The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

by Scarlet Wilson

  ‘How are you going to do that with no phone signal?’

  She waved her hand and sighed. ‘Yeah. Not the best plan. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.’

  He shook his head and started swimming. He didn’t notice the cold as he stroked out towards the buoy. It was only around half a mile out from shore and he’d swum this distance many times over the years. He kicked hard and got into the rhythm. No phone signal. And no Internet around here—although there might be a chance of Internet in town. Maybe he didn’t need to worry about Portia too much. He reached the buoy and started back to the shoreline. It was easy to get into the rhythm. And this was a much better workout than heading to a gym. One of his favourite workouts back home was swimming at the various beaches around Los Angeles and he was spoiled for choice.

  It didn’t take long to reach the shore again and he waded out and dropped down next to her, rolling onto his back.

  They were right in the middle of the white sandy beach. The naturally formed arch curving over them and offering just the slightest shade.

  ‘It’s safe,’ he said. ‘No sharks. At least not the sea-faring kind.’

  She frowned at him but didn’t question the statement.

  ‘Lovers’ arch,’ he said. ‘You know what they say about that.’

  She rolled onto her side to face him and leaned her head on her hand. ‘We didn’t call it Lovers’ arch. We called it Neptune’s arch. That sounds much more exotic. Sofia called it that.’

  He sighed and leaned a little closer. Close enough to cast a shadow on her face. ‘I know. Don’t tell anyone, but I actually preferred the Greek god Poseidon. His legend was much more interesting than the Roman god’s.’

  Portia looked over her shoulder and whispered, ‘I think around these parts that might be considered treason.’

  He put his hands behind his head as he looked up at the arch. ‘Why? L’Isola dei Fiori is neither Italian nor Greek. For all we know they have their own ancient legends here.’ He looked over at her. ‘Do you remember the legend?’

  She nodded as she reached for the bag of food. ‘Sure I do. Neptune had found a lover, a woman on L’Isola dei Fiori. When we were children we used to joke it was Sofia.’

  Javier nodded. ‘I could imagine that.’

  Portia pulled out the bottle of wine and opened it. ‘But Neptune’s consort, Salacia, was furious and called the other gods of the Underworld.’ Portia poured the white wine into glasses. ‘The woman—I can’t remember what her name was—was heartbroken when Neptune said he had to leave her or she would be killed. He blasted the cliff with his trident, creating the rock arch, and told her that whoever kissed under the arch would find their true love.’

  She handed one of the glasses to Javier and he propped himself up a little. He actually liked teasing her. It seemed that some clichés were true. The English were more uptight than Italian women and Portia was no exception.

  ‘And have you ever tried to find your true love?’

  She took a sip of the semi-chilled wine. She pointed back to the terrace on the cliff above. ‘As children we often spied on the beach at night. If you were here during any of Sofia’s parties you must have known that, at some point, all paths led to the beach.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m just glad there are no lights down here. I think we would have seen a whole lot more than we should have.’

  He nodded in agreement. ‘I saw a proposal under here once.’

  ‘You did?’ Now that had captured her attention. She sat upright on the towel. ‘Who was it?’

  He shook his head. ‘It was nobody famous. A pair of locals.’ He glanced around. ‘There must be a secret way onto this beach that no one knows about. Sofia and my mother were on the terrace drinking champagne cocktails when we spotted the couple under the arch at sunset. The guy kissed her then dropped onto one knee and proposed. Sofia was so excited she shouted down and invited them up to the villa for some champagne.’

  ‘Wow. Do you have any idea what happened to them?’

  He grinned. ‘I might have. Let’s just say I know twenty years later they’re still together and living in Baia di Rose.’

