From Italy With Love

by Jules Wake

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘No, I’ve got used to the cheap stuff … but I can still taste a good one.’ She smiled at the memory, ‘Like at Miles’ funeral.’

  He grinned at her. ‘Well, as its on Miles’ itinerary, let’s find out if your palate is still as discerning? Are you up for a tasting before we go and introduce ourselves to the Comte?’

  Unbidden, rich berry flavours filled her head and for a moment the memory of taste blocked out everything else. Heady scents and tannins spreading across her tongue, she could almost smell and taste them still, the memory was so strong and vibrant. A sense of exhilaration and freedom filled her, as she realised that there was nothing to stop her saying yes. No obligations, no other person to consider, no place to be, no time constraints. The concept suddenly seemed as big as the universe.

  For a moment it was as if she were weightless and could float away without anything anchoring her to earth. The headiness of the thought terrified her. She needed direction, purpose, duty. Duty? Where had that come from? She’d been bound by duty for so long, it had become another layer of her. Was that habit? Or conscience?

  ‘Earth to Laurie?’

  She stared at him, feeling a little dazed at the sudden insight to her world. A chink of light that had thrown several things into sharp relief. As if she’d walked into a dim room from the bright sunshine and then things gradually became clearer again. It was as if she’d been in the dark for a long time.

  The road wound up the side of the hill over a small bridge crossing the river and then up through a gentle slope. On either side of the single track road row upon up row of vines stretched, neatly trimmed in uniform lines, with rose bushes in full bloom, marking the end of the rows like full stops.

  Another memory popped into her head. Roses? She remembered their sweet fragrance and skipping along the rows of vines which had then been taller than her, the flat green canopy of freshly trimmed leaves above. The roses she knew were more than decorative. They were there to show any signs of disease. The rose would be affected first and the viticulturist could do something about it in time.

  The details, the knowledge was all there, buried in her head but popping to the surface with remarkable ease at the sight of the flowers and the terraces of vines. The more she tried to remember why or how she knew these things, the further they seemed to recede in her head until she convinced herself that it all must have come from some TV programme a long time ago.

  ‘Bonjour Madam.’ With an elegant practiced move that seemed completely natural, the Comte took Laurie’s fingers, brought her hand up to his lips, and brushed her knuckles with them. He turned to Cam. ‘Sir. Welcome to the Chateau de La Miroir.’ He looked out towards the car. ‘We’ve been expecting you. Miles was a regular visitor here and promised he would send his niece back again. I am so sorry for your loss. He will be greatly missed, especially here at the Chateau. He was a gentleman, non?’ His eyes twinkled and he raised his eyebrows as if Miles had been no such thing.

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Laurie, feeling wrong footed and disconcerted by something he’d said, but she couldn’t define it. She wished Miles’ notes had included a little more detail.

  The Frenchman studied her for a second, his head on one side and waited and then he smiled, the mischievous twinkle back again. ‘Ah, you do not remember me, do you? You were only a little girl at the time. You came here the first time with your parents. You were all legs and pigtails, running here and there, always asking questions. Wanting to know how everything worked. I am Philippe.’

  She stared. ‘Really, I er … er.’ She didn’t want to offend him by not remembering but she hadn’t got a clue and he’d said the first time. She didn’t remember her parents ever being together, let alone being somewhere with them as a family. If you’d asked her, she would have sworn blind that they’d never been on holiday together. Surely she would have remembered something like that? And the second visit which was implied.

  In fact she had no recollection of them ever all living in the house she shared with Dad. The time after her mother buggered off was clear in her mind. Shared meals with Dad. Holidays in Weymouth. Going to work with him for work experience at the insurance offices. Him coming to parents’ evenings at school. Loads of things. Her mother had a new glamorous life, an important wealthy husband and lots of parties to go to; she didn’t want an unappealing fourteen year old with braces and greasy hair messing things up.

