An Italian Holiday

by Maeve Haran

  ‘Complete waste of money!’ Mariella dismissed. ‘I’ve no idea why you’re all making such a song and dance about a few pictures being shown.’

  ‘I wonder what the story is with Hugo,’ Claire whispered to Monica. ‘Angela hasn’t even mentioned him since the fateful lunch.’

  ‘I wish we could do something.’

  ‘You know Angela, not doing anything is probably what she’d most appreciate.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  After they’d made the booking for the four of them, Monica slipped off through the gardens and down the path towards Constantine’s hidden eyrie.

  She was barely out of the bushes when Spaghetti bowled towards her with bared teeth, then at the last minute jumped straight into her arms.

  Monica hardly recognized the house Constantine had chosen for its extreme privacy. There were people everywhere. Publicists, photographers, journalists and caterers all laying the ground for tomorrow’s big event.

  She spotted Guido half hidden behind a life-size cardboard cut-out of Constantine.

  ‘He is coming?’ demanded one of the irritated journalists. ‘I mean, it’d be just like him to have us all bust our arses getting to this ridiculous house and then find that thing,’ he pointed to the cut-out, ‘was hosting the evening instead.’

  ‘No, no,’ replied the harassed PR, ‘he will definitely be here in person.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Monica whispered to Guido.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Guido nodded. ‘Cardboard figure is just big joke.’

  ‘Can I see him now?’ She handed the little dog to Guido.

  ‘I go and ask.’

  Five minutes later, Guido was back. He led Monica up staircases and down paths until they came to a small sunroom where Constantine lay under a blanket in the stifling heat, still wearing his hat.

  ‘Monica, me darling, isn’t it a grand day, to be sure. What can I be doing for you?’

  ‘Apart from dropping that cod Irish accent, assure me you aren’t displaying that painting you did of me.’

  ‘I never decide till the morning of the show what I’m going to include.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. They have to be hung.’

  ‘Now, Monica, what’s happened to your art history? Tomorrow is the Vernissage, the day great artists like meself varnished their masterpieces to show them to the select few before the real opening.’

  ‘Except that you’ve varnished yours already, and as for the “select few”, I hear every room in Lanzarella has been booked.’

  ‘I have an unorthodox hanging system. Wait and see.’

  ‘Please, Constantine . . .’

  ‘Now, Monica, courage.’

  ‘I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘I am your friend. More than you think. Now let’s have a Pimm’s, for God’s sake. Guido!’ But Guido knew his employer’s tastes so well that he was already there with a jug. ‘What happened to the Aperol?’

  ‘A man can only take so much orange liquid.’

  ‘I thought you came to Lanzarella to get away from this sort of circus.’

  ‘I did. But the occasional circus keeps the old euros rolling in. I like to play the part of the colourful artist. I’m very dull in myself, as you know.’

  This assertion was so funny that Monica got the giggles until the Pimm’s started to fizzle out through her nose.

  ‘Very sophisticated, I must say. Now off you go and bring all your lady friends with you tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s not my lady friends I’m worried about, it’s my mother.’

  ‘Wisht, now. Mothers are always proud of their children. It’s in the DNA.’

  ‘Not in my mother’s it isn’t.’

  ‘To hell with her, then, and get Guido to bring me the dog. I don’t want it trampled under the feet of all those hangers-on.’

  Monica was about to leave when she screwed up her courage. ‘Constantine . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think you should get Guido to wash your hat.’

  The atmosphere in the villa next day was positively party-like. Luigi put extra flowers on the breakfast table, Immaculata baked her special sfogliatella buns and they could even hear Giovanni singing Neapolitan songs from the depths of the garden.

  ‘It almost feels like the morning of a wedding,’ laughed Claire.

  Monica, spoon of yogurt halfway to her mouth, was struck by a sudden thought.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Monica, don’t sit there like a halfwit with your spoon in your hand,’ Mariella commented acidly.

  For once Monica didn’t hear her.

  Sylvie had just arrived with Tony, both of them looking fulfilled and rosy for reasons all the others could guess. ‘Tell me, Mariella,’ Sylvie asked pointedly, ‘how long were you planning to stay?’

