by Maeve Haran
Of course she had heard of Stephen’s enormous success since that day. His name often came up in the financial pages, which Angela read avidly, or at least had done until now. The ache, just a dull background pain, suddenly roared out at her. She’d lost her business to the Tuan Corporation of Singapore and when she was twenty-one she’d lost Stephen.
At last the beauty of the day struck her and she almost laughed. It was as if some piece of grey rain-soaked scenery had been rolled away and another rolled into its place of bright blue sea that matched the sky, with small puffy clouds and a child’s yellow sun.
She turned back to her room wondering what to wear. Seen in daylight the room was truly spectacular, like the bridal suite in some grand hotel. The unfamiliar thought struck Angela that perhaps it had been a little selfish of her to simply co-opt the best room. She was so used to fighting for what she’d achieved that it didn’t leave much room for considering others.
She remembered the other rooms that Sylvie and Monica had been left with and shuddered. Sylvie didn’t even have her own bathroom! Maybe she’d wait a few days and then offer to swap. There was a good chance that by then they’d be settled, thank her for the kind offer, and stay put.
Sylvie climbed out of bed and stretched. There was hardly room to swing a cat in. What a stupid expression. Had anyone, apart from in The Beano, ever tried swinging a cat? Today she’d find another room even if it was the bloody stables.
She did her five minutes of Pilates, boring as hell, but it did seem to help once you’d reached the big Six-Oh. Not that Sylvie ever admitted she had.
She brushed her springy hair and selected one of her silk tops. She had these in countless colours which she matched with jeans and sandals and she was ready to go. If she had to dress up it was ankle-length silk, which she also possessed in endless different shades. This was Sylvie’s look, known to everyone in the decorating world, almost as familiar as her colourful interiors.
She opened the shutter and closed it almost at once. Too bright. With her naturally olive skin and Middle-Eastern appearance the sun meant less to her than most people since she never needed to sunbathe. She was glad the rain had stopped for at least one reason. It made her hair go frizzy. In Los Angeles they even had a hair-frizz factor on the TV weather. Sylvie greatly approved.
She checked to see that the purple Chanel nail varnish she always wore on her toes hadn’t chipped, remembering all of a sudden that it was called Vendetta – which, for some reason, made her think of Angela.
OK, so Angela Williams was an uppity bitch but if they were both going to stay in the same house, maybe she’d make a slight effort to be friendly. At least give her one chance and take it from there.
There was a small chip on her third toenail and it almost undid her.
Tony used to paint her toes. It was a jokey ritual of theirs. She would be the haughty duchess and he the humble but sexy manservant. It often ended up in bed with her nail varnish all smudged, but she’d never minded.
She wondered what he was doing now. Had Kimberley’s family accepted him as the prospective son-in-law even though he was probably older than her father?
She found the thought only made her want to cry more and she told herself sternly to pull herself together and go and have some breakfast.
Monica climbed out of bed and although she could see the sun splintering through the shutter and longed to throw it open, she made herself do her mindfulness exercises first. Unfortunately, her mind kept wandering to what to wear and had to be ‘escorted back’ in the jargon of the genre. She had considered her Fabric top, but that raised eyebrow of Angela’s had not been lost on perceptive Monica. Finally, her five minutes was up (she was far too excited to go for the full half-hour) and she sprang up.
Though her small room only had a Juliet balcony instead of one you could actually step out onto, she still did her best, opening the shutter and leaning out as far as she could to breathe in lungfuls of the clear, dazzling air. The sun was blazing and the air had that freshness and clarity that came only after heavy rain. To Monica it tasted like champagne.
She surveyed her paltry clothes selection and picked out a taupe linen top. Her mother had said it was the kind of garment psychotherapists wore. Partnered with some harmless linen trousers, Monica decided it looked passable. Perhaps she’d be able to pick up some livelier clothes in the local market. The top of her arms looked a bit pudgy but not actually offensive. Then the big decision – trainers or sandals? She looked out once more at the glorious day that beckoned. On the spur of the moment she checked her phone – avoiding any messages from her mother – and had a look at the weather in Beaconsfield, the nearest sizeable town to Great Missenden. Heavy rain!