  Portia gave a sigh and took another sip of wine. ‘It’s a beautiful story.’ She tilted her head to one side as she looked around. ‘I’ve always been surprised that no one has tried to snap this place up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I just mean that this whole place—L’Isola dei Fiori—it’s beautiful. It’s breathtaking. And yet it doesn’t seem overrun by tourists.’ She gestured towards the arch. ‘It’s even got its own legend. In any other place there would be a multimillion-pound resort built on this coast with weddings held at the arch at sunset every night. What with the headline-stealing King Ludano years ago I’m surprised that L’Isola dei Fiori didn’t turn into the next Monaco or Cannes.’

  Javier couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You old cynic. But I can tell you one reason why it didn’t.’

  She looked curious. ‘Why?’

  Javier took a drink of his wine. ‘Simple. No cinema. Can’t do film premieres without one.’

  Portia looked around her as if she expected a cinema to just appear out of the sand next to them. ‘There isn’t a cinema in Baia di Rose? Really?’

  ‘Oh, there is now. But there wasn’t then. Around fifteen years ago they converted one of the old theatres into a cinema—but all they really did was put a screen at the back of the stage. Up until that point the only place that had a cinema was the palace.’

  ‘Really?’ Portia sat up a little straighter. He tried not to smile. He should have guessed the reporter in her would suck up any snippet of information that could turn into a story.

  ‘Yeah. Alessandro and I used to sneak in when the adults were watching movies. And not all of them were meant for children.’ He tipped his head back. ‘It was probably the thing that sparked my interest in film. Let me think, twenty years ago I can remember watching The Rock, Jerry Maguire and Independence Day.’ He gave her a joking stare. ‘And you have no idea how much I wanted to be a Borg in Star Trek.’

  ‘Wow, was that really twenty years ago? It just seems like yesterday. We went to London to watch that at the cinema. Posy was mad. The Nutcracker was on at the National Theatre and she definitely didn’t want to watch a sci-fi movie. I can remember the expression on her face as if it were yesterday.’

  Her words struck a pang somewhere in his heart. She laughed as he topped up their wine glasses, and looked out at the perfect azure sea. In the distance there was one tiny white blip, a boat far out at sea. To all intents and purposes it almost felt as if they had the island to themselves. He picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers.

  Time. The one thing he’d discovered he didn’t have enough of, until it was too late.

  Aldo’s suicide had been a bolt from the blue.

  They’d been friends since childhood, grown up together, met girls together, got into trouble together. When Javier had started to have some success in acting, he’d flown Aldo out a few times to some of his locations. But over the years those times together had diminished.

  Aldo had married. Then divorced. He’d lost weight and been quieter. On the times that he’d seen him, Javier had asked if he was well, if he needed anything. But his childhood friend was much too proud to talk—which had left him in tatters when he’d found out that the last person Aldo had called was him. What if he’d answered the phone? What if he’d managed to get a signal and called back later? Would it have made a difference? Would a conversation have been enough to make Aldo reconsider?

  News of the suicide had left him reeling. Standing next to the graveside while Aldo’s sister sobbed her heart out had torn him apart. He’d never forget the expressions on Aldo’s parents’ faces. Two broken people that could never be put back together again.

 
Javier’s mother had insisted on coming too, but had turned up in an Italian grey silk suit, which had wilted and clung in the heavy rain. The weather had matched the mood of the people attending.

  There were a few old school friends. But Javier hadn’t been sure if they’d been there to pay their respects to their old friend, or to spy on the now famous one. It had left a bad taste in his mouth.

  For weeks after the funeral Javier had been haunted at night. Going over every conversation, every email, wondering why he hadn’t picked up on the hints that Aldo was unwell.

  It had been seventeen months since they’d actually seen each other. Seventeen months. In a world of social media and live streaming that now seemed awful that he hadn’t made more of an effort to stay in contact with his friend.

  His simple excuse was he hadn’t had time.

  And his gut twisted at how truly pathetic that made him feel.

  How many signs had he missed because he was moving on to the next film, attending an interview or press conference, or discussing deals with his agent? If he’d just stopped to ask Aldo the question—how are you doing? Really asked. Could he have made a difference for his friend? If he’d had a conversation with Aldo’s family and heard about his behaviour would he have recognised the signs?

