by Fanny Blake
‘Tell you what,’ Eve suggested. ‘If you’re not going to tell us, why don’t you find the Scrabble while we clear the table? In fact, why don’t I do that, Rose, while you call Jess?’ Eve followed Rose into the kitchen, the baking tray containing the remains of the fig tart in her hands. ‘At least you can head off one drama at the pass before the next one comes along. And I’d say it was only a matter of hours.’ Then, in an undertone so Anna wouldn’t hear, ‘This looks like it’s going to be an extremely interesting couple of weeks.’
‘Oh God. Must I call her now? It’s late. All I want is a hassle-free fortnight and for everyone to enjoy themselves. Is that really too much to ask?’ They both put what they were carrying on the kitchen table.
‘Far too much.’ Facing her, Eve put a hand on each of Rose’s shoulders. ‘You’ve got a conveniently selective memory. A family holiday wouldn’t be the same without an argument or two. Don’t you remember last year, when Anna almost burned down the garage? Just relax and go with it.’
‘If it weren’t for you . . .’
‘I know. But it cuts both ways. You’ve supported me when Terry and I have had our bad patches.’
‘Because my brother can be such a twit. Sometimes I wonder how you’ve put up with him for so long.’ She darted a look at Eve. Had she gone too far?
But Eve was smiling. ‘Don’t let’s go there. We may regret it.’
Rose thought she detected a hint of sadness. Not Eve and Terry too.
‘Go on. Go and phone Jess. I’ll take your turn if you’re too long.’
Eve’s enthusiasm for Scrabble provided the annual proof of
Rose’s complete ineptitude at the game. Resigned to being soundly thrashed yet again, but delaying the moment, she left Eve to the clearing up and went into the sitting room. Plumping herself on the red sofa, she looked about her, finding comfort in her surroundings. One day she would read all the Italian-related novels and travel literature, memoirs and history books that she’d collected over the years. Time, that was all she needed. Or would she? If Daniel left her, what would happen to Casa Rosa? She couldn’t bear to think of the possibilities.
She glanced at the botanical illustrations that she’d completed after the course she’d taken at the Chelsea Physic Garden years ago, inspired by those in the books her father collected. Her progression from the first shaky single hellebore through to the increasingly confident tulips, irises and roses was striking. As she lifted the phone, she wondered briefly whether she should try her hand at them again. Such a precise skill and surprisingly time-consuming, but the satisfaction she’d got from doing them had been exhilarating.
She checked the clock over the fireplace. Nine thirty. It would be an hour earlier in England. Dylan should be in bed by now, upstairs in his tiny blue bedroom, mobile churning out a tinkling version of ‘Greensleeves’. Adam and Jess would be downstairs in the cottage, Jess exhausted after a long day at the hotel, sitting down to a dinner cooked by Adam. Daniel should cut him some slack. Adam struck her as an attentive and loving husband. What more could a parent want for their daughter? According to Daniel, plenty more. Could he be right about Adam having an ulterior motive for marrying their daughter? People didn’t really marry for money these days, did they? Wasn’t that the stuff of Jane Austen? Beside, three modest hotels hardly represented a fortune. But Daniel was so sure . . .
She dialled the number, listened to it ringing. As she straightened the dog-eared editions of the magazines in the basket beside her, she noticed one of Dylan’s board books at the bottom. Jess must have left it behind when they’d stayed in the spring. She held it on her lap, tracing the outline of the large green caterpillar with her finger, waiting for them to pick up. Eventually the answerphone kicked in. Adam’s voice invited her to leave a message. The fact that they must be deliberately not answering the phone made her uncomfortable.
‘Jess, it’s Mum.’ She hesitated, not sure what to say next, not wanting to make things worse, aware they might be listening. ‘Do call and let me know when you’re expecting to get here. Love you . . .’ She hung up. That was enough. Better to pretend nothing was wrong and then everything might just fall back into place by itself. A coward’s way out, but, she reminded herself, sometimes the way things worked best.