With a smug smile, Monica slipped on her sandals and, as an afterthought, a mother-of-pearl necklace, and went down to breakfast. The others might have doubts about the strange set-up and the unexpected company. Monica was just thrilled she was here.
Sylvie couldn’t believe it. She went into the dining room at the same moment as Claire, to find that Angela had once again taken possession of the commanding end seat.
‘Morning, all,’ Angela greeted them cheerfully. ‘There’s coffee or hot chocolate and croissants called cornettos and wonderful fresh fruit salad. Just help yourself.’
Even to Claire this had the unfortunate ring of a host inviting her guests to dig in. If she had said, ‘We just help ourselves,’ it would somehow have been far more tactful.
‘I’m not hungry, thanks.’ Sylvie helped herself to a coffee and went straight outside onto the terrace, all her good intentions abandoned. She found a shady seat and sat down where she could still hear the conversation but make her point.
‘What’s her problem?’ Angela shrugged.
Claire took a deep breath. ‘I like you a lot, Angela, and admire you too.’
Angela stared. What on earth was the woman about to say? ‘But?’
‘Maybe it’s because – as you say – you don’t do women friends, but you tend to run things like a meeting with you in charge.’
Monica, standing at the door about to come in, held her breath. It was brave of Claire to confront Angela head on, but it had been her experience at the university that the very people who told you that you could speak to them directly were the worst at taking criticism when you did.
There was no turning back now, Claire realized. ‘Perhaps if you didn’t always sit at the head of the table it would seem a bit more democratic.’ She wasn’t even going to touch on how Angela was somehow making the others feel that it was her house, just because she’d got here first.
Outside on the terrace Sylvie smiled. So Claire had more nerve than you’d think, just looking at her.
‘How absolutely ridiculous!’ Angela spotted Monica hovering in the doorway. ‘Monica! Don’t you agree that what Claire says is crazy? You don’t think I’m taking over, do you?’
Monica tried to dismiss the idea that Angela was actually her mother in disguise. ‘Well . . .’ Claire shot her a meaningful look. ‘There are four of us, so nobody actually needs to sit at the end of the table.’
‘That’s an excellent idea, Monica,’ Claire seconded. She might as well go for broke, Angela was going to hate her anyway. ‘And perhaps we should draw straws for who has which room, seeing as they’re so very different, or agree to swap after a certain number of days.’
Sylvie swept back in. If these two mice could take on Angela, she’d better have a go herself.
‘I’ve got an even better idea,’ Sylvie suggested. ‘We’ve been invited here to see if the place should be sold or could be turned into a hotel so, to make sure no one takes over, I think we should turn ourselves into a cooperative.’
‘Cooperatives rarely work,’ Angela replied sharply.
‘They work for the wine growers! Speaking of which, I’ll get Beatrice to bring in some of that Franciacorta.’
‘For breakfast?’ Angela glowered.
‘To celebrate th
e Lanzarella Women’s Cooperative!’ Sylvie laughed.
‘But what are we trying to achieve?’
‘That’s what we have to find out. Together. What the hell we’re all doing here.’
Angela dropped her head into her hands. But finally she was laughing too and when Beatrice arrived with the wine, all smiles at these ladies who suddenly seemed so happy, she raised her glass in the toast with the others.
‘Perhaps we should start by—’ Angela began.
The other three looked at her. ‘Angela, you’re doing it again,’ pointed out Sylvie.
‘But if no one takes the lead, we’ll never decide anything.’
‘And maybe that’s fine,’ Sylvie insisted. ‘Maybe we just enjoy being here and it’ll all become clear. For a start, I’m going into Lerini to look for some stuff to cheer up the room I’m moving into near the Bell Tower.’
‘But won’t the bell-ringing drive you mad?’ Angela asked guiltily. ‘It tolls every quarter of an hour.’
