Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  Nats, intrigued, limps over to inspect the mountains of books and carrier bags stacked on the seat and the squalid sleeping bag, with its clumps of wadding protruding, lying underneath.

  Ben, despite his present hostility, has to admire Nats’ sangfroid; he’s seen grown men blench at the stench.

  She limps back. ‘Cool,’ she says. She rights her own undamaged bike. ‘We’d better be on our way. Lovely to meet you, Finbar. May I call you that?’

  ‘I would be honoured, my dear Nats,’ says Finbar, sketching a slight bow. ‘Are you going far?’

  ‘Just to Daria’s,’ says Ben, who has that moment noticed the knees of his relatively new jeans are wet with something viscous he’d rather not investigate too closely at this point.

  ‘Ah! The lovely Daria and her little cherub! I am not an aficionado of infants as a rule,’ confides Finbar to Nats, ‘but there is something about Milo . . .’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ says Nats, dabbing her bleeding knee with a tissue. ‘He’s almost edible, isn’t he?’

  ‘Much as I enjoy my food,’ says Finbar hastily, ‘I wouldn’t go that far. Do leave your bike, Ben, I’ll fix it.’

  Ben looks at him in mute astonishment.

  ‘I see you doubt my abilities,’ says Finbar huffily, readjusting his grimy jacket and unleashing a noisome waft of his unmistakable odour. ‘I’ll have you know, young man, I was the 1962 junior twelve-mile cycle champion for my county and I did all my own maintenance! No-one could hold a candle to me for speedy puncture repairs. But of course if you prefer to squander your money on—’

  ‘No, no! Don’t go off on one. I just never knew.’

  ‘Quite,’ says Finbar, slightly mollified, adding darkly, ‘there is much about me that you do not know, nor ever will, if the gods allow. Now, just wheel it over to my abode and I shall begin my ministrations. I will return it to you at Daria’s later.’

  Alarm bells ring instantly. ‘No, honest, no worries. I’ll pick it up tomorrow on my way home, yeah? I’m staying over tonight. Babysitting.’

  ‘Indeed? Babysitting, is it? I must say that has always seemed to me the oddest terminology. One wonders at its derivation or should I say provenance—’

  ‘Yeah, right, ta, Finbar. You’re a mate.’ Ben hastily leans his bike against the shelter and starts up the hill. ‘I owe you.’ He knows Finbar too well; once the old codger gets talking it’s like trying to stop a juggernaut.

  ‘Bye, Finbar.’ Nats waves, then wheels her bike up beside Ben, who has set such a cracking pace she almost has to run to keep abreast of him. If he’s going to be an arse, she’ll just ride on ahead and leave him to it. Except then Daria might wonder if they’ve had a row and that would put paid to the love’s young dream fiction . . .

  Back at the shelter Finbar watches them hurrying away. A mate, young Ben had said. A mate. He considers the epithet for a while; decides he likes it, is flattered almost. And that young friend of his with the Medusa-like hair: she is a marvel indeed. He very much hopes she does decide to give Greek a whirl; he has a primer somewhere in his collection he’d be only too glad to lend her. Whistling contentedly, he begins ferreting through numerous carriers for his tools.

  CHAPTER 31

  There is a very small man sitting beside Regina Pegg. The staff have fashioned a vast banqueting table by amalgamating all the individual tables so the guests dine en famille to share the fruits of the cookery course’s labours. Seated directly opposite Harriet, the little man is painstakingly picking over the contents of his plate and, as far as she has observed, has not uttered a single word all evening. Regina has answered for him at every serving, the entire company privy to her remarks.

  ‘Not for Charles, thank you.’

  ‘Charles will just have a little.’

  ‘Don’t eat it all if you don’t want to, Charles.’

  ‘Not a great fan of mussels, are you, Charles?’ A rhetorical question only as Charles, whom Harriet cannot remember ever seeing before, simply smiles meekly and addresses himself to his modest meal.

  ‘Has he just arrived, the chap next to Regina?’ she whispers to Bella, who on her return from the hospital—where she had found Mary in good spirits, clearly itching to be discharged—had commandeered Harriet and marched her to the bar, just as a triumphant Regina was proposing a fourth rubber. She and Harriet had decisively trounced Guy and a perfectly serviceable player, Tony, who had spent the week on an archaeological tour of the region and whom Regina had bullied into joining them. Harriet, finding Regina’s bidding and play thoroughly intimidating and feeling that their opponents had suffered enough, was relieved to be rescued and had thanked Bella effusively over a bottle of pre-prandial wine. Now, the pair of them are just the tiniest bit squiffy and Guy, under cover of refilling his neighbour’s glass, has moved their current bottle out of reach.

