by Maeve Haran
‘You know me, I like to be doing.’
He put down the paper. ‘Well, I think you’re all amazing. To even think of doing this in the time you’ve got. But then, you’re a pretty impressive bunch.’
Claire wished she felt herself as confident in their abilities as Martin seemed to. She started to make a list out loud of things to do. ‘Trestle tables, whatever they are in Italian. Monica would know. I need twelve of them, and a hundred and thirty chairs. In fact, it would be amazing if you and she could go to Lerini and consult her antiques lady and see if we can get mismatched ones. That would be very boho. Though Monica’s doing the flowers as well, so I don’t want to take up too much of her time. Martin . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve decided I’m going to be much nicer to Belinda when I get home.’
Martin took her hand and held it surprisingly tightly. ‘You are coming home, then?’
‘Of course I’m coming home,’ Claire replied, taken aback.
‘Don’t mess with me, Claire,’ Martin’s sudden anger startled her. ‘There’s no “of course” about it. If Graziella hadn’t come back, you might have stayed here.’ He pulled her to him, squashing her notebook. ‘For whatever reason, I’m very glad.’ She thought he was going to kiss her again but this time he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to be taken for granted.
Sylvie studied the celebrated vintage-style wedding dress Kate Moss had worn. The fabric was beautiful, with its panels of silver- and sequin-embossed lace. There was no way she could find anything similar except in Milan, Italy’s fashion capital, yet the thought of braving the frenetic urban atmosphere was too much after the peace and remote magic of Lanzarella. It wasn’t her bloody wedding after all.
That made her think about her daughter again. Salome seemed to have defined herself in opposition to Sylvie’s personality by being ultra-conservative, calling herself Sal and dressing entirely in Boden. Perhaps Sylvie should never have called her Salome in the first place. It must have been an awful lot to live up to. When she’d got married, she’d turned not to Sylvie, who would have enjoyed nothing more than creating an original colourful wedding for her daughter, but to his mother, who’d more or less bought one off the peg in Harrods, it was so dull and conventional.
Sylvie suspected Sal was simply embarrassed about her flamboyant mother. Of course, stupid gestures like sending incriminating pictures of Tony with a girl younger than Sal herself couldn’t have helped. Her daughter seemed to spend more and more of her time these days with her parents-in-law in deepest Surrey. And since she’d had children of her own, Tony and Sylvie hardly saw them at all.
Sylvie had tried to convince herself she didn’t mind. After all, being a grandmother was so ageing. But the truth was, she did. Very much indeed. Sylvie sighed. Sending out that email of their father would hardly have helped. When she returned home, she was going to try much harder to be what Sal wanted her to be.
She willed herself to go back to the dress. She stared at it, trying to see how it was made, and how she could produce a convincing copy.
A sudden thought struck her that slip dresses, which she would need to go underneath the transparent lace, had been all the rage in last year’s collections. A version had been produced by all the big-name designers from Dior to Marc Jacobs. It was just possible that she might find something suitable in Capri.
The island of Capri, less than an hour away by sea, was a wonderful mix of yachties and Eurotrash, all prepared to blow a few thousand euros in the smart boutiques – Dolce & Gabbana, Vuitton, Prada – that graced the island’s capital.
‘Anyone fancy a day in Capri?’ she asked the others. ‘I’m going to scour the shops there for anything that could be converted into a boho wedding dress.’
Angela, who, with her usual efficiency, had already drawn up a budget and whisked it over to Daniela and her mother to sign, decided that this sounded a lot of fun, so they set off together to catch the next hydrofoil.
Angela, despite running Fabric, had never witnessed the art of serious shopping before and was about to be humbled in admiration before one of its foremost proponents. Sylvie could enter a shop, take in an entire rail at a glance, demand to see anything that was being stored in the back, occasionally actually go into the stock room herself to make sure that nothing had been missed, and be out again in under fifteen minutes.
With Daniela’s ample measurements stored in her phone she sampled every boutique in Capri Town. There was a promising moment when an Alexander Wang dress was discovered in a cupboard but it was a size 10, and a raised heartbeat when the name Calvin Klein was mentioned, only to find that the dress was short and champagne-coloured.
