by Carrie Elks
Naturally, his mind drifted to Cesca, and to her reaction to him. He and Cesca were both in Italy for different reasons, yet they’d been thrown together in the same house, coming into contact with each other again and again. Wary housemates, tiptoeing around until the summer ended.
And then what? Sam wasn’t really sure. There was no doubt about it, he was hiding here, and had no real game plan after that. All he could hope was that after the summer he would have disappeared from the headlines, and he could get on with acting, instead of dodging paparazzi. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? To just be left alone to get on with his job. He tried to ignore the voice in his head – the one that sounded suspiciously like his recently fired agent – telling him that wasn’t how the movie industry worked. Deep inside he knew the truth of that. Good acting didn’t sell movies, as much as he’d like to believe it, but publicity did. People would only swarm to see a movie if they’d heard of it, and having his face out there was guaranteed to ensure people came to see Sam.
It was a game he was tired of playing, though, especially since he’d been burned.
Just after four, he wandered back into the house, grabbing an ice-cold can from the refrigerator. Gulping it down, he went back into the hallway and up the stairs, deciding to check that Cesca hadn’t somehow choked on her own vomit or died in her sleep. Pushing open her bedroom door, he was surprised to see her bed was empty, the covers pushed down at the end of the bed, crumpled and creased. Tilting his head he listened out for her shower, but that, too, lay silent.
She was up then. He hadn’t seen her when he walked through the living room and hallway, and into the kitchen, but he couldn’t believe she was well enough to go out. Not unless somebody had helped her. He thought about that guy living in the villa next door, the one who had made her laugh then made her drunk, and his stomach contracted. Sam hoped to hell she hadn’t disappeared with him, not after the way he’d treated her last night.
When he made it back downstairs, Sam checked all the rooms again, scratching his head when they were devoid of her presence. He was about to wander down to the beach to see if she really was with the guy next door, when he heard some noise coming from his father’s study. The door was slightly ajar, and when he looked through the gap Sam breathed out softly. There was Cesca, sitting at his father’s desk in front of the computer, her reading glasses slipping down her nose as she typed furiously. She had a distant expression, as if her thoughts were miles from here. She was so intent on whatever she was writing that she didn’t even notice Sam standing there.
He noticed her, though. She looked nothing like the hungover, bedraggled girl of this morning, or the screaming woman he’d first encountered that night at the gate. This Cesca looked altogether different; more composed and yet softer. Even the sunlight seemed to agree, bouncing off her blonde hair like a halo, illuminating her as she worked.
It was hard to ignore her energy and fervency. She was like a magnet, and he felt drawn to her excitement, as though their magnetic poles had switched and were now dragging him in.
Sam curled his fingers around the door jamb. He wasn’t sure if it was to steady himself or to stop himself walking in. There was no way he wanted to disturb her, not when she was deep within whatever zone she’d managed to find, but there was something inside him that ached to feel that same powerful emotion. It reminded him of when he was acting, and the character inside him took on a life of its own. Like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, you just had to stand back, admire, and wonder where it came from.
Cesca paused for a moment, picking up a pen and tapping it against her lips. Sam held his breath, still not wanting to be spotted, or destroy the mojo she claimed he’d destroyed before. Whatever she was writing about was captivating her, and a part of him ached to know what it was. The moment passed, and she returned to typing, as Sam quietly turned around and left the hallway, his thoughts still with the girl at his father’s desk.
He knew the password to that computer. It was his mother’s birthday followed by Varenna. Something simple that nobody would forget. Perhaps he’d use the computer himself that night, and if he happened to stumble across Cesca’s document, that would be a real coincidence, wouldn’t it?
At least, that was the lie he was telling himself.
12
To sleep, perchance to dream
– Hamlet
Cesca barely slept that night. Her thoughts were consumed by her play. Every time she closed her eyes she could hear her characters talking, see them moving, and her inner voice started adding in stage directions until all restfulness disappeared. She’d forgotten about this part of writing. The way you couldn’t switch off, and how the characters demanded you listen, even when your body was exhausted. If she’d remembered she might have brought a notepad to bed with her, ready to scribble any ideas that came in the night. Instead she only had a glass of water and a battered old romance novel she’d been trying to read ever since she’d arrived in Italy.
Every time one of the characters spoke, it was as though she was hearing her sisters’ voices. For a moment she was back in that draughty Hampstead house, the four of them flying around the echoing corridors, shouting at each other when they couldn’t find their homework, or their favourite lipstick.
The nostalgia tasted like metal in her mouth. She yearned for them all, missed being constantly surrounded by her family. Though it was years since Lucy and Juliet left home, quickly followed by Cesca herself, she found herself longing to be back in the kitchen, boiling the kettle for a brew.
Maybe that’s why her characters were shouting so loudly in her brain.
There was nothing else she could do; she was going to have to get up and go downstairs to grab her notebook. Clambering out of bed, she snatched a robe to cover up her bare limbs; in this weather wearing only shorts and a vest top was the best way to get some sleep. Knotting the belt around her waist, she made her way out of her bedroom, her bare feet padding across the marble floor. The villa felt eerily quiet, even more so than usual. As she walked downstairs, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, Cesca found herself wrapping her arms around her torso.
