The Villa

by Rosanna Ley

  ‘Why?’ Flavia’s heart was thumping inside her chest. Her knees almost buckled and she held on to the side of the stove. Just for a second. She would be all right in a second. ‘Why do you have to go?’

  ‘It’s a condition of the bequest. I have to visit it, before I decide what to do with it.’

  Before she decided what to do with it? The panic bloomed. Still Flavia continued to stir. The sauce was a good colour. All her life cooking had helped her, food had seen her through. The tomatoes had thickened, grown more pungent, the sweet aroma of tomato and chilli rising from the pan. ‘I see,’ she said softly. And she was beginning to.

  ‘I’ve looked the area up on Google Earth,’ Tess said matter-of-factly, as if she were talking about a day trip to Weymouth. ‘It’s beautiful. You never said how beautiful it was.’

  Flavia grunted. She had never said exactly where it was either, had she? She dragged her baking dish out of the cupboard. She realised that somehow, sooner or later, she might have to say a whole lot more.

  ‘Isn’t it, Muma?’ Tess’s voice was pleading.

  ‘Yes, it is beautiful.’ She began with a layer of sauce, then Parmesan, then aubergines. Sauce, Parmesan, aubergines … Don’t go there … Don’t go there … Don’t go there.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on Ginny,’ Flavia heard herself say. ‘If you want to visit Villa Sirena,’ she paused, ‘before you put it up for sale.’ Sauce, Parmesan …

  ‘Thanks, Muma.’ Tess’s voice was lighter now.

  Because if your daughter is here, you will come back. Flavia didn’t say it out loud though. She opened the oven door and slid the melanzane alla parmigiana inside.

  After supper, and after Tess and Ginny had gone home, Flavia snuggled up in bed under their rose-pink quilt next to Lenny. During the evening they had all talked of other things, but half of Flavia’s mind had remained settled on the past.

  Now, she recounted her earlier conversation with Tess to her husband.

  ‘Bugger me,’ he said with characteristic candour. ‘She’s just been left a house in Sicily and she never said a word until now?’

  ‘She hasn’t told Ginny yet, that’s why.’ Lenny’s body was warm and comforting. It always had been. Flavia wondered what would have become of her if she hadn’t met Lenny. He had always loved her, despite everything.

  ‘Why hasn’t she told her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Perhaps Tess had inherited her mother’s secretive streak. Flavia shivered and felt Lenny’s embrace tighten. At seventy-nine he was still a fit and healthy man – thank God. ‘Perhaps she is waiting for the right time,’ she said.

  ‘Like you?’ It was the softest of murmurs, but Flavia recognised the words almost before they were out of his mouth.

  ‘I have had my reasons,’ she said.

  ‘And now?’

  Flavia nestled closer into his shoulder. He was so comfortable; there was a place that felt snug and just right. And Lenny knew her so well. He had recognised instinctively that something had changed.

  ‘She is going there,’ she said. ‘I cannot stop her.’

  Lenny was stroking her hair. It was snow-white now of course, not almost black as it had once been. ‘It doesn’t hold the same darkness for her as it does for you, poppet,’ he said. ‘It’s your past not Tessie’s. She just wants to see the place where you grew up. That’s normal enough.’

  Flavia sighed. Put simply, that much was true. But something else was true. A place could hold you, it could change you, it could exert an influence on you. And the secrets of Sicily went back a long way. Ah, well … She was old. What did she know?

  ‘What are you so frightened of?’ Lenny persevered. ‘What on earth do you think could happen to her, my love?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Flavia forced a laugh, though it sounded a touch hysterical.

  ‘Are you frightened for her?’ Lenny’s touch on her hair was soothing. She felt herself relax, felt her mind drift. ‘Or for yourself?’

  And just before she slipped into sleep she realised the truth of his words. For herself … If she was going to do anything, she would have to do it soon. She was eighty-two years old. How long did she have left? She had to face it. Tess was going to Sicily. It was time.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ginny had fallen in lust with her hairdresser. She’d even been sneaking in to have her fringe done for free between scheduled haircuts. She watched him in the mirror, as he lifted a strand of her dark hair and frowned.

