The Affair

by Hilary Boyd

  After the family had gone back to London, she became busy checking all the travel details and touching base with the thirty-two travellers, introducing herself and enquiring about any special requirements they might have. The new data protection laws prevented her knowing their ages or addresses in advance, so during those calls she had to find out as much as she could with some subtle, well-placed questioning. The more she knew, the more she could help them enjoy the perfect holiday.

  They seemed a chatty, easy-going lot this time – she didn’t detect any obvious troublemakers. Not at first. A night in Strasbourg, the Bernina Express across the Alps and a luxurious week beside Lake Como was one of her favourite tours and she was ashamed to say that she was almost holding her breath until she could leave.

  4

  As Connie re-entered the grand foyer of the lakeside hotel on day three, she heard her name called. A couple of her charges were hurrying anxiously towards her across the expanse of mosaic marble, which gleamed in the light of the sun pouring through the open doors to the street.

  ‘I’ve been calling you, Sandra,’ Connie said, as they reached her. ‘The minibus has just left for the ferry. They couldn’t wait any longer.’

  Sandra, a plump woman in her late sixties with aubergine candy-floss hair in a halo round her powdery face and a determined, wilful air, was wheezy with indignation. ‘You said we were leaving at nine thirty and we’re barely ten minutes late.’ She frowned at Connie, clearly convinced it was her fault.

  Connie glanced at the ornate gold clock above the reception desk. It said nine fifty-five. ‘I did try to reach you.’

  Sandra’s husband, Terry – thin and mild-mannered by contrast and never allowed to say much – nodded. ‘We –’ He was silenced by a glare from his wife.

  ‘So would you like me to order you a taxi?’ Connie asked quickly, to stem the flow of Sandra’s annoyance. ‘The ferry doesn’t go till ten past so you should just make it if you leave now.’ She paused. ‘And if you don’t, there’s another in an hour.’

  ‘Will the taxi be free?’ Sandra demanded. ‘We’ve already paid for the minibus.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. But it’s not far – it won’t be more than ten euros.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Sandra snorted angrily. ‘This really isn’t good enough. We were only in the dining room and you knew we were booked on the ferry.’

  Connie gave Sandra her best smile. She had checked the dining room when they didn’t turn up and rung Sandra’s mobile twice. ‘Let’s get the taxi organized.’

  After she’d seen the still-grumbling Sandra and her long-suffering husband off to the ferry, she stood for a moment beneath the arches of the hotel frontage, looking out across the lake. It was a gorgeous spring day, the sunlight catching the small ruffles on the water in hundreds of glinting flashes that hurt her eyes, the hills on the far side a soft grey-green, contrasting with the pink and cream walls and terracotta roofs of numerous lakeside villas. She watched a white ferry gliding past with an Italian flag flapping at the stern, bright orange lifebelts decorating the bow, and smiled to herself, taking in slow lungfuls of the clean, invigorating air. She loved the Italian lakes.

  Half of the group had been taken into Como itself – an hour’s drive from the hotel – the other half to Bellagio. Neither would be back for lunch, so she had the day to herself. Sometimes she would go with them on the day trips – there was so much to see – but she’d visited Bellagio many times over her twelve years as a tour manager. Today she felt like having a bit of time for herself. She might risk a swim in the hotel pool, then indulge in a light lunch on the terrace overlooking the lake. It was frowned upon to swim with the tour guests, so Connie had to slip in her swims while her flock was off sightseeing or after they’d gone in to shower and change for dinner.

  The pool was set in the mature gardens behind the hotel, currently alive with the purple and pink blooms of banks of azaleas. It was unheated and would be freezing at this time of year, the outside temperature a moderate sixteen degrees today. But Connie and her friend Neil had begun wild swimming the previous year and regularly took off for a morning in one of the nearby rivers. The shivering anticipation, the adrenalin punch of the cold water, the stinging, reddened skin, the exhilaration afterwards – they both found it addictive. So she was looking forward to a dip in the chilly pool.

