by Lucy Coleman
I make a conscious effort to replace my frown with a friendly smile as I pull out my credit card to pay for Arran’s book. The sales assistant behind the counter raises an eyebrow.
‘It’s a good book,’ he adds enthusiastically, as I swipe my card.
‘Well, I’m hoping to get it signed by the author himself.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s amazing. I’ve never met an author in real life. I suspect they don’t do ordinary things like the rest of us. How the other half live, eh?’
I nod, trying hard to hide what is fast becoming a silly grin as I walk away with my purchase.
With an hour to go before boarding I pull Arran’s book from my bag and leaf past the title page and copyright details to glance at the acknowledgements. An ammunitions expert, a retired Navy seal, an air-sea rescue pilot… not one single mention of anyone who doesn’t have a working credit alongside their name. I know that some authors have an incredibly long list of people to thank and you begin to wonder how they manage to get any writing done. They make it sound like they spend most of their time talking to, or lunching with, their super-supportive gang.
But Arran doesn’t seem to have anyone close to thank for being there throughout those anxious writerly moments. I skip forward to the dedication page and it simply reads: In memory of those who lost their lives – heroes forever. A poignant tribute and I find myself giving a nod of approval, then take a quick look around to check that no one noticed.
I have Mel, Mum, Dad and Carrie – all of them lend a listening ear at some point during the writing process. Outside that I have thousands of social media friends, so obviously they get a one-liner mention, then maybe one or two people if I have to do detailed research relating to a specialism. For instance, for my current novel I have a Skype interview with real life cage fighter, Jordan Lewis, scheduled for next week. He’ll get a mention in the acknowledgements, together with the usual thanks to the people who make it all happen at the publishing end. How can you possibly write a book and only thank the people whose brains you pick on the research side? Moving on, I see that there’s a short prologue before Chapter One.
Sometimes the darkness of a cloud covered night sky is so dense it blots out everything, except the constant flashbacks of dirt-streaked faces screaming in pain. But the pitch black shadows are a comfort to a soldier like Brett, and he welcomes it. In two minutes and thirty-three seconds he will slit a man’s throat and think nothing of it, before moving on in search of his next target. Tonight, the body count will be high.
This is going to be a long journey in more than one sense of the word.
*
The plane lands at Verona airport on time and fortunately I manage to get through passport control quite promptly, given that there are a lot of families on the flight. It’s late and the younger travellers are understandably tired and grumpy. Before I know it, I’m wheeling my two large suitcases out onto the concourse, the heat hitting me instantly. Arran Jamieson hurries forward to take one of them from me.
Well, at least he’s a gentleman and, oh my, there is a little David Gandy thing going on there. His cursory ‘hello’ instantly transports me back to watching him on TV, but today he’s casually dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved, check shirt. He’s a lot more muscular in real life and I’m thinking that Arran has changed a little since the Inventions That Changed the Way We Live Forever series aired. Now his dark brown hair is longer on top, a mass of curls and I presume that’s why the back and sides are shaved very short. Previously it was all short and it made him look like an army recruit on boot camp. As we wheel the cases to his car he asks about the flight and I tell him it was fine, just a little noisy. Once the suitcases are stowed away, he walks around the car to open the front passenger door for me. I realise we haven’t shaken hands or anything, and I wonder if that’s because he doesn’t feel comfortable with me, or whether he’s simply nervous. I hope neither is the case, as we’re going to be spending a lot of time in each other’s company.
We set off in total silence. I rack my brains to think of something innocuous to say.
‘Is it far to the villa?’
Arran continues to look straight ahead as we filter out onto a busy road.
‘Villa Monteverdi is about a fifty-five minute drive. It’s set in the hills above the lakeside town of Salò, which is known for its boutiques and restaurants. It’s a little over a seventy kilometre drive.’
