by Maeve Haran
Tony looked ashen. ‘Did you hear what I said? I may be dragged through the courts and labelled a dirty old man.’
‘Yes, but it’s just the thing that will get Sylvie into your corner. She knows you didn’t use your position of power to take advantage of Kimberley.’
Tony laughed hollowly. ‘As a matter of fact, Kimberley rather took advantage of me, though that’s hardly anything to boast about. I would never have dared suggest having sex on Sylvie’s Russian’s sheets. At home I’m not even allowed to make love on our clean sheets!’
‘Hmmm . . . I need to think about this. Write your mobile down on that napkin. Oh my God, here comes my mother. Don’t breathe a word of this to her.’
Tony took a look at the imposing matron dressed in top-to-toe caramel and decided to make a dash for it. ‘Call me when you’ve decided!’
‘Monica,’ Mariella demanded, ‘who was that weird man you were talking to?’
‘Oh, just a friend, you don’t know him.’
‘Of course I don’t know him. I must admit, I think you’ve made some very peculiar connections here. High time you came back to Great Missenden and faced reality. You’re not getting any younger. If you leave it any longer, you’ll never find a job.’
‘I thought you wanted me to be on permanent standby to look after the dogs?’ Monica asked, straight-faced. ‘I could hardly do that if I had a full-time job, could I?’
Mariella looked at her daughter intently. What was the matter with her? For a moment Mariella had almost suspected sarcasm.
Monica sat in her new room, one of the Sylvie specials, and contemplated. Not long ago Sylvie, on hearing this news about Kimberley, would have announced that it was no more than Tony deserved. But that was before Tony had abandoned Kimberley and her exercise bike in the swimming pool. And also, this development could involve the reputation of Sylvie’s business as well as her husband’s.
If Monica knew Sylvie at all, she reckoned she was going to react to this like a lioness protecting her cubs – or, in this case, her mate. Did lionesses protect their mates? It would be even better if Tony actually seemed to need her protection. Monica was going to have to give that one more thought.
Martin and Claire knew by some long-married instinct when the other would want the shower or loo or basin to clean their teeth. It was a well-drilled ballet. But ever since Martin had arrived here and the Luca revelations had hit with full force, their ballet had turned into an awkward pantomime.
Tonight, when Martin collided with Claire for the third time, he sat down on the bed. Finally, he could take no more. Martin grabbed his wife’s wrist and pulled her down next to him.
‘Claire, look at me. I know you weren’t expecting me to come here and maybe I shouldn’t have. I’ve got a simple question for you to answer. Do you want me to go home?’
Claire couldn’t bring herself to return his look. She knew he had tried to change, to be more attuned to her feelings, and actually she had felt quite jealous of the closeness he had developed with Monica.
‘Look, Claire, I’m no Luca. I’ve never had a high-powered job to give up. But if you ask me, giving up his lawyer’s lifestyle, without even consulting his wife and family, which is what seems to have happened, is quite selfish. And you have to give his wife credit for trying to make it work again. I don’t imagine it’s easy for this Graziella. People like you and Luca, with all your belief in living a passionate life close to the soil or the lemons or whatever, you don’t think about the people around you. Look at me, Claire!’
She turned at that, surprised at his vehemence. ‘I love you, Claire. I think I was a selfish shit back home. I let you do everything. Maybe I felt a bit of a failure. But since coming here I feel different.’
‘Maybe it’s Monica’s good influence.’
‘Stop it, Claire!’ And to her enormous surprise, her husband kissed her.
Angela dressed slowly; dinner wasn’t for another hour and anyway she wasn’t sure she could face them all.
The other, and far more serious, question was what she was going to do about Hugo. So far she hadn’t replied to any of his texts or messages since the Castellinis’ lunch. But if she stayed on here that could hardly last.
