by Carrie Elks
‘Unbelievable.’ The girl blinked rapidly. ‘I’m not sure what’s worse. Having your life completely trounced by somebody, or have them forget all about it. Either way, you’re an asshole, Sam Carlton, and I wish I’d never let you into your house.’
The bizarreness of the situation didn’t escape his notice. It felt as though he’d taken a trip into crazy town.
‘What’s your name? And please feel free to explain what I’ve done to piss you off. Because I have absolutely no idea.’
‘My name’s Cesca Shakespeare.’ She paused, as if to let the words sink in. ‘And once upon a time I wrote a play. It was a good play, everybody said so. Even the dickwad we chose to take the leading role. And then that dickwad left town and my play folded and everything turned to crap.’ Her face screwed up in anger. ‘That’s just the short version. If you have a few days I can give you the full, unexpurgated version. With all the gory details.’
Realisation dawned over him. ‘You wrote Out of the Black?’ It was the only play he’d been cast in, and he hadn’t managed to do much more than the press previews. ‘You’re that Cesca Shakespeare?’ Christ, she looked different. The girl who had written the play had been exactly that – a girl. But this angry, spitting creature in front of him couldn’t be described as a girl. No, she was all woman.
‘You think there’s more than one?’ she asked. ‘Or maybe you’ve made it your business to leave a trail of miserable Cesca Shakespeares in your wake. One in every city.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ He immediately regretted his words.
‘Don’t call me silly, not after everything you’ve done.’
‘Look, I’ve no idea what to say right now. I’ve been travelling for almost twenty hours, I’d like to take a shower and get some sleep. Perhaps we can talk about this in the morning?’
Her eyes widened. ‘You’re expecting to sleep in the villa?’
Sam laughed awkwardly. ‘Um, yes? Where else should I sleep?’
‘How about a million miles away from me? You could sleep in your car, maybe we could find you a blanket or something?’
‘I’m not sleeping in the goddamned car. It’s a big house, I’ll just head to my room and get out of your hair. Then we can decide what to do in the morning.’
‘There’s nothing to decide. You’re not staying here.’
Oh boy, she knew how to hit all his buttons. ‘You’re kidding, right? This is my house, I can stay where I goddamn want to. What are you even doing here? Where are Gabi and Sandro anyway?’
‘I’m looking after the villa while they take a vacation. They’re visiting his sister while she has her baby. Your parents have employed me to look after the villa in the meantime. And while I’m in this house you aren’t welcome.’
He let out a long sigh. What the hell were his parents thinking, letting this woman take care of the villa? ‘You don’t get a choice. I’m coming in.’
‘Then I’ll sleep in the car,’ she shouted back. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t screwed my life up before. What’s one more night?’
‘No! Don’t sleep in the car.’ He could feel the blood warming his cheeks. ‘Jesus Christ, woman, just go to bed and I’ll do the same. It’s only one night.’ And after that she could leave and he would be able to enjoy the splendid isolation, without worrying he’d wake up with a knife in his back.
Cesca stared at him silently, the atmosphere between them growing thick and dark. Then she spun on the soles of her flip-flops, letting out the biggest huff he’d ever heard.
‘Whatever. But remember this, your parents have employed me to look after this house, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. So in the morning you need to leave.’
With that she was stalking up the driveway, her hips swaying from side to side. Sam turned and walked back to his car, trying to ignore the growing urge to put his foot down on the pedal and run her over.
It was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done.
*
Fuming didn’t begin to describe how angry she was. Cesca stomped into the kitchen and grabbed hold of the kettle, jamming it under the tap. There were some aches only hot chocolate could soothe, though in this case she didn’t think it could even come close. But she needed to do something with her hands, to stop them smashing those perfectly white teeth out of his beautiful mouth, and this seemed as good a way as any.
‘You’re being irrational,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Calm down.’
She heard his car come to a stop and the engine switch off, the door slamming after he climbed out of the driver’s seat. Then footsteps in the hallway, the familiar slam against the marble tiles, making her shoulders tense up as she felt him coming closer.
‘Do you know if my room’s made up?’
She had to grind her teeth together to prevent herself biting out a bitter answer. Unwilling to look at him, she put the kettle back onto its stand, flicking the switch to make it boil.
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know which room is yours.’ A horrible thought stole into her mind, making her skin crawl. What if she’d been using his bedroom without knowing?
‘It’s the blue one on the top floor.’
Thank God, her room was all pale whites and creams. ‘In that case, no it isn’t ready for you.’ She still wouldn’t look at him, keeping her back resolutely turned.
‘Do you, ah, know where Gabi keeps the bedding?’
Cesca whipped around, her eyes wide, her lips thin. ‘What are you, twelve? How can you live in this place for all these years and not know where the linens are?’
Irrational or not, her fury was real, and impossible to ignore.
Sam’s mouth dropped open at her outburst.
It was as though the past six years had never happened, and Cesca was back to being that eighteen-year-old girl, her first play script in her hand, mesmerised by the beautiful actor who was auditioning in front of the stage. After seeing Sam’s take on Daniel Cramer, there was never any question of giving the role to anybody else. Everybody in the room had agreed, Sam was Daniel.
