CURIOUS ABOUT MY BOOKS?

Antonio Andrea Gallo stalked down a South West London street towards an almost offensively bland building in Wandsworth, feeling a distinct sense of déjà vu. With his mobile phone glued to his ear and his eye assessing every single person on the street for nefarious intent, he tried to find the patience to not shout at his lawyer.

     ‘This is what I pay your extortionate fees for, Simon,’ he growled into the phone.

     ‘It’s never happened before,’ the Englishman replied apologetically. If it hadn’t been for Simon’s obvious confusion, Antonio would have suspected that the man was on the take.

     ‘Well, it’s happening now.’

     ‘It’s highly irregular, sir. Highly. Is there maybe something you haven’t told me?’

     Only the fact that the words were forced through a significant amount of discomfort allowed Antonio to excuse the man for even suggesting that it was somehow his fault.

     ‘I have told you everything,’ he bit out.

     ‘Then I don’t know why Mr Justice Carmondy overruled our appeal. The divorce should have been granted before it could be put before him.’

     They had fought the summons as hard as possible, convinced that the judge would give up long before now on a matter such as this. But he hadn’t. Which was why, reluctantly and without any other option, Antonio was here.

     ‘What does he want?’ he demanded. ‘Money?’

     ‘No. And don’t try to offer him any. The English courts are different to what you’re used to,’ his lawyer warned.

     ‘Everyone wants something, Simon,’ Antonio insisted, speaking from experience.

     He checked his watch. He didn’t have time for this. He’d flown to the closest private airfield that morning and needed to be back in Italy later that afternoon. The fallout from the reading of his grandfather’s will had sent so many ripples into an already turbulent pool that if he hadn’t already been dead, Antonio would have willingly murdered the man.

     ‘The only thing he seems to want is to see you and Mrs Gallo—’

     ‘Don’t call her that,’ Antonio snapped down the phone.

     ‘You and Ms McKellen in his chambers to discuss reconciliation.’

     ‘Reconciliation? I haven’t seen the woman since the day we married, six years ago!’

     ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t say that to the judge! If he thinks you tried to game the system—’

     ‘I wasn’t trying to game the system, I was trying to game my grandfather,’ Antonio growled, just as he arrived at the unassuming concrete steps leading to the Wandsworth Courts where Simon, who had been waiting for him, put away his phone.

     Antonio took a moment to glare between the tall bespectacled man and the court, as if that alone might bend them to his will. And when that didn’t work, he turned and marched up the steps to fix this himself, stopping only when Simon didn’t immediately follow behind.

     ‘We’re waiting for Ms McKellen,’ Simon said in response to Antonio’s raised brow.

     Antonio glanced at his watch. There was still some time before their court appointment, but not for Antonio.

     ‘I plan to have this resolved before she even gets here,’ he said, continuing up the steps with determination.

The judge, however, had other plans and made him wait. First, outside his chambers, in a hallway where he was subjected to the curiosity of nearly every single passerby, as if he were some rare breed on display. Which, he conceded, was probably true, seeing as he doubted that many billionaires lived in this small London borough.

     Antonio caught glimpses of the pale, balding man behind the desk every time someone entered and left the room. And each time they made adversarial eye contact to the point where Antonio firmly believed the judge was purposely wasting his time.

     And then, even after Antonio and Simon had been ‘invited’ into the judge’s office, they were made to wait as he sifted through various batches of paperwork. As someone who personally abhorred the stuff, Antonio should have felt some sympathy for him.

     Should have. But didn’t. Because this entire farce was a waste of his time.

     ‘No Mrs Gallo?’ the judge asked without preamble.

     ‘She is on her way, Your Honour,’ Simon answered.

     The judge turned to glare at Antonio. A glare that Antonio was more than happy to hold for as long as it took. After all, he’d been practically raised by his grandfather—a man who had entwined authority and intent into a near lethal combination. Antonio had been the only person, ever, to defy Gio Gallo’s commands and remain unscathed. But it seemed the old man had had the last laugh after all.

     ‘You didn’t come together?’ the judge asked, peering over the top of his reading glasses.

     ‘They have been separated for some time, Your Honour,’ Simon replied for him.

     The judge raised his eyebrow, as if he’d hoped to catch him out.

     Antonio nearly laughed. He ate men like this for breakfast. Daily.

     After Antonio’s marriage to Ivy, his grandfather had actually believed that cutting Antonio off would bring him running back home. But instead it had freed him, and he’d flourished. He’d started his own company and that company had thrived. And so had the people Antonio did care for.

