by Maeve Haran
Monica desperately wished she could reassure him, but there was nothing she could say. It was up to Claire, not her, to break the news to him that things might be more serious than that.
‘It may sound a bit crass,’ she answered lightly, ‘but after all this sex and death I think what we need is lunch.’
Martin stared at her and began to laugh. ‘I couldn’t put it better myself.’
For once everyone seemed to be busy and Angela, enjoying the peace by the pool, felt a stab of irritation at the sound of a car approaching up the drive. Beatrice could deal with it, she decided, and closed her eyes again.
The sudden shock of drips of cold water on her hot skin made her sit up with a start, to find Hugo laughing down at her. ‘What’s happened to the legendary workaholic Ms Williams?’ he enquired.
‘She seems to have stayed in London.’
‘Excellent. That’s what we’d offer the guests if the villa was a hotel. Only the most exclusive workaholics allowed.’ He reached out a hand to help her up. ‘Come and let me show you all my childhood haunts. I bet there are places in the grounds you didn’t know existed.’
‘I’d better put some clothes on.’
Hugo looked her up and down appreciatively. ‘Must you?’
Ridiculously, Angela almost blushed. ‘Two minutes.’ She ran upstairs, quickly put on a shift and sandals and brushed out her hair. Unable to resist, she glanced down at Hugo.
He was standing looking at the nymph peeping into the half-hidden pool where Claire had been spotted in the nude by Giovanni.
He was still there when she went outside, taking a photograph of the statue on his phone. ‘That’s Claire’s pool,’ she told him smiling. ‘She went skinny-dipping there when we all first arrived and got caught by the gardener.’
‘He probably thought she was a mad old bird.’
‘No, actually,’ Angela insisted. ‘It was all very romantic. He said there were two nymphs not one. And he didn’t seem to think she was old at all.’
‘I only meant because the Italians wouldn’t dream of shedding a clout till June,’ Hugo corrected himself swiftly. ‘Pity it wasn’t you.’
Angela bowed. Was she imagining it, or had the flirtation definitely gone up a notch?
They both stared into the clear pool, with its fronds of bright green weed and the wonderful statue, her marble skin glowing with light, as if she were a living, breathing woman. ‘I expect my grandfather put it there for my grandmother.’
‘To remind her of her previous career?’
‘So, you two,’ they heard Monica’s voice shout from the terrace, and they wondered how long she’d been standing there. ‘How about me taking one of both of you?’ She skipped down the steps from the terrace. ‘I saw you taking snaps of the nymph,’ she told Hugo. ‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she? Claire wondered if she was the work of a really good sculptor, she’s so lifelike. There you go, nymph and satyr, smile!’ Monica took a photograph of them both with the statue. ‘Much better than selfies at our age. Too many pixels for comfort after fifty.’
‘Come on,’ Hugo gestured to Angela, ‘I said we’d explore the gardens. Let’s go!’
They walked off together towards the very top of the garden where there was a shaded colonnaded walkway.
That man, thought Monica, watching them with interest, is making himself very much at home.
Angela and Hugo passed a stand of yew trees, which always seemed so Italian to Angela, and round the corner, where there was a view of open headland.
‘This place is so huge.’ Angela looked around her, intrigued. ‘I’ve never even been up here before.’
‘Probably the biggest property on the whole coastline,’ commented Hugo. And then, deliberately looking straight at her, ‘and certainly the one with the best views.’
Angela laughed. He took her hand and led her into the hidden space under the colonnade. ‘This was where we had our den when I was a little kid. We used to hide from everyone. We’d hear them calling us in to meals and stay put. The gardener knew we were here but pretended to be deaf.’
‘You must—’ she began, but didn’t finish because he had pulled her into his arms and was kissing her.
Monica stood in her bedroom willing herself to open her wardrobe. Brian’s ashes were in a wooden box with a cat carved on it. It was singularly inappropriate because Brian was a dog person, but it had been the only thing to hand the right size to pack.
