by Carrie Elks
Cesca glanced up, her eyes glassy. She frowned, not quite able to focus on his face. Trying to scramble up from her knees, she managed to fall forward, arms outstretched as she tumbled against him. She was surprisingly strong for such a petite girl, the force of her full weight winding him. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around her, his hands pressed against her back, as he tried to stop the both of them tumbling to the ground.
For a moment she was still. He could feel her chest hitching against his. Her lips were close to his neck, her warm breath fanning his skin. Only a few inches more and her soft mouth would be pressing against him.
Her palms pushed against his chest as she tried to lever herself away. Looking down, he could see the expression on her face, her pure shock mirroring his own.
‘Get off me,’ she muttered. It was as though she had no strength. A moment after trying to move out of his embrace, she gave up, collapsing back onto his chest.
‘I think you’ll find you’re the one on me.’ He couldn’t disguise the amusement in his voice. ‘You keep throwing yourself at me. Literally.’ All the anger he’d felt earlier was forgotten. Replaced by a kind of schadenfreude at her predicament. ‘You’re drunk, aren’t you?’
She struggled in his arms again. This time she managed to dig an elbow into his ribs. It was surprisingly painful, and he instinctively released her in order to grab at his chest, making Cesca once again fall to her knees.
‘Shit,’ she muttered, her hair falling over her face. Through the blonde veil he could see her eyes still shining, her cheeks still flushed. ‘You dropped me, you arse.’
A rumble of a laugh formed deep in his abdomen. The absurdity of the situation was going a long way to take his mind off the pain in his ribs. There was something so comical about the way she was sprawled on the floor, yet still as feral as a cornered animal.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ she demanded. The cadence of her voice had been slowed by the wine. ‘Because there’s nothing funny about this.’
But there was. Here was Sam, hiding away from the world in his parents’ villa, towering over the tiny spitfire who unabashedly hated his guts. It was almost Shakespearian in its drama, making Sam the fallen hero who was finally having to deal with his nemesis, in the form of Cesca Shakespeare, the pretty, furious, playwright who just couldn’t write.
The laughter that erupted from his lips sounded almost alien to him. He cocked his head, frowning, attempting to work out why it sounded so different. It was only after he pondered on it for a minute that he realised the answer: he hadn’t laughed so genuinely in a long, long while.
When he was a small child, giggles were as easy as breathing. There were no expectations, no judgements, and no revelations to muffle the sound. Of course he’d laughed in the past six years, he was an actor after all, but even the act of smiling when he was in LA had a control that was lacking here in Varenna.
Right now, he was Sam the boy who grew up in this villa. Not Sam the adult who had failed so completely in living up to everybody’s expectations.
‘Oh, it’s funny,’ he managed to say between paroxysms. ‘In fact it’s goddamn hilarious.’
The corner of her lip twitched. It was the smallest of movements, but it caught his eye all the same. He could see the struggle behind her gaze as she tried to stop the amusement from rising, her attempts at stifling it slowly losing out.
Then she was laughing, too. A giggly-hiccupy sort of laugh that made her whole torso double over. She collapsed back on the floor, her bottom hitting the marble tiles, as she hid her face behind her tanned hands.
‘This is all your fault,’ she spluttered. ‘You mojo-stealing, house-invading, good-looking bastard.’
Even her insults were backhandedly amusing. Her eyes were screwed up, her chest rising and falling with every gulp of laughter, her arms flailing as she once again attempted to scramble to her feet.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d told him he was good-looking. Wisely, he decided not to comment on it at that moment. Something to store up and use later, when the time was right.
Cesca slipped as she rose to her feet, the alcohol stealing any sense of balance, and Sam automatically reached out to steady her. This time she let him, failing to pull away from his hold, her body pressing heavily against his.
‘Let’s get you to your room, OK?’ he whispered, the laughter disappearing as suddenly as it arrived. ‘You can sleep it off, that’s the best thing.’
