‘You mean there’ll be more towers?’
‘Oh, absolutely – lots more towers. You can’t move in Tuscany for towers. We can go up the tower of the Duomo.’
‘Ooh, me knees,’ said Cat.
‘I think there’s a lift for old age pensioners like you.’ Adam grinned. ‘But you might have to prove you’re over sixty before they’ll let you use it.’
‘Stop calling me an old age pensioner.’
‘Well, you’re not far off – how old did you say you were that time we had a drink in Walthamstow?’
‘You watch yourself,’ growled Cat.
‘Or you’ll do what?’
‘You wait and see.’
‘Yeah, right – I’m scared.’
‘You ought to be.’ Cat hit him with a pillow, a very heavy, hard Italian pillow, and it knocked him flat on to his back.
He grabbed her as he toppled backwards.
She collapsed on top of him, convulsed with fits of giggles.
‘I’ll show you,’ he muttered.
‘Show me what?’
They didn’t get up again for half an hour or more.
Cat decided Italy was magical, that it must be enchanted.
Lucca was most certainly a city made for lovers. She knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t have felt the way she’d felt last night – the way she still felt now – in any other place.
She could not imagine living here and not being happy. No wonder Mrs Gallo, who was the cleaning lady at Chapman’s Architectural Salvage, always looked fed up. She’d been born in Tuscany, but now she lived in Walthamstow.
‘What’s next, after Italy?’ she asked, as they drove out of Lucca. ‘Where will you be working?’
‘I’ll still be in Dorset for a couple of days a week. I have some stuff to do in Cornwall, too. But then I’m going to Scotland.’
‘What will you do in Scotland?’
‘I’ll be working on a very grand Victorian castle thirty miles from Aberdeen. Or rather it was grand a hundred years or more ago, but now it’s falling down. A businessman from Surrey saw it while he was on holiday up there. Now he’s decided he wants to be a laird.’
Adam glanced at Cat and made a face. ‘Mr Portland and his wife are loaded. I think he made his money in casinos and now he has a chain of betting shops. They live in a modern house near Guildford which was built for them. They showed me round. They’ve got a billiard room, a gym, a cinema, a Hawaiian cocktail lounge, an indoor swimming pool shaped like the ace of clubs, chandeliers in almost all the rooms, gold plating everywhere.’
‘Ooh, it sounds divine.’
‘I know it’s going to be difficult to get them to agree to sympathetic restoration of a crumbling Scottish castle. The last time I spoke to Mr Portland, he told me Mrs Portland wants a luxury Jacuzzi on the roof and she’d like a swimming pool with underwater lighting and mosaics of their children and their dogs. She’s insisting all replacement window frames are made of PVC, because her brother’s in the trade and he can do a special deal for them. She’s ordered double glazing made to look like Tudor latticing.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to talk them out of stupid stuff like that.’
‘Maybe, Cat – I hope so, anyway. But Mrs Portland’s clearly used to having her own way, and Mr Portland listens to his wife.’
‘If the castle’s listed, she can’t have PVC. Adam, you don’t sound very keen on them.’
‘I’m keen to do this job.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s a long term project. I’ll be paid a lot of money. So, after I’ve finished with the Portlands and their castle, I should have the capital to rent some premises, an office, yard and stuff. I’ll start employing other people and building up my business.’
‘You’ll be the king of project managers.’
‘Yeah, that’s the plan.’
‘I hope it all works out, then.’
‘I do, too,’ said Adam. ‘Cat, look over there – do you see that hilltop village, with the tower and houses clustered round it?’
‘Yes,’ said Cat.
‘What about us stopping there for coffee?’
‘Do we get to climb the tower?’
‘If you like,’ said Adam.
‘Lovely,’ Cat replied, as she told her knees to stop complaining and assured them they were up to it.
After they had climbed the tower, they found a café shaded with a trellis of white roses which dropped their scented petals on the tables, in their coffee, in their hair.