     His mother. His cousin, Maria.

     And now, aged twenty-nine, Antonio was the billionaire CEO of a multinational brokerage company.      Alessina International was completely his, no investors, no board of directors, no meddling.

     No one to bow to.

     Eventually he’d reconciled, albeit grudgingly, with his grandfather. He’d won the man’s respect, Antonio knew that. Which was why he hadn’t expected the other man’s last move. But he should have. Antonio had grown complacent, believing Gio’s age had tempered him. He’d been wrong. Instead, Gio had plotted the future of his grandchildren and that of his company, Gallo Group, to an almost Machiavellian level. And as a consequence, he needed to divorce Ivy and marry Maria in order to meet the terms of Gio Gallo’s last will and testament.

     He would do this one last thing, for his cousin. And then he’d be done.

     ‘Your Honour—’ Simon started.

     ‘Do you know what I dislike most about billionaires?’ the judge asked, cutting him off.

     Antonio wrestled with the urge to roll his eyes. Under any other circumstances, he would have laid down his terms, and an unhealthy amount of money, and walked off without another wasted second. But Simon was right, England was different. And while this particular judge didn’t appear to want money, he clearly wanted to run him through the mill. And if that was what it took to get the divorce? He’d do it.

     ‘It’s the assumption that your wants and needs are superior to those of others.’

     Having met a good number of billionaires, frankly, Antonio was of a similar opinion. Not that he’d admit such a thing to the man currently hellbent on ruining his day. He chose to nod sagely, which served only to irritate the older man. Really, the resemblance between the judge and his grandfather was striking.

     There was a timid knock on the door to the cramped office, which did nothing to stop the judge mid-tirade. With half an ear on the judge, who was now compiling a list of faults of not only his wealth but his generation, Antonio glanced as the door pushed open and Ivy McKellen nudged her way into the room.

He half turned to greet her, when Carmondy expounded yet another unfounded objection to Antonio’s apparent crimes, recalling his attention. From the corner of his eye, Antonio caught a glimpse of long, rich auburn hair.

     He didn’t remember that. In his lesser travelled memories, her hair was always swept back in a small efficient knot, as she shot him a conspiratorial smile, sharing her amusement with him at her Italian boss’s increasingly outrageous but utterly harmless behaviour.

     She’d been far too bright to be stuck serving customers who’d leered at her, keeping them at bay with a quick putdown that was gentle enough to soften the blow, but firm enough that they didn’t get back up again.

     She’d impressed him. And that had been hard to do at that point in his life. Undoubtably beautiful, she’d kept him at arm’s length which, utterly without ego, was an unusual experience for him. And then had come the day he’d found her on a break, crying behind the café, and convinced her to tell him what was wrong.

The shameful confession of financial struggle, the desire to protect a sibling, the frustration at the heavy burden…the shame. Oh, Ivy had spoken obliquely, but he’d understood enough. And it had reminded him of his mother. Crying when she didn’t think Antonio could hear her, struggling in the aftermath of her husband’s desertion, all because of him.

     Ivy, like his mother, was giving everything to protect her family. And just like that, he’d known. He’d known that she might be the onlyperson who would go through with his mad scheme to win his freedom from his grandfather’s pressure to marry his cousin. Ivy would agree because of her brother and her integrity meant she wouldn’t betray their deal. And, in exchange, the money he would give her would allow her to radically change her life. It had been the perfect arrangement.

     Until now.

     Ivy shifted uncomfortably on her feet, and Antonio stared at his lawyer until Simon stood, gesturing for Ivy to take his seat. The judge continued to drone on about resources and invaluable time but Antonio couldn’t focus as Ivy hooked the russet waterfall behind her ear. Antonio, who had always been sensitive to stimulation, took in all of her at once.

     Delicate. Detailed. Fine. 

     The women he knew, his family, the staff at his office, were rich, expressive forces of nature, determined; they wore their femininity. Ivy seemed to shrink from it. She had been a little like that when he’d known her before, but not to this extent. Perhaps it was her discomfort at the setting but, despite her apparent intention to hide, she was still…luminous.

     And then he dismissed the unusually elegiac fancy. He’d not seen or heard from her in six years. He’d not searched for her, looked her up or allowed himself to wonder about the waitress he’d met while spending three months working in London. Because she had been the means to an end, and that was all he’d needed her for.