There was a pale yellow light coming from the library, forming a rectangular halo around the closed door. Cesca frowned, stopping just shy of the entrance, cocking her head to see if she could hear sounds coming from within. Was Sam still up? For some reason that made Cesca’s heart stutter. She hadn’t bothered password protecting her play, she didn’t think anybody else was going to be using the computer. Until a few days ago, she was the only one in the house anyway.
Not that she could imagine Sam would be interested in her play. After all, he’d shown such little regard for her last one that he’d walked out on opening night. He was too self-absorbed to care about what anybody else was doing, too caught up in being a movie star. The writings of some nobody from London wouldn’t even register on his radar.
She took a deep breath. She should just go in there, grab her notebook, and check on what he was up to. He was probably just playing around, Googling himself or something.
With a burst of energy she managed to push the door open and step inside the library, but that’s where she stopped. Sam was sitting at the desk, wearing only pyjama bottoms, his torso bare and glinting in the moonlight. It was impossible to ignore the sculpted lines of his chest, or the way his bicep muscles bulged as his fingers hit the keypad. Cesca felt her mouth turn dry as she stared at him, unable to tear her eyes away.
Out of principle she’d never watched any of his movies, and when he’d been rehearsing for her play he’d remained fully dressed. Even since they’d been here together in Varenna, he’d been wearing T-shirts and shirts. She’d never imagined what lay beneath his clothes was quite so . . . beautiful.
Damn, was there no end to his outward perfection?
When he looked up, Cesca quickly dragged her gaze away, fiddling at her robe with busy fingers. ‘I came to get my notebook.’ She spotted it on the desk next to
him. All she needed to do was walk forward and grab it, but for some reason her muscles refused to comply.
Sam turned the screen off. Was it Cesca’s imagination, or did he have a guilty expression on his face?
‘You couldn’t sleep either?’ he asked. When she finally met his gaze she could see the warmth of his face where the desk lamp lit it, and the softness of his eyes. The easy arrogance she was so used to was gone.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been that good at sleeping. I can doze off OK, but then I wake up in the middle of the night with a thousand things on my mind. It’s like somebody forgot to flick the off switch.’ Why was she telling him this?
‘I know that feeling.’
‘I thought if I could just write things on my notepad, then maybe I could wind down enough to drift off again.’
Sam nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. My therapist always suggested keeping a journal and a pen by my bed.’
She wasn’t sure what was more surprising: the fact he had a therapist, or him actually admitting to it. It wasn’t a very British thing to do. But then, Sam wasn’t very British, was he?
‘Did you follow his suggestion?’
‘I did for a while. But I’m OK now.’
‘OK is good.’
‘Sometimes it is.’ The corner of his lips arched into a smile.
Their conversation was making Cesca feel uncomfortable yet warm at the same time.
‘I’ve never had therapy,’ she told him. ‘A few people suggested it after my mother died. But I didn’t want to go there. And then when the play bombed, I thought about it again but couldn’t afford it.’
Sam’s smile faltered, the guilty look returning again. ‘Couldn’t you get it paid for by the government?’
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t in a bad enough way. My godfather offered to pay, but by then I wasn’t easily persuaded. I thought I could handle things all by myself.’
‘You must have done something right,’ Sam said. ‘Because here you are.’
‘Here I am.’ She decided not to go deeper. ‘And now I really should go back to bed.’ Though Cesca wanted to stay, to grill him about his therapy and find out what the hell he had to talk about with a counsellor, she knew she shouldn’t. Every encounter, every conversation, was making her doubt what she’d believed for the past six years. That Sam Carlton was a bastard, someone who only cared about himself.
‘Sounds sensible. I won’t be far behind you.’ She could almost feel him pulling away from her.
Cesca nodded, then turned around to leave.
‘Don’t forget your notebook.’ He held it out to her.
‘I need my pen, too.’
‘Of course you do.’ Sam grabbed it from the desk, then offered them both to her. For a moment, when she took it, he still held on to the other end. There was only an inch between their fingertips. His hand was so much bigger than hers, the tendons beneath his skin defined and sinewy. She tried not to remember how he’d caught her and held on tight the night before.
‘Good night, Sam.’
‘Sweet dreams.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
Sam switched the screen back on. He was only halfway through her script, but what he’d read was engrossing, enough for him to want to see the rest. There were thirty pages in there, full of elegant dialogue and descriptive stage directions, all leading up to the end of the first act.
He’d read plays before, of course, acted in them at drama school. And for the past six years he was rarely without at least a couple of movie scripts, weighing up the offers, working out which ones to go for. He knew a good story when he read it, one that kept you coming back for more, one that made you desperate to play the lead character. Cesca’s first play had been like that, the role of Daniel grabbing him from the first scene, and when he’d been cast in the play Sam had been ecstatic.
That was all before Foster’s revelation, of course. The rest, sadly, was his messed-up history.
