by Daisy James
Those last three words reverberated in her brain.
Why hadn’t she looked at this trip in those terms? That she was there, in Florence, in Anna’s honour; to pay tribute to all those wonderful times they had spent together researching and gossiping and planning every detail of the trip.
‘Anna was a reception class teacher at our local village school in St Ives where we grew up. Everyone loved her and she loved every single one of them back, even the most challenging children – no, scratch that, especially those children. She was the most popular teacher in the school – you should have seen the piles of home-made cards and presents that landed on her desk at the end of each term… and when she and Matt got engaged.’
She allowed herself to smile as she recalled the artwork the children had created to celebrate Anna’s engagement to Matt; an enormous collage of doily hearts and red tissue-paper flowers, buttons, sequins and ribbons, with the letters A and M interwoven in embroidered felt. Anna had loved it so much that she’d had it framed and it hung above the fireplace in the tiny cottage she and Matt lived in on the outskirts of the village.
‘We agreed on most things, it’s a twin thing, I think, and one of the things we definitely shared was a passion for all-things Italian; the food, the wine, the architecture, the culture, the history, the art, the language, its people. Anyway, we decided to plan a girlie trip to Florence as a sort of hen weekend a couple of weeks before she and Matt were due to get married. Spent hours scrolling through the museums websites, booking tickets, looking at menus and recipes, shopping for clothes, reading guide books, watching films, we even enrolled on a language course.’
She paused, swallowing down the resurgence of the urge to succumb to more tears. Now she had started, she wanted to get every last painful morsel out into the open before she crumbled. Anyway, she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to – the genie was out of the bottle.
‘Then, one sun-filled spring morning, May twelfth to be precise, Anna was cycling to school, just as she had done every morning for the previous five years, probably humming a tune from the end of term school play she had singlehandedly written, choreographed and directed. She was… she was found two hours later by a passing motorist, lying by the side of the road. Much later, the doctors told us that she had died from a brain aneurism – apparently it can happen to anyone, anytime, and she wouldn’t have suffered at all. But that was no consolation. The whole village went into mourning, everyone devastated by the loss of an adored schoolteacher, a community champion, a best friend, a fiancée, a daughter, a… a sister. The light in my life was extinguished like that!’
She was unable to continue – the pain of loss had bared its teeth and her breath had caught in her chest, causing her tears to flow unchecked, dripping from the end of her chin. Silently, Luca withdrew his handkerchief and passed it to her, before guiding her head to his chest where she remained for a long time.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Izzie.’
Then she said it, said the sentence she had never uttered to a soul before, but which had played on a never-ending loop through her exhausted brain every day for two years.
‘Why wasn’t it me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re twins. We have the same genetic make-up. Why wasn’t it me? If it had been me, the pupils would still have their much-loved teacher, the marginalised children would have their vociferous champion, the wedding of the decade would have gone ahead the following month, and our parents would probably have a couple of longed for grandchildren by now.’
‘Do you really think life would have continued as normal if it had been you?’
‘Well, no, of course not, but things would have been better than they are now, that’s for sure.’
Her tears had dried, and the relief at having spoken the words that had stalked her for a long time was beginning to seep into her veins and soothe her ragged emotions.
‘Things would have been different, yes, but not better – that’s crazy. Your parents, your sister, and did you say your partner was called Alex? They would all have suffered exactly the same trauma if they had lost you and not Anna. You have to know that!’
‘I suppose…’
Her brain told her Luca was right, of course. Her brain had screamed that same argument at her many times, but her demons were always there ready to douse any hint of optimism with cold water, pointing their accusatory fingers at her for living when her sister hadn’t. How could she explain that what she had experienced since that fateful summer day when the sun had gone from her life wasn’t just sorrow at the loss of her sister but the insidious scorch of guilt? Guilt that the Director of Fate had chosen to take Anna; the most cheerful, the most creative, the most loving person you could possibly wish to meet. Why hadn’t it been her who had been struck down on that late spring morning as she cycled to work?
Luca was watching her closely, his eyes filled with compassion.
‘Izzie, have you been carrying this guilt around with you ever since… well, ever since your sister’s passing?’
‘Yes, I…’
‘And what did your friends say when you spoke to them about how you felt?’
‘I haven’t, I mean, I didn’t…’
Luca’s jaw sagged in disbelief. ‘This is the first time you’ve spoken about it?’
She nodded, staring at her fingertips. When Luca put it like that it did sound ridiculous.
‘But why?’
‘I just, well, I thought I was…’
‘Grief sends a kaleidoscope of emotions, some easier to deal with than others; some vanish as soon as they appear, others stick around. There’s no pattern, it’s different for everyone and we all deal with it in different ways. However, there is one thing that helps everyone and that’s talking about how we feel. Why didn’t you talk to your parents about it?’
‘Because they’re grieving, too. I didn’t want to burden them with any more pain. They had enough to deal with without adding me to their list of worries. They had the funeral to organise, and Matt – poor Matt – he had all the wedding arrangements to cancel. Can you imagine how hard that must have been for him and his family?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Me, neither.’
