Summer on the Italian Lakes

by Lucy Coleman

  ‘If everyone has finished eating, let’s do a tour of the garden. Ah, right on cue. Everyone, let me introduce my housekeeper, Elisabetta. Usually she’s here from around nine in the morning until lunchtime. If you run out of towels or have any special requirements then please do let her know.’

  I did wonder who kept the villa looking so immaculate. Elisabetta is very pretty and quite young; wearing a white T-shirt and a pale blue tabard over a pair of black trousers, she looks very efficient. I’m sure she keeps Arran on his toes and doesn’t suffer any nonsense.

  ‘Hi, lovely people. Hope you enjoy your stay.’

  There’s a chorus of ‘hi’ back. As people stand, taking Arran’s lead, she approaches the table to begin clearing away.

  ‘Right, we’ll start with the view.’

  Arran leads us all down to the next level, where he points out various landmarks and gives a general talk about Salò itself. I wander off to one side, checking out some of the planting. Kudos to the gardener because everything is beautifully tended.

  ‘If we head off now in the direction of the cypress trees, there is a hidden section of the garden I’d like to show you all.’

  The path snakes a little as it heads off in the direction of a single line of trees running at an angle to the villa. At first glance it appears to be the boundary of the garden. However, although the path stops we follow Arran across the grass and, filtering between the tall trees, discover there is another building which is totally obscured by the greenery. No one would know it was here. It’s surrounded by clusters of lemon and olive trees resembling a small orchard.

  The stone building is the size of a small bungalow and behind it the hill rises up quite steeply; it’s a wall of solid rock. The front façade is all glass with a wide veranda running the entire width of it. Behind the glass are tall, white wooden shutters blocking out the sun.

  ‘And this,’ Arran says, tapping a four digit code into the key pad on the door, ‘is the library.’

  Once inside he tilts the louvres enough to let in plenty of light while keeping the sun off the bookshelves, which extend across all three walls from floor to ceiling.

  We all stand there, staring up at thousands of books, in awe. Some of these, on the very top shelves, are very old indeed. There are six winged back chairs set in pairs and one leather sofa.

  Arran waits by the door until everyone is inside and then closes it.

  ‘The room is climatically controlled via an HVAC system which handles the heating, ventilation, air conditioning and humidity. The door must remain closed at all times, to help preserve the books. When leaving please ensure the louvres are closed. The access code is in the pack for those who wish to use the library. Please feel free to read any of the books you find on the shelves, but I ask that you keep them within this room. Some of these books belonged to my grandfather and great-grandfather, and have a lot of sentimental attachment for me.’

  Gazing around, there is a very wide selection here, including textbooks and various genres of fiction, as well as biographies. Shakespeare is quite prominent, just above eye level on the back wall. But there’s also a shelf for Jane Austen and Ian Fleming sits alongside Ken Follett in a section that is alphabetical by author name.

  We’re all wandering around, name spotting.

  ‘The grounds are lit at night and the internal light switches are located on the panel inside the door. It’s just after two thirty now, so I think the rest of the afternoon should be quite informal. Some of you may wish to take a siesta in your rooms or do some writing. Alternatively, you can use the pool or sit and chat on the terrace. Do pop in and check out the sitting room, where there are some very comfortable sofas. I suggest we meet up again at six o’clock on the terrace for wine and nibbles, and a little authorly chat before dinner. I’ll put the information packs out on the table, please do grab one. Don’t forget to look at the list of restaurants within walking distance or a short taxi ride away. I’m happy to phone around and make arrangements to book tables once I know everyone’s preferences. I’ll see you all later.’

  Arran leaves and I’m not far behind him, heading back to finish reading his novel. An alcove at the side of the villa looks inviting and it’s in the shade, at the moment, so it will be perfect.

  ‘I’ll see you later too, guys.’

  Walking back to the villa I reflect upon the fact that we could easily have sat around all afternoon chatting, but Arran is a man who likes his privacy. I guess that makes two of us.

