‘Truly poetical,’ Marco Baldini said with appreciation. ‘I salute you, Mr Ormond.’
Ludo was overcome with another coughing fit.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, pulling out a silk handkerchief. ‘Some late-autumn allergies . . . this weather is a little damp. I’ll just wander off with Marco here and work out where we can set up the Style Bride photographers and the videoshoot for this very secret wedding that isn’t going to be a big spectacle at all in any way.’
But the last words, of course, were buried in his handkerchief as he turned away, and were not for any ears but his own; as devoutly as an atheist could, Ludo wished that Liam had been with him to appreciate the full irony of the moment. Although Liam loved to reprimand Ludo for his cynicism and exert the due punishment required for Ludo’s lack of reverence for the holy institution of marriage, even Liam would have shared Ludo’s amusement at Tarquin so solemnly speechifying about the intimacy of the wedding ceremony which his fiancée was scheming to splash all over the cover of one of the best-selling fashion magazines in the world.
‘I loved what you just said,’ Eva murmured to Tarquin as the three of them strolled over the grass to look up at the carved wood birdhouse hung above the gazebo. ‘It really captured the magic of this place.’
‘It’s terribly special, isn’t it?’ Tarquin said, his eyes sparkling. ‘This is absolutely it. I knew it really even before we arrived, as we were driving here bumping over that road, you know? Marco kept apologizing for the dirt road, but to me that makes it even more lovely.’
‘Yes, the journey’s hard but that makes the destination even more worthwhile,’ Eva agreed eagerly. ‘That’s exactly how I felt too.’
‘I love the chandelier idea,’ Milly said, turning to look at the oratory, quite uninterested in Tarquin and Eva’s elevated discussion. ‘Can’t you just see them? Handmade with semi-precious stones and pearls. Style Bride will love that detail!’
‘Pearls and turquoises,’ Tarquin said dreamily, pulling Milly back in front of him, wrapping his arms around her; he was easily distracted. ‘Like the blue seahorses, jewels of the sea . . . turquoises, it’s almost a rhyme with horse . . . hmm, that can go into the wedding song I’m going to write for us, Milly, because turquoise is your favourite stone . . .’
With Tarquin unable to see her face, Milly grimaced at Eva, rolling her big blue eyes; the engagement ring meant that Milly had to go along with the turquoise theme, and it did fit with the whole rustic-chic, bluebells-in-vintage-china wedding décor.
Turquoise is her favourite stone? My God, you don’t know Milly at all, Eva thought, staring at Tarquin’s blissed-out, unearthly beauty with a cold, unusual clarity that took her by surprise. You have absolutely no idea who you’re marrying. You fell in love with a pretty face – a pretty façade, she corrected herself. The girl you think Milly is doesn’t even exist. You’ve made up a whole fantasy about her, and you’re so in love with your own creation you don’t listen to the things she says, or look at the things she does which completely contradict the fantasy.
Staring at Tarquin, this revelation rushing through her, Eva realized something else.
It’s not even just that Milly’s such a pretty face – Tarquin’s in love with her partly because she looks so like him. He’s fallen for his own image in the mirror.
Tarquin was still burbling away, his gaze up and to the right, accessing the creative part of his brain as new lyrics bubbled to his lips: he was beatifically unaware of how assessing Eva’s gaze had become.
Oh God, I’m right, I’m absolutely right, Eva thought in misery, and it doesn’t change anything. I can see that he’s not really in love with Milly at all, not her as a person, that he’s been shallow enough to fall for her because of her looks and the image he’s projected on her – and I still love him. It hasn’t changed anything at all.
I’m still head over heels in love with him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lunch consisted of pici al aglione, oversized spaghetti with tomato and garlic, and cinghiale, wild boar stew, washed down with local red Sangiovese wine at a delicious local restaurant called Le Panzanelle to which Marco took them. Afterwards, the four Londoners were whisked down the winding Chiantigiana road to Florence and the luxurious surroundings of the Grand Hotel Villa Cora, a nineteenth-century mansion in its own grounds, set in the hills that surrounded the city. From its terrace, the view of Florence was laid out before them in its breathtaking beauty, the terracotta and white cupola of the Duomo, just beyond the Arno River, glittering in the late autumn sun.