     Even now that she was sitting on a chair less than a foot away from him, she was still just that: a means to an end. She flicked a glance at him just as he looked back to the judge, whose penetrating gaze brightened with satisfaction.

     ‘Now that we’re all here,’ the judge said by way of segue from one opinionated rant to another, ‘I am ready to hear your application for divorce.’

     ‘As both parties are in agreement—’ Simon began, before the judge cut him off.

     ‘Are they?’ the judge asked Simon. ‘Are you?’ he demanded, looking between Antonio and Ivy.

Antonio nodded once, firm and decisive.

     Several little bobs of Ivy’s head confirmed her agreement.

     ‘Really?’ the judge demanded of her again.

     All eyes turned to Ivy.

     ‘Yes?’ she answered hesitantly.

     ‘That sounds more like a question than a statement, Mrs Gallo.’

     Ivy blinked, as if surprised to hear herself addressed as such. She opened her mouth to speak but, once again, the judge cut in.

     ‘Do you know what?’ the judge asked them, apparently without requiring a response. ‘I believe in marriage. I believe in the sanctityof it. I believe that once you make that binding declaration, your lives are entwined for ever,’ he said, his finger striking his desk with each sentence. ‘I’m not religious, and I’m not a legal zealot. But I believe in the importance and inviolability of giving your word to something.

‘So, Antonio Gallo, are you a man whose word is not of value?’ the judge demanded, much to the horror of his lawyer.

     ‘Absolutely not,’ Antonio replied indignantly.

     ‘Yet you promised to love, protect and honour this woman,’ the judge accused, pointing at Ivy. ‘And nothing about your marriage, your time together or your prenup implies the slightest hint of that.’

Antonio frowned.

     ‘A prenup which gives Mrs Gallo nothing, is that correct?’

     ‘Yes.’

     That had been their agreement. He had paid Ivy two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to marry him. She had agreed that she had no right to anything beyond that, and as such the divorce was supposed to have been easy. His lawyers had assured him of such a thing.

     Clearly no one had expected Carmondy.

     ‘You signed this willingly?’ the judge asked, waving a piece of paper at Ivy.

     She nodded.

     ‘Did you have a lawyer present?’

     She bit her lip before swallowing. ‘I didn’t need one, Your Honour. I knew what I was signing.’

     The judge’s gaze turned on Antonio accusatorily. ‘When you married her, she became your family. She became yours, not to own, but to protect, to care for. It is a responsibility you have deeply neglected,’ the judge stated.

     ‘Hold on a minute—’ Antonio said, nearly rising to his feet. He was enduring this entire farce precisely because he was trying to protect his family.

     ‘Don’t interrupt me,’ the judge warned.

     Antonio ground his teeth together so hard he’d need to see a dentist when he got back to Italy.

     ‘I am sick to the back teeth of people marrying and divorcing willy nilly.’

     Was the man having a stroke? Why was he talking about teeth? What on earth was a nilly? And what did it have to do with male anatomy?

     ‘Are you okay?’ Antonio asked.

     The judge stared back at him. ‘No! I am not. I am fed up with rich people who treat marriage like a tax haven, and the British Courts like a toll booth.’

     ‘Well, that isn’t prejudiced at all,’ Antonio said sarcastically.

     The judge opened and closed his mouth. But really, Antonio was only speaking the truth.

     ‘Okay,’ the judge said, finally finding his voice. ‘I am refusing to grant this divorce, until it can be proved that you have both worked as hard as possible to rectify your differences.’

     Antonio sat back in his chair in shock. He’d never heard of anything like it. Neither had his lawyer, as evidenced by the way Simon’s mouth hung open.

     ‘Your Honour, this is highly irregular,’ Simon said when he finally found his voice.

     ‘That it may be, but this is my decision. You will have three assessments with a court-appointed mediator in order to determine that you have genuinely given everything you can to make this marriage work, and yet still have irreconcilable differences.’

     ‘Assessments?’ Simon asked in confusion.

     ‘Yes, assessments. Interview-based assessments. Three of them,’ the judge demanded hotly.

     ‘Where? In England? I can’t stay here,’ Antonio bit out at the ludicrous suggestion. ‘I have business in Italy.’

     ‘And your wife, Mr Gallo?’ the judge demanded.

     Antonio drew a blank.

     The judge looked at Ivy, who winced. ‘I have work too. Here,’ she said, sealing his fate with yet another black mark against his name, apparently.

