‘A painter – gosh, that’s useful! Mummy was saying earlier this summer she needs to get the drawing room spruced up in time for Christmas. Where does your father live?’
‘I think he’s in Switzerland right now.’
‘Well, when he gets home again, do let me have his number and I’ll pass it on to Mummy. She might give him a call.’
There was no way that would be happening. I don’t have my father’s number.
As for my mother – she killed herself when Dad had tired of us and gone off with his own Salome – his own dancing queen – leaving me to be brought up by various aunts and uncles, shunted here and there like an unwanted cat or dog they couldn’t bring themselves to dump on someone else’s doorstep, but couldn’t start to love.
I’d phone the Gang, of course, and let them know I was okay – but later.
I was walking back towards the hostel when I saw it in the window of a little gallery of limited edition, signed and numbered prints. The painting of white horses ridden by a posse of beautiful elf-maidens, every one as blonde as I was dark and every one in robes of shimmering gold.
It stopped me dead. I stood there in the middle of the narrow street, unable to do anything but stare.
I felt both sick and furious. I was on holiday, for heaven’s sake. I was in Tuscany. But could I get away from him?
It would seem not.
I shuddered, stepping back, still feeling sick, still angry.
Then, as I stared, someone or something pushed me hard. The paving stones rushed up to meet me.
Dazed and disoriented, it took me half a minute to work out some idiot on a bike had run me down.
‘God, I’m so sorry!
The idiot jumped off the bike and came to help me up. ‘I rang my bell,’ he added. ‘But you didn’t move. So I swerved, but you stepped back and I ploughed into you. Did I hurt you? Do you understand? You’re British, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t think I’m hurt and yes, I’m British.’ I struggled to my feet. ‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t have been standing in the street. Ouch,’ I added, as I put my weight on my left foot.
‘Come over here, sit down,’ the boy suggested.
Or I should say man, because he must have been as old as me – twenty, twenty-one, slim but broad-shouldered and well-muscled.
He put his arm around my waist and helped me stagger to a café. He pulled out a chair and helped me sink down into it. ‘Put your foot up on this other chair and I’ll get you a drink,’ he said. ‘Something cold, perhaps – a Pellegrino?’
‘Thanks, a Pellegrino limonata would be lovely.’
‘Okay, coming up. But hey, I’m doing this the wrong way round. Do you need first aid? Do you think you need to go to hospital?’
‘I think I need to put my foot up for a while, have a drink and then I’ll be all right. Please don’t worry – honestly, I’m fine.’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
He ordered for us both and, as we drank, he asked some questions about me. Why was I in Prato? What had I seen that seemed to hypnotise me, and was I really sure my foot was fine?
‘I’m on my way to Florence,’ I replied. ‘One of my college friends is getting married to a guy she met on holiday when she was seventeen. They fell in love and got engaged three years ago and Giselle was faithful all through college. It’s incredibly romantic.’
‘This guy, he’s an Italian?’
‘A very rich Italian from a family of bankers. She’s having this ginormous party; it’s all going on for five whole days. I’m catching up with them the night before the wedding.’
‘You’re a bridesmaid?’
‘Well, Giselle did ask me. But I couldn’t afford the bridesmaid’s dress that they’d all set their hearts on – it was couture, you know? Or it was pretty damn expensive, anyway. So I’m just a guest. Oh, that reminds me – I hope the hostel where I’m staying has an iron. I’ve been hitch-hiking and my wedding outfit’s going to be a bit creased up.’
‘Most hostels can provide their guests with irons.’
‘How would you know that?’
‘My mother is the manager of the San Pietro hostel here in Prato. So if the place you’re staying doesn’t have an iron to lend to guests, I’ll ask Mum to let you use the one at San Pietro.’
‘I’ll ask her myself. I’m staying at the San Pietro.’
‘Ah, you must be Ellie Ryman, then? You checked in late last night?’
‘Yes, that’s me,’ I was impressed. ‘So who are you?’
‘Will Devine, but my mum’s Signora Rosa Santorini. You wouldn’t guess that we’re related.’
‘Oh, I think I might.’ I smiled at him. ‘You have your mother’s colouring, same black curly hair, same eyes, same shape of face. But she’s small and neat and curvy while you’re tall and—’
‘Lanky, clumsy, uncoordinated – yes, I know,’ he laughed. ‘Mum is Greek and Spanish, Dad is Irish and Italian. So I’m quite a mixture.’
A very attractive mixture, I decided. ‘Your mother kept her name when she got married, then?’
‘She never married Dad, he was already hitched to someone else, but since I was a boy I got his name. Sorry, too much information. What about another Pellegrino and a few biscotti?’
How could I resist?
When I put my weight down on my foot an hour later, it didn’t hurt at all. I’d merely ricked my ankle, and now I had rested it was perfectly okay. ‘I might see you at the hostel, then?’ I asked as I got out my purse.
