by Lucy Gordon
‘But only if you’re not too tired,’ he added quickly. ‘You’ve been working hard all day, and now you’ve got the journey back—you should have let me come, too, and drive you home—all right, all right—don’t be mad at me. I know what we said, but—’
‘You see, I’m not the only one,’ Francesco said wryly to Celia. ‘He annoys Della as much as I annoy you.’
‘Why?’ she asked, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘Is she really as ill as all that?’
‘She was in a plane crash, and had a heart attack immediately afterwards. She’ll always be frail, plus she’s seven years older than Carlo, and he’s very protective of her.’
‘Yes, I can hear. Poor Carlo, he sounds desperate. The sad thing is that he’s probably infuriating her and he doesn’t know it.’
‘Oh, he knows it all right,’ Francesco said wryly. ‘He just doesn’t know how to stop.’
It became clear that this was true. Carlo wouldn’t let it go, and the conversation ended so abruptly that Celia wondered if Della had hung up. After that Carlo was on hot coals until she arrived half an hour later, full of eagerness and enthusiasm for the day she had spent, and then he became happier.
CHAPTER SEVEN
OVER dinner the six of them plunged into a professional discussion in which everything was forgotten but the exchange of ideas. Celia came to vivid life, in command of her subject, thoroughly enjoying her expertise and the admiration that it won for her.
Carlo listened to her with particular interest. He was an archaeologist whose life had been spent on the move until he married. Then he’d taken a job running one of the Naples museums, enabling him to stay in one place for Della’s sake.
It had been the sacrifice of a brilliant career, but he’d set himself to transform the museum, and had done it so well that he was becoming an authority in his new sphere.
‘It’s a pity there’s so little scope for visual aids in a museum,’ he mused. ‘I’m not talking about employees, though. I’m putting some things in place to help them, and I’d be glad if you’d come and give me your opinion, Celia.’
‘I’d love to. But if you’re not talking about employees you must mean visitors?’
‘That’s right. How can I help them? They can listen to audio descriptions, but how much does that help? It doesn’t tell you what a picture really looks like, or an ancient vase. I did try letting people run their hands over things, but the trustees went ballistic in case of breakages. Mind you, the only person who broke anything was the son of a trustee who had perfect eyesight—or would have done if he’d been sober at the time.’
Everybody laughed, but suddenly Francesco said, ‘Why don’t you make replicas?’
‘They’re no use,’ Carlo said. ‘I had a crowd of students in last week all trying to copy a Greek statue. Some of the results were good, but they couldn’t have passed for the original.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ Francesco said. ‘There’s some computer software that’ll take a thousand photos from every angle. You can use these to make a three-dimensional virtual model, which the computer then turns into a real model by giving instructions to another machine. The result is an exact likeness, except that it’s made of resin. Every little scratch and dent is duplicated. If it’s a statue, you can even see the chisel marks. People can pick it up to study it. If it gets damaged, no problem. You just tell the computer to make another. You could copy every artifact in the place and make them available to everyone—not just the people who can’t see.’
‘That’s right,’ Celia said. ‘Why should we have all the privileges? Francesco, it’s a marvellous idea.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Carlo agreed. ‘You’re a dark horse, brother.’
‘He hides his light under a bushel,’ Celia said, smiling.
She was suddenly very happy, as though Francesco had reached out to her in a new way. And the next moment she felt his hand seeking hers under the table.
She hadn’t been wrong about him, she thought joyfully. Everything was still possible.
As they were all leaving to go she said to him, ‘I hope you’re going to offer me a lift home.’
‘Of course. I’ll fetch your jacket.’
On the way he passed Carlo and Della, who had resumed their argument.
‘Be careful,’ he said, laying his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘The belief that you’re doing the right thing can be the biggest trap there is, and the most destructive.’
‘Did you fall into it?’ Della asked.
‘Big-time. Celia and I—well—’
Briefly he explained the circumstances of their parting.
‘I thought I was taking care of her,’ he finished, ‘but I was simply making her want to bang her head against the wall.’
He saw the other two give each other a quick glance, then Carlo’s arm went around his wife’s shoulders and he dropped a kiss onto her head.
‘Just don’t let it happen to you two, that’s all,’ Francesco said. ‘Good night.’
When he’d gone Della looked up at her husband, holding him tightly.
‘I don’t know why you said Francesco was a hard man,’ she said. ‘I think he’s lovely, kind and sensitive. I hadn’t expected him to have such insight.’
‘Me, neither,’ Carlo said. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if any of us have ever understood the first thing about him.’
As he drove home to Celia’s apartment Francesco said, ‘How’s this for a plan? I’ll collect you tomorrow and we’ll go to my factory so that you can give it the once-over and tell me what needs doing.’
‘That sounds lovely, but I’m booked tomorrow,’ she said regretfully.
‘Sure—I was forgetting that your diary’s getting crowded. What is it? A rival factory?’
‘No, I’m working with Sandro. We’re investigating new activities to offer people.’
‘Mad activities?’ he asked lightly.
‘The madder the better.’
‘I’ll be there to give you a lift.’