At Ludo’s suggestion, they checked into their junior suites and then assembled on the terrace to sip prosecco in the warmth of space heaters and the weak afternoon sun, reviewing detailed ideas for the wedding arrangements: now that his clients had approved the church, Ludo had sketches and menus to show them, spread out on the square white leather pouffe in front of them. But although Milly was paying close attention to Ludo’s sketches of how he planned to arrange the birdcages on the tables, lemons spilling out artistically, the designs for place cards that would cunningly echo the ‘snow in August’ miracle, the wrought-iron canapé holders that Gabriella, the chef, was having made to her own design to best display her signature puff-pastry truffle wraps, Tarquin and Eva were not.
It was the history of the oratory and the Gherardini family, and of course the Leonardo da Vinci connection, which had entranced them both. Marco Baldini had thoughtfully provided them with some sheets of information about the church, and Tarquin and Eva, sitting in white leather chairs pulled up together, pored over them, exclaiming happily at details of the carved wooden chancel and the various frescos and paintings inside the church.
‘Such a shame that we can’t get married inside the church,’ Tarquin sighed. ‘I so love Baroque architecture, and the altar is so striking! But I do understand, of course, though I’d almost convert for a chance to have the ceremony in the oratory!’
‘It’s not like there are Leonardos inside the church,’ Eva said consolingly. ‘It’s the landscape outside that he sketched. Look, you can see the church here . . .’
She pointed to the reproduction of the sketch which had been attached to the information sheets. In sepia ink, the landscape was very dramatically rendered, with the gorges and trickling rivulets of water that characterized Tuscan hill country picked out in detail, little castles dotted at the tops of the peaks.
‘I can’t wait to see the real thing,’ Tarquin said, his eyes radiant. ‘To think that we’re getting married in a da Vinci landscape!’
‘It’s the most amazing thing,’ Eva said quietly. ‘I know Ludo kept saying the place he’d found would blow you away, but I had no idea it would be like this.’
‘I don’t like to oversell a location before I show it to my clients,’ Ludo said smugly, raising his head from his iPad, where he had been showing Milly photographs of smoked salmon and chive cornetti, made to look like ice-cream cones, which Gabriella had sculpted for Marco and Alice’s wedding and was proposing to offer as part of the antipasto buffet for Tarquin and Milly’s ceremony. ‘I prefer to present the place first, so clients don’t have preconceived ideas. Of course that means I have to make sure I’ve got it completely right, but,’ he smirked, ‘I haven’t found that to be a problem.’
‘You really have surpassed our expectations,’ Tarquin said, pushing back his blond curls and smiling at Ludo. ‘And it’s so interesting to read about the history of the family and Montagliari. Milly, you must look at this. After the castle was razed by the Florentine Republic, the family split into two branches, and one of them . . .’
But Milly had had quite enough of her fiancé not only directing most of his attention to another woman but talking about things in which she had no interest at all. Standing up, swirling her coat around her dramatically, she clasped her fur collar to her throat with her gloved hands, flashed a brilliant smile at Tarquin, and cooed in her best girlish, seductive tones: ‘Darling, I’m gett
ing a little chilly out here, and I’d love a lie-down on our gorgeous big bed before dinnertime. Why don’t you come down with me and keep me company . . .’
Tarquin was on his feet at once, apologizing profusely for not having noticed that Milly was cold and needed a rest.
‘Well, I wouldn’t quite say a rest,’ she purred in satisfaction at having snagged Tarquin away from a discussion that he had found so absorbing. ‘I think we should fill that huge marble bath with bubbles and see where we go from there . . .’
Ten minutes later, it was very obvious where Milly had been headed, and fairly unlikely that a bath had been involved at all; there simply wouldn’t have been enough time for them to run it and get in. Not only that, the bathrooms of the suites didn’t have windows, and there was no question that, from the volume of the noise she was making, she was either very close to a window or had actually opened one in order to ensure that the sounds circulated as thoroughly as possible.