Maybe that was the worst thing of all, knowing that Sam Carlton had the talent to back up his fame. Somehow he’d managed to rise through the ranks and take Hollywood by storm, while Cesca could barely hold down a job. The way he was looking at her now, as if he was innocent as a child, made her mad as hell.
And he could stop batting his bloody eyelashes at her, too. She wanted to pull them out with a tweezer, one by one.
‘I really don’t know what your problem is,’ Sam said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve tried to be nice, I’ve even tried to compromise, but all you seem to do is spit venom at me. So I left your play, it was six years ago, for goodness sake. Get over it.’
Were there any worse words to say to a girl than that? Get. Over. It. Every syllable seemed to punch against Cesca’s skin, making her whole body tense at his insensitivity.
‘Get over it? Are you being serious? You left and the play closed. I was eighteen years old, I’d worked on that play for years, and everybody told me it was my big chance. Then you disappeared and I was suddenly persona non grata wherever I turned. Do you know how it feels to be shunned before you’re even nineteen?’
‘Shit happens. If that’s the worst thing you’ve ever been through then you’ve been wrapped in cotton wool all your life. Hell, I get rejected all the time and you don’t see me wailing and crying about it, do you? Have you ever thought that maybe you’re making a mountain out of a molehill? That you’re blaming me for your own inadequacies?’
‘So now you’re calling me inadequate?’ She wondered if he insured that way too pretty face in case of accidents. Her hand was squeezed into a fist, aching for some release. How delicious it would be to feel the impact of his jaw.
No, she couldn’t do that. Not even if her mind was begging for retribution.
Sam rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Stop putting words into my mouth. All I’m saying is that everybody in this industry has to suffer from rejec
tion. So if your later plays haven’t done well, that’s hardly my fault, is it?’
‘There haven’t been any more plays.’
Sam frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Cesca hesitated, torn between wanting to throw the facts in his face, and not wanting to admit the truth. She wasn’t sure she wanted to give him any more ammunition to use against her.
‘Nothing,’ she finally replied. Two syllables rarely held so much venom.
He shook his head. ‘You can’t start accusing me of something I didn’t do, then close down when I call you out on it.’
‘I can do what I like.’ Now she felt like a petulant child. This conversation was nothing like she imagined it would be. During the past few years she’d fantasised about confronting him, with a righteous anger and a vengeful fury. But not once in those dark reveries had she ever imagined him dismissing her accusations with a few glib words. Where were her apologies? Where was her retribution? Surely she deserved more than this?
‘Yes you can,’ Sam replied. ‘And luckily I don’t have to listen to you do it. So I’m going to bed, and when I get up in the morning we can arrange for you to leave. You’ve made your dislike for me more than clear, and I’m pretty sure neither of us wants to stay in the same house together. So now I’m here, you can go.’
‘Are you freaking kidding me? I’m employed by your parents. You have no right to dismiss me.’ Why should she be the one to leave? After all, he was the one who had wronged her before, and she wasn’t about to let him win again. Oh no, as much as she hated Sam bloody Carter, she wasn’t going to walk away from this villa. It was a matter of her newly found pride.
‘I’ll call them in the morning. Maybe they can even organise for Gabi and Sandro to return. It’s clear this isn’t going to work with us both here. I’m sure you can find somewhere else to stay.’
‘Don’t you dare ask Gabi and Sandro to come back.’ She could feel her hackles rise even higher. ‘They’ve taken a well-earned break, and they shouldn’t have to give it up for the likes of you.’
‘The likes of me?’ He raised his eyebrows, clearly trying to stifle a grin.
‘Yes. The sort of man who thinks everybody owes him something. So self-absorbed he doesn’t realise that maybe other people have needs, too. Like being with their sister, or finding a haven away from London.’
‘You can hardly talk. Apparently everything’s about you. I ruined your life, remember?’
Cesca took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her racing thoughts. ‘How could I forget? And stop changing the subject: I’m not leaving. I’ve been employed to do a job and I’m going to bloody well do it. So you need to go back to Hollywood and leave me alone.’
‘I’m not going back to Hollywood.’
‘And I’m not going back to London.’
Sam stared at her silently for a moment. His hand was opening and closing around his car keys, the rental company key ring lying in his palm. ‘Then we’re at an impasse. And if I’m being perfectly frank, I can’t be bothered to argue with you any more. I’m going to bed. Perhaps in the morning you’ll see some sense.’
With that, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to pick up his bags.
The stupid, insufferable, handsome actor had managed to completely ruin her day. Sticking her tongue out at his retreating form, she decided to head to bed herself.
Tomorrow she’d work out what the hell she was going to do.
7
The better part of valour is discretion
– Henry IV Part I
Cesca looked up as the waiter brought a cup full of steaming coffee, laying it gently on the table next to the computer. She smiled her thanks, then lifted the china to her lips, taking a moment to inhale the sweet, milky aroma. On her first day in Varenna, Gabi had explained that a cappuccino was only a breakfast drink in Italy. The natives would laugh at tourists who ordered the frothy drink later in the day.