  The Comte’s laugh penetrated her ugly thoughts as he took her elbow to guide her in through the huge oak gothic door into the cool stone winery. ‘No worries Laurie. You are here now and we are delighted to have you back. I hope that you will stay with us at the Chateau this evening. My wife and son will be very pleased to see you again, although perhaps my son won’t remember you either. You are the same age. Marie was a big fan of Miles. He always brought British presents and outrageous compliments.’

  ‘I … er …’ wide-eyed, she looked at Cam.

  He was no help.

  ‘Are you … sure … it …’

  ‘No, no I insist. Absolutement.’

  With that he turned and held a hand out to Cam, ‘Excusez-moi, you must be Monsieur Matthews. Delighted to meet you. Miles always spoke highly of you,’ the twinkle was back, ‘although he was less complimentary about your palate.’

  Cam grinned back. ‘That’s being polite; bet he said I was a philistine when it came to wine.’

  Philippe nodded. ‘Something along those lines, although he also said you did appreciate fine things in life once they’d been brought to your attention.’ Laurie caught a faint undertone in the words but Cam seemed unperturbed.

  Philippe smiled smoothly again. ‘I hope during and after dinner we can educate that palate a little more.’

  Cam shrugged. ‘I’m not one to turn down a decent bottle of wine.’

  Laurie thought back to the funeral and gave him a rebuking look. He knew enough about wine to appreciate the good stuff.

  ‘Would you like to drive around to the house? Jean will show you where to park the car and we can show you to your rooms.’

  Laurie turned pink. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind putting us up?’ It seemed a terrible imposition; after all they were complete strangers, even if he did seem very friendly. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed in anyone’s home, apart from Miles’ and there she knew the routine, the layout of the house.

  Panic hovered. What if she made a fool of herself?

  ‘Nonsense. The rooms are ready. We would not hear of it.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘Non, non, non. Come.’

  Laurie exchanged a glance with Cam. He was no bloody help at all, he just shrugged his shoulders in that laconic fashion of his. She frowned at him, pulling a clear help-me-out here face.

  He just laughed. ‘I’ll take the car round to the Chateau, why don’t you walk up with Philippe?

  He hauled the bags out of the tiny boot. Not a bad place to stay for the night. He’d stayed in far worse and perhaps better. Although it was probably best to wait and see what lay beyond the doors. Too many times he’d seen places that shouted grandeur and wealth but it was nothing more than a façade and inside the shell revealed the dent that inheritance taxes and maintaining the ancient structure had made on the pockets of the families. Although from the general upkeep of the place and the awards that filled the winery walls and Miles’ patronage, he had a feeling that Chateau de La Miroir was more than making ends meet.

  And how many more surprises did Miles have up his sleeve along the route? Not that he was complaining. He was happy to go with the flow but not Laurie. She was a prickly thing. Difficult to read. Sylvie would have jumped at the chance to stay in a fairy princess castle like this place. For him, the biggest bonus was not having to worry about garaging the car. He’d had his suspicions that part of this job, as he still thought of it, was to baby-sit the car and that some nights he’d be kipping in the bucket seat.

  Laurie had managed to confo
und most of his plans. The car had been running like a dream which had thwarted the attempt to reinforce the idea that it was terribly temperamental and difficult to maintain. The additional efforts to ramp up incipient anxiety had also failed miserably. She’d quickly bored with hanging around endlessly at the local garages and had gone off on little sight-seeing tours, if anything returning looking happier as if reassured by the provincial ordinariness of the towns they’d passed thorough. To be honest he was sick of passing the time of day with the car-struck mechanics of northern France.

  Looked like he was going to have to fall back on making her like him enough that not selling the car to him wasn’t an option, which now he was getting to know her, wasn’t that much of a hardship.

  A young man opened the double glass doors at the top of a flight of stone steps elegantly bound by wrought iron tracery.

  ‘Bonjour, I’m Jean.’ He looked around questioningly.

  ‘Laurie’s walking up with your father.’ The likeness between the young man and the older man was marked.

