It was all Franco could do to stop Maria coming with him on the trip. He had a tough time explaining that he was working and she couldn’t join him, she was not happy. Sadly, the lunch meeting had not gone to plan, his cock had got the better of him; she had snuck back into his life. He’d instantly regretted it, and felt bad about Tara.
He would give Maria a cooling-off period and finish it on his return from Italy, or he may even do it in a cowardly way over the phone while out there, that way she couldn’t jump on him and change his mind… wimp!
Poor old Michael now had to take her home. He chuckled to himself, he knew how Michael hated her, but being such a loyal soul he would never say it. He suspected that Michael approved of Tara; he’d nicknamed her Lady T, whereas Maria had acquired the name Miss Moodyknickers.
He couldn’t wait to board the plane and get moving, he was looking forward to being alone with Tara, he had some explaining to do about his disastrous love life. Understandably she hadn’t been returning his calls since the lunch; luckily she wouldn’t see the pictures of Maria at the airport in the morning papers.
One final pose for the now large group of photographers (word had spread), a few autographs for some kids, a kiss for the now tearful Academy Award performing Maria, and a hug for Michael.
Whispering in his ear, “put the music up loud so she doesn’t get a chance to interrogate you, this time next week she’ll be history, I promise, Michael… I owe you,” he punched him playfully in the ribs.
“Yes, Boss,” grimaced Michael at the thought of his journey home. “’Ere, mind the shmutter,” pushing away his punches, proudly straightening up his new suit. “This cost me an arm an a leg this did!”
Laughing at his driver’s sartorial elegance, Franco swished through passport control, ready to board his flight, oblivious to the admiring glances and double-takes of passers-by.
Chapter Twenty-Six
David was incensed; they’d all gone to Italy for the shoot, even his new plaything, Seb. His plans would be delayed, he would have to bide his time and wait for their return. He would play while they were gone.
He hated it when Tara was away, he missed spying on her, missed visiting her for sex at night. He loved the intimacy of watching her live her life - taking a bath, getting dressed, doing her makeup, cooking, cleaning, chatting on the phone, singing out of tune to the radio, shouting at the television, tossing and turning in her bed, hearing her snores as she slept, she would sometimes let out a heralding fart and he would crease up with laughter as she slept angelically through it.
He particularly loved the intimacy of watching her play with herself beneath the bedclothes. He’d overheard her giggling with a friend, one night on the phone; her gynaecologist had told her that wanking was good for you.
“…. he said everyone should do it at least once a day, it flushes blood around the body, works out the heart, burns up calories, releases feel-good hormones, doesn’t hurt anyone (as long as no one sees you of course!) and is free… now you tell me, how many things in life can do all that for you? … anyway, it’s good to keep the juices flowing, you don’t want to dry up down there!”
Her friend was in hysterics, hoping that a little old lady from the telephone company wasn’t listening into their conversation.
He’d copied her keys to come and go as he pleased. He liked to play with her belongings and check on his camera equipment. Sometimes, if she was away, he would sleep in her bed. He knew that the cleaning lady visited every Thursday morning to change the sheets and clean up the flat. On this occasion, the sheets would be clean by the time she returned, so he could get away with a sleepover.
He slipped the key in the lock and stepped quickly into her flat. It was late afternoon; she had left the day before for the airport, in a hurry, so the flat was a mess. He stood in the hallway, listening at the door to see if anyone had noticed him enter, nothing. He took in long deep breaths; the apartment smelled of her, the closed windows had kept the air cocooned.
His cock began to fill with excitement as he took tentative steps into each of the rooms, pulling down the blinds as he went, cutting off the outside world, until he was free to roam her space, unseen in the semi darkness.
He hit the play button on her iPod, it sprung to life with the music she’d been listening to the night before she left, a compilation of slow soul funk tracks, ‘music to make luurve to’ she called it. He kept it low for fear of the neighbours hearing.
