Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  Lionel strides over to Hester’s side, puts a hand under her elbow. She feels the blood draining from her face.

  ‘What?! What’s happened?’

  He is already running towards the car park as he calls over his shoulder, ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

  Mary is holding Harriet’s hand. Clutching it. She has been since the moment when, twisting on the narrow path in mid-conversation, she’d lost her footing, reached out instinctively for anchorage and, pulling Harriet after her, tumbled down the almost vertical slope, their fall arrested only by a narrow ledge a dozen or so feet below the path. Harriet shivers recalling the sickening crunch of Mary’s head on the protruding boulder; the stunned silence that followed before the panicky shouts from above.

  They are now waiting for the ambulance; thank heavens Regina, a frequent visitor to Italy, knew the emergency number and had rung 118 immediately. Guy is hugging a distraught Bella, her face buried in his shoulder, while Regina chivvies the others into moving away out of sight of the two women on the ledge below them. Gervais stands to one side, out of his depth, distracted and ineffectual. Mary’s hand tightens on hers; her lips move.

  ‘What?’ says Harriet, her headache spearing her skull with shafts of astonishing pain. She feels sick, her tongue too big for her mouth. Water would be a mercy. Mary murmurs something again but Harriet cannot decipher what she is saying; instead she tries to quieten her with comforting noises, conscious of the need to stay perfectly still, all the while clutching Mary’s slight body to her. She watches a tiny spider picks its way up the sheer rock. Distantly, the wail of a siren pierces the late-afternoon quiet; feet shuffle above them on the dusty path in anticipation of help and rescue, little murmurs of relief breaking out.

  ‘I think that’s the minibus right behind.’ Regina’s voice sounds louder than ever, cutting through the silence. ‘Let’s just move ourselves out of the way.’ The scuff of feet on the move. Regina’s face looms over the edge, dislodging a trickle of dust and grit. ‘Ambulance on its way,’ she calls down. ‘They’ll have you out of there in a jiffy. Hang on.’

  There is little else that Mary and Harriet, trapped above a sickening drop to the valley floor far below, can do.

  ‘She’s not answering!’ Hester stares impotently at her mobile. ‘Lionel, she’s not answering!’

  Lionel slides into the wrought-iron chair opposite her own and pushes a glass of water across the table. Marco’s head pokes out into the garden through a side door for a second, then disappears.

  ‘Marco!’ Hester leaps to her feet, knocking the tumbler off the table onto the tiled patio, where it explodes with the impact. ‘Go and ask him if there’s any news, will you?’ she begs, heedless of the shards of glass all around her feet.

  Lionel turns to do her bidding, as one of the barmen, alerted by the crash, runs towards them with a cloth and a dustpan and brush. ‘Hester, I’m quite sure if he knew anything—’

  ‘Lionel, please! Just go and ask him!’

  The waiter bends down to clear up the broken glass, straightening up almost immediately, to exclaim, ‘Signora! Sanguini!’ Hester looks down as he gestures at her sandalled feet; dots of blood speckle her skin like tiny, but expanding, rubies. She feels queasy; she’s never been good with blood.

  ‘Scusi . . .’ says the waiter, crunching over the glass with her chair and indicating she should sit. Numbly, she does so, to find Lionel instantly beside her, a voluminous white handkerchief at the ready. He kneels, peers at her feet, removes his glasses, eases her sandals off and, eyes inches from her skin, gingerly begins picking out the slivers of razor-sharp glass. She gives a cry of pain as Lionel teases one adherent fragment out from the fragile skin skimming her bones.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she gasps, flinching, gagging.

  ‘It’s not all right,’ mutters Lionel, intent on his task. He eases her foot back into its original position as Hester steels herself for the next extraction.

  ‘Did you—ow!—find him? Marco?’

  ‘No. For goodness’ sake, Hester!’ From her vantage point above him, Hester notices how thin Lionel’s hair is at his crown; the wind catches at it, exposing a patch of pink, freckled scalp. He reaches up a hand automatically and flattens it into place.

  Hester tries her phone again. To her indescribable relief, this time it is answered.

  ‘Harry? Oh, thank God! Are you all right?’

  The reception is poor, the line crackly.

  ‘It’s not Harriet, Hester, it’s Regina. Regina Pegg? . . . Can you hear me? I’ve got Harriet’s phone.’