‘Without even asking me where we’re going and why?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It might be something you disapprove of.’
‘I have no right to disapprove,’ he said expansively. ‘You are your own mistress, and you make your own decisions.’ He was full of goodwill towards the world, and for once it was easy to say the right thing.
‘Excuse me? Can I have that in writing?’ she asked sceptically.
‘It’s none of my business,’ he declared, warming to his theme and enjoying her astonishment. ‘I have no opinions, and if I had I wouldn’t dream of inflicting them on you.’
‘You’re an impostor,’ she said firmly. ‘Where have you hidden the real Francesco Rinucci? He would never have said anything like that.’
‘I’m a reformed character. Now, what time shall I collect you tomorrow?’
She gave him the time, and he dropped her outside the apartment building. His last view was of her following Jacko inside. He drove away, remembering the previous night and wondering how things could have changed so quickly for the better.
Francesco was there on time the next afternoon, smiling with pleasure at the sight of her, beautiful in white linen pants and blue shirt. But his smile faded as they were driving away and she gave him their destination.
‘That’s an airfield,’ he said.
‘That’s right. A small, private airfield about five miles outside Naples.’
‘To do what?’ he asked ominously.
‘Skydiving. It’s all the rage among people who want a new experience.’
‘Skydiving? You’re going to do a parachute jump?’ he demanded, so appalled that he had to swerve to avoid an accident.
‘No, just Sandro. He’s jumping out of a plane, but I have to be there to talk to the people on the ground—negotiations, sponsorship, etcetera.’
‘The two of you are as insane as each other.’
‘Well, we told you that,’ she said patiently. ‘It’s the whole poin
t. Anyway, like you said, you have no opinions one way or the other.’
‘I never said anything as daft as that.’
‘Yes, you did. You also said it was none of your business.’
After a moment he managed to say, ‘On second thoughts, I can bear, with fortitude, the sight of Sandro risking his neck.’
She chuckled, understanding perfectly.
‘Never mind about Sandro,’ she said.
‘I don’t. I don’t think about him from one hour to the next.’ Then he added thoughtlessly, ‘Mind you, I might wish he were less good-looking.’
‘Is he good-looking?’ she demanded with suspicious eagerness. ‘Oh, do tell me, because I’ve always wondered. Is he really, really handsome?’
Francesco ground his teeth. ‘I walked right into that, didn’t I?’ he asked.
‘Well, you were a little incautious,’ she teased. ‘Go on, tell me.’
‘No way. You know exactly what he looks like, because you got someone to tell you with the first meeting.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do, because it’s what you did with me.’
There was a slight pause before she said, ‘What I did with you, and what I do with other people—well, they’re not the same thing at all.’
‘Are you going to tell me what that means?’ he asked cautiously.
‘With you, it mattered. Is it far to this place?’
‘Not long now,’ he said, accepting her change of subject. He needed time to think. Things were moving with dizzying speed.
After an hour’s drive they reached the little airfield, already busy with several private planes. At the offices they were met by a small crowd. Amid the introductions Francesco gained an impression of a local journalist, a businessman considering becoming a backer and several charities who stood to gain from sponsorship.
‘Did you fix all this?’ Francesco asked.
‘Of course. This is my side of things.’
‘I’m impressed. But I always knew you were efficient.’
He concealed his relief that she had no thoughts of flying, and even allowed himself a moment of complacency at his own tact.
The pilot appeared with Sandro, already dressed up and strapped into his parachute. Behind him came another man, similarly dressed. This was Sandro’s skydiving partner.
‘We take off,’ Sandro said, ‘climb to about thirteen thousand feet and circle the airport twice before jumping.’
‘How far do you fall before opening the parachute?’ Celia wanted to know.
‘Down to about two and a half thousand feet,’ Sandro replied.
‘As low as that?’ Francesco queried in surprise.
‘Well, the whole point is to freefall as far as possible,’ the pilot said. ‘The parachute is just to break the fall at the last minute.’
‘Otherwise you’d be killed,’ Sandro observed cheerfully.
‘Which would seriously spoil your enjoyment of the next jump,’ Celia supplied, and they punched the air together.
The journalists thoroughly enjoyed this exchange, Francesco noted sourly.
‘Will you look after my dog for me?’ Sandro asked Celia.
‘Sure.’ She took the harness, but then found herself rather encumbered with two animals and her bag.
‘Give Jacko to me,’ Francesco said.
‘Good idea. You and he seem to be on each other’s wavelength.’
‘Now you’re just being fanciful,’ he said, half fondly, half in exasperation.
‘No, I’m not. He heard what you said about having his security snatched away, and he knows you understand him.’
Outwardly he dismissed her words. And yet it seemed to him that Jacko moved towards him willingly and sat close to his leg, as though contented.
I’m getting over-imaginative, he thought.
‘What’s happening now?’ Celia asked.
‘They’re walking away towards the aircraft. It’s just a tiny one, barely enough for the three of them—nearly there—someone’s taking a last look at the parachutes—the pilot’s climbing aboard and reaching back to help Sandro.’
