by Maeve Haran
Monica felt a burden being lifted and hugged Gwen. She waved happily as she went up to change. Gwen was right. She mustn’t let her mother undermine her. She wasn’t Mousy Monica any more.
The next thing Gwen intended to do this morning was to go and see the old owners of her beloved Hotel Bellavista, now ridiculously named the Hotel of the Gods. What a pretentious name for a pretentious hotel.
At the breakfast table, Mariella took possession of the seat Angela had once sat in, causing just as much resentment.
If anyone should be sitting there, Sylvie thought crossly, it was Stephen’s mother Gwen.
‘I was just discussing the costs of running a place like this with Beatrice,’ Mariella announced.
It was a question, they had to admit, which had fascinated them all.
‘And what is an absolute scandal – and something Gwen is going to have to do something about – is that with all these vast gardens and two gardeners, they let their soft fruit go to waste.’
Monica glanced at her mother nervously and wondered how to head her off, but Mariella continued, ‘Gwen may slag off expensive hotels but you do get a damn good fruit salad for breakfast. All they’ve given me is this measly peach.’ She surveyed the peach that had come with their home-made croissants as if it were guilty as charged.
‘But just look at it,’ Monica enthused. ‘And think of those “Ripen at Home” ones we get in England. I bet it’s absolutely divine.’
‘If I want your opinion, Monica, I’ll give it to you.’ She smiled a wintry smile at her own joke but since everyone round the table believed that was exactly what she did do, it didn’t get much of a laugh.
After breakfast, Martin grabbed Monica’s arm and pulled her onto the terrace. ‘What’s the matter with you, Monica? You’re a wonderful woman. How can you let your mother treat you the way she does?’
Claire had glimpsed them slipping away and instantly followed.
‘You should definitely believe your new admirer, Monica,’ she said sharply. ‘Martin’s the Sigmund Freud of knowing how other people feel!’
Martin looked as if he was going to argue, but then he shook his head and disappeared into the gardens instead.
Monica faced Claire square on. ‘Can’t you see that you do to Martin just what my mother does to me? Put him down when he’s trying to change? Or maybe you actually like things the way they are. It means you don’t have to feel guilty about lovely Luca! It’s all Martin’s fault because he’s the way he is, not yours. Martin isn’t falling for me. It’s just that I’m more sympathetic to him than you are. You should try it some time. And for what it’s worth, I think he is trying to be different. Maybe you ought to notice now and then.’
Claire said nothing and went back into the house, leaving Monica on the terrace to ponder how true the observation was about her mother as well.
Her mother was being extra poisonous because her daughter was gaining independence.
In fact, Monica’s words had had more impact on Claire than she thought. Martin did seem different here – less inflexible and kinder. The sensible side of Claire knew that she should try and piece her life back together with Martin. But was it too late?
Luca himself was behaving strangely and not replying to any of her texts or phone messages. She had even considered joining some other people on a tour of the lemon grove, if only to see how he was, but had rejected the scheme. What if his wife was there too?
She remembered that on one day of the week Luca picked up his daughter Bianca from school and they went for a cake and a hot chocolate, an old tradition from when Bianca was small that they both liked to keep up. What day did they do it?
She seemed to remember that it was today.
Making the excuse that she wanted to do some sandal shopping in the market, Claire caught the open-top bus down to the town. No matter how preoccupied you might be with other things, the beauty of the place always got to you. There were people on the beach today; no doubt they were foreigners.
Claire leaned back and let herself feel the warm rays on her skin as her hair tossed wildly about her face, and thought about the time they’d spent here. She had been on the brink of making this place her home. Had she been mad, deluded or dreaming? It had all seemed so very real: Luca, sharing his passion for lemon growing, being somewhere where she was needed and noticed. Given that she was only in her sixties, that meant she might have twenty years of work ahead. At home, that would have been mad, but it was different here. Look at Bruno. Look at all the old Italian ladies who still laboured in family businesses or did heavy-duty childcare so that the younger generations could work full-time.
