by Daisy James
A helix of excitement twisted through Izzie’s body as she fingered the little jars of glass paint, the selection of paintbrushes and her favourite piece of equipment in her armoury: her glue gun. After spending three years at the RCA, then five years running her own interior design studio, this was exactly the sort of activity she adored – inspiring others to create treasures for their own homes.
She sent a silent missive of thanks to Gianni for sourcing the materials on her list in such a short space of time. He had even managed to get hold of a selection of styrofoam spheres – which she planned to transform into tree decorations – squares of felt and fabric that they could cut into festive shapes and embroider, and a box of wooden shapes that could be painted and threaded with string.
She got to work unpacking the craft trunk that she’d brought with her from London when she came over in September before the Wine & Words course had been cancelled. She had stored it in a cupboard in the outbuilding next to the limonaia and when she got back home, she’d spent a fabulous weekend with Meghan and Jonti trawling the capital’s flea markets, boutiques and haberdasheries to fill up a brand-new trunk for the project she’d been engaged to do for her friend Alicia. They’d had a wonderful time splashing out on spools of multi-coloured ribbon and Victorian lace, on transparent tubes crammed with buttons, pearls and beads, hanks of yarn – mohair and angora – printed paper, even edible glitter and cake sprinkles. Anything and everything that could be used by a busy interior designer to turn a bland, magnolia Knightsbridge townhouse into an individual, character-filled home.
She pressed the play button on the CD player, and, humming along to ‘Let it Snow’, she set out six separate sets of materials: one for her to use during her demonstration, and one for each of her students. Then she placed a variety of alternative items that could be used as Christmas decorations in the middle of the table for them to help themselves to: thick sheets of foil wrapping paper, miniature wooden picture frames, coloured cardboard and tissue paper, along with dishes filled with beads, sequins, pom-poms and a box containing scissors – plain and pinking – a snail-shaped cushion with pins, needles and safety pins, a Stanley knife, twists of embroidery thread every colour of the rainbow and finally her glue gun and her staple gun.
Standing back to survey her hard work, a warm, festive feeling seeped into her heart. It had been almost three years since she’d experienced the uptick of emotions when Christmas came around, but hopefully this year things would be different. She had an idea. She checked her watch – maybe there was just enough time. She sprinted back to the kitchen, smiling when she saw the ancient bicycle propped up against the villa’s wall, a cute little nose peeking out of the wicker basket.
‘Hi, Pipo!’
She ruffled the little dog’s ears and received a friendly lick for her trouble.
‘Izzie!’
Carlotta grasped Izzie’s shoulders and placed the customary two kisses on her cheeks, a waft of lily-of-the-valley perfume rising into the air around them.
‘Buongiorno, Carlotta. How’s breakfast coming along?’
‘Tutto è finito!’
Carlotta waved her hand towards the kitchen table that was groaning under a cornucopia of Italian breakfast goodies, the sleeves of her bright satsuma-coloured kaftan flapping like angel wings at her wrists. With her pale silver hair cut into a sharp-angled bob, she carried her sixty years well and Izzie suspected that with her daily cycle ride from San Vivaldo to the villa, Carlotta was probably in better shape than she was. Not only was her friend a fantastic cook, having catered villas in the area for the last twenty years, she was also the go-to person for relationship advice, but Izzie had no intention of navigating that particular minefield before she’d had her second, or even third, coffee of the day.
‘How’s Vincenzo?’
‘Busy fixing his nephew’s Fiat so I said I would go over to Siena with a picnic basket when I’ve finished here. I’ve prepared lunch – it’s in the fridge ready just to uncover and serve.’
Carlotta paused as she finished slotting a batch of utensils into their allocated spaces in the drawers and draped the tea towel, which had been slung across her shoulder like a pashmina, over the oven rail.
‘Is everything okay, Izzie?’
Oh, God! groaned Izzie inwardly. She should have known she couldn’t keep secrets from Carlotta – she not only knew everyone in San Vivaldo but she also knew everything that went on. Nothing was off-limits. Perhaps she should ask her to ditch the picnic idea and stay on at the villa to help her unravel the secrets their guests were keeping. Carlotta would have the inside scoop before they’d finished their first coffee break, before moving on to possibly even introducing them to their future partners – although she knew that Nick was already married.
‘Everything is fine, thanks.’
