This is from my novella – Orvieto. I would love your feedback on this opening. I am not sure how to end the chapter.

1968 – Mariette

‘Mi amore, mi dispiace.’

A light coat covers my damp shoulders and is the only protection from the incessant mist of rain. Nothing about me is dry, from the soles of my feet to my damp hair. What will I do if they send me away. Without any money, and just the clothes in my rucksack, there is nowhere else I can go.

‘Mariette! Thank God your safe,’ James says.

My boyfriend slips his arms around my shoulders, and steers me inside the cold hallway.  

‘Grazie, ti amo.’

‘Mariette, you are soaked through. I am going to call your parents, let them know you are safe. They are worried sick.’ She looks like Mama, when I have taken too long walking home from school.  ‘You’ll catch your death. The bathroom is upstairs and to the right – you will need to get out of those wet clothes,’ his mum says, walking down the winding stairs. ‘I have started to run a bath for you, we’ll sort things out when you come down.’

What does she mean? Would I catch death like a ball when I played with my sister Bella? What is it to run a bath? The English is so confusing, and when they speak quickly, I barely understand.

The wallpaper is as damp as my clothes, and tiny droplets of water stream to the colourful carpet. A heater at the top of the stairs. A funny petrol smell greets me and my stomach gurgles.  I open the door, and straight ahead of me, is a room no bigger than a box. A toilet takes up most of the space, but there is room for a tiny sink. I am inside no longer than a couple of minutes before I return.

I open each door, and find his bedroom, his walls are covered in red and white football posters. There is a single bed, with a quilted blanket over the pillow. A smaller room, also with a single bed, looks empty apart from a few boxes.

There is condensation on the inside of the window of the bathroom. I turn off the taps, remove my clothes, and the soapy water covers my knees.

James’s mum knocks on the door. ‘Mariette, your clothes in your backpack are being washed, I’ll put them in the kitchen to dry. If you want to wash your hair, use the jug on the side. I put one of my nightdresses and dressing gown by the door, it might be a little big, sorry.’

‘Bene. Grazie, thank you,’ I say.

Pouring the bath water over my hair, helps me to finally get warm. When my hair is washed, I wrap a towel around my body. Once I am dry, I slip into a soft cotton nightdress. It trails to the floor and swamps my body. I am like my doll dressing up in different clothes.

Hesitant to go downstairs, I hover at the top. It is too quiet, and I wonder if the decision to send me home has already been made. When I get to the front room, James is sitting on the sofa, a concerned look on his face. With dark hair, and a dimple when he smiles, I am lost in his handsome face. He will not let me down; I am sure of it.

Whatever Papa say, he love me.

‘Darlin, why didn’t you call?’ James said, steering me to the flowery sofa.

 There is a gas fire set to full and a wall of heat hits me in the chest. Tears, which refused to fall throughout my thirty hour journey, track down my cheeks. It is all better now. James, he hold me so tight, I am not afraid.

He guides me to the sofa, and sits down with me.

‘How did you get here?’ he asks.

‘Zia Maria, my aunty was taking me to her house. I not want to go. She was putting petrol in the car, and I saw a British family. I try the boot, and it open. I am inside before I think. It is a long journey, but when they get to your country, they find me. Your address I remember, so I … ask I they take me here.’

‘Mariette, you could have got hurt. I am so sorry, it’s all my fault.’

‘No, I refuse to give up …’

‘I know you are pregnant, Mum told me last night, and tore a strip off me … told me off.’

‘Sorry I not tell you. I found out when you left. I tell Violeta, and she tell Papa.

‘You said nothing, not even in our letters.’

‘I wanted to, but I was frightened.’

‘Of what?’

‘Having a baby, not part of our dreams, I thought . . . When we make love in the field, I wouldn’t get pregnant.  I don’t regret. It is your bambino, I never slept with anyone else. I promise.’

‘God, Mariette, of course you didn’t. I would never deny what we did. Mum would kill me. I love you. I will talk to your papa, we will get married, and I will do right by you. I promise.’

He picks up a packet of Number Seven cigarettes, and takes one out. The match strikes against the box, and he breaths in the smoke. I stare as the smoke rings merge, and drift to the ceiling before disappearing.

He stubs the cigarette in the ashtray before he holds my hand.

‘I fear he will refuse.’

His mum walked into the front room and slipped at warm mug into my hands. ‘I spoke to your mama, she was upset, but glad you are safe. I told her you would call her later.’

‘Please, you let me stay? Yes?’

‘You came to us and we will not send you anywhere until we have this sorted. I promise. My son has a lot to answer for though. I have taught him to be respectful with women and in this instance he hasn’t.’

‘We were both to blame, we both wanted,’ I say.

‘My son understood what could happen. He could have worn a condom, but didn’t.’

‘Sorry mum, it all happened so quickly, we never meant.’

‘Are you going to send me back?’