by Daisy James
‘From what I’ve been able to glean from the Lucy’s scribbled notes, there’re two areas that need staging; the wedding gazebo for the ceremony and the courtyard where the reception will be filmed. Would you believe one of the stipulations is that the red carpet should be exactly ten metres long – not nine, not eleven, but ten! And whoever drew up the shopping list has even ordered rosebud-printed toilet rolls! Anyway, sorry, moan over, there’ll be no photos because there’s apparently a social media embargo, so, no Instagram, no Facebook posts, no tweets, no photographs on blogs.’
‘But that’s ridiculous! Why?’
‘Well, I did think it could be because the actors playing the bride and groom are some kind of Italian celebrities. Maybe Brad’s keen to avoid unwanted attention whilst the filming is taking place? Can’t blame him, can you? Who wants a pugnacious paparazzo training their long lens on your stars’ faces whilst they rehearse or deliver their lines?’
‘Wow, I wonder who they are? Trust my brother not to mention that part of the gig! Maybe I would have dropped everything if I’d known real-life Italian film stars were going to be there! Oh well, don’t worry about the photos…’
Izzie heard Meghan pause to inhale a breath and she knew immediately that her friend was preparing to change the subject to something less neutral. Her heart gave a nip of apprehension – she had been determined not to go there, not for one moment to relive the whirlwind of excitement that had accompanied the lead up to the previous, real-life wedding she’d been involved in, nor dwell on the hen weekend that had never happened. It had been the most agonising time of her life, and the only reason she’d agreed to come to Brad’s rescue was because of her appreciation of Meghan’s unwavering support.
‘How are you coping? You know, with being in Florence?’
‘Actually, I managed to avoid the city altogether. Just picked up this ridiculous little rust bucket of a car at the airport and headed straight for the Tuscan hills!’
‘Maybe if you visited a few of the places you and Anna…’
‘You know, I don’t think I’ll have much free time to go sightseeing. Every single hour between now and Friday has been filled with a kaleidoscope of tasks. And it’s not just the staging I have to worry about; there’s visits to the florist and the pasticceria in San Vivaldo, and the whole five course menu has to be taste-tested too…’
Even Izzie could hear the self-justifying tone her voice had acquired, and it was testament to their enduring friendship that Meghan chose not to argue with her, or to chastise her for her lack of courage, but Izzie could tell her friend was disappointed.
‘Okay, must dash, things to do, places to be, people to dazzle with my brilliance! See you on Thursday, darling. Don’t worry about coming out to meet me at the airport, I’ll catch a cab! Caio, Bella!’
Izzie returned her phone to her pocket, guilt spreading through her like a warm shower, augmenting the stress headache that had been threatening to overwhelm her since she’d disembarked at Florence airport. In the distance, the sun was slowly descending towards the horizon, sending flashes of apricot and salmon-pink through the sky and bathing the scene in a rich golden glow and she decided that exploring the limonaia could wait. It was more important to get settled in and have an early night before the madness started the following morning.
She returned to the terrace and had just turned the heavy iron key in the back door when she heard a gruff voice hailing her from the driveway. She strode back around to the front of the villa, a smile on her lips, ready to experiment with her first Italian greeting, but before she could utter a syllable, her visitor launched in with a tirade of irritated invective, his arms flaying the air like an out-of-control windmill.
‘Cosa diavolo pensi di fare?’
Izzie stared at the man whose stature was impressive, if a little daunting. Probably in his late forties, his unruly salt-and-pepper curls sported a generous sprinkle of dust and his biceps bulged through the sleeves of his plaster-splattered denim shirt. Judging from the slash of paint on his cheek and the hammer protruding from his jeans pocket, he was clearly in the middle of some sort of building project, yet that conclusion jarred with the presence of an incongruously ostentatious gold Rolex at his wrist. She had been so busy scrutinising his appearance that she hadn’t realised he’d paused in his vociferous reprimand, his forehead creased at her lack of instantaneous response before rolling his eyes in realisation.
