‘Oh, come on.’ Sofia gave her a gentle squeeze. ‘He is your dad. Not biologically, apparently, but he’s the one who loved you all your life. I’ll bet he did all the dad-things, didn’t he? Looking after you, driving you places, playing in the garden, helping you learn to ride your bike—’
‘But he’s not my dad! Some loser I don’t even know is.’
Sofia screwed up her forehead as if she were thinking. ‘Just because you don’t know your natural dad doesn’t mean he’s a loser. He might be a decent guy.’
Amy was suddenly angry that Sofia was questioning her opinions. It seemed a touch too close to picking sides and, moreover, picking the one that didn’t have Amy on it. She wriggled out from under Sofia’s arm. ‘I don’t care what he’s like or who he is!’
Sofia didn’t seem to take offence at Amy’s snapping. She brought her knees up to loop her arms around them and laid her cheek against her knees. ‘Perhaps I’m just feeling sorry for your poor dad because I was so close to mine for so long.’
‘Probably.’ Amy got up. ‘I’m going to bed now.’
‘Night.’ Sofia didn’t move. Her voice sounded a bit strained. But it wasn’t until Amy was lying in bed that she thought about how Sofia’s voice had wobbled and wondered whether she’d been trying not to cry about losing her dad.
However angry and filled with justifiable outrage Amy was, the idea of her dad dying filled her with terror. She was sure she’d never live through anything so crippling.
In the end, she picked up her phone from where it was charging on the little table near her narrow bed with the wonky headboard and flicked to her messages, reading back some of those under ‘Dad’. She’d once gone to her contacts list with the intention of pressing ‘edit’ and changing ‘Dad’ to ‘Stephen’ but she hadn’t quite had the heart to do it. His last, ordinary, before-the-end-of-Amy’s-world texts swam before her eyes, asking what time she wanted picking up from her friend’s house and whether she wanted pizza when she got home. He hadn’t texted her at all since she left.
But she’d told them that if they did try to contact her she’d disappear …
Her stomach gave a great lurch of remorse. She wished Sofia hadn’t said anything about Stephen being innocent in all this because now Amy couldn’t summon up why she’d felt anger towards him. Being stupid enough to be cheated on no longer seemed much of a crime.
Maybe it was the wine making her brave but she got up and crept to the window to peep out. Sofia had gone. Amy opened the door quietly and went outside to pick up the signal.
Amy: I’m sorry if I was crappy to you. Its not ur fault. x
Before she could go back inside her phone began ringing in her hand.
‘Amy!’ her dad’s voice said hoarsely. ‘Amy, none of it’s your fault either. Come home, darling. We love you. Are you managing OK? Are you safe? Do you have enough money?’
‘I’m fine.’ Amy’s voice went wobbly at the sound of the voice of the man she’d loved all her life. She swallowed hard and they talked for ages. She told him about Montelibertà and that she did get homesick sometimes but she wanted to be on her own at the moment. He told her that he’d wanted to bite his tongue out every day since she’d left because he blamed himself for not considering her feelings, just thinking about himself and what the devastating news meant to him.
‘It’s all right,’ she said bravely. ‘I only thought of me, so we’re even.’ They even managed small, strangled laughs at that.
‘Can I tell Mum we’ve spoken?’ he asked hesitantly.
Amy considered. ‘Yes. But I’m not ready to talk to her yet.’ When the call was over she went back inside her room to lie awake staring into the darkness, realising that Dad being able to ring her as quickly as he did without Mum trying to butt in from the background might mean that Dad and Mum weren’t in the same bedroom.
She sighed. It was a totally shit situation. And if Sofia left Montelibertà that would be total shit too.
Chapter Seventeen
The next day, Sofia set out down the hill to visit Gianni at Hotel Alba, butterflies doing aerobics in her stomach and Via Virgilio’s crawling traffic loud in her ear. Her thoughts were on what lay ahead – getting to know her uncle’s family. Her family, in fact.