She sat at her amazing Sylvie-created dressing table which was sprayed with so much distressed gold it looked as if it were on loan from Versailles. Did she accept that the Castellinis’ story applied equally to her? Caterina was their daughter, while Angela had no direct influence over Stephen other than that he had asked her to see if the villa would make a hotel. And even then she’d suspected it had partly been a gesture of protectiveness towards her. But why would Stephen Charlesworth still feel protective after all these years? Perhaps he was an exceptionally generous man. Drew seemed to think so, at all events.
There was also the question of her own money. It wouldn’t be difficult in these days of Google for Hugo to know what she was worth down to the last fiver.
The funny thing was, Angela had never felt rich. She had built up her business out of an almost evangelical desire to bring that feeling of being cosseted by your clothes to other women. And while her business had been her passion, it had also protected her, if that was the right word, from ordinary women’s concerns. Where they had husbands, she had the business. And the same with families. She had boasted to Drew that her business had given her everything she’d needed. But with Hugo she’d begun to see another future.
For the first time since the Castellinis’ revelation she let herself face the truth. She’d thought she was in love with Hugo and had even – and she hadn’t even admitted this to herself – imagined that if he bought the villa they might run it together.
She went over to the bed, lay down on it and wept.
A few moments later there was a soft knock on her door. She wondered whether to ignore it and pretend she was out, but the knock persisted.
Beatrice stood on the landing with a small tray on which stood a glass of champagne and a small bowl of rose petals.
‘The other ladies say you must have bath before dinner with these flowers in it and drink your champagne as you bathe.’ She carried the tray through to the bathroom, placed the glass next to it and began to run a bath, pouring in some bath oil for good measure. ‘Is this a custom you have in Inghilterra?’ Beatrice asked as she sprinkled the petals onto the scented surface.
‘Absolutely,’ Angela found she was smiling, ‘we do it every day just before we have afternoon tea and scones.’
Beatrice went off to tell Immaculata what a curious country England must be, full of people having rose-strewn baths and eating scones.
‘So what are you going to wear to The Big Event?’
‘What big event is that?’ Claire asked.
‘Claire! Constantine’s show, of course! The top date in Lanzarella’s social calendar,’ Monica tutted.
‘Is it such a big deal?’
‘Constantine is world-famous. There’ll be art critics from all around the world – the beautiful people will be out in force.’
‘For some silly exhibition of pictures?’ protested Mariella. ‘We only get twenty or so in the gallery in Great Missenden. And that’s for The Samaritans.’
‘You should put Constantine on to that, Monica,’ Sylvie pointed out. ‘I think he’s missing a trick.’
‘Well, I’ve only got shorts or my safari suit,’ Martin protested. ‘I wasn’t exactly expecting the red carpet.’
‘I’m definitely going to get something new,’ Monica announced. ‘And maybe not even from the market!’
‘Then I hope it’s more age-appropriate than the rest of the stuff you’ve been buying here,’ Mariella sniffed. ‘Talk about laced mutton.’
‘Do you know, Mrs Mathieson,’ Martin exploded, ‘I think we should be talking more old cows than laced mutton.’
They all stared at Martin in amazement.
Mariella chose to deliberately misunderstand.
There was a sudden screech from Sylvie who
had gone to sit on the terrace with her laptop. ‘The bitch! The calculating little bitch!’
‘Oh God,’ Angela murmured, ‘she’s on Stalkbook again!’
They all jumped up to see what had caused the latest upset on the Kimberley front.
‘Sylvie, you should know by now that she only accepted you as her Facebook friend so that she could upset you!’ Angela had long advised Sylvie that following Kimberley online was like biting into her own arm.
‘Look at this! No make-up and a baby-doll dress – she looks like she’s auditioning for the Brownies!’ They all studied the deliberately innocent pose Kimberley had adopted. ‘Little Miss Lolita from Basildon, saying she’s lodging a sexual harassment claim against Tony! She taught him half he knew about sex! Oh my God. My poor Tony! Maybe she’s only bluffing? I mean, would you go around telling everyone if you were bringing an action against someone? I’m going to have to go back to London at once and help him!’ Sylvie insisted.
‘But I thought you said he wasn’t in London?’ Monica asked.