He smiled, remembering that she loved music, she would say,
“… I love music, but only if you can sing, dance, drive, chill or make luurve to it, the rest is shit.” Punk and acid jazz didn’t make the grade.
In the centre of her living room he leisurely stripped off, stacking his clothes into a neat pile on top of his shoes, in the middle of the living room floor. Socks, Jeans, boxer shorts, everything, meticulously folded. The cold air exciting him as each part of his body became exposed.
He stood naked, turning to survey his body in the large mirror that hung over the sofa. Even if he said it himself, he was a good-looking bastard. His body was in excellent shape, working out in the gym paid off. He watched his cock in the reflection, feeling it fill as it pumped itself up. Yep, he was getting horny.
He loved spreading his scent around her flat, marking out his territory like a dog. He would leisurely walk from room to room trailing fingers over her possessions, rubbing them against his skin. Today he started with the bathroom; he chose a hard bristled hairbrush and dragged it across his chest, down his stomach to his tight balls. Stray strands of blonde hair tickled and teased nerve endings, bringing them to life. He increased the pressure, rubbing the brush harder and faster, until it was more than he could stand. Red welts streaked his body, his cock grew with pleasure.
Returning the brush, he moved onto the glass shelf above the sink that housed her collection of perfume bottles, smelling each in turn, he played his game of choosing a favourite. A razor blade sat on the side of the bath, a stray pubic hair stuck to it; he tugged it free and he waved it under his nose, imagining he could still smell her; he then popped it in his mouth and played with it on his tongue, his cock rock hard now.
Next the kitchen, wherever possible he dragged his stiff cock along kitchen units and surfaces, it reminded him of when a child he would run down the street, noisily pulling a stick along the railings, enjoying the vibrations that ran up his arm, pissing off the grownups with the annoying clatter.
Soiling the surfaces where she prepared food, turned him on, shame the cleaning lady was due. He had the urge to wank off right there and then, but wanted to wait until he got to the best bit, her bedroom.
Walking through the living room, pre-cum now oozing from his cock, he picked up sofa cushions and rubbed himself off on them, leaving trail marks. She would rest her head on these while watching the TV or chatting on the phone, he smiled.
Finally, he reached the bedroom. He opened her wardrobe and went through her clothes, touching the different materials, rubbing them across his face, imagining her wearing each piece. With two hands he scooped up a pile of lingerie from a drawer and buried his face in the soft silky mix of materials, taking in the clean fresh laundry smell. He then plunged his cock into his hands and began wanking the underwear backwards and forwards along its length, bringing on the blissful climax… no, no mustn’t come yet, he squeezed the base of his cock until excitement subsided.
He pulled back the bedspread and got into her bed, her body smell surrounded him. He pulled the sheet up over his head, closed his eyes and lay very still, breathing her in. As the heat rose from his body, her heady smell became more intoxicating. He turned onto his front and stretched flat out on his stomach, buried his head in her pillow and with slow rhythmic movements, fucked her mattress.
He rubbed backwards and forwards, chanting her name in rhythm with the creaking bed, building faster and faster until he came, crying out like an animal. Warm semen soaked her white sheet. As he lay exh
austed, he smiled at the thought of the snooping cleaning lady tut-tutting at the stains.
Unable to move, he dozed for a while, then awoke and started the process again, and again, until he fell into a deep sleep. The next morning before he left he would ‘unset’ her mousetraps… that’ ll confuse the bitch.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ravello Village, Amalfi Coast, Sorrento Peninsula, Southern Italy
The Italian trip was a success. They flew into Naples airport and within an hour were whisked away in private cars to Franco’s magnificent cliff top villa, nestled in a secluded spot just outside Ravello Village. At 1,000 feet above sea level, its vast sun terraces boasted stunning views of a cobalt sea and a scattering of enchanting Amalfi Coast fishing villages. Franco had taste, understated, effortless, taste; his beautiful home was simple, comfortable and inviting.
