SIGN OF THE TIMES
by
SUSAN BUCHANAN
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First published in 2012 by Susan Buchanan
Copyright © 2008 Susan Buchanan
Susan Buchanan has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
For Mum, Dad and Tony
Thanks go to Fi Broon for editing
Brad Covey for cover design www.bradcovey.com
and Yvonne Betancourt for eBook formatting www.ebook-format.com
The Signs
Holly - SAGITTARIUS
Tom - CAPRICORN
Maggie – AQUARIUS
Jennifer - PISCES
Ben - ARIES
Taurus – OSCAR
Lucy - GEMINI
Carl – CANCER
Maria – LEO
Antonia – VIRGO
Jack - LIBRA
Czeslawa - SCORPIO
Venetian Dreams Launch
Chapter One
Holly - SAGITTARIUS
Fun loving, friendly, philosophical, intellectual, straightforward and optimistic. Blunt. Dislike being tied down and love travelling. They require freedom of thought. Traditional, conventional.
“Would passenger Jameson, flying to Pisa proceed immediately to Gate 84. Your flight is fully boarded and awaiting departure. Passenger Jameson, flying on BA 2600 to Pisa, Gate 84, thank you.”
Holly rolled up her sleeve to study her watch. Damn! It was eleven o’clock. Her flight left at eleven twenty. No wonder they were calling her name. She always lost track of time in the shops. She couldn’t walk past a cosmetics counter. Laden down with Clarins tinted moisturiser, body crème and an eye gel, she hurried towards the cash desk. She knew the flight would wait. There would be up to another two calls before they told her that her luggage was being off-loaded. She had just enough time to snap up these bargains and hightail it to the gate.
The tannoy burst into life again, demanding Holly’s presence. Even Holly was becoming anxious now. Unfortunately, the girl was having trouble with Holly’s credit card,
“It’s asking us to ring for authorisation,” she explained.
“Damn,” Holly swore. “Look, I’ll just pay cash. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“If you’re sure,” the head cashier eyed her suspiciously, as if Holly had just presented a stolen card.
“Yes, yes!” muttered Holly, willing them to hurry up.
Transaction completed, Holly thanked them, flew out of the shop, glanced at the signs to see in which direction the gate lay and sprinted towards it. She was about halfway there, when the tannoy announced that passenger Jameson, travelling to Pisa’s luggage was now being removed from the hold and she would no longer be able to travel on this flight.
“Shit!” swore Holly. She quickened her step to Olympic pace and almost sped straight past the gate.
Unable to catch her breath, she pulled out her passport, gesticulating wildly at her name on her passport. The ground staff member smiled, waiting for Holly to regain her breath and then speak.
After several attempts, Holly managed to blurt out that she was Holly Jameson, ready to travel and to please not unload her luggage as she was here. The woman smiled at her, not unlike the wicked witch of the west and said,
“We can’t let you travel now. You’re too late.” She acted positively triumphant as she told her this.
“But you haven’t unloaded my luggage yet,” exclaimed Holly.
“Yes, but it’s being attended to. As soon as they locate it, it will be removed from the hold and the flight will depart. That way at least the aircraft will only have suffered a slight delay,” she replied superciliously. Her words were intended as a direct dig at Holly for having held up the flight. OK, so it was partly her fault, not entirely her fault mind, as without Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee serving her in the shop, there wouldn’t have been a problem. But how many times had Holly had to wait for flights that were delayed? Spurred on by this thought, Holly interjected, “But if I board now, it’ll save them having to look for my bags. Then the flight can leave even sooner.” She cast an imploring look at her tormentor, but in the same crisp tones as before, she was informed, “There’s another flight at four o’clock.”
Holly knew she was wasting her breath with Miss Iron Knickers. Defeated, she said wearily, “Don’t suppose I have much choice.”
“Not really,” replied the woman, with the same fixed smile, which Holly would have loved to wipe off her face.
Holly looked on, as her flight rose into the air. At least she’d managed to secure a window seat. It would be a treat for her not to be squashed between two strangers. There really was nothing worse than being jammed between an obscenely overweight man who burped and farted all the time and an arrogant one, full of his own self- importance.
Looking for her mobile, she came across her compact and checked to see if she looked as hot and bothered as she felt. To her relief her creamy complexion looked unflustered and her shoulder length, black, naturally curly hair wasn’t as unruly as she had imagined. Taking out her Motorola U9, she called Tom.
“Hi sweetheart. How are you?”
“Great thanks. You?”
“Fine, thanks. Shouldn’t you be on a plane to Pisa?”
“It’s a long story, but I’m still at the airport and now fly out at four. I just thought I’d give you a quick call since I have three hours to kill.”
“OK.”
They chatted about trivial matters and then Holly said,
“Well, listen, take care and I’ll talk to you in a few days.”
“OK. Have a good flight. Love you.”
“I love you too,” Holly said before flipping the phone shut.