  Fortunately, Beatrice arrived with the news that the hairdresser had arrived and Monica jumped up to meet her.

  Claire felt a tap on her shoulder. It was her husband Martin. ‘Would you like me to entertain the old bag while you’re all having your hair done?’ he asked.

  Claire smiled at him gratefully.

  ‘I’ll try my best not to murder her. I’ll take her to the Monastery Gardens, then we’ll have lunch in the square. That should give you a few clear hours.’

  The whole atmosphere changed without Mariella’s forbidding presence, especially when Immaculata produced a bottle of the famous fizz with their lunch.

  By five o’clock, they were mostly ready and Mariella and Martin still weren’t back.

  ‘Maybe they’ve eloped,’ suggested Sylvie.

  They finally re-emerged looking tired but pleased.

  ‘We were just coming home when Mariella spotted a cardinal giving out blessings on the cathedral steps.’

  ‘How very medieval.’ Tony grinned. ‘He wasn’t selling indulgences as well?’

  ‘The funny thing was, Mariella went off to buy one of those throw-away cameras.’

  ‘I didn’t know they even made those any more,’ Angela commented.

  ‘And when we got back to the cathedral, he’d gone.’

  ‘Probably taken up to heaven on a cloud,’ Tony decided.

  ‘There was just a priest standing there shouting, “Who is responsible for this disgraceful charade?”’

  ‘I bet it was Constantine,’ whispered Monica. ‘It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do just before his show. He really is very naughty.’

  The show was due to start at six and by five forty-five they were all assembled on the terrace, except Martin and Mariella, who were still changing.

  Sylvie took a long look at her three friends. ‘I don’t think we look too bad for a bunch of old broads!’

  ‘I know,’ Tony suggested. ‘Photo opportunity. I’ll do the honours. Sylvie, where’s your phone? Come on, girls, say Lanzarella!’

  The four women smiled for the camera and then passed over their own phones so that Tony could use theirs as well.

  Gwen arrived looking elegant and just as they were about to leave, Martin slipped in among them.

  Claire suddenly noticed what he was wearing. It was a brand-new extremely smart suit. Claire had to do a double-take; he looked so different from the usual Martin. ‘That’s a bit of a change from your safari suit. Where on earth did you get it?’

  ‘There’s a row of shops hidden away right round the back of the cathedral. I nipped in, tried it on and bought it. Ten minutes. Best shopping experience of my life!’

  ‘You look really good in it.’

  Martin raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve never said that to me before and don’t say I’ve never looked good.’

  ‘Oh dear, am I that much of a cow?’

  ‘If you’re a cow,’ he said, looking at Claire in the pale-blue Fabric dress Angela had lent her, ‘then you’re the most beautiful cow I’ve ever seen.’

  It wasn’t exactly Casanova, but it was a start.

  Of all the people going to Constantine’s party, they were the lucky ones, because it
took them five minutes to walk there through the stand of holm oaks. The house was so utterly inaccessible that even the richest, who normally didn’t even walk to the pavement from their Rollers or Bentleys, had to clamber up the narrow, steep path from the back of Lanzarella.

  The guests, a curious combination of young and beautiful or old and louche, looked to Monica as if they’d been cast by Federico Fellini.

  ‘My God,’ pronounced Sylvie, ‘Rome and Positano must be graveyards tonight.’

  Monica could see what Constantine had meant by his unusual hanging technique. It was actually no hanging technique at all. Instead, the giant canvases were propped up at interesting angles all round the large central atrium and the various galleried staircases. For some reason the water in the swimming pool had been dyed orange.

  There was also an ugly murmur sweeping through the massed ranks as the waiters circulated with glasses of bright red liquid.

  ‘It’s grenadine!’ pronounced an infuriated guest with waist-length blonde hair and a latex dress that made Jessica Rabbit look positively nun-like.

  No alcohol. Another Constantine joke but one the guests definitely didn’t seem to be appreciating.

  ‘Claire!’ Angela leaned down. ‘Call Luca. Get him to bring the Cellono and lots of glasses! This is the perfect audience for it! They’re all desperate for a drink!’