  Bella splutters into her glass. ‘Harriet, honestly! He’s her husband!’

  ‘Really?’ Harriet peers across at the silent diner, eyes narrowed. These spectacles are hopeless. But squint as she may, the little man looks no more familiar. She supposes he must have been engaged in some course or the other that took him away from Il Santuario most of the time.

  Regina intercepts the look and waves gaily. ‘Absolutely marvellous!’ she booms, gesturing with her fork across the contents of the table.

  The cooks, duties done, have relinquished the serving of the food to the regular waiting staff, while Franco, in his element, wafts around them daintily, hoovering up compliments. Hester and Lionel are seated some distance from Harriet, with whom, not apparently by design, they have barely exchanged a dozen words in all the brouhaha—champagne, cocktails and the rest—surrounding this much-anticipated final evening. Now Harriet raises her glass to her sister in a silent toast and mouths, ‘Well done.’

  Hester, heart-warmed, bobs her head in thanks as Regina, never one to miss a trick in bridge or life, takes Harriet’s lead and leaps to her feet, glass aloft. ‘To the cooks!’ she roars, pre-empting Alfonso, who has been waiting for a lull in in the hubbub to propose a vote of thanks to the chefs and Franco in particular.

  There is a startled pause, then the company rather raggedly follow Regina’s lead, whereupon Alfonso, who is determined to regain the initiative, initiates a round of warm applause. He clears his throat.

  ‘May I on behalf of the management extend our personal thanks to our wonderful and so talented cooks . . .’

  More applause.

  ‘. . . and the incomparable maestro, Signor Franco Riccardi . . .’

  Even more applause.

  ‘. . . who has guided them so expertly through the . . .’ he searches for, finds and pronounces with understandable satisfaction the right word ‘. . . intricacies of our beautiful Italian cuisine.’

  Assorted cheers and the thunder of numerous fists thumping the table.

  ‘So we hope—Marco, myself and all the staff here at Il Santuario—that you have each in your different ways enjoyed your time here with us.’

  Various ‘absolutely’s and ‘I should say’s ring out; more reserved heads nod.

  ‘Good, very good. Don’t forget, please, to tell TripAdvisor!’ A volley of laughter. ‘And tomorrow we have to say goodbye to many of you.’

  ‘Shame,’ shouts a lone voice.

  ‘Thank you! We shall be sad to bid arrivederci to those who leave us. But first, before we enjoy the rest of the evening, an announcement. You know that earlier this week, we had a small . . . let us call it “misfortune”, with Signora Martindale on the mountain.’

  Low rumbles and mumbles of regret around the table; behind Alfonso, Marco shakes his head sorrowfully.

  ‘Where Signora Pearson—yes, yes,’ as spontaneous applause, to Harriet’s embarrassment, breaks out, led by Bella, ‘of course, our heroine, was so brave, although also injured! Well, today we hear that the signora is to leave the hospital. Tomorrow. Yes!’ A scattering of applause. ‘She will spend a few days here before she is allowed to fly home. So
! This is—is this the correct expression?—the cherry on the cake, I think. Yes!’

  Sustained applause and several whoops of appreciation as Alfonso beckons to the staff to bring more wine and serve the cheese. Conversation springs up once again around the room. Harriet finds herself almost tearful.

  ‘What a relief!’ she murmurs to Bella. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘About her being discharged? No. They were waiting for the consultant to come round when I left. Ron—that’s his name, isn’t it, the husband?—he was wittering on about flights tomorrow. I thought he was being a bit previous.’

  ‘Was Rhona still there?’

  ‘The sister?’

  Harriet doesn’t disabuse her.

  ‘Yeah. She seems very nice—but not much love lost between her and Ron, is there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t say I took to him personally. Shame we’ll miss Mary, though. Our flight’s at eleven and the minibus is collecting us at eight. You’ll have to give her our love.’

  ‘Of course.’ Harriet grasps Bella’s hand, mellowed into uncharacteristic tactility by the alcohol. ‘I’ve really enjoyed our time together.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I think I’m a little bit tiddly.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They giggle.

