘What? Here?’
There was an art gallery nearby—Carrie had recognised it. ‘Please, Massimo, I just need some time on my own.’
With evident reluctance he pulled in at a safe spot and Carrie put her hand on the door.
He said, ‘Wait, do you have your mobile with you?’
She nodded.
‘Call me and I’ll come and get you, okay?’
Carrie nodded and got out.
Massimo drove away. She could see him looking in the rear-view mirror and then he was gone.
She let out a shaky breath.
She headed for the art gallery, just wanting to lose herself in a crowd. Inside it was warm, and not that busy. There was an exhibition featuring Mexican artist Frida Kahlo, and on a whim Carrie bought a ticket.
She went in and within minutes, in spite of her own turmoil, was transported into this fascinating woman’s life.
Her early polio illness. The shattering bus accident when she was a teenager that left her with lifelong injuries and chronic pain. The passionate love affair with Diego Rivera that lasted until she died, in spite of many infidelities on either side.
She, too, had poignantly lost more than one pregnancy. And yet through it all she’d lived, loved and created. Her life force had been strong in spite of her many struggles. She hadn’t cowered pitifully from the world, nor from the man who loved her—reallyloved her. She’d trusted. And she’d loved.
Love.
As if she had just needed to see it from another perspective, Carrie felt her heart crack open. She couldn’t stop it. The walls of fear and defence she’d been clinging on to so desperately dissolved.
She’d never known love before—not like this. She’d had a toxic example of love. She’d known intellectually that she hadn’t really loved her husband, or he her, but it had taken until this moment to really understand what real love looked like.
And that was why she’d been so scared. Because it was terrifying. And magnificent. And transformational. From the moment Massimo had first looked at her, four years ago, he’d unlocked something inside her.
She didn’t even realise she was crying until a woman handed her a tissue and said, ‘She’s an inspiration, isn’t she?’
Carrie could only nod.
Somehow, she stumbled out of the art gallery. She was undone. She was in pieces. But it felt okay. These were pieces she could use to put herself back together. She had no choice now but to trust, and she knew that no matter what happened she would be okay—because she was strong enough to withstand anything. Even Massimo telling her he loved her just to get her where he wanted her.
Because she loved him with every fibre of her being.