‘So you think it was an accident?’
‘Ah, you’ve spoken to Gianni.’
‘No, Vincenzo told me.’
‘And he spoke to Gianni?’
‘No, he spoke to Francesca last night.’
‘Francesca?’
‘Yes, and she heard what happened from Roberto.’
‘Roberto who supplies the Vespas?’
‘Yes, he plays football with Gianni on Monday nights.’
Izzie sighed. She didn’t know why she was surprised – life had been very much the same in St Ives when she and Anna were growing up. Everyone in their neighbourhood knew everyone else and their extended families; they celebrated each other’s birthdays, attended their weddings, their anniversary parties, and everyone pulled together when tragedy struck – like when they had lost their beloved primary school teacher as she pedalled to work one sunny morning. The whole village had mourned her sister’s passing, but it had been particularly devastating for Anna’s pupils, who had adored their kind, funny, generous reception class teacher who had championed their efforts and guided them through the labyrinth that was school life with humour and grace.
‘Yes, it was just an unfortunate accident. There was no harm done and Luca’s removed all the pots from the windowsills upstairs and put them in the limonaia for the time being.’
‘Okay,’ said Carlotta, her face reflecting her scepticism. ‘So, there’s no patisserie session morning?’
‘No, Luca asked me to organise a Christmas crafts class down in the studio. We’re making decorations for the tree Gianni has put up in the gazebo.’
‘You know, in Italy we don’t always have a Christmas tree in our homes.’
‘No tree? Why not?’
‘We have a ceppo instead.’
‘What’s a ceppo?’
Carlotta handed Izzie a tiny cup of thick, dark espresso, leaning back against the sink as she blew on her coffee to cool it.
‘It’s a wooden frame, designed in the shape of a pyramid, with several tiers or shelves. On the bottom tier we usually display a small nativity scene, then on the other shelves there’s gifts of fruit, or candy, or little toys. The whole thing is decorated with coloured paper, silver pine cones and tapered candles, and then at the apex we usually hang a star.’
‘Wow! I wish we had more time for the crafting side of things, I would love to make one of those.’
‘What do you have planned for the Thursday session?’
‘I’ve arranged for Francesca to come over with…’
‘Oh, hi?’
Sofia lingered in the doorway, her earphones dangling around her neck like a hi-tech necklace, clutching a pink journal with a picture of a unicorn on the front.
‘Come in, come in, breakfast is ready,’ said Izzie, indicating the sumptuous spread of Italian pastries, slices of local cheeses and ham, freshly squeezed orange juice and a huge brown tea pot. ‘Sofia, this is Carlotta Bellini. Carlotta, this is Sofia Bianchi, a soprano in the Somersby Singers choir. Would you like espresso, caffè latte, cappuccino or good old English breakfast tea?’
‘Orange juice is fine, thanks. By the way, I don’t think the ot
hers will be down for a while. They all put away a lot of wine last night, even Nick who said he wasn’t going to indulge! Hypocrite!’
Sofia slid into a seat at the table and helped herself to a warm cornetto, sending a cascade of flaky pastry and powdered sugar tumbling down the front of her cropped denim jacket which she wore with the sleeves shoved up to the elbows.
‘Buongiorno, Sofia.’
‘Buongiorno, Carlotta, è bello conoscerti.’
‘Ah, tu parli italiano!’
‘Si, sono nata qui.’
‘Gosh, I had no idea you spoke Italian!’ exclaimed Izzie, staring at Sofia, although, now she came to think about it, she had no idea how she could have missed the Mediterranean features – the smooth caramel-hued skin, the long wavy mahogany hair, the dark amber eyes, not to mention her inherent sense of fashion.
‘My mum was Italian – she grew up in a small village just outside Milan, although she moved to Yorkshire to live with my aunt Rosa and uncle Freddie after I was born.’
Izzie saw a streak of pain shoot across Sofia’s young face and she recognised its cause immediately. When you lose someone close, you develop in-built sensors to spot others who share your suffering, those who have fallen to the bottom of that long dark shaft and are in the process of crawling back out again by their fingernails. Her heart contracted with sympathy and she reached out to squeeze Sofia’s hand.
Sofia peered at Izzie over the rim of her glass, tears sparkling along her dark lashes. Carlotta took a seat on Sofia’s other side and offered her a tissue.
