by T A Williams
‘I’m sorry, I’m certainly not trying to downplay what is indeed an excellent academic record, Dr Butler.’ He sounded decidedly flustered now. ‘And I apologise if my words gave offence. That was not my intention.’ He looked positively contrite.
Allowing her glare to soften, Alice transferred her attention to the elderly gentleman in the middle of the panel. ‘I really am good at my subject and it would be an honour for me to work for such a household name.’
This appeared to hit the spot and by the end of the first part of the interview she felt pretty confident that she had both men on her side. As for the woman, she wasn’t so sure. Alice was probably twenty years younger than her and the thought crossed her mind that she might even be jealous of a younger colleague – especially one whose face was still known the world over.
As they embarked upon the second part of the interview – what they referred to as the ‘practical’ – Alice was given the chance to prove her worth and she took the opportunity with both hands. They led her across the room to where two easels had been set up and shrouded in dark cloths. The covers were removed to reveal two identical oil paintings – at first sight. Both depicted a woman, wearing an intricately woven and embroidered brocade dress. Alice felt a shiver of real excitement. This was what her years of study had been leading up to. She glanced back at her interviewers.
‘Here are two versions of the same painting. I assume the idea is that one is authentic and the other a fake.’
Nobody contradicted her so she studied them more closely. She was pleased to see a magnifying glass lying on a side table, so she picked it up and used it to study them both in more detail. She took her time and waited until she felt sure, before giving her verdict. Her three interviewers were standing close by, watching her intently. The woman had a little superior smirk on her face that gave Alice just enough stimulus to subject her to a steely stare as she replied.
‘The portrait is fairly typical of Renaissance paintings of the first half of the sixteenth century; Florentine School, pretty obviously, and supposedly the work of Bronzino, I assume.’ She turned towards them and took a deep breath. ‘The fact is, however, that they’re both fakes – the one on the left considerably better than the other, but without question still a fake.’ She was delighted to see an expression of surprise replace the smirk on the woman’s face, while the two men merely exchanged glances. Taking heart, she carried on. ‘Pity, really. This would have been a Bronzino I’d never seen before. I’ve seen his painting depicting Eleonora de Toledo, the influential wife of Grand Duke Cosimo de’ Medici, in the Uffizi Gallery. In that one she has her son alongside her, so I assume the artists who produced these were trying to copy a part of the original and hoped people might think them hitherto unseen versions of the same subject.’
‘Very good, Dr Butler, very good.’
The elderly gentleman sounded impressed and even the woman was now looking far less condescending. They returned to the table and the interview continued, but the atmosphere had noticeably changed for the better. The final question from the chairman sounded positive.
‘If offered the position, Dr Butler, when would you be available to start?’
‘I have a commitment in Tuscany for the month of July, but I could start in August, if that suits you.’ This was not the time to mention that by then she might have decided to head back to her former incarnation as a Hollywood actress. All that would be decided – one way or another – in Tuscany next week.
Nods were exchanged around the table and the interview came to an end. As he escorted her out of the building, the younger man, whose name she now knew to be Tobias something double-barrelled, allowed himself a little indiscretion. He glanced over his shoulder to check he wasn’t being overheard and lowered his voice.
‘I thought you might be interested to hear we have so far interviewed five other candidates for this position and you’re the only one to get the practical right. Well done.’ He held out his hand towards her. ‘And my apologies once again for giving you a hard time at first. It was just weird seeing your face here. My wife’s a huge fan of Pals Across the Pond.’ His cheeks reddened guiltily. ‘To be honest, so am I.’
As Alice shook his hand, she smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Tobias, and I can assure you I’ve had worse reactions to my face before this. I’ve learnt to just roll with the punches.’
‘We’ll be in touch. Very soon. I look forward to seeing you again.’
That sounded hopeful.
* * *
Alice was spending the night with her mum, but she had arranged to meet up for lunch with Millie, who had flown in from LA the previous day for a brief stopover. Tomorrow Millie would fly to Limerick to see her mum, dad and extended family, before travelling over to Tuscany for the all-important meeting next Monday. Although Millie was by her own admission broke, it came as no surprise to Alice to find her staying at the InterContinental at Hyde Park Corner and they met in the restaurant there. Millie was typically ebullient, calling out Alice’s name as she spotted her and rushing across the crowded room to throw her arms around Alice’s neck and embrace her. Even back in Alice’s Hollywood years this sort of ostentation had never suited her and she felt more than a little embarrassed, not least as several of the other guests immediately grabbed their phones and started photographing them. She kissed Millie on the cheek and bustled her back to her table by the window.
‘Have a heart, Mil, I’m just a student these days. I’m not used to all this.’
‘All this what?’ Millie sounded puzzled.
‘Riches, luxury, ostentation… you know, the usual.’
Millie gave a dismissive wave of her hand, which only served to call the waiter. He arrived at their table and bowed obsequiously. Millie glanced up, noticing him for the first time, and had no hesitation.
‘A bottle of Bollinger.’ No please, no thank you. Alice realised she had somehow passed through a time warp and was once again in the world of celebrities for so many of whom politeness and expressions of gratitude were unnecessary. She caught the waiter’s eye and gave him a big smile.
