An Italian Holiday

by Maeve Haran

  Claire sighed. ‘Maybe she is.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go and find the others. You need cheering up.’

  Monica was to be found chatting to Constantine’s dealer. She wasn’t going to ask him about the painting’s value, that would be too crass, but, as it happened, he brought the subject up himself. ‘Well, this is all a bit novel, isn’t it? Who would have thought Constantine would develop a heart of gold? I was just thinking, if we introduced you to a few of his collectors, it might create a lot of interest. They all love something new.’

  ‘As long as I don’t have to take my clothes off.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ She turned to find Nick from the riding stable behind her. ‘No more Great Missenden for you. You’ll even be able to boycott Beaconsfield.’

  Monica laughed. ‘I didn’t know you were a friend of Constantine’s.’

  ‘No one like our Con to hoover up all the interesting waifs and strays.’

  She looked him over. ‘You’re wearing a suit.’

  ‘Is that an accusation?’ He grinned. ‘I am British, you know, despite my occasional attempts to emulate the Wild Bunch.’

  ‘Sorry, that sounded rude.’

  ‘Not at all. Believe me, after fourteen years of wearing grey flannel of one sort or another at school, I hate suits as much as the next man. Probably more. But with Constantine you never know. He may be dressed as a tramp – or a cardinal. A suit seemed a safe option.’

  ‘You went to private school, then?’

  ‘Madam, I stand accused. My deepest secret is out.’ He noticed Sylvie and Tony waving to her. ‘I think your friends are trying to attract your attention.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she was conscious of a moment’s disappointment, ‘time to go. Great to see you again.’

  ‘And you.’

  On the other side of the room, she saw Constantine twinkling at them and wondered what he was up to now.

  Gwen was as good as her word. She announced the next morning that a taxi would be arriving later to take them to Naples, where they would catch the overnight ferry to Sicily.

  ‘It has been such fun, girls! And Stephen would be touched, I know, at how seriously you have all been acting in his interests.’

  ‘Come on now, Gwen,’ Angela teased, ‘it was you who opened our eyes to what Hugo would do with the villa. But surely it’s Stephen you need to convince?’

  ‘Stephen will listen to your advice, I’m sure.’ Gwen helped herself to another croissant. ‘I don’t think the next part of our journey will be nearly as eventful, but a bit of calm can’t do any harm at our age. What’s happened to your mother, Monica? Perhaps you could go and see if everything’s all right? She’s usually down before me.’

  Monica knocked on the door of the Doom Room. When she received no answer, she gently pushed open the door.

  Her mother was sitting on the bed, still in her nightdress, with her iPad on her knee. ‘Your father’s seen your picture. Somebody saw it on Twitter and sent it to him.’ She looked up at Monica. ‘You’re right. He’s very proud.’

  Monica sat down next to her on the bed. Her mother looked older and sadder without her make-up and neatly coiffed hair, defenceless somehow.

  ‘He thinks your painting is worth a lot of money. He asked his broker, who advises people about investing in art. You can get a place of your own. Have something proper to live off.’

  ‘I think that was what Constantine had in mind.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why he wanted to paint you.’ Her mother sounded genuinely puzzled.

  ‘He said he saw something unusual in me.’ Monica smiled at the memory. It seemed so long ago and yet it was hardly any time at all. ‘Apparently, I have an elusive quality.’

  Mariella studied her. ‘I suppose you do. I could never understand why you said you didn’t want to be noticed. And then you do something like this.’ She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I suppose he felt sorry for you.’

  Monica almost gave up. It was pointless to try and make her mother see her as anything but a failure, an object of pity. But Constantine didn’t see her that way and neither did the Lanzarella Women’s Cooperative.

  She was damned if she was going to let her mother spoil things. ‘I like Constantine. I suppose I knew he had my best interests at heart. He said I had to be more confident, dare to do things. So I did.’

  ‘You seem very confident to me. I have watched you here. You are somehow the centre of things.’

  ‘What?’ Monica demanded, stunned. Surely colourful Sylvie or efficient Angela were far more the centre of things than she was? What on earth was her mother implying?