She lay back against the cushions. The effort required to get up and rejoin the others seemed suddenly overwhelming. Keeping up the pretence that nothing was wrong was already taking its toll. But if she didn’t, Eve’s suspicions would grow and she’d have to admit what was wrong before she was certain. With that thought, Rose pushed herself to the edge of the seat and stood up, despite her weariness.
On her way to join the others, she was passing the door of Daniel’s study when she heard his voice. There was something she didn’t recognise in the way he was speaking, quietly, confidentially, but with an undertow of something else. Anxiety? Nervousness? Miss. Love. Come back. She found herself straining to make out what he was saying. ‘Never,’ she heard, then, after a moment, ‘We can’t.’ Her stomach lurched. We? If she hadn’t read the text, she would have thought nothing of such a conversation. Now she was looking for another meaning in everything he said.
The feelings she had been trying to ignore roared to the front of her mind, fury taking the lead. Wasn’t this her moment? Wasn’t their marriage more important than anything else? All she had to do was throw open the door and challenge him. Caught in the act of talking to ‘S’, Daniel would have to admit the truth. Then the affair would be in the open and they’d have to deal with it – together. She rested her hand on the solid wooden door and prepared herself.
‘Mu-um! Are you coming?’ Anna’s shout stopped her. Her arm dropped to her side. No. However much she was hurting and wanted everything in the open (though she dreaded it too), she would hold to her original plan. She was frightened of a confrontation, because . . . then what?
As she bent to pick up the board book, which had slipped from her hand, the door flew open. Daniel watched as she straightened up to face him. Was that a flicker of guilt in his eyes as he stared at her in surprise?
‘I thought I heard something. What on earth are you doing there?’
‘I’m just going out again, but I dropped this.’ She passed him the book and saw his face soften. ‘I called Jess, but there was no reply.’
The tenderness in his expression disappeared as he handed the book back. ‘I’ve got a few other things I need to do before I go to bed. I’ll see you up there.’ He turned back into the study. ‘Wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, if there’s one on the go.’
‘I’ll make you one.’ Her routine response; even through gritted teeth, it was one of the many familiar patterns of behaviour that made up the tracks on which their marriage had run so smoothly.
‘Thanks, darling.’ And the door shut between them.
Had he been talking on the phone to her? Were the words that she’d heard significant? In all the years they’d been together, she had never imagined there was a duplicitous bone in his body. As far as she was aware, he had always insisted on fair dealing in both his personal and professional lives.
Rose marched through the kitchen, ignoring the kettle and the ceramic jar of tea bags, the coloured mugs hanging from the hooks on the dresser, and went out to join the others where the Scrabble board was set up with a couple of words already on the board: LIES criss-crossed with RELATE. Terry was puzzling over his letters, Eve clucking with impatience for her turn. Anna was staring out towards the mountains, smoking, no doubt dreaming about her latest scheme and how best to worm the support she needed out of her father. Someone had poured Rose another glass of wine. She sat down and took a gulp. Daniel could make his own bloody tea.
5
The back of Daniel’s ears had deepened to a dark red and his fists were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. ‘Bloody tourists,’ he muttered. ‘We should have known.’ He pulled into yet another side street crowded with parked cars, not a space in sight, reversed into
an opening, gears crashing, and turned around to go back the way they’d come.
They’d left home early that morning to take the scenic route to Arezzo through vineyards, fields of overripe sweetcorn, dying sunflowers and rows of tomatoes ripe for the picking. Finally they joined the spaghetti of arterial roads close to the city. Following the signs, they’d driven towards the centre, only to discover their usual car park full. Roadblocks and diversion signs had sent them into a confusion of residential streets where they were now lost. Daniel stopped the car, ignoring the shout of a man guiding a van out of a gateway beside them.
‘Look, why don’t you get out here? I’ll try the station and then meet you in the square in a couple of hours.’ He gave an impatient gesture at the man in the street, indicating that he should wait a second, and was rewarded with a string of expressive but incomprehensible Italian expletives.