A wonderful hard working old couple ran the place for him, Mimi and Tony. Mimi was an excellent cook and housekeeper and Tony a gardener and handyman. They had been with the Rossellini family since Franco was born; he’d poached them from his parents, five years ago when he first bought the villa. They were getting old; his quieter lifestyle suited them better than his parent’s busy multileveled Naples town house, with its endless stairways and visiting broods of siblings and grandchildren.
They obviously loved having Franco home and followed him around like lovesick puppies, chattering about his life in London - was he eating properly? when was he going to get married? filling him in on village gossip, how well his family were, etc. Tony and he gently arguing the toss over how English football was nowhere near as exciting as Italian and when was he going to come back to Italy and play with a proper team?
Mimi prepared fantastic meals; the house was always full of delicious aromas from her concoctions. By the end of their stay, Tara was sure she’d put on half a stone. Franco went for a run each morning so was able to eat to his heart’s content.
The first night, they ate on the terrace at the back of the villa, under a vine-covered pergola, overlooking the wonderful gardens that Tony lovingly nurtured. They drank local wine and ate like kings. Whenever mellow and drunk enough, Tony could be persuaded to get out his old guitar and knock out a few tunes. The gang loved it and sang along. Mimi cuddled up under Franco’s arm as they rocked gently in time to the soulful melodies. She beamed proudly backwards and forwards between her adorable husband and surrogate son.
After a few more glasses of vino, Anton, his arms around a giggling Tara and bashful Mark, couldn’t resist bringing his soul diva persona to the party by scatting dramatic jazz harmonies across Tony’s vocals. Tony, astonished as first, actually quite liked the addition to his repertoire, it was in tune at least, he upped the tempo, making Anton work faster and faster to keep up. The team fell about laughing, clapping and cheering them along. It was a magical night of laughter wine and song under the stars… in spite of Franco and Tara ignoring each other.
Negotiations between them were frosty; he hadn’t had the chance to explain Maria. Mainly her fault, she purposefully gave no opportunity for them to be alone. The first day she, Seb and Mark spent location spotting, walking the grounds and local beaches, she was minimal icy polite to their genial host.
While they were out Anton sat in the kitchen with Mimi, learning how to cook pasta the right way, the Italian way. He and she giggled away as Anton flicked through his phrase book and practiced pigeon Italian on her, making up for his lack of knowledge with oversized arm gestures and funny faces. He’d always fancied the idea of taking an Italian lover… the best way to learn a language.
Initially, Tony kept his distance from the effervescent Anton, believing him to be a little loco. He nudged Mimi nervously as they stood at the front door welcoming the group from the airport. Anton jumped out of the car and skipped towards them, arms waving, shrieking with excitement.
The sight of red flip flops, canary yellow trousers, and a billowing pink shirt wafting in their direction was a little too much for the old fashioned country boy, he scooted behind his tiny wife letting her be first in line for Anton’s cuddle attack. Later, when portering the suitcases to the relevant bedrooms he tut-tutted to Mimi about the amount of hair and make-up paraphernalia belonging to Anton, a man!
Mimi on the other hand adored him, she fell in love immediately with the bundle of fun and chided that a friend of Franco’s was always welcome; it was after all his house.
Anton did have one saving grace; he squealed with joy on discovering Tony’s collection of exotic plants and amazingly, seemed to know their tricky botanical names. The plants were Tony’s pride and joy, he swelled with delight at Anton’s reaction to them, maybe this peacock of a man was ok after all.
As the first day of their three day trip was allocated for reconnaissance (the second for stills shoot and third for film shoot), Franco excused himself after breakfast and drove the hour’s journey to Naples to visit his parents.
He always loved being home; he missed the sunny climate, the simpatico locals, the delicious food and the natural beauty of the dramatic Amalfi coastline. He promised himself only a few more seasons in the English game before he returned. Hopefully he would play out his final years with an Italian club, and then go into management – a suicidal job, few survived for long, but he thought he could hack the challenge. He also planned to invest in youth academies, the future of football - it was good to put something back into the game that had looked after him.
