Daria frowns. ‘Education is important. If you want to be cook—’
‘Chef. I know, I know: I have to put the work in. Jesus!’
Daria tuts, gathers her things and unhooks her coat from behind the door.
‘Okay. But one day—’
‘I’ll thank you, yeah.’
‘Not me. Hester and Harriet. And your parents.’ She looks over at Milo, who is inspecting the stump of his rusk intently. ‘You sure you will be okay with him?’
‘Oh, thanks,’ says Ben indignantly. ‘I’ve only looked after him, like, a million times. Haven’t I, mate?’
Milo crows in assent.
‘We might go for a walk. Bit of fresh air. If that’s all right.’
‘Yes, yes, okay.’ Daria, late, flustered, swoops in to give Milo a kiss. ‘Be good, little one.’
The door slams behind her.
Milo’s face crinkles crossly and he bangs his fist on the tray in front of him.
‘Temper, temper,’ says Ben, thrusting his own half-eaten biscuit in Milo’s hand. ‘There you go. Get your gums wrapped around that.’
Grabbing a cloth, he wipes the food out of the baby’s hair and gives his hands and mouth a quick swipe, then lifts him out. ‘You’re getting to be a right tubby guts, you little monster. Now, where’s the buggy?’
They’ve fed the ducks, had a rather unsatisfactory one-sided go on the seesaw and a much more successful swing in the special baby seats. Ben straps a sleepy Milo back into the buggy and starts to push him home. His phone rings.
‘Hi, Daria.’
‘Is Milo okay?’
‘No, he’s just been kidnapped by pirates and sold into slavery. Of course he’s okay. We’ve just been to the park. He loved the swing.’
‘Good. That is good. Fresh air for babies—good. Ben, do you have key to aunts’ house?’
‘Yeah.’
‘On way home, could you check heating? Hester say if it gets warmer to turn it right down to twelve. Can you do this?’
‘’Course.’
‘Did you see Artem?’
‘Nah. Left him a note, though.’
‘Thank you, Ben. You are kind boy, thoughtful. Well, sometimes you are. But I think your poor mother—’
‘Got to go, Daria. See ya.’
Ben wheels the buggy up the path to The Laurels and parks it by the front door. Milo is fast asleep.
‘Oi, Ben, bro. What you up to?’
He turns to find his best bud Jez Nairstrom peering over the top of the hedge. Six months ago he would have been mortified to be caught in possession of a buggy and a baby, but since all the publicity following the furore at the farm, Ben’s standing has risen considerably and his newfound confidence has not only endowed him with a certain coolness among his peers but has also made him far less anxious about other people’s opinions. So he says with considerable sangfroid, ‘Just looking after Milo for a bit, aren’t I? Helping Daria out.’
‘Oh yeah,’ jeers Jez. ‘Helping Daria out, are you?’ Jez, like most of Ben’s circle, thinks Daria is both exotic and hot.
Ben ignores the jibe. ‘Anyway, what you doing over here?’
Jez pulls a face and raises aloft a pile of flyers. ‘Old man’s only got me delivering these shitty things.’
‘What are they for?’ Ben retraces his steps down the path.
‘Some crappy barn dance thing him and my mum are organising for our village. Or trying to. God only knows why. ’Cept they’ve hardly sold any tickets. He thinks people over here might be interested. As if! I told them no-one’s gonna be interested. But they won’t listen, will they?’
Jez thrusts a flyer at him. ‘Here, give this to your aunts, will ya.’
Ben thinks it highly unlikely either of his relatives would set foot at a barn dance, but he supposes taking one helps reduce the huge pile Jez still has to get through. ‘All right, only they’re away until next Monday or something.’
‘Shove it in the bin, then—it’s on Friday. What you doing here anyway?’
‘Gotta turn the heating down for ’em. Daria was supposed to do it, ’cept she was late for work so—’
‘You said you’d help her out. Quite the knight in shining armour, aren’tcha?’
‘Piss off, Jez,’ says Ben good-humouredly. ‘Catch you later.’
‘I’ll wait. Walk up to the main road with you.’
‘You sure? Someone might see you.’ Ben nods at the sleeping baby slumped in the buggy.
