The Villa

by Rosanna Ley

  So she laid claim to him. To touch him, to bathe his wounds, to feed him, to help him sit up and, later, to support him as he stood for the first time, unsure, like a kid goat; this brought her satisfaction. For the first time in her life, someone needed her.

  He was surprised that a Sicilian family should care for him. ‘Why?’ he asked her through parched lips on one of those early days, once the worst was over and they knew he would live. ‘Why do you care? I’m awfully grateful. But why have you helped me?’

  Flavia wiped his face gently with the flannel. His cheekbones were high and prominent, his brow wide, his skin stretched and white. And his mouth – the bottom lip was full and sensuous, the upper lip slightly crooked, slightly off-centre. It was that imperfection that caught at her, that made her want to stare at him for hours.

  ‘My family – we like the English,’ she told him. ‘We work for Englishman.’ And haltingly, she told him about Signor Westerman, about the grand villa, and the poetry he had read to her, when, as a girl, she had flown around his casa with her cloths and her polishes.

  ‘So where is he?’ The airman looked around as if he expected Signor Westerman to materialise from the stone walls.

  ‘He returned to England,’ Flavia told him. ‘It was too dangerous here.’

  At that he nodded, his gaze drifting away from her. She knew he was thinking about the raid that he had been part of. The raid that had brought him here. ‘Bloody war,’ he said. ‘It’ll have us all, you know.’

  He was a good listener – he had nowhere else to go, did he? So at other times, Flavia talked – in whispers if need be – about her family and her life. She told him things she had only ever said before to her best friend Santina. ‘I do not belong here,’ she said. ‘I never have.’

  ‘Where do you belong?’ he teased.

  But she didn’t want him to laugh at her. ‘I belong where I can live,’ she told him. ‘Where I can breathe. Where I can be me.’

  He nodded then in understanding. ‘You’re a wonderful girl, Flavia,’ he said. ‘I hope you get everything that you want, I really do.’

  ‘I will – if I fight for it,’ she said, braver with him now than before. He had told her his name – Peter – and sometimes she whispered it to herself, at night, when there was no one to hear.

  ‘Still,’ he said, ‘your people are good people. They saved my life. You all did, dammit. And maybe when you’re all grown up you’ll feel differently.’

  ‘I am not a child.’ Flavia drew herself more upright. ‘I am seventeen.’

  ‘Seventeen, eh?’ But he only looked at her and smiled.

  Seventeen, Flavia realised, was not enough.

  ‘Maybe, Flavia,’ he said to her one day, ‘this other life, the one that you long for, is not as good as you expect it to be.’ He was watching her with a strange intensity in his blue eyes. ‘Our dreams always seem so perfect. But maybe the other man’s grass is no greener.’

  Flavia listened to the words. The other man’s grass …? ‘Still, I would like to see it,’ she said. She could only imagine the kind of life where there was choice, where your pathway was not mapped out for you by another. But how could he understand? He knew so little of how things were in Sicily.

  Gradually, she relaxed even more with her airman. They began to laugh together. He always seemed to be waiting for her, and his expression had changed when he watched her moving around the room, tidying his things or bringing fresh water to his bedside. He began to tease her, to tell her stories, to talk about England. And when he spoke of England, there was a longing in his eyes that made her jealous.

  Then one day she darted into the room in a hot fury – Maria had made her clean out the brazier, even though she had done it already and it was perfectly clean. Just out of spite. Just to stop her … Coming to see him, she almost said.

  He was sitting up in bed and she sat down beside him.

  He smiled. Patted her hand. ‘Perhaps I should take you back to dear old Blighty,’ he said. ‘Show you what it’s really like.’ And his expression darkened. ‘When this damned war is over.’

  She didn’t realise he was joking. ‘Would you?’ she pleaded.

  There was a long pause. He stared at her and said nothing.

  ‘Would you take me?’ She lifted her face to his and he let out a small groan. Bent his head closer.

  When he kissed her, it was like nothing she had dreamed of. His touch, the graze of his lips on hers … She felt something inside her turn to liquid, a hot liquid that burned her.