‘English?’
Izzie bristled. Who was this person? And why was he shouting at her? Oh, God, could he be the owner of Villa Limoncello? If so, this wasn’t the arrival she had anticipated, but it certainly explained his attire.
‘Yes, I’m…’
‘Thought so. Bloody tourists!’
‘Oh, I’m not a tourist. I’m…’
‘Come!’
And without waiting for her to explain, he strode off down the driveway, the heels of his work boots scattering gravel in his wake, until he came to a stop next to Izzie’s hire car.
‘Does this roller-skate belong to you?’
If she hadn’t been so disgruntled at the man’s abrupt attitude she would have agreed with his assessment of her transport – and would probably have also noticed that he spoke English without the whiff of an accent. As it was, her feathers were ruffled. She tilted her chin, squared her shoulders, and confirmed with as much dignity as she could that the car was indeed hers.
‘Move it!’
‘I beg…’
‘You’re blocking my access.’
That threw her. ‘Your access?’
‘Yes.’
The man pointed to an almost-concealed wooden gate across whose path Izzie had parked the 2CV, then indicated the rust-blistered truck that was wedged between the gate posts unable to continue its journey to the main road.
‘Oh, right, sorry. I didn’t notice the gate. I’ll just…’
The man stood there, arms folded across his chest, tapping his foot, totally disinterested in her apology or explanation. What was the matter with him? Why did he have to be so rude? Maybe if he smiled he would be quite handsome, thought Izzie, before she noticed that mingled with the irritation there was a haunting sadness buried in his dark eyes that no amount of false jollity could erase. She grabbed her keys from the pocket of her jeans and drove the last twenty metres down the driveway to park outside the villa’s front door. When she got out of the car, her grumpy neighbour had secured the gate behind him and disappeared in the direction of the village.
Well, that was not the best of starts to her sojourn in the Tuscan countryside.
Izzie wondered whether she should take the opportunity of her neighbour’s absence to find out what lay at the other side of the gate – just so that she could avoid the place at all costs. However, dusk was now beginning to tickle the treetops and a surge of tiredness grabbed at her bones. So, she shoved their unsettling encounter to the back of her mind, liberated her suitcase from the back seat of the Citroën, and sauntered back to the terrace, pausing once again to appreciate the patchwork of fields that stretched as far as the eyes could see; olive green and emerald, shamrock and jade, all stitched together by rambling hedges and dotted with triangles of terracotta and sandstone.
She sighed and made her way into the house, pausing briefly in the dingy hallway, unsure whether to investigate the rooms downstairs or to just climb the stairs and fall into bed. It was clear that the place hadn’t welcomed guests, or any kind of visitor, for some time; the air was stale and smelled of dust, cobwebs and nostalgia for a bygone era. She suspected that she wouldn’t like what she found in the kitchen and decided to postpone that particular treat until the next morning when she was in a more receptive frame of mind after a good night’s sleep.
She made her way upstairs and opened the first door she came to, barely noticing the riot of sunflowers that covered all four walls as well as the front of the wardrobe and the vanity unit. She sunk down onto the bed – its hand-made throw also embroidere
d with the ubiquitous blooms – and closed her eyes. The emotions she had kept tightly corralled since leaving London burst through their restraints and threatened to overwhelm her. Two years ago, almost to the day, she had hoped to visit this most magical of places with her best friend, her beloved sister Anna, but fate had other ideas.
And yet, whilst she was sad that she was taking the trip they had both dreamed of for years alone, she had the strangest feeling that she was meant to be there, at Villa Limoncello, and was hopeful that its serene ambience would help to plaster over the cracks in her heart.
Chapter Four
The Pergola, Villa Limoncello
Colour: Honeysuckle White
Izzie squinted at the clock on her bedside table. Six thirty! A full two hours before the first delivery was due to arrive. Yet there was no way she was going back to sleep. Sunlight streamed through the slats in the dilapidated shutters, providing spotlights for the dust bunnies dancing their morning jig, and the dawn chorus was already busily chirping its second verse, accompanied by a much less melodic backing track of… what was that noise?