‘Mum passed away four years ago – breast cancer. I’d just finished my A levels and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with. I miss her every day, but I have Aunt Rosa.’
‘E tuo padre?’
‘I never knew him. Mum met him one summer during a university exchange for music and drama students – apparently it was a whirlwind romance and she didn’t find out she was pregnant until he’d left to go back to his studies in London. You probably won’t believe me, but I was never curious about him. I had Mum and Aunt Rosa and Uncle Freddie, and my two crazy cousins, Fabio and Benito – we were a family. But when Mum died, I, well… I did start to wonder and Aunt Rosa offered to help me look into my family tree and… well…’
Emotion bubbled over and Sofia dabbed at her eyes with Carlotta’s tissue, gulping down her orange juice to steady her nerves as she pulled her journal towards her and started to fiddle with the glitter pen.
‘Do you write?’ asked Izzie, keen to move the conversation away from what was clearly a very painful subject.
‘Yes, I do!’ Sofia’s eyes lit up immediately. ‘Well, I dabble – I’m actually writing a stage play. I work in the costume department at the Theatre Royal in York, which I absolutely love. Mum and Rosa used to run a bridal boutique and I grew up amongst all the wedding dresses and veils and tiaras and shoes and all the stories of romantic encounters. I would scribble them down in my diary, add extra twists and turns to them, change the endings sometimes, imagine where the couple would go on their honeymoon, how many children they’d have, that sort of thing. When I graduated from college, I was thrilled when I was offered a job in the theatre – it was a dream come true – and I can write at the weekends.’
‘Mi piacerebbe leggere il tuo romanzo quando è finito!’ said Carlotta, patting Sofia’s hand. ‘And I hope you have success in your search for your father.’
Izzie saw a flicker of unease dash across Sofia’s face but before she could press her further on the progress of her search, Sofia had changed the subject. Izzie sighed – not another of their guests with secrets. Had Sofia found her father? Had she contacted him? If so, what had happened? If not, why not? She shook herself – none of this was any of her business, but her heart did go out to Sofia.
‘So, what are we making in the craft session today?’
Sofia reached for her glass of orange juice, her hand shaking so much she spilled a few drops onto the table.
‘Sorry! Sorry! God, I’m just so clumsy at the moment – I don’t know what’s happening to me! Mum was the same, though. Aunt Rosa was always really strict with her about not taking her coffee into the boutique.’
‘Nessun problema!’ Carlotta smiled, jumping up from her seat to collect a dishcloth from the sink. She wiped up the spillage, then doused the table with anti-bacterial spray. Izzie smiled too, remembering the events of the Painting & Pasta course in the summer after which both she and Carlotta had been super-vigilant with hygiene matters.
‘Yes, what do you have planned for us this morning, Izzie? I can’t wait to get stuck in,’ exclaimed Jennie, bowling into the kitchen, her canvas bag looking even more voluminous, if that were possible. She showed no signs whatsoever of a late night or overindulgence in the local wine. ‘Oh, hi there, I’m Jennie Parker.’
Jennie shot her hand out to greet Carlotta, her smile turning to curiosity when Carlotta took it then leaned forward to deposit kisses on her cheeks. Izzie grinned. With her mother hen tendencies, Jennie reminded her of Carlotta and she knew the two women would get on like a house on fire if Carlotta wasn’t rushing off to meet Vincenzo.
‘Buongiorno, Jennie, mi chiamo Carlotta.’
‘Ah, the famous Carlotta. I’m thrilled to meet you! I’ve heard all about your matchmaking skills – perhaps I might be in need of a little sprinkle of your magic!’ Jennie laughed, but Izzie heard the strain in her voice. She knew Jennie was recently divorced and with her two boys at university, she could imagine that her nest felt very empty. She suppressed a giggle as she pictured Jennie with her oversized bag tending to a local Italian guy’s every need.
Carlotta smiled. ‘Then perhaps you would like to join Vincenzo and me at Pani’s cafe in the village on Thursday night?’
‘I’d love that! Gosh, Sofia what will I wear? Do you think you could take a look at the outfits I’ve brought with me and see if you could add a bit of your fabulous sparkle? I’ll need to look my best if I want a handsome Italian man to whisk me off for a romantic moonlit drive through the Tuscan countryside in his Ferrari!’
