by Daisy James
‘Do you have a partner?’ asked Izzie, swirling her wine around her glass before enjoying the taste of rich ripened cherries with a top note of dried oregano, balsamic vinegar and maybe a hint of smoky espresso in there.
‘You’re joking, right? I don’t even have time to shop for a holiday wardrobe, never mind someone to spend the few spare minutes I can carve out of a day with. Look at me, reduced to wearing my business suits because I don’t have anything else, how crazy is that? And, as you might have noticed, I’ve never had time to learn how to cook, or bake, and please, keep me away from the staple gun tomorrow!’
A flash of something Izzie couldn’t decipher stalked across Phoebe’s expression but it was gone in a second. She knew there was more to Phoebe’s explanation of her hectic lifestyle than she was divulging. And yet, Izzie empathised with her. She understood what it took to rise through the ranks and knock on the boardroom door because her ex-fiancé, Alex, had been on the same conveyor belt, hoping to be noticed amongst all the other would-be partners at his law firm, keen to put in all the hours necessary to accomplish his dream. Some weeks she would only see him on a Sunday afternoon, and even then he was scrawling through a file of papers, preparing for a court case or a meeting with clients the following morning. She wondered briefly whether he had achieved his goal.
Izzie switched her gaze from the depths of her wine glass to Phoebe, to ask her which firm she worked for, maybe even if she knew Alex, but Phoebe was clearly floating along in a different universe, her eyes fixed on a point on the horizon where the velvety green slopes met the azure of the sky.
‘Six months ago, reality hit me with ferocious slap. I’ll be forty next year and I realised that if I don’t find someone to share my life with in the next couple of years, well, I’d be looking at my dreams of having a family in the rear-view mirror. So, I decided to take action; I signed up to a couple of dating agencies.’
‘Sounds like fun.’
‘Far from it; every date was a complete disaster. Then someone suggested I joined a community choir to reconnect with my love of music, so I did and I found that I loved it!’
‘So how did you end up coming over here?’
‘Nick gave me… I mean, he gave everyone, an ultimatum.’
To Izzie’s surprise colour flooded Phoebe’s cheeks and she started fiddling with the stem of her glass. For the first time, Izzie noticed that instead of the neat French manicure she had expected, Phoebe’s nails were bitten down to the quick, the skin around her cuticles scraped away, raw and jagged.
‘What sort of ultimatum?’
‘Well, not really an ultimatum, per se. He just said that surely we could all manage to find five days in our busy lives to devote to making our Somersby Singers Christmas concert the best ever.’
Phoebe was now actively avoiding meeting Izzie’s eyes. She swallowed the last gulp of her red wine, gathered her designer handbag and jumped up from her seat, a smile plastered on her lips.
‘Thanks for the drink and the chat, Izzie. I’d better get back to the studio or else I’ll definitely find myself in the doghouse! Ciao!’
And before Izzie could reply, Phoebe dashed from the terrace and headed towards the gazebo, her stilettos crunching through the gravel. Izzie remained on the patio, ruminating on everything she had heard. Something had happened between Phoebe and Nick, and she wondered what secret Phoebe was keeping and why.
Then something else occurred to her.
No, surely not.
But what if…
No!
It was no good, the seed had been sown. What if Phoebe was responsible for the falling flowerpot?
Chapter Six
The kitchen, Villa Limoncello
Colour: Clinical white
Izzie’s stomach performed a somersault of dread as she tossed back the remains of her wine, gathered their empty glasses and returned to the villa. She slumped down at the scarred kitchen table and, exhaling a long sigh, thoughts ricocheted around her brain until she felt dizzy. How could this be happening? But as her heartbeat slowed from canter to trot, she began to put what had occurred into perspective – surely this was nothing more than an unfortunate accident.
Wasn’t it?
