by Sally Graham
He leaned back and looked at her. “Now - what are you going to read in the newspapers about our deal?”
Tamara looked at him uncertainly, wondering how he had made something she had never managed to understand, so simple. “I don’t know,” she said. Then, “So that’s the way the cookie crumbles?” she said trying to make a joke.
“That’s facetious,” he said sharply. “I’ll tell you what the papers will say. The news headlines are going to say, ‘Hedge fund manager earns 24 million dollars.’ Yet they won’t tell you I earned my investors $76 million. And it scales up. If I were managing $10 billion, my compensation would have been $2.4 billion and I will have made my investors $7.6 billion. But what do you read? Article after article and blog after blog about how I was earning ridiculous amounts of money. Not once will you read about the massive payday I deliver to those people who entrust me with their money.”
And then he had excused himself, and returned to his reading.
Tamara couldn’t but be impressed by the sincerity in his voice, and the passion with which Simon explained his work. She opened her e-reader but couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she found herself glancing across the cabin aisle to where he was sitting .
Simon was wholly absorbed in his work. He had taken off his dark blue cashmere and rolled up his white cotton shirt sleeves so that she could see his muscular arms and the way the bright sunlight caught his dark wavy hair.
He had an extraordinary ability to become suddenly animated and infectiously energetic, and then suddenly switch off, oblivious to anything around him.
I wonder if there is anything other than business in his life?
But Tamara’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft touch on her shoulder. The graceful stewardess who had joined them when they refuelled at Abu Dhabi told her they would be landing in Italy in an hour.
“Where’s the airport?” Simon asked.
“Don’t get excited,” Tamara answered. “There’s no duty free. It’s a military field that’s given us permission to land. It took a lot of time and I had to explain how important you are. You do know the Italian President, don’t you?” she teased.
“Oh no - we’ll be slung in gaol because of your lies,” he groaned. “Did you have to?”
“It’s the nearest airfield to where we’re going. But you can forget the President bit. It just took a hefty landing fee.”
“Ah - the wheels of commerce never stop, do they? Thank God you’re on board. I don’t have to think of anything.”
After they had taxied to a halt and were walking away from their jet Tamara delighted in the first fresh air since they had left Sydney. Even though there was the omnipresent faint whiff of aircraft fuel, the warm Mediterranean air was intoxicating. Some ground crew stared at them curiously, but as it was a military base there were few people wandering around, and they were quickly processed by a military customs official.
“Welcome to Italy, Senor and Mrs Henty,” he said without any irony while Tamara squirmed inwardly with embarrassment and Simon stared straight ahead without seeming to hear. “I believe your limousine is waiting for you. You will love the Amalfi coast. You must visit everywhere,” he finished enthusiastically, and saluted them smartly.
“God, I feel like royalty,” Simon muttered.
“It’s because you travel like royalty and can’t take a bus like everyone else,” Tamara smiled.
Chapter 7
The approach to the Palazzo Marchesi was a classic Italian dream. Dark green Cyprus trees bordered the winding road and stood sentinel on the dusty verges. Small olive groves stretched on either side of them into the hazy distance and small farm houses, capped by their weathered terracotta roof tiles, dotted the landscape.
As they curved around the hillside, Tamara realised that their car had climbed away from the plain below and was now leaving the Mediterranean behind them. Moments later their limousine slowed as they swept past two stone lodges on either side of elegant wrought iron gates surmounted by an ornate coat of arms.
“Wow - they knew how to live when they built this place, didn’t they?” Tamara said enthusiastically. “Just look at the rich color of the stone, and the carving.”
“Well, you ought to know about all that - you found the place!”
“I had no idea, absolutely no idea, how fabulous it would be - ”
But at that moment they passed through another gateway and drew up in a slow curve in front of the palazzo. The minibus with Simon’s team pulled up some distance away by the side of the vast mansion, and Tamara glimpsed their luggage being unloaded. She recognised Simon’s PA but her eye was caught by the blonde pony-tail of a girl hauling out their cases. Who’s she?
Simon’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Shall we?”
They stood for a moment admiring the elegance of the palazzo’s facade, stunned by the perfection achieved by artisans four hundred years before they arrived. The only sounds came from the fountain splashing behind them and the balmy evening breeze rustling of the trees which circled the manicured flowerbeds. Although she felt tired after her flight, Tamara felt enveloped in peace and tranquillity.
“Can you smell the scent from those rose bushes?” she asked, pointing to the intense pink flowers that climbed up the dark green shrubs clipped into ornamental shapes. “It’s heavenly!”
Simon laughed. “Come on,” he said, putting his hand on her back, “Lead on. I’m famished. I’m looking forward to smelling what’s cooking for supper!”
