Deeley blinked, unable to believe her eyes, and when she looked again, her sister was as elegant and ladylike as ever, her raincoat demurely closed, raising her hand to stop a passing taxi.
My God, I’m so messed up by all of this I’m seeing things! Shaking her head, Deeley went into the front hall, bending down to unfasten her crying niece from the stroller. I’ll change her first, she thought, reaching down to feel Alice’s nappy: yes, it was damp. And then I’ll ring Devon, to tell her she needs to come back to London – not just for this awful situation with the police finding Bill, but for her husband too.
She’ll be glad to come back to Matt, I’m sure. She must be missing him so much.
Deeley took a deep breath, and picked up a sobbing Alice, trying very hard not to burst into tears herself.
Devon
Devon wasn’t really in Italy. She wasn’t in Tuscany, she wasn’t in Villa Clara, she was barely on earth; she was barely on earth; she was on Cloud Nine, floating in a golden bubble of utter and total infatuation, her feet barely touching the ground, her eyes glowing like stars. She had never looked so beautiful in her life, and she hadn’t worn make-up for three days; she felt light as a feather, and was sure she must be losing pounds, even though she was eating three times a day, proper meals, for the first time she could remember.
Because although she and Cesare had not left the house and grounds of Villa Clara since he came round that evening to take her out to dinner, and although they had spent what felt like pretty much every waking moment having sex wherever the mood took them (the marble shower had been fantastic, but they both had bruises from the stone staircase), Cesare had been insistent on not letting standards slip. They were going to eat properly in the intervals between sex sessions, and he was taking charge in the kitchen. The morning after his arrival, he had rung Laura, told her not to set foot in the villa, but to go shopping and to leave the bags outside the door: he had dictated a list of provisions to her, and told her to expect another list the next morning. Then he had hung up, because Devon was doing something to him that demanded his full attention, and also because he was making the kind of noises that would not be appropriate on a phone call to Rory’s housekeeper.
After that, however, he had waited impatiently for Laura’s arrival, and the ring on the doorbell that signalled the delivery of his order, then he had tripped happily downstairs, calling to Devon that breakfast was here. Cesare liked a sweet pastry in the morning, preferably a torta di riso, a little custard tart with a filling of cooked rice, which sounded bizarre, but was delicious, served with a cappuccino which he whipped up by beating air into heated milk until it foamed as richly as any Gaggia machine could manage. Lunch was light, but they still sat down to it; a salad, a pasta, a plate of bresaola, air-cured beef, rolled around soft white creamy cheese and served on a bed of rocket. Dinner was two courses, always, an antipasto or a pasta course, followed by meat or fish, and then, sometimes, a sorbet.
Devon ate everything he served. She had tried to protest about quantities, about her weight, about trying to avoid pasta and bread, but Cesare had just laughed at her, and she had caved in. After all, she’d thought, I’m fucking five times a day, that has to be burning loads of calories. And she’d forked up every exquisite meal Cesare had made. It had only dawned on her gradually that this food was actually not fattening; the little torta di riso in the morning was tiny, and that was all she had till a light lunch. Pasta servings were small, and the occasional piece of bread, laced with green extra-virgin oil, was a treat, rather than an entire basket-full. She was drinking much less than she usually did; they had a glass or two of wine with lunch, and the same with dinner. Maybe a Prosecco before dinner, and a Muscat afterwards, but the latter was served in a tiny dessert-wine glass, just a taste. Cesare did not approve of being drunk, or of drinking without food being served; when the food was finished, the wine was too.
Devon had originally been horrified by this: now she took it for granted. As she sat on the stool at the kitchen counter, watching Cesare make their lunch, she didn’t say a word about the fact that he was proposing to serve toasted breadcrumbs over pasta in what sounded like a carbohydrate frenzy.
‘This is a peasant dish,’ he said, shaking the cast-iron pan in which the breadcrumbs were turning golden over a low heat, ensuring they toasted evenly.
‘I thought we weren’t peasants,’ Devon said pertly. She was acutely aware that part of her charm for Cesare was the way she teased him, picked him up on things he said, refused to take him seriously; she sensed that this was something he wasn’t used to with Italian women. He complained bitterly about her English sense of humour, but clearly loved it.
