The Italian Matchmaker

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, sandwiches that Ventura made us. Biscuits. Pencils and paper. I’m going to draw you a picture on the plane.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m going to draw you one too!’ Juno added, not to be outdone.

  ‘I’m going to draw the palazzo with Granny and Grandpa waving goodbye.’

  ‘I’m going to draw you as the naughty crocodile!’ Juno giggled. ‘With big white teeth and a long scaly tail.’

  ‘Get Mummy to send them out. I’ll put them up in my bedroom.’

  ‘Can we come back soon?’ Coco asked.

  ‘As soon as you break up for the holidays.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ He drew her into his arms. ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

  22

  Luca waved until the children were out of sight then walked slowly back to the car, a heaviness descending on him like cloud. He had grown accustomed to the sound of their voices, the feel of their small hands in his, their arms winding around his legs, their expectant faces smiling up at him. He fought off a wave of homesickness with thoughts of Cosima. He parked in the city and set about buying her a mobile telephone. This was a suitable distraction and soon his spirits lifted as her gentle expression broke through the cloud like sunshine. On his way back to the car he passed a jewellery shop and went inside.

  At the sound of the taxi scrunching to a halt on the gravel outside, Romina swept through the grand entrance of the palazzo to greet the journalist. Porci, ignorant of the significance of this monumental event, trotted past her to sniff the tyres. If he were a dog he would have cocked his leg to show supremacy but, as he was only a little pig, he simply grunted and trotted on to roll down the grassy slope beyond.

  The journalist did a double take at the sight of him, clad in his white nappy, and leaned closer to the window to get a better look. Romina couldn’t contain her impatience. ‘Don’t be alarmed by Porci. He doesn’t bite,’ she said, smiling into the car.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said the woman, gathering her enormous black leather handbag and shuffling across the seat. She had a chiselled, pale face with a deep red bob, square-cut like a spade. ‘Wow, this is quite a palace!’ As she stepped out of the car, Romina’s eyes fell on her red fishnet tights, short denim skirt and black leather boots, and she recoiled.

  ‘My dear, you’re going to get very hot in those!’

  ‘It was cold in London. I’ve got lighter clothes in my case.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. I’m Romina, your hostess.’ She extended her hand formally.

  ‘Fiyona Pritchett,’ Fiyona replied, her scarlet lips curling into a smile. ‘Fiyona with a “y”.’

  ‘Hello Fiyona with a “y”. At last! Well, let’s not stand out here dying of thirst.’ Fiyona lifted her suitcase. ‘No, no! Let the men do some work. I’ll tell Ventura to get one of the boys to take it to your room.’

  ‘Is it okay out here?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think Porci’s going to run off with it!’

  Fiyona followed her through the house to the terrace, gazing around her in fascination. ‘This really is a stunning place,’ she said.

  ‘I know. Aren’t we the luckiest people in the whole world? It was nothing but a ruin when we found it. Grass growing in the rooms, ivy climbing up the walls, animals making their homes in the pieces of furniture left behind. It was a terrible mess.’

  ‘Has it been photographed yet?’

  ‘No. Monday.’

  ‘Good. I gather it has a bloody history.’

  ‘A very dark history.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to some of the locals.’

  ‘Do you speak Italian?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why they sent me. I read French and Italian at university. Long time ago now, but I practise whenever I can.’

  ‘My son will take you into town. He is the one mingling with the locals.’ She raised her eyebrows suggestively. ‘Recently divorced, I think he’s making up for lost time.’

  ‘He’s just quit the City too, hasn’t he?’

  Romina was surprised. ‘You know about Luca?’

  ‘I’ve done my research.’

  Outside, Caradoc, Nanni, Dennis and Ma were engrossed in a game of bridge. Romina introduced them before taking Fiyona to the table to offer her refreshment.

  ‘I have Earl Grey or coffee,’ she said.

  ‘Coffee please, strong.’