She sat back down again. ‘No, he’s not. Maybe he’s running away from this. I’ve got to find him and tell him that together we can fight this.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ Monica tried not to smile at how right she’d been over Sylvie’s reaction, ‘he’s in Italy.’
‘Where?’ demanded Sylvie, looking for her handbag to go instantly and retrieve him.
‘In Lerini, actually.’
‘Lerini? Our Lerini?’
‘I think there is only one.’
‘But what the hell is he doing there?’
Monica felt herself getting out of her depth. ‘I think you’d better ask him yourself.’
Sylvie’s astonishment was so intense that even an emergency drive by Giovanni with Monica in the Mini Moke made no impression on her. They parked near the piazza and she trudged the last few yards on foot.
Tony, pre-warned by Monica, stood outside his apartment. She had even told him to lay on the rejected lover look and he had done so in spades. In fact, in Monica’s opinion, he had rather overdone it and veered rather too much towards a scary Bela Lugosi than the stoical heroism of Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.
But to Sylvie his appearance was perfection.
‘Tony!’ she screeched, flinging her large frame into his arms as if she were no more than a thistledown on the spring wind. ‘You look terrible! What has that woman done to you!’
This did not appear to require any answer other than clutching Sylvie to his manly chest and patting her soothingly from time to time.
‘But what I really don’t understand is why you’re still here?’ Sylvie demanded when finally she let go of him.
‘I wanted to be near you,’ Tony stated simply. ‘I’ve been so stupid. All men say that, I know. The cliché of all time. But I happen to mean it.’
If anything further had been needed for total forgiveness, it was this. ‘It’s all been a stupid mistake.’ Sylvie beamed. ‘Now let’s get your things together and take you up to the villa. Giovanni’s waiting in the piazza for us. I’ll help you pack.’
An hour later, Tony, plus his suitcase, was being led up the back stairs of the Villa Le Sirenuse.
‘It just struck me,’ Sylvie joked, happy she had her Tony back, despite the less than desirable circumstances, ‘Villa of the Sirens. She’s the siren, bloody Kimberley, luring you on. Do you think your lawyer, when we get you one, would appreciate the comparison?’
‘I do hope not.’ Tony grinned. ‘And much as I would like to accept your scenario, my darling, as myself as helpless putty in her hands, I don’t think it’s entirely realistic. As you pointed out at the time, I had no business behaving like that with an intern.’
Witnessing this marital interchange, Monica couldn’t help wondering at the complexity of adult relationships. Here was Tony doing his best to be honest, and Sylvie would have preferred his previous charming amorality.
No wonder so few marriages lasted.
Despite the awkward circumstances, Tony managed to inject a festive note into the gathering at the villa. In fact, the evening went so well that they all moved off after dinner onto the terrace to look at the almost-full moon.
‘Why doesn’t your son come here more often?’ Tony asked Gwen when they were all in an especially cordial mood thanks to the wine and the moonlight.
‘Sad memories, I suppose. Plus it’s awfully big for one person.’
‘Couldn’t he bring friends?’
‘Exactly what I tell him, but Stephen always seems to be working. To be honest, I love him to bits, and you couldn’t have a better son, but I wish he had more of a life outside of work.’
Angela sipped her wine thoughtfully as she glanced up at the moon. Gwen could almost be describing her instead of Stephen.
Stephen sat eating breakfast and watching the people hurrying along the riverbank to their various jobs. The post had just arrived, unusually early. He worked his way through the bills and reminders – his business mail went to his office address – and came across a letter from his old college at Oxford. A reunion was being organized of their year in the autumn term.
Of course it was probably about the dreaded ‘d’ word – development, i.e. getting money out of you for some new building or other.
Instantly he thought of Angela and whether she might like to go too. Or would she think he was one of those sad people who saw their time at university as the highlight of their whole life? He knew people like that.
How was his mother getting on out in Lanzarella with the awful Mariella? he wondered. Maybe he’d Skype her. It was about time for their weekly chat.