Now his eyes gleamed as he said over his shoulder, ‘I was wrong, cara mia. You are English, so you are a peasant. You eat like a peasant. You think it is all right to use Martini for cooking if we have no white wine!’ He shuddered theatrically, turning off the heat under the breadcrumbs. ‘Che schifol Disgusting!’ He grabbed a breadboard and a head of garlic, splitting off several cloves with his thumb.
‘I just said it’s a good backup,’ Devon said rather sullenly. Cesare had taken to reading her cookbooks and quoting aloud extracts he found particularly amusing. ‘You should try it sometime.’
‘Mai,’ he said firmly. Devon was rapidly learning Italian, and this, meaning ‘never’, was a word Cesare used very often indeed. ‘Mai, mai e poi mai,’ he added, as if she needed extra clarification, while he deftly flattened the cloves with a wide-bladed knife, slid them out of their skins, and dropped them into another pan in which olive oil was heating.
‘Also, you say to cook with extra-virgin olive oil!’ he said, hooting with laughter, reaching for a jar of spaghetti, measuring the amount he wanted in the loop of his thumb and index finger, and then dropping it into a pan of boiling, salted water. ‘All the taste of extra-virgin, it is lost when you make it hot! You are pazza!’
‘What’s pazza!’ Devon asked crossly.
Cesare tapped the side of his head. ‘Lunatica,’ he said cheerfully, stirring the spaghetti to separate the strands.
You couldn’t give in to Cesare – not outside the bedroom, anyway. He’d run roughshod over you. Devon had worked that out very early on.
‘You’re mad,’ she said firmly. ‘How can you possibly call something “extra-virgin”? It doesn’t make sense!’
Cesare giggled as he crumbled a few whole dried red chilli peppers into the oil, which was beginning to smell deliciously of garlic.
‘Certamente,’ he said, ‘there are no extra virgins in Italy. Even the nuns, they make lots of fun with each other. But there are English virgins, maybe?’ He leered at her. ‘I tell you when we go to the terme, it is obvious you have not made love with a man of the Montigiani family. Now you are not a Montigiani virgin any longer.’ He smirked. ‘It is much better, no?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Devon retorted. ‘You’re terrible in bed. I’m only being polite when I say I like it.’
‘Bugiarda,’ Cesare said complacently, draining the pasta, dropping it into a large white ceramic bowl, and dressing it with the oil. ‘You are a liar, Miss English.’
He sprinkled the breadcrumbs over the pasta, added some chopped parsley, and tossed it expertly with a pair of forks, disdaining Rory’s designer utensils. ‘Now we eat. I hope you are angry.’
Devon slid off the stool and followed him to the table.
‘Angry,’ she said, making a furious, frowning face. ‘Hungry.’ She rubbed her stomach. ‘Try it again.’
Aah!’ Cesare slapped down the pasta bowl on the table. Always I say it wrong! Haaangry!’
‘Huuungry.’
‘Huangry.’
‘Better,’ Devon said. ‘But still not perfect.’
Cesare scowled theatrically. ‘You,’ he said, ‘make me aaangry.’ He looked at her crossly. ‘Donne,’ he said. ‘Women. All they do is make a man angry.’
‘Oh dear,’ Devon said sadly. ‘You should probably go, the
n.’ She lifted her hand and flicked her fingers at him. ‘Bye-bye. Thanks for lunch.’
‘Mi fai incazzare da morire,’ Cesare said, grabbing her shoulders and kissing her so hard her teeth rattled. By the time he had finished, she was weak at the knees; she had to grab onto the back of the chair for support. ‘Ecco,’ he said, looking satisfied as he pulled up his own chair and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Now eat your pasta-sciutta. It is simple but very nice. And afterwards, we make love. When,’ he added, twisting up a forkful of spaghetti, ‘we have digested properly, of course.’
