"Thanks for the shower!"
Mayra Santorini glared fiercely at the taillights of the truck that had just splashed her with a spray of icy water. Frustration and growing anxiety creased her delicate face. She only had five minutes left to cross this unfortunate road with the pram she was pushing, otherwise she would arrive late at her destination. Last night, in response to her desperate phone call, Tim had agreed to put her up until she was out of trouble. However, he specified that he would only have half an hour at lunchtime to welcome her.
She only had fifteen minutes left. She had wasted time by returning the keys to the owner of her old apartment paying her, at the same time. Seeing her stressed, soaked by the rain, the old lady would not have failed to say to her:
"Look on the bright side, my child. There is always one"
The lady's little sermons had always been predictable but more often, turned out to be right, and Mayra tried to relax, and remind herself that all was not so bad. Her seven month old son was dry with their meager belongings, under the spacious hood and waterproof apron of the antique Baby Carriage.
Tim, preoccupied with his job at the travel agency of which he hoped to become director, might have lost his patience, but she would find a modest cafe where his baby and she, would stay warm until he returned tonight. Everything was fine, concludes Mayra. As long as she and her son had a roof over their heads, she would not have not have to go begging at the social services and, as soon as she had found a new job, things would work out by themselves.
The hope of clearing a path among the cars proved to be more and more illusory. The only solution was to reach the next passage, hoping that there was one. The young woman therefore swung the pram around and, in her haste, collided head-on with a lamp post. At the cost of an enormous effort, she managed to restore the balance of the baby carriage, but to the detriment of her own. She slid off the sidewalk and landed in the gutter.
The screech of brakes, crushed his ears and the bumper of a metallic gray car came to rest inches from her face. Damn, that savage could have killed her! What would have become of her baby then? Already, she was in danger of losing custody underpretext that she had no home... A sob rose in her throat. How could this happen to her. To go from a women with a bright future, to a woman now sitting penniless on a sidewalk with a child.
******************
Etore Merelas pulled his hired Mercedes into the tide of vehicles leaving Marcelin Street and headed resolutely towards Capoisgate. The business meetings he had attended today had, as usual, proved quite satisfactory. Apart from a few files to consult, his afternoon was free. Two more days to spend here in London a few more dates, and he would finally go home to Madrid. A beautiful spring awaited him there, but it mattered little to him.
Quit the perpetual grayness of this city drowned by the rain would be a relief. During these five days of intense negotiations, business dinners, conferences, he had contrived to impose his authority within the London headquarters of the Merelas family. Yet he did not feel the usual serenity that a successful mission gave him. He didn't feel... tired. No, Etore Merelas was never tired. Empty ? As if missing from his golden life an indefinable je-ne-sais-quoi. Beneath the thick eyebrows, the black, shiny gaze darkens. He hated introspection wasting his time listing his moods seemed unworthy of a man of his condition.
"Holy Mother of God".
Wasn't he everything a man could hope for? Born into a wealthy family, he was at twenty-eight endowed with an iron health, since the death of his father, four years ago, was indisputably the pillar of the large family business which he inherited from his father. Recently, newspapers had even called him, to his great amusement, a financial genius. Plus, he was engaged to a Madrid beauty and no more in a hurry than him, to set the date of their marriage for pure reason, of course. Anyone would have envied him his life... So, what the hell was he missing? It was this unanswered question that he had been asking himself for a few months now.
When he got back to the London apartment, he would take a shower, a bottle of vodka perhaps? No, he will choose red wine and listen to good music. He concentrated on the traffic, which was becoming more and more difficult. The windscreen wipers rhythmically swept the drizzle from the car, the other vehicles threw up muddy geysers. Who wouldn't have been depressed by such weather?
As if that were not enough, he saw the distressing spectacle of one of these unfortunate homeless people, struggling so much with an old-fashioned pram probably loaded with everything she owned. The line of cars was moving a little faster now. The Mercedes had almost arrived at the height of the wretch, clinging to her poor crew when he saw her suddenly lose her balance then tip over in the gutter. He braked to death.
Heedless of the concert of horns behind him, he opened the door, quickly got out and rushed towards the pathetic creature. She straightened up and remained seated where she had fallen. Head tilted forward, she turned her back to him. A lock of long black hair escaped from his sodden wool cap. It was indeed a woman.
"Are you hurt?"
I asked her, lightly touching her shoulder.
At my contact, she got up with a jump, and advanced, staggering, towards the pram which, in her fall, she had been forced to let go. People had gathered, but, seeing the victim standing, they dispersed all the more quickly as the rain hardly encouraged them to linger.
"Wait."
If he was right, if the woman was one of the homeless in town, and, judging by appearances, she was, he should at least give her something. Treat yourself to a good meal and a bed for the night. And to make sure she was okay.
"You had a shock."
With a firm gesture, I forced her to turn around while mentally calculating how much money I had in my wallet. About a hundred billets. This money, was it an adequate compensation? As I wondered, my heart skipped a beat when I saw the livid face looking up at me. Dio mio! Astonishment made me mute for a moment then I exclaimed:
" Mayra Santorini, you! In the gutter!"
After a silence, there were only insulting words that wanted to come out of my mouth. But without knowing the reason I changed my mind. Insulting this woman in distress was also unworthy than useless. Moreover, my reaction also meant, even today, she doesn't leave me indifferent. Why would he still feel anything towards the young woman who broke his heart. Hadn't he erased her from his heart, from his life, more than a year ago?