by John Marrs
‘Well, you sound like a perfect match,’ she continued. ‘I mean, you’re both able to murder at the drop of a hat. At least you buried that body and didn’t just leave it in the middle of the street like you did with Paula. Actually, is that why you’re here? Is the tart back on the game, so now you’ve come home?’
‘No, Catherine,’ he replied wearily. ‘I promised Luciana I’d put things right with you before it was too late.’
‘You can never put right what you did to me. And I don’t need a prostitute’s pity.’
A wall next to the pantry, covered with ornately carved wooden picture frames she’d bought in Bali, distracted him. He got distracted a lot these days.
They contained photographs of their children. The snapshots of life without him spanned two decades, and he couldn’t help but wonder what might have been.
‘Is this Robbie?’ he asked, pointing to a boy standing by a blue Ford Fiesta. She nodded. ‘He looks so much like Luca.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My son,’ he replied. ‘I have a daughter too.’
Her jaw dropped. But before she had the chance to fly off the handle again, they were stopped in their tracks by the sound of the front door opening. Time froze until Emily breezed into the kitchen.
‘Mum, did I leave my purse in—’ she began, before noticing her mother had company. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, oblivious to the panic spreading across her mother’s face. Her parents glared at each other like a clandestine affair had been interrupted.
Mum, he silently repeated to himself. He recognised her as the girl who’d passed him when he arrived at the cottage that morning and he lost himself in the daughter he’d last seen as a toddler. How much have I missed out on? he thought. Just how much?
Catherine’s brain went into slow motion, unable to muster a word of explanation to her daughter as to the identity of the stranger before them. She was petrified when he opened his mouth to speak.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Darren.’ He smiled politely and held his hand out towards Emily. It was the first name that sprang to mind. Old habits die hard.
‘Hi,’ she replied, shaking it but still unsure who the dapper gentleman with such warm hands was.
‘I’m an old schoolfriend of your mother’s,’ he said.
‘Really?’ asked Emily, enthusiastically. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
‘Yes, and you. I’ve not seen Catherine for many years and I was passing through, so I thought I’d drop in on the off-chance she still lived here.’
He was a convincing liar, Catherine conceded, but then he’d had so much practice. She felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights as father and daughter conversed, not knowing how to bring herself out of their glare.
‘I’m her daughter, Emily,’ she offered. ‘So what was my mum like at school then? I bet she was a real goody two shoes.’
He laughed. ‘You could say that. She was a bright thing, always destined to do well.’
‘Has she told you about her shops?’ Emily asked, clearly proud of her mother’s achievements. ‘She’s got eight now . . . even one on the King’s Road in London.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, she’s done very well for herself.’
‘Anyway, Mum, did I leave my purse here?’
‘I’m . . . I’m not sure,’ she stuttered.
‘I’ll have a look,’ replied Emily as she headed towards the living room. In her absence, Emily’s mother and father stared at each other – he delighted to have met Emily, and her grateful he’d not revealed his identity. They remained silent until she returned with her purse.
‘Found it. Do you still want to come round for dinner tonight, Mum? Olivia’s been asking to see her granny, but if you’re busy with your friend, we can do it another night?’
She saw him react when Emily said the word ‘granny’, and became irritated he was learning things about her family he had no right to know. ‘Can I come tomorrow instead?’ she asked, her voice close to breaking. She willed her daughter to leave.
‘Of course,’ Emily replied, and reached the door, then turned around. ‘Darren, if you went to school with my mum, you must have known my dad, Simon?’
He dug his fingernails into his palm. ‘I recall him, but didn’t know him very well, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh,’ said Emily, clearly disappointed. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you. See you tomorrow, Mum.’
The door closed and they gradually made their descent back to earth, remaining in a relieved but awkward silence.
‘She looks like you . . .’ he began eventually, but she wasn’t interested.
‘Don’t,’ she replied. ‘Just don’t.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CATHERINE
Northampton, ten years earlier
14 August
We sat huddled together staring at a television hanging on the wall of the Fox & Hounds’ function room. I switched between tapping my nails on a tabletop with nervous excitement, and fiddling with a damp beer mat, waiting.
Ten minutes felt like an eternity before the chirpy young presenter announced what we’d gathered to see. The landlord turned the volume up and an instant hush fell across the packed room.
‘Next up, it’s a band making their debut Top of The Pops performance. In at this week’s number four, it’s Driver, with “Find Your Way Home”.’
A jubilant pub clapped and cheered as the camera cut to a close-up of the guitarist strumming the opening bars of the song.
‘That’s him! That’s him!’ I yelled, unable to stop myself. There for all to see was my son James, on the TV, playing with his band.
James had never given university a first, let alone second thought, especially after forming a group with three other music-minded friends at his upper school. They’d spent hours every night rehearsing in Simon’s old garage-office, and I made them cover the walls with empty egg boxes from the local poultry farm to stop the neighbours complaining about their racket.