  When he pulled away, she wanted him to take her back, to kiss her again, to hold her – so close that nothing could ever prise them apart …

  But he wouldn’t even look at her. ‘Go, Flavia,’ he said. ‘Please go.’

  Flavia put down her pen. She needed to rest. She needed to think. She was old and the memories were almost too vibrant and alive for her to deal with. She had half-expected the story to be dry as dust in the telling. But she hadn’t expected this, this … torrent of sadness.

  When did she fall in love with him? Who could tell? Was it the moment she found him in the valley, torn and bleeding and lying amid the shrapnel of his plane? Was it when he almost died and she thought she had lost him? Or was it perhaps when he kissed her?

  Once more, Flavia lifted the pen. She must keep the writing – if not the emotions – under control. She must remember for whom she wrote: Tess. Her beautiful daughter Tess who needed to hear this story. And yet … Not just Tess.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked him the next day. ‘What have I done?’ Again, he wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. He looked sad. Gently, he brushed her hair from her face, his fingertips smooth on her cheek.

  Flavia closed her eyes. How good it was – the touch of this man.

  ‘It was wrong of me,’ he said, ‘to kiss you. A chap shouldn’t take advantage of a girl like that.’

  ‘You did not.’ And this time, she moved forwards to kiss him. This time she held his face and she parted her lips and she felt his taste on her tongue like nectar. Flavia was not afraid to show her passion. All she wanted was to be held in his arms. All she wanted was to kiss him. Again and again. She would drown in him if she could.

  But she was getting ahead of herself now.

  Flavia closed her eyes for a moment. It was too painful. Which was why …

  It was so far away, Lenny said, and of course this was true. But distance – whether in time or in geography – didn’t always lessen the pain. And she could feel it now, after all these years, deep in her gut, just as she could feel his soft lips on hers that first time.

  She could see now that she had been vulnerable, even ripe for the picking, some might say. Although it hadn’t been that way. It really hadn’t been that way.

  She had been almost the same age as her granddaughter Ginny was now, she realised with a start, although Ginny had celebrated her birthday in early spring and Flavia would not be eighteen until wintertime. And yet … There were worlds between that young Sicilian girl and her English granddaughter, whole worlds.

  Help me find the words, she whispered. She had to tell honestly how it had been.

  She had helped him heal, her airman, and then she had given him her heart. It had been so easy, so natural. She had loved him. Sometimes she thought she would always love him. That he’d haunt her till her dying day. That she’d never be free.

  Mama must have sensed the danger. Or Maria told her. She spoke to Papa and they stopped her from spending time with him alone. But it was too late by then. Much, much too late.

  CHAPTER 23

  Tess was restless now that she was back in Pridehaven. She wasn’t looking forward to going back to work, it was raining and the house looked suspiciously tidy. ‘Anything happen while I was away?’ she asked Ginny, who had been studiously avoiding her eye since Tess’s return.

  ‘Happen?’ she echoed. ‘Not really. Why?’

  ‘Everything looks cleaner,’ Tess s
aid, regarding her daughter’s reflection in the art deco mirror above the fireplace. Ginny was on her laptop – revision or Facebook? Who could tell? Personally, she didn’t understand why it was necessary to tell dozens of acquaintances the minutiae of one’s life – with illustrations; she worried that the real world was in danger of disappearing completely. But she knew she was in a minority.

  ‘We didn’t make that much of a mess.’ Ginny sounded defensive. ‘I just cleared up a bit afterwards, that’s all.’

  Ah yes, the pizza and movie night in with the girls. ‘Great,’ said Tess. Once upon a time you used to tell me everything, she wanted to whisper. ‘Great.’ Only for some reason, she didn’t feel it.

  At work, Simon Wheeler, her boss, called her into his office, known as The Goldfish Bowl, for obvious reasons – it was small, all glass and had no privacy.

  ‘About this job … ’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ Tess was glad she was wearing heels, her cerise silk blouse, black jacket and pencil skirt. As supervisor, she’d have to look smart – for at least the illusion of control.

  ‘I’m afraid you were unlucky this time, Tess,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’ Had she misheard? And what did luck have to do with it? She had been given the impression that the job was hers.