You’re still young and fit, Claire repeated to herself; age is just an option now.
She was still repeating it as she stepped off the bus and headed for the market.
The sandal stall was at the end of the row under a gaily striped umbrella. She did actually need some sandals, as a matter of fact. The pair she’d brought from home were last year’s and the strap was about to fall off any minute. She stood for a moment looking around her, noticing a grandmother who was managing a stall plus looking after three small grandchildren, the littlest of which she had attached by its baby reins to the leg of the table. In England it would have seemed cruel yet here it seemed just a sensible precaution. Two very old men played a game involving throwing dice on the ground. Back home they might just have gone to the betting shop. A boy flirted with a young girl in an outrageously corny manner. And Claire loved it all. Was she just being a romantic sucker, a classic tourist who accepted Italy at face value, rather than looking at the real roots beneath?
She tried on several pairs of sandals. One, black leather straps, rather smart, but she didn’t like the wide ankle strap; the next, understated and sophisticated; and finally, a funky pair of high-heeled cork-wedges. She asked the price of all three then looked at them more closely. For all the much-praised Italian leather craftsmanship, two of the three weren’t leather at all and came from China. So much for falling for all those Italian clichés. The third were indeed leather but almost triple the cost of the other two.
‘I’d go for those,’ a voice recommended. The voice’s owner was in the deep shade of a next-door cafe and she couldn’t see him properly. ‘Class will always out.’
‘Tony!’ Claire gasped. ‘I thought you’d gone home days ago. Sylvie thought so too.’
‘I had a rethink. I decided I wasn’t sure that I liked myself and I might have a short break from my ego. I do, on the other hand, like Lerini. Its unpretentious but lively nature appeals to me. I’ve rented a little room.’
‘Does Sylvie know?’
‘Nobody knows but you. Actually, I’d rather Sylvie didn’t know. Till I’m ready.’
Claire thought about it. ‘But wouldn’t it be more intriguing – and annoying – for her to know that you’re here but not know where?’
‘If that was the game I was playing, yes.’
‘Aren’t you?’
He looked out at the horizon. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s a game at all. It might just be a brief break to recharge my batteries before I go and face the reality of separation.’
She studied him. He was thinner and browner. The slightly puffy look of a man who lives too well had left him. ‘You look different,’ was all she said. ‘Better.’
‘I’ve taken up running. How about that for a middle-aged cliché? But the mornings here are extraordinary. Before the dust lifts or the heat haze settles on the sea, you feel as if you can see tomorrow.’
‘I’ll keep your secret,’ she promised, ‘and I’ll trust your taste as well.’
‘Excellent. I’m very good on women’s clothes.’
‘I’m not sure that’s something you should boast about in your new monkish state.’
A pretty girl passed and Tony’s eye was instantly drawn. ‘I don’t know about the monkish.’
‘Tony, I’m disappointed.’
He smiled at he
r engagingly. ‘I’m as innocent as the day is long. Anyway, I couldn’t sit here all day if I didn’t appreciate the scenery. The Italians would think I was a weirdo. I’m actually a one-woman man. I just got temporarily confused over which woman.’
‘Shall I give your love to anyone?’
‘The time will come,’ he remarked mysteriously. ‘I’ve told the office I’m taking a break which suits them as they’re not supposed to let me in. Maybe, if she thinks I’ve disappeared, she’ll start missing me.’
‘I’ll ask her if she’s had any news of you as soon as I get back.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiled again. ‘And the shoes are great.’
As she walked down the street that led towards Bianca’s school, Claire noticed a glamorous older woman eyeing Tony up with interest. He was going to have to try very hard to stay on the straight and narrow.
The school was in a wide street with wisteria hanging from every lamp post, filling the air with its heady sweetness. That was another problem with this damn place. Even the air tried to seduce you!
