by Maeve Haran
The Moretti party were witnessing this interchange from a distance, looking shocked that civilized people could behave so badly.
Angela maintained her calm with great difficulty. ‘I don’t think Stephen measures friendship in the same way you seem to.’
‘Clearly not. But then perhaps he doesn’t know the extent of your indulgence. Wine before dinner, wine with dinner, and, no doubt, wine after dinner. A nice little number for a group of—’ he paused, looking for the appropriate insult.
‘I think post-menopausal harpies was the delightful expression you used before.’
‘Quite.’ Finally, he noticed the Moretti party approaching.
‘Mr Moretti,’ Hugo turned on the charm like a tap, ‘I hope you appreciate that you have placed the most important day of your life in the hands of rank amateurs.’ He turned to Angela. ‘How many weddings have you, or indeed any of you, organized before, Ms Williams?’
Angela looked at him coolly. ‘That is hardly the point.’
Claire decided it was time to speak up. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Robertson, I have organized dozens of weddings, and funerals, and anniversary parties over a thirty-year period. Is that enough experience for you?’
Hugo looked her up and down. ‘For some tin-pot catering company with absolutely no style or elegance. Rather like yourself.’
Which was when Martin hit him.
‘Oh my God,’ Sylvie, the one member of the quartet who hadn’t been present, asked after they had all calmed down and Hugo had been requested to leave, ‘what did this Moretti man do? He’s not going to cancel the wedding, is he?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ Angela was still feeling rather shocked herself. She’d seen unpleasant behaviour in business, but never seen anyone lose it like Hugo.
‘Is Hugo OK?’
‘I think his dignity was wounded more than his face, but he’ll need a raw steak tonight. Maybe he can get one from his empty restaurant.’
‘What do you think we should do?’
‘I think we wait till tomorrow and then go and see Mr Moretti, all calm and professional, and reassure him it’ll all be fine. Meanwhile, we have to hope he’s persuaded Daniela and the priest that the ceremony ought to be in church.’
‘Hey,’ Sylvie brightened, looking up from the Vogue photograph she was using as a pattern for the dress. ‘Didn’t our Kate get married in church too?’
‘Sylvie, you’re a genius,’ Angela congratulated her. ‘Of course she did. This is going to be easier than we thought. Though if I remember Lanzarella Cathedral, we’re going to need an awful lot of apricot and lilac roses.’
‘Just tell her it’s not in the budget,’ Monica insisted. ‘We’ll do the whole thing from the garden. An English country Italian cathedral. No problem. No problem at all.’
By the time Evan and Belinda came to supper the next night, things had calmed down. Daniela had gone for the Cotswold cathedral number, her bridegroom had been assured Hugo only behaved like that because his business was going down the tubes, and the parish priest was delighted to welcome his strayed sheep in the form of Daniela, a rather over-endowed strayed sheep, it had to be said, back into the fold. Luckily for them the cathedral was free and the priest prepared to take a curiously Italian view of the canon law.
Monica was thrilled to relate tales from Pompeii and Vesuvius with the parents-to-be and they were genuinely impressed to hear from Martin of Monica’s private scattering of her husband’s ashes in the crater.
‘How amazing to see Vesuvius on horseback,’ enthused Belinda. ‘Do you think we could do that, love?’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ replied the cautious Evan.
‘In my condition, you mean? How do you think ladies got around before the motor car?’
‘Maybe they stayed at home lying on their chaises longues being fed grapes by their husbands?’ suggested Evan.
‘I promise only to walk, not even trot, how about that?’
Monica gave them the details of Nick’s riding stables and they booked themselves in for the day after tomorrow.
Stephen Charlesworth looked out of his latest high-rise, glass-fronted development on the River Thames and could feel spring in the air, even in this ever-growing, global city.