  Connie brought her book with her to lunch, but she didn’t read it. The view from the cool first-floor terrace was compelling as she ate her tricolore salad – the drizzled olive oil bright green, the tomatoes softly ripe, the buffalo mozzarella piquant and creamy – and sipped a small glass of chilled Chardonnay, gazing across the water towards the distant hills.

  She was thinking of Devan. She knew she should message him – as she did every day, religiously, while she was away – but he hadn’t responded to her last two and she was reluctant to send another. When she’d first started touring, she’d sent emails – there was no WhatsApp in those days – crammed with photographs of lakes, mountains and ferries, churches, monuments and tulips. Her family had seen it all. So now she just sent short anecdotes: an amusing incident on the train or a thumbnail sketch of a colourful passenger. She wasn’t sure Devan even read them any more, not in his current state, but she persevered nonetheless, not wanting the weeks to go by with them both revolving in a totally separate universe.

  In the days before she left this time, her husband had seemed to shut down, maintaining an almost impenetrable silence, greeting her attempts at conversation with an indifferent ‘Mmm,’ or a vague nod, as if she’d interrupted him in the middle of something important. She had tried not to be hurt by it, but in the end had given up and retreated into her own wounded silence.

  ‘Hope it goes well,’ Devan had said, as they drew up at the station for her to take the train to London, then the tube to St Pancras. He sounded sheepish suddenly, as if he might be ashamed of himself and his behaviour. So Connie had reached over and kissed his cheek. He’d smiled briefly, and she’d seen a flash of sadness in his eyes.

  ‘Love you,’ she said. He had merely nodded.

  Tears sprang to her eyes now, and she was grateful for the sunglasses she wore against the glare off the lake. Does he still love me? It was something she had never, until this moment, questioned. But now it occurred to her – shockingly – that his low mood, the way he was distancing himself from her, might not just be a retirement issue. It might be related to her, to them. Is it me who’s the problem? Is he unhappy because of our marriage? It was a very painful thought.

  She shook herself, then turned to catch the waiter’s attention and ordered a double espresso. The swim had been gorgeous, the pool empty except for one ageing American lady in a white swimming hat and goggles, doing steady breaststroke lengths despite the water being numbingly cold. Connie hadn’t lingered afterwards on a poolside lounger, the early May sun not warm enough for that. She’d just wrapped herself in the ample white towelling robe provided in her room and hurried upstairs for a divine shower.

  The sheet of hot water pouring down her naked body from the overhead fitting – which she estimated was an impressive ten inches across – made her wish Devan were there to enjoy it too. They used to shower together sometimes, in the past, soaping each other and themselves, chatting and laughing about nothing in particular in the steamy warmth of the capacious shower Devan had insisted on installing when they’d first bought the house. It wasn’t a sexual thing – although occasionally it led to that – just a cosy ritual they both enjoyed.

  As she sat at her table, stirring a small brown-sugar cube into her coffee, a voice behind her dragged her back to the present.

  ‘Is it too breezy out here?’ The carefully modulated vowels were instantly recognizable. Dinah Worthington, in her early eighties, was on the tour with her godson. She was like a duchess, Connie thought – although she’d never met a real one – with her gracious but slightly condescending politeness and the obvious expectation that doors would be opened, cha
irs pulled out and an arm always at the ready for her to lean on. All of which her godson, Jared, patiently and apparently willingly supplied.

  Connie turned. ‘How was Como?’

  Dinah started. ‘Gosh, Connie, I didn’t see you there.’ She pulled her floppy straw hat from her white curls and sat down with a grateful sigh at the vacant table next to Connie’s. The terrace was nearly empty now. It was gone three and the restaurant in a lull between lunch and dinner.

  Jared hovered for a moment, looking around as if he were checking there wasn’t somewhere better, then sat down opposite Dinah. With his grey polo shirt, sunglasses hooked on the top button, rust-red trousers and deck shoes with no socks, he would have passed unnoticed in a crowd of British holidaymakers, except for his eye-catching Bradley Cooper hair – thick, shiny brown with golden natural highlights and falling, one length, to the collar of his shirt. It would flop, at regular intervals, across his face, and he would sweep it back over his head, like a film star.