Ergh, she knew exactly what it was and who was responsible for it.
She leapt from her bed, shoved open the windows, and for a moment the early morning concerto of hammering and drilling receded and all she could think about was the magnificent panorama spread out in front of her. It was picture postcard perfect. The sky was a translucent aquamarine and a scant veil of mist lingered on the emerald flanks of the hills giving them a magical Tolkienesque quality. Who needed five-star luxury when there was a view like that to feast your eyes on before breakfast?
She inhaled a deep invigorating breath, savouring the aroma of damp soil and a hint of something she recognised only too well – dried lavender – which conjured up a place she tried not to visit too regularly. She decided to take Meghan’s advice on what to do when sadness poked its nose into your business. Keep busy! For all her exuberant, happy-go-lucky attitude, and flamboyant approach to sartorial glamour, Meghan too had her demons to slay.
Reluctantly, Izzie dragged her eyes away from the view and turned back to survey the room she had chosen as her home for the next week. She had been so exhausted the previous night that she’d fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow and so now, for the first time, she could see that the interior décor would not be featuring in a glossy Italian Homes & Gardens magazine shoot any time soon. Did the owner have some kind of sunflower fixation?
She unzipped her suitcase, grabbed a handful of toiletries, and subjected herself to the torture of a shower that alternated between scalding hot and ice-cold; not the perfect prescription to kickstart her first full day in Tuscany. She piled her unruly curls, more bird’s nest than Sunday Best, onto the top of her head, pulled on a pair of skinny jeans and a long-sleeved Breton top, and padded down the stairs to the kitchen in search of a caffeine injection. In a world filled with chaos, if there was one thing she was certain of it was that the day couldn’t start without a decent cup of coffee.
When her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom in the kitchen, her heart gave a sharp stab of surprise. Instead of the orderliness she had expected of a venue preparing to host a film crew in less than a week’s time, she saw a room that had previously been a kitchen but was now masquerading as the local jumble sale. Everywhere she looked there was an assortment of culinary paraphernalia: glossy Italian cookery books, menu cards, shopping lists, photographs of wedding cakes and desserts, all liberally sprinkled with a scattering of recipes scribbled on scraps of paper. Someone was clearly excited about catering the forthcoming shoot!
But it wasn’t just the untidiness that concerned her – she’d have the place ship-shape in no time. It was the careworn condition of the furniture and appliances; the fact that the cupboard doors were off their hinges, the shelves were leaning against the wall instead of hanging from it, and two of the chairs at the huge battered table in the middle of the room didn’t have seats – although even those issues could be sorted out with a hammer and a few nails. No, what was worrying Izzie the most was the fact that the sink was covered in a thick layer of grime and the oven looked like something out of the dark ages – how could an upmarket Italian wedding feast, fit for immortalising on celluloid, be prepared using that? Her spirits sank as she anticipated what the rest of the downstairs was going to look like.
However, she needed a coffee before she attempted that expedition, not to mention make a visit to her cantankerous neighbour to ascertain the low-down on his renovation project and to make sure that he wouldn’t be engaging in a bout of frenzied cement mixing or jackhammering on Friday when they were in the middle of filming the bride and groom exchanging their vows!
She filled the kettle, wondering why the villa was in such a state of distress when the gardens, the vineyard and the olive groves were so immaculate. Once again, a spasm of self-doubt meandered through her thoughts. Why on earth had she agreed to do this? She was an interior designer, not a film set designer – they were completely different skills sets! What had made her so presumptuous as to think that she could step into Lucy’s shoes, irrespective of the itemised checklists she had prepared on the plane that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a nuclear power plant manual?
In the hope of lifting her spirits, Izzie raised her gaze to the kitchen window to be met by a pair of kind pewter eyes staring back at her.
‘Argh!’
