He opened the fridge. It was empty but for a couple of bottles of Chablis and some pâté from Lidgates. He left his suitcase in the hall and walked round the corner to Vingt Quatre where he read the papers over smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Opposite, there was a table of children supervised by two mothers who sat gossiping while the children flicked food at each other and got up and down from the table to play hide-and-seek. The mothers were both pretty, late thirties, blonde, with expensive highlights, designer handbags and manicured nails. One of them noticed him watching and began to flick her hair self-consciously. She said something to her friend, who turned around to look. She smiled flirtatiously before telling her children off for making a din. So this is the road ahead? he thought bleakly. Catching the eyes of good-looking mothers with small children? He felt his stomach plummet.
That evening he was in the bath when the telephone rang. He listened to it ring and ring without any intention of getting out to answer it. He soaked in fragrant bubbles, thinking about nothing, heavy with apathy. When he finally got out, he wrapped a towel around his hips and listened to the message. His heart sank when he heard Annabel’s chirpy voice. Surely Freya wouldn’t have given her this number? ‘Darling Luca,’ she said. ‘Last night was lovely. How about another round? I’ll come over and make you dinner if you like. Call me.’ She left her number. He had no intention of calling her. The thought of Italy became even more enticing. There was an awful lot in London he wanted to run away from. Shame he couldn’t run from himself. The one telephone call he couldn’t avoid was to his ex-wife. If he was going to disappear to Italy she needed to know. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s talking about you. Your ears must be on fire!’
‘I’m going to Italy to visit my parents,’ he said.
‘You sound like you’ve murdered someone.’
‘Not yet.’
‘How long are you away for? I can’t imagine you’re calling me if it’s a mere weekend abroad.’
He chuckled. Claire had always been as sharp as a dart. ‘I don’t know. I’m heading out for the summer.’
‘We’re only in April.’
‘It’s going to be a long summer.’
‘Are you telling me that you’re going to leave me with the children for four months?’
‘Of course not.’ The truth was he hadn’t given them more than a passing thought.
‘I should hope not. I think it’s only fair that you have them for at least a few weeks over the holidays. John and I want to get away. We’ve been asked to Saint Tropez again by the von Meisters. They’ve invited Elizabeth and Arun, which will be lovely for the girls, Damien is a darling, so after that I’d like to leave them with you so we can have some quiet time together.’
‘Sounds great,’ he said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. As long as their nanny came too it would be fine. His mother adored her granddaughters.
‘I’ll call you on your mobile, shall I?’
‘I’m not answering. I’ll call you with the number of the palazzo.’
‘You really are running away.’
‘Just need a break.’
‘If you had taken a break a few years ago we might have avoided this mess.’ Her voice quivered with bitterness.
‘I doubt it. Ours was a crash waiting to happen.’
‘Easy for you to say. You’ve been married to bloody Turtle Management for so long you can’t imagine life without it.’
‘I’m about to find out.’
‘Three years too late.’
‘How are things with John?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Heaven,’ she replied a little too quickly. ‘He’s everything that you are not. Shall I list all his good qualities or can you work them out for yourself?’
‘I’ll have a good think about it then discuss it with my therapist. With a little professional help I’ll try to become a better person.’ He loathed himself for rising to her bait.
‘Oh, shut up. I hate it when you get sarcastic.’
‘I’ll call you from Italy.’
‘Whatever,’ she snapped.
‘Kiss the girls for me.’
‘Is it fair to raise their hopes when they’re not going to see you for months?’
‘I’ll have them as soon as you’re willing to share them. The ball’s in your court, Claire. As it always is.’
That night he listened to the whirring of his own thoughts, like a constant fan inside his head. Living in a mews was quiet. There was no rumble of traffic, no sirens screaming, dogs barking, people shouting, horns tooting; just the dead sound of sleep. When he had worked in the City he had stayed up so late he had fallen asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Now he lay awake, ill at ease with his new existence. It didn’t feel right having no plans. No goals. He had that nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach as if he had forgotten something important.
