by Wendy Holden
"So what's stopping you?" Darcy urged. "If it's money, I've got some. You set up a business, I'll invest in it!"
She was disappointed to see Emma looked doubtful. She had credited her with more get up and go.
"I really think you ought to look into it, you know, like now," Darcy enthused. "Strike while the iron's hot, find out what you need to do, what certificates you need and all that…"
Certificates. Official approval. That, in a nutshell, was the issue, Emma knew. She had all the skills, all the qualifications, all the energy required for the nursery project. She longed to tell Darcy the truth, that there was nothing she would like more. But then Darcy would obviously ask what the problem was, and that was something Emma could not tell her.
The problem was that she lacked a clear name. Should Vanessa ever find out about her plans—and it was unlikely she wouldn't if the nursery was, as Emma intended, in London—there was no doubt that the relevant authorities would be informed in short order about the cocaine in the handbag. And that would be that.
"Oh well. Let me know if you change your mind," Darcy said, disappointed that her grand gesture had unexpectedly missed its mark. Reluctantly, she set out finally on her run.
Chapter Fifty-one
Orlando was dawdling through Rocolo. He had no particular reason for going there, apart from the wish to get away from the aubergo. The Faughs had gone up another level on the smug-ometer, and his father had descended even further into depression while his mother, distracted at having lost her precious pink Gucci wallet, was turning the villa upside down in search of it. It had, apparently, vanished without trace. The imminent arrival, into this volatile situation, of his A-level results would be, Orlando felt, like tossing a match into a barrel of petrol.
It was a sunny day and, despite his circumstances, the picturesque Italian village, its golden stone shining in the sun, lifted his spirits. He had walked up past the restaurant and was entering the arcaded square at the top when something made him stop. Right in front of him, on the cobbled surface of the square, a small, blond boy of about five years of age lay on the ground, unmoving.
Orlando looked about him. There seemed no one around who was in charge of this child at all.
Orlando bent over him. The boy was breathing—a relief—but very still. Had he fainted? Fallen and broken something? "Are you alright?" he asked. "What are you doing?" He felt instinctively that the boy was British.
To Orlando's great relief, the child lifted his tousled, sandyblond head and looked round with unconcerned blue eyes. "Looking at a caterpillar," he said in a matter-of-fact treble, sticking a small plump digit out in front of him to where a small, plump grub slowly progressed up and over one of the cobblestones.
"That's quite a nice one." Orlando squatted on his haunches. "Fat and furry." He grinned at the child. "What's his name?"
Still lying on the ground, the boy propped himself up on his elbows. He frowned at Orlando. "Don't be silly. He's a caterpillar. Caterpillars don't have names."
"Who are you?"
At the imperious little voice behind him, Orlando turned to find a pair of solemn blue eyes beneath a fringe of perfect white blondeness. A girl of about four, dressed identically to the boy, had materialised apparently from nowhere and was looking at him with an unnerving stare. She was, he thought, an enchanting little thing, silver fair, with white skin and flaxen hair and naughty, dancing blue eyes.
"I'm Hero."
"How do you do, Hero," said Orlando gravely.
"And I'm Cosmo." The blond boy had scrambled to his feet, red impressions on his small knees from the cobblestones. "Do you know Thomas?" he asked.
"Thomas who?"
"The Tank Engine," expostulated the boy, as if the question were ridiculous, which, Orlando realised, it probably was when you were five.
He folded his arms and put a finger to his lips. "Now let me see," Orlando said, in comic-pompous tones that had their origins in Hugh. "That's the one with Percy in, isn't it?"
"And Harvey the Breakdown Train," Cosmo returned eagerly.
"Harvey the Breakdown Train?" Orlando raised his eyebrows. "I see you like the most obscure ones."
"Cranky, Mavis, Troublesome Trucks, Sir Handel," chanted Cosmo, in a tone Orlando realised was a challenge.
He picked up the gauntlet unhesitatingly. "Rheneas, Skarloey, Lady, Neville…"
"Salty, Bulstrode, Culdee…" hit back Cosmo.
"Catherine the Mountain Coach…" Orlando continued with ease. He hadn't watched Thomas the Tank Engine every morning on Nickleodeon for nothing. He could go on for ever if Cosmo wanted.
Looking down, he saw Cosmo's small, serious face was flushed with pleasure. "You know a lot about Thomas," he admitted.
"Doesn't everyone?" Orlando sounded mock-shocked.
"Totty doesn't," the children chorused.
"Who's Totty?"
"Our nanny."
Orlando was so relieved to hear there was a nanny that the tone of gloom in their voices almost passed him by. "Where is she then?" he asked. Totty. Totty. It sounded familiar.
The children looked blankly at him from their large blue eyes. "We don't know. She left us here. She sometimes does."
"Your nanny leaves you by…yourselves?" Orlando repeated. "You mean…she's just gone into a shop or something?"
They looked blankly back at him. "Totty didn't say," Cosmo said eventually. "She just…"—he shook his head and shrugged— "went off."
