Love, Lies and Linguine

by Hilary Spiers

  ‘Bake Off,’ says Ben contemptuously, ‘is just cakes and that.’

  ‘And pastry and bread. All sorts,’ chips in Nats, unable to resist the opportunity to wind Ben up.

  ‘Well, I cook loads more than that,’ snaps Ben indignantly. ‘Loads.’

  Nats smothers a smirk but catches Artem’s eye; they both look down, lips twitching.

  Daria, still on her high horse, oblivious to the undercurrents, wades in. ‘Yes, and who teach you to cook, huh? Wicked boy. Is babulki, yes? Hester, in the kitchen, helping, explaining always.’ She turns to Barry. ‘The house we are mending, yes? Is home of Hester and Harriet. They are kind, beautiful ladies. Take me in. Take Milo. And—’ she points an accusatory finger at Ben ‘—him also. And what he does, this idiot boy?’

  ‘Okay,’ says Artem. ‘He knows what he did.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Daria hasn’t finished.

  ‘Daria, he’s said he’s sorry.’

  ‘Sorry! Pah!’ Daria shoves back her chair, noisily gathers up the crockery and thumps it on the draining board. She picks up the saucepan.

  Ralph and Barry both inspect their empty plates.

  Ben gets to his feet. Daria swings around, looking for a second as though she is about to brain him with the pan. ‘Where you are going?’

  ‘Home,’ says Ben miserably, eyes glued to the floor. Tears prickle his eyelids.

  ‘Home? No! You stay here. Your poor mama and tata, if they know what you done . . . Tonight, you stay here.’ She stops suddenly as a thought strikes. ‘Artem! We forget! Finbar!’

  Finbar had refused the offer of supper at the cottage, to everyone’s secret relief. Even after Daria’s sterling efforts with the air freshener and her surreptitious washing of Finbar’s filthy jacket, the thought of sharing close quarters with him for any length of time remains extremely unappealing.

  ‘I promise to take food,’ says Daria, momentarily deflected from her verbal assault on Ben. ‘Poor man, he is waiting . . .’

  ‘I’ll go,’ says Ben desperately, grabbing a loaf and starting to saw at it maniacally. He dashes to the fridge. ‘Can I give him a bit of this cheese?’

  Daria scurries over to a cupboard and extracts an old yogurt pot into which she starts ladling some broth and dumplings. She wraps it in cling film.

  ‘Give him cake,’ she says, pointing at the tin on the counter.

  Ben cuts a generous slice and parcels it up in tinfoil.

  In minutes, the makeshift picnic is assembled and stowed in a carrier bag. Ben snatches up his jacket and makes for the kitchen door. He can’t get away soon enough.

  ‘Want a lift?’ says Ralph, getting up. ‘I really should be making a move.’

  ‘No, you’re all right, mate,’ says Ben quickly. ‘Could do with a walk.’

  ‘If you’re sure . . .’

  ‘Thanks for—you know. Be in touch.’

  And he’s away, out into the mild evening air, gulping down great lungsful to try to dissipate the sense of shame that dogs him. He stumbles up towards the main road, breath ragged, thoughts racing. There is nothing he would like more than to dump all this crap with Finbar, then crawl home, bury his head under a pillow and try to forget—

  ‘Hiya, numpty.’ Nats slides to a halt in front of him, her bike wheel blocking the path, forcing him to stop.

  Oh, Jeez, this is all he needs . . .

  ‘Back off, will you.’

  ‘You’re a proper pillock, Fry. You know that?’

  ‘Am I.’ He dodges around her and breaks into a jog, but she’s beside him in seconds, cycling along with ease at his pace.

  ‘You could stop feeling so sorry for yourself and try being a bit grateful. Everyone’s been working their butts off for you today and you just sit there sulking and picking your spots.’

  ‘I haven’t—’

  ‘Metaphorically. And stop making eyes at Daria, for Chrissakes. Get a grip, will you? And a move on. Finbar’s not going to want cold stew, is he?’

  With that, she steps hard on the pedal and surges off, her rear lights twinkling in the dark. He watches until she disappears from view.

  ‘You took your time, young man. A person might die of hunger if reliant on your tender mercies.’