She got the box out and put it on her dressing table. She’d been mulling over this idea for a while now, and as Martin had shown an interest too, the plan had crystallized in her mind. She would go to Mount Vesuvius, a place she and Brian had always planned to visit together, and scatter his ashes into the crater. She found herself smiling. What more perfect ‘ashes to ashes’ setting could there be than that?
She wanted to make the whole thing into a ritual that Brian would have appreciated. She wasn’t sure how to do it yet, but there was a small local travel agency she’d noticed in Lerini. She would buy candles to bring as well. She had intended to do it alone but she had a feeling Martin wouldn’t laugh at the idea, and that if she asked him not to, he wouldn’t tell the others. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them not to mock or laugh at her, she just wanted to keep the ceremony to herself.
She kissed the box and whispered. ‘Still missing you. Not long now,’ she promised, ‘and you’ll be blowing in the wind.’
This made her think of Martin and his desire so many years ago to be the new Bob Dylan. It seemed rather ludicrous, to look at him now. But time played tricks on all of us. And especially on our dreams.
Monica caught the bus into Lerini. The travel agency wasn’t far from her friend the antiques dealer and she couldn’t help glancing in the window. A musical instrument nestled among the stuffed birds, lacy shawls and statues of various Greek gods. Seeing her looking, the lady came out to say hello. ‘Buongiorno, Monica, are you thinking of learning the mandolin?’ she asked in her breakneck Italian.
Monica laughed. ‘Is that what it is? I was wondering.’ She paused a moment. ‘Though if you ever get a guitar, I might be interested.’
‘Too modern for me. But my nephew or my second cousin might know of one. I will get them to ask around.’
Monica wandered on to the travel agency. When she announced what she wanted they studied her curiously. If she had been Italian, they would have shaken their heads and refused. But for the English it was different.
When she got back up to the villa, she found Claire and Martin locked in an intense discussion.
‘But look, Claire,’ Martin was arguing, ‘I just want to see the place. You’re spending all your time there and it sounds really interesting. I’d love to look around a lemon grove.’
‘Garden,’ Claire corrected automatically. ‘They call them gardens, not groves.’
‘Garden, then. I mean, you can’t come here and not visit a lemon garden. Lerini lemons are famous all over the world.’
‘I’ll see if it’s convenient. Of course there are other lemon tours you could take. Luca’s isn’t the only one.’
Monica had done all she could to help Claire out, but she was beginning to feel annoyed on Martin’s behalf that no one was being fair to him.
‘Ah, but that wouldn’t be the same, would it?’ she intervened. ‘I mean, Luca’s lemon gardens are obviously the best. And so conveniently near Lerini. I’m sure he would show Martin around the gardens and explain how it works. If you asked him very nicely.’
Claire shot her a furious look.
‘Tell you what, I’ll come with Martin, shall I? I mean, he and I seem to be doing an awful lot of sightseeing lately,’ she added ironically. ‘We could put this on our list.’
‘Thank you, Monica. That’d be very kind.’ Her tone was so acid that even Martin noticed and looked confused. Why should Claire mind so much if he visited her damn lemon grove?
Monica decided to make a quick exit and go for a swim. On the hall tabl
e, propped up against a Chinese jar, was a postcard of a small bird. Monica turned it over.
It was addressed to her and it was from Tony.
Thanks for helping, it read. Sadly, no luck. I am going back to London. Love Tony. PS Ask Hugo Robertson why he was so diligently photographing The Annunciation.
Monica put the card in her bag and stood thoughtfully in the hall for a moment. Hugo had been photographing the nymph too. And not just with Angela standing next to it.
Fourteen
Luca was clearly feeling very guilty, because he went to some trouble for Martin’s visit, sending a taxi to fetch them and standing outside the front gate of the gardens himself to greet them.
Surely Martin must suspect something, Monica thought, from Claire’s uneasy manner and Luca’s over-formal friendliness, but this was undercut by Luca’s aged father, Bruno, who danced about like a sprightly leprechaun shaking anyone’s hand and being so welcoming that everyone had to laugh at his antics.
Luca began with the family museum, which clearly held Martin spellbound. It was the era of history, just out of living memory, that most fascinated him, he insisted.