  Romina watched her with a growing sense of disappointment. Fiyona wasn’t at all what she had expected. She was tough – clearly from a lower social stratum – and she wasn’t pretty, though she was undoubtedly striking; her skin was translucent and her eyes an unlikely shade of green. Romina suspected she wore tinted contact lenses.

  ‘Do you burn easily in the sun?’

  ‘Yes. Can’t go into it. I languish in the shade like an orchid.’

  ‘You are very pale.’

  ‘At least I don’t have to worry about tanning. There’s no point. Anyway, I think Nicole Kidman and Madonna have made it fashionable to be white.’

  ‘You will certainly look younger for longer,’ said Romina, determined to be kind.

  ‘Not with my lifestyle. It’s an uphill battle. I drink and I smoke and I like to stay up late. I’ll always look older than I am.’

  ‘So, how long have you written for the Sunday Times?’

  ‘I’ve been a freelance journalist for twenty years.’

  ‘Gracious, you must have started young!’

  ‘I suppose I did. I get turned on by facts.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I like mysteries.’

  ‘You’ll find plenty of those here.’

  ‘Oh, I already know about the Marchese, the girl he murdered, Valentina, and her long-suffering fiancé Thomas Arbuckle. Sadly, he won’t talk. He’s in his eighties now, bless! There’s only so much you can pester people and I draw the line at harassment.’

  ‘And you know that Valentina’s brother murdered the Marchese?’

  ‘No, that I didn’t know. An act of revenge. That’s logical.’

  ‘People don’t like to talk about the past. My son and the professor discovered that piece of information by talking to an old man in town.’

  ‘None of this has ever been written anywhere?’

  ‘Folklore.’

  ‘And the people who really know aren’t talking?’

  ‘They don’t want to dig up the past.’

  ‘But I do. Digging up pasts is what I do best!’

  Romina felt her disappointment melt away. After all, she didn’t have to like the woman. The object was to write an article on the magnificence of the palazzo and its incredible transformation at the hands of two brilliantly talented people. The chances were that after she left, they’d never cross paths again.

  ‘The truth is, I’d rather focus my attention on the present. Who lives here now? What happened to the previous owners? How does one build on such grim foundations? Can one ever really escape the past?’

  ‘Please don’t tell me that you believe in ghosts?’

  Fiyona revealed two long eye-teeth, like a wolf. ‘No, but hey, if there are any lurking around, I’d be only too delighted to meet them!’

  Luca returned as the bridge game drew to a close with the four players going over the game in a heated post-mortem. Luca went over to introduce himself to the journalist.

  ‘So, you’re the famous Luca Chancellor. You’re not at all what I expected.’

  ‘Neither are you!’

  ‘You look like a man who’s been relaxing in the Italian sun for months.’

  ‘I assume that’s a good thing?’

  ‘For someone who isn’t intending to go back to the office.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing anything for the moment.’

  ‘Lucky you!’

  He sat down and tapped a cigarette out of its packet. ‘Have you shown Fiyona around, yet?’ he asked his mother.

  ‘She’s only just arrived.
How were the children?’

  ‘Sad to leave, I think. They adored their stay.’

  Romina beamed. ‘I’m so pleased. I hope they’ll come back soon.’ She turned to Fiyona. ‘My granddaughters. Delightful little girls. As pretty as my son is handsome.’

  Fiyona watched him light up. ‘I’m glad I’m not the only smoker.’

  ‘Everyone smokes in Europe. It’s only England and America where political correctness has gone crazy,’ said Romina. ‘Let’s all have one, then we can be politically incorrect together.’

  When Ventura appeared with a tray of cakes and fresh tea, the bridge players were drawn to the table like hungry dogs. Nanni pulled out the chair beside Fiyona, catching a glimpse of her red fishnet tights. She glanced up at his beetroot face and grinned.

  ‘Fun, aren’t they? Not really appropriate for the Italian countryside, but I was in the city this morning.’

  ‘They’re very colourful,’ he said, the sweat gathering on his forehead as he recalled the racy paintings of Toulouse-Lautrec. ‘It is very hot today, don’t you think?’