  Finbar snatches the carrier bag and eagerly ferrets inside, withdrawing the leaking yogurt pot first. He fishes in his trouser pockets and finds a spoon. Ben shudders to think what company it has been keeping.

  ‘What have we here?’

  ‘Belarusian dumplings in beef broth.’

  ‘The feast of kings.’ The spoon dives into the pot.

  ‘You say so.’ Ben moodily kicks a pebble; it skitters down the road.

  Finbar chews thoughtfully, then takes a further spoonful with relish. ‘I am blessed with fine cooks. Hester. Daria. A man could die happy after their ministrations. Or, indeed, minestrone.’ Finbar cackles at his own witticism. He dunks the end of the bread into the broth and, spraying food about, says, ‘Well, you really are wallowing in the Slough of Despond, aren’t you, you ungrateful wretch?’

  ‘Oh, not you ’n’ all.’ Ben picks a globule of soggy bread off his sleeve. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘Were you not in such a bate and a potential danger to yourself and other users of Her Majesty’s highway, you might like to ride back.’

  Ben has forgotten all about his bike. Finbar, still eating, jerks his head towards the rear of the shelter. Picking his way gingerly over the piles of detritus, discarded plastic bags, sandwich cartons and old newspapers, Ben finds his bicycle tucked into the lee of the shelter, its front wheel restored to true. He trundles it round to the roadside.

  ‘Thanks. It’s brilliant. When you said you—’

  ‘You didn’t believe me. What, that old codger?’ Finbar eyes him beadily. ‘I may be old, I may be a codger, but I’m not blind. Unlike you, my boy, at times. This current debacle being a prime example. Fronti nulla fides.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover. Now bugger off, there’s a good chap. I hate people watching me eat.’

  SUNDAY

  CHAPTER 43

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ says Harriet, all the while repeating to herself silently, Drive on the right, drive on the right.

  Mary glances over her shoulder and slides down in the seat, pulling her baseball cap down even lower, wincing as she eases it over the pad taped behind her ear. ‘Quite sure. Quick as you like, please, or one or both of them might discover I’ve scarpered.’

  Harriet accelerates down the bumpy track towards the main road. The little Fiat wobbles from side to side on the uneven surface, its suspension groaning. It was the only car left at the rental garage in the town when she had asked the man on reception to arrange it the night before. Fortunately, no-one else was in the vicinity at the time. She and Mary had crept out of the hotel at seven am, eschewing breakfast in favour of a quick getaway before the others emerged.

  Mist hugs the valley; the distant cedars ghost-like in the chilly morning air. The long ridge of the hills is softened by its shawl of cloud, as a valiant sun struggles to break through. A thin finger of light penetrates the mist, tracing a line across the valley floor to bathe the road in sunlight for a few seconds. Harriet fumbles around the dashboard, locates the right switch and turns on her lights, just in case.

  ‘Did you leave a note?’

  ‘Two,’ says Mary. ‘Identical. Just saying I was going out for the day and not to worry.’

  Fat chance of that, thinks Harriet. They’ll be incandescent. ‘I popped something similar under Hester’s door.’

  The same thought strikes them. ‘Thelma and Louise,’ says Harriet, laughing, as Mary giggles. Then, ‘Oh my God!’ She flinches as Harriet veers around a goat that has suddenly leapt onto the road out of nowhere. ‘Other side!’

  A truck whips around the bend ahead and shaves past them, horn blaring.

  Harriet is crouched over the steering wheel, concentrating fiercely, heart pounding. ‘So
rry . . . I’m not really used to . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know . . . driving abroad.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you say?’ cries Mary. ‘I’d have driven.’

  ‘With a head injury?’ queries Harriet with unintended scorn, forgetting for a second that it’s not her usual passenger beside her. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Both women take deep, somewhat embarrassed breaths.

  ‘Where do you suggest?’ says Harriet as they approach a signpost.

  ‘Ancona?’

  Harriet imagines the perils of driving in a strange city, unfamiliar roundabouts, parking restrictions.

  ‘How about exploring the mountains?’ she says. ‘They’ll never find us there.’

  ‘Oh, I know! How about San Ginesio—that’s not far. It’s got a Sunday market, I think. Might be fun.’ Mary pulls a brochure out of her bag and consults it. ‘I picked this up earlier in the week. Yes, here we go. Looks about twenty, twenty-five miles. What do you reckon?’