Totty. Where had he heard that name before? Orlando furrowed his brow in thought, to no avail, however. He had no memory for names; admittedly, as his A-level results were abundantly about to illustrate, he had no memory for anything.
"I'm hungry," Hero announced now suddenly. "Can you take us for something to eat?"
Eleven o'clock, Orlando saw from his watch. Some way from lunchtime, but, having been unable to face the communal breakfast—the great Faugh jaws and the twins' tumble-drier mouths—he was hungry himself. A panini and a beer at that restaurant on the hill would be perfect. And he'd be happy to take Hero and Cosmo too, but one couldn't just take children one had only just met. What if their nanny, this mysterious, obviously stupid, and incompetent Totty, returned? He could be accused of abduction, anything. Arrested, thrown into jail.
"Please," said the little girl, her eyes round and appealing. "I'm really, really hungry."
"So am I," added the little boy plaintively.
"Totty gave us hardly any breakfast…" Hero said, sighing tragically.
"She never does…" agreed her brother.
"She's awful…"
"Horrid…"
"But what about your parents?" Orlando broke in. "Can't they give you some more breakfast? Can't you talk to them?"
Two pairs of eyes now fixed themselves on his. "Mummy's always busy." Hero stared baldly.
"And Daddy's always away," Cosmo assured him, eagerly.
"Yes, but aren't they here now? You're on holiday, aren't you?" It was a guess, but it seemed likely.
Hero nodded. "But Mummy and Daddy aren't," she solemnly informed him. "They're coming soon though."
"It might be today," Cosmo added, hopefully.
Orlando regarded them. A wave of sympathy broke over him. It all sounded so miserably familiar. Mother too busy, father away. Holidaying with the nanny. Fourteen, fifteen years ago, this could have been him. Except that, of the many nannies who had cared for him, none were exactly criminally negligent, unlike the absent Totty.
"Well—can we get in touch with your parents? I mean, where do they live?" The hope that it was some tiny hamlet with only two houses that was easily traceable flared wildly within him.
"London."
"Oh." That was that then.
"There's a nice restaurant just round the corner…" Cosmo remarked longingly, returning to the food theme.
"But what about Totty?" Orlando objected.
"She won't care," the children chorused in unison.
Marco walked am
ong his tables, repositioning a chair here, brushing off a crumb there, taking deep breaths of satisfaction as he surveyed his kingdom. It was almost lunchtime, and all these tables would be completely full. The bookings diary said so, and there were regulars who just turned up, scorning bookings diaries. But as they came every day, he put them in the bookings diary anyway; not that they knew.
He glanced at his watch, the watch he had been given for his eighteenth birthday and whose glass was split after a bullying chef in a top London restaurant had hurled a pan at him in fury. He had not had it repaired. It would remain as a reminder never to abuse staff; a reminder, too, of the boiling hatred underlings such as himself had felt for their oppressors. He never wanted any of his staff to feel that way about him.
And how did he want people to feel about him? One person, in particular?
He looked at his watch again. Where was she? He'd got the cheese out and everything. It sat beside him on its board, warming in the sun; he fretted it was losing its flavour.
He had estimated she would arrive here around this time, but his calculations had all gone wrong. It was annoying. He was skilled at time estimates; his job and his dishes depended on split-second timing. But women, of course, were not soufflés or stock reductions.
"An espresso, Chef?" Daria was at his elbow. Marco looked gloomily up at her through the tangles of his hair. He felt guilty and rather silly. Here he was, messing about outside, when they had full covers for lunchtime, both early and late sittings.
"Grazie, Daria, but I'm coming in now."
Daria dimpled. Her almond-shaped brown eyes shone naughtily. "Are you sure, Chef? Your friend is here."
"What?" Marco gasped, his head and hair flying up. Excitedly, he saw that Daria was right. There she was, finally, a small figure among all the other milling shoppers, tourists, or mere loiterers, but a figure he had come nonetheless to recognise in an instant.
"You might want to stay outside a little longer, possibly?" the waitress smiled. "I can take care of the scallops," she added.
She glided off, leaving Marco staring after her, confounded. How on earth did Daria know? He had said nothing about the girl to his staff. They must have watched him, have worked it out for themselves. On the other hand, that his staff cared was wonderful. It showed concern for his happiness and well-being, which in itself showed he was achieving at least some of his goals as a restaurant owner. The only person he could imagine wanting to set any of his own former bosses up with was Cruella de Vil.
She hadn't meant to. But Darcy couldn't resist. She had set out for the run that morning determined to pass the restaurant by. But she had slowed down, almost immediately, when out of eyeshot of the villa.
The lovely countryside looked much better when you weren't belting through it at full tilt, feeling that at any second your heart might give out. You had the chance to appreciate it. In the woodland outside the village, Darcy slowed down still further, admiring the sun-dappled shade on the stippled, slender trunks of the trees.