‘I’ve paid,’ said Will. ‘It’s the least I can do. Also I’m extremely grateful you’re not going to get me thrown in jail for dangerous biking. Or I hope you’re not! So – do you want to tell me what made you stop and stare?’
‘I hoped you wouldn’t ask.’
‘You don’t have to answer.’
Something made me pause before refusing. ‘Well, you bought me Pellegrini and biscotti, so I ought to tell you,’ I conceded. ‘I – I saw a painting by my father, and I thought – I never, ever get away from him!’
‘You mean the print in the galleria over there, the elves and horses?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘You’re Tarko Ryman’s daughter? Jesus, that’s amazing!’
I shrugged. ‘Why do you say amazing? Dad’s quite capable of procreating. Almost any man can do it. Some do it too often.’
‘You don’t like him much?’
‘I never got the chance to know him, let alone to like him. He was hardly ever home and left my mum for the last time when I was six or seven.’
‘I’d have thought the famous Tarko Ryman’s daughter would be travelling in style, not staying in a budget tourist hostel? He must be a multi-millionaire?’
‘I suppose he must be, but I’d starve before I’d touch his money.’ I was aware an edge had crept into my voice, but Will seemed not to notice. ‘I wouldn’t take a penny piece from him.’
‘I’ve loved all his stuff since I was twelve.’
‘Yes, his critics often say his work appeals to children.’
‘Ouch.’
‘I’m sorry, Will,’ I sighed. ‘It’s just that I get slightly sick of seeing the Student Holy Trinity – Che Guevara’s beret, tennis woman’s bottom and my father’s horses – on every college undergraduate’s wall.’
‘Okay, let’s change the subject. Do you fancy going for an amble with the guy who knocked you over?’
Who bowled me over, I should say, because he had. Those bright green eyes, that open, candid face, that charming smile…
‘I’d like that,’ I replied. ‘I’d like that very much.’
‘Do you live in Prato all the time?’ I asked him, perching on the bike seat after he insisted I should rest my ankle, as he steered me round the narrow streets.
‘Only in summer when I come to see my mother and help her at the hostel, otherwise I live in the UK.’
‘Where did you grow up?’
<
br /> ‘All over – I was shuttled backwards, forwards, sometimes stayed with grannies, sometimes aunties, sometimes uncles. I think I went to fifteen different schools. Dad and I meet up occasionally in the UK, but he’s in London, I’m in Bristol.’
‘Where you’re doing what?’
‘A PhD in biochemistry.’
‘Ooh, a brainy boy!’
‘What about you, Ellie – you a student?’
‘I’ve just finished reading English Literature at Oxford and now I’m unemployed.’
‘This friend who’s getting married – was she at Oxford too?’
‘Yes, there’s a group of four of us – the three girls of the Gorgeous Gang and me.’
‘I’d say you were pretty gorgeous, too.’
I blushed at this and looked down at my feet. ‘Thank you, but your eyesight’s clearly dreadful, otherwise you wouldn’t have run me over.’
‘I suppose you have a point.’ Will grinned ruefully. ‘Well, it’s been great to talk, but I need to make my way back to the hostel now and help my mother out.’
‘I’ll come back too, if you don’t mind? I’d like to have a nap.’
‘Do you feel drowsy?’ Will looked hard at me, green eyes concerned. ‘Did you hit your head when you fell over? Do you need to see a doctor? Go to the hospital?’
‘I didn’t hit my head, don’t worry. But for a week I’ve slept or rather dozed on noisy campsites or in lorry drivers’ cabs. Your mother’s hostel offers actual beds, and I can’t wait to get back into one!’
I picked up my phone later that evening and told all the Gang I’d see them Friday.
‘Where are you?’ Grace demanded, putting me on speakerphone.
‘I’m in Prato,’ I replied.
‘What are doing in Prato?’ asked Georgina.
‘Relaxing – chilling out.’ Or rather Willing out, I should have said and giggled to myself. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ I rung off before they could quiz me further, the three of them blowing kisses down the phone.
Will and I had two great days together.
We cycled round the Tuscan countryside – he hired a bike for me – and in the evenings, after he had finished work, we drank cold white wine, we ate delicious pasta and we talked and talked and talked.
We shared our secrets, hopes and dreams. I told him things I’d never told the girls, even though I loved them.
Soon, I felt I’d known him all my life.
I don’t know what it is about warm summer evenings. But I do know that they’re made for foolish gestures, for saying things you didn’t mean to say and doing things you didn’t mean to do.
As we strolled home to the hostel on the Thursday evening before I had to leave for Florence, Will stopped me in a narrow lane and took me in his arms and he kissed me. Then he kissed me some more.
I kissed him back and found I never wanted him to stop.
‘You’ll want to go and catch your train to Florence,’ he told me after I had eaten breakfast on the Friday morning. ‘If I come to the station with you, I can get you a good forward-facing window seat.’
‘I can speak enough Italian to do that myself.’
‘Yeah, yeah, speak, perhaps – but communicating in Italian is about much more than speaking.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t do the special flourishes. You don’t know where to put the verbal exclamation marks. So no Italian is ever going to take you seriously.’