‘I’ll keep you company, Dad. I’ve seen the frescoes often enough to last a lifetime. We can have a wander and a coffee together.’ Anna climbed out with the others to take Eve’s place in the front seat, ignoring Daniel’s insistence that he’d be all right on his own. She waved as they drove off, giving Rose and Eve a thumbs-up.
‘Trust her to find her moment.’ Rose began to cross the road, with Eve behind her.
‘Poor old Dan. Doesn’t know what’s about to hit him.’
‘Oh, I think he’ll have a fair idea.’ When she reached the pavement, Rose turned to wait. ‘After all, it’s not the first time it’s happened. This way.’
Eve followed Rose along Via Francesco Crispi, turning into the Corso Italia and up the hill, past the shiny modern shops, diving into the shadow where she could, feeling the sun burning her skin when she couldn’t. She hesitated in front of a couple of clothes shops – there was something about Italian style – then caught sight of herself, hot and bothered in Daniel’s walking trousers. She’d zipped off the bottom half of the legs, turning them into the most unflattering of shorts. The belted waistband was hidden, but its bunched outline was obvious under the slightly too tight sleeveless black T-shirt she’d plundered from Jess’s maternity wardrobe. She pulled it away from her midriff then let it spring back. In contrast, on the other side of the glass, staring back through her reflection, were pin-thin mannequins dressed in winter grey wools and suedes, plum faux furs, high black boots. No, now was definitely not the moment for shopping. Turning away, she saw smiling customers leaving a shop licking multicoloured ice creams that overflowed their cornets, or spooning mouthfuls from tubs. She peered into the shop’s cool interior, where rows of gaudy ice creams called out for her to try them, but Rose was too far ahead to be stopped, pressing on through the shoppers, not wanting to be late.
Keeping her sister-in-law’s red sundress in sight, Eve followed her round a corner and up some steps to the rough stone facade of the Basilica San Francesco. By now her hair was sticking to her forehead and the back of her neck, her back running with sweat. By contrast, Rose was looking almost as cool as when they’d started out.
‘A quick drink at that café?’ Eve suggested, picturing a glass of iced tea packed with ice and lemon, so cold that condensation ran down its sides.
‘They’re timed tickets, so we’d better not.’ Rose looked apologetic. ‘But as soon as we’re done we will. You do still want to see the frescoes?’
‘Of course. I just hadn’t imagined that it would be this hot this early.’ Eve fanned herself with the guidebook that she’d picked up on the way out of Casa Rosa.
‘That’s why we’re here now. We’ll be back home by the time it really heats up.’
Eve nodded, resigned to feeling like a wrung-out old dishrag for the day. ‘I just haven’t got used to it yet, that’s all.’
Inside the barn-like Capella Baci, there was at least immediate respite from the sun. The sound of music from somewhere outside broke the reverential hush. Knots of people whispered to one another in front of the shadowy paintings along the walls. Incense scented the air. Eyeing the rows of chairs with longing, Eve was aware that a blister was forming on the sole of her foot. If she’d only had her comfortable but oh-so-stylish sandals, which were still in her case. At the chancel, Rose presented their tickets to the attendant, who held back the red rope.
In the small area behind the altar, Eve gazed in awe at Piero della Francesca’s frescoes of the Legend of the True Cross. Rose had told her how magnificent they were, but she had not been prepared for this. Rose spoke softly, explaining the cycle of paintings, but after ten minutes Eve’s concentration was wavering and she could no longer ignore her stinging foot and the crick in her neck from looking upwards. The heat in the small space was overwhelming, thanks to the vast uplighter illuminating the walls. She opened her camera case with a loud Velcro rip that made heads turn. A man wagged a disapproving finger at her. Rose shook her head. Eve shut the case again, even though other people were snapping away regardless. With her back against the altar wall, she sank to a sitting position and pulled out her BlackBerry. Her attention having waned, this seemed as good a moment as any to check whether Amy had emailed her yet. She hadn’t.
‘Was I boring you?’ Rose whispered, crouching beside her. ‘I got a bit carried away.’
‘No. It’s not that. I thought I’d check whether Amy had been in touch.’