But Cat found this romantic rather than annoying, and so – apparently – did all the other tourists in the place. The café seemed to cast a spell on them.
The chinkle of the crockery, the muted buzz of genial conversation between friends and lovers, the fragrant fumes of always-excellent Italian coffee, the feeling that she didn’t want for anything, that she had all she needed and would ever need – surely this was happiness distilled?
She wished she had a magic flask so she could bottle this, what was it, atmosphere? Then she would be able to sip it or inhale it whenever times got hard, and she’d be comforted.
‘Stop here a moment, Cat,’ said Adam, after he had paid the bill and they were walking through the narrow streets back to the Fiat which was parked outside the walls. ‘Stand still – don’t smile – don’t giggle – try not to move at all.’
‘Why?’ asked Cat, intrigued.
‘I want to take your photograph against that arch with sunlight filtering down on you, with petals of white roses in your hair.’
‘God, I must look a right old mess,’ said Cat, and now she ran her fingers through her tangled curls, trying to dislodge the petals, shaking half a dozen of them free.
‘Stop,’ said Adam, catching at her wrist. ‘You look like an angel, like a spirit, with those petals in your hair.’ Then he took his photograph and slipped his camera back into his pocket.
‘Let me see?’ demanded Cat.
‘No,’ said Adam firmly. ‘If I let you see it you’ll say you look a mess and you’ll delete it, and I want to keep it.’
Fiesole was magical and lovely, as beautiful as Lucca, but a very different place.
Lucca was an ancient Roman city with mediaeval walls, built on a plain. Bicycles went hurtling along the narrow streets, and the smaller Fiats could squeeze along its slightly broader thoroughfares, but a BMW would have almost no chance. Lucca was enclosed and secret, hiding many things.
Fiesole had wider streets and open spaces but was even older, built by the Etruscans in the hills. So many of its houses clung precipitously to slopes, and from its high vantage points there were quite amazing views of the valley and the River Arno far below.
‘How are your knees?’ asked Adam as they walked along a switchback road, doing a circumnavigation of the town.
‘They’re fine,’ said Cat and told them to shut up, promising them she’d join a gym when she got back to London. ‘Adam, this is wonderful! We can see for miles and miles and miles!’
‘Do you want to see a theatre built into a hillside?’
‘Yes,’ said Cat. ‘Well, provided you’ll agree to do a song and dance routine and I can take a photograph of you looking ridiculous as well.’
‘It’s a deal,’ said Adam as he took her hand.
As they sat in a restaurant in Fiesole’s town square, eating perfect pasta and drinking Pinot Grigio – Cat was drinking most of it, she realised, for Adam had drunk one glass of wine and then he’d stuck to water – Cat realised she was happy still.
Yes, Italy itself was quite amazing.
But as for feeling happy – she knew that this was mostly down to Adam.
He was the sort of man who could make any woman happy.
Some men could p
ut up shelves. Others knew how to fix a dripping tap or build a garden wall. Adam could no doubt do all that, she thought, but his special superpower was making women happy.
So maybe it was right, and maybe it was only fair, that he didn’t tie himself to any single woman, but spread himself around? When they had a drink that time, didn’t he say he’d had a lot of girlfriends?
Yes, she thought he did.
She couldn’t believe how wrong she’d been about him the first time they had met. She’d thought he was a grumpy, surly bastard who had never learned to smile. She reflected now that if she had been soaking wet herself – and tired and overworked – she probably wouldn’t have been a little ray of sunshine, either.
She couldn’t help comparing him with Jack.
Whenever she had been in bed with Jack, he’d always needed pleasing and he’d always had demands.
After these demands had all been met, he’d fall asleep, while she’d lie in the darkness feeling thwarted, cheated, more alone than if she had been by herself.
She’d always thought she was to blame, had told herself she shouldn’t have so many unrealistic expectations – that she was very lucky to be with a man who looked like Jack.
But maybe Jack was lucky to have been with Cat?
Why hadn’t she ever thought of that before?