Cesca didn’t protest. Instead she let him half-carry her to the staircase, and carefully lead her up the steps. He had to pause more than once when the effort got too much for her and she became unsteady on her feet. When they reached the top, he breathed a sigh of relief, leading her through the door to her bedroom, where she collapsed onto the king-size bed. It seemed as though she was asleep before her body hit the mattress. Sam stood there, looking at her in her skirt and top, wondering if he should just leave her like that, or take away the hazard that the layers of fabric could impose.
He hesitated. Cesca already hated his guts. If she woke up in the morning wearing only a bra and panties, God only knew what kind of fury she would unleash. He was in enough trouble already, he really didn’t need any more.
Even unconscious, Cesca was definitely trouble.
Pulling the covers across her still-clothed body, he took a final look at her face. An expression of peacefulness had stolen the derision that usually crafted her features whenever he was around, and it transformed her appearance completely. For the first time he could see a resemblance to that eighteen-year-old kid he could barely remember, the one whose face lit up whenever she talked about her play. The memory constricted his chest, a strange taste of regret coating his tongue, and he had to swallow hard to take it away.
Had he done this? Been the one to steal away her happiness, her hopes, and her big dream? The thought was like a black cloud in his mind. No wonder she hated him so much.
Turning away, he left her bedroom, walking down the hallway until he reached his own. And as he readied himself for bed he had to fight the urge to stare at himself in the mirror, to berate the man who was staring back. He was a fuck-up, pure and simple. A Midas in negative. The need to make amends took hold of his mind. But what on earth could he do?
There was no point in entertaining the idea of saving her. He couldn’t even save himself.
11
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players
– As You Like It
Oh. My. God.
She was never drinking again. Not even the gorgeous red wine that the Carltons kept in the pantry, the one that tasted more like heaven than anything she’d ever come across. The pounding in her head was like a thousand tiny men using pickaxes against her skull, digging, digging, digging until tears formed in her eyes.
As for the nausea, well that was almost unbearable. The cheese and wine she’d eaten last night seemed to have joined forces, mixing together in her stomach to form an evil cocktail. Cesca lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes to the morning light, wishing she’d turned down the final bottle when Cristiano had opened it.
She licked her dry lips, trying to remember what happened after she left the beach. Cracking open her left eye, she took in enough of her surroundings to realise she had at least made it back to her own bedroom, and was thankfully alone.
Yep, definitely never drinking again.
The problem was, she barely drank any alcohol when she was living back in London. She couldn’t afford it, and whenever she had any money the thought of a packet of tea bags and a chocolate bar always seemed more enticing than the rows of bottles stacked up on the shelves. Even when Gabi and Alessandro were here, she barely drank more than a third of a bottle of wine. Slow and steady had been her way for the first few weeks.
Not any more, apparently.
Rolling onto her side, she put her hand on her belly in an attempt to soothe it. Her abdomen felt hard and distended, her muscle
s aching from the constant cramping. Cesca took a deep breath, her thoughts returning to the previous night. She remembered falling over on the sand, then walking back up to the house. Did she go straight to bed after that, or did she hang around downstairs? Oh Jesus, Sam didn’t see her in that state, did he?
The memory of her encounter with Sam rose up from the depths of her brain, image by embarrassing image. Had she really thrown herself at him, multiple times? Ugh. The arrogant bastard.
If she could bear to move her hands from her stomach, she’d be burying her face in them right now. Especially when she remembered him almost carrying her upstairs and putting her to bed. Gingerly lifting up the bedcovers, she looked at her body underneath, breathing a sigh of relief when she noted she was still fully clothed. At least she had that final scrap of dignity to hold onto, shredded as it was.
There was a loud buzz in the hallway, as somebody called the villa from the entrance gate. Cesca froze, remembering it was cleaning day, and the crew would be waiting for her to let them in to blitz the house. It took a force of will to push herself out of the bed and stand up without wanting to double over in pain. She reached out and leaned on the whitewashed walls, closing her eyes and taking in small gulps of air.