‘I’m a little bit deaf. Telling you that is a symbol of my trust, like being blood sisters. I don’t tell anyone that.’ She lifted her glass. ‘OK, blood sisters? Anyone want to come?’
They lifted their glasses.
‘I will,’ offered Monica.
‘Me too,’ added Claire.
‘If we’re a cooperative, I suppose I’d better join you,’ Angela conceded, shaking her head, ‘in this mad venture.’
As they all went to their various bedrooms to get ready, Monica remembered that not only did she not have any money, but her bank cards had been in the money belt too. Why had she not followed her usual practice of keeping one in her sponge bag? She had almost done so but it had made her feel like a mad old woman, always imagining the worst was going to happen. And it had.
The nightmare thing was that there had been three hundred euros in the belt, half the amount she’d put aside for the whole holiday. Of course her mother had told her not to take cash, but Monica had decided to ignore her. She was a grown-up woman and had often travelled with Brian, nearly always carrying cash because they were a trusting pair who liked to think the best of people, and it had always been all right.
The thought of Brian, the one person she’d ever met who saw beyond her unassuming exterior, suddenly overwhelmed her and she had to sit down. Her mother turned his death into a cruel joke, but it had been the worst thing that had happened in her whole life. She hadn’t even said goodbye to him. They’d both been in a rush, she because she was on early duty. The library was open all night for the benefit of the nocturnal students and, amazingly, there were quite a number of them. Brian was giving a lecture to other librarians and he was feeling excited. He was quite high-powered in his quiet way. He’d waved her goodbye and asked her what she’d like for supper that night.
‘How about sea bass?’ she’d replied. Her last bloody words to the man who had been the love of her life.
The next thing she’d known was a call from their head of department. Brian had died. A massive heart attack. There had been nothing anyone could do, if it was any consolation to her. No one could have spotted it was coming.
She knew he was trying to be kind, that it was in no way her fault, not spotting the symptoms, but it made no bloody difference to the fact that Brian was gone.
And then the reaction from everyone at the university, the way no one knew what to say. Some had even waited till she’d gone by in the corridors. Others brought out stories about friends and relatives who’d died in similar circumstances.
But they’re not Brian! she’d wanted to shout out loud. Instead, she thanked them and refused the offer of compassionate leave. The last thing she wanted was to be alone. Work was the only thing that could save her.
And in a way it did. The order and silence of the library had an almost religious quality. They had both worshipped learning. And she missed him so much.
Gradually the pain had receded. Instead of thinking of Brian all day, every day, other things started to come into her mind as well. Small things rescued her – folding clothes for the airing cupboard, morning tea in her favourite mug, walking in the university grounds, nature.
Strangely, it was nature’s utter indifference to her pain that she found reassuring. Grass grew, blossom appeared, the sun came up and went down no matter what happened to her or Brian. She would almost have been all right if the landlord hadn’t accepted the offer from the developer and arrived one morning to tell her she had to move.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Maybe it was just as well.
‘Hello, it’s Claire.’
‘Come in.’
‘I just wondered about your money belt, whether you had your cards in it too. I could lend you some cash till it’s sorted. I didn’t know if there’d be a cash machine in Lanzarella so I brought more than I need.’ She smiled. It was amazing what effect that had on her face, Monica noticed. ‘I didn’t tell my husband in case I got a lecture on the dangers of pickpockets.’
‘We should get your husband and my mother together. They’d get on like a house on fire,’ Monica suggested. ‘Actually, borrowing some money would be incredibly useful. My bank has made an arrangement with one in Lerini till my new cards come, but I don’t want to have to keep walking up and down those steps!’
‘I should bloody well hope not. How many were there, or did you lose count?’
‘A thousand, according to a helpful American.’
‘He’d have been a lot more helpful if he’d given you the bus fare. It’s only a couple of euros.’
‘Yes, but he’d have missed the horror on my face. Thirty euros would be great.’