  ‘I love the heat. As long as I’m not in direct sunlight.’

  He noticed her pearly skin and ruby lips. ‘You’re born into the wrong century. Now brown is considered beautiful.’

  She fixed him with her emerald eyes and blew a smoke-ring. ‘Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholder.’

  ‘Brava! You’re absolutely right.’

  After tea Romina showed Fiyona around the palazzo, explaining all the rooms and what she and Bill had done to them. Fiyona was suitably impressed, but seemed more interested in the human story. ‘Do you know in which room the murder took place?’

  ‘No, I’m hoping you’re going to find out and tell me!’

  ‘I’ll do my best. Someone, somewhere knows and I’ll find him. I’m good at that. I did a piece recently on Eva Peron. You wouldn’t believe the people who crawled out of the woodwork for that story. It was sensational.’

  ‘How do you extract the information?’

  ‘There are many ways. Some just want to tell their story, others are flattered I’m interested. There are those who need to offload and those who have just never been asked. Half the battle is finding the right people, the ones that history has swallowed with no trace, those who were right there during world historic events, of whom there are no records. Men without trace. Those are the ones I’m interested in.’

  After the house they went to the folly. ‘If you’re interested in the history, this will enchant you,’ Romina said proudly. ‘Though I cannot boast any artistic input at all. I left it as I found it.’ She turned the key and pushed open the door. Dennis had reported no evidence of ghosts or ghouls but she swept her eyes swiftly over the bed all the same. It was a great relief to find it as smooth as if she had made it herself.

  Fiyona took in every detail with her acute powers of observation. ‘This was built for Valentina?’ she asked, lightly touching the silver brush and crystal pot of face cream in front of the Queen Anne mirror on the dressing-table. ‘She was playing a dangerous game. As she sat here brushing her hair, I can’t imagine she ever thought she’d be murdered by her lover. It’s a room dedicated to sensual pleasure. Can you feel it?’

  Romina looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, running her hand down the silk curtains of the four-poster bed.

  ‘That’s what it is. The magic one feels in here is sex.’ Fiyona grew more animated. ‘I love it!’

  ‘I should probably have changed it. What am I going to do with a house dedicated to the perverse desires of an old marquis?’

  ‘No, you must leave it as it is. It’s a museum. Don’t touch a thing.’

  Romina thought of telling her about the intruder, but the folly had remained untouched for some days now. There was every chance the trespasser had gone.

  That night Luca took the key to the folly and met Cosima outside the church as arranged. She still felt superstitious about their relationship; that it would only survive if she lit daily candles to Francesco to reassure him that her love would never diminish. Her happiness was an uneasy condition, anchored so firmly in grief. Only when she was in Luca’s arms could she let herself go. When they made love she stole her pleasure like a thief unworthy of such riches. When they were apart she nurtured her joy like a precious diamond, afraid of letting it show, as if it might shine through the darkness to give her away. Even though the darkness was comfortable, and it was what she felt she deserved, she was so tempted by the light.

  It was a relief to see Luca standing in the shade of a plane tree, hands in pockets, patiently waiting for her. She ran up and threw her arms around his neck, allowing his strength to envelop her.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just pleased to see you.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Up the coast?’

  ‘Wherever you want.’

  ‘Somewhere we can be private.’ Remembering where she was and the danger of being seen, she moved away and folded her arms. ‘Where’s your car?’

  They drove up the coast, holding hands over the gear stick, the warm wind blowing in through the open windows and across their faces. They found a little restaurant in a small medieval town Cosima had never been to. It was picturesque with whitewashed houses with pink-tiled roofs and a small church with a pretty bell tower rising into the magenta sky. They sat under the awning on straw chairs, a candle lamp flickering in the centre of the table surrounded by a ring of scarlet flowers. They drank crisp white wine and held hands across the table. After they had eaten, Luca pulled a velvet pouch from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. ‘I couldn’t resist,’ he explained. ‘I was in Naples today and saw these in the window. I know we’ve only known each other a short time, but I want you to know how serious I am about you. I’ve played with the hearts of many women, but you’re different. You’re breaking through to a part of my heart I never knew was there. So, this is for you. Because you’re different.’