‘Oh God, yes!’ she was screaming happily, her high voice rising quite clearly up to the terrace, where Ludo, Eva and quite a few other hotel guests were ensconced. ‘Oh Tark, yes, like that, oh God! Yes, yes, yes!’
‘In retrospect, perhaps booking them into the fourth-floor suite wasn’t the best idea,’ Ludo commented to Eva, refilling their glasses from the bottle reposing in the ice bucket by their table. ‘It’s just below us, and I rather suspect Milly of being perfectly aware of that, don’t you?’
Some guests were grinning now as Milly’s screams rose in volume: Tarquin could just about be heard muttering, ‘Darling, darling, God,’ at a comparatively low pitch, but it was Milly, an actress to the core, who was aware of her audience and working it to the maximum. Her wails of delight were building expertly to a climax. An older couple, the woman in furs and frowning deeply, summoned a waiter over and were clearly telling him in strong terms that the management needed to have a word with the offending pair of lovebirds: the waiter bustled away swiftly as the couple rose and with great dignity removed themselves from the scene.
‘So good, so good – yeah, like that, oh my God, ohmyGod, I love you, Tark, I love you so much – yes, yes . . .’
‘Quite the little performer, isn’t she?’ Ludo said dryly as he sipped at his prosecco. ‘No need to say “Sing out, Louise!” to that one! And a talented writer too – that monologue is definitely scripted. Who yells out “I love you” in the throes of passion?’
Then he looked more closely at Eva’s white, miserable face, and sighed.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I rather suspected how things were. She wasn’t terribly keen on you and young Mr Ormond’s art appreciation society, was she? She does rather need to be the centre of attention at all times.’
‘I love you – oh God, yes, that’s so good – baby, yes, I love you so much, ohmyGod ohmyGod ohmyGod!’
Ludo’s comparison was on the money; Milly was positively singing out the words by now.
‘Cosa dice?’ asked an Italian woman two tables down.
‘Bimbo, ti amo cosi tanto,’ her female friend, swathed in Fendi leather, translated, giggling. ‘Poi, o Dio mio! O Dio mio! O Dio mio, eccetera eccetera.’
‘On second thoughts, maybe she’s not such a talented writer,’ Ludo observed. ‘Rather repetitive. Drink up, dear, it’ll help. And sit up straight and stop hiding behind that very fashionable fringe, you’re beginning to look like Cousin It.’
Eva spluttered out some of the mouthful of prosecco she had just obediently taken, but she did sit up rather than slumping, and she shook the heavy fringe out of her eyes.
‘I just . . .’ she started, but couldn’t find the words to continue; Ludo held up his hand to indicate that she didn’t need to. Milly had now progressed to wailing:
‘Baby, baby, baby, baby!’ on an operatic, soprano crescendo, which the second woman at the next table was imitating with a series of ‘Bimbo, bimbo, bimbo!’s which was making her friend, and the people at the table next to them, howl with laughter.
‘It’ll be over in three . . . two . . . one . . .’ Ludo held up three fingers and started pulling them down. ‘And . . . now,’ he predicted, a split-second before a silver cascade of screams poured down the side of the villa, much like the streams of mountain water in the da Vinci sketch. A few groans from Tarquin were faintly audible below Milly’s triumphant coloratura cadenza, but there was no question who was the star of the show.
‘And to think he’s the singer,’ Ludo commented, as the Italians at the two tables beside them broke into ironic applause, their gloved hands pattering together.
‘Molto dramatico!’ the first woman commented approvingly.
‘It won’t last,’ Ludo said, reaching forward to touch Eva’s arm lightly. ‘It never does with the Millys of this world. They move from step to step, man to man. Right now she sees the wedding as being a great publicity opportunity. Tarquin’s very famous and very rich. But dear, what is being married to a musician going to do for her acting career?’
He shrugged and drank more prosecco.
‘Very little, frankly. And do you think he’ll be understanding of her having all those little necessary flings with directors and producers and co-stars that oil the wheels of climbing the Hollywood ladder? Oh dear, listen to my mixed metaphors!’