She decided to investigate. She jumped out of her chair and made her way to the gallery at the top of the stairs, pausing at the tall, shuttered window that looked out over the wonderful view of Tuscan countryside. The cicadas continued to chirp their daily soundtrack, the sun continued to send shards of golden light down onto the hillside, and the church bells continued to chime on the hour. She leaned over the windowsill to inspect the three remaining terracotta pots for damage or movement, but they were exactly where she expected them to be. She bent closer to scrutinise the ring of soil where the missing flower container had sat for years and her suspicions grew.
Could someone have nudged it on its way? But who would do such a thing? And why? And what if Nick hadn’t been the target…
Thankfully, before she could explore that particular scenario any further, her pocket began to buzz.
‘Ciao!’
A blast of relief spun through her body as she made her way back down the stairs to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle – something her mother swore by whenever stress made an unscheduled visit, and there was no one more experienced with that scenario than her parents. In the weeks and months following Anna’s passing, Izzie had sometimes thought that they were running a Cornish beach cafe, such was the demand for coffee, tea and cake.
‘Izzie! Why didn’t you call me? Gianni says there’s been an accident involving one of the guests!’
She recognised the tightness in Luca’s voice, the fear that once again, misfortune had come to call at his beloved Villa dei Limoni. She filled him in on what had happened, downplaying the proximity of the miss, assuring him that Nick had brushed it off as an unfortunate mishap and was more concerned about the rehearsals running to schedule.
‘Who told Gianni, by the way?’
‘Phoebe – she thought you’d told him when you saw him at the studio. Why didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t want to worry him. You know how anxious he’s been lately about the vineyard’s first harvest, then fretting about whether the wine will live up to the Rosetti Chianti, not to mention the fact that the situation with Meghan is far from ideal. I know how much he misses her when she’s back in the UK.’
‘Look, Izzie, if the villa has to be sold, then Gianni will have to deal with it. It won’t be the end of the world – he’ll walk into another job.’
Izzie detected a faint tremor in Luca’s voice that put her on her guard. It was the first time she had heard him talk about the possibility of the villa being put up for sale. They had spent the last six months doing everything they could to avoid that eventuality and it would break her heart, and Gianni’s, if it had all been for nothing. Nevertheless, at the end of the day, it was Luca’s decision.
‘Luca, what’s going on? Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Can we leave this conversation for later? I’ve got ten tables of hungry diners to feed and Carlos has just informed me that he’s got an appointment at the dentist! I’ll come over to the villa later, okay?’
‘But Luca…’
The line had gone dead. She placed her phone on the table, bewildered at the cooling of their relationship. She felt a headache coming on – probably the lunchtime dalliance with the demons of red wine – so she fixed herself a coffee, added a dollop of cream and took it out to the gazebo. She sank into one of the director’s chairs and spent the next ten minutes meandering down her memory’s superhighway, relishing the times she had spent in Luca’s company: firstly, the wedding held in the villa’s gardens when they had shared a passionate embrace and she had promised to stay on to help renovate the villa and run courses for the discerning traveller, and then there were the wonderful times she had spent in the kitchen at Antonio’s, where Luca had taught her how to make an omelette, his
muscular body pressed into hers as he guided the whisk in her hand.
She thought, too, of the romantic gestures he had made, like enlisting Francesca’s help to source a particular rose that carried the same name as her sister so he could create an amazing cake with the sugared petals scattered on the top, a gesture which even now brought tears to her eyes. Or the time when they had zoomed down a hill together on the Vespa, her arms held aloft like Rose in Titanic.
Okay, so she had been disappointed when Wine & Words didn’t go ahead, but she had spent two fabulous weeks in San Vivaldo helping with the grape harvest and upgrading the barn in preparation for the wine-tasting and creative writing courses. During that time, she had grown closer to Luca with their encounters becoming ever more intense. Yet now, a mere two months later, his distance was hurtful and confusing.
Then an uncomfortable thought strayed into her mind – could Luca have met someone else whilst she’d been away in London? It would certainly account for the cooling of his attitude towards her, but then why meet her at the airport? Why go to the trouble of sourcing such a thoughtful and personal gift? Why…?