  ‘What?’ she asked. He didn’t pluck his eyebrows, did he? She wouldn’t be surprised. They were perfect crescent moons.

  ‘Have you been deep conditioning, like I said?’ He rolled his eyes as he rubbed the lock of hair between his thumb and forefinger and she giggled.

  He had wicked eyes. Wicked as in evil, that was. Almost navy. And almost-black hair. His fingernails, now strumming through her long crowning glory, were painted metallic green. It was such an awful waste that he was gay. All the best-looking boys were gay – it was a known fact. She and her best friend Becca were into the same style. They liked boys with dark hair and long fringes who wore vampy eyeliner, slightly smudged. And they liked boys who were tall.

  Ginny was six foot in her trainers, Becca six foot two. This was no laughing matter. Until recently, Ginny had hunched her shoulders and worn flat pumps. But since she’d discovered Becca at college, high-heeled shoes were the way to go – the spikier the better. Together, the two of them were a superior race. Warriors. Amazons.

  ‘Sounds cool,’ said Ginny. Ben was telling her about the night out he’d had at Barney’s on Friday. She felt a honey shiver every time he touched her hair.

  At times like these, Ginny could almost forget about the Ball. Almost, but not quite. It was rolled up very tightly and was lodged below her throat and above her breastbone. Like matting. She wasn’t sure how long it had been there – maybe a year. Sometimes it seemed to shrink a little until it resembled indigestion and she almost thought a couple of Rennies might sort it. But other times it grew, rolling around inside her as if gathering moss or momentum, until she could hardly talk and barely breathe. That’s when it got scary.

  She hadn’t told her mother about the Ball. She didn’t want to be dragged to the doctor to talk about periods or sex or something equally embarrassing. Her mother would assume she had bulimia or was on drugs (two of her pet subjects) or was just crazy. Ginny would be examined, maybe put on happy pills. No, she didn’t dare tell. If she closed her mind to it, really hard, it might roll away.

  ‘D’you ever go there?’ Ben asked. ‘To Barney’s?’

  ‘Nah. It’s a bit chavvy.’ Becca was still only seventeen and her fake ID wouldn’t get her into a place that was managed by a friend of her dad’s. And it was full of chavs. Boys in hoodies and overweight tattooed girls in microtops, white flesh bulging. No class. No style. Very, very sad.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ben continued to chip and snip. ‘That’s true.’

  It was a nice motion, Ginny thought to herself. Sweet.

  She’d like to bump into Ben when she was out somewhere. In fact she fantasised about it regularly. In the fantasy she wore her black close-fitting minidress with the wide zip at the front that went from cleavage to hem and was perfect with her red stilettos. This was the dress that her mother described as ‘fun’, her expression dubious as she no doubt angsted about the number of men who might try and unzip her daughter that night. In the fantasy, Ben was amazed at her transformation from gawky college kid to red-hot girl about town. You are so fit, he murmured, as he bent closer. So hot … Oh yeah, and he wasn’t gay.

  Yesss … But Ginny couldn’t go out very often right now, because she was supposed to be revising for her exams and Mum was being sooo boring about it.

  She shifted minutely in the seat. Her legs were bare this afternoon (they were her best feature so she and Becca had decided on the high-cut denim shorts) and she didn’t want to stick to the black leather chair. She’d spent an hour shaving her legs until h
er skin felt raw, so she was pretty confident there were no visible prickles. Her underarms felt suspiciously damp though – she must remember not to lift her hands above her waist, just in case.

  ‘So … Where else d’you go?’ she asked. Even though he was a lost cause.

  ‘Parties, I guess,’ he said. ‘Last week I broke up with my girlfriend. My mate Harley threw a rave to celebrate.’

  ‘Pardon me?’ Surely she was hearing things? Girlfriend …? Ginny gripped on to the arms of her chair.

  He repeated what he’d said.

  ‘Cool.’ Inside, Ginny was squealing. He’d had a girlfriend. He – at least for the moment – wasn’t gay. Unless he was in denial? This was amazing news. She couldn’t wait to tell Becca. ‘High five,’ she muttered.

  ‘Sorry?’ He was absorbed in the bit next to her right ear. She hoped she didn’t have any visible ear wax.