  Claire replied with a thumbs-up and instantly called Luca.

  ‘Won’t Constantine think it’s rude?’ asked Sylvie.

  ‘He won’t care. In fact, it’ll amuse him. Let’s hope Luca can get here before there’s a palace revolution and everyone leaves!’

  ‘Guido!’ Monica saw him passing. ‘Are you really not serving any booze?’

  ‘Constantine has decided as a culture we are too dependent on alcohol.’

  ‘Well, he certainly is!’ commented a passer-by.

  ‘Where is he anyway?’ Monica asked Guido, nonplussed.

  ‘He likes to create a little drama.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly doing that, if not an outright revolt.’

  It was another half an hour before the front doorbell sounded and Luca, backed up by Graziella, Bianca and even Grandfather Bruno, appeared with trays of the pale lemon liquid, which they topped up with Prosecco and soda water.

  It was greeted like manna to the starving Israelites.

  ‘Hey, what is this? It’s great!’

  ‘Wow, I’ve never had this before. What’s it called?’

  ‘Cellono,’ announced Luca with a flourish. ‘It is a brand-new aperitif.’

  Luca winked at Claire gratefully and even Graziella smiled.

  ‘Take a photograph and make sure it gets on social media,’ Angela counselled. ‘“The night a new aperitif conquered the art world”, or some such. I’m sure Bianca could do it. Look, there’s the Fiat heir. Get him drinking it.’

  Claire looked through the noisy throng, which had settled down at last. If this was the only drink available, they seemed more than happy to drink it. What a brilliant idea of Angela’s.

  She saw that Hugo had just arrived and was standing talking to Angela near the swimming pool. Claire edged closer in case she needed moral support.

  ‘Why haven’t you been returning any of my calls or texts?’ Hugo was asking, visibly annoyed.

  ‘Stephen’s mother had a little lunch party. Very cosy. All of us and some people called Castellini. The story they had to tell us about you acquiring the hotel was quite eye-opening, I must say.’

  ‘And you chose to believe those old dodderers rather than me? I suppose they brought out the story of their daughter and how I led her astray? They didn’t tell you what a deeply neurotic woman she is? How hard I tried to make it work?’

  Angela looked at him levelly. ‘In the end I judge people by instinct.’

  ‘And your famous instinct condemned me?’

  There was a sudden commotion as Constantine, still dressed as a cardinal, appeared to loud Cellono-fuelled applause. He progressed towards them, arms extended, as if bestowing a universal blessing. As he passed Angela and Hugo, his foot seemed unaccountably to slip and he saved himself by leaning on Hugo, who fell in a spectacular arc into the pool.

  This gave rise to a loud round of applause from the guests, who thought this was another of Constantine’s con tricks.

  Guido rushed up with a towel and helped Hugo, minus his dignity, out of the water. ‘As if I care what you and your friends think of me,’ he exploded. ‘A bunch of boring post-menopausal harpies!’

  Sylvie and Monica had arrived just in time to hear this and Sylvie burst into helpless laughter.

  ‘And what’s the matter with you?’ demanded a dripping Hugo.

  ‘It’s just that, Hugo, you’re so . . . orange!’

  Hugo strode off through the sniggering crowds, leaving a trail of orange dye in his wake.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again in a hurry,’ murmured Constantine.

  ‘You pushed him in deliberately!’ accused Sylvie, delighted.

  Constantine took up a pious pose. ‘The ways of the Lord are many and various.’

  He clapped his hands to get his audience’s full attention. ‘And now, the highlight of the evening: a new painting of which I am inordinately proud. He stepped back, revealing a large canvas on the wall above him, hidden by a curtain.

  ‘Oh my God,’ whispered Monica to him, in panic, ‘I hope to God that’s not what I think it is!’

  Seventeen

  ‘Come on, Monica dear,’ Constantine whispered encouragingly. ‘This is just what you need. No more hiding behind Mrs Librarian from Great Wotsit.’

  He signalled to Guido, who pulled a cord revealing the six-foot canvas of an entirely naked Monica.