Devon sank into the chair, a flush of happiness pink in her cheeks. Every time Cesare referred to ‘making love’, her heart sang. It was ridiculous, of course, and she knew it. She was married; she still hadn’t been able to get any further with that email to poor Matt; for all she knew, Cesare was married too, with children and a string of other mistresses, just amusing himself for a few days with some visiting Englishwoman before he resumed his normal life.
On every level, it was much too early to even think of the word ‘love’. What they had might be just sex, which would burn itself out as quickly as it had caught fire.
And yet, whenever Cesare said ‘fare l’amore’, or ‘make love’, Devon melted with sentiment. She wasn’t brave enough, or Italian enough, to use those words herself; she’d whispered them to herself, tested them out, but she was much too English to say ‘make love’ as casually as she would say ‘have sex’.
She took a bite of spaghetti, and moaned, taken aback at how good it was. Cesare looked at her smugly across the table.
‘It is what we eat when we are young,’ he said. When you have been out dancing with your friends, and you come home at alba . . .’ He clicked his fingers to help him remember the English word. ‘Dawn,’ he said triumphantly. ‘You come home at dawn, and you are angry – huuungry – so you make something to eat that will be good for you. It is restorative. Garlic, chilli, some parsley. Molto buono.’ He gestured with his fork. ‘We have not been dancing, but we need to eat restorative food, I think.’
Devon was smiling at how serious Cesare’s expression always was when he talked about food – much more serious than when he talked about making love – when her phone rang. It had rung a few times over the last few days, and she had ignored it every single time: but this was different. It simply kept ringing. Whoever was calling didn’t let the phone go to voicemail; they cut off as soon as they heard the message, and rang back. Three times, four times, five times: by the fifth, Cesare said firmly. ‘Devon, cara, it is important. You must answer your phone. Almeno,’ he added, ‘to make it stop. It is annoying me.’
Devon sighed, pushed back her chair, and stood up, feeling as reluctant as a sulky child. She went into the hallway, where her bag was lying, with her phone inside; she was actually surprised that the phone still had any charge, as she hadn’t plugged it in since she’d arrived in Italy. There was a list of missed calls, but the most recent were from Deeley, which was something of a relief. At least it’s not Matt, she thought, her stomach sinking at the mere thought of talking to the husband she had so comprehensively betrayed.
The phone jumped in her hand as it started to ring again. Devon clicked on the button and said. ‘Hi Deels,’ as her sister’s voice babbled over her.
‘Dev! You’re there! Oh my God, I was beginning to think you’d never answer! Devon, it’s really serious. You have to come back to London, right away. Dev, the police have been to see us. They’ve found Bill’s body! They want us all to make statements about what we know about him disappearing!’
Devon could barely take it in. From her paradise in Tuscany, stone floor warm under her bare feet, sunlight flooding in through the open door, her lover pouring them each a glass of red wine, it was almost impossible to picture the scene back in comparatively cold England. Crime-scene tape round the garden of 42 Thompson Road; Bill’s corpse being carried out on a stretcher; Deeley and Maxie having to deal with the police.
‘You’re joking,’ she said, knowing how stupid the words were even as she uttered them.
‘No! Dev, you have to come back, now! We have to work out what we’re all going to say – Alice, I’m coming . . . oh, you want Dolly? Hold on, I’ll get her for you . . .’
Devon shook her head sharply, trying to get her brain into focus.
‘Dev, are you there?’ Deeley was back, as urgent as ever. ‘Can you get back here right away? I mean, you’re not doing anything there, are you?’
Devon looked at Cesare, who had inserted his large nose into the wine glass and was taking a long sniff of it. He looked absurd, like a caricature of a shock-headed Italian. Scrawny, by comparison with her big, muscular husband. Not half as handsome or as photogenic.
And yet the idea of leaving him was like tearing a vital organ out of her chest.
‘Dev! Are you listening? You have to come back!’ Deeley was squeaking at her. Alice, please, don’t cry, sweetie! Auntie Deeley doesn’t mean to shout!’
Devon had no choice. ‘OK,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ll try to get on a plane tomorrow.’
‘No! Today! As soon as possible! Maxie’s talking to a solicitor right now – Dev, just go to the airport and get on a plane, please!’