Then he heard something that froze his blood. It was the softest possible sound, but it raised ghastly spectres, howling death and despair at him.
It was a sigh of envy.
He gave a sharp glance at Celia, hoping he’d imagined it, but there was no mistaking the way her head was thrown back, as though she could see up into the sky, or the look of ecstasy on her face.
Envy. Delight. Determination. All the things that would make a rational man bang his head against the nearest brick wall. And when he’d done that he would shoot himself, or jump off a cliff, whichever seemed most likely to promote health, happiness and sanity.
What he would not do was involve himself with this woman a second time. He would never again put it in her power to break his heart with her outrageous, wilful, insane, dotty-headed enthusiasms. That was out, finished, done with.
‘Are you all right?’ Celia asked, reaching for him in alarm.
‘Of course I am,’ he snapped. ‘Why?’
‘You’re trembling.’
‘No, just a bit chilly.’
‘It’s windy. They should have a good flight. What are they doing now?’
‘They’ve just closed the plane door—now they’re starting to move—gathering speed.’
‘I can hear the engine. They’ve left the ground, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, the plane is climbing—climbing—almost out of sight—’
‘But it’s coming back soon?’ she asked anxiously, almost like a child fearful of being denied a treat.
‘It’s coming back now, circling the airfield—it’s almost out of sight—lucky it’s a clear day—I can just make it out…’
His voice trailed off. When she could bear the silence no longer Celia squealed, ‘Well?’
‘I think Sandro and his partner are jumping now—yes, there they go!’
Way above him in the blue he could just make out the two men, leaving the aircraft together and going into freefall.
‘What are they doing?’ she cried, in the anguish of unbearable tension. ‘Have they opened their parachutes yet?’
‘No, they’re still holding on to each other—coming lower—lower—I can see them clearly now—they’re going to have to open up any minute—aren’t they?’
The hair-raising possibility of a last-minute disaster was there in his voice, and in the gasps from the crowd that turned to cheers as the men released each other and two parachutes opened, letting them glide gracefully earthwards.
‘They’ve landed,’ Francesco said. ‘They’re both safe.’
‘Wonderful!’ Celia rejoiced. ‘Now we’ve really got something spectacular to offer.’
Francesco pulled himself together. There would be time for his misgivings later. Just now he would concentrate on saying and doing the right things to get the business over with quickly. So he assumed a bright smile and prepared to say something suitable. But before he could do so Celia was surrounded by journalists, all hurling questions at her. She replied eagerly, leaving Francesco and Jacko to retire discreetly into the background.
‘That’s put us in our place,’ he commiserated with the dog. ‘We’re definitely not needed just now.’ He scratched the silky head. ‘I guess we both know how that feels.’
A soft grunt was his answer.
‘I wonder what your folks were like,’ he mused. ‘I guess you loved them, and then they said, “Get out!” And that was that. You’re coping somehow but—’
He stopped himself in alarm.
‘Listen to me, talking to you as if you understood. But maybe you do. She thinks so. I expect she talks to you, doesn’t she? She used to talk to Wicksy a lot. I wonder what she says about me.’
But he was only trying to distract his own attention from what had happened inside his head. As often before, the words, Get out! had acted like a malign spell, causing the universe to s
pin with terrifying speed before settling down into a bleak place.
‘What the devil’s the matter with me?’ he muttered. ‘Why does it happen? Why?’
They weren’t the only words Celia had hurled at him, nor the cruelest. So why? He asked himself that again and again, but there was no answer. If he could have discovered one, he felt he might have begun to find his way out of the maze.
‘Francesco?’ It was Celia’s voice, calling him back from a trance, and her hand shaking his shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, of course. Where shall I take you now? Are you having dinner with your new contacts? With Sandro?’
‘No, we’ve set up meetings for next week. Let’s go home.’
There was a shout. Sandro was approaching, hailing them.
‘What a day! So many new opportunities. Not just jumping from planes, but from balloons.’
‘That’ll really be something to try!’ Celia exclaimed. ‘Just wait until we get talking next week.’
‘Fine, I’ll see you then,’ Sandro said, using the word see in the casual fashion that always startled Francesco. ‘Goodbye, cara.’
He put an arm around Celia’s shoulder, drew her close and gave her a hearty kiss. She kissed him back. To Francesco it seemed an age before they could get away, and even then she had to dash back to Sandro to say something she’d forgotten. But at last they were in the car on the way home.
‘Let’s do some shopping and I’ll cook you supper.’
The next hour was pure pleasure. This was how they’d been at their happiest—planning meals, shopping together. She would let him choose the vegetables, and sometimes the meat, although she really preferred her own judgement for meat.
‘You were always a good cook,’ he recalled as they worked out the menu, walking around the grocer’s. ‘You made a list of all my favourite dishes and practised until you could do them perfectly.’
‘But some of the Italian ones I’d never heard of,’ she remembered.
‘And you wanted me to show you how to make them. As though I knew a potato from a bean! My expertise stopped at eating them.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Do you remember how shocked you were?’
‘Yes, I thought all Italian men were great cooks.’
