Beautiful People

by Wendy Holden

  Marco guessed the tight-trousered blonde was British and a nanny, no doubt to that type of wealthy, pushy British couple that flocked to Tuscany in droves in the summer. Many of them ate in his restaurant. That was the only problem with running a successful restaurant. You attracted successful people who seemed to think that being successful was all about treating other people badly.

  Marco took the order from the just-settled table—Daria and the

  other waitress were busy elsewhere—and was about to go into the kitchen when another group loomed up.

  The dominant figure in it was a tall, solid man with red cheeks, thick black hair, and an air of staggering self-satisfaction. He wore the standard-issue middle-class-Brit-male-on-holiday uniform, Marco saw: pale blue shirt, beige chinos, white Panama trimmed with dark band.

  The rest of the group comprised a frazzled, skinny, fiftysomething woman in a yellow and cerise clinging scrap of dress, a couple of smug-looking young men with identical big hair and bigger bottoms, and another downbeat man, presumably the frazzled woman's husband. The well-preserved, rather sly-looking brunette was unquestionably the wife of the big dark-haired man.

  "Table for seven," he boomed in one of those loud, fruity, bullying English accents Marco knew from experience meant trouble.

  "I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "We're completely full tonight." Two, he might have managed. Three at a pinch. But seven? In a restaurant the size of his? Wasn't it obvious that would have to be booked?

  The frazzled woman stepped forward. "What do you mean you don't have a table?" she demanded hysterically, clacking her matching pink shoes on the cobbles in agitation. "We have two members of Parliament in our party."

  Marco considered them calmly. So what? You got MPs round here all the time. "I'm sorry," he repeated, with another shrug.

  The man's eyes, big and black beneath thick shiny brows, widened with annoyance. He was obviously outraged to discover he and his party could not just walk in off the street and sit down. "I want to speak to the owner," he boomed.

  Marco sensed a stir at the tables about him at this. Many were filled with regular customers, all waiting for the trump card to be played.

  "Actually," Marco said gently, "I am the owner."

  The man's red face flushed redder. He stared at Marco in disbelieving fury. "You? But you're taking the orders…"

  "Yes." Marco regarded him levelly. He would not trouble to point out to this man that, besides the best food possible, his restaurant was all about treating people fairly, with respect. There were no tantrums in his kitchen. No one was more important than anyone else, only, in some cases, more experienced. Marco sensed this would mean little to a man like this.

  "But I'm Her Majesty's Shadow Secretary of State," the big man bleated, clearly unable to believe his large, red-tipped ears.

  Secretary of State for shadows? Marco raised his hands in a gesture of helpless defiance. He was determinedly avoiding the amused gaze of the large table nearest to him, which was filled with Rodolfo the painter and his family.

  The black eyebrows snapped together. "You say we need to book?"

  "That's right. Yes."

  "Even if we were God Almighty, presumably."

  Marco smiled tightly. "I could possibly make an exception for Him. But He would be the only one."

  Hearing Rodolfo chuckle softly at this, Marco flashed him an irritated look. He saw Rodolfo now rise to his feet, his eyes bright with laughter, passing a napkin over his mouth in a gesture of finality.

  Marco watched apprehensively. Oh, no. Rodolfo liked to tease, but this was going too far. Surely Rodolfo wasn't going to…

  But he was. "Finito!" Rodolfo announced, clattering his espresso cup back into its saucer. The rest of the table was rising in a muddle of chatter, laughter, reaching for bags, and wiping the mouths of toddlers. Turning to Her Majesty's Secretary of State, Rodolfo added. "We have finished. You can have our table."

  "Grazie, amico mio," Marco bent and hissed furiously into Rodolfo's ear on the pretext of picking up a napkin that had fallen on to the cobbles.

  "Prego," Rodolfo beamed.

  The group, in that British way, rushed to sit themselves down in the seats before the vacating party had finished its manouevres. It was now that Marco noticed the boy, the last to sit down, at the back of the group and plainly wishing he was anywhere but here. A tall boy with a transportingly beautiful face that he seemed to be trying to hide under his hair. Marco shook his head faintly in wonder. He looked like a saint from a Raphael fresco.

  The beautiful boy looked up as he slid into his place. He seemed to slide him a glance of mute apology. Marco gave him a sympathetic smile with more than a hint of conspiracy about it.

  At the Villa Rosa, a brilliant disk of sun, thin and bright as a beaten penny, was slipping down from a sky entirely saffron yellow. Thin scraps of gold cloud reflected the vanishing furnace. Below, the darkened hills rose and fell like waves. The air was sweet and still and warm.

  Upstairs, Emma was checking on Morning. He was asleep. She crossed to the window, where, avoiding looking at the devastated rose garden, she saw, on the patio below, that the table had been set for dinner by Mara.

  It looked beautiful and very inviting. The parasol had been dismantled, and the silver of the cutlery gleamed in the rich, but much milder, evening sun. The wine glasses flashed, and the snow-white napkins glowed.