  ‘I’ve tried to be the centre of things and people don’t like me for it,’ Mariella looked away, ‘but you’re at the centre and everyone likes you.’ She took her daughter’s hand. ‘You’ve changed, Monica. I’m sorry about the art show. I should have been proud too. And not just last night.’

  Monica found that tears were blurring her vision and she had to turn away. Her mother never apologized.

  ‘I hope it’s not too late,’ Mariella added in a voice almost too faint to hear.

  ‘You’d better come down’ – Monica put her arms around her mother for the briefest of moments – ‘before Gwen polishes off all the croissants.’

  Angela looked at the message from Drew to call him as soon as possible.

  It had to be something important. He’d handled everything in London up till now without any input from her.

  She called Fabric’s offices in St Christopher’s Place.

  Drew picked up the phone. She could hear incredibly loud music in the background and realized it was The Temptations singing ‘Get Ready’, one of her favourite songs.

  ‘Hello, Drew, it’s Angela. Are you piping Tamla Motown through the offices to keep up morale?’

  Drew laughed. ‘Actually, it’s from the burger bar over the street. We have the windows open, shock, horror. Spring has come even to London.’

  Angela imagined sunshine in St Christopher’s Place, the pavement cafes filling up, tourists photographing the giant coloured elephant outside Jigsaw, and felt a pang of homesickness. ‘So what’s the big news?’

  ‘They’re ready for the signing. I assumed you’d want to come and do it in person.’

  ‘Can’t you Fedex the stuff to me and I’ll sign it in front of witnesses here?’ Despite the momentary lapse, she felt a curious reluctance to return to London.

  ‘Wow, you’ve changed. What happened to obsessive Angela? I suppose I ought to be happy for you. You’ve found something that matters as much as Fabric.’

  Angela smiled to herself. Friendship mattered as much as Fabric. And then the truth hit her – how much longer could they honestly spend here if the villa wasn’t to be a hotel? Was she putting off reality, and with it loneliness?

  It was as if he were reading her mind. ‘Any thoughts of when you might come home? A nightingale may be singing in Berkeley Square by now.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘Along with what you might do next with all that lovely money. I don’t see you as the early retirement in Monte Carlo type.’

  Angela shuddered. She’d visited the place once. It was full of sun-bleached old prunes of tax avoiders. It was the kind of town where you could buy gold necklaces but couldn’t find a loaf of bread. But still, she’d have to think of something before too long.

  ‘I’ll keep you informed. But for now I’ll email the exact address for Fedex.’

  ‘Fine. You sound good, Angie. Relaxed. Happy.’

  Angela laughed. ‘You must be mistaking me for someone else.’

  When Angela got back downstairs, everyone was gathered to wave off Gwen and Mariella in their taxi.

  ‘Goodbye, dear. I’m sorry about Hugo,’ Gwen said gently.

  ‘I’m not, just grateful I found out sooner rather than later.’ It was a lie and they both knew it, but it offered a fig leaf for her pride.

  Gwen squeezed her hand
. ‘Stay as long as you like. You’re all doing a wonderful job here.’

  ‘Have fun in Sicily!’ they all chorused.

  ‘Goodbye, Monica.’ Mariella was still a shadow of her bossy self. Maybe the new humility was going to last. Although, from past experience, Monica doubted it. By Taormina she’d probably be the old Mariella. Thank heavens Gwen was well able to cope with it.

  Somehow the departure of Gwen cast a small cloud over the villa, which Martin noticed at once.

  ‘Why don’t we declare tonight a party night and we can all get dressed up for dinner?’ Martin suggested.

  ‘Good idea,’ seconded Tony.

  ‘What, you mean a kind of fancy dress?’ asked Angela, shuddering.

  ‘No, no, just an evening of quiet sophistication,’ Martin reassured her with a grin.

  They all burst out laughing. ‘Or we could go out somewhere.’

  But nobody seemed to want to do that.

  ‘How about sunset drinks by the pool?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that make dinner too late for Immaculata?’ queried Monica.

  ‘We could give the staff the night off and cook for ourselves,’ offered Claire.