  ‘That,’ says Harriet, ‘sounds perfect.’

  ‘Hester, dear,’ says Lionel, ‘what’s done is done. Let her get on with it.’

  Hester, still fuming after discovering Harriet’s note, bites back a retort and silently concedes that there is absolutely nothing she can do about her errant sister and she ought not to let her spoil the day. She relaxes in her seat as Lionel expertly and effortlessly guides the car along the winding route, the gear changes as smooth as silk. Such a pleasure not to be on constant alert for every hazard, hands clamped rigidly on the front of the passenger seat. Lionel had warned her it would take at least a couple of hours to reach the abbey but the time passes swiftly as they take in the breathtaking scenery, largely in companionable silence. The web of cloud has thinned, buildings and trees coming into sharper focus. The sun has dispelled most of the early haze and the heat is rising, but Lionel has set the air-conditioning to a perfect temperature. ‘Isn’t this marvellous?’ He smiles. ‘I do love driving.’

  ‘The freedom of the open road.’ Harriet smiles back. ‘Although I can’t imagine driving in London is that much fun.’

  Lionel’s face darkens. ‘Oh, London. No, I don’t drive like this there. It’s all stop-start and diesel fumes.’

  Hester closes her eyes. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve hardly asked you anything—’

  ‘Aha!’ says Lionel. ‘Here we go.’ He points at a discreet brown sign bearing the image of a church and a cross, and eases the car onto a small side road. ‘Look!’

  Ahead, high above, partially shielded by clumps of poplar, the hillside below corrugated with olive trees, Hester sees an imposing collection of buildings, dominated by two square bell towers. Lionel pulls over to allow a coach to pass them on its way down, giving them both the opportunity to take in the spectacular view.

  ‘It’s open, then,’ says Hester, spirits lifting even further. ‘I did wonder, it being Sunday.’

  ‘It’s a working abbey. I checked.’

  How lovely, thinks Hester, to have someone else in charge for a change.

  They’ve had an enjoyable hour or so wandering through the Sunday market, sampling olives and cheeses, Harriet scoffing a huge slice of warm crostata filled with sour cherry jam. ‘That looks sweet,’ says Mary with a frown, looking for a second not unlike Hester. ‘Very sweet.’

  ‘Mmm,’ is all Harriet can manage.

  ‘We really ought to visit the church while we’re here,’ says Mary, looking around the square. ‘It’s supposed to be rather special. Oh, and the theatre.’

  ‘Won’t they be having Sunday services, mass or whatever?’ says Harriet, just as the strident notes of an organ cut through the market’s bustle and noise. ‘Besides which, I don’t have a hat and I’m not too sure your baseball cap sets quite the right tone.’ She’s just spotted some colourful clothes stalls and would rather like a mooch. ‘But you go if you want. I’ll wander round here.’

  In truth, she really wouldn’t mind a few minutes away from Mary’s relentless dissection and re-examination of her love life. Sympathetic as Harriet had been initially, the constant picking at the scab of Mary’s amours is beginning to become rather wearing. On a couple of occasions, she’s been on the verge of suggesting her fail-safe—make a list of pros and cons—but her companion has barely drawn breath.

  ‘No,’ says Mary, ‘that’s all right. I’ll come with you.’

  They are overwhelmed with colour, opulence, the scent of incense, the thunder of the organ. Hester and Lionel sink down gratefully on a stone bench in the haven of the herb garden. An old monk at the far end of the hedged walk slowly sweeps up piles of privet cuttings with what looks like a handmade broom. It might be any century, any time. Distantly, they hear voices and traffic, but here in the sweet-smelling garden, the herbs perfuming the warm air, they might be cloistered from the world themselves. Arriving just too late for one of the guided tours, they had contented themselves with a leisurely exploration of the magnificent architecture: the soaring fluted columns, ornate painted ceilings, the intricate tessellated floor, the sun-flooded nave illuminated by a huge circular window set into an astonishing biblical fresco in vivid hues. And finally the extraordinary organ, flanked by painted saints, flooding the entire edifice from crypt to bell towers with notes so deep and rich they seemed to fill every atom of body and space with glory.