He loved London and though some people were convinced he and developers like him were trying to destroy the vistas that Canaletto had captured in the eighteenth century, he cared very deeply about the London skyline. It was just that he also believed in growth and change. He had laughed and listened when the actor Damian Lewis had asserted that London was becoming Dubai on the Thames, but also maintained that London had always evolved from Christopher Wren’s time onwards. But this year spring came to him with an unusual sense of restlessness, something he could not remember ever feeling before.
This sense, he had to admit, had been exacerbated by the curious letter he was holding in his hand. It had arrived yesterday. It was unsigned and written in a strange kind of stilted style as if trying to sound deliberately translated from another language.
Dear friend, it read (who was this curious anonymous friend anyway?), you are being cheated by people you trust and your good name is at stake. It is time you visited the Villa Le Sirenuse immediately to put stop to corrupt and abusive actions.
Stephen’s first response had been to laugh, and then to imagine that it was some kind of practical joke.
Instead he rang his mother.
Gwen, sitting on the terrace of the Grand Ticino Hotel in Taormina, had no idea who this strange missive might be from or what it referred to.
‘Sounds like a crackpot to me. Or someone who’s been reading too much Conan Doyle.’ Gwen thought about the situation for a moment. Who would be making trouble for the villa’s residents?
A thought struck her, not for the first time, that it wouldn’t do Stephen any harm to get over this strange relationship he had with the villa, rarely going there yet not being able to let go of it. How could he have even considered selling it to become an anonymous chain hotel? It was time Stephen experienced the Lanzarella magic again for himself. Who knew where it would lead?
‘Go,’ she counselled her son. ‘I think you should go. Beatrice and Immaculata would love to see you.’
‘But what about the others?’ Stephen sounded suddenly hesitant. ‘Wouldn’t I be intruding on their peace?’
‘It’s spring in Lanzarella, sunshine and lemon blossom, remember? It would be good for your soul.’
Stephen came to a decision. ‘Do you know, I think I will?’
‘Excellent.’ An even better idea occurred to Gwen.
Angela.
Gwen hadn’t liked her at first. But Angela had definitely grown on her. Friendship had mellowed her and stopped her needing to be in charge. The only trouble was, after the Hugo situation, Angela had been making noises about going home.
Stephen hadn’t told her a lot about their relationship in Oxford all those years ago, but she suspected it had been Stephen who had ended it. Angela was the proud type.
The position with Hugo had been humiliating enough, but if she knew Stephen was coming as well, someone who had also rejected her, even if it had been a very long time ago, she would probably jump on the first plane back to London. She was too proud to want to be pitied by Stephen.
Gwen thought that would be rather a waste. Stephen had been on his own for far too long.
‘Tell you what, darling,’ she advised her son, ‘don’t warn them you’re coming or they’ll pull out all the stops and make a huge fuss to say thank you.’
‘I’d hate that.’
‘Exactly. So I’d just turn up, if I were you. Tell them you’re passing through. Give them all a nice surprise.’
‘Do you think it would be a nice surprise?’
‘Darling, of course it would!’
Stephen found his mood had changed. The restlessness had evaporated like mist in spring sunshine.
He would just tie up the ends of the
deal he was working on here then he would go to Lanzarella. He’d book a flight for next Saturday morning.
Stephen found he was quietly whistling as he reached for his laptop. Which was quite surprising, as he’d never been able to whistle before.
Now that the church ceremony had been resolved, things were going along swimmingly with the wedding preparations. Marco felt he had successfully put his foot down and that this boded well for his marriage to the feisty Daniela, plus it was keeping his relatives happy. He was also relieved that the festivities were not happening in a hotel that was on the slide, managed by a man given to erratic behaviour.
Daniela adored the idea of her dress, and felt there was absolutely no problem with a size 16 damsel wearing a dress designed for someone literally half her bulk. Her mother thought the back scandalously low, but as Daniela argued, that would be covered up by the nine-foot veil.