She could do this. All it needed was to walk downstairs and press the button to open the gate. The crew knew what they were doing, she could just let them have the run of the place. She shuffled out of her bedroom, careful not to make any sudden movements that might end in a pool of vomit.
The stairs were the hardest part. She managed to slowly walk down them, only having to pause once to steady herself, and swallow down the pain. By the time she made it to the security box in the hallway, it felt as though she was almost in control of herself.
‘Yes?’ she asked through the intercom, her voice cracked.
The gabbled Italian reply, coupled with the video screen of the cleaning van, told her all she needed to know. Cesca buzzed the cleaners in, then sat down heavily on the hall chair, dropping her head into her hands.
‘I thought you might want this.’
Sam was standing in front of her, holding a glass of water. In his other hand was a packet of Advil. He gave her the glass, then popped out two pills. Cesca was too surprised to do anything other than take them from him, swallowing them one at a time.
‘Thank you?’ It came out as a question. If she’d been feeling more like herself she’d probably interrogate him, or accuse him of trying to poison her. Instead she felt a warmth in her chest, one that seemed to pacify her swirling stomach.
‘We’ve all been there,’ Sam said, taking the empty glass of water from her. ‘Why don’t you go back to bed? You look like hell.’
‘Thanks.’ Once she was feeling better, she really needed to work on her repartee.
‘It wasn’t really a compliment.’
‘I didn’t take it as one. I know I look terrible. I should. It’s my own fault anyway.’
Sam wrinkled his nose. ‘Nah, we can blame the wine.’
‘Yeah, because it jumped right out of the bottle and into my mouth.’ In spite of her headache, she felt the corners of her mouth turn up.
‘That damn Chianti, it’s got a mind of its own. Should be banned, it’s a dangerous substance.’
‘Shouldn’t you be lording it over me?’ she asked. ‘After all, you don’t like me, and you have every right to tell me off for getting drunk and then being hung-over on the job.’
‘You’re not an equal adversary right now. I’ll wait until you’re feeling better to make you feel bad.’
‘That’s very gentlemanly of you.’
‘I aim to please.’ He flashed her an unexpected smile. ‘Now get back to bed, you look awful and you stink.’
‘I can’t, the cleaners are here. I need to supervise them.’
‘I’ll do it. Please go back to bed.’
She would have narrowed her eyes, but it hurt too much. ‘Why are you being so kind?’
Sam sighed. ‘Look, I know we got off to the worst start, and I know we’re never going to get along, but the fact of the matter is, for at least the next few weeks we have to find a way to live together. You’re not well, and I’m here with nothing much to do, and it makes sense for me to take over. So please go back to bed and sleep it off.’
‘I owe you one,’ she replied. ‘If I ever feel better I’ll try and make it up to you.’
That made the corner of his lip twitch, but he ignored her offer anyway. ‘Go on, get off with you. If you’re not up by this evening I’ll come in and check on you. Otherwise, get some sleep, have a shower, and smarten yourself up.’
‘Yes, sir.’ If she had more than a basic control of her muscles she would have curtsied. Instead she used the small amount of energy she had to climb up the stairs to her bedroom.
Maybe when she was feeling better she’d try to work out Sam’s motivations, why he’d been so accommodating to her. For now, though, she’d just be grateful for them, wherever they came from.
It was early afternoon when Cesca made it out of bed the second time. She stepped under the rainfall shower, letting the stream of water soothe her aching muscles. Though a trace of her headache remained, the incessant nausea had disappeared, replaced by a nagging hunger that demanded to be fed. She ignored it, instead concentrating on getting dressed, styling her hair and putting on a dash of make-up. Scrutinising herself in the mirror, she was surprised at how healthy she looked after what she’d managed to put her body through the previous night.