The play was good. Really good. Full of emotion and drama, and almost perfect dialogue. Some of the stage directions needed polishing, and he could see typos and some areas to clean up, but apart from that, her talent shone through. How had she managed to hide it away for six years? There weren’t many people who managed to write such a beautiful first draft. In Hollywood most scripts he’d seen had been written over months or years, and by a team of writers, not a single person. Sam breathed out softly, wondering if what she’d said was true, if Cesca’s writer’s block really had come because of his thoughtless actions.
His eye was caught by a silver-framed photograph of Sam and his sisters. They were playing down at the private beach, laughing their heads off as their mother emerged bedraggled from the water. He could remember that moment so well. They’d spent the day by the lake with his mother and her best friend. For some reason he couldn’t remember now, Sam had decided it would be fun to throw his mother in the water, his growing teenage body able to lift her up without much struggle.
But it wasn’t that moment that stayed in his mind, it was what happened afterwards. His body tensed at the memory, before he chased it out of his mind. He wasn’t going to think about that now.
Looking up, he reached for the mouse, highlighting a badly written stage direction and correcting the words. Tracked changes were on, revealing his interference, but at that point he didn’t care. He’d save it in another file. She’d never have to know he read it. Not unless she wanted to.
He was a fucked up mess, but he knew what read well, and Cesca’s play could be almost perfect, with a little polish.
Maybe it was a kind of atonement to help her achieve that.
13
The lady doth protest too much
– Hamlet
‘It’s a baby girl.’ Gabi’s voice was joyful as it echoed down the telephone line. ‘She’s so beautiful, Cesca, like a tiny doll. She has ten perfect toes and ten lovely fingers, and everything about her is wonderful.’
Cesca smiled, standing in the telephone box and staring out through the dirty, scratched glass. After yesterday’s hangover, she’d decided to get out of the villa this morning and take a refreshing walk up to the village square. It would give her the opportunity to call Gabi as she’d promised to once a week, and then to catch up on her emails to her family and Hugh.
Putting distance between herself and Sam was also a factor, though not one she admitted to herself. But ever since last night, and their discussion about therapy, she’d felt a wave of discomfort come over her. As though it was the middle of winter and somebody had stolen her blanket, leaving her to freeze on a hard mattress. It made her want to curl into a ball.
‘That’s fantastic, congratulations to you all. I’m so happy for you.’ The news of Alessandro’s sister’s new baby was an antidote to all the angst of the previous few days. Selfishly, it also meant that Gabi and Alessandro would be able to return home in a couple of weeks, which could put an end to the stifled closeness of living with Sam Carlton. ‘What’s her name?’
‘She is called Vittoria, after Alessandro’s mother. Such a pretty name for a pretty girl.’
‘And is she sleeping much?’
‘Not at all.’ Gabi sounded insanely happy about that. ‘So we are all doing our bit at nights. I get the two a.m. to ten a.m. shift.’
‘And you like that?’
‘What’s not to like about cuddling a baby? Especially a beautiful one like Vittoria.’ Gabi’s sigh was full of contentment. ‘Anyway, enough about our wonderful news, tell me how things are going at the villa?’
Where to start? ‘Well, Sam Carlton arrived unexpectedly.’
‘Sam is there?’ Gabi’s voice rose two octaves. ‘Oh my goodness, we didn’t know he was coming. Oh Cesca, we should come home right away, he will need looking after.’
Was there anybody who didn’t run around him, fulfilling his every need? Apart from Cesca, that was. What was it about him, anyway?
She thought about the
way he looked in the moonlight last night and rolled her eyes. Even she wasn’t immune to his charms.
‘He’s fine, he doesn’t need looking after. I’ve bought him some food and he wants to be quiet and left alone. He even supervised the cleaning staff for me yesterday.’
She could almost hear Gabi’s smile in her voice. ‘He’s always been such a lovely man. So kind and helpful.’
‘Um, yeah.’
‘But are you sure we shouldn’t come back? When Mrs Carlton said we could have some time off, she didn’t tell me about Sam coming to Varenna.’
‘I don’t think she knows,’ Cesca said. ‘He wants to keep his presence here a secret. Said he wants to get away from everything for a few days.’
‘Well that’s understandable after everything he’s been through.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m not one to gossip,’ Gabi said, ‘but it must be so hard for him being followed by photographers all the time. And the lies they make up about him, well it’s terrible.’
‘What lies?’ She held the phone closer to her ear.
Gabi’s reply was drowned out by the loud wail of a baby. ‘I’m so sorry, Cesca, the baby has just woken up. I need to change her. Can you call me back another time?’
The piercing wails were making Cesca wince. ‘OK, I’ll call you again on Friday.’ She had to shout to be heard over the cries. ‘Take care of yourself, and try to get some sleep.’
‘Oh I will.’ Still sounding absurdly happy, Gabi bade her farewell.
Cesca hung the phone back on its cradle, and leaned her head on the glass, thinking about Gabi’s words. What lies was she talking about? For a moment, she thought about going back into the café and Googling him, but somehow it felt dirty. She’d been on the receiving end of gossip a few times herself – she knew how much it hurt.