  12

  Life Isn’t Easy Whether You are Fictional or Real

  War is a tough subject matter at the best of times, but the horrors of trench warfare in the First World War is hard to comprehend because it was so very horrific. I find the telling of this particular story emotional because of the lack of emotion in the text. Men fight for the cause, conditioned not to question but to action the orders from above. Because Arran’s novel focuses on the technicalities of war, there’s little about the backgrounds of the people involved. I am moved to tears by several scenes in this book and it isn’t just when someone dies or is badly injured. Sometimes it’s because I can feel a sense of the inevitable. Many will return home, but will never be the same again – either in mind, body, or both.

  Maybe it’s because I find war depressing and a waste. Naïve, I know, because without the wars that have been fought we wouldn’t have our freedom. In a way this fictional story is really a history book. But this would appeal to me much more if I knew a little about the lives these brave men had before they found themselves shipped off to fight. Most will have left loved ones behind and that’s the real horror story waiting to be told, in my opinion. But there is a whole legion of fans who wouldn’t agree with that thought. My father would love this novel, and I must ask him if he’s ever read any of Arran’s books.

  I read for two solid hours, a lot of that time pacing back and forwards to rack up my step count for the day. When I turn that final page, I need to lighten my mood, because my heart feels wrung out. The truth is that when it comes to war no one is really the victor because of the enormous sacrifices involved.

  Heading back to my room, I pick up the laptop and open up my love story. So far, I have the first chapter with the hero, Ethan Turner, struggling to find time in his busy life to date. When he does make an effort, he finds the small talk of two strangers getting to know each other rather tedious. Something inside him is gnawing away though, making him feel uneasy. It’s loneliness but he doesn’t recognise it; he just knows it’s a feeling that is alien to him.

  Aside from that, I have several chapters written that jump forward in the story to after he has met Izzie. And I have a whole series of romantic little clips that made me rush to my laptop in a typing frenzy. Somehow, I need to pull this together cohesively now and begin to weave in some clues about the workings of Ethan’s mind and his emotions. I never realised how draining it is to write in the first person when the character is so intense. And he won’t easily surrender his thoughts to me. What I’m doing is forming the character, piece by piece, but it’s all coming together in a very random way. I never work like that and maybe it’s because emotionally I’m still not in the best place. I decide to fill in the blanks, beginning with the key chapter where Ethan flies to Italy. He’s spending the summer there, looking after a villa owned by his boss while he designs a new software programme. He jumped at the chance to get away from a life that made him feel he was living on a treadmill.

  This is where having Mel as a friend will come in very handy – all the technical info I need will be on tap. It’s the perfect vehicle to get him to Lake Garda.

  Once the missing section is written, I can turn my attention to Izzie. I begin, not really knowing what I’m going to write. I simply sit quietly staring at the screen for a few minutes, thinking of her. Suddenly, her voice is in my head and my fingers do their thing. She’s fun, flirty and chatting with a girlfriend. And then the perfect idea occurs to me. Izzie is going to b
e the boss’s daughter and she’s stuck at home because she’s broken her ankle. With her parents away on a business trip followed by a holiday in the Far East, there is plenty of time for this romance to blossom. Thank you, Kathy, for being my inspirational turning point. I do hope you are healing well, dear lady and be assured, I won’t be revisiting this experience, so your job is safe!

  Feeling rather pleased with myself, I turn my head to look out over the rear garden. I catch sight of Silvia and Yvonne making their way up the gently sloping terraces, stopping to admire some of the plants. They’re chatting and laughing quite animatedly. I wonder what Kris is doing and hope she’s not feeling left out. It’s funny how people tend to pair off; Kris and Tom might get on well as they both exhibit a sense of humour but Rick and Will? I’m not so sure. Rick would, I think, like to dominate Arran’s time; clearly, he’s a great fan and hungry to do something with his first manuscript.