‘Yeah, well, I’m not the knob pushing the pram, am I?’
‘Buggy, not pram.’
‘Whatevs. Get a move on, I’ve still got hundreds of these fuckers to get rid of.’
Ben slips into the house and heads for the boiler. Returning to the front door a few minutes later, he’s surprised to find Jez in the hallway, peering into the sitting room.
‘Your shoes better be clean. The aunts’ll go apeshit if you get mud on the carpet.’
This is a slight overstatement because even Ben, young and unobservant, is aware that his aunts are not what you’d call houseproud.
‘Bigger than I remember,’ says Jez.
‘Yeah?’
‘I mean, if there wasn’t all this crap in here, chairs and that, and all them books and old newspapers, it’d be quite roomy.’
‘So?’
‘Just saying.’
‘Gonna be an estate agent, are you, when you grow up?’
‘Ha bleedin’ ha. Come on, I need to get going.’
Jez is in a markedly more cheerful mood as they make their way towards the main road, running up the paths to the few other houses along the lane and shoving several flyers at a time through letterboxes.
‘Why you so pleased with yourself all of a sudden?’ says Ben.
Jez smirks. ‘No reason. Anyway, there’s my bus. You just carry on babysitting, saddo.’ And sprinting up the road as the bus trickles to a halt at the stop, he just has time to shove the remaining flyers in the rubbish bin before leaping aboard.
CHAPTER 3
Hester has been trying to find a handle for her ill-humour ever since the plane took off but the flight has been uneventful, the cabin crew pleasant, the other passengers inoffensive. They touch down at Ancona in a textbook landing, the wheels smoothly skimming the runway and the pilot bringing the aircraft to a jerk-free halt. No delay with disembarkation, the stewardesses waving them off with a smile. The warm breeze as they emerge from the plane, carrying with it, under the inescapable smell of aviation fuel, that curious pine-scented, lemony Mediterranean perfume, hasn’t made her job any easier either. Nor the miraculously swift passage through the arrivals hall, to find their cases waiting by the carousel, or the ease with which Harriet identifies their courier (helpfully holding up a large, well-written sign bearing their names), who solicitously installs them in a comfortable people-carrier and hands them each a chilled bottle of water with a wide, engaging grin.
Finally, she gives up trying to find fault and relaxes into the seat. Beside her, Harriet sighs happily and fishes in her handbag for her sunglasses. ‘Bellissima!’ she calls gaily to their driver, Cosimo, waving a hand over the landscape as they leave the airport and city far behind them. He looks up into the rear-view mirror and nods approvingly.
‘You speak Italian?’
‘No,’ Hester cuts in. ‘She watches Montalbano.’
‘Ah! Il commissario! You like this?’
‘She likes Luca Zingaretti,’ says Hester drily.
Cosimo laughs. ‘All the ladies, they like Zingaretti. He is very bello, no?’
Harriet laughs; Hester snorts.
‘You have been here before, signore? Italy?’
Harriet has a sudden memory of herself and Jim on the balcony of a dilapidated hotel near St Mark’s Square over forty years before. They had been married the previous year and had saved religiously month after month, scraping together just enough money for the cheapest albergo, a strict food budget and stout shoes in which to weave their ma
rvelling way through the secret alleys and over countless bridges. Tears spring unexpectedly to her eyes; she turns away to look out of the window. Ridiculous how these old memories can ambush you at the most unexpected moments.
‘I haven’t,’ says Hester, with a glance at her sister. ‘But you went to Venice once, didn’t you, Harry?’
Harriet can only nod.
Cosimo is scornful. ‘Tcha, Venezia! That is for tourists. This is Italy!’ He takes both hands off the steering wheel to gesture expansively at the countryside through which they are now travelling. To one side, carefully cultivated fields stretch away in neat rows to a distant farmhouse; to the other, a precipitous drop through swaying trees to a fast-running river. In the far distance, a line of mountains, wreathed in cloud, frames the horizon. Cosimo retakes the wheel to ease around a sharp bend, shaving past a vast lorry hurtling down the hill towards them. Hester, inured though she is to Harriet’s erratic driving, can barely suppress a gasp. Harriet is still staring fixedly out of the window.