A thought popped into his head from nowhere. Darkness is only the absence of light. He wondered what it meant and why he had thought of it. He stared at the dark ceiling, at the streaks of light that entered above the curtain pole from the street lamp outside, slashing through the darkness. With his mind focused on that thought, he drifted into a deep sleep.
By morning a calmness had come over him. He lay dozing in bed until the telephone rang, jolting him out of his trance and thrusting him back to the present. His stomach tightened with nerves and the lightness he had felt was replaced by the familiar heaviness of heart. There was no one he wanted to talk to: not Annabel, the City, the press, his disgruntled friends. Freya was right, he needed to get away. He’d sort out his affairs, then leave everything and everyone. He’d be totally free.
4
Luca sat in the motor boat on his way to Incantellaria. His gaze swept over the rugged red rocks that rose sharply out of the sea and paused on a couple of birds dancing flirtatiously on the breeze. Spring breathed new life into the vegetation that sparkled green against a bright cerulean sky, and little yellow buds were beginning to flower. He inhaled the scent of pine and felt his spirits rise, as if the negativity in his heart was expelled with each outward breath. His mother had told him to come by boat.
‘Incantellaria is best seen from the sea,’ she had explained, her accent more noticeable since they had moved to Italy. ‘You won’t believe the magnificence of it. I’ll pick you up in the car. Darling, I’m so pleased you are coming, finally ! It has been so long I was beginning to wonder whether you’d ever come.’ Her voice was buoyant. She hadn’t asked about Claire or the children, not out of tact – no one was less tactful than Romina – but because the acrimony of their divorce hurt her too and she didn’t want to spoil her day.
The boat motored around the rocks, opening suddenly into a horseshoe bay of such beauty that Luca stood to get a better look. The medieval town basked in the midday sun, the red-tiled roofs shimmering above white and sandy-pink houses. Delicate, wrought iron balconies were decorated with pots of red and white flowers and, rising above them all, was the yellow and turquoise dome of the church. As they approached he could see the pale grey pebbles of the beach and the sky-blue and white fishing boats dragged up out of the water. He recalled Fitz’s account of the red carnations and smiled at the absurdity of it. The south of Italy was full of such ‘miracles’. His mother was Italian but even she dismissed them with a disdainful snort. They reached the quay. A few cars were parked beyond the beach where busy restaurants spilled out on to the road among a couple of chic boutiques and a kiosk selling sweets and postcards. An elderly couple in black sat on a bench, chewing on rotten teeth and fading memories, while a trio of scruffy children took turns to jump off a concrete bollard. Luca noticed his mother immediately. She was wearing over-sized sunglasses, her black hair swept off her face with a bright Pucci scarf, and waving frenziedly. He waved back, hoping to subdue her enthusiasm, but she only waved with more vigour, shrieking ‘Darling, darling, you’re here! You’re here!’ As he prepared to disembark, his eyes were drawn to a da
rk-haired woman with a little boy, ambling slowly up the beach. He shielded his eyes from the sun so that he could see her better. She was attractive, with long brown curls, skin the colour of toffee and a curvy, feminine body wrapped in a simple black dress. As she walked closer he noticed the serious expression on her face and her downcast eyes. The little boy chattered beside her, but she seemed distracted, her arms folded defensively, her gait slow and melancholy. The child chattered on, undeterred.
‘Darling, Luca,’ his mother enthused, throwing her arms around him although she only reached his chest. ‘You’ve grown. I swear it. You’re taller!’
‘Mother, if I’m still growing in my forties, by the time I’m old I’ll be a giant!’
‘But I swear it!’ She smiled, her teeth white against her olive skin. Luca spotted the pretty girl going into one of the restaurants.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked his mother, without taking his eyes off the door. ‘How about these restaurants?’