‘All right.’ Devon yielded, feeling the fight drain out of her. Miserably, she said, ‘OK, OK. I’ll come back.’
‘Text me when you know what plane you’re on,’ Deeley said with huge relief. ‘Oh, I’ll be so happy to see you, Dev!’
I wish I could say the same, Devon thought sadly, walking back into the kitchen as if she were going to the gallows, feet dragging, head low. Cesare jumped up.
‘Madonna, what is it? Cara, you have had bad news?’
‘Sort of. Yes.’ Devon reached for the glass of wine and took a long gulp. ‘I need to get on the next plane to London. It’s sort of a family emergency.’
The word ‘family’ worked on an Italian as powerfully as ‘beer’ did to a German. Cesare swung immediately into action. He instructed her to sit down and finish her pasta, saying that no one should travel or hear bad news on an empty stomach, while he launched into a series of rattlingly fast-paced phone calls. By the time Devon had finished her lunch and thrown her clothes into her suitcases, he had a flight booked for her and the Lamborghini was ready to take her to the airport.
‘E Pisa, non Firenze,’ he announced, as he loaded her cases into the car. ‘But don’t worry, I get you there very fast. I book you a business-class seat, and if we are there in an hour we are sure they put you on the flight.’
‘An hour?’ Devon said. ‘I thought Rory said we were an hour and a half from Pisa—’
‘Ssh,’ Cesare said, ushering her into the passenger seat. ‘I drive, you don’t worry, va bene?’
Cesare was determined that she not miss her flight: the Lamborghini took off, accelerating so fast that Devon’s back shot into the leather seat. Apart from the brief occasions when he slowed down to avoid getting photographed by a speed camera, his foot was permanently down, and he didn’t say a word to her. He didn’t even play a CD by Vasco Rossi. He screeched to a halt in the middle of the No Parking zone at Pisa Airport barely an hour after they’d left Villa Clara; Devon would have been a nervous wreck at the speed at which he’d driven if she hadn’t been swamped in misery at the fact that, not only was she was leaving him, he seemed to have accepted it with such ease.
‘Eccoci!’ he said, dragging her bags out of the car and striding off towards the Departures entrance doors, Devon following reluctantly. It felt almost as if he were packing her off, which was absurd, of course; he was being fantastic, helping her to get back to her family emergency as swiftly and efficiently as possible.
What did you want him to do – beg you to stay? she thought, trailing behind him miserably. How could he do that, when your family needs you at home? He’s doing exactly the right thing!
Except . . . except he hasn’t asked me how long I’ll be away. Or if I’m coming back.
&
nbsp; Or even said he wants me to.
Cesare was already at the British Airways check-in desk, speaking in rapid-fire Italian to the woman behind it. He took Devon’s passport from her, handed it over, and in a minute had loaded her bags onto the belt and was giving her back her passport and boarding card.
‘Presto, presto,’ he said, taking her hand and dragging her through the airport towards Security, which was just around the corner. She didn’t have time to say a word before he stopped, looked at her, put one hand on each cheek and kissed her deeply on the mouth.
‘Come back soon, bella,’ he said. ‘Italy will be sad without you.’
Devon couldn’t say a word. She stared at him, her eyes almost on a level with his, hating to leave him so much that she was terrified to speak, in case she blurted out something much too revealing. Cesare looked as cheerful as ever.
‘You must hurry,’ he said. ‘Or you will miss your flight.’
‘I owe you for the ticket!’ Devon said, finding her voice. ‘I need to pay you back—’
‘Pffft,’ Cesare said, frowning theatrically. ‘Zitta.’
He’d used this word enough for Devon to know what it meant: be quiet.
‘OK,’ she said quickly. ‘Then I owe you ten euros for carrying my suitcases.’
Cesare put back his head and laughed so loudly that people turned to look.
‘Va bene!’ he said happily. ‘You give me ten euros when you come back, OK? And who knows, maybe I carry your suitcases again! I make twenty euros!’ He pulled her towards him and kissed her forehead. ‘Now,’ he said, spinning her around and pushing her towards the official who was ready to check her boarding card, ‘you must hurry. Go safe!’
Bad Sisters Page 35