  Even the battle-scarred art groupies, when they saw that the painting was of the woman standing next to him, looked on impressed.

  Monica tried to hide her face in her hands but was prevented by Angela, who forced her to stand up straight. ‘Come on, it’s safe to look. You’re amazing!’

  And then, from the back of the group, Mariella caught sight of the painting and gasped. ‘Monica!’ her voice rang out. ‘How could you do it? A woman of almost sixty-five years old! Have you no sense of dignity?’

  Monica looked up at the painting and saw what her mother saw – flesh that was no longer young or beautiful, if it ever had been. An embarrassment. And felt that everyone in the room must be laughing at her. A hand crept into hers. It was Angela’s. ‘You’re part of the Lanzarella Women’s Cooperative, remember?’ she whispered. ‘Proud post-menopausal harpies every one. Don’t let us down!’

  Monica turned her back on her mother and stepped forward.

  ‘Thank you, Constantine. I am delighted to join the honourable tradition of The Nude Maya, Benefits Supervisor Sleeping and Stanley Spencer’s Second Wife. Actually, I think I look bloody amazing!’

  She took a bow to tumultuous applause. One thing the art world liked was a bit of modest irony.

  But Constantine hadn’t finished.

  ‘Just one moment, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry that my experiment to lead you away from the demon drink has been such a failure, rescued only by the arrival of this mysterious new potion.’ He grabbed a glass from Luca, who was standing by with a tray. ‘Mmm, not bad. Monica here has been my muse and my friend, and I would like to present her with this painting as a token of my thanks and admiration. Monica, this truly is your painting!’

  This time the gasp was genuine. Everyone in the room knew – if not the value of a genuine Constantine O, especially one as large and with such immaculate provenance – then at least that it would be a very large sum indeed.

  ‘I recommend you talk to my dealer over there and put it on the market as soon as possible,’ Constantine advised. ‘You know my technique,’ he added, sotto voce. ‘I can always bang you out another one to hang above your fireplace. And you can tell that mother of yours to get stuffed; from now on, you’ll be a lady of indepen
dent means.’

  The others crowded round her. ‘And do you know what, Mon,’ Sylvie whispered so loudly that everyone in the room could hear. ‘You really do look quite good. It must be all that swimming in your lunch hour. I knew I was going wrong somewhere.’

  The next to congratulate Monica was Gwen. ‘I’m so happy for you, dear. And don’t worry about Mariella. I think it’s time we moved on. There are some wonderful gardens in Sicily I’d like her to see.’

  Monica smiled gratefully.

  Last of all to approach her was Mariella. ‘You do realize you’ve made an exhibition of yourself. I don’t know what your father would say.’

  ‘I think he’d be very proud. Just like all the people who love me. And if I’ve made an exhibition of myself, I’m delighted. That’s what art is about. And the person people are feeling sorry for tonight isn’t me, it’s you,’ Monica replied.

  She turned back to Angela, who was waiting for her with a glass of Cellono.

  ‘Well done. Actually, this stuff isn’t too bad. If they market it right – and stress the secret ingredient so that everyone else in Italy can’t copy them – they might even have a bit of a hit.’

  They watched as on the other side of the room Luca and Graziella approached Claire, who was standing with the newly suited Martin. ‘We’d like to thank you for giving us this opportunity tonight.’ It was Graziella who spoke first. ‘It might be the breakthrough we need.’

  Claire could hear the enthusiasm in her voice and saw that Graziella had committed herself to Luca and his lemons.

  ‘I wish you good luck.’ Claire struggled to keep the emotion out of her voice. ‘How do you say that in Italian?’

  ‘You can say Buona fortuna,’ Graziella replied, ‘but what Italians would say is In bocca al lupo! Into the mouth of the wolf!’

  ‘Into the mouth of the wolf, then!’

  ‘Thank you.’ Graziella held her gaze for just a moment longer than necessary.

  Claire avoided Luca’s eyes altogether.

  After they’d gone, Martin slipped his arm around her. ‘Are you OK?’

  Claire nodded. ‘I think so. She seemed nicer.’

  ‘Maybe she’s seeing the advantages of life in the slow lane.’