  ‘Listen,’ says Bella, ‘I’m not a great one for holiday friendships but I’d really like to keep in touch, if you want to.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Harriet, moved. ‘Yes! Yes, indeed. I’d like that very much.’

  Bella’s face clouds, tightening her features and ageing her instantly. ‘And perhaps you could meet Jack one day.’

  ‘I’d love to. How old is he?’

  ‘Six.’ Bella’s eyes fill. ‘Just six. He’s . . .’ Her hand creeps along the table, finds Guy’s. Harriet thinks, Poor loves, thank goodness they’ve got each other. Guy extracts himself from his conversation with his neighbour and turns to smile at his wife, eyes searching her face as though there is no-one else around. What a comfort, thinks Harriet, the way he knows instinctively.

  ‘Bit of air?’ he says. Bella nods.

  ‘Excuse us,’ says Guy quietly, arm around his wife’s shoulders as he guides her towards the garden, leaving Harriet feeling suddenly bereft and very alone.

  Regina ambushes Harriet as she is on her way around the room to reach her sister. ‘What a success, my dear! I had my doubts, I must confess. All eating together—my first thought: positively bohemian! But we enjoyed it, didn’t we, Charles?’

  The little man, dabbing a wetted finger at the crumbs on his plate, nods, smiling down.

  ‘You have met Charles?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had that pleasure,’ says Harriet, extending a hand.

  The hand over the plate stills, trembles, flexes, relaxes. Regina leans close to Harriet’s ear. ‘Stroke,’ she whispers. ‘He can’t . . .’ She covers Charles’s hand with her own. Reaches down from her considerable height and plants a kiss on his head. Manages a tight smile, saying brightly, ‘But we manage, don’t we, my love? We manage very well. And we still have lots of fun. You keep me in check, don’t you, my darling?’ And there is so much loss, love and history in the embrace she gives her husband that Harriet has to turn away.

  ‘Beautiful meal,’ she says to Hester, slipping into the chair Lionel has just vacated en route to the bar. ‘Especially those little dumpling things. Gorgeous. I had far too many.’

  ‘Struffoli. I made those,’ says Hester, with not a little pride. ‘You didn’t find them too sweet?’ Personally, she thinks them utterly sickly, slathered in honey and strewn with citrus fruit and almonds.

  Harriet laughs guiltily. ‘Too sweet? Me? Sorry—what was the question?’

  They both smile, relieved to have found neutral ground.

  ‘So. Was it worth it?’

  ‘The course? Absolutely. I’ve learnt so much.’ Hester, on edge for so much of the evening, wondering if Harriet has deliberately kept her distance, relaxes.

  ‘Seriously?’

  Hester eyes Franco across the room, the picture of bonhomie. Hard to credit what a monster he can be in the kitchen. ‘I may not like his methods, I may not like him very much, but the man can cook, no doubt about it.’ She turns back to her sister, flushing. ‘Sorry I was such a pig when we arrived. It was a wonderful gift. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself.’

  Harriet leans across to squeeze her hand. Thank God. Perhaps the fracture between them is beginning to mend. Her sense of loneliness diminishes a little; the comforting coupledom she has so unthinkingly relied upon these past few years with Hetty seems suddenly within reach once more.

  ‘It’s been quite a week,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Hasn’t it?’

  ‘Stephen and I have spoken a couple of times.’

  ‘Oh?’ says Hester, thinking, Well, I haven’t heard a word. But, then, I deserve no more. The memory of the whole episode and her behaviour makes her cringe afresh. She waits for Harriet to continue.

  ‘I need to go and see someone. For Stephen. Soon as possible. I asked Alfonso to check if he could get us on an earlier flight—’

  ‘Oh,’ says Hester, thinking immediately, Well, you might have asked me first!

  ‘But no joy. So it looks like we’re stuck here until Monday in any event. So I’d like to try and go on Tuesday ideally. To see . . . ‘ She still doesn’t want to say the name. ‘I don’t want the poor boy waiting a moment longer than necessary for news.’

  Hester waits some more.

  Harriet, put out, continues, ‘I know we’ll only just have got back but—’

  ‘You know, if you’d like company . . .’ says Hester hesitantly. Something in Harriet’s expression stops her. ‘What?’