  ‘Nothing.’ She tried not to stare at him, but when you were having your hair cut you had to look at something, and there wasn’t a lot of choice. Mirror. Hair products. Her own face. Ben. No contest. ‘Sorry about your girlfriend,’ she added.

  ‘I’m not.’ He grinned at her.

  Ginny pulled in her stomach. The Ball was still lurking. But at least she was thin. And according to her mother, she had inherited Nonna’s ‘black Sicilian eyes’. Which had to be sexy, didn’t it? People were always telling her she should be a model and they were probably right. She should leave college (though Mum would kill her) move to London and sign up with some agency. How hard could it be?

  But she wouldn’t. Ginny tried to swallow and felt the usual lump in her throat. She wouldn’t do it, cos she couldn’t do that sort of thing, she just couldn’t. And she’d have to go to uni, because, well … they all expected her to.

  Snip, chip … Snip, chip … Ben was appraising her in the mirror. Ginny felt hot. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t even talk to him now that he wasn’t gay. His fingers were brushing against her neck and goosebumps were travelling the full length of her body. Which was, anyone would have to admit, a long way. So was she hot or cold, or what? Jumping jackals – it must be what.

  What was it like, she wondered for the zillionth time. What was it like to do it? To really do it with a boy? Most of her friends had got to at least second or third base; Becca all the way. But then – as Mum had pointed out – Becca was a bit upfront. Ginny didn’t really want to imagine Becca … But there again, sometimes when you looked at her you couldn’t help but imagine, which was probably what her mother meant. Becca wasn’t thin, but on the plus side she had what Ginny wanted more than almost anything, more even than Ben’s hands on her neck (though not more than the Ball to disappear). Boobs.

  Ginny had a private theory that third base was more intimate than fourth, but she didn’t want to voice this in case there was something else she didn’t know about. After all, until you’d done both … Was she the only girl of her age in Pridehaven who hadn’t done it? Sometimes she reckoned this was very possible. And it was her own fault. It was just that all the boys … Well, she didn’t fancy any of them. But she did want to be over this. She wanted, she supposed, to know it all.

  ‘Maybe,’ Ben said, as if he could read her mind, ‘you and I should go out for drinks sometime.’

  Was he asking her out on a date? This gorgeous boy with hot lips who could make shimmering turquoise eyeliner look macho? Ginny tried to stay calm. But suddenly it felt like all the best things in the world – those jeans in Topshop that she couldn’t afford, chocolate biscuits from M&S, Kentucky Fried Chicken in a bun and cookie-dough ice cream (OK, mostly items of food, she realised that, but hey, that was her problem and she’d deal with it) had all happened in one fabulous wave at Hide Beach in full sunshine when she had no spots on her face, was wearing her zebra-print bikini and the Ball had disappeared behind a far-off goal line …

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should.’

  He finished the jagged bit of her fringe. ‘Cool. Let’s exchange numbers.’

  ‘OK.’ Ginny watched as he fluffed it out with his fingers. ‘I’m having a party soon,’ she added. Her mother had only told her last night that she was going away. But how long did it take to plan a party? In this case about twenty seconds.

  ‘Will you be OK, Ginny?’ her mother had asked. ‘It’s only for a week. You’ll have Nonna and Pops down the road. And Lisa next door. You could stay at Nonna’s if you don’t want to be on your own.’

  Hovering unicorns. How old did she think Ginny was? Ten? She loved having the house to herself, though it didn’t happen often. Her problem would be that Nonna and Pops were down the road (although they were lovely and Nonna was a great cook) and that Lisa was next door.

  ‘Who’re you going on holiday with?’ she asked her mother innocently.

  As intended, this brought on the guilt. ‘Oh, Ginny, I’d love to take you with me. Only you’re in the middle of revising for your exams and … ’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Ginny shrugged. ‘But I might have a few of the girls round one night. That’s all right, isn’t it? We’ll probably have pizza and watch a movie.’ If her mother knew she was having a gathering, then if it got out of hand, or when it got out of hand, or if/when any of her minders noticed that it had got out of hand, then everything would be far easier to explain. She firmly subdued the twinge of remorse that popped up whenever she deceived her mother. Ginny loved her, of course she did. And she knew how much her mother had done for her, what she had sacrificed, all that stuff. But she also wanted to punish her sometimes. Just for … Well, for nothing really. That was just the way things were.