  Emma gave a start as, immediately below her, Darcy now appeared. She was frowning over her mobile phone, as if she expected a text from someone. Then the scent of food seemed to hit her; she sniffed the air appreciatively and went immediately to the table, which she proceeded to inspect with relish. From the vantage point of her room, Emma smiled as, first checking to see that no one was looking, Darcy tugged the thick and crispy end off a piece of bread, took the oil phial, and poured some of the bright yellow contents on it. As she chewed, her face assumed an expression of ecstasy.

  Darcy had, Emma thought, turned out to be something of a surprise. As she was also an actress, and in the same film as Belle, Emma had expected another tantrum-prone diva, but Darcy seemed good-natured and to have no airs at all. She had cooed over Morning and had been especially polite to Mara. Most endearingly of all, she seemed anything but fond of Belle. Her expression when Belle had airily explained what the helicopter had done to the garden had been one of mixed disgust and horror.

  Emma watched Darcy chewing. She had finished the whole of her first piece of bread by now and was launched on the second. The level in the oil phial was dropping drastically. Emma reflected that Darcy had eaten more in the last few minutes than she had ever seen Belle eat the whole time she had known her.

  She felt herself warm further to the dark-haired actress. She had a certain distance and dignity—especially with that cut-glass voice—but was the complete opposite of Belle. While Emma readily acknowledged her employer was beautiful, it was a hard, artificial kind of beauty. But there was something altogether lovely about Darcy; she had a pretty, fresh face with what looked like the original features. Her body, compared to Belle's, looked almost normal. She was slim, certainly, much thinner than me, Emma thought. But at the same time, nothing on the emaciated, artificially inflated scale of Belle.

  There was a clattering sound now, and Belle herself clacked onto the patio in a very short, figure-hugging dress of some stretchy, black, glittery material. Her white hair streamed over her shoulders, and her red mouth glistened from beneath the black sunglasses.

  In her skinny brown arms, Sugar looked about him with his habitual ill-natured stare. In the candlelight, the diamonds on his collar flashed brilliantly, almost rivalling those on Belle's fingers and wrists. She had, Emma thought, made a considerable effort for dinner at home with the nanny.

  Or perhaps she wanted to outshine Darcy, a competition Darcy, simply dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and black glittery flip-flops, seemed uninterested in taking part in.

  Emma began to back away from the win
dow. It was time she went down herself now. Dinner was evidently about to start.

  There came the sharp clacking sound of spike heels on ancient stone as Belle went to the table and sloshed some wine into a glass. "Hey," she exclaimed. "She's set the table for dinner."

  "Yes!" Darcy agreed delightedly. "Isn't that great?"

  Belle swirled her hair. "No, it isn't. Who asked her to do that? I've asked the driver to come at eight. I wanna check out the local scene, see what's going down…"

  "Er…" Darcy began.

  Just at this minute, Mara appeared with a large plate of what looked like sliced meat. Sugar, in Belle's arms, immediately started to strain and snap.

  "Oooh!" Darcy exclaimed. "That looks amazing, Mara!"

  Mara smiled. "Is antipasto. Local specialities," she said proudly. "Salamis, proscuitto, air-dried ham, sliced smoked sausage, and chorizo."

  Using one of the forks on the side of the plate, Darcy, eyes sparkling, peeled off a dark red layer of ham.

  "No, thanks," Belle snapped as Mara offered her the plate. "I never eat anything with a face." Sugar, who most definitely did, snapped at a row of salami at the edge. Mara tugged the plate away in disgust. "You are vegetarian?" she asked Belle. "Okay, fine. I bring some grilled vegetables."

  Belle eyed the housekeeper. "Like I said," she retorted rudely as Sugar dragged off a pile of ham. "I don't eat anything with a face."

  "Vegetables don't have faces," Darcy remarked.

  "Sure they do," Belle snapped. "Have you ever looked really closely—I mean really closely—at an onion?"

  Mara's lips had tightened angrily. "I go get secundo piatti," she muttered, stomping off with the dog-licked antipasto, which she now held at arm's length.

  "Don't bother!" Belle shouted rudely after her. "We're going out."

  Mara, who had turned at the villa entrance, looked stony. Darcy, indigant at being roped into whatever Belle was planning, was about to assure her that she wasn't going anywhere and that secundo piatti would be most welcome, when there came the loud bleep of a text message being delivered. Darcy whipped out her phone and flicked it open.

  From above, Emma saw, instantly, her entire demeanour change.

  "I'm terribly sorry," she gasped apologetically to Mara. "But actually, I have to go out myself. Can't the main course keep?" she added pleadingly.

  "Or feed it to my nanny," Belle suggested in a sneering tone. "She needs to keep her weight up." As the listening Emma gasped with fury, Belle grabbed Darcy's arm. "Let's go."

  At the table occupied by the seven Britons at the Italian restaurant, a discussion about corporal punishment was in, as it were, full swing.

  "I don't believe in hanging," Hugh declared.

  "I don't believe in hanging either," Richard agreed.

  "Quite right," Hugh said heartily. "Hanging's too good for them. Bring back the drawing and quartering, that's what I say." He dug his fork into his spaghetti with relish.