All four women laughed and Izzie was relieved to see the earlier shadow of discomfort in Sofia’s eyes had vanished and she was enjoying the switch in the conversation away from her personal life.
‘Hey! It’s nine thirty! Don’t you think we should be making our way down to the studio?’ came the booming voice of Nick, his appearance filling every corner of the kitchen with high-octane energy. ‘Where are Phoebe and Dylan? Have they had their breakfast already?’
‘We’re here,’ said Dylan, ambling into the kitchen, for once minus his guitar, his shoulders slumped, his hair dishevelled, looking like he’d slept in his clothes.
‘In body, if not in mind!’ mumbled Phoebe, striding over to the coffee machine to grab an espresso, which she downed in a single gulp before refilling her cup for a second injection of caffeine. In complete contrast to Dylan, she was as polished as always, her hair in a sleek ponytail, her make-up perfect and wearing a gorgeous crease-free shirt that matched her piercing blue eyes, currently hidden behind dark glasses. ‘Remind me to give the grappa a miss tonight, will you? I feel like death.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll have recovered your senses and your voice for this afternoon’s rehearsal. I want everyone at the top of their game because from the showing yesterday we have quite a few wrinkles to iron out.’
Nick picked up a plate, loaded it with slices of Tuscan bread, cheese and prosciutto, and carried it out to the terrace with his battered leather music satchel clenched under his arm, that day’s waistcoat a mixture of blue and green paisley giving him the appearance a well-fed peacock.
‘I don’t know about you three, but I think I might have gone from a tenor to a bass this morning!’ groaned Dylan, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate the pressure between his eyes.
‘Here, take one of these and you’ll be as right as rain,’ said Jennie, rumm
aging in her bag and producing a sachet of powder, which she handed to Dylan at the same time as Phoebe put a cup of black coffee in from of him.
‘Do you have another one of those, Jen?’ asked Phoebe sheepishly.
‘Of course!’ Jennie beamed and handed one over.
‘Thanks, you’re a life saver! I am not, repeat not, ever drinking alcohol again!’
‘Until tonight?’ asked Dylan, sending a smile in Phoebe’s direction that left Izzie in no doubt whatsoever that Carlotta’s matchmaking skills had already started to work their magic for two members of the choir, even though they hadn’t realised it yet.
Chapter Nine
The studio, Villa Limoncello
Colour: Rudolph red
‘Okay, so welcome to Villa Limoncello’s very first Christmas Crafts session. This morning we’ll be creating a selection of decorations to hang on the Christmas tree. Gianni has put up a tree in the gazebo for us to decorate and take some photographs, then you can take them home with you when you leave.’
‘Oops, sorry, Izzie,’ gasped Sofia, jumping up from her chair to retrieve the set of white styrofoam balls she had sent skittling to the floor.
Phoebe giggled until she saw the stern expression on Nick’s face. She stopped abruptly, her hand flying to her mouth like a chastised schoolgirl, her expression of mirth frozen in situ, which caused Jennie to laugh, Dylan to smirk and Nick to roll his eyes in frustration. Izzie decided that the best thing to do was to rush on with her introduction.
‘I thought we could start with these gorgeous glass baubles that Gianni’s sourced from one of the famous glass-making companies we have here in Tuscany. And for those of you who would prefer to steer clear of working with glass’ – she shot a quick glance in the direction of Sofia – ‘I have these polystyrene balls that can be decorated with a selection of sequins, beads, pearls and pom-poms.’
Izzie held out the various sized balls to show everyone.
‘I’ve got plenty of silver and gold glitter spray if you want to decorate these pine cones or the fir tree branches that Gianni cut from the Christmas tree this morning. There are templates over here that you can use to make wooden, cardboard or felt decorations in the shape of snowmen, reindeers and Christmas stockings. I’m also going to demonstrate how to make a cornucopia filled with golden chocolates, or you can turn it upside down and make it into a Santa Claus hat. All these items can be hung on your tree, but they can also be attached to presents as personalised gift tags, or you might prefer to save them until Thursday’s crafting session when we’ll be expressing our creativity with floral wreaths that can be used to adorn your front doors at home or as table decorations. I’ve also got slices of oranges and lemons baking in the oven if you want to make a more fragrant decoration with these cinnamon sticks and a length of floristry twine.’