  ‘Of course it is.’ Her mother looked vague. ‘Who …? ’

  ‘And who did you say you’re going with?’ Ginny cut in.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure.’ Her mother looked evasive, which meant she was planning to go with Robin. ‘Maybe on my own.’ Which also meant she was planning to go with Robin. What a loser.

  For some reason which Ginny couldn’t quite fathom, her mother didn’t realise that Ginny knew about Robin. She’d been introduced to him, yes, when Lisa and her husband Mitch were also round, in that careful way her mother had, as if Ginny might say, Who the fuck are you? instead of, Hello, thus ruining her mother’s credibility for ever. Tempting though it was, Ginny had been polite and answered all his predictable questions about college and going to uni without so much as a Jesus Christ. She could almost hear her mother’s relief at his ‘What a sweet girl.’ Wanker.

  What her mother wasn’t aware of was that Ginny knew when Robin had been round in the afternoon. She knew when they’d gone to bed (Mum’s bedroom curtains drawn, two wine glasses in the room), and when they’d done it on the sofa (cushions plumped, coffee table at a different angle), though Ginny didn’t dwell on that one.

  She’d also worked out that he was married, since they didn’t hang out together at normal times and since her mother mostly looked unhappy or had pink spots on her cheeks, which meant she was about to meet him or had just received an illicit phone call. Ginny didn’t like Robin, who was too smooth, too conventional and too married, and she didn’t like what he was doing to her mum. But she figured that when her mother wanted her advice, she’d ask for it.

  ‘A party? Cool.’ Ben twirled the scissors. ‘I trust you’ll be inviting your favourite stylist?’

  ‘Consider it done,’ said Ginny. Bring it on. She could hardly wait. This could, she realised, be IT. Banish the Ball. Her First Sexual Experience. Way to Go …

  Ben turned on the hairdryer and began to blow dry. ‘Hot enough for you?’ He raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  He wasn’t joking. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely,’ said Ginny.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tess knocked briefly and went straight into Lisa’s kitchen.

  ‘Come round for coffee,’ Lisa had suggested to her on the phone ten minutes ago when Tess started on her news. ‘It’ll be easier to talk. And I’m cooking supper.’

  Lisa, queen of multi-t
asking, was wearing a green wrap-around pinny decorated with red elephants, over black jeans and a T-shirt. She was dark, petite and apparently unflappable. Tonight, she was stirring the contents of a massive tureen of chilli with one hand, directing the proceedings of various children – aged between seven and eleven – with the other. Tess watched and remembered her own experience with Ginny. No husband; an only child. Very different in so many ways.

  ‘Tess.’ Lisa offered a cheek for a kiss. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Lisa’s kitchen, with its spicy fragrance of chilli, its reassuring lived-in-ness and the warm glow from its ochre-painted walls, was a haven. When they had moved in next door to Tess’s own slightly run down, end of terrace Victorian townhouse and she’d first been drawn into Lisa and Mitch’s welcoming circle, Tess had hoped she could absorb and emulate this atmosphere that Lisa seemed to conjure up so effortlessly. An atmosphere of togetherness with Mitch and their children, of family and of home. She couldn’t, of course. How could she when she didn’t have a Mitch? Should she feel guilty about it? That she could give her daughter only so much; that she couldn’t provide a father? But maybe what she had with Ginny – that special one-to-one relationship – was only possible because it was just the two of them against the world.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a tick,’ Lisa told her. ‘Just got to—’ She addressed her offspring. ‘Get your books off the table now, you lot, if you want supper tonight.’

  Tess moved aside as three pairs of hands grabbed exercise books, pencil cases and what have you, chattering all the while. Have you got my black felt-tip pen? Where’s my ruler? That’s my rubber, Android. Don’t call him Android (that was Lisa). She shot Tess an apologetic smile. They were like a volcano in full flow. Volcano … Tess leant back in her chair. She and Robin could visit Etna. And Palermo. Old temples, cathedrals, deserted sandy bays … She felt a brief lurch of self-reproach. Could she just swan off for a week and leave her daughter here alone? Should she …?