Swallowing a mouthful, she thanked God she’d ordered an extra shot of espresso. It had been a long, wakeful night, and her sleeplessness was taking its toll now morning had arrived. She’d climbed out of bed just before seven, being careful to be quiet, not wanting to wake Sam up. As far as she was concerned she wanted to be out of the house before he even got out of bed. She wasn’t sure she could take another confrontation like last night.
The café computer finally sprang to life. Cesca took another sip of her coffee, looking through the window at the main piazza. Laid with a series of circular stones, the square was surrounded on all sides by tall Italian buildings, their façades beautifully painted in pastels, and their black iron balconies filled with flowering plants. On the far end of the square, past the huge, knobbled trees planted in rows, was the impressive church of San Giovanni Battista. The sun was rising over its roof, finally filling the square with light. It bounced off the bricks where they’d been washed by the café workers that morning.
Grabbing the mouse, she clicked on her email account. The unread messages loaded; the usual marketing emails from shops and services, plus a few strange spams that had evaded detection. In the middle of them all was a message from her sister Juliet, asking how she was enjoying her time in Varenna. Cesca scanned the words quickly. Juliet was living in Maryland with her husband, Thomas, and their daughter, Poppy. Cesca wrinkled her nose – none of the Shakespeare sisters had really taken to their brother-in-law, in spite of the whirlwind romance between him and Juliet.
Her sister’s description of Poppy’s latest escapades made Cesca smile, though. At six years old, she was the spitting image of Juliet and was always getting into scrapes. This time she’d managed to fly over the handlebars of her bike as she was learning to ride it. Luckily she’d managed to sustain only a few scrapes and scabs.
A wave of homesickness passed over her. Though her sisters were scattered far and wide, there was something about living in London that made her feel close to them. Growing up, the four of them had been a team, taking care of each other. It was the Shakespeare sisters against the world.
Now, though, she was the only one left in London. And though they kept in contact, it wasn’t the same. All three of her sisters seemed to have their lives sorted. Kitty was settled in LA, and Juliet was setting up her own business – a flower shop. As for Lucy, she was the most secure of them all, a high-flying solicitor living in the beautiful city of Edinburgh.
Cesca opened up a new window, intending to write an email to her godfather. She had considered calling him, but the likelihood was she’d either scream at him and make him upset, or he’d talk her around with his sugar-coated tongue, making her wonder why she thought she had a problem in the first place. Neither option seemed very palatable right now. Instead she typed his name into the recipient box, then moved her cursor down to the main body of the email, hesitating as she tried to work out what she wanted to say.
Should she ask him to buy her a ticket home? Cesca wrinkled her nose, remembering that she had nowhere to live when she went back. Giving up her flat share with Susie had seemed like a good idea at the time. So that would mean moving back in with her father – at least for a while – and that thought didn’t feel very acceptable at all. Not that her father wasn’t lovely, in his absent-minded way, but even he would notice there was something wrong with her, that she couldn’t actually hold down a job or find money for little things like food and rent. No, there was no way she wanted to go home to that.
What were the alternatives, though? She knew her sisters or Hugh would take her in, but she wasn’t a child any more. She had to stand on her own two feet. It was either go back to London, or stay here. She couldn’t afford to move out of Villa Palladino; she didn’t have enough money to pay the exorbitant rates charged by hotels here by Lake Como.
Ugh, what a choice. Cesca felt as though she was bobbing somewhere in between the devil and the deep blue sea, desperately trying not to drown. Either she returned to London with her tail between her legs, or she s
tayed here in Varenna and put up with the existence of her nemesis, all while attempting to write a play for the first time in six years.
The café was starting to fill up, the rickety tables in front of the window becoming populated by a combination of tourists and locals. Not that Varenna contained the regular sort of tourist. Lake Como was well known for its rich visitors; a mixture of the wealthy and famous rented or owned the lakeside villas, and descended upon the village in the summer. Prosperity reigned here, the visitors wearing expensive clothes and designer sunglasses, their burnished skins revealing the effects of years of sun worshipping.
‘Is this seat taken?’ Cesca looked up to see a tall man standing next to the table. For a moment, with his dark hair and chiselled jaw, she thought it was Sam. She opened her mouth to tell him where to go before realising it was simply another stranger.
‘No, please feel free.’ Cesca gestured at the chair opposite. She switched off the computer screen and moved her notepad, attempting to make some space on the table for the man.
‘Don’t clear up on my account.’ He shot her a smile. ‘I’m only stopping for a quick coffee.’
Ah, he was a local. She could tell from the hint of an accent in his words, although his pronunciation was almost perfect. She let her eyes meet his, taking in the tanned skin covered with a hint of a beard, framing his full red lips and sharp cheekbones.
‘I was leaving anyway,’ Cesca replied, flustered at her reaction. ‘I just need to get the bill.’
‘Please don’t go. Let me buy you another coffee, keep me company.’
His manners were as sophisticated as the rest of him. He was wearing dark trousers and a white shirt, open at the neck to reveal a smattering of hair across the very top of his chest.
‘Um . . . ’ Cesca hesitated. She’d had a few conversations with strangers since she’d come to Varenna, but none as good-looking as this.