They’d been together four years. Holly was the monogamous type. She’d met Tom when she was looking for a new flat and had ended up moving into one not far from the town centre. It had been a real wrench to move, as she had great neighbours, but she was hardly ever there. She missed Jennifer and of course, proximity to town. Their ramshackle farmhouse wasn’t within walking distance of a supermarket, which killed her, but Tom had this master plan, with six kids, ponies, dogs and plenty of room for all of them. Fortunately he was good at DIY, or they could never have taken it on. The house needed an incredible amount of work done to it. She and Tom muddled along together pretty contentedly. He was very easy to please and they rarely argued, not like with her previous boyfriend. Tom was always there for her and she felt he always would be. He had lived through some of the terrible times she had, both having lost both their parents young.
As Holly waited for her flight, she called her friend, Jennifer. She wasn’t home and unfortunately didn’t have a mobile, so she left a voicemail. Bored, Holly took out a notebook and started ticking off some tasks she was meant to have done.
She wished that her parents were alive to see her now. Successful travel writer, engaged to be married, happy. The one thorn in her side about next year’s nuptials was that her father couldn’t give her away.
“Flight 2602 to Pisa now boarding at gate 84.”
This time Holly didn’t miss the flight. She sat back in her seat, fastened her seatbelt as tightly as it would allow and skimmed over what she had written. She hadn’t been satisfied with what she had written about Viareggio and Fornacette and was determined to improve upon it or shelf it. She preferred not to write only about places she had visited. Instead, she immersed herself in the culture, picking up on the idiosyncrasies. It seemed to work. She had written several travelogues, published in magazines and adapted for TV. Her first travel book had been published last year. Several TV programmes had featured her book and it had been hailed as ‘revolutionary in its genre’. She wasn’t so much writing as a Brit, but almost as an Italian who had moved abroad a long time ago and was returning home. Secrets of the Neapolitan Riviera had provoked a lot of interest and had soon reached the top ten in the non-fiction charts. Now there was the pressure of making the second book better. It had to be sharp, avant-garde. Holly had chosen Tuscany as it had always fascinated her. From the yellow fields packed with sunflowers, or the hope of even catching a glimpse of those elegant blooms swaying in the light breeze, to the mules carrying sand up from the beach for the cement mixers, from the bartering at the market, to the bend over backwards to help you attitude, she loved it all. She had been attending evening classes in Italian for around three years now and took every opportunity to use it, when she was in Italy, as she knew it was the only way to become proficient.
Emerging at Pisa airport, she noticed how much busier it was than when she had visited in March. She would have come back sooner, but was so busy trying to placate her publisher’s constant demands of her, that time had simply disappeared. So here she found herself nine weeks later, returning to Tuscany. Over the next few months she would stay in a couple of hotels, and simply travel back and forth. As she passed through the terminal heading towards the Hertz office, she noticed the very varied nationalities thronging past her. Evidently Tuscany was becoming a more popular holiday destination, as she heard several voices speaking; in what she was certain was Arabic, whilst some Russian gentlemen were heatedly debating something. Cries of “Niet” boomed over the usual level of chatter encountered in airports. How times had changed. Europe really was a veritable hotchpotch nowadays.
After waiting half an hour for the Chinese group in front of her to be served, Holly had the chance to see if her improved Italian and frequent Hertz visits could gain her the much desired free upgrade. It looked like she was in luck. The blonde haired assistant, didn’t appear to have much grasp of English and seemed grateful that Holly had more than just a passing knowledge of Italian. Both inwardly sighed with relief and Holly, tremendously pleased with herself, collected keys for her Alfa Romeo Lusso, instead of the Punto she had been expecting.
Holly reversed out of the parking space and headed out of the airport at a steady pace.
Normally she hated driving but ironically enough in Italy she loved it. She liked the autostrade and the tolls. It was all so organized. The crazy Italian driver was a thing of the past. Since the law had been brought in, adopting the British system of applying penalty points and handing out fines for speeding, the Italians had slowed down considerably. They really did not like being hit in the pocket. She didn’t particularly enjoy driving in the dark, but that couldn’t be helped.
The road from Pisa to join the A1 Firenze to Milano motorway was a winding, narrow one. It would take her forty-five minutes to reach the autostrada and then perhaps another hour and a half to reach the cut off to join the road to Arezzo and that was still another thirty miles. She wished she had just left the Clarins counter and managed to make the original flight. She wouldn’t be there now until at least midnight. She should phone ahead and let the hotel know. Suddenly she heard a loud crash and then a thumping noise. The car listed to one side.
Shit!! I must have a puncture. She tried to think of where she could stop to have a look. Not that she had the faintest idea what to do. She had never changed a tyre before. She wasn’t even sure where the spare was, nor did she know who to call.