‘They’re good,’ she replied. ‘But I have lunch already prepared up at the palazzo. I can’t wait for you to see it. You won’t believe what your father and I have done to it. You should have seen it when it was a ruin.’ Luca was disappointed, but he could not refuse her. He picked up his bag and followed her to her small yellow Fiat, parked badly on the curb.
‘These streets are too narrow for cars really. They’ve improved the road up to the palazzo, which is a blessing,’ said Romina, turning the ignition key. ‘At least it stops the town becoming over-crowded with tourists. There’s a divine hotel in the square and the little church of San Pasquale, which is enchanting.’
‘Ah, the church where the statue of Jesus weeps blood.’
‘So you already know about Incantellaria?’
‘Only because Fitzroy Davenport told me about it.’
‘How is darling Fitzroy? Still henpecked? I didn’t know he’d been here?’
‘Yes. A long time ago.’
‘It hasn’t changed that much, you know. It’s hidden away, like a jewel, and I like it that way. The locals keep themselves to themselves. Tourists are few. You see, there’s no sandy beach, no glamorous hotels with swimming pools. There isn’t the room. It attracts bird watchers and old people who come for the beauty. The fashionable people go to Portofino and Capri. La dolce vita. To tell you the truth, life is more dolce without that crowd of models and film stars.’
‘Do you know any of the locals?’
‘A few. We are quite detached up there on the hill. As you know I don’t go to Mass and I don’t involve myself in community life, but the locals are perfectly friendly, if a little in awe of us. No one wanted to buy the palazzo, it was just a pile of rubble. The man who owned it no longer lived there. He hadn’t wanted to sell at first, but we made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. I think the townspeople consider us rather eccentric, what with all the coming and going of friends calling in on us from all over the world. We are like a hotel, except we don’t charge. What is the point in having earned all this money if we don’t permit ourselves to enjoy it! Your grandmother would want me to spend my inheritance like this, restoring a beautiful house in her native country, not wasting it on gluttony and booze like that idiotic brother of mine! By the way, your father insisted on building a swimming pool, so you can bring the children next time. I haven’t seen them for months and I miss them terribly. They are my only grandchildren and now I have no communication with their mother it is even harder.’ She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Don’t let Claire monopolise them. They need their father too.’
They drove up the narrow streets, past sandy coloured houses with tall, ornate windows and large wooden doors that opened on to pretty courtyards and gardens. A couple of bony dogs trotted against the walls in search of scraps while the local people watched the car with curiosity as they motored past. Luca rolled down the window and rested his elbow on the window frame, taking in the old buildings, the women hanging washing on shady balconies, the ugly white satellite dishes nailed into the medieval walls, savouring the warm smell of spring that rose into the air with the heat. His thoughts were drawn again to the woman he had seen on the beach, though she was clearly a wife and mother. There was no way he wanted to further complicate his life by chatting up a married woman, certainly not in an Italian town where the men were sure to be protective of their women and suspicious of foreigners. He put her out of his mind.
‘So, you’ve quit the City,’ said Romina as they left the town behind and started climbing the hill. ‘About time too! Now we will see more of you.’
‘I’ve come to a crossroads in my life. I need to take time to work out which way I want to go.’
‘The world is your oyster, Luca. You have enough money to do anything you want. You don’t even have to work if you don’t want to.’
He sighed. ‘That’s the trouble, there are too many options. It’s better when you have limits, easier to make a choice. The truth is, nothing inspires me.’
‘That’s because the divorce has knocked you for six. Claire is a great disappointment. But you’re young. There is still time to marry again and begin a new life. You have come to the right place. Palazzo Montelimone will fill you with inspiration. We are nearly there.’ The road turned sharply round a bend and began to get steeper, appearing narrower in the shadow of the encroaching trees and shrubs. Finally, they forked off to the right. ‘Now we are approaching the gates. We have kept the original ones. They were too beautiful to throw away,’ Romina explained. ‘There! Aren’t they splendid?’