Eva was staring at him, some colour now back in her cheeks: but it was at least partially caused by embarrassment at her secret desires being so very clear to Ludo.
‘Am I really that obvious?’ she muttered, ducking her head again to hide behind her fringe.
‘Tut tut, Cousin It!’ Ludo said. ‘Really, dear, I’m never this nice and it won’t last long, so stop slouching and listen to me. I give them two years max, as our American friends say. They’ll never see each other, for a start; she’ll always choose her career over her marriage, as frankly she should at her age. He’ll be touring all the time, it’s how the bands make their money now. And she won’t get pregnant – I don’t see that young lady taking any time out at all for years to come, not until her star’s fading and she thinks that having a baby or two will get her back on the covers of OK! and Hello!. She’ll meet someone else who can give her more publicity and a career boost and she’ll be off as fast as you can say please respect our privacy and give myself and Tarquin some space during this difficult time.’
Eva drank more prosecco, staring at Ludo as if entranced; the waiter, having gone away to hide during Milly’s performance, had now re-emerged and was circling the terrace to see if any of the guests needed his services. He paused for a moment at their table, decided that the raptly absorbed young woman and the sleek gentleman who was busy seducing her should be left alone for now, and moved smoothly on.
‘So what should you do, I hear you ask,’ Ludo continued smoothly. ‘A very apropos question. Obviously now, nothing at all. You stay quiet, you facilitate the wedding, because absolutely nothing on God’s green earth is going to come between Milly and her Style Bride cover, and, if you really feel you can’t get over him, you wait it out until it all goes blooey and he needs a shoulder to cry on. Though even then, you do rather risk being his rebound. Frankly, I’d suggest moving on if you can. You’ve got a couple of years to do it. You’re young, and you’re very attractive in that hipster Hoxton way that’s currently all the rage. I’m sure there’s a whole array of boys with artistic piercings and artfully wayward facial hair lining up to buy you microbrewery beer and kale chips in Hackney eco-pubs that make their own tofu in the back room.’
Eva had to giggle, not only at Ludo’s having nailed the current trendy climate, but at his own shudder of distaste as he described it.
‘Really, dear, that’s the better option,’ Ludo said kindly. ‘Go forth and date widely. They have a lovely expression in Italy – chiodo scaccia chiodo, which means, more or less, “one nail drives another one down”. And as far as I’m concerned, the more nails the merrier, eh?’
He looked at her, his gaze sharp.
‘I know that my words are g
oing right through one ear and out the other without being absorbed,’ he said. ‘But one sows the seeds, you know? It’s all one can do. Now I advise you to go back to your suite, put on one of the very luxurious robes with which this fabulous hotel provides us, pop to the spa and see if they have any last-minute cancellations for treatments. It’s all going on Mr Ormond’s bill, and his fiancée assures me his credit card can take it, so I suggest you hit the hammam and the plunge pool with everything you have.’
‘Thank you,’ Eva finally managed to say, putting down her glass.
‘Mmn-hmn. You’re very welcome,’ Ludo said. ‘Look, dear, if you find you simply can’t get over him and need to play the waiting game – I do see that he’s quite a catch: he’s terribly pretty to look at, means well, has tons of money, and is probably the only musician one actually thinks won’t avail himself of all the available groupies.’
He reached out for the bottle: the waiter was there before him, however, his white-gloved hand pulling the green prosecco bottle from the ice bucket and finding it empty.
‘Ancora, signore?’ the waiter asked.
‘Si, un’ altra bottiglia, per favore,’ Ludo said. ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ he added to Eva. ‘I’m perfectly capable of finishing the whole thing on my own. Where was I?’
‘Um . . . the waiting game?’ Eva mumbled, pulling her jacket around her more tightly, and not really because she was cold: the subject under discussion was so close to her heart that even the mention of her possibly being coupled with Tarquin made her shiver from head to toe.
‘Oh yes.’ Ludo looked grave. ‘Eva, you know my situation, don’t you? You’ve met Liam.’
Eva nodded, finishing her prosecco: she wasn’t a big drinker, and her head was spinning now from the wine at lunch and the afternoon aperitifs.
Bad Brides Page 32