Adam didn’t have demands. Adam didn’t need pleasing. Adam liked to please, to make a woman feel that she was special, that she was beautiful, that she was the only woman in the world for him.
Ladies first – his mother must have drummed it into him while he was still a toddler, she decided, as she drank more wine, for which she knew she wouldn’t have to pay.
Jack was always scrounging fivers, tenners, borrowing and never paying back. But Adam wouldn’t let her put her hand into her pocket for anything at all.
He doesn’t do relationships – she kept repeating it. She kept insisting to herself that this was it, that this was all she would be getting, just one lovely, beautiful weekend.
All he had wanted was to make her smile. He’d told her so himself, and now he’d done it – God in heaven, how brilliantly he’d done it, he’d won Olympic gold – he would be moving on.
‘You’re very thoughtful, Cat,’ he said, forking up the last of his tomato pappardelle.
‘On the contrary, my mind’s a blank.’ Cat knew she was blushing like a poppy and hoped he wouldn’t notice. ‘I’m just sitting here and chilling out.’
‘You’re all right, though?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said, and smiled at him. ‘I’m full of perfect pasta. I’m sitting in a lovely restaurant with a lovely man.’ Oh God, she thought, a lovely man, that’s the Pinot Grigio talking now. I mustn’t rabbit on like this – he’ll think I’m such a fool. ‘The sun is shining, so I’m warm and comfortable and happy.’
‘Good,’ said Adam. ‘Go on being happy while you can, because it never lasts.’
She realised she was being warned.
So she was surprised when later, after they had spent a lovely afternoon in Florence, after they’d had dinner in Lucca, after they’d made love – she couldn’t bring herself to say had sex, she would never demean what they’d just done by saying they’d had sex – instead of rolling over on his side and going straight to sleep, as Jack would certainly have done, Adam sat up and said they had to talk.
‘What about?’ asked Cat.
‘You and me, of course,’ said Adam.
‘What is there to say?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Cat!’ Adam’s dark eyes narrowed as he frowned. He gave Cat a gentle but insistent little shake. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘You mean tomorrow?’
‘Of course I mean tomorrow, and the next day, and—’
‘Do we have to talk about it now?’ Cat was feeling all blissed out and drowsy. What she really wanted was to curl up next to Adam for their last night together and then to fall asleep.
‘You probably won’t believe this,’ she continued, smothering a yawn, ‘but I’m not a clinger. I’m not a needy person. So you mustn’t worry I’m expecting this weekend to be the start of something. I remember what you said.’
‘What did I say?’
‘How you don’t like doing couples stuff, how you hate going shopping, how your relationships with girls don’t last.’
‘But I didn’t mean—’
‘Adam, it’s okay, it’s not a problem.’ Cat closed her eyes and snuggled down beneath the fat, white duvet. ‘It’s late and we’re both tired. Let’s get some sleep.’
‘Cat, wake up!’ Adam shook her harder. ‘You misunderstood me. If you go shopping on a Saturday afternoon, I’ll come along. I’ll even push and shove my way down bloody Oxford Street. I’ll do couples stuff on Sunday mornings.’
‘You don’t have to, Adam,’ Cat assured him, hardly taking in what he was saying, anyway. ‘I don’t go shopping on Saturdays myself. Or not in Oxford Street, at any rate. Some Saturdays I’m at the salvage yard, flogging old Victorian skirting boards or stripped pine doors to DIY fanatics, or helping people find a garden ornament that isn’t made of concrete.’ She yawned in earnest then. ‘Some Sunday mornings, I go to see my parents. But if we’re going to stay in touch when we get back to England, I’d really like to learn about your work.’
‘I’ll learn you,’ promised Adam. ‘Cat, I’ll—’
‘—teach me, even?’
‘Learn you, teach you, anything!’
‘Good,’ said Cat. ‘So now we’ve got that sorted, we’re going to sleep, all right?’