Angela could take no more and went to have a coffee. She was joined by an exhausted Sylvie an hour later. ‘Nothing. The only thing that was Daniela-sized was a cheesecloth monstrosity that reminded me of those covers for spare loo rolls.’
‘Well, as it happens,’ Angela, cool as usual in a linen dress and silver sandals, sipped her Bellini, ‘how about this?’ She got her iPad out of her bag and opened a website. A pretty natural-looking model appeared in a floor-length waft of satin with spaghetti straps and a small self-train. ‘It looks just like that Alexander Wang, only longer. It’s a hundred per cent silk, fully-lined.’
‘Don’t show me,’ Sylvie half covered her eyes. ‘They’ll never have her size!’
‘As a matter of fact, they do. Of course, you’ll have to add all that lace and beading and make it look vintage, but I’m sure that isn’t beyond your talent.’
‘How much is it?’ The other dress had been two thousand euros.
‘You’re not going to believe this. Two hundred and fifty-seven pounds, plus twenty-four-hour delivery costs!’
‘I think I’m going to faint.’
‘Well, have a Bellini first. They’re delicious.’
To Sylvie’s utter amazement, the dress arrived the next day, as promised, and she began to add all the antiquey bits she’d found in Lerini, old lace, faded silk and beading, which she stole from an evening bag the wonderful antiques-shop lady had produced for her. ‘It belonged to my mother,’ the lady had explained, ‘but my daughter remembered it and thought you would find it useful for Daniela’s dress.’
Sylvie loved the way the whole community was getting involved in Daniela’s wedding. Chairs of all different styles and sizes kept mysteriously arriving at the house via pickup, Fiat 500 and even a scooter. The word was out that Claire wanted chairs and chairs she would have!
‘God knows what we’ll do with them afterwards,’ Claire shook her head, ‘since I’ve absolutely no idea where they’ve come from.’
Martin came good with the trestle tables too. The truth was, he mentioned it to Luigi and Luigi went off on a mission to Lanzarella, where the cafe owners put their heads together and remembered that someone had some stored in a barn. They were used once a year when there was a Christmas fair in an area famous for specializing in Nativity crib scenes.
Feeling pleased with himself, Martin stood gazing out at the wide blue horizon, viewed through the purple framing of the wisteria-covered pergola. ‘She’s got good taste, this girl. I can’t imagine anywhere more romantic than this to get married in, can you?’
‘You’re turning into an old softie,’ Claire teased. ‘It’s certainly one up on Twickenham Town Hall where we did the deed.’
‘Still, it’s not the location so much as who it is you marry.’ Martin looked at her penetratingly.
But before she could answer, Angela put her head out of the salon. ‘Before you get too sentimental, there’s something of a surprise waiting for you round the back.’
Claire shot a look at Angela. If it was Luca, she wouldn’t have this rather curious teasing tone, surely?
They both followed Angela through the dark, cool interior, past The Annunciation and out to the back steps. There were two people standing in the shade of a holm oak tree leaning on what looked like a hire car.
‘Oh my God,’ C
laire rushed forward with her hands out, ‘it’s Evan and Belinda!’
With all her newly polished good intentions, Claire made sure she gave her daughter-in-law a big hug. Belinda looked surprised, but smiled back.
‘Hey, Mum!’ Evan put his arms round her and then turned to Martin. ‘Hello, Dad. We thought as we’d been abandoned by the pair of you we might come and see what the attraction of this Shangri-La-sur-mer is. I must admit, I can see it beats good old Twickers!’
Claire’s mind was whirring about where they could put her son and daughter-in-law with all these mad wedding preparations going on.
Evan, always closest to her, read her mind. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not expecting to stay here. We’ve got an Airbnb in Lanzarella, just round the other side of the town.’
‘I’m sure we could have sorted something.’
‘We want our independence too, you know!’ His eyes twinkled. ‘We’ve been quite enjoying having the place to ourselves, as a matter of fact.’ He caught his mother’s eye. ‘And don’t worry, we’ve been keeping it tidy; haven’t we, Bel?’
‘Even the liquidizer!’ Belinda grinned. ‘And the Kitchenaid.’
‘Oh dear, am I that much of a domestic tyrant?’
‘Yes!’ they chorused.