  ‘Well, where is she? I’ve been ringing and ringing.’

  The phone hisses in her ear. ‘. . . lost her footing and fell . . . ambulance to the hospital . . . said there’s no . . . hit her head . . .’ More crackling and hissing.

  ‘Hello? Regina? You say Harry’s hit her head?’

  Totally unintelligible sounds ensue. Then the phone goes dead.

  ‘Aargh!’ It feels as if Lionel is searing her foot with a brand. She gulps in air to try to quell the nausea. ‘She’s hurt, Lionel! She hit her head!’

  ‘This needs a doctor, this foot.’

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes. Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Oh, never mind my bloody feet! What are we going to do? Can we get a taxi to the hospital? Can you find out how far away it is?’ She realises the waiter is still hovering at her shoulder. ‘The hospital—is it far?’

  The boy spreads his hands in ignorance. ‘I do not live . . .’ He gestures at the surroundings. ‘Sorry. I go . . .’ And before they can protest, he sprints back towards the hotel.

  Lionel gets awkwardly to his feet and checks his watch. ‘That’s the best I can do for now. What time are you expecting—?’

  Hester grimaces as her feet meet the gravel. ‘Six thirty. What time is it now?’

  ‘Ten to.’ Lionel frowns. ‘Look, why don’t I go to the hospital and you stay here to meet—’

  ‘I can’t! I can’t stay here! She’s my sister, for God’s sake! I have to go!’

  ‘But I don’t even know—’

  ‘You’ll have to explain!’ Hester feels everything slipping away. All her careful planning, the secrets she’s kept at such cost from Harriet, all seem irrelevant in the face of this calamity. How can everything have gone so wrong so quickly? Unfamiliar tears threaten. She grabs for Lionel’s hand, grateful for the warmth of another’s skin, yet simultaneously ashamed of her neediness. Why, she barely knows this man!

  Lionel encloses her hand in both of his and bends down to look into her face, his own full of solicitude. ‘You’re right, Hester, of course you are. You must go to Harriet. I’ll stay here and wait for—’

  The tears spill. Hester dashes them angrily away with her free hand. ‘Oh God, thank you. I’m sorry, I’m . . . Could you just . . .’ pointing towards her bloodied feet but managing not quite to look at them, ‘. . . some plasters . . . bandages, anything . . .’ She takes a ragged breath and manages a weak smile of gratitude. ‘Thank heavens you’re here, Lionel.’

  He hurries towards the hotel reception, smiling faintly.

  Harriet sees a sign reading pronto soccorso as the stretcher is whisked through the automatic doors after swift and efficient unloading by the paramedics. Mary is still holding Harriet’s hand tightly, her face the colour of putty, eyes closed, lids flickering. They and the medical team hurry down the corridor towards double doors at the end that lead to the emergency treatment rooms. On the threshold, the senior nurse lays a hand on Harriet’s arm and shakes her head.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘No. Scusi, per favore, signora.’ And before Harriet can respond, the nurse has waved the stretcher through the doorway and is disappearing after it. She’s not sure, but amid the clatter of metal, the squeak of wheels on the lino and the urgent commands in Italian, she thinks she hears Mary cry out her name. She realises she is still clutching Mary’s bag; feeling the s
hape of her mobile in an outer pocket, she pulls it out.

  Six twenty. Hester’s phone rings as she is being helped across the foyer by Lionel to the waiting taxi. Her feet sport assorted plasters; Lionel has insisted on encasing her right ankle in a bandage. Ridiculous how painful a few cuts can be. She stops and ferrets in her bag.

  ‘Hester?’

  ‘Harry! Oh, thank God! How are you? What’s happened? I’m on my way!’

  ‘No, no need. I’m coming back myself.’

  ‘Back?’

  ‘Yes, in the next few minutes. I just need to—’

  ‘They’re discharging you? Is that wise?’

  ‘Hetty, I’m fine.’

  ‘But they said you’d had a fall.’

  ‘Not me, Mary. Well, I did fall, but it was Mary who—’

  ‘I thought it was you!’ Hester feels a surge of fury: all that panic—guilt, even—about Harriet and she’s not even hurt! ‘Alfonso said there’d been an accident! He mentioned your name. I thought—’

  Harriet says wearily, ‘I’ll explain when I see you. I’m just waiting to find out if I’m allowed to see Mary before I leave.’