  ‘Bon. Entrez. Have you had a good journey?’ He looked with longing at the car.

  ‘How could I not driving this beauty? Want to take a closer look?’

  They exchanged conspiratorial grins and within minutes Jean was in the driver’s seat.

  By the time Laurie and Philippe appeared, their heads together deep in conversation, he hadn’t even made it into the house.

  Philippe’s eyes rolled at the sight of his son with his head under the bonnet of the Ferrari but then within several short strides he joined him. All three men had their heads stuffed under the bonnet of the car.

  Laurie wanted to be impatient with them but their boyish enthusiasm over the glories of the engine and car intrigued her. She was starting to see what so enthralled them.

  When had that itch to place her palms on the steering wheel become so insistent? She suspected she was already half in love with the car. Sitting as a passenger today had been sheer pleasure heightened by Cam’s competent and careful handling of the mighty engine. No, scrub that … careful sounded cautious and that wasn’t true, they’d hit 120km on the fine straight, country roads.

  She had to remind herself it was just a car. An old car at that.

  The sleepy, sexy eyes of the headlights on the long slow hood held her gaze as if challenging her. OK, not just any old car.

  A Ferrari. How many people could say that they owned a Ferrari? Her heart did a funny little skip. What would those boys at school say? All the people that had left Leighton and moved on? Laurie the librarian, owner of a Ferrari. She rather liked that.

  Her eyes ran over the sleek lines. It was rather beautiful. She should be driving it, not leaving it to Cam. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. And she ought to make the most of it, especially as coming had upset Robert and probably cost her a job. She looked longingly at the car. What were the chances of them being stopped by the police? Or asked for her licence? Her palms itched. No, she needed to be sensible. Let Cam drive.

  Suddenly she wasn’t sure she’d be able to. Until now she’d been fighting the desire to drive, in denial. Going along for the ride. Happy in the passenger seat. Just like always, a little voice pointed out. Laurie bit her lip and quashed the unwelcome observation.

  In irritation she cleared her throat and all three heads popped up in surprise like a trio of meerkats. She smiled meekly. ‘Er …’

  ‘Sorry, come.’ Philippe held out his arm, motioning her to lead the way into the Chateau.

  The inside was cool but brilliantly bright, the high ceiling white with light, diamond-sharp, refracting from the mirrors that covered the main wall from top to bottom. Remembrance flooded back and, entranced, Laurie stepped forward, her gaze captured by the largest gilt framed mirror over the white marble carved fireplace and ornate mantelpiece.

  ‘The hall of mirrors,’ she murmured turning on the spot to look at the various mirrors all over the walls. She thought she’d dreamt this place, or imagined it from the pages of a fairy tale. An image of a smiling girl filled her head. Her. Here in this hall. Running up the stairs, coming down for dinner pretending to be a French aristocrat in a huge dress, catching sight of herself in each of the framed mirrors, like windows lining the stairs’ outside wall.

  As she turned her head, she caught sight of herself. Pain lanced and she turned away from her reflection. Where had that laughing, without-a-care-in-the-world girl gone?

  ‘Must take some getting used to,’ observed Cam, looking acutely uncomfortable.

  The two French men exchanged rueful smiles. ‘An ancestor’s idea of sorting the wheat from the chaff,’ explained Philippe. ‘His first wife was incredibly vain and put looks above everything. She surrounded herself by equally vain people who adored her for her beauty but none of them could chastise her. Her vanity led her to purchase a stallion which she couldn’t control but she looked good upon. She fell and broke her neck on her very first outing, leaving her children motherless. The Comte was determined that if he married again he wouldn’t marry a vain woman, so he filled the hall with mirrors to judge the reaction of the women that stayed here. Those that admired themselves or looked at themselves in more than three mirrors were deemed too vain.’

  The story held a certain resonance, Laurie reflected bitterly. An abject lesson in the perils of vanity. As a young teen she’d looked in every mirror on the way down. How things had changed since then. Now she only owned one dress, which Ron had suggested rather forcefully that she pack. It was black, easy to wash and fitted OK.