‘On the other hand,’ Belinda conceded, ‘they are the tools of your trade, so it’s fair enough.’ She glanced round. ‘I’d love to see inside the villa. It looks absolutely amazing.’
‘We wondered what had kept Dad here so long.’ Evan grinned at his father. ‘We thought the sirens had got him.’
‘Maybe they have.’ Martin flashed a look at Claire which made his son raise an intrigued eyebrow.
‘Right, let’s have the tour,’ Evan said eagerly.
Claire and Martin took them around the house first, up the stairs past The Annunciation, which made a big impression on Belinda. She grabbed Evan’s hand and stared at the Madonna. ‘She actually looks happy about being pregnant in a quiet Madonna-kind of way. Do you know, I’ve never seen that before? They usually look like someone’s slipped them the short straw.’
Evan squeezed her hand. ‘Instead of seeing it as the beginning of a big adventure, as Lou Reed put it.’
‘Well, Mary was going to be an unmarried mother; I don’t suppose that was such hot news two thousand years ago in Galilee.’
The doom painting just made them fall about with laughter. Evan stared at the demon who was poking the naked women with a red-hot pitchfork. ‘I’m not sure it would work as an effective contraceptive, but I suppose it might make you stop and think, “Is this really going to be worth it?”’
‘Women have wondered that ever since the dawn of time,’ Belinda teased him.
Sylvie’s mad bordello rooms enchanted them. ‘Definitely got some design ideas from those.’ Evan grinned.
‘Well, that would make a change from magnolia,’ his wife pointed out.
‘How is the flat-hunting?’ Claire instantly wished she hadn’t asked that. Did it sound as if she were trying to get rid of them?
‘Good. We’ve found somewhere at last,’ Evan announced. ‘Your spare room may very soon be liberated.’
They went back down to the salon and out onto the terrace.
Belinda stopped, rooted to the spot, staring at all the trees with their froth of blossoms against the perfect blue sky, with the misty heat-haze of the sea beyond. ‘My God, this is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen!’
‘I think that’s what we’re all feeling,’ Claire conceded. ‘Even Martin.’
Behind them the ever-smiling Beatrice appeared with a tray and an inevitable bottle plus some little nibbly things. ‘For your guests.’
‘More than just guests.’ Claire put an arm round each of them. ‘My son and lovely daughter-in-law, Belinda.’
They sat down under the wisteria-clad pergola as Beatrice poured the wine.
‘Are you having some, love?’ Evan asked Belinda tenderly.
‘Oh, I think so.’ She smiled at him. ‘Go on, spill the beans.’
Claire watched them, unable to stop smiling herself.
‘OK, Mum and Dad, we’ve got something to tell you . . .’
Nineteen
‘We’re going to have a baby,’ Evan announced, beaming with fatherly pride.
Claire was instantly out of her seat. ‘Oh, Evan, Belinda, that’s wonderful!’ She had never really thought much about being a grandmother, she realized, but suddenly the prospect seemed entirely delightful.
‘Well done, son!’ Martin was hugging him.
‘Quite clever of Belinda too,’ Claire teased.
‘Absolutely! Congratulations, absolutely bloody brilliant!’
‘And when’s the EDD?’ Claire found the jargon – the all-important Estimated Delivery Date – came flowing back.
‘The beginning of October.’
‘Gosh, and you’ve had a scan?’
Evan reached for his wallet and removed a blurry grey-and-white scan photograph. ‘Look,’ his enthusiasm bubbled over, ‘there’s the head, and there’s the back.’
He handed it to Claire who found her eyes were misting over.
‘Grandmother alert!’ Evan teased affectionately. ‘Mum’s tearing up!’
‘You’d better give it to me, then!’ Martin gently removed it then reached out a hand to hold Claire’s. ‘It is amazing, isn’t it?’ he asked, awed. ‘A whole new life.’
‘This is a great reaction.’ Evan grinned at Belinda. ‘I think we can book up the babysitting now.’
All Claire’s hopes suddenly flooded into her mind, her feelings for Luca, her desire to make a life here – and all without the slightest suspicion that anything like this was waiting to ambush her. She turned away for a moment, to find Martin watching her, obviously guessing what she was thinking, and she felt at a loss, as if by even thinking such things she were betraying Evan and Belinda’s trust, and somehow tramping on their happiness.