  I took to Will instantly. He isn’t quite as outwardly charming as Arran, but he comes across as being a very friendly and modest sort of guy. I’m sure as a vet he’s a consummate professional so maybe he’s still at that stage where he’s slightly apologetic about his writing. Most of us feel like that at first, as if it’s not quite right to say you are a writer until you’ve proven yourself in some way. But I found that modesty in him rather endearing.

  My phone rings, making me jump.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I thought it was time I gave you a call, can you talk?’

  I didn’t have a chance to look at the caller ID, just assuming it was going to be Mel, but it’s Carrie. Which reminds me, I must ring Mum.

  ‘Yes. We’re having some free time before the first evening meal.’

  ‘Good. I hope you’re writing. I was a little worried by your comment tetchy and arrogant. Is it that bad?’

  I laugh. I knew that would worry her. ‘Yep. Unfortunately, I think we sort of got off on the wrong foot but I’m hoping things will be a lot easier now everyone is here. It was a bit intense, just the two of us last night. It’s a great little group though, and no over-the-top personalities to threaten the balance. And with two people who have a quiet sense of humour simmering away in the background, that always helps. So, I’m relatively happy.’

  She sucks in a breath.

  ‘Hmm… I really thought you two would get on rather well. Has he mentioned his manuscript at all?’

  Oh, this isn’t just Carrie on a guilt trip then.

  ‘No, and I’m certainly not going to be the first one to raise the topic. He is a bit prickly at times. Is that why Kathy isn’t working with him on this? Or you, for that matter?’

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a moment.

  ‘Definitely not. You know that it’s easier sitting down with someone to discuss different ways of handling a scene. You’re the perfect person for the job, Brie, and I have every confidence in you. The reason for the call is to say that I’ve chosen the photo, although you were right and there was little in it. It’s a great new look and I’ve already sent a copy to Cosy Living for the article.’

  I’m glad she mentioned that.

  ‘Is there any way you can ask for a draft copy?’

  ‘You’re not nervous about it, are you? You said it went well.’

  ‘It did, but I’d like a chance to read it through before it goes into print. She… um… mentioned Paul.’

  ‘Oh, right! I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you work your magic. You can charm anyone, Brie, if you want to, and Arran will thank you later.’

  I splutter, half laughing and half choking.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that, Carrie. And I seriously doubt sitting down and discussing it will work in this case. If he approaches me, I will probably just do a read through and make my suggestions, then it’s down to him if he takes my advice on board. That’s the best I can do given the situation.’

  ‘Beneath that stern exterior there beats a heart; he’s just been through a horrendous time this past year following his divorce. It came after two years’ separation and a lot of acrimony going on the entire time. His ex-wife’s mother is his mother’s best friend and his family haven’t taken it very well.’

  I suppose that might account for it then. Maybe I unwittingly said a few things that put him on the defensive and I need to be more careful.

  ‘Thanks, knowing that helps. I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise any more than that.’

  *

  I’m a little late getting ready and when I head downstairs everyone is already there except Arran himself. Feeling a little awkward that our host is nowhere to be seen, I kick off the conversation by asking where people write and encourage them to share their writing routine.

  Kris is happy to begin, and I excuse myself saying I’ll fetch some wine and the glasses. I hurry back inside and head up the flight of stairs to the first floor. Arran’s room is directly below mine, so I wander along the corridor towards the rear of the villa. Placing my ear against the door I can hear a raised voice, but it’s muffled. I head up to my room, where the sliding door to the balcony is slightly ajar. Remaining out of sight, but within earshot because he’s standing directly below me, I catch a glimpse of him holding onto the rail with his phone to his ear.

  ‘I told you that’s just not possible, Harriet. I need this place, not least because it’s a part of my business and it’s my home.’

  Everything goes silent for a few minutes.

  ‘That’s unreasonable and you know it. I’m late and I have to go. You can hassle me all you want but I can’t conjure that sort of money out of thin air.’