  If he’d answered the phone that night and realised how down Aldo was—what would he have done?

  The thought had played over and over in his head. He couldn’t have left the film set. He’d been under contract and in the middle of the desert wasn’t exactly easy to get away from. But he might have spoken to Aldo’s sister—or tried to find him a doctor that could help him. A counsellor to talk to. Anything.

  He’d never really spoken to anyone about this. Aldo’s sister’s tear-streaked face had been enough. ‘You were the last call he made,’ she’d said. ‘What did he say to you? Did he give you any clue?’

  His reply felt so worthless. ‘I never got the call, Estelle. He just left me a message. I was away filming and by the time I came back...’ He let his voice tail off. It was easier than letting her know how guilty he felt. Guilty that the message had said Aldo really needed someone to talk to. And his oldest friend had forgotten to call back.

  He’d come here to reassess. Re-evaluate his life. Villa Rosa was his haven. His time out.

  But from the moment that he’d got there, he’d got the distinct impression that it was Portia’s haven too.

  He studied her as she sipped her wine. Long dark curls with sun-tipped ends, light golden tan, long legs—mostly hidden—snub nose and—when she wanted to—a dazzling smile.

  In lots of ways Portia Marlowe really was the perfect woman.

  If only she had another job.

  Not that he could even contemplate a relationship right now. In the last two years he’d only had time for a few dates, and none of them had made him want to plan ahead.

  The press hadn’t picked up on Aldo’s suicide. He’d been relieved. The last thing Aldo’s family needed was a reporter poking into their private business.

  A few lines in a couple of online reports had mentioned Javier had flown to Italy for a funeral. But it had been the lead up to one of the biggest award ceremonies at the time and there had been a hundred other scandalous stories to fill all the papers and magazines.

  Portia sighed and turned towards him. He leaned forward and topped up both of their glasses with wine, handing hers back to her, then turned to face her too.

  For a moment time seemed to stand still. Both lying on their towels, facing each other with heads propped on their hands and white sand beneath their toes. The craggy rock arch had thrown a shadow over part of Portia. Her black kaftan had moved as she turned, revealing a long expanse of tanned leg. The rest of the thin material flickered in the breeze, hinting at all the curves underneath.

  She looked at him with her big brown eyes and took a sip of her wine. ‘I’m a musical girl. Which doesn’t help in Hollywood these days when they don’t make them any more.’

  He smiled at the easy subject matter. Portia was wise enough not to pry, and to give him a little space.

  ‘I always wanted to be one of the kids in The Sound of Music. I may even have longed for a pair of red shoes like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.’ She moved her feet in the sand. ‘If I click my heels three times I’ll get back home.’ She closed her eyes just for a second. ‘You’re not ready to go back home?’

  ‘No. Of course not. This is a holiday.’ Now he was curious. ‘You said it was your sister’s wedding last week—and you have a few weeks’ holiday. How did you manage to get so much time off?’

  It was a natural question. Everyone knew that in Hollywood unless you were constantly on the TV you were instantly forgotten. One of LA’s late-night talk-show hosts refused to take holidays. His predecessor had taken holidays and by the time he’d come back from a round-the-world cruise he’d been replaced. Hollywood was definitely fickle and he was quite sure there would be another, equally beautiful and ambitious, woman snapping at Portia’s heels.

  ‘I was due holidays. My producer knew that. I’ve always filled in and covered emergencies for them.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ve even presented the weather a few times despite the fact I can’t tell one cloud from another.’

  He laughed. ‘I can top that for jobs we’re not qualified for.’

  She gave an easy smile. ‘How?’

  ‘When I was a jobbing actor I was an extra on an old Western made-for-TV movie. I was supposed to just sit in the background of the bar, then walk past with horses a few times.’

  ‘And?’

  He gave her a wink. ‘If you look in the credits you’ll see my name under “Old Hag”.’