  ‘We’ve given the position to Malcolm.’

  ‘Malcolm?’ She hadn’t been aware that Malcolm was even in the running. She leaned forwards. ‘But he’s only been here five minutes.’

  ‘Five months actually,’ Simon said smoothly. He tapped his pen on the desk top – an irritating habit which betrayed his discomfort. ‘And that isn’t the point, Tess. He’s had supervisory experience elsewhere. I’m sorry.’

  She said nothing. There wasn’t much point. Simon and Malcolm went to the pub together sometimes and she was pretty sure Simon and his wife Marjorie had had Malcolm and Sheila round for dinner. Also, of course, not that she thought she’d ever have to say it – not in this day and age – but Malcolm was a man.

  ‘We gave you fair consideration.’ Simon straightened his tie. More discomfort. ‘You were an excellent candidate.’

  ‘Except that Malcolm was better,’ Tess said. Who would have thought it – the all-boys-together network operating at a west Dorset water company, for God’s sake?

  ‘He showed more commitment,’ Simon said. ‘More ambition.’ He frowned. ‘I hope, Tess, that you won’t feel bitter about this.’

  Commitment? Ambition? Tess got to her feet. ‘I’ll try not to,’ she said. Bitter …? Bitter …? She felt bloody angry, that’s what she felt. She felt passed over. Betrayed even. ‘But I do think that I deserved the post, Simon.’

  Simon sighed. ‘It’s not easy managing a team, Tess,’ he said. ‘People skills are paramount. Handling people is not a breeze.’

  ‘I know that.’ It wasn’t fair. She had worked hard for this company, and until Malcolm had appeared …

  She looked out of the Bowl. A couple of the girls were laughing and joking with Malcolm. People skills, she thought. Janice shot her a sympathetic look. They all knew, she realised.

  ‘I’d like to hand in my notice,’ she heard herself say. It sounded childish. But how could she stay here now? Everyone would be smirking behind her back, feeling sorry for her or sucking up to Malcolm. And Malcolm would be her immediate boss.

  ‘Now, Tess.’ Simon too got to his feet. ‘I want you to mull this over. Decisions made in the heat of the moment—’

  ‘Are instinctive ones,’ she cut in, ‘and therefore probably sound.’

  There was a pause. It wasn’t a friendly one.

  Simon came over and put a slug-like hand on her shoulder. Tess wanted to brush it off, but she managed to restrain herself.

  ‘Give it more thought,’ he said. ‘Until you hand it to me in writing, I don’t know a thing about it, OK?’

  Patronising git … Tess couldn’t bring herself to reply. She opened the door of the Goldfish Bowl and left his office, heading straight for the coffee machine. Damn it. The person she most wanted to tell was Robin. She wanted to hear his voice – calm and measured – hear his sympathy and absorb his righteous indignation. Obviously, you’re the best person for the job, Tess, he would say. If he can’t see it, then he’s a fool.

  And yet … Robin didn’t think she was the best, did he? Tess fumbled with the polystyrene cup. Chose espresso, on a whim. To Robin she was also second best – because he wasn’t with her. He was with his number one – his wife.

  And now she wanted to cry. Fuck. Espresso in hand she headed for the loos, hoping they’d be empty. She couldn’t face gossip or bitchy sympathy. Commitment? Bloody hell. How could you be committed to water?

  In the Ladies, she gulped her coffee, which made her feel worse because it was so unlike the espresso Tonino had made for her in Sicily. In fact it was so unlike it that it didn’t deserve to be called coffee at all.

  Sicily … She couldn’t get it out of her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about Segesta and the taste of ripe figs. She was beginning to wish Edward Westerman hadn’t even left her Villa Sirena; it had unsettled her, turned her life upside down, changed everything.

  Back at her desk, she typed a letter of resignation. I feel that my skills and experience have not been fully appreciated, she wrote. And it is with some regret … Yeah. Like hell.

  She waited until 4 p.m. when she saw Simon go out to talk to Malcolm and then she put it on Simon’s desk. She got her things together, picked up her bag and left the office. So, she had chucked in her job. On principle. What now?