Monday, 20 June
The morning light came slanting through the dark green painted shutters. Adam had been awake all night, watching Cat as she lay sleeping peacefully and wondering what to say, how much to say, and when to say it.
He got up, pulled his jeans on and went to make some coffee.
He wasn’t very good at making coffee. It always seemed to come out far too weak or far too strong. Today it looked like treacle and there were some gritty speckles floating on the surface.
But it would have to do. As he stirred in milk for Cat and sugar for himself, he decided he would take it slowly. He’d get to know this girl and not go rushing into things. He wouldn’t make the mistakes he’d made with Maddy. He wouldn’t make assumptions, and he wouldn’t frighten Cat away.
After all, there wasn’t any hurry.
He carried the laden tray into the bedroom and put it on the nightstand. Then he stroked Cat’s hair back from her forehead until her green eyes opened and she smiled at him.
‘Buon giorno, caro mio,’ she began. She giggled as her hair tickled her face. ‘Come sta?’ she added doubtfully.
‘Good morning, Cat,’ said Adam. ‘It should be come stai, I think. But I don’t do Italian this early in the day.’
‘You don’t do Italian any time, according to Italians. Or that was what you told me, anyhow. Do I smell coffee, Adam?’
‘Yes, I made some – milk, no sugar, right?’
‘I think I’ll drink it later.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘I want something else right now.’
Cat’s smile became seductive and, as she walked her fingers down his chest and reached the whorl of hair around his navel, he began to shiver with desire. ‘Adam, come to bed?’
Afterwards, he told her – this was the real thing.
‘You know what I’m saying, don’t you?’ he continued, as he tilted up her chin and as he made her look into his eyes. ‘I’m in love with you.’
‘I don’t think I believe you.’
‘Why?’
‘You told me, didn’t you? You said you don’t—’
‘Cat, I’ve met a lot of girls, but never one as gorgeous, as desirable, as smar
t, as sweet as you. Every single moment I’ve spent with you has been a perfect pleasure, an absolute delight.’
‘Stop it, Adam, I can’t deal with this.’ Cat looked away. ‘You’re only trying to make me say I love you.’
‘I don’t need to try. You’re the sort of person who can’t hide what you feel. Cat Aston, you’re in love with me.’
‘You sound very confident, but how can you be sure?’
‘I’m only almost sure – so tell me so yourself?’
‘I’m in love with you.’ Cat looked at him and sighed. She knew there wasn’t any point in arguing with Adam or in trying to deceive him. He was an enchanter who could see into your heart. ‘I think I fell in love with you when you were so kind to that old man. You changed his tyre. You called the breakdown lorry. You even paid the men to take him home.’
‘Anybody would have done it.’
‘No they wouldn’t, Adam. When did you decide you might like me?’
‘The evening you were crying in the pub.’ Adam looped Cat’s hair out of her eyes. ‘I wanted more than anything to see you smile again.’
‘You got what you wanted, then.’
‘I did.’
‘What are we going to do about it?’ Cat asked doubtfully. ‘I mean about this being in love?’
‘We’ll have to decide where we should live.’
‘We’re moving in together, are we?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ he replied.
‘Where do you live now?’
‘When I’m in London, I share a flat in Camden with Jules Devine and Gwennie Smith. They’re two of my best friends.’ Adam smiled reassuringly at Cat. ‘You’ll love them, they’ll love you. I know they will.’
‘What are they like?’
‘They’re fun, they’re generous and they’re kind. They buy coffees, cakes and sandwiches for street musicians, homeless people and Big Issue sellers. They stick fivers in collecting tins.’
‘What do they do – for work, I mean?’
‘Gwennie is a dental nurse and Jules is a rep for Bayer, Pfizer, Glaxo – one of those. He’s always changing jobs, so I lose track. The flat’s awash with pencils, ballpoints, notebooks, post-its, key-rings – all the promotions stuff he gives away to doctors. Cat, what are your favourite things? What’s your favourite food, your favourite colour, favourite scent?’
The Wedding Diary (Choc Lit) Page 17