  ‘I feel . . . cleansed,’ says Hester quietly. She’s not a religious woman, but something unexpected, spiritual almost, has touched her today, filling her with calmness.

  Lionel’s hand creeps into hers; their fingers lace.

  ‘What was it again?’ he says, almost as quietly. ‘The abbey’s motto?’

  ‘Iste est quem tibi promiseram locus.’

  He frowns. ‘Remind me?’

  ‘Here is the place—or this is the place—that I promised to you. Or I promised you. Something along those lines.’

  Lionel’s dry, warm hand tightens around hers. He clears his throat.

  ‘Hetty, my dear, I know this might seem somewhat premature, but talking of places and promises . . .’ he begins.

  ‘What I’m beginning to think,’ says Mary, twisting her wineglass round and round, as Harriet eyes it enviously, having not dared to risk even a drop given that she’s driving, ‘is that what I really want is simply not Ron. Just that. Not anyone else necessarily, just not Ron. Does that make sense?’

  They are sitting under the awning of a crowded trattoria in the busy piazza, having managed by dint of some determined hovering to secure a table against stiff competition from a party of four.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ mutters Harriet, wondering, after her delicious coniglio in porchetta, if she can manage a dessert or if she should persuade Mary that they pay the bill and return to face the music. Hers and Mary’s. She’s also worrying about the steep and winding roads she has to navigate again.

  ‘The thing is, we get told, don’t we, that we need other people, that we’re always better off having someone in our lives. Which is true, in the main. And maybe I just needed to think that Rhona was that other person. And she was there, available, just the other side of the fence, neatly filling the Ron-shaped hole.’ The waiter hovers with the menu. ‘Oh, no thanks, grazie. We’re not having puds, are we?’

  Harriet surrenders. ‘No, I suppose not. Coffee?’

  ‘You know, I’ll pass. I’ve still got my wine.’

  Yes, thinks Harriet with a flash of bitterness, you have, haven’t you? ‘Un caffè, per piacere.’

  The elderly waiter pulls a mournful face, hesitates just a second or two in case the signora changes her mind, then shuffles off towards the kitchen.

  Mary continues. ‘The trouble is –’

  Oh, please, not again!

  ‘—what with the accident and everything, I’ve had time to think. And the more I do that, the more I start to wonder if I haven’t rushed things. You know, not sorted out one mess before I get embroiled in another.’

  Quite, thinks Harri
et.

  ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, Rhona is a wonderful woman, kind, loving, but—for God’s sake don’t tell her I said this—just a tiny bit overpowering. Do you know what I mean?’

  She barely waits for Harriet’s nod.

  ‘And, frankly, I’ve had that for years with Ron, thank you very much; I don’t want to walk straight into the same situation again, do I? Oh, do you know what, I think I will have a coffee after all.’

  She signals to another waiter and orders a cappuccino; only Harriet notices his look of disgust as he moves away: milky coffee after a meal! These English!

  ‘I’m sorry to keep going over and over it, Harriet.’

  Not as sorry as I am.

  ‘But you don’t mind, do you? I’d hate to think I was being a bore. You are a love. Has anyone ever told you what a good listener you are?’

  ‘We should get back,’ murmurs Hester, extricating her hand from Lionel’s as they sit in the car in the car park, looking out over the panorama of hills and rivers and long avenues of poplars laid out below them as in a painting. She feels a mixture of happiness and excitement tinged with disquiet. Lionel’s declaration, so sudden, so heartfelt, had elicited first surprise and then a sort of odd shyness. Her first thought had been: I must tell Harry. Followed almost immediately by the realisation of how difficult, if not impossible, that might be at this juncture.

  ‘You do understand, don’t you?’ she says, stealing a glance at Lionel’s profile, taking in the slight smile, the eyes crinkled against the sunlight. ‘I mean—’

  ‘There’s a lot to consider. Yes. Don’t think I don’t realise that. You take as much time as you need. Only—’ now he turns to her, cups her face in his hand in a gesture that makes her want to lean into him ‘—I meant every word I said.’

  ‘I know you did,’ she says, turning away, touched and suddenly tearful. Her heart flips. Heavens, she thinks. Heavens above, I must be going soft in my old age.