  She had only been back from work a few minutes when Lisa rang.

  ‘I was looking out for you,’ she said. ‘But you went rushing inside like a mad thing. Are you OK?’

  No, thought Tess. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. She would tell Lisa – she told Lisa everything eventually, but just for now she wanted to curl up with it alone.

  ‘I wanted a word about Saturday night,’ Lisa said.

  Saturday was Lisa’s fortieth and she was throwing a big party. Quite frankly, it was the last thing Tess was up for in her current mood, but as she’d told Lisa yesterday afternoon over coffee and caramel biscuits, she wouldn’t miss it for the world. ‘Yes? I can get round by four to give you a hand,’ she said.

  ‘Lovely, sweetie, but I forgot to say … ’ Lisa hesitated. ‘You’re welcome to bring Robin, OK?’

  Tess sighed. Robin had tried to ring her three times today. And she hadn’t picked up. ‘I’m not really seeing Robin anymore. Not after Sicily.’ What would have happened, she wondered, if she had gone to Cetaria with Robin? Well, Tonino wouldn’t have happened, that was for sure. Not that anything had happened. And if Giovanni was to be believed nothing should happen … But if she was still in love with Robin … She thought about it. The way she’d felt … Tonino’s almost kiss … She wouldn’t have responded – would she? She had to accept it – she and Robin were over.

  Lisa laughed. ‘It’s not over till the fat lady sings, Tess. You haven’t actually finished with him yet, have you?’ Tess heard Lisa put her hand over the phone and hold a brief muttered conversation with one of her children. I told you, it’s in the under stairs cupboard …

  ‘No.’ What she needed, Tess decided, was a stiff drink. And then perhaps another.

  ‘What are you afraid of, Tess?’

  Good question. What was she afraid of? That Robin would talk her round? That he’d persuade her, like he’d always persuaded her before, that she should go on seeing him, that things would change, that he’d leave Helen, that pigs might learn how to scuba dive … ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. Lisa was right. Tess had to sort it out properly. It was the only way forward.

  ‘OK.’ Lisa sounded pleased. ‘Good girl.’

  At 7 p.m. Tess left Ginny and the latest X Factor boy band on full volume, got into her Fiat and drove towards the other side of town, where Robin lived. She’d done this several times since they’d been together. Fortunately, he’d never spotted he
r (at least so she assumed) and she’d never seen him. She wasn’t even sure why she did it. To get a glimpse of his other life perhaps? Because she could? Or to see her – the fragile Helen who had to be fussed over and protected in a way that Tess had never been.

  Not that she wanted to be, she reminded herself, indicating right and waiting for a gap in the traffic. But it might be nice for someone to want to.

  She turned into his road. Robin probably bought his Sunday paper from that newsagent on the corner. Perhaps she wasn’t the sort of woman that men wanted to protect? She changed into third gear, but continued to drive slowly. After all, she’d given birth to her child (alone) and brought her up (alone). Often, she didn’t bother with lipstick. Her favourite clothes were jeans and a sloppy T-shirt (though she could scrub up as well as the next woman, she liked to think, and even Ginny thought she had great legs) and she cherished her independence. What room then for fussing over, for protection?

  When she saw Robin, she was so shocked that she almost lost control of the car. He was strolling along the pavement looking perfectly at home (well, he did live here). By his side was a woman.

  Tess clenched her hands more tightly around the steering wheel. Whatever she did, she must not draw attention to herself. Ha. The woman was tall, blonde and willowy, and looked about as much in need of protection as a rhinoceros. Not that she looked like a rhinoceros – unfortunately. She was sleek and attractive, she was smiling and she must be Helen.

  Tess slowed as much as she dared. Robin had his arm round the waist of the non-fragile-looking Helen, as if he quite wanted it to be there. And just as she passed them, teeth gritted, mind in neutral, you can do it, girl … she saw from a quick sideways glance that he was laughing. Laughing! He was happy; they were both happy, Tess realised. How dare he be so happy …? She felt numb with shock. And if he was so happy with his wife, then … Why?

  CHAPTER 24

  ‘It’s quite a milestone, don’t you think?’