The toro, the veal and the gold leaf had all been sourced and ordered, as had the outrageously expensive apricot and lilac roses. The bridesmaids, all twelve of them, would just carry flowers from the garden so that would save on the budget. And Sylvie, now hooked on the Internet, had managed to find bridesmaid’s dresses for a fraction of the cost of shop-bought versions, which she could cleverly customize to complement the bride’s.
What could go wrong?
Evan and Belinda only had two more days and there was still so much they wanted to do. Evan wanted to spend a day in Sorrento and Belinda wanted to go to the famous museum of Neapolitan Nativity scenes. They compromised by going on the horseback ride on Vesuvius. They were amazed to find what looked like Wild West stables on the slopes of a volcano in Italy. And to Evan’s relief, the ponies looked both small and friendly. In fact, he reckoned, his long legs would almost touch the ground.
‘You must be Monica’s friends,’ Nick, the owner of the stables, greeted them.
‘Yes, she told us all about scattering her husband’s ashes here,’ Belinda replied. ‘We thought it was so amazing. And I’d love to see Vesuvius from horseback. As long as you can promise there won’t be an eruption.’
‘I think I can pretty well guarantee that.’ Nick grinned. ‘There are well-known warning signs from the scientists. Unfortunately, they didn’t have them in ad 79, or history might have been a bit different.’
He helped them saddle up.
‘Can you make sure Bel gets the docile one?’ Evan couldn’t stop himself adding, ‘Only she’s four months pregnant.’
‘Right. Maybe I’d better come with you, then, if you don’t mind. I won’t intrude.’
‘We’d love our own private guide, wouldn’t we, Ev?’
They set out on their black-and-white ponies, a bottle of water strapped across Nick’s saddle in case it got hot later, following the path of the lava, through trees, passing small vineyards and curious rock shapes, all in the shadow of one of the world’s most famous slumbering volcanoes.
Halfway up, they stopped to admire the amazing view of the Bay of Naples.
Belinda twisted round to get her camera from her backpack. The sudden movement spooked her pony and it started forward. Belinda, holding her camera rather than the reins, found herself slipping from the saddle, twisting her ankle as she fell, hitting the ground with a yelp of pain.
Nick instantly jumped off his horse and took her foot out of the stirrup so that there was no chance of her being dragged, but she was worryingly pale. ‘Right,’ he announced instantly. ‘You just lie here on my coat and I’ll go back and get the four-wheel drive. I won’t be more than ten minutes. Here, have a drink of water.’
Evan had climbed down too and was kneeling next to her. ‘My God, darling, are you OK?’
Belinda, with a shade of Claire’s own sharpness, snapped back at him. ‘I don’t know, do I? My ankle hurts like hell but I think that’s all.’
The ten minutes seemed to go on forever until finally they heard the sound of a car. Belinda was still pale and looked sweaty.
Nick had had the foresight to bring a hand from the stables who could lead all three ponies back. ‘I’m taking you straight to the hospital in Naples,’ he announced. ‘They’ll kill me at the villa if I don’t! I’m sure it’s only a precaution but I think it would set all our minds at rest.’
Belinda and Evan climbed into the back of the car, grateful that someone else was making the decisions. Evan insisted she lie down as flat as she could while he did his best to support her.
‘I promise I won’t drive like an Italian,’ Nick joked, trying to keep the atmosphere as light as possible. ‘Evan, I think maybe you should ring the villa once we get a signal. Your mum and dad will want to know what’s happening.’
They stopped briefly at the ranch to pick up a blanket which Nick insisted Belinda have over her.
They were lucky that the traffic on the motorway was quite light. It would only take them half an hour to get to central Naples.
Evan wanted to ask if Belinda was having any cramps but realized it would only make things worse. She’d soon tell him if she was.
As soon as they got the news, Monica blamed herself. ‘I should never have mentioned the riding stables to them in the first place,’ she insisted.
‘According to Evan she’s only twisted her ankle. It may be absolutely nothing,’ Claire tried to reassure her. ‘Martin’s going to the hospital now. They didn’t want both of us because they’ve no idea if they’ll even be seen for hours.’ She paused, not wanting to even consider it. ‘Unless it becomes an emergency.’ She tried not to think of the blurry scan and their delighted happiness.