It would have been nice to have received the information pack he sends out to the attendees, because I really don’t know what to expect. I don’t want to distract him by asking questions and he does seem to want to concentrate on the road. I can fully understand as night time driving isn’t easy even when the roads are quiet. I decide to settle back in my seat and try to relax. In my head I’m piecing together the reasoning behind Ethan Turner’s trip to Italy, where he will meet the very outgoing and decidedly quirky Izzie Martin.
A writer can easily fill an hour quite productively without needing to touch a keyboard because it’s all about the thought processes. When Arran suddenly begins speaking again, I glance at the clock on the dashboard, surprised to see that we must be very close to the villa now.
‘I expect you’re tired after the travelling.’
I’m wired, not tired. ‘No. My body clock is still saying that I’m an hour behind, anyway. I often write through the night, too, so it’s been a long time since I kept normal hours.’
‘This is it,’ he interrupts, easing the car in through an open gateway. The tyres crunch on a gravelled drive as we pull to a halt.
Arran immediately leaps out of the car, but it’s clear it isn’t to open my door when I hear the click of the boot opening. Swinging open the passenger door and stepping out, the air is warm as I inhale. I pause for a moment to suck in a deep breath and it’s like smelling a bouquet; a blend of perfumed notes that give an overriding impression of a luscious, floral backdrop. While there is a lot of ground level lighting, given the lateness of the hour what I see is mostly determined by shape. But surrounding the rear of the white painted villa I can make out an extensive garden on the gentle slopes of a hill. The incessant chirping from the cicadas is like a sound track, only broken by the sound of a car driving past the gate.
Arran is already carrying the cases over to the path and I hurry across to take one, conscious they are rather heavy.
‘Welcome to Villa Monteverdi, Brie. I hope you are going to enjoy your stay here.’
‘Thank you, Arran, I’m sure I will.’ I hope I sound positive and not as dubious as I really feel.
I follow him along the sloping path, the lighting good enough to gain an impression of the landscaping either side of me. I catch the heady perfume from a bougainvillea intertwined around a tree to the left hand side of the large, oblong building in front of us. Even in the gloom, the pop of colour seems to glow against the almost indistinguishable mass of foliage.
Arran stops to retract the handle of the suitcase and unlock the rear door. It’s a three storey villa and I glance up to see that the first and second floors have wrap around balconies. He carries the case inside, taking a moment to switch on the lights before I follow behind him, crossing the threshold. Finding myself in quite a wide hallway, immediately to my right is a large plant standing in a nook to the rear of a staircase leading to the first floor. Our footsteps echo a little as we walk parallel with the stairs and then turn to begin the ascent. The suitcase is heavy, and I struggle a little, but Arran doesn’t seem to have any problem whatsoever with the one he’s carrying.
To my dismay we aren’t stopping on that level but carry on along the landing to the next flight of stairs taking us up to the top floor. Well, at least the views will be good.
‘There are eight double suites in total. Each room has a walk-in wardrobe and an en-suite. The rooms on this side of the villa are a little larger than on the other side because the building is staggered on the front elevation. I’ve given you one of the larger
rooms. I’m in the room directly below yours.’
He swings open the door and we step into a short corridor.
‘Bathroom to the left, wardrobe to the right,’ he calls over his shoulder. As the room opens out he stops to set down the suitcase he’s carrying.
I’m relieved to put mine down as the handle is beginning to bite into my hand. Arran walks across to turn on the bedside table lamps. It’s a very large, airy room with the balconied windows extending around two walls, giving it a dual aspect. Floor to ceiling white voiles are pulled back, allowing a glimpse of the rear garden which, with the little bursts of lighting, looks very atmospheric and rather pretty.
‘What a lovely room. The villa is beautiful, Arran.’
‘I count myself as very fortunate to live here. It was designed to accommodate a large family but it’s only full when I’m running the retreats.’ The irony reflected in his tone is rather poignant. I hadn’t even glanced at his hand, but I can see now that it’s ring free.