At the beginning of her journey she could see Hotel Alba on the facing slope but it was hidden from her view by a multitude of other buildings as she got down into the centre of Montelibertà. Traversing both Piazza Roma and Piazza Santa Lucia, busy with tourists and loud with as many English and American voices as Italian, she followed the route she’d memorised up Corso Musica, a street that, once past the theatre with a sort of bandstand outside, quickly narrowed. It wasn’t until she branched into Corso Sant’Angelo and rounded a sharp bend that Hotel Alba popped into view again.
Sofia paused to drink it in. Tall and white with the ubiquitous terracotta tiled roof, it was probably twice the size and twice the age of Casa Felice, and looked as if it was a cut above. Stonework framed the windows and arched like eyebrows over the doorways. Imposing urns set at intervals around the building were extravagantly planted with red, white and purple petunias. The road and pavement leading up to the hotel were cobbled, and the main doors stood welcomingly ajar.
Subduing an urge to retreat, if only to the nearest large window to check her appearance after a twenty-minute walk, Sofia strolled through the imposing doors, hoping her attack of nerves didn’t show. In the vaulted reception area, the ceiling was hung with impressive glass chandeliers. Walls and ceilings were painted white but the floor was glossy black marble, and the sofas dotted about were black too. Bureaus and side tables were painted a dull pewter. Paintings depicting busy market places and teeming cafés dotted the walls, bold splashes of colour standing out against the otherwise monochrome elegance.
Several guests sat around with either phones or tablets in their hands. Sofia guessed that the best free wifi was in this area.
Behind an imposing reception desk faced in more black marble, an impeccably turned out young man smiled as he wished her ‘Buon giorno.’
In the distance Sofia could hear voices, closing doors, the ting of a lift. She swallowed. ‘Buon giorno. I’m here to meet Gianni Bianchi. I’m Sofia Bianchi.’
The man’s smile didn’t waver, though interest flashed for an instant in his eyes. ‘Please, take a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.’ He picked up a black telephone.
Too restless to sit, Sofia wandered over to inspect one of the largest of the artworks, a view down the slope of a cobbled street depicting colourful shops and people gazing into their windows. It was painted in broad brushstrokes and was definitely best viewed from a distance. Wondering vaguely whether the artist had long arms or had to keep jumping back several yards to view a work in progress, she decided she preferred Levi’s smaller-scale and more delicately executed watercolours. An image of him in the lavender gardens flashed into her mind, leg drawn up as a prop for his pad, eyes narrowed, hair blowing back from his forehead as the brush in his hand moved across a page of greens, blues and purples.
Levi. She felt apprehension slither down her spine as she revisited the uncomfortable reality of being confidante to both him and Amy. She’d never before been in the position where she felt simultaneously on the same side as, and betraying, two people.
‘Sofia, benvenuta all’Hotel Alba.’
She swung around from the painting to find Gianni smiling quizzically, his suit crisp and not a hair out of place. He came forward to kiss each of her cheeks, his cologne wafting over her as she pulled herself back into the moment and thanked him for his welcome.
With a brief nod at the staff member on reception, Gianni ushered Sofia courteously around the desk and through an arch, taking a small corridor to the right and unlocking a door that led into what proved to be a delightful apartment, airy but well lived in. ‘This is our home. Chiara has an apartment in the town so Mia and I have plenty of room here.’
‘It’s beautiful,
’ said Sofia truthfully, looking through a wide arch into a sitting room. In the apartment, as in the reception area, plain walls were hung with many pictures. There the similarity ended. Here the furniture was informal and well-loved, cosy fabric armchairs nudging up against tapestry sofas and faded velvet stools, blues, pinks, golds, browns and greens jumbled happily together. As if to emphasise that this was a place to be comfortable, Gianni shed his jacket and tie and hung them on the curly arm of a coat rack, removed his shoes and slid his feet into backless slippers.
Ceiling fans stirred the air as he led Sofia through the sitting room and then another arch. ‘Mia! Chiara! Sofia is here.’
Chiara appeared in a green embroidered summer dress that hinted at this not being a workday for her, her shoulders rising prettily from the peasant-style neckline. She beamed. ‘Sofia!’ They, too, exchanged kisses, though they’d met so briefly before. Sofia supposed that as they were family kissing felt more natural than not kissing. ‘Please come and sit down.’ Chiara led Sofia between billowing voile curtains out into a courtyard with pots of startlingly red geraniums around the perimeter like a handkerchief embroidered at the edges.