When James turned sixteen, my little boy became a free man, and his first act of rebellion was to leave school with a handful of average GCSE results and all the time in the world to follow his heart. It wasn’t what I’d have chosen for him. I’d read enough over the years about showbiz casualties to know it was a notoriously unpredictable and unforgiving industry. But like I had done with my dreams and the boutique, I encouraged my son to follow his even if they’d only lead him to the unemployment office.
It took his band six long years of playing spit-and-sawdust venues before their determination paid off. A record company A & R man watched them on the bill at a small rock festival in Cornwall and spotted their potential.
Eventually, their third single, ‘Find Your Way Home’, was picked up by Radio 1, and before long their youthful good looks propelled them into the pages of magazines, gossip columns and the charts. And Top of the Pops was their first major TV exposure.
Robbie handed his grandmother Shirley and Emily tissues to dab their eyes, and they weren’t the only ones who needed them. Tom had remained in the kids’ lives even though we were no longer together and had joined us at the pub with his lovely fiancée Amanda. He’d often been to Driver’s gigs, and by the time their three and a half minutes of TV fame had ended, he and I were both in tears. Everyone in the local pub had known James his whole life and shared my sense of pride.
But I was proud of all my children, of course. Robbie had remained the quietest of the bunch, even into his teenage years. But he’d overcome his self-imposed exile and surprised us all by moving as far away as Sunderland University to study things I didn’t really understand involving computers, hard drives and mega-somethings. And with his graduation still some time away, he’d already been offered and accepted a job in South London designing graphics for games.
Emily took her mother’s and grandmother’s interest in clothing and design one step further and couldn’t wait to start her first year at the London College of Fashion. And while there was probably no easier way of
attracting boys than to tell them your brother’s been on Top of the Pops, she only had eyes for Daniel, Selena’s son.
They’d been sweethearts forever, and watching them together making each other laugh reminded me of Simon and I at their age. I prayed to God Daniel would never hurt her like Simon had hurt me.
I glanced around the pub at my family and friends, happy with my lot. There was no significant other in my life, but I had three children I adored and a business that had expanded to five boutiques across the county. And with plans for three more, including one in London, my life was as close to perfect as it was ever going to be. But the greatest moments of your life are exactly that – just moments.
And by their design, moments don’t last.
SIMON
Montefalco, Italy, ten years earlier
3 July
‘That’s my lot. You win, my friend,’ I gasped, and dragged my leaden legs across the red clay and towards the iced water under the pagoda’s shade.
Stefan, my coach, smiled and gave me a thumbs-up sign while I downed the entire bottle’s contents to quench my thirst. I waved him goodbye, mopped my sweating brow with a towel and caught my breath. I cursed myself for being both a mad dog and an Englishman to schedule a mid-afternoon tennis lesson under the searing Italian summer sun.
I was constantly in awe of my surroundings. I must have stared at our breathtaking valleys and vineyards a hundred times, but I never took for granted the warm embrace of the magnificent country around me.
When we first arrived in Italy, I’d been hesitant about the prospective life that lay ahead for Luciana and me. It had been second nature for me to live hand to mouth from limited means, but suddenly I’d found myself in love with a woman who’d inherited a wealth I’d never dared to imagine. And the potential for stability would take me worryingly far from what I’d been accustomed to. I’d known the warmth of normality once, and I knew the agony of having it torn away from me.
Luciana sensed my trepidation on our arrival and squeezed my hand reassuringly as her chauffeur drove his late padrone’s Bentley through the open iron gates and up the brick-paved driveway.
I squinted as the sun played hide and seek behind the vast sprawling villa ahead of us that Luciana had once called home. Lavender plants in flowerbeds and terracotta pots filled the air with their scent.
We walked through its colossal wooden doors as she explained how a house had stood in that spot for three hundred years. It was deliberately constructed a mile above the town of Montefalco, as if to remind those living under its shadow of its owner’s importance.
As soon as Luciana saw Marianna, her housekeeper, saviour and old friend, she collapsed into her arms and cried with gratitude for her past help. It was the first time I’d seen such vulnerability in her. Together they wandered the villa’s haunted corridors, reliving lost memories of Luciana’s sister and confronting the ghosts of her father.
I’d heard no positive stories about Signor Marcanio from Luciana’s childhood recollections. But, quietly, I found something to admire in a man so vulgar through his home.
He had restored the building’s charm with sympathetic and meticulous effort. The gaping dual-aspect living room formed the centrepiece, its walls supporting an exposed beamed ceiling some twenty feet high. The fireplace was the room’s focal point, standing like a church altar ready for a congregation that would never be invited inside.
But the pristine decor lacked any personal touch and there were no family photographs or knick-knacks scattered around, only carefully selected abstract paintings, ornate glass ornaments and an exotic fish tank. Luciana had grown up within a man’s design, not his heart.
We weaved our way into the gardens, where cobbled patios cut into vast, luscious lawns, some hidden from the sun’s reach under wooden pagodas strewn with leafy vines. The positioning of the main terrace enabled a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view, and a cobbled pathway sloped downwards to a tennis court and swimming pool. And what a view it was: mile after mile of vineyards and valleys painted in alternate shades of greens and browns as far as the eye could see.