He drove a bashed up dirty old Jeep that had seen better days, it was poles apart from his smooth London Mercedes, but he didn’t need flash as he had nothing to prove - he preferred a low profile. The Jeep was perfect; with the roof rolled down he felt free, the wind blew the sooty London cobwebs away.
He expertly manoeuvred the car through the narrow winding streets of Ravello, and sped perilously along the cliff hugging coastal roads and hairpin bends, that dropped off into ravines. His mind went back to Tara, she was a cool one. She’d been very good at avoiding him these last twenty-four hours, managing to slink off to bed before he could grab her. Not for long, he would corner her later and explain all, win her around… once he’d sorted Maria.
He’d initially planned to let off the ‘divorce exocet’ when he returned to London, but if he wanted to win Tara back he knew he would have to kick Maria into touch first. He would call her after lunch. As he accelerated through the winding streets he went through the conversation he would have with her… it was over, no going back, they had tried, it didn’t work, he didn’t love her, nor she him, they needed space, maybe six months down the line they could be friends - when she’d met some other fool… shit! He hated emotional stuff, he knew she would put on the manipulative water works and make him feel like shit, but it had to be done. At least she couldn’t use sex as a weapon from here.
He would check with Michael to see if he’d managed to get her home without incident from the airport. Maria was dangerous; she had a nasty way of inveigling her wishes on people, even on a wise old dog like Michael.
Meanwhile, he was off to see his beloved Madre and Padre. Picking up speed, he chased through the streets. His hopes of going unnoticed were futile, everyone in Italy recognised the legendary face, and knew of his passion for his tatty old Jeep, he was famous for it, for his low-key chic. Franco Rossellini was home; word spread the streets as he flew by, music loud and wheels spinning.
The wizened smiling faces of locals winked at each other as his tail lights disappeared, maybe he wasn’t renewing his English contract, maybe he was home for good, they lived in hope, they wanted their dream boy home.
He had a typically gastronomic lunch with his parents lasting four hours, telling them of his plans for the future, his new flat, and no, he was no nearer to getting married.
“Rilassati Mamma… chill, I will one day.”
His father liked the look of Maria, having seen them together in the press, but his mother tut-tutted that she had the look of a miserable monella, a spoi
led brat. Did she have any hips? (let alone child bearing ones), could she cook? (she obviously hadn’t eaten a proper meal in her life).
He giggled; no one would ever be good enough for his protective mamma. As he left he gave her a bear hug.
“Mamma, I am over thirty now, I am big enough to look after myself, stop your worrying,” towering over her, he kissed her on the forehead as if a little girl. She beamed up at him proudly and snuggled into his body.
Sitting in the car, he pulled out his phone and turned it on for the first time since Heathrow airport. It jumped abruptly into life with the announcement of messages. He had fifteen texts and six voicemails… here we go again! He sighed… Maria!
But the first voicemail was from Ned; contract completed, he was signed up for another two years with all the provisos they wanted. Any problems with the Sporjakk shoot, let him know. Give his love to Mimi, bring back some of her cooking… arrivederci!
Typical, short and sweet Ned. If he ever married, he must remember to ask Ned to be best man, at least the speech would be minimal.
The rest of the voicemails and texts were from Maria, going on and on about how much she enjoyed the last few days and couldn’t wait to see him again. He’d heard it all before, he deleted them. The first few days when they got back together she was on best behaviour, but once her claws were in, she soon turned into the nagging harridan from hell.
Dialling her number he felt heavy, but it had to be done. She answered on the first ring, obviously sitting by the phone.
“Hello darling!” she’d read his name as the incoming call, “missing me?”
no, actually… he thought.
“Err yeah, err, look Maria, we’ve got to talk… there is no nice way of saying this, we have been through this three times before, but this time it is for real, no going back, I’m going to stop seeing you…”
The Penance List Page 17