‘So, is that why your business folded?’
‘Yes, and why Alex moved on. He tried really hard, but I couldn’t go back to a normal life. How could I? Our relationship just fizzled out, and so did my creativity. How could I create designs filled with vibrant colours, edged with panache and flair when I had died inside? The only colours I wanted to work with were black, grey, taupe, pewter – would you believe me if I said I hated the sight of crimson, or cerise, or lemon chiffon? I lost most of my clients, apart from Grace Hambleton, my ex-boss’s wife who, it turned out, had also lost her sister – in a car crash – and when she found out I was looking for work, she practically ordered her husband to offer me a job with his building company staging houses – until his son took over the business and I lost that job, too.’
Luca nodded as she spoke, clearly working on formulating his next sentence, taking care to get it right.
‘Your sister sounds like you, Izzie. An amazing person who loved her family and her friends and was there for everyone who needed her friendship and support. Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘Knowing her as well as you do, would Anna have wanted you to stop living just because she had? Would she have wanted to see her beloved twin sister using her grief as an excuse for retreating from life?’
‘It’s not an excuse…’
However, Luca was right. The loss of her sister had been the catalyst for the mundane, drab, yes, excuse of a life she now pursued. Despite strenuous attempts to maintain her equilibrium, she had moved through the days and weeks that followed Anna’s passing like an automaton – a ghost going through the motions from dawn until dusk when she could embrace the oblivion that sleep offered. She had lost interest in everything; the
gym, the cinema, the theatre, the interior magazines she loved, the travel memoirs she used to devour as she and Anna dreamed of their next girlie holiday.
‘Don’t you think she’s sitting up there… on that cloud,’ Luca pointed to a fluffy white Simpsonesque cloud that had paused in its eternal travels around the world, ‘cheering you on, urging you to squeeze every ounce of happiness from what life throws at you? Just like she did by organising plays for the schoolchildren she taught, arranging her wedding, and spending time shopping and dreaming of trips with her sister – she was living life to the full, pursuing her dreams with passion and conviction.’
Izzie stared at Luca, his expression filled with earnest persuasion. As she replayed his words, and considered their meaning, she knew what he had said was true, and another chunk of stone was fell away from the granite block that had taken up residence in her chest.
Chapter Sixteen
Fioraio Francesca, San Vivaldo
Colour: Fuchsia Cascade
True to his word, Luca got Izzie back to the Villa Limoncello by four o’clock just as the sunflowers were turning their faces towards the west and the cicadas’ song was at its most vibrant. After opening her heart and talking about her guilt surrounding Anna’s death, she felt lighter, more buoyant than she had in a long while and a smile tugged at her lips – despite the lists she could see waiting for her on the patio table. She turned in her seat and this time it was no surprise when a frisson of attraction shot through her body. Luca was extraordinarily handsome, especially when his dark brown eyes met hers, those liquorice lashes caressing his cheeks.
‘Thank you, Luca. You’ve given me more than a tour of your favourite city, you’ve given me an insight into how to move on, a glimmer of hope that instead of standing still and looking over my shoulder to the past, I can fix my eyes on the future.’
‘Niente,’ smiled Luca, holding her gaze for longer than necessary.
She sensed a shift, a few millimetres only, but it was enough to tell her what was in Luca’s mind. Her lips tingled in anticipation and a flutter of desire tickled at her abdomen, yet it was tempered by a generous dose of uncertainty and her reflexes forced her to pull back, causing her heart to scream ‘coward’.
But what was the point in taking their friendship to another level – she couldn’t afford to add an extra dimension to the feelings of loss that would inevitably surface when she left Tuscany in two days’ time. After the progress she had made that morning, after the surge of optimism that still smouldered in her heart, she didn’t want to risk introducing anything that could destroy the fragility of hope. She jumped from the car, smiling, hoping he couldn’t see the rush of emotion that had risen to the surface and tightened her vocal chords.
‘Okay, thanks again, Luca. Ciao!’
Izzie stood beneath the pergola, waving as the Spider crunched its way past the pink rhododendron blooms basking in the afternoon heat, their petals floating on the breeze like confetti, before disappearing through the gates and towards the village to prepare for his shift at the restaurant. She glanced at her watch and realised that if she didn’t grab the Vespa and follow in his wake she would be late for her meeting with Francesca.
As she zipped along the twisting roads towards San Vivaldo, memories flooded her thoughts of the times when she and Anna had frequented their local florist’s shop in St Ives to select a bouquet for their mother on her birthday. Anna had adored roses, peonies and tulips, in any shade as long as it was pink, the colour she had chosen for her bridal bouquet, whilst Izzie preferred flowers that were a little more quirky, like sunflowers and hydrangeas. Those days had been happy occasions, proving the old adage that it was just as joyful to give gifts as to receive them.
Another emotion tumbled through the mix too – that of gratitude. Spending time with Luca that morning had made her realise how fortunate she was for having had her wonderful sister in her life for a whole twenty-seven years. After all, some people didn’t even get that long! She cast her eyes skywards, fixing her gaze on a pretty cloud in the shape of a heart, and imagined Anna sitting there, her legs crossed, a smile stretching her lips, silently urging her to enjoy every moment she had left in their favourite country.