‘Are you sure that’s enough?’
‘To be absolutely frank,’ there was something about Claire that made Monica trust her, ‘I’m pretty broke. I’m retired from my job and money’s tight. While I’m here I need to try and think of ways to make some kind of a living when I get home. We made some rather stupid pension decisions.’
‘Me too. Like hardly even having one.’ Claire wished she had more money herself and could just give some to Monica but she’d already dipped into her own savings to come here. Martin’s trip to the posters in Prague was getting more remote by the minute. ‘I suppose we’d better go down and join the cooperative.’
‘Yes, let’s. I rather like Sylvie, don’t you?’ Monica replied. ‘She must be hard work to live with but she certainly sorted uppity Angela out.’
‘I hope we’re not going to get any fireworks between those two. I came here for peace and sunshine.’
Monica glanced out of the window. ‘Well, it looks like you’ve got the sunshine anyway.’
When they assembled at the back of the building to depart for Lerini, four miles down the hillside, they were in for a shock. Giovanni was waiting to drive them in a bright red Mini Moke.
‘Oh my God,’ Sylvie, swathed in another of her wafting silk tops, shrieked. ‘I haven’t been in one of these since Mykonos in the Sixties! Tony and I used to drive to the beach and go skinny dipping before breakfast!’ Sylvie suddenly realized how old this made her sound and added, ‘I was still practically a child then, obviously.’ She climbed into the front seat.
Angela took the back, at least partly for safety, though this was an optimistic concept in a car with no back or sides, and couldn’t help but notice the knowing look that Giovanni was giving Claire.
‘And did you also go, how do you say it, skinny dipping, Chiara?’ Giovanni asked, while Claire rapidly turned the colour of a ripe tomato.
‘It’s Chiara now, is it?’ Angela enquired. ‘When did that happen?’
‘I think it really suits you,’ Monica supported.
Once Sylvie had happily reeled off all the other islands she’d skinny-dipped at, Claire decided to enlighten them so that they didn’t read more into the situation than it actually merited.
‘OK, I think what Giovanni is referring to,’ Claire explained earnestly, ignoring his satyr’s smile, ‘is
that earlier this morning I found an amazing little pool with a statue of a nymph leaning into it, and I decided to have a quick dip.’
‘Not a nude dip?’ asked Monica in startled amazement.
‘Er, yes,’ Claire admitted.
‘Goodness.’
‘I didn’t think anyone was around, obviously.’
‘But somebody was.’ Angela indicated the still-leering Giovanni.
‘Due ninfe,’ he announced, nodding his head enthusiastically.
‘Claire,’ Angela counselled sternly. ‘I really think you should tell Giovanni your age.’
‘What a bloody stupid idea,’ corrected Sylvie. ‘Of course she shouldn’t. At our time of life she should be grateful for any male attention.’
‘But she could be his mother,’ Angela pointed out.
‘We’re in Magna Graecia, Angela,’ Sylvie surprised them with her erudition. ‘They understand that sort of thing. Look at Oedipus actually marrying his.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a frightfully good example,’ corrected Monica. ‘After all, he ended up blinding himself when he discovered the truth.’
‘I don’t think Giovanni’s the blinding-himself type,’ Sylvie pointed out gaily. ‘He values his looks too much.’
‘Let’s just get to Lerini, shall we?’ Angela insisted. ‘Giovanni, can we go now?’
If they’d wanted peace and calm, they had forgotten Lanzarella’s eagle’s-nest position 1,200 feet above the blue of the Mediterranean Sea, with its dizzying hairpin bends and sheer drops down to what looked like bottomless ravines.
Driving terrified women who had discovered too late that Mini Mokes have almost nothing to hold on to seemed to spur on the testosterone in Giovanni. Ignoring their shrieks he sped downwards, occasionally on his mobile phone, simply hooting optimistically on the blind bends, and passing tour buses on the edge of the ravines with only millimetres to spare, the same wolfish smile lighting up his handsome face.