  In the few exchanges she’d had with him so far – mostly pertaining to his godmother, such as managing the air-conditioning controls in her room or whether Connie thought Dinah would cope with the steep Varenna streets – she’d found him reserved, bordering on standoffish. Not unpleasant, it was just as if he wasn’t quite comfortable being on the tour. Which maybe had something to do with his age – early fifties, Connie reckoned. Almost twenty years younger than the majority of the group.

  She watched as the waiter poured mineral water into their glasses, Dinah taking a long draught, then sighing gratefully. ‘We did the stunning cathedral, then the Garibaldi place, which was a trifle dull, I thought. The others were off up to Brunate in the funicular, but I simply can’t do heights any more. So Jared, bless him, organized a cab.’ She gave her godson an apologetic smile, patting his hand across the table. ‘I feel bad, depriving you of all those marvellous views, darling.’

  Jared shook his head. ‘I’ve seen them before, Dinah. Much nicer to sit here with you, having a nice cool drink, than be stuffed into a lurching tin box, forced to listen to oohing and aahing in six different languages.’

  Connie gave a dutiful laugh, but eyed him, thinking he was being unnecessarily derogatory about his fellow tourists.

  ‘It is maddening being old,’ Dinah said wistfully. ‘I used to love funiculars, ski lifts, views from the tops of mountains.’

  Jared’s voice was suddenly full of kindness. ‘There’s lots of other things to enjoy. We’ve got the Villa Cipressi gardens tomorrow. You’ll love them. Maybe the wisteria will still be out.’ He turned to Connie with a charming smile. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  Feeling bad for her hasty initial assessment, she nodded. ‘So you’ve been here before?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jared replied airily. ‘Travelling is my thing.’

  She realized he was unusually tanned for an Englishman in early May and wondered where else he had been.

  At dinner that night she sat with Ruth and Ginty, friends from college, now in their late sixties, who met up every year for a holiday without their husbands. Connie always ate with her flock, but moved around to sit at different tables, so that by the end of a tour she had engaged with everyone at least once. The group tended to form their own allegiances, making friends and pairing up as the week went on. Sometimes she was eating with five or six, sometimes only two. A solitary traveller could pose a problem – she had to make sure he or she was accommodated and never left to eat alone.

  Connie occasionally found supper conversation heavy going, but mostly her fellow diners were buzzing with what they’d seen that day and eager to chat about what was coming up tomorrow. Tonight would be easy: Ruth and Ginty were lively, mischievous and loved nothing better than a good gossip.

  ‘So, the godson.’ Ginty lowered her voice and widened her blue eyes dramatically at Connie. Jared and Dinah were tucked against the wall on the far side of the large dining room, whose windows looked out onto what was now a breathtaking indigo and gold sunset. ‘I’m thinking he might be gay. But Ruth insists otherwise.’

  They both waited expectantly for Connie to reply.

  ‘You know I can’t comment,’ she said, with an amused smile.

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ A fair-skinned blonde with a rounded figure she liked to show off, with clinging fabrics and low necklines, Ruth chuckled. ‘Ginty’s reasons for thinking he’s gay are totally spurious. She says no straight man would be so kind and good-tempered with his godmother – who’s obviously a bit of a handful, however gracious she pretends to be.’

  ‘Unless, of course, she was about to leave him her fortune … I hadn’t thought of that,’ Ginty mused, as she shot a sneaky glance across the room towards the pair in question, who were deep in conversation.

  ‘Stop staring! He’ll think you fancy him,’ Ruth hissed, playfully cuffing her friend’s arm and causing them both to break into schoolgirl giggles – fuelled, no doubt, by the copious quantities of Soave they’d consumed.

  Connie had not, so far, considered Jared’s sexuality. He was certainly not a flirt – at least, not with her. Her overriding impression was of well-mannered reserve. She agreed with Ruth, though, that kindness certainly wasn’t exclusive to gay men, remembering Devan’s numerous acts of kindness over the years. Such as the hours he had taken patiently explaining – over and over again until he must have been nearly mad with irritation – the various tests and their significance to her frightened sister, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, years ago now.

  She tried not to stare at Jared, although he and his godmother were in her direct line of sight whenever she looked up from her plate of delicious grilled sea bass and courgette fries. A dark horse, she decided, as the women chattered on.

