Fifteen minutes later Harriet, considerably cheered, is seated alone in the dining room with a basket of rolls, butter and chestnut compote, accompanied by a tiny cup of eye-wateringly strong espresso, as the serving staff clear the tables around her.
Alfonso glides to her side. ‘Ciao, Signora Pearson! Another beautiful day, yes? But you are not drawing today?’
Harriet laughs; there is a polished geniality about this man that is irresistible. That and his easiness on the eye . . . ‘I was never drawing, I’m afraid, Alfonso. I was simply despoiling perfectly good paper with my scribbles.’
He laughs too. ‘Despoiling . . . ah, yes, a perfect word.’ Then, realising how this might be construed, ‘Oh! Forgive me, I did not mean . . .’
‘Trust me, I did,’ says Harriet dryly. ‘I think Signor Gervais will be counting his blessings this morning.’
‘I cannot believe that for one moment,’ says Alfonso, gallant as ever. ‘So, today, how will you amuse yourself? Your sister of course is busy preparing our wonderful feast for tonight. There is much excitement, much—what is it?—anticipation, I think. Perhaps you will visit Signora Martindale? I can easily arrange—’
‘No, not today,’ says Harriet swiftly, recalling her uncomfortable encounter with Ron and Rhona the previous day. She can do without a repetition of that just at the moment. ‘Maybe tomorrow . . .’
‘Of course. More coffee?’
‘Lionel, I am so sorry. I really don’t know what—’
He holds up the knife with which he has been carefully chopping chillies while the pasta dough is resting. The thin uniform slices lie glistening on the board. Melanie tactfully crosses to another station to use the sink. ‘Hetty, my dear—’
‘I am a hateful old crone, Lionel, who doesn’t know when to shut up. No, don’t argue, I am. You have been nothing but kind—no, let me finish, please. You have held my hand through a very difficult week and I repay you by humiliating you with snide comments in public. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself—oh!’ Hester finds her apology cut short as Lionel grabs her to his chest and thrusts her head onto his shoulder to silence her, while carefully holding the knife, sharpened to stiletto keenness moments earlier, well away from them both.
‘Shh, shh, Hetty.’ He feels her relaxing ever so slightly against him and reaches up a daring hand to stroke her hair.
A pregnant silence, then Hester pulls her head away from his disconcertingly comforting embrace. She rallies. ‘No, Lionel, listen—’
‘Hetty . . .’
‘I want you to know—’
‘Hetty!’
‘What?’
‘Shut up.’ Said softly, kindly, but very firmly.
Hester is astonished. Who does he think—She is even more astonished when he plants a hard kiss on her open mouth.
A stunned moment and then the entire kitchen bursts into applause. Franco Riccardo bustles over, brandishing a cleaver. ‘What is this!’ he cries in mock fury. ‘No time for all this passione. Cook! Cook! Hungry people are waiting! Mio dio!’ He manhandles a flustered Hester back towards her station, murmuring under his breath to Lionel with a wink, ‘Hey, Casanova, bel lavoro!’ His rumbling laugh is echoed by the other students.
As she struggles to regain her composure, ostensibly checking her recipes but in truth unable to take in a single word, Hester suppresses a smile. Well! Good Lord. Lionel!
The lothario, nonchalantly scraping chillies into the pan, wills his thumping heart to settle, hoping fervently that his beta-blockers are doing their job. Still, it had been worth it, if only to see the look in Hetty’s eyes. Not to mention Franco’s. It is with some difficulty that he controls the urge to burst into song, contenting himself with a little light humming.
A shadow falls across Harriet’s Kindle. She looks up, squinting, to find Regina’s considerable bulk blotting out most of the sun.
‘At last! Here you are,’ says Regina, plonking herself down on a stone bench.
Harriet sighs inwardly; here she indubitably is. She checks her watch: it’s just before one.
‘We thought we might see you today. In class. It being our last day, you know.’
Harriet feels as though she’s been caught playing hooky. ‘No, I thought . . . well, I’m so behind already, I decided to have a quiet morning in the—’
‘She’s over here!’ bellows Regina, leaping to her feet and waving enthusiastically. ‘Guy and Bella,’ she says to Harriet by way of explanation. ‘We’ve all been scouring the place for you.’