‘That would be kind, thank you.’
For the second time that day a man before her blushed and this evoked a flashback to the days when Cosmo readers had voted her one of the most desirable women on the planet. Interestingly, this memory, rather than strengthening her confidence, actually brought a flush to her own cheeks. She had got out of the habit of being an object of desire to random men and knew she would find it unsettling to return to that role again.
‘You’re looking great, Al. So slim, and I love what you’ve done with your hair.’
Alice grinned. It was typical of Millie to home in on her looks before anything else. For her part, Millie was looking good, if a bit weary – presumably after her transatlantic flight – and her dress revealed quite a lot of her tanned body. Alongside her, Alice felt positively pasty. ‘And you look great, too. I haven’t done anything to my hair, apart from wash it before my interview this morning. The days of expensive salons are long gone.’
Millie looked suddenly worried. ‘Interview? You’re not thinking of going for some other part, are you? I heard Paramount are casting for a new romcom. You’re not up for that, are you? You can’t do that to me. This new Pals Forever series without you would be a non-starter.’
‘Nobody’s indispensable, Millie. They’d find a replacement. After all, Layla and Harry are the main characters, really.’
‘I’m not so sure. But please don’t go off and get another job. Apart from anything else, I’d miss you.’
‘And I’d miss you, too. Don’t worry, Mil, it was an interview for a job as an art historian.’
‘So not the Paramount movie?’
‘No movie, no TV show, no stage show, no travelling circus – nothing, I promise. My acting days are behind me – unless we really do end up doing the new Pals series.’
Millie looked reassured. ‘If this new series gets off the ground, I know i
t’ll be fun.’ But then another look of concern appeared on her face. ‘Are you planning on taking David to Italy next week? In the invitation it said we could bring a partner if we wanted. I’ll just be on my own. I’d hate to be the odd one out.’
‘I bet you won’t be. It is a business meeting, after all. I’m bringing David, but I’ll spend all my time with you if you’re feeling left out.’
‘So… you and David? How’s that going? Getting serious?’
As they were close friends, Alice had often talked to Millie about her concerns as to where the relationship might be going. Now she decided to tell her the truth. ‘I honestly don’t know, Mil. We’re still together and I still like him a lot, but I really don’t know where we go from here. It’s all just a bit stale somehow. I know it’s inevitable that some of the spark dies out after you’ve been together for a while, but I’m not convinced I’m going to be happy long-term if that’s the way it’s going already. And, anyway, there’s the question of where I’m going to end up. What if I get the art history job? That would be here in London. And if Pals Forever were to go ahead, that would take me back to Hollywood. Would he want to come with me – and would I want him to? It’s complicated.’
‘But you still love him, don’t you?’
‘I still like him, Mil. I just can’t decide how much.’
Millie must have sensed that Alice needed cheering up, so she gave her one of her trademark cheeky winks. ‘Well, if it all goes belly-up, remember there are thousands – millions! – of men out there who’d give anything to get together with the famous Polly from Pals.’
‘That’s the thing, Millie, I’m not Polly from Pals. Apart from on-screen, I never was, and I’m certainly not now.’ She caught her friend’s eye. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m very grateful to Polly. As well as providing me with more than enough to be able to pay my way through university, she also let me dress up in all sorts of clothes I’d never dream of wearing in real life and she supplied me with a whole host of put-downs for men who annoy me. Before I became Polly, I was far less confident and she did wonders for me, but now I have to shoulder the burden of being forever associated with the flirt. The way I am now, though, if things don’t work out with David, the next man I decide to date is going to have to want me for my brain, not my face.’
The look she received in return was a wonderful mixture of disbelief, incomprehension and ridicule. ‘Good luck with that, Al. Somehow I don’t see that ever happening – unless the man’s visually challenged.’
‘Then it won’t happen at all.’ Alice looked defiantly across the table just as the champagne arrived. ‘I really mean that.’
Chapter 3
Alice and David flew over to Florence on Monday afternoon and were met at the airport by a smart uniformed driver who took charge of their suitcases and accompanied them out to his slick black Mercedes. He spoke good English, but Alice decided to practise her Italian with him anyway. While doing her PhD, she had spent several months over here in Italy, visiting galleries, churches, castles and libraries as she carried out the research for her thesis on an obscure Italian artist who had allegedly shared a studio in Florence with Michelangelo for several years. She had done Italian A-level at school and her visits to the country had helped to keep her command of the language reasonably up to speed. David didn’t speak a word of Italian, but she felt sure he wouldn’t mind. As it was, he appeared quite happy to sit back and enjoy the luxurious interior of the limousine.
Alice waited until the driver had navigated his way through the heavy local traffic around the airport and had got onto the autostrada before asking him about the hotel where they were going to be staying. A quick check of the address on Google Earth had shown her a charming old villa surrounded by trees some way to the south of Florence, but that was all she knew.
‘Do you know the hotel we’re going to?’ She reckoned that sounded fluent enough, without too many mistakes.