‘What’s the point in having an assistant if you can’t trust them to hold the fort without you?’ Rose stood, obviously upset by Eve’s lack of interest.
‘Don’t be like that.’ Eve shoved the BlackBerry back in her bag as she got to her feet. ‘I think they’re marvellous. Really, I do.’
‘I know I go on.’
‘I promise you I do.’ Eve winced as her blister stung. ‘I just had to sit down for a moment. Now, tell me about the last two. I want to know,’ she protested to Rose’s look of scepticism.
Beside them a family of three English boys stood to attention as their father pointed out the artist’s use of perspective, just as Rose was explaining it to her. Eve tried to concentrate on what she was being told but instead found herself imagining Terry and her bringing Charlie, Tom, Luke and Millie here. They’d have lasted two seconds before boredom morphed into mayhem. But of course she’d have had to drag Terry in, in the first place. Renaissance art was not on his list of must-sees. For him, Italy was for hedonism only. He was happiest by the pool or in the hammock, relaxing until the next meal or drink came along. And if she was honest, Eve was more than glad to follow suit most of the time.
‘Oh come on.’ Rose smiled. ‘I know when I’m beaten. Let’s go and get that coffee.’
Almost crying out loud with relief, Eve limped beside her towards the exit and into the small piazza outside, where they took a table in the shade at the café opposite.
‘Whatever you think, I love all this and having you as my guide.’ The truth. But just not in this temperature.
‘It’s fine. Really.’ Rose called the waiter over. ‘Un te freddo e un caffe macchiato, per favore. It was hot in there.’
After a while, she asked for the bill. ‘We’d better get going. I want to show you the one della Francesca in the cathedral before we meet the others.’
‘Don’t you ever let up!’ Eve groaned, her foot pleading for release.
‘If you’d rather not . . .’ Rose pulled her purse out of her bag and put it on the table.
‘I was only joking,’ Eve hastened to reassure her. ‘Where’s your sense of humour? This isn’t like you.’
‘Feeling a bit sensitive, I suppose. No reason.’ Rose twisted her wedding ring round and round her finger. ‘Sorry.’
‘Thinking of the others, what’s up with Dan?’ Eve couldn’t resist asking. If Rose wouldn’t talk about herself, then perhaps she would about her husband.
‘Nothing, as far as I know. Why?’ Rose counted out her euros. They chinked as they hit the saucer.
‘He’s normally so relaxed here, but this time . . . I don’t know.’ Eve watched Rose put away her purse. She could s
ee from her friend’s closed expression that she’d touched a nerve. Once she’d done that, she didn’t like to give up until she’d unearthed the problem. Rose didn’t always confide easily, preferring to mull over her troubles, hoping they’d resolve themselves without having to involve anyone else. However, there had been the time when, over a couple of bottles of wine, Rose had finally told her about Anna’s eating disorder and then her self-harming. Since then, she’d admitted that being able to talk about her worries had helped her get through that difficult period, when she and Daniel were at odds over what to do. Afterwards, though, she’d retreated back into the shell of her marriage, where she and Daniel were most comfortable.
If there was anything disturbing the status quo, Eve wanted to be able to help fix it. Rose and Daniel’s relationship usually struck her as the perfect balance of independence from and dependence upon each other. They never seemed to have had any doubts about their rightness for one another. They may have had the odd difference of opinion, but where was the harm in that? Having the downs made you appreciate the ups so much more. And she should know. And despite Dan’s love of company, Eve suspected they had no real need for anyone else. Rose’s confidence in her marriage and her unshakeable belief that it was for keeps were enviable. She had never voiced the kind of doubts about the partnership that nagged away at Eve about hers.
‘Evie. Stop fishing. There’s nothing to catch.’
Eve wasn’t convinced, but they were on their feet, arms linked as they walked up through the narrow streets to the top of the hill. Inside the main doors of the cathedral there was an air of expectancy. People were milling about, dressed up to the nines.
‘A wedding,’ Rose said. ‘Let’s look quickly at La Magdalena and then we can come back.’