  There’s a pause as she replies, and his next words are explosive.

  ‘You’re joking! What sort of a woman are you?’ With that it all goes quiet and I think he ended the call abruptly.

  I rush back downstairs as quietly as I can, head into the kitchen and begin loading glasses onto a tray. Mere seconds later Arran appears, looking a little flustered.

  ‘Oh, thanks Brie, I fell asleep and forget to set my alarm. Here, I’ll take those if you can grab a couple of bottles of wine from the fridge. I’ll come back for the wine coolers. Maybe start with one red and one white?’

  I follow him out onto the terrace and Will offers to open the bottles while I enquire who wants what. I begin pouring and when I look up Arran is at my elbow.

  ‘I forgot you’ve developed a taste for Chiaretto,’ he whispers, a small smile flickering around his mouth.

  ‘Thank you.’ I look at him, surprised he gave it any thought. ‘Anyone else prefer rosé?’ No one is interested so I fill two glasses and pass one to Arran.

  We take our seats and I follow Arran’s lead as he raises his glass in the air.

  ‘Here’s to a great week with lots of sunshine, hard work and plenty of wine!’

  For one moment I think he’s going to drain his glass, but he stops himself short, looking like he needed the alcohol to steady his nerve. When he looks across at me his face is composed but his eyes seem to be searching mine. I give him a smile of encouragement.

  ‘Right, is everyone decided on their chosen venue? Let’s make this simple – hands up for La Pergola.’

  It’s unanimous. He picks up his phone from the table and dials.

  ‘Hi, it’s Arran. Can we have a table for eight, please? What time is best for you? Okay, that’s fine, thank you, Antonio.’

  ‘They have a party of twenty arriving at eight o’clock so does anyone mind if we head up there shortly after seven? It’s a bit early but at least we won’t have to wait long for our meals. It’s a family run restaurant and very popular with the locals. Don’t forget tomorrow at breakfast to put your name down for your chosen restaurant in the evening. I’ll make the necessary arrangements for around eight o’clock. I do suggest you vary it, as each one has a slightly different ambience but it’s entirely up to you guys.’

  He sinks back in his chair, downing the remainder of his glass of wine and I reach out
to pour him another. We exchange glances and I wonder if he realised I was upstairs listening to his conversation. If he did, he’s not embarrassed or angry, he simply looks defeated.

  Like the true professional he is, he soon rejoins the banter before anyone notices anything is wrong. When we set off on the short trek to the restaurant, Rick immediately engages Arran in conversation. The rest of the group fall in behind in single file; the road isn’t busy but everyone is keen to take in the surroundings and we lapse into a companionable silence. It’s a gentle downhill stroll which takes about ten minutes but coming back doesn’t promise to be quite so kind on the calf muscles.

  La Pergola is very pretty, with well manicured flower beds and neatly clipped hedges surrounding the car parking area to the front. With a covered veranda visible to one side, we step up into the wide, wooden porch and Arran leads the group inside.

  It’s a long, narrow building with one line of tables either side and a central gangway. The décor is very rustic, with stained oak floors and white painted, floor-to-ceiling wood panelling on the walls. Oversized mirrors on alternating sides make the space feel much wider than it is and with two rows of frosted white globe lights running the entire length of the room it feels light and airy. There are probably fifty plus tables in here and already well over half of them are taken. There’s quite a family atmosphere with children of all ages and the air is filled with boisterous chatter, mostly in Italian. The overall impression is that this is a really busy restaurant indeed.

  I’m bringing up the tail end of the group and suddenly we come to a halt but I can’t see what’s happening at the front. Only a few moments later we’re moving forward again and when we stop, a gorgeous Italian waiter is pulling out chairs ready for us to be seated around a circular table. He oozes charm and his smile is enough to make any woman’s heart flutter. I lower myself into the last available chair, trying not to stare at him.