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His first stop was MacIver Press. The buy-out was going as sweetly as he’d hoped and it just so happened that MacIver was about to start recruiting. An invitation to present her portfolio ought to tempt Coral out from hiding and get her to force her hand…
* * *
Coral found her most stretchy leggings and pulled them over her legs. She rummaged in her drawer for something that wasn’t faded or shapeless or too hideously dull. A red tunic with wide sleeves was the best she could find. Block shapes simply weren’t her, but what else would fit the wide, lumbering creature she had become. Her fifties’ skirts and cigarette pants were all consigned to the back of the wardrobe. And high heels…? Forget it.
She dragged a brush through her hair and rubbed cream on her face. She stained her lips with lipstick and added some mascara. A pair of small hooped earrings and a chunky bracelet and she was done. This was as good as it got.
After months of rejection—months of no, thanks and not now and not really our thing—and with her heart sinking at the thought of waitressing being her lifetime career, her luck had finally turned. An interview with a brand-new magazine for a small publisher. More art house than high-glam. Six months earlier she might have turned her nose up at it, but now she was grateful for the crumbs from any publisher’s plate.
She bent awkwardly to pull on her worn boots—yesterday’s grudging purchase from the local charity shop now that the November rains had arrived. That left her exactly fifteen pounds until the end of the month. Four weeks after that until Christmas and then she’d definitely be sacked. Who needed an eight-months-pregnant waitress in January? Absolutely no one.
Of course she could lift the phone and ask to be put straight through to Signor Rossini. Or she could walk in to Romano Publishing at London Bridge and demand a meeting. Or she could call the tabloids. Or a lawyer.
Because, yes, he absolutely should be providing for her and the baby. He should put her up in a flat and pay for the best antenatal care, hire a housemaid, a nanny, and a driver for the Mercedes. She should have the baby’s name down for the right prep school already.
She’d thought of all that. Over and over again. Thought of letting him know that he was going to be a father. And then putting out her hand to ask for a fat wad of cash.
But history had a habit of repeating itself. So she wouldn’t. She couldn’t risk the chance of being told to take a hike. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction a second time.
She put on her raincoat, knotted her scarf.
Finding out that she was a Di Visconti had shaken her to the very core of her being. She felt untethered—afloat like a cork in the ocean. Everything that had seemed solid was now strange. Instead of feeling complete, she felt raw.
She’d always wondered, imagined, dreamed about who her family were. Visualised some romantic reunion with long-lost half-brothers and half-sisters and the love of a homecoming. But that was never to be, and now that she knew who her father was she felt utterly isolated, completely unwanted. Lost. She felt lost.
And her own child was condemned to be part of this. That was the worst thing of all. She could take any pain, but she would not knowingly allow her baby to feel even a fraction of the hurt she felt. The crushing rejection that had eroded every ounce of her confidence. The one thing on this earth that was driving her now was the need to shield and protect.
So there was no way—no way on this earth—that she was going to go anywhere near Raffaele Rossini.
He would have no part in her life. Or the life of her child.
But he has a right to know.
That stupid voice.
Her own father had had a right to know! And he hadn’t been interested. There was no way she would face rejection again!
There was only one person she could rely on—herself.
She closed the door to the flat and went out into the street, dredging up every last ounce of energy she could muster.
Forty minutes later she was on the street outside MacIver Press. It was choked with traffic and people. She paused on the pavement and stared at the smoked glass doors of the converted church that housed her last chance. Through the windows of a passing bus she stared at the blur of the city. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go, something to do. This was the world she wanted to be part of. This was where her heart lay.
Hugging her bag, she made her way across the road. She stepped up to the entrance just as two smart young women walked out of the building, chatting together. Coral glanced at their soft leather boots and city clothes.
She pulled out her portfolio and looked up at the imposing stone portico. She had to nail this—she absolutely had to nail this. Her mother was counting on her. Her child was counting on her. There was nobody who had her back.