  ‘What a good idea!’

  So that was how they ended up having the villa to themselves for the first time since their arrival. Before they left, Beatrice came shyly up to Claire. ‘I have to tell you, Chiara, how well this Cellono is doing. Luca and Graziella are so grateful to you.’

  Claire tried to smile, then willed herself to get on with the cooking. A starter of asparagus from their own bed, with melted butter and home-made bread, followed by veal Parmigiana from the supplies of veal in the freezer, finishing up with her famous lemon tart.

  They had dinner on the terrace while Tony, who was good at these things, sent the staff off in a taxi to his favourite restaurant insisting he would pick up the bill.

  They had just started eating when Sylvie pointed up into the sky. ‘Look! The sun’s going down and the moon’s coming up at the same time!’

  They looked up at the magical sight above their heads.

  ‘Is this the most beautiful spot on earth?’ murmured Claire.

  They all fell silent, contemplating the wonder of the villa and its amazing location.

  And then, almost reluctantly, as if it were half dragged out of her, Claire asked softly, ‘We’re going to have to stop beating about the bush. How much longer is everyone staying?’

  A hush fell as if someone had committed a sacrilege.

  Finally, it was Angela who spoke. ‘I don’t know how much use we’ve really been to Stephen. I mean, sure, we may have stopped him selling to Hugo Robertson, but what about the other question he asked – should he open a hotel here himself?’

  ‘I can’t help feeling it’d be a pity,’ Sylvie sighed. ‘Even though I might get the contract to do it up.’

  ‘Does he have to do anything with the place?’ asked Martin. ‘He seems to be extremely rich.’

  ‘I think he’s getting a bit of a conscience about keeping somewhere so lovely all to himself.’

  ‘He could rent it out as a villa, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, but who could afford it? Only revoltingly rich types.’ Claire made a face.

  Monica screwed up her courage. Her mother had said she was at the centre of things. Time to be brave.

  ‘There is one other alternative, something maybe we could do.’

  They all looked at her, riveted.

  ‘Fire away, then,’ Angela smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Before we came, the villa used to be rented out for weddings.’ She got out the blurry leaflet showing a wedding taking place under the wisteria-covered pergola. ‘The deal seemed to be that it was amazing value but it carried a risk: if Stephen turned up, it was off.’

  ‘But did anyone agree to that?’ Claire asked doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, because it’s so beautiful and such good value it was worth hoping you had it here but having a plan B.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘And this involved little old ladies like Beatrice and Immaculata?’

  ‘Remember what Constantine discovered. They always put half back for the upkeep of the villa. And remember, this is Italy,’ said Claire.

  Monica nodded. ‘In fact, there’s a wedding coming up. The hairdresser in Lerini told me all about it. It was supposed to be at Hugo’s hotel, but the management is allowing another wedding later. The bride’s so furious they’re prepared to sacrifice a whacking deposit if they could have it here.’

  ‘But how could they,’ Sylvie asked, ‘with us here?’

  ‘I’ve thought of a way that Stephen could hang on to his wonderful villa and the lovely staff and salve his conscience at the same time. We make the place a wedding venue for local people. Not some ritzy destination full of hen parties from Texas but as a kind of community resource.’

  ‘Like a posh village hall?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Exactly. In the long run Stephen would have to give his permission, and then he could feel he was contributing to Lanzarella, not just being an absentee landlord. We could start with this wedding coming up. Both the families are local people.’

  ‘But none of us have ever planned a wedding before,’ Angela objected.

  ‘Not so far,’ Sylvie conceded, ‘but I’d love to have a crack.’

  ‘I think we’d be brilliant at it, if we really worked together.’ Monica started to get really enthusiastic. ‘Angela in overall charge with her business brain, Sylvie doing the décor, Claire the food and I’d handle the flowers.’

  They all sat in silence.

  Finally, Claire said, ‘I must admit, I rather like the idea.’

  ‘But when is this wedding exactly?’ Sylvie enquired.

  ‘In two weeks from next Saturday.’

  They all gasped.