     ‘The assessments can happen in Italy if you want to pay for the travel and accommodation of the mediator, and can negotiate that with Mrs Gallo, or you can stay in England. Make a decision, Mr Gallo. I have already made mine. Dismissed.’

Ivy McKellen wasn’t quite sure exactly what had happened, only that it most definitely wasn’t what Antonio Gallo had wanted to happen. And from the look on his face, that was as unique as a unicorn.

     ‘We do not have time for this,’ he said to the lawyer who, less than a month ago, had knocked on her door and deposited nearly half a tree’s worth of legal paperwork with sticky tabs indicating where her signature would end her marriage.

     Please sign, date and return.

     That was how she had been informed of Antonio’s intention to obtain a divorce.

     Please sign, date and return.

     She’d been taken a little by surprise at how much it had left her off-kilter. Of all the shocks she’d experienced in the last six years, really, her divorce shouldn’t have even registered. Especially as she’d known that it would come eventually. Despite what he’d said, a man like Antonio Gallo couldn’t remain in a convenient marriage for ever.

     She’d wondered about the kind of person who had finally caught the notorious lone wolf of the financial world, the man who had often been referred to as the invisible hand behind the world’s most lucrative business deals, and promptly stopped herself. It was none of her business. So she’d signed the papers and naïvely believed that was the last time she would see her name anywhere near his.

     But yesterday she’d received an email informing her that she had to be in court. Today.

     Just a formality.

     As they emerged into the hallway outside the judge’s office she wondered whether perhaps there might have been a different outcome if Antonio hadn’t managed to antagonise the judge so much. An antagonism that seemed new. She certainly didn’t remember that from before.

     Ivy shifted, trying to ease the ache in her feet. She’d worn the nicest pair of shoes she owned, but they’d absolutely massacred her heels. She looked up as Antonio squinted down the hall. While she could practically see the cogs in his brain working, she searched his features for other changes the last six years had wrought. He was slimmer, yet somehow more imposing. Hard angles had replaced the traces of softness that she’d been able to see when they’d first met.

     The cut of his suit displayed the breadth of his shoulders and a trim waist. The light-coloured linen fabric stood out like a beacon amongst the grey department store suits worn by nearly everyone else in the building. He’d commanded attention six years ago, even in the little, out of the way coffee shop in central London, but now the allure of him was impossible to deny. As evidenced when a woman tripped over her own feet as she did a double-take that had Ivy sending her a sympathetic smile.

     ‘Can we go above his head?’ Antonio asked his lawyer, having missed the interaction.

     ‘It would take too long,’ the lawyer replied miserably.

     Of all the things she’d been worried about—seeing Antonio again, being summoned to court and, in her worst moments of fancy, being discovered and arrested for fraud—the last thing she’d expected was this.

Three court-appointed visits to assess their reconciliation attempts? How were they going to prove that? And where? In her flat-share in Apsley Road? The thought of Antonio’s imposing frame squeezing into the little two-bed flat with Simon the lawyer, a court-appointed assessor and Sang Hee, her Korean flatmate, pushed her worryingly close to hysteria.

     But it wasn’t as if she could go to Italy. She had only just started her new job at the local library and couldn’t take a holiday barely a month into it. And even if she couldhave, Ivy would never leave at such a critical time for the library. She’d been volunteering there for nearly a year now and they were finally about to raise enough money for the community’s much-needed afterschool club. Government cuts to local councils had pushed them so far down the waiting list that Ivy and the other staff had been forced to take matters into their own hands. They’d had bake sales, they’d painted faces. They’d done everything they could to raise enough money and with their efforts matched by local businesses they were so close.

     ‘The man is insane,’ Antonio said of the judge, before turning back to Simon. ‘I need you to find out exactly what these court assessments will involve.’

     Simon nodded, looking increasingly more concerned. Ivy had met quite a few people like Judge Carmondy over the years, people who had been pushed a little too far for a little too long and who had finally decided to dig their heels in. And a part of her was sympathetic with his stance. She’d always felt uncomfortable having promised love and fidelity in exchange for money, even if they were both consenting adults under no illusions. But perhaps they shouldn’t be able to cheat the system and get away with it.

Yet despite that, even now she would make the same choice again. In a heartbeat. Just the thought of her brother and the changes he’d been able to make to his life was enough for her to know that she wouldn’t alter a single thing.

     She felt Antonio’s hawkish gaze on her.

     ‘You’ve been well?’ he asked perfunctorily, as if some ingrained sense of decorum prompted his question rather than genuine curiosity.