  Harriet stares hard at her sister. There’s something different about her face, about her whole appearance. It isn’t just that she’s looking uncommonly smart this evening in her pearls and burgundy cashmere sweater, her tousled hair curling attractively; it’s more than that. There’s a luminosity to her complexion, a heightened . . . good God, she’s wearing makeup! Hester’s lashes are indubitably mascaraed, and isn’t that a smudge of eye shadow? And surely it can’t be . . . but yes, she’s plucked her eyebrows! The faintly Kahlo-esque bridge between her brows has disappeared entirely. Harriet tries hard not to gawp. The sisters have never been disposed to comment on each other’s appearance, but on one fateful occasion Isabelle had ventured to suggest that tweezers might be employed to, as she had put it, ‘tidy up’ Harriet’s eyebrows; to this day Harriet shivers to recall the icy blast of scorn that had greeted the proposition. It had taken their chastened cousin-in-law a good month to summon the courage for another visit. Harriet is flabbergasted to realise that somewhere in Hester’s capacious and shabby sponge bag must presumably lurk not only ancient and surely dangerously out-of-date cosmetics but also a pair of tweezers.

  ‘What?’ repeats Hester, pointing to her teeth. ‘Have I got . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ says Harriet quickly, thinking: Makeup. Tweezers. And is that scent? Is Harriet’s last-night armoury all for Lionel’s benefit? She says distractedly, ‘So anyway, I was wondering if I shouldn’t hire us a car on Sunday. Go for a bit of a drive and see something of the countryside. Might take our minds off things. What do you say? Seems a pity to come all this way and—’

  ‘Oh, that’s funny. Lionel had the same idea.’

  ‘Lionel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lionel . . . here . . . still . . . on Sunday?

  Oh God, thinks Harriet.

  Oh God, thinks Hester.

  ‘Care for a top-up?’ says Lionel beside them, beaming. ‘I managed to snaffle one of the last bottles of red.’

  CHAPTER 32

  ‘Pooh! What is that smell?’

  Daria, ready for action in her dancing clothes—a tight-fitting white blouse and flared gingham knee-length skirt courtesy of Oxfam—enters the kitchen to find Ben scrubbing furiously at the legs of his jeans wi
th a cloth. Nats watches from the table, shaking her head despairingly. Her face lights up in a wide smile as she gives Daria’s outfit the onceover.

  ‘You look great; I’m loving the fifties vibe,’ she says, before turning her attention once more to Ben’s activities. ‘I told him they’d need washing.’

  ‘Thank you, Natalie!’ The older girl smooths the skirt fabric self-consciously. She bends down to inspect Ben’s saturated knees and recoils. ‘Ben! What is this horrible . . . Boža moj!’ She rushes over to throw open the window, theatrically flapping her hands about to clear the air.

  Ben, given the proximity of the accident to Finbar’s shelter, has a very strong suspicion that he knows what the yucky gunk might be, but he has no intention of letting on.

  ‘Come on!’ barks Daria, returning with hand outstretched.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take them off.’

  ‘Take them—? No!’

  ‘Told you,’ says Nats.

  ‘Washing machine!’ orders Daria, with a face that brooks no argument.

  ‘I can’t wash them!’ cries Ben. ‘How will I get them dry in time?’

  ‘For what?’ says Daria.

  Nats smirks and raises an eyebrow at a cornered Ben.

  Daria sighs with exasperation. ‘We put on line, nice wind, no rain, will be dry by morning. Now, come!’ She thrusts her hand out again.

  ‘What am I supposed to wear instead?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . Yes! I give you pair of Artem’s trousers for evening.’

  ‘Artem? But he’s, like, ten feet tall!’

  ‘Ben! We will be late!’ Daria, nose wrinkled in disgust, is now very cross indeed. Ben cannot deny that there is still an extremely unpleasant smell in the room.

  There’s nothing for it. He slouches sullenly towards the hall.

  ‘Where you are going?’

  ‘To take the shitty things off.’

  ‘Skatsina! No swearing, please. Baby in house!’

  Nats turns her snort into an unconvincing cough. Ben glares at her. Daria rummages through a basket on the counter and pulls out a black garment. ‘Here. Now, take off. In here. I don’t want smell out there. We look away.’ She turns her back on Ben and Nats does likewise. The girls exchange exasperated glances. ‘Hurry, Ben, please! We are not wanting to be late.’