At a table sat a woman who turned to watch them approach.
Chiara took Sofia’s arm. ‘Let me introduce you to my mother. Mamma, here’s my English cousin, Sofia. Sofia, my mother, Mia Bianchi.’
Sofia had a moment to appreciate that Chiara making the introduction must have been planned as being more palatable than Gianni doing so. Simultaneously, she was swamped by the oddness of so many people sharing her surname when for so long she’d known only herself and Aldo, and was momentarily stuck for words.
Mia rose. Her dark hair was styled in a neat bob, greying at the front, and, like Gianni, she looked to be wearing a suit without a jacket. ‘Benvenuta all’Hotel Alba.’ She shook Sofia’s hand, extending her arm a long way as if discouraging Sofia from any idea that they would exchange kisses. She smiled, but it was a mask, devoid of warmth.
Sofia murmured polite thanks for inviting her into their hotel and their home. The resemblance between Chiara and Mia was marked, although friendliness emanated only from Chiara. Both women were groomed and poised, making Sofia glad she’d bothered with makeup and wrangling the top of her hair into a fishtail braid to hang over the loose layer below.
Mia reseated herself and Gianni held out a chair for Sofia while Chiara vanished back into the apartment in search of coffee.
Sofia made every effort to make herself agreeable to Mia. She spoke only Italian; she praised the apartment, the courtyard and the hotel. Mia’s smile remained firmly in place as she quietly thanked Sofia, but she made not the least attempt to develop the conversation, even when Gianni and Chiara tried to draw Mia in as they asked Sofia about life in the UK.
When this had gone on awkwardly for ten minutes, Sofia addressed a direct question to Mia. ‘Has Gianni mentioned to you that I work at Casa Felice?’
Mia nodded. ‘It’s good,’ she murmured. ‘You have a job already.’ She shot Gianni a faintly triumphant look and he sent her one of exasperation in reply.
Sofia let the subject drop.
Lunch began with soup served by a quiet, middle-aged lady in leggings and a T-shirt, garb for ‘the help’ that seemed out of keeping with the boutique elegance of Hotel Alba, but in keeping with the comfy family apartment within it. White and red wine arrived in stylish carafes.
Mia retreated again from the conversation except when Gianni was telling Sofia all about the hotel and she joined in with a firm, ‘Gianni named the hotel “Alba” because it’s one of the first buildings in Montelibertà to see the sun rise, you know.’
‘How interesting.’ Smiling and nodding politely, Sofia gazed at her hostess as if she genuinely found Mia’s contribution fascinating, though actually she was in little doubt that what her aunt actually meant was he absolutely didn’t name it after Dawn, your mother, so don’t think it for a moment! And, probably, Dawn has been gone so long that I’m quite displeased you’ve turned up to unsettle Gianni by reminding him about his youthful tragedy. Mia’s glacial smile seemed designed to observe the niceties but disguise whatever was going on behind and Sofia found herself reflecting that at least you knew where you were with Benedetta because whatever her mood, she showed it.
As the soup was removed, replaced with fish and a rainbow of roasted vegetables, Gianni began describing Hotel Alba to Sofia in greater detail, its rooms, its clientele, even the general structure of employment. Sofia served herself with asparagus, carrots, baby tomatoes and sauté potatoes and passed the vegetables to Mia on her left.
Mia took minute portions of everything and passed the platter to Chiara, waiting for Gianni to take a breath before inserting smoothly, ‘I think you’re forgetting that our guest works for the opposition, Gianni.’ Her tone was light enough but Sofia was left in no doubt that Mia genuinely didn’t want Gianni to share too much. If Gianni had begun to feel warmth towards his niece, Mia was trying hard to stop him acting upon it.
Chiara began to ask Sofia about her childhood and Sofia responded brightly, sharing the few memories she had of her mother but mainly the lovely relationship she’d known with Aldo. She described their Edwardian house close to the railway station in Bedford and the grassy river embankment where Aldo had loved to walk when he was well enough, admiring the flowerbeds or finding a bench where he could watch the boats. It didn’t exactly make her feel homesick but she was abruptly reminded of how much she missed Aldo, and tears sprang to her eyes. Chiara murmured sympathetically and Gianni’s eyes grew wet.