Fortunately, just as she thought her head would burst with her constant reflections, she spotted Fioraio Francesca squashed between a gelateria and a fruttivendolo. Unlike Oriana’s pasticceria, the window display did not cause an instant bout of drooling, but as soon as she stepped over the threshold her nostrils filled with the rich fragrance of jasmine, lilies, and crushed pine. It was a few moments before her eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine of outside and she noticed the young woman perched on a high stool at the wooden counter fiddling with her mobile.
‘Ciao, I’m Izzie Jenkins.’
‘Ciao, Izzie, I’m Francesca Caruso. Are you here to talk about the wedding flowers for Villa dei Limoni on Friday?’
‘Yes, I am.’
Izzie heaved a silent sigh of relief that not only did Francesca speak English, but she spoke it with a broad West country accent. Francesca grinned as if reading her thoughts.
‘My mother’s English, my father’s Italian,’ she explained, jumping down from her seat and clearing a space on the counter for Izzie to open her folder. ‘They met when Mum was inter-railing back in the eighties. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you – I can’t wait to show you what I’ve created.’
Izzie connected with Francesca immediately. She reminded her of Meghan – with her ivory chiffon top offering a peek of her lacy bra, her cropped trousers and ballet flats, not to mention her raspberry tipped fringe. But it was her cheerful personality, the laughter lines around her lips and her eyes, and constant stream of chatter that really sealed it, and when Francesca pulled open the door to the room at the back of the shop Izzie stopped in her tracks.
‘Wow!’
There was no other way to describe the cornucopia of floral art lined up ready for inspection on the huge battered oak table. A cloud of heady perfume lingered in the air like a Parisian lady’s boudoir – or Jonti’s bedroom before a Saturday night out on the town. Shelves ran around the perimeter of the room, crammed with everything a busy florist could possibly ask for and more; blocks of green oasis, floristry twine, spools of ribbons, baskets, vases, storm lanterns, skeletal ironmongery.
‘Would you like me to talk you through what I’ve done? I’ve stuck to the brief as much as I could, apart from the ivory zantedeshia which were a problem. So, these are the table decorations,’ said Francesca, indicating three elegant arrangements of white roses and pale and fuchsia-pink peonies interspersed with baby’s breath and surrounded by glossy green foliage.
‘They are gorgeous!’
Izzie could picture the floral masterpieces in pride of place on each of the three long tables they’d set up in the courtyard against the backdrop of the starched white linen cloths and the crystal candlesticks, silver cutlery and white bone china crockery.
‘And there’ll be a single rose, like this one, placed on each napkin. These are the buttonholes; one for each guest and I’ve made a few extra just in case. And this, here… is the bride’s headpiece. What do you think?’
‘It’s perfect,’ sighed Izzie, feasting her eyes on the circlet of exquisite white roses that would be woven through the bride’s hair on the morning of the ceremony. ‘And are these the bouquets?’
‘Yes, that’s for the bride, and these are the posies for the two bridesmaids.’
‘They are really beautiful and will look amazing in the photographs!’
‘Thank you, I have to admit that I’m more nervous than usual. I keep telling myself that it’s just another wedding, but it’s not, is it? These people are celebrities, the photographs could be seen by thousands of people and I want to make doubly sure that everything is perfect. Okay, so these are the arrangements that will be placed at intervals along the red carpet, on the steps of the gazebo, and in the stone urns that guard the entrance to the venue.
’
‘Oh, Francesca, everything is amazing! In fact, this whole room looks like something from a Monet painting!’
Francesca beamed. ‘And you haven’t seen the chandelier yet!’
‘The chandelier?’
Izzie was confused – there definitely wasn’t a chandelier on the list.
‘Yes, I got a call a couple of weeks ago from Brad Knowles himself, asking if I could design something spectacular to hang over the reception tables. What do you think?’
Francesca was clearly enjoying her ‘Ta dah’ moment.
‘It’s absolutely stunning! A work of genius!’
Hanging from the rafters in an adjacent room was a white wrought-iron chandelier entwined with fresh flowers to match the bouquets and buttonholes, so large and elaborate that it could have done justice to a hallway in Versailles.
‘Wait.’
Francesca stooped to flick a switch and a twinkling ribbon of lights that had been woven through the flowers sprang into life transforming the workshop into a fairy grotto. Izzie’s heart ballooned. With Francesca on board, the venue would not only conform to the brief, but would be filled with a romantic ambience.
‘Thank you so much,’ smiled Izzie, beginning to feel a little light-headed from the feast of floral fantasy and the almost overpowering scent of so many different fragrances.
They returned to the workshop where the air was fresher, and Izzie’s eye snagged on a rustic wicker basket filled with brown paper cones slotted into a wire mesh.
‘What are these?’
‘I’m going to fill them with rose petals for the guests to use as confetti when the bride and groom walk back down the aisle as husband and wife. They’re not on the list, but it won’t be an authentic Italian wedding without confetti. I hope that’s okay?’