The gates were black and imposing as gates to a magnificent palace should be. His parents had gone to so much trouble he wondered why they hadn’t put in electric gates that opened with the press of a button. He got out to open them and looked up the drive that swept in a graceful curve through an avenue of cypress trees, opening at the end into a pool of bright sunshine. There, in that magical pool of light, stood the palazzo. His mother tooted the horn to hurry him. ‘Do get on, darling. I’m hungry.’
‘I think that’s the loveliest entrance I’ve ever seen,’ he said when he returned to the car.
‘You know, when we saw it for the first time it was nothing but stones and ivy. The garden had taken over, climbing in through the holes and seeding itself in the rooms. Only one of the two towers was left standing. It was so sad. So neglected. It was as if it had given up, abandoning itself to its fate like a beautiful woman crippled by age. I fell in love, Luca.’
‘How did you find it if the owner didn’t want to sell?’
‘By chance. I was painting a palazzo just outside Sorrento and the lady who owned it mentioned this place. She said that if she had had the money she would have bought it and resurrected it herself. She had beautiful taste, so I was intrigued. I drove here on my own and took a look around. No one was at home. I called your father and told him he had to come and take a look. We were thinking of retiring to Italy anyway. I knew this would be an incredible project for both of us. Having worked for other people all our lives, what fun to work for ourselves!’
Romina parked the car on the gravel in front of the palazzo. The building was of the same sand-coloured stone as the town. The windows were capped with ornate baroque pediments and opened on to ornamental iron balconies. Heavy brickwork gave way to plaster on the first and second floors and the roof was covered with pink tiles, rising into two magnificent towers. It stood nestled among lofty pine trees and inky green cypresses. ‘Come, darling. Let me show you inside.’
The door was vast and arched and made of old oak. Within it was a smaller door that opened into a hall of large square flagstones. ‘These stones are the original ones,’ said Romina, leading him through into a pretty courtyard. ‘I scraped my foot over moss and grass to find them underneath. What a find!’ In the centre of the courtyard was a stone fountain where the trickling sound of water was gentle and constant. Against the walls between the windows, were lemon trees in large terracotta pots. The floor was a mosaic of smooth round p
ebbles and flat square stones. The effect was stunning. Luca wasn’t surprised. His mother might be eccentric but she had a sharp intelligence and enormous talent when it came to aesthetics.
In the main body of the house, the rooms had tall ceilings, bold mouldings and walls painted in the original colours of pale blue, duck-egg grey and dusty pink. ‘I wanted to return it to its former glory,’ Romina explained, gesticulating at the antique tapestries and marble fireplaces. ‘We kept everything we could from the original building. It represents two years’ work. Your father and I have poured our souls into it, not to mention a great deal of money. Now, where is he?’
Luca followed his mother into a drawing-room where French doors opened out onto a terrace overlooking the gardens. He was surprised to find an old man in a three-piece tweed suit reading The Times. He looked up over his spectacles and nodded formally. ‘This is my son, Caradoc,’ said Romina, her wide trousers billowing as she glided over to him. ‘And this, Luca, is our dear friend Professor Caradoc Macausland.’ The professor extended a bony hand, so twisted with arthritis that it resembled a claw.
‘Please don’t consider me rude for not getting up to greet you, young man,’ he explained in his clipped 1950s English accent. ‘I walk with a stick and it seems to have walked off without me! Must be that charming girl.’
‘Ventura,’ said Romina with a melodramatic sigh. ‘She thinks she’s being helpful leaning it against a wall way out of reach.’
‘So, you are the famous Luca,’ said the professor. ‘Your parents speak very highly of you.’
‘They are biased,’ Luca replied, wishing he didn’t have to bother with the old codger.
‘It would be unusual if they weren’t. Isn’t it splendid here?’
‘It certainly is.’ Luca noticed how at home the professor looked in that leather armchair. ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.
The Italian Matchmaker Page 4