‘Oh,’ says Harriet, ruing the truncation of her escape into her book—a surprisingly engaging crime caper written by a disgraced former minister—but at the same time touched by her fellow students’ concern. She smiles brightly as Guy and Bella crunch up the gravel path to join her and Regina. ‘You’re very kind.’
Regina grunts dismissively. ‘Like to look out for our gang, don’t we, chaps?’ she says.
Out of her line of sight, Bella rolls her eyes at Harriet.
‘You okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘We hear Mary’s making good progress,’ says Guy. ‘Have you seen her today?’
‘Not yet.’ Why does everyone assume she’s glued to Mary’s side?
‘We thought we might pop in to the hospital this afternoon,’ says Bella. ‘Seeing as we’ve got the car. Though why we bothered to hire one, I’m not sure; we’ve barely used it.’ Judging by the tightening of Guy’s face, this is not the first time she’s made the point.
‘Ah, well . . .’ starts Harriet, on the verge of sounding a note of caution, but catching herself just in time. It’s not for her to dissuade people from visiting Mary; she’s not her keeper. And, who knows, if the atmosphere at the hospital is as strained today as it was yesterday, Mary might be only too delighted for some new visitors to divert her and relieve some of the tension.
‘I hear,’ says Regina, with the air of someone revealing secret information, ‘that her husband’s been making a bit of a song and dance about what happened. I overheard Alfonso quizzing Gervais about the state of the path. Did he warn everyone to take care? Was he supervising the group properly?’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ says Guy with some warmth. ‘We’re all adults. It was perfectly obvious you needed to exercise a bit of caution.’
‘Well, of course,’ continues Regina, undeterred, ‘you won’t be remotely surprised to hear that Gervais was flapping about like a wet fish—the man is simply hopeless—so I felt I really must intervene. I told Alfonso there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that it was an accident. Mary slipped, lost her balance, whatever. That’s the size of it. These things happen, unfortunately. No-one’s fault. Jolly bad luck, that’s all it was. A mercy that she was able to grab hold of you, Harriet. Otherwise, she might have plunged all the way to the bottom and that would have been a very different story. I said to Alfonso, Mary’s husband should be thanking his lucky stars that she got off so lightly, instead of pointing fingers.’
‘I can still hear her scream.’ Bella shudders. ‘I’d just taken a picture and was following you down—I was looking at my feet because it was so uneven—and Mary and Harriet were right behind me. I sort of saw them out of the corner of my eye. Then Mary cried out as she slipped. The next thing I knew, she and Harriet had disappeared over the edge.’ Harriet throws her mind back, remembers the care they were all taking as they picked their way down the pebbly path, sliding occasionally in the dust, the scent of the ox-eye daisies as they brushed against them, the splash of poppies like daubs of crimson paint, the distant hum of traffic on the unseen road, the fragmentary conversations . . . then that terrible sudden moment when they fell. She shivers in spite of the sun.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ says Guy.
‘I was ahead of you all at the time so I didn’t see. She must have just felt herself go,’ says Regina decisively. ‘You know, you miss your step, oh crikey, then . . .’
‘Yes,’ says Bella. ‘Horrible. Still, makes you think, doe
sn’t it? How transitory everything is . . .’
Guy squeezes her shoulder.
‘That’s all it takes,’ declares Regina. ‘A moment’s inattention . . . Had a school friend years ago who leaned out of the carriage just as the train entered a tunnel. Very nasty. Blood all over the shop. She never really recovered. Bright girl, too, top of the class often as not. Except in geography. Anyway, let’s not dwell on it. Sounds like everything’s going to be fine. Come along, Harriet, we’re determined to drag you in to lunch, whether you like it or not. This is no time to be skulking in the shrubbery.’
Harriet, outgunned and in no mood to argue with anyone, least of all Regina, surrenders without demur and tucks her Kindle away. At least there’s no danger of running into Hester and Lionel over lunch: the cookery course participants are hard at their labours the whole day. And in truth, she realises she is feeling a trifle peckish after her meagre breakfast; perhaps she could just manage some antipasti, maybe with cheese and figs to follow.