The truth was she’d been a little hurt that they’d wanted Martin rather than her, though it was true Martin was calmer. She knew she had a tendency to overreact, like pouring that coffee into the horrible banker’s lap. And too many people hanging around might make the situation more tense.
Martin’s taxi arrived and she made him promise to call her the instant there was any news. At least she had a million things to be getting on with here that would thankfully take her mind off the situation.
He had only been gone ten minutes and Claire was beginning to sort out her ingredients for the bottom layer of the wedding cake, when Luca arrived. He had the good judgement to ask for her to come out rather than come into the house, but, of course, everyone would still know.
‘Chiara,’ he looked rather wild, the restrained elegance that had characterized him nowhere in evidence, ‘it is Graziella. She has gone and says this time it is forever.’ He grabbed one of Claire’s hands. ‘Everything has been going so well. The business is turning round. The Cellono, thanks to you, is beginning to really sell. It was all over the Internet after your friend’s party. A magazine wishes to write about it as the new Italian aperitif and yesterday a big distributor asked to come and see me! But Graziella says she knows that you are the one I love! Chiara mia, will you come with me and share my life here in Lerini?’
Claire listened to him, but it was as if he were talking about someone else. His words, the words she had longed to hear such a short time ago, seemed hollow and unreal.
Reality now was Belinda lying in a hospital in Naples. Reality was her son Evan trying not to mention the chance of a miscarriage. Of them both waiting desperately for the doctor to examine her and say that everything would be all right.
‘Luca, I’m sorry,’ her eyes searched his, trying to make him understand, ‘I will be going home to England soon. With my husband. Once I have gone, I am sure Graziella will come back and you will save the business together. Your way of life is right for you, you are part of a family, a tradition, but my family and tradition are in England.’ She reached out a hand to him. ‘Goodbye, Luca. And good luck. I’m sure before long I will be reading about your big success with Cellono and I will feel glad that I had a small part in it, that all of us here did. And, most of all, that you can keep the tradition alive of Lerini lemons.’
She turned and walked back into the house.
As she got to the t
op of the steps, her mobile started to ring. It was Martin.
‘It’s all right, Clairey.’ He used the pet name she hadn’t heard in thirty years. ‘Belinda’s going to be fine. She’ll be hobbling about for a week or two but the baby’s in absolutely no danger.’
Claire was so relieved that she didn’t even see Luca walk away and get into his car. ‘Oh, Martin. Thank God. We can all breathe again. Monica will be so relieved too. She’s been blaming herself for ever mentioning her ride on Vesuvius.’
‘You can tell her that that friend of hers, Nick, was brilliant. He drove them straight to hospital himself. He’s here still, as a matter of fact. He’s going to give us all a lift back. Belinda says there’s one good thing: she can get wheelchair assistance on the plane tomorrow and not have to walk miles from some ridiculously remote gate at Heathrow!’
When she went back into the house, she passed The Annunciation and stopped for a moment. Of course, the medieval Madonna had had absolutely nothing to do with Belinda being fine, but Claire found herself thanking the glowing depiction of the pregnant Virgin anyway.
Beatrice and Immaculata were busy in the kitchen but when Immaculata left to get a serving platter, Beatrice took Claire’s hand. Claire had almost forgotten that Luca was her nephew. ‘Is a good thing you do,’ she said softly. Grazie.’ They both knew what she was referring to.
Beatrice went back to the task of making sure the hired plates were clean, as if she had never spoken.
‘Any news from the hospital?’ Monica was almost as anxious as Claire had been.
‘All fine, she’s just twisted her ankle. That’s all.’
Monica launched herself into Claire’s arms. ‘Oh, thank God! I have been so worried.’
‘I know you have. One good thing. Your friend Nick was brilliant, apparently. He’s dropping them all back.’