Tamara glanced up at him, enjoying his good humour, and thankful that her choice of venue was proving to be a success. He didn’t move his hand from the small of her back as they walked up the steps , nor did she want to pull away. Instead, she found herself enjoying the gentle pressure that propelled her into the cool of the marbled entrance hall.
“Signore Henty? Signora Tremaine? Welcome to Palazzo Marchesi!” A tiny woman with grey hair, immaculately dressed in black, shook their hands, and gestured to the open French windows at the end of the hall. As they approached, they had a glimpse of a wide panorama that stretched below them - neatly cultivated golden fields jostled with shady olive groves. “I am Patrizzia, and I am so happy that you are our guests. You will be so happy here.” She looked at them expectantly.
“Er, well, thank you, Patrizzia,” Simon began awkwardly. “I’m sure we will be. Won’t we Tamara?” he said, glancing at her questioningly, his eyes crinkling in a secret smile.
Does he have to look at me like that?
“Patrizzia, thank you so much. We’re looking forward to our stay. Can you show us around before we eat?” Tamara tried not to look awkward as Simon started to slide his arm around her again, and this time she edged away.
“There is no need,” the tiny woman said. “The house is yours to explore. You sleep upstairs. You eat outside tonight, it is warm. And tomorrow we can plan the rest. Normale !”
“Normale!” Tamara answered warmly. “We’ll eat in maybe half an hour?”
Patrizzia nodded assent, and Simon and Tamara walked out onto the paved patio.
“Do you think she thinks we’re married?” Simon asked cautiously.
“Are you mad?” Tamara joked. “Whatever would have given her that crazy idea?”
“Only asking,” he teased. “You know what Italians are like!”
“Don’t even think about it,” Tamara answered coolly. “I’m on a working holiday, ok?”
“Now, now, is that the way to work up a good appetite? Let’s try and be civil with each other,” Simon said soothingly.
The Palazzo Marchesi turned out to be one of those villas built on an opulent scale but which had been modernised so as to retain its style and grandeur but include every modern convenience. Tamara was relieved that she had been allocated her own bedroom - I won’t have to have THAT conversation - which was a complete, private, suite. Quickly showering and changing into a white top and jeans, she went downstairs to find Simon was seated on the patio under a vast white parasol with an o
pen bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.
“This is an amazing place,” he greeted her. “Quite spectacular. However did you locate it?”
“Ah - we have our secrets,” Tamara said mysteriously, inwardly thanking Donna for following up a conversation she’d had with an old flame at an industry convention. “What’s your room like?”
“Room? It’s a complete apartment in itself. The wood panelling is exquisite and I swear there’s a fresco by Piero della Francesca in the chapel.”
“The chapel?” Tamara gasped.
“Yup. It leads off my bedroom. You know what these guys who once lived here were like. High jinks in the bedroom and then you could get forgiven by a priest next door!”
“That’s so rude!” Tamara cried, laughing. “Mind you, I suspect you need a lot of forgiveness, so you’re in the right room!”
“Now, Now, Miss Morality. I know you disapprove of me,” he said, pouring her a glass of champagne.
“What do you mean?”
“The way you always sounded on the phone when I gave you details of who I am travelling with. You never have to say anything exactly, it’s just your tone of voice. And then the barely suppressed delight when you found out that I’d been stood up for this vacation!”
“That would have been extremely unprofessional of me, Mr Henty,” Tamara said formally, glancing at the staff who were waiting to serve their antipasti. “And, now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss work while we dine.”
“There you are, you see. All prim and proper,” he teased.
Their meal was exquisite, or so Simon said as they stood on the balcony in the darkness overlooking the campagna. “I didn’t know we had so much in common,” he said to her, “An interest in business, a fond dislike of our clients, and mutual respect for each other’s talents!”
“You have twisted everything I said,” Tamara answered, “except for an interest in business!”
“What else are you interested in?” Simon murmured, turning towards her. Without pausing for an answer, he moved closer towards her and laid his hand on hers. “It’s been a lovely evening,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
Uh oh - Il Signore Henty is trying it on!
“It’s been lovely for me too,” she said. “And, well, you were terrific company!”
He pulled away from her. “That sounded terrible! Was I that boring? Look, I’m going to be busy most of tomorrow, so you can relax. I’ve got meetings lined up and you can hide in the grounds and read an uplifting novel.”
“I thought you were supposed to be on holiday?”
“There are European bankers I need to meet in person. Once I’ve got them out of the way I’ll switch off.”
“So what do you do to relax?”
Simon shrugged. “I’ll chill by the pool…. Enjoy the local wine…. And - get to know you better, maybe.”
Tamara was disturbed by the direction her mind was moving. Like it or not, she was beginning to find Simon attractive: his tall, lean, solid body. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. His infectious laugh. And the way her stomach fluttered when he touched her.