  ‘Well, if you want a male view, which I don’t expect you do, I think you women could do anything you put your minds to,’ threw in Martin.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ seconded Tony. ‘Martin and I could be your barmen.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, all of you!’ Angela was as ever the realist. ‘I think we’ve all had too much to drink or the moonlight’s gone to our heads! Let’s clear up now.’

  ‘Maybe Angela’s right,’ Claire conceded as they put away the dirty dishes. ‘Goodnight, everyone.’

  Monica stayed up to watch the moon for a little while after the others had gone up to bed. Soon she was going to have to make a decision about what to do next. The only thing she was really sure of was how much she would miss this special place and these even more special people if they didn’t follow her wedding suggestion.

  The next morning, it was a very brisk Angela with a distinctly Boadicea-like air who joined them all at breakfast. She was holding an envelope with a sheaf of papers inside.

  ‘Right,’ she announced, ‘I’ve been having a rethink. I’ve just received a very large bill from Hugo’s hotel. It’s for when Gwen and Mariella were supposed to be staying and it’s of quite astronomical proportions. Normally, you would pay one night’s cancellation but apparently they booked a three-day package. That, and the fact that Hugo’s sent it to me, means one thing. War! We’re going to have to make doubly sure that Stephen isn’t suddenly intending to visit and, if he’s not, then it’s yes to this girl Daniela. We’ll have to work hard as a team and start straight away – but hey, we’re not a cooperative for nothing. So, Monica, go and see this hairdresser of yours and find out if the bride is serious. If she is, then Andiamo, everybody! We’re going to organize a wedding!’

  Eighteen

  ‘She asked you what?’

  This time it was the unshockable Sylvie who was shocked.

  ‘The bride would be absolutely thrilled to have her wedding at the villa,’ Monica explained. ‘Her entire family will also be thrilled. And her bridegroom and no doubt her second cousin. She also seemed especially keen to know if Giovanni would be around. Our Giovanni, it seems, is a bit of a local leg
end.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Angela couldn’t help biting her lip and giggling. ‘That’s not very bridal!’

  ‘Right. Forget Giovanni and his magic wand. Down to business.’ If Angela had had a gavel she would have banged it. ‘Some of you have children. Haven’t any of you helped organize their weddings at least?’

  Sylvie sighed. ‘My daughter just did it all herself, incredibly low key, register office followed by lunch in a pub. I just had to turn up. They didn’t even want our money, which actually was rather hurtful.’ The truth was, her daughter disapproved of Sylvie’s old hippie style and had been terrified of joss sticks and a soundtrack of Tubular Bells. ‘Please don’t come in a kaftan,’ had been her only communication. They had also firmly turned down Sylvie’s offer of doing up their home for them. Sylvie had felt wounded and also a failure, but had allowed Tony to comfort her with the assurance that that was what they all did nowadays. They planned their own weddings and even cashed in their wedding-list money at John Lewis so that they could buy a single piece by some designer in Shoreditch.

  Claire felt a stab of guilt about Belinda, her son Evan’s wife. Maybe, if she could have liked Belinda more, they would have had a proper wedding and might even have wanted Claire’s help with the catering.

  Angela, spotting that she had opened a can of emotional worms, swiftly changed the subject.

  ‘The first thing we’d better do is have them over and find out what kind of wedding they want.’

  ‘With just a teeny bit of persuasion on our part,’ added Sylvie, unable to resist. ‘I imagine weddings in Italy are rather formal. None of that wilting wildflowers stuff that’s all the rage at home. Twenty-five bridesmaids with bunches of cow parsley. This house would be perfect for something baroque and amazing, a real Medici-type wedding.’

  ‘Didn’t the Medicis go in for poisoning all their guests?’ enquired Claire.

  ‘I think that was the Borgias,’ giggled Monica.

  So it was agreed that the bride-to-be and her mother would be invited to view the villa and decide – with a little nudging from Sylvie – what kind of wedding they actually wanted.

  ‘And strictly no mention of Giovanni!’ insisted Angela. ‘But first, we need to have a conversation with all the staff and make it clear what we’re planning.’