The driver glanced round in surprise. ‘Ah, so you speak Italian. Bravissima!’
He replied in Italian and she was pleased to understand everything he said. Reassured, she carried on.
‘Not very well, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m using you to get in a bit of practice. So, is it a nice hotel?’
‘It’s not a hotel; it’s a private house. I’m not sure who Villa delle Vespe belongs to, but it’s very beautiful. I’ve taken people there a few times so I know it quite well.’
This came as a definite surprise to Alice. Somehow she had been expecting a hotel. She relayed the information to David and he suggested that the villa might have been rented for the occasion or might even belong to Conrad Chesterfield. Certainly, her former boss had the money to buy himself a nice villa or two.
‘You know what vespe are, don’t you?’ The driver was clearly taking his job as language trainer seriously.
Alice returned her attention to him and nodded. ‘In English, it’s wasps – Villa of the Wasps. It’s a strange choice of name. I hope this doesn’t mean the place is infested with them.’
‘I doubt it, but I’ve no idea how the villa got its name. You’ll have to ask.’
‘I will. When I checked it out on the internet, it looked as if it’s in the middle of the countryside.’
‘Almost. There’s a village a kilometre or so away, but not a big one. The villa’s right in the heart of the Chianti region. You know the wine, I’m sure. Even over in America it’s famous, isn’t it?’
Alice nodded and went on to explain that although her reception and transfer had been booked by an American company, she was in fact English, but he already knew that.
‘I recognised you as soon as I saw you. You’re Polly, aren’t you?’ His eyes met hers in the rear-view mirror for a moment and she saw he was grinning. ‘I had a poster of you on my wall for years.’
This wasn’t the first time Alice had heard this sort of comment and she found herself hoping it wasn’t the infamous wet-bikini poster that left very little to the imagination. Snapped by a paparazzo as she emerged from the Pacific in an unguarded moment, an unscrupulous print shop had produced a poster from the picture. Her lawyers had finally managed to get it removed from circulation, but not before tens of thousands had been printed and sold. It had made her feel angry then, and thinking about it still made her feel awkward now. Hastily, she returned the subject to less contentious issues.
‘And do you know the Chianti area well?’
‘I’m from Florence, but we all know the Chianti region. It’s still mostly rural, with lots of vineyards everywhere. It isn’t far from Florence and there are some very exclusive, and expensive, villas there. We turn off the autostrada in ten or fifteen minutes and that’s pretty much the start of Chianti. The villa’s near Greve in Chianti, which is no more than another half hour at most. It won’t take too long.’
After leaving the busy motorway, the drive into the heart of the Chianti region was a delight. As the much quieter country road weaved its way along the valleys and up the flanks of the steep hills, the views got better and better. The hills, as the driver had said, were clad for the most part with meticulously kept vineyards – their rows of vines laid out with mathematical precision – that were often flanked by olive groves. Clumps of woodland here and there – particularly on the hilltops – added patches of dark green in contrast to the bright new leaves on the vines and the grey-green of the olive trees. Quaint little villages and lovely old farmhouses and villas dotted the landscape, and everywhere she looked she saw the tall, slim cypress trees so typical of Tuscany. Alice gave up on her Italian lesson, sat back alongside David and soaked up the view.
Altogether, the drive from the airport to the villa took well under an hour and the sun was just beginning to drop towards the horizon as the limousine came to a halt in front of two imposing metal gates set in a formidable high wire fence that stretched off into the distance on either side. The driver leant out of the car window and spoke into an intercom. A few seconds later the gates h
ummed open and they drove in, flanked by thick clumps of bright yellow broom bushes, some several metres tall, shaded by tall trees. As they did so, Alice spotted two security cameras pointing down at them. Clearly, the owners of Villa delle Vespe valued their privacy – and that of their guests. As the car crunched up the long, winding, white gravel drive, the trees gave way to vines on either side of them and ahead, on a ridge, she could just make out the roof of the villa amongst a cluster of ancient cypress trees.
As they rounded the last bend and crested the ridge, the villa of the wasps came into full view and Alice whistled softly to herself in appreciation. It was a large, wide, two-storey building in traditional Tuscan style, with red roof tiles and a little tower rising up from the centre. The walls were a delightful weathered yellowy ochre colour, with dusty-green louvred shutters at the windows. It was surrounded by charming formal gardens and the whole place looked enchanting. The driver drew up in a fan-shaped parking area, protected from the sun by huge old umbrella pines, and pointed towards the villa.
‘If you’d like to make your way up to the front door, I’ll bring your suitcases.’
Alice thanked him and they stepped out of the air-conditioned interior of the car into the heat of the late afternoon. It had been a hot day and the air was still warm even now, at six o’clock. Judging by the cloudless sky above, tomorrow was going to be equally fine. She and David set off up a short stretch of stone-paved path, flanked by meticulously trimmed box hedges, punctuated every few metres by enormous old terracotta pots containing lemon trees, oleander bushes and clumps of sweet-scented lavender. The mixture of aromas was intoxicating and she breathed in deeply, savouring the moment. Beside her, she heard an intake of breath from David.