Mia, though, maintained her air of separation. She might as well have been encased in ice.
When lunch had been rounded off with figs, watermelon and more coffee, Sofia glanced at her watch, thanked her uncle, aunt and cousin for their hospitality and explained that she had to be on duty in an hour.
Gianni immediately jumped up. ‘But I haven’t shown you the hotel.’
Sofia didn’t have to look at Mia to know that she’d be arching her eyebrows. She seemed to have more expressions of displeasure than any three other people put together but Sofia could understand her defensiveness. If you knew your husband had once been deeply in love with another woman, and that other woman’s daughter came along and was also an inconveniently close relation to your husband and daughter, it probably felt quite a threat.
So she just gave him a smile. ‘I can’t stay longer. Benedetta will sack me again.’
‘That may not be a bad thing.’ He laughed and prepared to walk her out, donning his tie, jacket and shoes at the front door like armour before stepping into the hotel. Once in the public areas he persuaded her to at least leave Hotel Alba by the side exit so he could show her the dining room and terrace. Both were beautifully kept. Sofia hadn’t checked out the star rating for her uncle’s hotel but she was pretty sure it would be at least one above Casa Felice’s, even though the terrace had only a side-on slice of the magnificent view into the valley. ‘You have a beautiful place.’
Gianni took her hands and kissed each of her cheeks. ‘Now that you have seen our hotel, how do you feel about working here? I’d enjoy having another member of the family on board. Why not return on your next day off? I can show you the hotel properly and we can discuss what role you might like.’
Sofia freed her hands in order to give her uncle an impulsive hug. ‘I’d love to see you again, but I won’t stay in Montelibertà after the summer so it’s not fair to take you up on that offer, however kind.’ Stretching the truth a bit she added, ‘I have plans to move to Spain with a friend.’
His smile became wistful. ‘I hope you don’t hold our first meeting against me. I was over-emotional and irrational.’
‘Of course I don’t.’ Sofia gave Gianni a cheerful wave and turned away, glad she’d visited her family’s hotel … but, also, quite glad to leave it. However much Sofia would like to be closer to Gianni and Chiara, Mia had made her feel as if Sofia was there on sufferance, which w
as not a pleasant feeling.
Corso Sant’Angelo was steep enough to propel her into a swinging stride across the cobbles and into Corso Musica. Before long she was crossing between the elegant buildings surrounding Piazza Santa Lucia, pausing when she recognised the burly figure, bountiful eyebrows and moustache of Ernesto Milani at one of the pavement cafés. ‘Ciao, Ernesto!’ She thanked him for passing her message to Gianni and explained that she’d just been to visit the hotel.
‘I hope you were made welcome,’ responded Ernesto in a tone that hinted that he wouldn’t be surprised if she weren’t.
‘It was interesting,’ she said evasively, bearing in mind Mia’s fears of gossip. After passing the time of day with him, she was obliged to hurry through Piazza Roma to Via Virgilio to avoid being late for her shift. Rushing up the hill in the stultifying afternoon sunshine even made her think favourably, for once, of the air-conditioned coolness of reception.
She was halfway to Casa Felice when she realised that one of the figures strolling ahead of her was Levi Gunn, T-shirt clinging to his shoulders. She halted, taking a wistful moment to notice his tight rear view in cargo shorts, once again wishing life was simpler where he was concerned. She could motor past, tapping her watch and laughing about Benedetta having her hide if she was late – but that was no way to treat someone who’d shared his bed and body with her. Then again, if she fell in beside him she’d have to make a decision about whether to pass on Amy’s confidences. Another option was to hang back, but she now had only twenty minutes to get to her room, shower, dry, dress, put up her hair and log on at reception.
Then he turned, as if feeling her eyes on him.
‘Hey,’ she said, as she caught up.
The Italian sun had bronzed his skin and bleached his hair and his teeth looked very white as he grinned. ‘Day off?’
‘No, I’ve been to visit my uncle and I’m hurrying because I’m on at three,’ she explained apologetically.
He speeded up to keep pace with her. ‘Really? The same uncle who you swore at?’
One Summer in Italy Page 18