  She blinked back tears. ‘I don’t deserve you. I feel guilty for being so happy.’

  ‘Don’t feel guilty, my darling. Go on, open it.’

  Tentatively, she loosened the little rope and peered inside. The present glittered through the darkness. He had bought her real jewellery. She opened her hand and poured the contents into her palm. When she saw the size of the diamonds she let out a gasp. She stared at the drop earrings as if they were stolen goods. ‘You bought these for me? They’re stunning.’

  ‘They’re antique. Put them on.’

  With trembling fingers she took off her usual gold studs and replaced them with the new diamond earrings. The stones shone out against her milk chocolate skin, accentuating her white teeth and the clear whites of her eyes. The pear-shaped drops dangled as she moved her head.

  ‘Put your hair up,’ he said, longing to run his lips over the soft skin of her neck. She pulled a band off her wrist and swiftly tied her hair into a high pony-tail. ‘Now they look spectacular.’ Unable to contain her excitement she rushed around the table to embrace him.

  ‘I have to see them on. I’ll go and look in the bathroom mirror. Back in a second!’

  Luca lit a cigarette and smiled with satisfaction. Giving had never afforded him such pleasure.

  When she came back she walked slowly, the curve of her waist and hips emphasised by her clingy cotton dress. She leaned across the table, her eyes full of lust. ‘Let’s go to the folly and make love,’ she breathed, her voice low and husky.

  Luca needed no encouragement. He paid the bill and they left, running to the car like a pair of teenagers. Before he let her inside, he pressed her against the door and kissed her, running his lips over her neck and behind her ear where her new diamonds sparkled. He could feel the heat of her body and the rise and fall of her breasts. The smell of lemons, warm on her damp skin, was invitingly tangy. The drive to the palazzo only increased their ardour. Luca parked the car a little distance away from the front door
and they crept through the trees. The moon lit up the sky like a Chinese lantern, illuminating their way through the damp undergrowth until they reached the folly. Luca was too hot with desire to care about the intruder. He lit a candle while Cosima pulled back the silk bedspread, unzipped her dress and dropped her panties to the floor. She was naked but for her diamond earrings and the lust that glinted in her eyes. He took off his jacket but before he had time to undress further, she moved towards him and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it over his shoulders. Then she buried her face in his chest, kissing every inch of skin. The tension grew thick in the air with the scent of candle wax and lemons as they took their pleasure in that small folly designed for love.

  Suddenly they were alerted to the sound of movement outside. Then, the rattling noise of a key in the lock, unsuccessfully attempting to turn against Luca’s key. Then the shuffling of footsteps. Luca and Cosima froze. They lay entwined on the bed, barely daring to breathe. They sensed the person circling the folly, spying perhaps through the windows.

  ‘Can he see us?’ Cosima whispered.

  ‘I hope not.’ Were he dressed, Luca would have flung open the door to confront the intruder, man or woman. His nakedness rendered that idea farcical. By the time he struggled into his clothes the voyeur would be gone.

  ‘What do we do?’ she hissed.

  ‘Nothing. We remain very still.’ She made to speak again but he silenced her with a finger across her lips. ‘Shhh, my darling. Nothing’s going to ruin our night.’

  23

  The following morning, as Luca had not come downstairs, Romina took Fiyona to the trattoria in the hope of finding Rosa. If anyone could help with her research it was sweet, garrulous Rosa.

  It was a cloudy day. A grey front was approaching from the east, threatening rain. Fiyona had changed out of her red fishnet tights and skirt into a pair of jeans, pink flipflops and a denim jacket over a white T-shirt, her large handbag hanging over her shoulder like a penance. Romina’s nostrils flared at the musky spice of her perfume. She looked like she could benefit from a thorough scrub. Molto Inglese, Romina thought. What was it about that type of English girl? She always looked grubby.