‘Do you think you could be happy here?’ she asked me tentatively as we sat perched on a wall overlooking the canyons and lowlands.
‘It’ll take some getting used to, but yes, I could. More importantly, can you?’
‘As long as I’m with you, I could be happy anywhere,’ she replied.
Luciana’s voyage into her past was relatively smooth. Signor Marcanio had left no will before his fatal stroke, so his estate and businesses were automatically awarded to a wife he’d not divorced. But Madame Lola had no desire to return permanently, and remained in Mexico, visiting us every few months for two weeks at a time. It was Luciana who needed to be there and had something to prove.
She threw herself into her father’s business interests, but it took years to wipe away his presence. His investments were wide and many, and their value far exceeded what she’d first predicted. Her own accountants unearthed an Aladdin’s cave of below-the-radar dealings masquerading as reputable, so she culled each black sheep from the company portfolio until only legitimate enterprises remained.
Luciana saw to it that removal men cleansed the house of the few remaining traces of Signor Marcanio. His clothes were given away to charity and his jewellery sent to auction, and the proceeds were donated to a shelter for victims of domestic abuse. I briefly wondered what Catherine had done with my things when I’d left.
Next, she reassured the small army of browbeaten maids, cleaners, cooks and gardeners who’d scuttle past us, heads bowed, that this new regime would not mirror the last.
And while she was kept busy untangling her father’s affairs, I focused on Signor Marcanio’s sprawling, largely ignored vineyards. He’d treated the production of wine as a hobby, and because it was the place of Caterina’s suicide, it wasn’t an area Luciana was ready to be reminded of just yet.
I, however, wondered about its potential, as my desire to create and construct reared its head once again. I knew nothing about the workings of a winery, but I was a fast learner and a willing student. While the manager patiently taught me all its aspects from land irrigation to pressing harvested grapes and sourcing bottling plants, I knew it would take many years of hard work and determination before I might turn her father’s pastime into a profitable product.
Never had I imagined I could live a life so perfect, but that is what Luciana and I came close to. But perfection comes at a price, and I was scared of how much I’d pay in telling her my truths. As our years together progressed, it became an increasing burden to hide the man I’d been from the woman who’d rebuilt me.
1 September
I’d held Luciana’s hand while she bravely walked me through the complicated chapters of her past. But what had she known of mine?
In truth, I had given away mere morsels – snapshots of a life lived through the destruction of others. She had guessed children had once played a part in my life, by observing my paternal instinct when our daughter Sofia was born.
The first time I held her body in the crook of my arm, I whispered into her ear words I never thought I’d use again: ‘I will never let you down.’ And when our son Luca followed a little over a year later, I vowed never to have reason to go back on my promise, no matter how precarious my journey became.
Most people are fortunate even to be given a second chance. My family was my third chance and I no longer wanted to hide my flaws, mis-sell my adventures or conceal my truths from her. I had shown Luciana unconditional love and loyalty, but by keeping many past actions, reactions and repercussions buried deep beneath my skin, I had little integrity.
We were sitting on the lowest tier of the garden terraces watching the sun melt like ice cream over the vineyards, when she commented on my silence.
‘You have the face of a troubled man,’ she began.
I considered denying it, but she could see through my every mask.
‘There are thi
ngs I think you should know about me,’ I replied, afraid to disfigure the beauty around us with my ugly words.
‘Tell me because you’re ready and not because you feel you should.’
‘I am, really, but I’m scared of how you’ll react.’
‘There is nothing you can tell me that will ever make me think any less of you, Simon.’
Neither my head nor the pounding heart rattling against my ribcage was convinced. But I couldn’t stop my ribbons from unspooling as I explained how I’d met Catherine, and the children we’d had together. Then I recalled in detail how it had gone so very, very wrong; about Billy; why I’d had no option but to leave her; where I’d gone; about my mother, both my fathers and then my travels.
I described how I’d relieved a dead man of his identity, why I’d muted an old friend in Key West and how my guilt had manifested in my near self-destruction. And I admitted that given the same circumstances, I’d probably do exactly the same all over again because in its own twisted way, it had been worth it. It had led me to Luciana.
I was prepared to accept any punishment or consequence she felt necessary. For the first time, I was in the presence of someone who knew almost as much about me as I did. And only when my history was complete did my fists unclench as I waited for her to break the silence.
‘You did what you had to do,’ she said, finally. ‘Nobody can judge you but God, Simon. I won’t. While I cannot lie and say the things you’ve done haven’t been cruel and selfish, or that you haven’t hurt people who might not have deserved it, you know that for yourself. And if you had to suffer all of that to become the man and the father I love now, then so be it.’
She left her seat, sat on my lap and wrapped her arms around my shoulders while the dam I’d spent fifteen years building crumbled under the weight of my tears.
‘But you cannot hide from your family forever,’ she whispered. ‘Catherine deserves to know what happened to her husband, and your children deserve to know why their father left. You, them . . . everyone needs the chance to put the pieces together.’