We stand, looking at each other uncomfortably.
‘If it’s not too late, would you like to join me on the front terrace for a drink?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘If you retrace your steps it’s the door to the right just beyond the stairs in the lower corridor. See you in a little while.’
He exits, and I walk over to the window to peer out. The balcony is a lovely idea and there is a frosted glass panel to one side, which is probably a divider between this and the adjacent room. I’m delighted to see a good sized, sturdy metal table and two chairs, which would be a perfect place to sit and write. At the other end the balcony wraps around the corner. Craning my neck to the side, I can see the headlights from a few cars as they drive past the gates, but aside from that the only lights are those in the garden itself. The terraced garden is informal, like a grotto with unidentifiable profiles of plants and shrubs giving an interesting contour to the landscape.
The room itself is spacious, airy and quite plain. With light cream marble floor tiles and crisp, navy and white pinstripe bedding it’s very pleasant indeed. The bed faces the floor to ceiling glass windows looking out over the rear garden. On the far side of the bed that wall too is entirely made up of glass. With an elegant glass topped table either side of the bed sporting oversized table lamps, it’s minimalist and chic. Very boutique hotel in style.
In the corner are two tub chairs and a coffee table; a pleasant seating area from which to enjoy the views in both directions. I discover that the bathroom has a bath and a separate shower, as well as a hand basin and toilet. The walk-in wardrobe is large enough for me to carry in the cases and stack them neatly beneath one of the hanging rails.
Taking a moment to freshen up I finish off with a quick brush of my hair, then make my way downstairs.
The door to the open plan kitchen-dining room is ajar. When I push it open, I walk into a very generously proportioned room, one wall of which is glass fronted and looks out onto a well lit terraced area. This is stylish, contemporary living and a sharp contrast to the cosy rooms of my sprawling, nineteenth century cottage.
‘Perfect timing. What do you drink? I have most things.’
The shiny, sleek kitchen units are an interesting mocha colour which goes perfectly with the pale cream marble floor tiles running throughout the property.
Arran swings open a cupboard door to reveal a mini cocktail cabinet, including a wine cooler.
‘Do you have any rosé?’
‘I have a local rosé, Chiaretto, which is made from the same grapes as the ruby red Italian Bardolino wine. I can recommend it: it’s dry, clean and fruity.’
‘Perfect, thank you.’
‘I think I’ll join you. I’m a night owl and rarely get to bed before 2 a.m. I think a lot of authors develop irregular sleep patterns,’ he adds.
I glance up at the clock on the wall and am surprised to see it’s only ten past eleven.
‘When will the group arrive?’
I stand watching as Arran loads up a tray with small plates of olives, cheese, some cooked meats and a basket of bread. He adds some dipping oil and balsamic vinegar then turns to face me.
‘Lunchtime tomorrow. If you can bring the wine and the glasses, I think we’re all set.’
Tucking two placemats under his arm he lifts the tray effortlessly, and makes his way to the half open sliding door leading out onto the terrace. As soon as I step out into the night air my eyes are drawn to the left, where a blue-tiled pool is all lit up. The surface of the water appears to shimmer as the pool lights pulsate.
‘Wow, that’s some pool,’ I remark but as I pan around, my gaze settles on the view in front of us.
‘Is this your first glimpse down onto the Città di Salò?’ When he says the name in Italian his voice takes on a very charming accent. But then his voice is an important part of his profession as a presenter.
Reflecting upon the changes in his appearance since I last saw him on TV, particularly that haircut, I think the new style softens his overall appearance and makes him look younger. And a little less stuffy. But then, he’s at home and clearly he’s relaxed.
‘Yes, it’s breathtaking, even though it’s merely a shadow against the sea and the sky at this time of night. All those twinkling lights make it look like a necklace, suspended against a dark blue background. How far away is it? I’ll be honest and say that I didn’t have time to research the Lake Garda area as I’ve been so busy. I wasn’t sure exactly where on the lake the villa was located. I’ve been to the Amalfi coast and visited Rome but haven’t had a chance to venture further afield.’