  The following day, Luca Pozzi, their guide, leaned against the stone wall near the jetty where the ferry docked, close to the tiny harbour in Varenna. He had a cigarette cupped furtively in his palm and tucked behind his right thigh, from which he took swift, shifty drags.

  ‘They know you’re smoking, Luca,’ Connie teased, checking the straggle of tourists taking final photos of each other against the backdrop of the lake as they emerged from the narrow streets after an afternoon in the pretty lakeside town. ‘The clue’s in those fumes pouring from your mouth.’

  Smoking was supposedly forbidden for employees of the tour company, but Luca, who looked like the clichéd ageing Lothario with his tan and improbably gleaming white teeth, his turquoise open-necked shirt and dyed black hair, gave her a wide grin.

  ‘Che importa?’ He shrugged, then patted his chest proudly. ‘Tutti mi amano.’

  And it was true: they all did love Luca. His English was impeccable, although still lyrically Italian, and he was so knowledgeable, so charming – he had a degree in Italian history, he was always keen to point out – that he had the whole group eating out of his hand.

  As she waited for them all to gather before boarding the ferry, Connie checked her phone again. There was still nothing from Devan in response to her message nearly two days ago now. She felt a small spike of worry, suddenly visualizing all the things that might have happened to him. Maybe his back had seized up and he couldn’t reach the phone. Or he’d fallen in the shower. She dismissed the doomy scenarios. I’ll call as soon as we get back to the hotel.

  Looking up from her screen, she saw Terry, Sandra’s husband, approaching at a run, his face a picture of concern.

  ‘It’s Walter, Connie. He’s come over faint and says he can’t walk.’ Terry spoke breathlessly, his normally solemn face suddenly animated. ‘Sandra’s with him. And Jared. But we don’t know what to do.’

  Connie and Luca hurried after Terry to the café-bar, a short way up one of the town’s narrow streets. Walter – a tall American from Ohio in his seventies, who seemed to wear exclusively beige, even to his cotton flat cap – was sitting at an outside table. Sandra was beside him, self-consciously holding his hand, Jared and Dinah hovering nearby. His face was pale, with a
sheen of sweat, his breathing shallow.

  Connie bent down, a gentle arm around his shoulders. ‘Walter?’ She knew, from their pre-trip phone call, that he had a heart condition. But he had assured her it was under control with a battery of daily drugs. ‘Do you have any chest pain?’

  ‘No, no.’ He glanced up at the sound of her voice and seemed suddenly to become aware of the ring of concerned faces looking down at him. ‘Just give me a second, I’ll be fine. This happens sometimes …’

  ‘Do you have your medication with you?’

  He stared at her blankly for a second, then nodded slowly, indicating his canvas man-bag, lying at his feet. Luca lifted it and handed it to Connie.

  ‘May I look?’ she asked Walter.

  He nodded again and she began to rummage, quickly finding a white plastic bottle of pills, which she handed to him.

  ‘I ought to take them three times a day,’ he said, with an apologetic smile, ‘but sometimes I forget, you know.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he go to hospital?’ Jared asked, his phone poised in his hand. ‘I can call an ambulance.’

  Connie hesitated. Getting an ambulance down the narrow Varenna streets would be a nightmare and take for ever. ‘Hold off for a moment, Jared. Let’s see if he’s all right when the pills have had a chance to kick in.’

  She could tell from his face that Jared wasn’t convinced. ‘There must be a doctor somewhere here. I could ask at the bar,’ he said, glancing around, as if he thought help might spring out from one of the low bushes bordering the café garden.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ Connie said, noticing for the first time his unusual eyes, almost turquoise as they caught the light from the sun reflecting off the lake.

  ‘No doctor,’ Walter said agitatedly. ‘I don’t need a doctor. Just give me a minute.’ He clutched Connie’s hand.

  ‘We can get someone to check you out at the hotel,’ she told Walter, then turned to Luca. ‘You’ll be OK with the others?’ She knew the last ferry didn’t go for a couple of hours, but she didn’t want the whole group hanging around until Walter had recovered sufficiently to be able to walk to the boat.