Thankfully her phone buzzed to stop her from descending that particular spiral of doom.
‘Hi, Meghan! It’s great to hear from you. How’s things? How’s Jonti?’
‘Ah, Isabella Jenkins, ever the duchess of distraction. Gianni called. He told me what happened to the choir leader, Nick Morgan, is it?’
‘Yes, but it’s all good. In fact, I think I’m the only one who’s upset about what happened.’ Izzie made an attempt to laugh, but it came out like a hiccup.
‘Was it an accident?’
‘It looks that way. The flowerpots are really old. I think the one that fell must have just crumbled away. There was nothing much left of it when it landed on the terrace.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. You’ve got enough on your plate with organising and presenting the last-minute Christmas craft tutorials without turning amateur detective like you did last time! So, tell me what you’ve got planned for tomorrow’s session?’
‘I’ve got these amazing glass baubles from a factory in a little town south of here, and Gianni has promised to erect a Christmas tree in the gazebo, complete with fairy lights, for us to display the baubles on.’
‘And the Thursday session?’
‘I thought I’d join forces with Francesca and demonstrate how to make Christmas wreaths and floral table displays. Remember the chandelier she made for Louisa and Stefano’s wedding?’
‘Yes, that was stunning. I can’t wait to see you on Saturday and Jonti is so excited he’s like a cat on a hot tin roof! Have you warned Carlotta that he’s expecting her to come up with a match made in heaven?’
Izzie laughed for the first time since the flowerpot debacle and it felt good. She adored Meghan, always ready with a word of encouragement, a snippet of gossip or the offer of advice. She was the best friend a woman could ask for, and she had been her rock during those dark times when there had been no light at the end of the tunnel. She, and Jonti, had supported her at Anna’s funeral, at her memorial service, on birthdays and anniversaries when all she wanted to do was bury herself under the duvet and shut out the hard, cruel world. It had been Meghan, too, who had suggested she came to Tuscany – to help Brad, her film director brother, with a location shoot – where she had found solace.
‘Carlotta can’t wait to meet Jonti. She says she feels like she knows him already.’
‘So, have you made a decision yet?’
Izzie gulped at the surprise turn in the conversation; no beating about the bush for Meghan – she was an expert in firing questions from left of field. She inhaled a deep breath to give herself a few moments to marshal her arguments and present an eloquent reply about how she was weighing up her options, factoring in every eventuality and possibility. However, she knew all that would be pointless because Meghan had already made up her mind about what Izzie should do. Whilst she knew her friend only had her best interests at heart, she’d hoped to avoid this conversation at least until the course had finished. It would be much better if Meghan was sitting next to her, relaxing with a glass of Vin Santo in the limonaia, Izzie’s favourite place in San Vivaldo if not the whole of Tuscany – a place where all her worries seeped away into an oasis of tranquillity and all anxieties became inconsequential.
She fingered the handle of her coffee cup, trying to come up with a response that would satisfy her friend so that she would let the subject drop.
‘Izzie?’
The phoneline crackled, which made Meghan seem much further away than snow-bound London, and a spasm of regret shot through Izzie’s heart – she would have loved to have her best friend at her side that week while she delivered the crafting part of the Snowflakes & Christmas Cakes course.
‘No, I haven’t. Not yet, and Harry did give me until the end of the week to think about it.’
‘But what’s there to think about?’
‘Meghan…’
‘Okay, so it’s a very generous offer, but with your skills and expertise that’s only to be expected, and I admit that the creative director title does have a certain ring to it, not to mention the fact that he’s offering you a share in the company to go along with it. But it’s six months too late! If Harry had come up with his proposal in May, before his corporate clod of a son fired you…’
‘Darren didn’t fire me, he made me redundant.’
‘Without Harry’s authority! You know, Darren Hambleton is the most short-sighted, unimaginative, egotistical person I’ve ever had the misfortune to come across. Do you know what he said to Jonti last week when he was putting the final touches to another one of those clinical whitewashed shoe boxes he’s flooding the capital with, which he has the audacity to call luxury homes?’