“Is this the man who was chiding me for being critical?” she answered him with mock sweetness, looking at his profile silhouetted by the light streaming from the palazzo. Hmmm…. I’ve got to admit… he looks good…. One of these guys who doesn’t realise how good looking he is.
“The very same person,” he answered, yawning. “But if I can’t entice you to come upstairs and admire the frescos in the chapel next to my bedroom, I’ll turn in and see you tomorrow.”
“I think they can wait until daylight,” she smiled, and followed him into the house.
****
Tamara basked in the late afternoon sun, enjoying the heat as a warm breeze rustled through the olive trees and prevented her getting too hot. She was being careful not to burn, rubbing herself liberally with sun tan cream, and turning over on the dark red lounger mattress regularly . One of the staff brought her a light lunch and a large glass of chilled Prosecco, which she sipped as she lazily read her book.
They had been at the palazzo for two days and, to her relief, it was not turning out so difficult as she feared. Simon’s routine was straightforward - an early morning jog before it got hot, then they met for a breakfast of delicious rolls and coffee, and afterwards his PA came with her laptop and they huddled together going through overnight emails.
This morning had been different, however. Tamara looked out from her balcony window to see Simon’s rangy frame returning from his run, except this time he was accompanied by the blonde girl with a ponytail she had seen at the airport. They were laughing together, and Tamara suddenly felt a frisson of jealousy.
Who the hell is she?
Simon had surprised her by having business meetings in the villa, and requested - if she didn’t mind - that she kept in the background.
“I don’t need eye-candy for these meetings, Tamara,,” he teased. “It’s men only!”
Which was fine by her, and it meant that she could find secluded parts of the garden, take her bikini top off, and sunbathe.
She emptied her wine glass, and had a guilty pang that she might have drunk too much. Luxuriating on the cushiony recliner, Tamara dropped her book alongside her, and tilted her wide-brimmed straw hat back so that she could watch the swallows weaving and curving against the bluest of skies.
This is heaven. Pure heaven.
Tamara always found wine and sun arousing, and she found her thoughts turning towards Simon. He was more complicated than she realised, and rather shy.
At mealtimes he was unfailingly courteous and polite, but he was reluctant to discuss anything more personal than cities he visited (most of the developed world’s capitals, she discovered) or the merits of the meal they were eating. His conversation about his parents, she decided, was as much about his personal life as she was going to discover.
It was getting cooler, so she decided to return to the palazzo, and tied her bikini top. Wrapping a sarong around her, she stepped into her flip flops and walked back towards the palazzo. As she approached the building, she noticed the chirp of the cicada being supplanted by another faint sound carried towards her by the breeze. For a moment she couldn’t make out what it was, until she recognised that she was listening to someone playing the guitar. And whoever it was, they were playing extremely competently.
She imagined that one of Simon’s business acquaintances was entertaining the group now that their meeting had finished, or Simon was listening to the radio, so she walked across the patio whose flagstones were still warm from the day’s heat towards the French windows which opened out from the ground floor rooms.
It was Simon who was playing.
His back was towards her, and she stood spellbound as the romantic guitar music filled the wood panelled room. As far as she could see there were no music sheets, so he must be playing from memory, but the rhythm and mastery was spellbinding. It was a slow, melodious piece, that moved from melancholy to an uplifting crescendo, but Simon stopped suddenly as though he could sense that there was someone else in the room. He turned around and looked at her, and then laid the guitar on the ornamental parquet floor.
“Ah - I thought you were still in the garden,” he said sheepishly.
“Don’t stop, Simon. That was amazing. I mean, it was wonderful. I had no idea.” Tamara finished awkwardly. “What were you playing? Should I have recognised it?”
“Only if I was playing it well! It’s a romantic piece by a Spanish composer; he wanted the piece to transport the listener to another place and time. It just seemed the right thing to play on a beautiful summer’s evening, don’t you think?”
“I have to admit it was lovely - very romantic.” Oh no, wrong thing to say?
He paused. “I agree….” His voice trailed away, then he bent and placed the guitar in its case.
“No, please, Simon, go on playing.”
He hesitated for a moment, and t
hen retrieved the guitar. Tamara leaned against the panelled wall; Simon stared intently as his fingers started to slowly pluck the strings before quickening the tempo so that Tamara couldn’t help herself and began quietly tapping her feet in time to the riotous rhythm filling the room.
Simon’s fingers were a blur as the music reached a crescendo, his dark eyebrows furrowed, his chiselled features taut with concentration. My God - I’ve never heard someone play so beautifully.
Tamara was still spellbound when the music reached a crescendo before dying away as Simon finished playing. He sat motionless until Tamara broke the silence.
“Bravo!” Tamara clapped enthusiastically. “You’re brilliant! Encore!”
He smiled awkwardly. “No - that’s enough for one evening. But, thank you, Tamara.”