‘Any idea if it’s a boy or girl?’ she managed finally.
‘Evan would quite like a boy to fill his head full of football, and I’d quite like a girl to come shopping with me.’ Belinda smiled at Evan tenderly, relishing her own joke. She was not one of life’s shoppers. ‘But actually we’d both be happy with either.’
‘And you say you’ve found a flat?’ Martin asked.
‘Yes, we’ve actually paid the deposit, amazingly. We couldn’t afford Twickenham, obviously, but the flat’s not that far away.’
‘I hope you didn’t think we wanted you to move!’ Claire blurted suddenly.
They all looked at her and Claire realized she must have sounded oddly vehement.
‘Don’t worry,’ Evan teased, ‘I’m sure you’ll see plenty of us once we’ve got the baby.’ He smiled at Belinda. ‘We’d better head off. We’ve got a busy schedule while we’re here. Belinda wants to see Pompeii and Vesuvius.’
‘But you’ll come to dinner?’
‘Tomorrow would be good. We’re here till Friday. Your housekeeper said you were planning a wedding. Not yours, I assume. I mean, you only got married in a register office so you’re due a party.’
‘Not ours, no.’ Claire avoided Martin’s sceptical gaze. ‘It’s for an Italian girl. Quite a big do. We’re all pitching in.’
‘Let’s hope there’s no bloodbath. The Godfather and all that.’
With perfect timing, Beatrice arrived to announce that Marco, the bridegroom-to-be, and his family would like to come tomorrow and have a look at the villa.
‘What’s his surname,’ Evan quipped, ‘not Corleone, I trust?’
Beatrice, on whom this literary reference was entirely lost, smiled helpfully. ‘I think is Moretti.’
‘Oh well, at least he makes a good beer.’
‘No, no, is making parts for washing machine.’
‘Evan,’ his father chided, ‘stop it.’
After they’d gone off down the hill in their little car, he turned to Claire. ‘Well, they seem ha
ppy.’
‘They do, don’t they?’
‘And you did very well in your be-nice-to-Belinda campaign.’
‘She did offer an olive branch about cleaning the Kitchenaid.’
‘So it’s peace and happiness all round, then . . .’
What most surprised them all about Marco Moretti, when he arrived for an inspection tour with what seemed like a full delegation, was how much older he was than Daniela.
‘I’d say forty-five,’ said Martin.
‘Surely more like forty,’ argued Tony.
‘Fifty,’ chorused the women.
‘Funny how you men all see him as younger than we do.’
‘Too old for her, anyway,’ suggested Claire. ‘She can’t be more than twenty-five.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ began Tony.
‘Careful, mate.’ Martin elbowed him. ‘Shaky ground. Ladies of a certain vintage always distrust the younger model, and in your case . . .’
‘Point taken.’ Tony nodded humbly, but with a residue of twinkle. ‘He is far, far too old for her.’
At that point the delegation rounded the corner and the portly bridegroom strode towards them. ‘Whatever Daniela has told you,’ he greeted them, ‘we must be married in the church first, for the sake of my family. All my family have been married in Lanzarella Cathedral. I will fix this personally with the parish priest. He can read out – what do you call them? – the banns this week and get a special dispensation to marry the week after. He did the same for my cousin.’
‘Mr Moretti, this is for you and your bride to decide,’ Angela replied diplomatically. ‘We will do whatever you wish. We just wish you to have a peaceful happy wedding.’ And good luck to you persuading your fiancée, she almost added.
Marco nodded his thanks and re-joined his family just as an agitated Beatrice rounded the corner, attempting to prevent a very angry Hugo from bursting in on their conversation.
Seeing Marco Moretti in no way calmed him.
‘This is all your doing, of course,’ he accused Angela. ‘You had some pathetic design on me and then when it wasn’t going to happen, you steal my business from under my nose.’ He really didn’t look at all attractive when he was angry, Angela noticed. His charm was obviously just a cover for a domineering nature. ‘I wonder what your precious Stephen thinks of the way you’ve all been behaving up here, eating his food, drinking his wine. How much of his money have you all blown on your five-star lifestyle?’