‘I used to dream of setting up a bank of oral memories,’ Martin explained, and asked yet another question about working practices in the nineteenth century.
‘You still could,’ Claire replied with more acid than was called for. ‘You have plenty of time now you’re retired.’
‘Tell us more about what you do if the trees aren’t producing,’ chipped in Monica quickly.
Luca outlined in great detail how they grafted bitter orange onto the ailing lemon trees and still miraculously ended up with lemons, not oranges. ‘Though people laugh very much,’ he smiled round at them, ‘when sometimes you get both lemon and orange on the same tree.’
He led them out onto the high, thin terraces of the lemon gardens, shady and cool and fragrant out of the hot sun. He plucked a lemon off a tree and bit straight into it. ‘Lerini lemons are famous for being so sweet you can eat the whole fruit.’
‘I thought the whole point of lemons was that they were sharp and acid,’ whispered Martin.
Luca explained at great length, rather too great for Monica, how the branches of the lemon tree were fastened to the overhanging pergolas that gave them shade and helped support the weight of the lemons with chestnut fastenings. But Martin was fascinated.
Strange, she thought, Martin and Luca weren’t so different, after all, except that Luca had the sophistication and polish Martin lacked, though this wasn’t a thought Claire would appreciate.
Claire, she could see, was visibly drooping, possibly with the underlying tension of the occasion, and when Martin and Luca disappeared up to the highest terraces, she suggested that Monica and she go back to the covered terrace for a coffee.
‘When are you going to tell him?’ Monica demanded as soon as they were alone. ‘You’ll have to tell him soon, you know. It really isn’t fair just to string him along.’
‘I know.’ Claire looked suddenly vulnerable and guilt-ridden.
‘And your son?’
‘It’ll be a shock but Evan’s a grown man. Besides, I think he’ll understand.’
‘That’s lucky.’
‘Don’t be mean, Monica,’ Claire flashed. ‘I’m not doing this to hurt anyone.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that Martin told me he knew you’d come here because you needed to get away from him and that he wanted you to be happy.’
‘Martin told you that?’ Claire asked incredulously.
‘Perhaps he’s more understanding than you think,’ Monica said gently.
‘Well, if he is, he could have shown it sooner.’
‘Yes. I think he can see that himself.’
‘You two seem to have done a lot of talking.’ Was there a hint of jealousy in her voice?
‘You can’t read guidebooks all the time,’ Monica pointed out.
‘Thanks, Monica, for doing this.’
They could hear the two men coming back down the hillside, chatting away. Luca seemed to have forgotten the awkwardness of the situation in his desire to convey his love of growing lemons.
Claire began to lay out a cold lunch from the terrace fridge, letting herself imagine for a moment that this was her fantasy restaurant. Prosciutto, salami, cheese, olives and bread. They heard Bruno singing to himself as he approached with a bottle of the wine they made themselves and a fistful of glasses. He poured them each a glass as Luca and Martin arrived.
He raised his own, a gleeful expression lighting up his rheumy old eyes. ‘A Chiara,’ he announced, ‘la nuova fidanzata di Luca!’
Martin nodded and sipped away. Thank God, Monica thought gratefully, he doesn’t speak a bloody word of Italian or he would have known he’d just toasted his own wife as Luca’s new fiancée.
‘Stupid old man!’ The gathering was interrupted by a shrill and irritated female voice. ‘You never know what nonsense he’ll dream up next!’
‘Graziella!’ The word came out like an accusation. Luca stood staring at a heavily made-up woman with perfect Italian hair, in a well-cut linen suit and unsuitably high heels. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have come home, Luca. City living does not suit me. I have been yearning for the simple life. Who are these people?’
She looked around the group, clearly unimpressed with what she found.
Claire stood up, about to brazen it out, when Monica took her arm and gently pulled her down. ‘We are on a lemon tour,’ Monica announced diplomatically.