When I finally stop speaking I’m a little breathless; I realise I’m letting my nerves get to me and to my horror I’m saying the first thing that pops into my head.
He pours a little wine into the two glasses and hands me one, holding his own up so we can toast.
‘A warm welcome, Brie, and thank you for stepping in at such short notice. It is rather beautiful and I never tire of this vista. It’s just over eight kilometres to the town itself, but you’ll get to see it up close on Tuesday.’
His welcome sounds genuine enough and he seems pleased now I’m here; we chink glasses.
I stare out over the vast expanse of the lake, way below us, with nothing to obscure the view. Savouring a mouthful of wine, I’m impressed; it has a crispness that makes it both light and refreshing. I can’t help thinking this is surreal when you consider I’m used to being at home in my PJs, writing late into the night.
‘Lake Garda is much larger than I thought it would be. It seems to go on endlessly.’
Arran nods, swallowing a sip of his wine and placing his glass back down on the table in front of us.
‘Please, help yourself. I hope you aren’t averse to eating cheese late at night. This is a locally produced Casàt, which is aged in oil and is a little spicy, and that’s Tremosine. It has a soft texture and a delicate, yet fragrant taste. This is a salami made from beef, known as Pozzolengo, and then my favourites, Lonzino, a pork salami, and Cotechino which is a cooked pork sausage meat.’ He passes me a plate before continuing. ‘Yes, the lake covers 370 square kilometres. The town of Salò below us is located at the foot of the San Bartolomeo mountain which rises up to our left.’
Looking at the food it seems I’m hungrier than I thought, and I glance at the bread rather longingly. Do I want to feel ill tomorrow, I ask myself? Instead, I decide to take a small sample of several items, including the Tremosine, which has a soft texture, add a few olives and reach over to the bowl of fresh fruit to fill my plate. I can see Arran watching me with interest.
‘Why was it named Garda, which I assume means guard?’ I enquire to divert his attention.
‘Yes, place of guard or place of observation. It is thought to have been named after the town of Garda, which at one point in its history had a fortress. It was important because of its strategic position occupying the south eastern shores. But the Venetians destroyed the
fortress and took control of Lake Garda for nearly four hundred years. The lake was formed one and a half million years ago, when a massive piedmont glacier flowed down from the Brenta Dolomites to cut through and gouge out the valley. It’s axe shaped and we’re situated on the western edge of the widest part.’
The cheese is delicious, and I chew quickly, not just because I’m hungry, but because I have another question.
‘What’s a piedmont? I’m familiar with the word but not in the context of a glacier.’
He smiles, but it’s a warm one and not a deprecating one.
‘It’s what happens when a steep valley glacier spills out onto a flat plain; an overspill, is probably the best explanation. When we visit Salò you will see how the promenade curves around the lake; it’s rather wonderful, even though I’m biased because this is my home for a large part of the year.’
Arran is much easier to talk to than I’d imagined he would be. He seems comfortable enough in my company and I feel very relaxed.
‘Carrie says you write romantic novels and that might come in handy. One of the first batch of authors arriving tomorrow is a romance writer too. I did look you up online and it said you write about sassy females and hot, hunky guys. I’m assuming there’s a distinct line drawn between romance and erotica?’
I didn’t like his tone when he repeated my byline as there was a lift of amusement in his voice, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘There are lots of different interpretations, but I like to keep it simple. Erotica is when the sex is the basis of the conflict; sex being the central theme. Romance covers a wide range of storytelling; from sweet and simple, boy meets girl, to a love story which happens to feature sex and where the heat level is turned up a little.’
‘Heat level?’ He raises an eyebrow.
I ignore the question and help myself to some more olives and a slice of salami.
Arran tops up our glasses and I can feel him watching me.