She leapt backwards, clutching her chest as her heart hammered out an aria of terror. Eventually, when her brain took over, she realised who her visitor was, and relief swept through her veins as she rushed to the door to welcome her in.
‘Hi, you must be Carlotta? I’m Isabella Jenkins, but please, call me Izzie.’
‘Ah, buongiorno, Izzie, buongiorno!’
Carlotta leaned forward to deposit the regulation kisses on Izzie’s cheeks, before enveloping her in a fragrant hug. She was the same height as Izzie, but that was where the similarities ended. From the crinkles across her forehead and around her lips, Izzie estimated she was probably in her early sixties, but she exuded more verve and vitality than Izzie could muster up on any day of the week.
‘Benvenuta a Villa dei Limoni! Benvenuta nella nostra bella cucina!’
‘Grazie, Carlotta. E bello essere qui!’ and with that Izzie’s recall of conversational Italian was almost depleted. ‘Erm, parli inglese?’
‘Sì, nessun problema,’ smiled Carlotta before she switched to English laced with an almost musical Italian accent. ‘Okay, so first we shall have coffee – and I picked up a selection of breakfast pastries from Pasticceria Da Oriana on the way over.’
Izzie felt Carlotta’s eyes linger on her slender frame and she groaned inwardly. She knew she had lost weight since her split from Alex, but she just hadn’t been interested in rustling up a nutritious home-cooked meal for one – even answering emails from Darren had to come higher up the ‘must do’ list than peeling a vegetable or whipping up a batch of cupcakes. However, as Carlotta was responsible for the catering, Izzie suspected she probably greeted everyone with similar scrutiny before pressing another helping of torta della Nonna on them.
The aroma of warm buttery croissants floated through the air, along with the freshly ground coffee she had been in the process of making, and, surprisingly for a woman who never ate breakfast, her stomach rumbled in anticipation. She broke off the corner of a croissant and popped it into her mouth so as not to offend – or invite enquiries about her aversion to breakfast – nodding in appreciation of its sweet buttery taste. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten something so moreish, which wasn’t surprising given her staple diet was toasted white bread.
‘Mmmm, delizioso!’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Oriana is in charge of creating the magnificent seven-tier wedding cake!’ said Carlotta, laughing as she handed Izzie a tiny cup of espresso that was strong enough to revive the dead.
‘I’m really looking forward to meeting her. I’ve
got an appointment to see her tomorrow to go over the final details. Tell me, Carlotta, do all Italian weddings have such extravagant cakes? And is it really necessary to prepare a full five-course meal for the reception?’
Carlotta’s eyes widened in astonishment at the question. ‘Of course, it is! We Italians love food; it goes way beyond simple nourishment for us. We love talking about it, shopping for it, preparing it, and eating it. We also have our own rules that must never, ever be breached; what kind of cheese we use to top a particular pasta dish, what cake we eat on which saint’s day, which wine to serve with which meat. Would you believe that my grandmother did not speak to her neighbours for many years after she found out they put parsley in their minestrone?’
‘Really?’
‘Italian cuisine is a serious business. Most of our recipes have been handed down through generations, and the thought of experimenting with something new is as absurd as sitting in front of the television to eat dinner from a tray. And don’t forget, the wedding breakfast is the most important meal in a couple’s life! So, shall we go through the menus and make sure everything is in order?’
‘Absolutely!’
Izzie reached into her duffle bag to remove the checklists and itineraries she’d prepared the previous day, when her gaze fell on the kaleidoscope of clutter that covered every available inch of the kitchen surfaces. The whole room looked like a hurricane had passed through.
‘Why don’t we take our coffees out to the terrace and use the table under the pergola? You can tell me what’s already been done and what still needs our attention, and then I’ll edit my daily countdown schedule and allocate…’
‘Aspetta un minuto,’ interrupted Carlotta, disappearing through the back door and returning seconds later with her beloved chihuahua in her arms, a smile lighting up her face. The dog gave a yap of welcome. ‘Izzie, allow me to introduce you to Tino.’