She’d let herself down. Again. That’s what it all came down to in the end. As with her life in London, she’d let herself be carried away, not bothering to take control of her own decisions. It had to stop. She’d thought it already had. That was what coming here was about, after all. And even if things at the villa had been slightly set awry by the arrival of Sam Carlton, that didn’t mean she needed to deviate from her plans.
That’s how she found herself sitting in the silent library that afternoon, in front of the old computer there, staring at the blank screen. The cursor was winking at her from behind the glass, taunting, or maybe hoping.
Writing used to be so easy. The pads of her fingers would move almost instinctively from key to key, forming words without her having to really think them. Like a pianist playing by ear, she would let her movements do the talking.
But now, it was as if she was tone deaf.
She looked at the handwritten notes beside her. Character sketches and plot ideas. They were all there, waiting as patiently as the cursor. She had the bones, she just needed to add the flesh.
‘What if it’s no good?’ she whispered to herself. But no, that wasn’t it at all. Her biggest fear was the opposite. What if it was too good? What if it was the best thing she’d ever write? Could she bear to lose it again, to see all her hard work turn to nothing, like it did six years ago?
Glancing up, she saw a photograph of Sam on the library wall. He was laughing with two young girls – his sisters – looking as gloriously handsome as ever. She waited for the familiar anger to hit, but nothing came. Instead all she felt was peace.
It had never been Sam’s fault, not really. Deep down she’d always known that. Plays folded all the time, it was the chance everybody took when they gave their heart to the theatre. The only person stopping Cesca writing was herself. And she’d been doing it for six years.
She closed her eyes to take a deep breath in. Her heart was speeding in her chest. And with her eyes still firmly shut, she let her fingers drift across the keyboard, pressing down in a rhythm only she seemed to know. Then, still holding her breath, she slowly opened her eyes to see the words written on the screen before her.
ACT 1
SCENE 1
Opens on the interior of a run-down but wealthy house. Four sisters are sitting in a kitchen, all wearing mourning clothes.
Cesca’s breathing was laboured as she added in the first lines. Through their dialogue, the four sisters slowly came to li
fe, each word like a breath, inflating their lungs. And then her fingers were flying, like a musician approaching the crescendo, as the long-dormant part of her brain took over.
Though she was hungry, and still a little weak from the morning’s hangover, she found herself typing furiously, stopping occasionally to scribble down ideas on the pad beside the computer. When the ideas refused to surface, she carried on typing anyway, putting in nonsense that no doubt she’d need to cut out when she did her first run of edits. But the process of writing, of actually placing the pads of her fingers on the keys and tapping them, of watching the words form in front of her eyes, it was enticing. Addictive even.
Cesca was exhilarated. It was as though she had been transported from that pretty villa in Varenna back to London, to an old, dusty theatre, with huge red stage curtains and threadbare velvet seats. She was watching her characters interact, jibe, fall in love, and it was beautiful.
As the day wore out its welcome, and the evening slipped its backdrop down over the sky, she carried on typing, breathless and inspired. If she’d stopped to think, maybe she’d have marvelled at how things had changed so much in a few hours. How a day that had started out so badly had turned into something quite wonderful. But she was far too absorbed for that.
Sam waved the cleaners off at lunchtime. They were supremely efficient, removing every piece of dust from the floors and furniture. A couple of them recognised him, two young girls who stood in the corner, unashamedly gossiping until their boss shouted at them to get back to work. Sam tried to ignore it; he was used to interested speculation after all, but this time he felt a tug in his gut as he wondered whether they’d heard about him and Serena Sloane. Thank God Cesca couldn’t speak Italian; the last thing he needed was for her to discover the sordid details of his affair. She wouldn’t let him hear the end of it.
While the cleaners buffed and polished the inside of the villa, and the gardeners cut and tidied the grounds, Sam grabbed his copy of E. M. Forster and headed out into the gardens, lying in the beautiful Italian sun while he read about early-twentieth-century lives.