  Portia spluttered then choked on her wine. ‘What?’

  ‘Hey!’ Javier flung up his hands. ‘I got a line out of it. It was worth it.’

  ‘What was the line?’

  He wrinkled his face up and leaned close to her. Portia leaned in a little too, waiting for him to whisper. She was almost holding her breath, waiting to hear the line.

  He couldn’t resist. He took a deep breath, his lips close to her ear. ‘It was...’ he pulled back—just for effect ‘...“Stop thief!”’ His voice echoed across the beach and cove.

  She fell back, tipping her wine over the sand as laughter shook through his whole body.

  She slapped his shoulder. ‘You ratbag.’

  He winked. ‘I might not have been the star, but it got my name on the credits. And the make-up was spectacular—even my own mother didn’t recognise me.’

  She tilted her head to the side. ‘Where is your mother these days?’

  He felt himself bristle. It was a natural question. It was him that had mentioned her. ‘She lives in Rome these days.’ He picked up his wine glass that was wedged in the soft sand. ‘Here, have mine.’

  Her fingers brushed against his as she reached for the wine. ‘Thank you, I will. I think you owe me for that.’

  ‘How can I make it up to you? Do you want me to sing to you? A duet? Break into a musical routine? I once made an attempt at the chimney-top dance from Mary Poppins.’

  She rested back on her towel. ‘Oh, I’d love to see that. I’d pay money to see that.’ But she shook her head. ‘Although I love musicals, Posy’s the one with all the dance talent. As for my singing? I can clear a room with a few notes.’

  ‘That good?’

  She nodded. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  This was the first time in a long time he’d actually felt relaxed. Actually wanted to be in a woman’s company. Maybe it was Villa Rosa? Maybe it was the fact he knew he could do manual labour for a few days and clear his head. Or maybe it was the sometimes prickly woman with the best accent and the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen.

  She gave a sigh as she looked out across the ocean. �
��The view here is just amazing. I always thought my favourite place in the universe was the Griffith Park Observatory.’

  ‘You like it up there?’ He was surprised. It was a popular place in LA. He just hadn’t thought of it as a place Portia would visit.

  ‘The view across LA is amazing. And the view at night?’ She held up her fingers, blew a puff of air into them and flicked them in the air. ‘It’s just mesmerising.’

  He gazed across the azure sea. ‘As good as this?’

  ‘Hmm...’ She contemplated for a second. ‘I guess they could be equal.’ She lay back and looked up at the arch. Her eyes took on a wicked twinkle. ‘You do know that Sofia wanted to paint the arch pink—don’t you?’

  ‘What?’ He sat bolt upright, then shook his head and started laughing. ‘No way. No, she didn’t.’

  Portia gave a firm nod. ‘Oh, yes, she did. It was one of her phases. She thought the arch would look better in pink. My grandmother nearly had a fit.’

  He turned around to face her again. ‘I guess it never came to anything.’

  She took a drink of her wine. ‘Thank goodness.’ She squinted up at the arch. ‘Can you imagine if this had been painted pink?’ She gave a shudder.

  He couldn’t help but smile at her. Portia was nowhere near as prickly as he’d first thought. She might even be fun.

  ‘How about I make dinner tonight?’

  Her eyes shot up for a second. Then she gave him a knowing smile. ‘Are we barbecuing?’

  ‘Why?’

  She grinned. ‘Because I’m not sure how reliable the oven is. You can cook on the stove—I’ve made a few mean omelettes in the last week—but that’s it.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’ve survived the last week on omelettes? Oh, no. Surely we can do better than that. There are a few restaurants in Baia di Rose—why don’t we see if I can arrange a taxi and head to one of those?’

  She bit her lip. It was almost as if she were contemplating saying no. When was the last time a woman had turned him down? He almost couldn’t remember.

  Getting out for dinner might do them some good. He needed to head into the village anyway to order some glass for the conservatory. Having dinner seemed like a plan.