The little children came out first, running into the arms of mothers or nonnas, followed by the eleven- or twelve-year-olds, with the teenagers hanging back and dawdling as they did in every culture. There was no sign of Luca. Maybe they’d changed their arrangement. She’d give him five more minutes and then stop this unhealthy behaviour. She was about to turn away when she saw him walking towards her, talking into a mobile phone.
Suddenly she felt self-conscious. Hanging around his daughter’s school! Only one step from bunny boiling!
But the sight of him stopped her in her tracks and again she was faced with that curious combination of sophistication and down-to-earthness which had so attracted her. It was even reflected in what he wore. Ordinary dark blue trousers with a sweater that was coming apart at the wrists. But what a sweater. It had to be Armani or one of those smart brands and yet he wore it as if it were something he’d picked up in the Italian version of Oxfam.
He saw her and without a second thought ran towards her, then checked himself and glanced around. Did he think Graziella was following him?
‘Chiara! My God, I have missed you!’ She felt he would have taken her in his arms were they not now surrounded by hundreds of interested schoolchildren. ‘I have wanted to contact you so much but I could not.’ He paused dramatically. ‘Graziella made me go to confession.’
Of all the arguments she might have expected this was the least likely.
‘Did you tell her about us, then?’
‘No, no, but she knows there is something, not just from my father. She asked the pickers and the girl who showed you around. Everyone who works for me has been asked for an opinion! She did not want to force a confrontation so instead she sent me to confession. Very clever.’
‘But surely you don’t really believe . . . ?’ Claire had almost blurted. But it was entirely obvious from his manner that he did.
For the first time Claire felt out of her depth. While she’d been musing on and on about the magic of Italy, there were cultural forces she hadn’t even imagined working against her. How could she outdo God?
Bianca came out of the school gates and ran towards them. ‘Chiara! Ciao! Are you going to join us?’
Claire shook her head. Clearly, the one person who hadn’t been given the third degree was Bianca.
After she’d said goodbye, she wandered back through the streets wondering if Tony was still there, but the cafe he’d been sitting in was empty. The doors to the big yellow cathedral were wide open, which was unusual, as they had been closed each time she’d passed before. Gingerly, as if she were about to encounter her rival in battle, she went up the steps and into the nave of the church. It was dark but surprisingly cool and fresh. There was the distant sound of an organist above her practising Bach, and the faint aroma of incense in the air. The child of enthusiastic atheist parents, Claire had only been to church for weddings and the occasional funeral.
Yet there was something in the atmosphere, some lingering sense of all the hope and suffering of hundreds of years of believers who, feeling they could trust nothing else in their uncertain world, chose to put their faith in God. It even got to down-to-earth Claire.
She sat back thinking about her own horrible situation. She’d believed she was beginning to feel for Luca what she had never felt for Martin. And yet what did that mean? Was love something irresistible that happened to you, a giant wave that swirled you around and might drown you or throw you back to the surface to go on living in a totally changed life?
She remembered how, when she was a small child in Cornwall, she had been grabbed by such a wave, felt the powerlessness of being tumbled and tumbled, trying to hold her breath, telling herself in a moment everything would be all right. And it had.
Or was she ignoring the fact that she had a choice? She had come to Italy to get away from Martin, from her life of too much responsibility. Was Luca just what one of her friends had rudely dubbed a ‘last-gasp romance’?
For almost the first time she thought about Martin, and what Monica had said, that she didn’t want her husband to change, because that would take away her justification for the way she was treating him.
Sylvie had even accused her of being jealous of Monica for uncovering the buried rebel in her conventional husband. The image of Martin playing the guitar that Monica had found for him came back to her. It was true, she’d resented Monica for being the one who’d noticed.
Oh God, she found herself suddenly on her knees, if there is a God, which I very much doubt, can you help me see a way through all this mess and pain?
She stood up, laughing at herself. How ridiculous of her. God had already been successfully signed up by Graziella to put the strong arm of Catholic guilt onto Luca.