     And, for a moment, all she could do was blink. Didn’t he remember? Could he have forgotten that easily? Of course he had, Ivy realised, burying the hurt deep down to unpack later in private.

     ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, hoping that he’d missed the brief hesitation before she answered. The millisecond’s pause as she constructed an answer suitable to what he expected of her. ‘And you?’

     ‘Sì,’ he replied, saying nothing of the grandfather she knew had passed four months ago, nor the million-dollar deal he was currently brokering between the Americans and the Chinese, a deal making waves around the world. Things she knew because, on not so rare occasions, she caught sight of headlines about her husband in name only. It was almost hard not to.

     The large clock on the wall behind him clicked closer towards eleven and she bit back a curse. She was going to be late.

     She opened her mouth to speak just as Antonio did.

     ‘Do you have a passport?’

     Taken aback, she replied without thinking. ‘Yes.’

     ‘Good. We’re returning to Italy this afternoon,’ he informed her imperiously.

     Whether he’d become more presumptuous or she’d become more headstrong, Ivy couldn’t tell, but she very much disliked this new side of his character.

     ‘You are welcome to return to Italy, but I cannot.’

     ‘Of course you can,’ Antonio dismissed, pulling out his mobile phone and tapping on the screen.

     ‘I can’t,’ Ivy stressed, trying—and most definitely failing—to ignore the way his jaw muscle flexed and his eyes glittered with warning.

     ‘I don’t remember you being this obstinate,’ he observed.

     ‘I wasn’t,’ she said, unsure whether to be proud of herself or horrified for answering back.

     ‘It doesn’t suit you,’ he volleyed.

     ‘And arrogance doesn’t suit you,’ she returned.

    A gasp turned into a choke over Antonio’s shoulder. His lawyer, looking almost as shocked as Ivy felt.

She turned to leave, half expecting to feel his hand around her wrist, the same way he had once done when she’d dismissed his proposal as a joke.

     ‘This is important,’ he said, his words stopping her departure instead.

     She swallowed her impatience at his easy dismissal of her priorities and turned back to him. ‘I am sure it feels that way to you, but there’s not much I can do and it seems you both have this in hand.’

     Antonio looked at her, appalled. ‘Is that a joke?’

     ‘Well, no. Not intentionally,’ she said with a tilt of her head.

     He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, before returning that burning gaze to hers. ‘What would it take?’ he asked, the words forced out through a jaw so tight it looked painful.

     Ivy stared at him in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’

     ‘How much?’

     ‘For what?’ she asked, her patience fraying further.

     ‘For you to come to Italy.’ He looked at her, and what she saw in his eyes stopped her heart.

     Disappointment. Inevitability. Resignation.

     She took a moment to gather herself. She wanted to feel indignant, outraged even. But could she really expect him to think any better of her? After all, she had married him for money. It was no wonder he thought that money would get him what he wanted. But she was no longer that desperate nineteen-year-old and she wouldn’t, couldn’t, take any more of his money.

     Shame painted red slashes on her cheeks as she shook her head. ‘There is nothing, Mr Gallo. I can’t come to Italy,’ she said as firmly as she dared. Her job, her life—the life that she was only just beginning to get back on track—was here. And no amount of money would change that. Her phone buzzed, a message from work asking where she was. ‘I want to help, I really do,’ she said sincerely. ‘But I must go. When you figure out how to make this work, please call?’

     ‘I don’t understand. Is that a question? Why is everything so complicated today?’ he asked obtusely, the question clearly rhetorical.

     ‘Mercury is in retrograde,’ she offered with a touch of sarcasm, and allowed herself to relish the look on his face for a second before she hurried from the court.

     She almost felt sorry for him. She doubted that Antonio Gallo was used to road blocks to his plans. Antonio might be the most aggressively handsome man that she’d ever encountered, but he was also the most ruthlessly selfish.

     In the six years of their ‘convenient’ marriage, Ivy had reached out to him only once, three years ago. It had been the lowest point of her young life. She’d needed someone desperately. And, despite being called, he had not come. So she knew exactly what she meant to Antonio Gallo. Nothing. And it would remain that way. She would happily grant him the divorce they both needed, but she couldn’t let it derail her own plans.

     The only person she could rely on was herself. The only person who could choose her was her. She had learned that the hard way.

     ‘This isn’t over, Ms McKellen,’ she heard him warn over her shoulder.

     ‘I would imagine not,’ she replied and hurried from the court to the bus that would take her to work, trying to ignore the way her feet burned with each step.