  ‘Never mind Mary! You need to get back here!’

  There is a moment’s silence on the line as Harriet digests Hester’s outburst. Lionel eases Hester to one side as a new guest arrives at the reception desk. The taxi driver hovers outside on the step, the door of the cab open, waiting.

  ‘I’ll get back as soon as I can,’ says Harriet tonelessly. The least she might have expected is a touch of sympathy. If not for herself, then at least for poor Mary. Why is Hester being so horrible?

  ‘Okay. Right. Good. We’ll wait for you here then.’ Staccato. Unyielding.

  We. Oh no, thinks Harriet, not Lionel, not now. I just want my bed, not the continuation of hostilities. Her head pounds.

  ‘Okay, then. Bye.’

  Hester snaps her phone shut. Lionel squeezes her upper arm and whispers in her ear, pointing to a figure behind them.

  ‘Five minutes,’ says the doctor, the only one of the team who seems to speak English. He nods towards Mary, diminutive in the large bed. She’s hooked up to various wires and monitors; there is a large pad taped to her head just behind her left ear. Her eyelids, veined and bluish, flutter. Harriet bends over her.

  ‘Mary?’

  The eyes open slowly. There’s a puzzled frown, then a flare of recognition.

  ‘It’s Harriet,’ says Harriet gently, grasping her hand.

  Mary smiles faintly, then looks puzzled as she takes in her unfamiliar surroundings.

  ‘You’re in hospital. You had a fall. We both fell. But you’re going to be fine,’ says Harriet, more robustly than she feels, staring down at this insubstantial, shrunken Mary. ‘I ought to get back.’

  Mary’s eyes darken into panic.

  ‘Is there anything I can do? Ring home?’

  Mary’s face relaxes a fraction. She tries to speak.

  ‘I’ve got your phone,’ Harriet continues. ‘Oh, and your bag. Shall I leave it here, or hang on to it?’ She holds it up so Mary can see.

  ‘Keep it . . . please. Call Ron . . . the number’s in my phone.’ The voice is wispy; Harriet has to lean in to catch the words.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do it right away.’

  ‘Tell him . . . not to worry. And Rhona. Ring Rhona, will you? Tell her . . .’ Mary closes her eyes for a second. Harriet waits.

  Mary’s faded blue eyes spring open, glittering. ‘Just give her my love.’ She squeezes Harriet’s hand tightly, then releases it, a shadow of her old self in the crooked smile. ‘Carpe diem, remember?’

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Wotcha.’

  ‘Ben!’ Daria cries with pleasure, abandoning the washing-up and quickly drying her hands. ‘How nice to see you! We think you have forgot us.’

  Milo grabs up an orange plastic brick in triumph from the pile around him on the floor and extends it towards Ben.

  ‘Hello, matey.’ Ben squats down and takes the offering. ‘This for me? Ta.’ He ruffles Milo’s hair, to the baby’s delight. To Daria, ‘What d’you mean, forgotten you? I was only here Sunday.’

  Daria waggles her forefinger playfully in front of Ben’s nose. ‘But now is Wednesday and every day Milo cries, “Where is Ben? I want Ben!” You are his favourite person, for sure.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Ben could do with some more admirers like Milo: uncomplicated, undemanding. Unquestioning adoration. Unable to talk: even better.

  ‘Busy?’

  Daria sweeps a hand around her tiny kitchen; it is, as ever, spotless. ‘Of course. I have been cooking—no!’ As Ben advances on the rectangular tin by the oven, ‘Not ready. Too hot.’

  Ben pokes at the lightly browned and uneven cake-like confection. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Apple pie, of course.’

  Ben scoffs. ‘Apple pie! Apple pie is made with pastry, Dar. You know, pastry?’

  The girl narrows her eyes angrily. ‘Of course I know pastry! This is Belarusian apple pie, idiot. With antonovka apples. Except in this country, no-one knows this apple. The man at the shop, he say, use these.’ She picks up a Granny Smith. Pulls a face. ‘Tch! Not the same. Too sweet. What kind of country has not antonovka apples, eh?’

  Ben grins. Daria is constantly outraged by the fact that the village shop does not stock Belarusian staples. ‘Ought to test it, though, shouldn’t we? Make sure it’s okay?’