  Cam walked downstairs, doing up the buttons of a clean shirt as he went. He’d stayed in many far more impressive rooms over the years but this one, with its selection of old hardback books on the shelves, mismatched but very fluffy towels and an ancient wardrobe held up on one side by a stone brick, charmed him. After being scrunched up in the car, his legs needed a good stretch and the grounds of the Chateau were extensive. He had of course checked on the car, making sure the oil levels and tyre pressure were still OK, but that was basic. Despite his fussing in front of Laurie, he knew the car was in tip-top condition. It had been looked after with as much care as a thoroughbred racehorse, but she didn’t need to know that. Tomorrow he’d have another stab at unsettling her and introduce the idea of a funny knocking noise which might be indicative of a problem with the head gasket. Of course if that went they could be held up for days.

  The gardens around the house were immaculate but he had little appreciation for the perfection of box hedges, gravelled paths or artfully placed fountains. Instead he paced on to the more wild patch of woodland beyond and followed a path that led up the slope. After the growl of the engine all day, he welcomed the peace and serenity of the woods in the late afternoon. He was used to being part of a two man team, either driving or navigating. This was his life and getting away on his own for part of the day was also his antidote to being in such close proximity all day with someone else.

  Being in the car with Laurie was different though. In the past he and his co-driver would have shared a common aim − to win a race or to reach a destination, either way they’d be rewarded with glory or financially. Without being mercenary, this was how he’d made his living.

  He hadn’t been entirely honest with her. Was there any point telling her the truth? It would make her even more uncomfortable about expenses and things. Miles’ will had been complicated enough with more twists and turns than the Stelvio Pass itself.

  It had obviously been important to him. Cam did wonder at Laurie’s naivety. Did she know he wasn’t being paid for the trip? Hadn’t she ever heard the expression, ‘no such thing as a free lunch’?

  Now they’d started the journey, it felt as if he’d missed the opportunity to tell her that Miles had promised him first refusal on the car. Pig-headedness, really. Her attitude that he was some sort of international playboy had irked him and if he’d told her that Miles had promised him first dibs on the car at an advantageous rate, it wo
uld have further reinforced her negative feelings towards him. He really needed her to like him so that she would feel well-disposed to selling the car to him.

  He didn’t like admitting it but he didn’t like being viewed with suspicion. So his marriage to Sylvie hadn’t ended well but he wasn’t a bad person. He’d never led anyone on without being totally honest with them. Except not telling Laurie about the deal Miles had made on the price of the car wasn’t exactly honest.

  When he finally returned to the mirrored hallway of the Chateau, it was almost dinner time. A long corridor led the way and he listened to see if it would give up a clue as to where he might find his hosts. A murmur of voices came from one of the rooms along with the clink and chink of cutlery and plates. Someone laying a table?

  A movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye and there was Laurie looking pensive, hovering indecisively on the top step. She hadn’t seen him. He watched, seeing her make up her mind and take the first step. The shapeless black dress she’d changed into hung loose, doing nothing for her, completely disguising any shape she might have. The hem stopped well below her knees, hanging like droopy bunting. Having spent several hours in close proximity in the car, all he knew was that her legs were long. You’d never have guessed; the dress seemed to cut them off at the worst possible point. Shapely calves and neat ankles had been flattened out by flat ugly, black sandals.

  For the first time, she’d left her soft honey hair down rather than having it in the harsh ponytail which emphasised her slightly sticky out ears. It fell in waves, making her look quite different. Much gentler and more approachable. For a brief moment, he found himself wondering what the rest of her looked like under the ill-fitting dress. Slim definitely. Her arms were slender, almost too slender, the wrists looked tiny and there were no unsightly bulges in the dress. It just hung, square, hiding her frame. What were her breasts like? An image of those pert nipples came back to him. And where the hell had that thought come from? What would she feel like if he held her to him?