  The twins Ivo and Jago, meanwhile, were trying to prise from Orlando what he intended to do during the ritual year off before university. "If, that is, you're actually going to university, Orlando," Ivo taunted.

  "He is," confirmed Georgie grimly from where she picked over lobster linguine at the end of the table.

  Orlando drained his bottle of Italian lager crossly. Did he have no say in the matter? Were his opinions irrelevant? Actually, he wanted to go on a gap year even less than he wanted to go to university. He had no desire to save pygmy elephants in Borneo or teach English to villagers on the slopes of Kilimanjaro. He didn't want to do film-making in Paris or surf skills in South Africa.

  What he really wanted to do was get a job, any job, and actually have some money of his own. Like that nanny, Emma, he had met in the airport.

  He wished he had her mobile phone number. She kept slipping into his head, and whenever she did, he had a sensation like a fresh breeze on a close and humid day. He remembered her unaffected smile, her scrubbed and shining cleanliness, her keen and searching gaze, her air of independence and of being absolutely frank. It would, he thought, be good to see her again. More than good.

  "You'd never last a gap year anyway," Ivo was scoffing as pudding arrived on the table.

  "Better bugger off and do Surf Science at Mousehole University or something," mocked Jago, tucking into a large portion of tiramisu.

  Orlando stared with loathing at his persecutors, with their stupid stiff Eurotrash clothes and Raybans stuck on the top of their ridiculous big hair. Who did they think they were? Hugh bloody Grant?

  He resented the fact he had never worked in his life. Especially as the time he'd meant to spend studying he'd actually used to watch television.

  Seeing Orlando's miserable face, Richard was about to come to his son's defence when he realised his leg was trembling in a disconcerting manner. It took some time to work out that, unexpectedly, he was receiving a call on his mobile phone.

  He cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said softly as he stood up. "I seem to be required by one of my constituents."

  "Good man!" roared Hugh from the other end of the table, unsteadily holding aloft at least half a bottle of Chianti in an extremely large glass.

  "I know what Orlando should do in his year off." It was Laura who had spoken, lounging at the other end of the table from Georgie, eyes glittering in the candles that had now been lit, one hand playing with her long black-red hair which, combined with her white face, reminded Orlando of evil queens in Disney films.

  "What?" asked Georgie eagerly, while Orlando met Laura's teasing gaze apprehensively from under his brows. He had no idea what was coming but had every idea that he wasn't going to like it.

  "Ensnaring," Laura said, in tones of nasal triumph, "some plain and dumpy heiress with his looks.'"

  Everyone turned to look at Laura.

  "Why not? He's marvellous breeding stock," Laura drawled, looking Orlando up and down in a way that made him blush and burn.

  Hugh, who prided himself on intimate acquaintanceship with the ways of the gentry, now joined in. "Absolutely," he boomed, his sharp, wet teeth flashing in the candlelight. "A thoroughbred stallion that any landowning family with a suitable mare would be thrilled to get into stud. Eh, Orlando?"

  Orlando pressed back into his chair and stared stonily at the table, but his heart hammered beneath, his guts twisting with embarrassment that he had been spoken about, in public, in such sexual terms. Beneath the hair he tried to shake protectively over his face, his cheeks burned. He looked helplessly at his father. But Richard, pacing the table-crammed courtyard with his mobile pressed to his ear, clearly had other matters on his mind.

  "Mr. Fitzmaurice! Theodora Greatorex here."

  "Mrs. Greatorex. What can I do for you?" Richard forced a pleasant tone into his voice. If one of his constituents chose to call him on holiday, then so be it. Representation of the people was a noble calling—or so he persisted in trying to believe, despite the contradicting presence of Hugh Faugh.

  "Have you any idea what, ahem," Mrs. Greatorex, in Wellover, took a deep, dramatic breath, "doggering is?"

  Richard started so fiercely he almost fell over. "Doggering?"

  "You don't mean," Richard hissed, bending slightly and heading instinctively for the shadows cast by the houses, "dogging, do you, Mrs. Greatorex? The practice of, ahem, how exactly shall I put this…"

  "Casual sex with strangers in the open air? I most certainly do, Mr. Fitzmaurice," thundered his interlocutor from her converted chantry in Gloucestershire as Richard, hundreds of miles away in Italy, reeled across the village street. "We all do in Wellover, let me assure you. Every Friday night, without fail."

  Richard's jaw fell slackly open. Was he hearing properly? Had the heat done something to his head? Wellover? Mrs. Greatorex?

  It could not be possible. Dogging was something footballers did in pub carparks in Essex. Wellover was as far from such a scenario as could be imagined. It was the archetypal English village. Its doorways
rioted with roses; its gardens nodded with gladioli; its windows were mullioned; and its inn, a muzak-free zone, was full of polished brass and quiet bonhomie. Its church was well attended and adhered to the King James Version; its village green was clean and kempt; its inhabitants, all white and mostly fifty-plus, subscribed to the Telegraph en masse and had stockbrokers.