What he hadn’t expected was to be greeted by gales of giggles. His mother was clearly having the time of her life with Sylvie, Claire, Monica and Angela.
‘Hello, Ma, it sounds fun out there!’
‘Yes, darling, great fun!’ Gwen’s face smiled back at him. ‘Though the whole village is intrigued that there are now six ladies staying here! We’re off to your neighbour’s art exhibition tomorrow. It’s quite the starry event of the year.’
‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Mariella not being too ghastly?’
‘Sssh!’ Gwen replied, stifling another giggle. ‘But there is one thing. We’re all trying to persuade Angela not to go home.’
Stephen sat up. ‘Why does she want to? She doesn’t feel that I mind how long you all stay, I hope.’
‘Too complicated to explain on the phone,’ was Gwen’s mysterious reply.
‘I was hoping to invite her to the reunion of our year in Oxford.’
‘What a nice idea. I’m afraid she’s not with us at the moment. Oh look, here comes Beatrice with coffee and croissants. I’d better go, darling. Say goodbye to Stephen, everyone!’
‘Suddenly the screen filled with laughing faces and waving hands shouting, ‘Thank you, Stephen. We’re all having a lovely time!’
As he switched off his laptop, Stephen felt suddenly flat and rather alone.
Maybe he ought to get a dog after all. His mother was always telling him so.
On her visit to Lerini with her mother, Monica had glimpsed a simple black dress in one of the shops in the catacombs, not far from the hairdresser’s. After breakfast she took advantage of the relative quiet at the villa to slip off to the bus stop. Outside the vegetable shop behind the piazza, the lady who ran it was dancing with one of her customers, both their heads thrown back in delighted laughter at their own antics. The sheer joy of their spontaneity enchanted Monica.
The dress shop didn’t open till ten so she slipped into the hairdresser’s to make an appointment for tomorrow.
A major discussion was taking place about Lerini’s impending Wedding of the Year. This couple were from two of the biggest local families and the hairdresser’s granddaughter was to be one of the bridesmaids.
The event was to be, of course, at the Grand Hotel degli Dei.
There was just one problem. The bride-to-be was unhappy.
‘The management has allowed another wedding later in the day and Daniela, the bride, thinks this will spoil everything. She will have strangers in her wedding photos.’
The hairdresser turned to Monica to explain. ‘In Italy it is all about le foto di nozze, the wedding photos.’
‘It’s the same with us. The photos are more important than the wedding.’
‘They have paid a big deposit, or she would find somewhere else.’ She looked meaningfully at Monica. ‘The villa is not available, is such a pity.’ She shrugged and searched through her appointments book. ‘You go to the big art show?’ Monica was amazed that everyone in Lerini seemed to know about Constantine’s party. ‘We are very proud of our famous artist, even if he does look more like a vagabondo, how do you say – tramp?’
She wrote Monica’s name in her book for the next day. ‘But you are four ladies at the villa?’
‘Six! My mother and the mother of the owner.’
‘But I will make you big reduction! Would you like me to come up and do many hairs? Is big important party! There will be photographer from Rome!’
Monica felt slightly sick. She’d had no idea the show would be on this scale. Was Constantine still going to include her portrait? What had seemed rather a lark was now taking on threatening proportions. She would have to try and talk him out of it. But knowing Constantine’s desire to stir things up, this might not be so easy.
‘I will ask if any other ladies would like their hair done,’ Monica reassured her.
By now the dress shop was open. The black dress was perfect. Ankle-length black silk, gloriously plain, with just a simple ruffle from one shoulder to the waist. It was a little longer than she’d hoped and twice as expensive, but what the hell. She was going to need all the confidence-boosting she could summon.
‘Yes, let’s go for it!’ Angela laughed. ‘I love the idea of a communal hair session!’
‘Me too,’ said Claire. ‘My hair always looks quite different when I have it done.’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘I just wash mine and let it dry in the air.’ She demonstrated with a Carmen-like toss of the head.
‘I’d love it,’ Gwen agreed happily, ‘though I’ve no idea what I’m going to wear.’