Regina grabs her elbow, hauls her to her feet and starts propelling her along the path towards the hotel. ‘Incidentally, our course appears to be over—the maestro graciously announced this morning that he only ever does a half-day on the Friday, which frankly I could have done with knowing earlier. I mean, I might have wanted to make other plans. Anyway, assuming we can find a fourth, I thought we might try for a few hands of bridge this afternoon. You won’t mind lending us Guy, will you, Bella dear? In fact, why don’t you pop over to see Mary while we’re playing? Speaking of bridge, Harriet, how is your sister’s amour with that Lionel fellow coming on?’
CHAPTER 30
‘Everything all right, sweetheart?’
‘Mum! You only texted like an hour ago!’
‘Yes, but you didn’t reply. I thought something might be wrong.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ Isabelle falters. ‘But I’m worried about leaving you on your own.’
‘I won’t be on my own, will I?’ says Ben. ‘I’ll be with Milo, and then with Daria and Artem.’
‘But you’re on your own now, sweetheart.’
‘That’s because I’m revising, Mum! Or trying to. Only people keep phoning me to check if I’m still alive.’
‘But I’m your mother!’ wails Isabelle. ‘It’s only natural for me to be concerned about you!’
Ben switches tack. If indignation doesn’t work, he’ll try filial solicitude. ‘Mum, honestly, you mustn’t worry about me. I’m fine. The only thing I’m worried about—’
‘You see! I knew there was something!’
‘—is that you’ll spoil your well-deserved break worrying yourself to death about me. Please, just forget about everything except having a lovely weekend with Dad and a great time at the party.’
‘Oh, you are such a good boy,’ says Isabelle, melting. ‘I know I shouldn’t get so wound up.’
‘No, you shouldn’t.’
‘But I can’t help thinking about you all on your own—’
‘Mum!’
‘—nose stuck in your books, while we’re enjoying ourselves at a party.’
Not as much as I’m going to enjoy myself at mine.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for partying once my exams are over,’ says Ben sanctimoniously. ‘In the meantime . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll let you get on, sweetheart. Sorry to be such a fusspot. I’ll phone you—’
‘Tomorrow,’ says Ben quickly. ‘You ring me and tell me all about it tomorrow. Not tonight. Tomorrow. Promise?’
‘Promise,’ chirps Isabelle. ‘Bye, darling. Love you.’
Ben mumbles something similar and ends the call. He resists the temptation to check for messages or tweets and reluctantly returns to his mathematics textbook. He has set himself a target of two hours’ revision of his least favourite subject today and there’s only twenty minutes’ torment left. Then he’s going to shower and get ready. Six o’clock can’t come soon enough.
‘Hiya.’
Nats looks good in a skimpy T-shirt and lace shorts, with a sweater knotted round her middle, braids under her helmet cloaking her almost to her waist. For such a tiny frame, her legs are surprisingly long, ending in silver flats. She catches Ben’s glance and smirks. ‘Lou’s. She’ll go ballistic if she finds out.’
‘What, the shoes?’
‘No.’ She flicks one sleeve of the pink sweater. ‘This. Her prized cashmere. From Macy’s.’
Ben looks blank.
‘In New York? You must’ve heard of Macy’s! Really? You’ve never been to New York?’
Ben, ashamed of his parochial life, ashamed of having parents whose idea of foreign travel is the Isle of Wight, sets off. Within seconds, Nats is beside him. He concentrates resolutely on the road ahead for fear of catching her giving him a pitying look.
‘You should wear your helmet,’ she calls over her shoulder as she overtakes him.
‘What are you, my mother?’ Like he’s going to ruin his hair—that he’s just spent a whole five minutes styling—with a helmet.
‘I’m just saying. Don’t you read the stats?’
‘What stats?’
‘About cyclists and head injuries.’
He doesn’t reply; puts all his efforts into keeping up.
A minute or so later, she shouts, ‘All ready, then?’
‘What?’
‘The party, what else?’
‘Yeah, guess so.’ What’s it to her? He’s having to pedal faster and faster.
‘What music you playing?’
‘Lou’s sorting it.’
‘Oh God, really? You’re kidding.’ She snorts and puts on a spurt. ‘Good luck with that. Hope you’re a Harry Styles fan.’ She shoots off and he has to work doubly hard to catch up.