When she struggled up the hill into the village, Marco was waiting for her, as he had said he would be, with a large piece of pale, crumbly cheese. "It's made for us by one very small-scale producer in Italy. I'd like to know what you think of it." He placed the plate before her with a flourish and watched her expectantly.
Before she could stop herself, she had chiselled out a small lump from the cheese's golden crumbly side and put it in her mouth. The result was a terrific explosion of creamy, nutty saltiness that left her senses in free fall. She listened to Marco explain where it came from, by whom and how it was made, and that one of the best ways of enjoying it was with a ripe sliced pear with some good olive oil drizzled over. She should try it; he would go and get it.
As he headed back into the restaurant, she looked round happily at the pretty, pale-green tables with their creamy shades with, here and there, a few coffee drinkers under them. She felt warm and alive. That tight, scraping feeling of hunger had gone. It was like a car alarm that had shrieked for days being suddenly turned off.
Marco returned with a sky-blue plate on which a peeled, fresh, opalescent pear lay arranged in beautiful concentric circles, scattered with pepper and drizzled with golden oil. It seemed impossible he had done it in the time. Had he prepared it in advance, especially for her? Savouring the perfumed flavour of the fruit combined with the sharp cheese, she flicked a glance at Marco, who grinned, squinting in the bright morning sun that lit up the brown depths of his eyes. They were, she suddenly thought, rather beautiful.
"Good?" He cocked an eyebrow in her direction.
"Very good."
"Oh, and try these olives too…" He produced some, seemingly from nowhere.
"You're a magician," she laughed.
"Not me. Nature is the magician. A beautiful olive, it looks like a simple thing, but it is a great luxury," Marco said.
She smiled at him. "What's the greatest luxury of all?"
She had meant food and was surprised when he said, "Love. Of course. Love is the greatest luxury of all."
She noticed his intense and faraway expression. Was he thinking about someone in particular? Who, she wondered, suddenly interested.
"Beauty and love, they are both very simple," Marco expanded suddenly.
"Are they?" Neither seemed particularly so to her. Beauty—the Hollywood variety at least—could only be attained after starvation and painful marathons. And love? Christian hadn't been in touch after the last text. He had not replied to any of hers.
"Very simple," Marco asserted gently. He was careful to keep his gaze trained on the two old ladies talking animatedly in the middle of the square. If Darcy saw his expression now, she would guess.
A pair of small children suddenly wheeled off the main street and came clattering into the restaurant.
"Excuse me," Marco said, smiling, to Darcy. "I seem to have some customers."
The small girl ran up to him. Marco found himself looking into a pair of grave blue eyes beneath a silver-fair fringe. "Have you," Hero asked him earnestly, "got any spaghetti?"
Marco chuckled. "Plenty," he assured her, as Darcy, nearby, giggled.
Cosmo, catching up, folded his small white arms. "Tinned spaghetti?"
The gasp of horror from the coffee drinkers could, Darcy thought, be heard all round Rocolo.
By the time Orlando arrived, it was a fait accompli. Cosmo and Hero stood in the doorway of the restaurant, their faces split in huge beams. When they saw him, they ran towards him, waving little fists clutching tall, pale breadsticks.
The chef now emerged. Orlando regarded him cagily. His mother and the Faughs had not exactly distinguished themselves the night they all dined here; it seemed impossible Marco would not remember.
But he seemed to have other things on his mind. "These children are yours?"
"No," said Orlando, horrified. "I'm looking after them…sort of."
"They asked me for tinned spaghetti," Marco exclaimed.
Orlando blushed, imagining what an insult this must be in Italy. The land of fresh pasta. "I'm so sorry…" he began.
"Woo woo!"
Cosmo, Orlando now saw, was busily lining up, one after the other, about ten chairs from all the surrounding tables and was sitting at the head of the line, revolving his arms at the sides.
'"Choo choo!"
"Cosmo!" exclaimed Orlando. "Sorry again," he added to Marco.
"Is fine," the chef reassured him. "Has given me an idea, in fact." He strode over to the little boy, dropped to his muscular hunkers, and tickled Cosmo under the chin. "You like trains, huh?"
Cosmo nodded.
"Well, what you say I cook you train wheels pasta?"
"Train wheels?" Cosmo's blue eyes glowed.
"Come with me." Marco crooked his finger.
Darcy, nibbling the last of the cheese, watched the two men and the children and felt rather choked. The big, awkward chef was so gentle with them. As was the blond boy, who seemed to handle the todd
lers extremely well. He was, Darcy noticed—indeed, it was impossible not to notice—extraordinarily good-looking.
She thought involuntarily of Emma; her description of her lost Orlando could almost fit this boy.
She was distracted in her musings by a small explosion from the restaurant. "Train wheels, Orlando!" Cosmo yelped.
Orlando! Darcy stared, electrified, at the blond boy. Could it be? She reached for a napkin and dabbed her mouth as she hurriedly stood up. She needed to get back to Emma at once.