Claire got back to find the house in a state of high alert.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked Monica.
‘My mother has demanded a tour of the house and gardens and is finding a great deal to criticize.’
‘Can’t you stop her? I mean, it isn’t her house. Where’s Gwen?’
‘Off to do some detective work of her own. Fortunately, Immaculata can’t speak a word of English and Beatrice, who can, has diplomatically disappeared.’
Mariella, it transpired, was explaining to the bewildered Immaculata a better way to run the kitchen, sort out the linen cupboards and organize the garden staff. Immaculata simply smiled and nodded without the slightest idea of what she was being told.
‘Can’t you take her off somewhere?’ Claire suggested.
‘I have offered Amalfi, I have offered Positano and even a day trip to Capri, but she is far happier here interfering.’
‘I think we should Send in Sylvie!’ Claire made this solution sound akin to deploying the Desert Rats.
‘Claire, that is a brilliant solution,’ Monica congratulated. ‘Or at least it would be, if she weren’t in hiding in case anyone suggested it.’
‘Come on’ Claire couldn’t help laughing, ‘let’s go and smoke her out.’
Sylvie was not to be found in her usual haunt, painting old wooden furniture she’d found in the market to resemble something from the court of Louis XIV. Nor was she lying on a sofa in the salon with her laptop.
Finally, they found her staring miserably into space on a sunlounger by the pool.
‘Sylvie!’ Monica couldn’t have sounded more shocked if Sylvie had announced she was pregnant via IVF, ‘you’re not wearing any make-up!’ And if further evidence of crisis were required: ‘And your nail varnish is chipped!’
‘Oh, what’s the point.’ Sylvie turned her head away. ‘I miss Tony. He may be a son of a bitch, but at least he’s my son of a bitch.’ She sniffed. ‘At least I thought he was. The office rang to say he says he’s going to be away for a while.’ She paused tragically, then spat out, ‘I bet he’s back with her!’
Claire longed to tell her that Tony was a) alone and b) only three miles away but couldn’t because of
her promise to him.
‘I’m sure he’s not. He left her to drown in the pool, remember.’
‘Some women like rough treatment.’ Sylvie sighed as if she wouldn’t mind some herself. Claire and Monica exchanged glances. Sylvie probably thought political correctness was something practised by dominatrixes in Westminster.
‘Tony wouldn’t like it if you let yourself go like this,’ attempted Claire, avoiding Monica’s reaction to this blatantly unfeminist line of argument.
‘You’re absolutely right, Claire.’ Sylvie sat up and climbed off the lounger with renewed energy. ‘I’ll go upstairs and wash my hair.’
When she had gone Claire became thoughtful. ‘Look, Monica,’ she said finally, ‘I owe you an apology. You helped me out by looking after Martin and I thanked you with my distrust. I apologize. And thanks for making me see what an effort he’s making.’
‘Don’t mention it. I like him. I mean, I can see he lacks Luca’s polish . . .’
‘. . . or his complexity.’
‘How is Luca being complex exactly?’
Claire paused, deciding whether to trust Monica. She was hardly the ideal candidate, given the tension between them, but Claire felt the need to share her emotions. ‘I saw him today. He said he wanted to contact me but Graziella made him go to confession.’
‘So now, if he phones you, he’s betraying not just her but God too.’
Claire nodded.
‘Does that bother him? Quite a lot of Italians seem to manage God and adultery.’
Claire flinched at the word adultery as if she’d been slapped.
‘We haven’t been to bed together. Only kissed.’
‘God, Claire, you’re risking an awful lot for a couple of kisses. Has he been unfaithful before?’
‘How should I know?’ Claire snapped back, beginning to wish she hadn’t started this.
‘In one way it’s great if he hasn’t, obviously; it means he’s a good guy. But it also means falling for you may be harder to reconcile with his conscience – God – which isn’t so good. Can I ask you a question?’
Claire nodded, dreading it all the same.