‘You will not keep this place going on three visitors, with free lunch included,’ Graziella commented acidly. ‘Especially as your father will eat most of it.’ She picked up her Prada bag and Max Mara trench coat. ‘I am going to meet Bianca from school. My bags are at the house but I had to leave them in the garden as I had no key.’ She held out her hand and Luca meekly gave her his.
As soon as she’d gone, Monica shepherded Martin and Claire out, leaving the shell-shocked Luca to work out what to do.
‘You should have let me face her down, the horrible cow,’ Claire whispered fiercely to Monica.
‘I know the type. She’ll only stay five minutes,’ Monica insisted. ‘Unless she thinks she’s got a rival. Then you’ll never get rid of her.’
Claire thought about this as they walked back to the piazza.
‘What on earth was all that about?’ Martin asked.
Claire looked at Monica helplessly.
‘Italians,’ Monica replied. ‘Hopelessly emotional. I bet you don’t get much of that in Twickenham.’
‘No,’ replied Martin, surprising them. ‘I rather enjoyed it. Especially the old boy. Bruno, was it? Didn’t seem like a stupid old man to me. Gave me some excellent advice on how to graft my roses.’ He looked keenly at his wife. ‘He seemed to think you’d got pretty friendly with his son Luca, as a matter of fact. I expect you’ll get round to filling me in soon, but remember one thing: I’m not as daft as you say Bruno is.’
The journey back to the villa was spent in awkward silence. Even Monica couldn’t think of anything appropriate to lighten the atmosphere.
As soon as they got back, Claire went straight up to their room and threw herself on the bed. Martin followed her.
‘Are you all right, Claire?’ he asked gently.
‘I don’t know, Martin.’ She turned her head to the wall. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘You didn’t expect Luca’s wife to come back,’ he stated baldly. ‘So when were you going to tell me about him and you?’
For an answer she just cried into the pillow.
‘Look,’ he answered, his voice hollow, as if he were fighting to keep from giving in to his emotions. ‘I don’t blame you for wanting to leave.’ He sat down heavily on the bed. ‘It took you coming here for me to see how your life with me must have been a prison. You’re so lively and brave and I was behaving like Henny Penny as if the sky would fall in if I didn’t plan every last thing. It m
ust have been hell.’
Claire’s amazement even penetrated her misery. ‘You were pretty difficult.’
Martin laughed. ‘Evan had a heart-to-heart with me. He said he thought you were pretty unhappy. But of course’ – now it was his turn to look away – ‘neither of us reckoned on a Luca.’
‘Maybe there isn’t going to be a Luca.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not generous enough to say I’m sorry, but I do understand how horrible this must be for you.’
Claire smiled a small bitter smile. ‘Maybe not as bad as having to choose.’
‘Thank you for that at least.’
‘And thank you for trying to understand, even if it isn’t what you want.’
They sat in silence, neither knowing what to say next.
Claire sat up. ‘I’d better get ready for dinner. I think trying to behave how I normally would is the way to go.’
Martin stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ The habit of changing in front of each other and the everyday bathroom rituals seemed suddenly too intimate.
When Martin had gone, Claire began to cry in earnest. It all seemed so bloody unfair. Graziella with her expensive clothes and her city sophistication seemed almost like sacrilege in that simple setting where Luca was desperately trying to keep a traditional family business afloat after eight generations, and already finding it teetering close to bankruptcy without the addition of an expensive and disinterested wife to consider.
‘Crisis on the Italian front,’ Gwen Charlesworth told her son Stephen on FaceTime to alert him.
Stephen smiled back at her. He appeared to be on the top of a tower block. ‘It’s the twenty-fifth floor of the Shard, actually. We’re announcing a new project up here. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s bloody Mariella Mathieson. I bumped into her saintly husband Neville. She’s planning a sudden visit to Italian gardens and has decided to surprise them at the villa en route. Neville thinks she just can’t let Monica out of her sight this long.’
‘Oh dear, poor Monica.’
‘He’s tried to dissuade her, but no dice. Neville’s quite a good old sort. He’s having to stay home with the drooling boxers. Actually, he looked quite relieved. Better than having to go with Mariella.’