  ‘Test? Test! I no need to test. Is beautiful, of course.’

  Ben holds his ground, smirking, knowing that Daria will relent.

  She does, snatching up a large knife and swiftly cutting the cake into sixteenths. She levers a corner piece out and slides it onto a plate.

  ‘There! Now tell me is not wonderful!’

  Ben takes a huge bite. It is still blisteringly hot. He flaps a hand frantically in front of his mouth as Daria nods with satisfaction and Milo stares up at the agitated visitor in wonderment. At length and with an almighty gulp, Ben finishes the mouthful.

  ‘Well?’

  He shrugs carelessly. ‘It’s okay. I guess.’

  ‘Okay?!’ Daria goes to snatch the plate out of his hand, but not before he has managed to grab the rest of the cake. He retreats to the other side of the kitchen to finish it with relish. Milo reaches up a fat hand, wanting a taste.

  ‘Aw, too late, my little mate,’ says Ben, dusting the crumbs from his hands. ‘Best ask your mum for a slice for your tea.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Daria darkly. ‘Milo has had his tea. You are nyagodnik. Bad boy, Ben. Bad . . . what is it?’

  ‘Influence?’

  ‘Tak. Teaching Milo naughty things.’

  ‘That’s me,’ says Ben happily.

  ‘Why you are not studying?’

  ‘Give us a break, Dar! Been at it all day.’

  This is an exaggeration. True, Ben has been at his desk in his bedroom ever since breakfast (just after noon), staring unseeingly at his textbooks and notes, but his mind has been anywhere but on Romeo and Juliet and the dramatic significance of Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech. His thoughts, as they have been ever since his mother’s bombshell, have been on the Friday night quandary. Finally, driven to a near frenzy by his inability to fathom a way out of the crisis, he had grabbed his bike and cycled over to see Daria and Milo. Whizzing down the lanes, skidding around corners, he had felt his misery lifting and hope beginning to sprout like a tiny seedling. There simply has to be a way out of this mess.

  He spots one of Jez’s flyers on the kitchen counter and picks it up. A crudely drawn couple dressed in an approximation of country and western gear as envisaged by someone who has never been within a million miles of Nashville, holding hands with arms crossed, are swinging one another around in a circle.

  Daria picks up Milo from the floor and comes to Ben’s side, looking over his shoulder. ‘Karagod.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Is like Belarusian dance, I think. Different cloths, of course.’

  �
�Clothes.’

  Daria sighs. ‘Dancing . . . I do not dance since . . .’ She bends to kiss Milo’s head. ‘Well! I am mama now. No dancing for mama.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ says Ben. ‘Being a mum don’t stop you dancing. You should go.’

  Daria gives him an exasperated look and bobs her head at her son. ‘With Milo?’ She buries her face in her son’s neck and he gurgles joyously.

  Ben studies the spinning couple again and the germ of an idea takes root. A smile spreads slowly across his face. ‘Not necessarily . . .’

  ‘What?’ says Ben.

  ‘You heard,’ Jez replies. ‘I can’t go. Someone found the leaflets I chucked in the bin and my dad has gone mental, hasn’t he? He reckons I have to wait tables on Friday at his sodding barn dance.’ He adds gloomily, ‘Dressed appropriately.’

  ‘You insane or what? I’m not holding a fucking party by myself! The whole thing was your idea—you got me into this, you twat!’

  ‘All right, all right. I’ll think of something. Anyway, you said you can’t go either—’

  ‘Yeah, but I got a plan now, haven’t I? An idea. Unlike some people, I don’t just drop my mates in it.’

  ‘I haven’t dropped you in it! It’s my fucking parents!’

  ‘Jez!’ calls his mother from the landing.

  ‘Look, I gotta go.’

  ‘Hang on!’

  ‘Ben?’ calls Daria, knocking on the kitchen window.

  ‘I gotta go.’

  ‘Listen, Dar, I been thinking—’

  ‘Hold Milo for one minute, please. I must fill bath.’

  ‘About that dance . . .’ Ben follows Daria up the stairs. ‘You should go. I mean it. You never go out. Artem could go with you.’

  Daria squirts bubble bath into the water as Milo wriggles excitedly in Ben’s arms.