‘Anyway, what you gonna do till she arrives?’ She doesn’t even sound out of breath.
‘What d’you mean?’ he manages. Jesus, she’s fast!
‘Well, knowing my darling sister, she’ll waltz in about three hours late. It’s what she always does, so she can make an entrance. Or she won’t pitch up at all. You didn’t seriously think she’d be there from the off?’
This is exactly what Ben had thought. All day, all week, he’s nursed a picture of him and Louisa at the door, welcoming people to a party already throbbing with music. In his wilder moments, he’s even imagined Louisa draped seductively over his shoulder, proclaiming to all the world the status of their relationship . . . or wrapped around him in a slow dance, hips swaying provocatively . . .
‘Look out!’ screams Nats as Ben, in a world untroubled by road safety and oblivious to a tanker thundering down the hill, turns directly into its path at the junction. She accelerates from a standing start at the crossroads, and with a mighty shove sends Ben and herself hurtling into the hedgerow. The tanker scorches past, missing them both by inches, spitting dust and stones in its wake, its horn sounding with ear-splitting fury until it disappears from sight.
‘What the fuck?’
‘You wanker! You nearly got yourself killed!’ Nats is practically lying on top of him, both bikes in a tangle beneath them. She pushes herself up and starts dusting herself down as he gets unsteadily to his feet.
‘I told you to wear—oh, great!’ Nats flaps a pink sleeve at him, now sporting a jagged rip and plastered with wet mud. ‘Jesus wept! What the fuck am I going to tell Lou? This is your fault, you moron!’ Her face is a mask of fury.
‘My fault? I never asked you to run me off the road! Get out of my face, will you, you little gob—’
‘Oh right! I should have left you to get flattened by the lorry, should I? I wish I had now, you ungrateful shit!’
‘Ah, proprium humani ingenii est odisse quem laeseris,’ says a sonorous voice behind them. ‘A lucky escape for you both, if I may say so.’
‘Finbar!’ cries Ben, alerted immediately by the newcomer’s pungent body odour.
‘Yes, he has injured me,’ snaps Nats, seemingly unfa
zed by the appearance of an elderly Latin-speaking tramp, accompanied by a battered tartan shopping trolley festooned with price stickers. ‘Look!’ And she points at her knee, now beaded with blood.
‘Ah!’ says Finbar, beaming, ignoring her wound, ‘a linguist! Remember, dear child, omnia causa fiunt.’
‘You what?’ Ben is lost.
‘Everything happens for a reason,’ translates Nats with a contemptuous eye roll, turning back to Finbar. ‘Although, frankly, I’m at a loss to believe that right now, the way this tosser is behaving. I’m Nats, by the way.’
Finbar extends a filthy hand. Nats takes it without hesitation.
‘An inestimable joy to meet you, Nats,’ he says, enclosing her small hand in both of his, ‘even under these inopportune circumstances. Finbar. Rare it is indeed to meet someone so young with such facility in the ancient tongue. Do you, perchance, also speak Greek?’
‘’Fraid not. At least, not yet. But I might give it a whirl.’
‘Give it a whirl!’ says an enchanted Finbar. ‘Yes, yes, do, do, my dear. Any assistance I might render in that regard would be an unalloyed pleasure.’
Ben has by this stage untangled the bikes and is dolefully inspecting his. The front wheel looks decidedly out of true. He is muttering under his breath, ‘I’ll kill her, swear to God, I’ll kill her . . .’
‘Problem?’ says Nats combatively.
‘Duh. You’ve only buggered my bike—’
‘I think, young Ben, if I may,’ interrupts Finbar sternly, ‘you are being more than a little ungenerous here to your guardian angel. Shaken though you be, I feel you owe heartfelt thanks to this young Soteria, who, not to put too fine a point on it, saved your life just now.’
Nats smiles smugly; she, at least, knows who Soteria is.
‘Saved my—’
‘Yes, indeed. I was witness to the entire episode en route to my redoubt yonder.’ He points towards the decommissioned bus shelter a few yards up the road that doubles as his accommodation.
Love, Lies and Linguine Page 18