Cosimo mutters a curse under his breath.
‘You know why is so special? Le Marche?’ he asks, catching Hester’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He doesn’t wait for her reply. ‘Because is secret! Nobody come. Nobody except special people! Like you! You will love. And soon,’ a faintly wolfish smile in the mirror reveals a large gold tooth, ‘soon we are at Il Santuario. You will like ver’ much. Marco and Alfonso, they are so . . . attento, yes?’
Hester scrabbles through her rusty Latin. ‘Ah! Thoughtful?’
‘Sì. Nothing is trouble to them. You want something, they get. What are you doing at Il Santuario?’
‘Doing?’ says Hester. ‘I’m not doing anything. We’re on holiday.’
Beside her, Harriet stiffens.
Cosimo frowns. ‘Of course, but—’
‘Oh, look!’ cries Harriet, ‘what a wonderful view!’
And Cosimo swings the car suddenly off the road and between crumbling stone pillars.
Marco, squat, toothy, with extravagant pepper-and-salt eyebrows and suspiciously dark hair, guides the women into the cool of the foyer, ushering them with some ceremony to a small cream sofa. The walls are roughly but artfully painted; discreet lamps illuminate the abstract artwork. A snap of his fingers and a lanky youth is conjured to wheel their cases away. Then Marco is thrusting glasses of wine—a rich ruby red—into their hands, accompanied by a little plate of biscuits.
Hester sips. Marco raises an enquiring eyebrow as she rolls the liquid around her mouth. She swallows.
‘Is it . . . cherries?’
‘Of course! You know this, signora?’
‘I don’t think so—but it’s chilled!’
‘Sì. Is our very own dessert wine from Le Marche—Visciolata del Cardinale.’
‘And these—’ she takes a biscuit ‘—these are cantuccini?’
‘Tozzetti, we say. Almond. Traditional.’
Hester dips the biscuit in her wine and takes a bite. ‘Oh! They are perfect together! Harriet, do try one.’
Marco beams. He turns to Harriet. ‘You are enjoying the wine also, signora? As you said in your email, your sister is a true lover of the grape. I hope she will—’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Harriet quickly. ‘We are both very fond of wine. But Hester knows much more about it than me. I wonder: might we see our rooms now? The journey, you know . . .’
There is a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes at her response, then he recovers.
‘But of course. You must be tired.’
‘Tired? I’m not tired,’ says Hester with asperity, sensitive to any suggestion that the advancing years might be taking their toll. ‘For heaven’s sake, Harry, it was hardly a long-haul flight.’ She takes another mouthful. ‘This really is superb. Local?’
Marco smiles modestly. ‘Our own vineyards.’
‘Your own?’
‘Of course. We have been making wine here for over one hundred years. Well, not Alfonso and me, obviously! But you will learn all about this when you—’
Harriet is on her feet, wineglass in hand. She picks up her bag and says hurriedly, ‘Once we’ve settled in and relaxed a little, perhaps you or one of the staff would be good enough to show us around the grounds? I know my sister would love to see the vineyard.’
This time there is a definite coolness in the smile he turns on her. ‘It will be my pleasure, Signora Pearson. You must forgive my enthusiasm. Alfonso and I, we are very proud of our little kingdom—we like to show it off to our guests.’
‘Quite understandably,’ says Hester, glaring at her sister. What has got into her?
Marco indicates a stone corridor running off the foyer. ‘Please.’
In silence, he leads them to their rooms.
Harriet takes in the thick cream cotton bedspread, the crisp bed linen, the simple but elegantly appointed bathroom with its basket of luxury toiletries: surely Hester can’t fail to be anything but charmed? She has spent so long studying Il Santuario’s website, she feels she knows it already, but the reality is even better than she had dared hope. From the window, there is a spectacular view across a patchwork valley dotted with ridge-tiled farm buildings and houses stretching away to the foothills of the Apennines. The air is still, sweet with the scent of herbs, the silence broken only by the murmur of voices from unseen guests in the garden. She knocks back the last of her wine and turns to lift her case onto the bed to begin unpacking. Her eye falls on a brochure on the dressing table, adorned with pictures of the hotel and assorted shots of various guests smiling beatifically. She opens it. Blenches. Tears open the door and hares down the corridor to the next room. Raps on the wood. ‘Hester?’