‘Meghan, can we—’
‘He told him to paint the door handles with white gloss so they didn’t stand out so much against the chalk-coloured walls! Do you really want to go back to that? Back to the snoring boring life of magnolia and ivory drabness?’
‘That isn’t what Harry’s suggesting. It’s a completely separate project he’s planning in South Cornwall. Harry’s bought an old farmhouse with lots of outbuildings that he’s renovating into holiday homes. He’ll do the building work and I’ll be in charge of the interior design to make sure the décor reflects the seaside vibe, not the monochrome minimalism Darren prefers in the capital. Anyway, Darren’s no longer in charge of Hambleton’s London portfolio. I told you, he’ll be based in Dubai after Christmas.’
‘Regaling those lucky people with his corporate clichés and obnoxious bullshit, no doubt. Lucky them!’ said Meghan sarcastically.
Darren Hambleton had never been Meghan’s favourite person, even less so after he’d dispensed with Izzie’s services because he thought she brought too much flair to Hambleton Homes interiors.
‘Look Izzie, I know this is a chance for you to go back home to St Ives, to be near your parents, to reconnect with friends after everything that’s happened with Anna, and I’m delighted that you’re giving it serious consideration, I really am. But I also know how much you love Villa Limoncello, how much being there has helped you come to terms with your loss. It’s really great to see the old Isabella Jenkins poking through that veil of grief you insisted on draping yourself in. Organising and presenting Tuscan retreats is the perfect role for you – you’re a natural!’
‘You didn’t say that in July!’ laughed Izzie.
‘True. If you and Luca hadn’t donned your deerstalkers and unmasked the food-poisoning culprit, then I reckon the Italian health inspectors would have closed you down before Villa Limoncello had the chance to shine.’
‘Exactly!’ said Izzie firmly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing.’
‘What does Luca think about it?’
Izzie experienced a squirm of discomfort. How could she explain to Meghan about the growing chasm between them, abou
t how she felt he was keeping something from her, secrets that didn’t involve her, how she felt he was pushing her away by leaving the decision about Harry’s offer to her and refusing to have any input. Of course, she knew that could just be to allow her the space to come to her own decision about her future, but how could she make such a choice without knowing all the facts – particularly what would happen if she stayed on in Tuscany, with Luca.
‘Luca’s giving me the space to make my own decision.’
‘But Luca loves you! Anyone who sees the way he looks at you knows he does; I know it, Gianni knows it, Carlotta knows it, Francesca knows it, even the woman who designed those amazing silver earrings he bought you to cheer you up after the Wine & Words course was cancelled knows it! If he doesn’t love you, why is he commissioning handmade jewellery with cute red glass hearts on? I would have preferred a ring, but hey ho!’
‘Meghan!’
‘Look, Izzie, all I’m saying is just talk to him…’
‘Sorry, Meghan, I have to go. The guests are on their way back to change for dinner.’
‘Izzie…’
‘Love you, talk later. Ciao.’
‘Okay, ciao, darling.’
Izzie swiped the disconnect button with a sigh of relief and leaned back into her chair. Guilt danced across her mind; there was another hour to go until Nick released his prisoners… oops, fellow choir members so they could shower and change for that evening’s dinner at Antonio’s Trattoria, and at least Meghan had been truthful enough to make her views clear. However, after everything that had happened that day, she was exhausted and she just didn’t have the strength to talk to Meghan about her feelings for Luca, or his for her.
Was Meghan right? Did Luca love her? And if he did, would that sway her decision about going back to Cornwall, her childhood home, the place where she’d grown up, with her twin sister at her side?
Her head felt like it was about to explode as she oscillated between confidence and doubt. With difficulty, she shoved the recurring questions from her mind – after all, there was a lot to get through before Friday arrived and Harry would need his answer.