About a mile down the road, she saw a light. It looked like a hotel. She squinted and tried to make out where the entrance was. She passed it, cursed, reversed and pointed her car up the driveway towards it. Putting her handbrake on, she felt around in the glove box for the Hertz manual and finding nothing, switched on the overhead light. She checked everywhere. Zilch. Bollocks! There was nothing for it, she’d have to go and ask for help. Uncertainly she approached the large portico of what looked to her, now that she was up close, to be a residence. Even in the all-encompassing darkness she could see it was a beautiful building. She had glimpsed a little of the perfectly landscaped gardens as she had driven up. The dimmed exterior lights cast a soft glow on the various cherubs and little fountains which adorned the perimeter of the garden. Having rung the bell and heard it peal out somewhere beyond the ornate decorated panels of the oak front door, Holly took a little step back. She was just about to leave when she heard a voice call out “Arrivo.”
Brushing back her curls, Holly tried to compose herself and prepare what she had to say. She stretched herself up to her full five feet four. She didn’t know exactly how to explain her situation, as although her Italian was very good, it wasn’t every day you got a puncture in Italy.
The heavy door opened, to reveal a Greek God. Standing at a little over six feet, he was well-built, muscular but not bulging. With dark brown floppy hair, brown puppy dog eyes, and eyelashes that any girl would kill for, he took Holly’s breath away. It didn’t help that he was wearing only a towel and had obviously just come out of the shower. His dark hair complemented his deep tan, in stark contrast to Holly’s Celtic pallor.
“Si?’ said the man, with a smile, aware that he was unsuitably dressed. Holly managed to blurt out the whole sorry tale. His smile increasing, showing off very white teeth, he said that of course he would help her, but would she wait in the lounge, whilst he went upstairs and dressed. She followed him into an austere looking hall, with oak panels and what looked like real paintings on the walls. Doors led off in all directions. Holly trotted behind her new friend until he stopped, so suddenly that Holly almost bumped into him. She could see the droplets of water on his skin and sense the heat of his body. She gulped and stood back, as he showed her into the lounge.
“I’ll be back in five minutes. Please take a seat,” he said, in his Tuscan singsong accent.
Holly sat gingerly on the edge of an armchair. Everything in the room looked antique. The gold, brocade curtains the finely polished credenza, the oil lamps which lit the room. Rows of bookcases were stacked high and crammed with books. An avid bookworm, Holly found herself drawn to the first bookcase and her eyes slid greedily over the titles. Verga, Lampedusa, all the classics were there, peppered every so often by contemporary novels. Moving to the second bookcase, she recognised some Bill Bryson travel books and a few about Tuscany written in English. Intrigued, she continued along, until with delight, she found a copy of Secrets of the Neapolitan Riviera. Holly felt hot all over. He had bought her book. Well, perhaps not him, but someone from this house had bought her book.
“Le piacciono i miei libri?” Holly started at the sound of his voice. She stammered a yes. He clearly didn’t know who she was and who could blame him, as she looked an absolute sight and the photo her publisher chose for the book cover portrayed a glossier, shinier Holly. She was pleased he had her book. Perhaps she would have time to question him later. What was she like? How long did she think it was going to take him to change her tyre? She turned to face him. He was now dressed in Levis and a cream fisherman’s jumper. He smiled down at her, his handsome features crinkling in amusement at his real life, damsel in distress. He spoke perfect
English, he had to for business, but this signorina was making such an effort speaking Italian that he felt it would have been churlish, to switch into English.
“Andiamo.” he told her.
Whilst relaxing in his lounge, Holly hadn’t realised it had started to rain. It had been so warm when she had arrived. Cursing her light jacket and skirt, she jumped when he enveloped her in a large waterproof jacket. His touch was electric. She felt as if she’d accidentally bumped into a high voltage fence. Approaching her car, she unlocked it with the electronic key fob. He was beside her, a torch shining from beneath his waterproof. He walked slowly around the car and whistled, then dug the jack out of the boot and worked away silently. After five minutes, he looked up at Holly, who hadn’t dared interrupt him and told her it was no good. It wasn’t just the tyre that was punctured, the wheel was buckled. It would have to go to a garage.
Holly was at her wits’ end. What the hell was she meant to do now? She realised she was standing staring open-mouthed at this complete stranger. Eventually, she latched on to the idea that she would need to find a hotel nearby. She asked if he could recommend somewhere to stay. In typical Italian fashion, he gesticulated with his arms and told her that the nearest hotel was Il Giardino, but unfortunately it was twenty miles away. She couldn’t drive twenty miles with her wheel like that and besides the garage was only two miles away. She must stay the night here. There were many guest rooms in his house. Holly started to protest, but he silenced her, saying he would be offended if she didn’t accept and besides, what was the alternative? Smiling at her, he leaned forward slightly and said, “No need to be afraid. I am not some crazed madman.
Holly followed her host inside. She didn’t even know his name. Dawning on him, too, he said “Dario Barsacchi.” He offered his hand to Holly, which she accepted, saying “Holly Jameson. Where am I anyway?”
“This is Rosetto. It is around thirty kilometres from Pisa.” As Holly didn’t ask him anything else, he turned, passing the lounge and indicated a room on the left.
Sign of the Times Page 1