Silence.
Alfonso is handsome, with the smoothly polished skin, hair and clothes that sophisticated Italian men seem to possess as a birthright. His teeth—straight and even as an American’s—dazzle like his shirt, his aftershave is subtle, while the linen trousers are creased to perfection. As for his shoes . . .
He had spotted Hester the minute she emerged onto the steps leading down into the garden, squinting against the sun reflected off the bleached stonework, and bounded over gracefully to introduce himself. Now he leads her to a shady loggia and installs her at a wrought-iron table.
‘Signora Greene, may I welcome you to Il Santuario. I am Alfonso. Your room is comfortable?’
‘Very.’
‘Your sister is unpacking, perhaps. May I get you something to drink? To eat?’
‘I’ll wait for Harriet, I think.’ Hester remembers her manners and softens her tone.
‘Of course. Food and drink is available throughout the day. And the night, also, should you be—what do you say?’ An enchanting smile. ‘Peckish? We hope not, after our magnificent meals! But I see you have our brochure.’ Hester is clutching a copy firmly. ‘You have already seen what wonderful things are on offer here.’
‘Indeed I have.’
‘Marco and I, we like to think Il Santuario is a very special place. You have perhaps seen us on TripAdvisor? One of the top hotels in Le Marche. Certificate of Excellence!’
‘Regrettably, no,’ says Hester through a tight smile, berating herself for so stupidly resisting all Harriet’s invitations to inspect the website. Hoist with my own petard, she thinks grimly, as Alfonso’s eyes sweep around the garden. ‘Please, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have other guests to look after.’
Alfonso checks his discreet but very expensive watch. ‘Not for another half an hour, happily. But, forgive me, I see a guest in the topiary garden. The gentleman left his spectacles in the lobby when he was filling in his details this morning and I must return them to him. If you will excuse me, I will bid you arrivederci, signora, for the moment. Oh, look! I think this is Signora Pearson, no?’
It is indeed Harriet, looking around the gardens anxiously. Alfonso waves, runs lightly up the steps and leads her down to join her sister in the shade, introducing himself as he does so. He excuses himself smoothly, promis
es to send over some chilled water—Hester having declined anything else and Harriet too apprehensive to disagree—and makes for a corner of the garden where the myopic guest is presumably cloistered.
The sisters sit for a moment or two in uncomfortable silence.
‘So!’ says Hester, unable to contain herself any longer.
‘Nice room?’ enquires Harriet simultaneously.
Hester sniffs. ‘I have no complaints about my room.’
Well, that’s a start, thinks Harriet. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘That’s good. He seems nice, Alfonso.’ No response. ‘So does Marco. Although, perhaps a little . . . unctuous? Do you suppose they’re—’
‘What exactly is this place?’ hisses Hester, trying—unsuccessfully—to maintain a veneer of calm.
Harriet, nonplussed, looks around at the buildings and the beautifully tended gardens. A gentle breeze begins to ruffle the leaves of the twisted olive trees in the nearby planters. ‘A hotel?’
Hester narrows her eyes. ‘An hotel?’ she corrects.
‘If you must. An hotel.’
The balmy air crackles with ill-temper. Harriet feels her blood pressure on the march. Was ever a sister so ungrateful? She has made every arrangement, sent every single email, checked and rechecked their departure times, looked after all the tickets and reservation forms, put up with Hester’s unaccountable grumpiness for weeks in the hope that a change of scene might restore her equilibrium or whatever it was that was making her such an unbearable curmudgeon. And they’ve been here less than an hour!
‘You’ve seen the brochure, I see,’ she says coldly.
‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen the brochure, thank you very much. It all looks the most marvellous fun.’
Fun, thinks Harriet bitterly, is not something one associates with Hester, however many other worthy qualities she may possess. Loyal, steadfast, dependable, practical, dry, acerbic: no-one who knows her will quarrel with these characteristics. But fun—in the mindless, mass-market meaning of the word—no, that is anathema to her, smacking of game shows, sitcoms, TV adverts and the host of other activities she scorns. Her sister is such a snob. And a killjoy. And an ingrate.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 2