‘You could be right. You know, you’re different when you speak Italian. You get more dramatic. You wave your arms around, you shrug your shoulders and your eyes flash like – like…’
‘What?’
Green fire from Roman candles, or the rarest emeralds, the finest stones from South America, I didn’t say out loud. ‘Like traffic lights in fog. Or bottles left out for recycling.’
‘You sure know how to pay a guy a compliment, Miss Ellie.’ He laughed, and it was just about the sexiest, most toe-tingling sound I had ever heard. ‘Okay, go to the station by yourself and see how you get on. If you get stuck, give me a call.’
‘I’m not going to the station, actually.’
‘Oh, you mean you’ll get the bus?’
‘No bus.’
‘You can’t intend to hitch-hike? Ellie, listen – it’s not wise for single girls, you must know that. If money is a problem, I could help.’
‘I do have the money, but I want—’
I gazed into his beautiful green eyes and saw myself reflected there.
I plunged into an ocean full of sharks.
‘I want to stay in Prato. I want to stay with you.’ There, I’d said it, and now he could tease and mock me, laugh at me again.
But he didn’t laugh.
‘Oh, Ellie,’ he said softly. ‘I’d love for you to stay. But look, you’ll only be away a day and then you can come back again. We’ll keep your room for you.’
He stroked my hair back from my forehead, kissed me sweetly there. ‘I want you to come back as soon as possible, believe me.’
He didn’t understand.
I didn’t want to go because I felt I’d finally found my place. Where I felt at home. Where I felt safe. Where I belonged. Where there was somebody like me, who understood.
Georgina, Grace, Giselle – they were the nicest people and I loved them, always would. But they came from a different world to me, and I often felt like an outsider. They were the sort of people who expected doors to open, and doors did.
When Giselle asked me to be her bridesmaid, I was flattered. But I knew there was no way I could afford the dress. I’d heard the others talking and knew it had to cost two thousand pounds or maybe more. I’d said I couldn’t be her bridesmaid and then I’d changed the subject, embarrassed that I’d clearly hurt her feelings but too proud to say why.
‘I don’t want to go,’ I whispered. ‘Will, I don’t fit in, I don’t belong. The people at this wedding, they’ll all be in couture, designer, Prada, Dior, but I’ll be in Topshop and they’ll know it. They’ll all watch me, judge me, find me wanting.’
‘But your friends – if they’re your real friends – if you don’t turn up, they’ll be upset. They’ll be so delighted to see you they won’t care what you’re wearing.’
‘I’ll still feel embarrassed, with my plastic handbag made in China and my chainstore shoes. I’ve never been able to keep up with the girls. In the summer holidays, they went off to San Tropez, Bermuda, Hong Kong or Singapore. I backpacked round France. I hitched round Spain. I worked in Tesco.’
‘I think you should be brave and go.’ He looked at me, his green eyes kind. ‘You’re you. You’re lovely. You’re worth as much as anybody else. More money, better clothes – they’re just the trappings. They don’t make us what we are inside.’
I smiled and shook my head. I took his hand. ‘I thought you were a biochemist, Will – not a student of philosophy?’
‘If you don’t go, you’ll be a coward.’
‘Will Devine, I’m damned well not a coward!’
‘Go to Florence, then.’
‘I – oh, all right.’
I never could resist a challenge.
The girls were all there to meet me at the station in Florence. They threw themselves at me like springer spaniels, hugging, squealing, where-the-hell-have-you-been-Ellieing, and God-you-look-a-sighting.
Will’s mum had booked me into the Santa Croce which was a small hostel in the suburbs, run by nuns. But when I told the Gorgeous Girls Gang this, they squealed even louder. They told me I was staying at the Palace or the Castle or something with the rest of them. I was not to worry about the bill. Gi’s Daddy would be paying for every single thing.
‘I pay for myself or I go home,’ I told Georgina, kindly, I hoped – but firmly. ‘I’m staying at the Santa Croce.’ I picked up my rucksack and gave them all a hug, promising I’d be absolutely fine and would see them tomorrow.
Grace texted me the following day to say she hoped I’d meet
them at the place where they were staying before they all left for the church.
I said of course I would, and when I strolled into the marble halls of the Palazzo or Castello or whatever it was, I held my head up high. I took no damn notice of the staff who sneered at me as I walked past them in my high street clothes, without a hat, without the nail art, with my hair a mass of wild, unruly curls.
Georgina came to meet me.
She was already in her bridesmaid’s dress. Her makeup was perfection, her hair was soft and shining and immaculately styled. ‘You look fantastic,’ I began.
She beamed at me, delighted. ‘Thank you, Ellie. So do you.’
As we walked up the staircase to their suite I thought I’d never seen so much magnificence, even in my dreams. Golden cherubs, marble gods and goddesses, frescoes, paintings, artworks – the whole place was amazing. There were no elves or horses or tennis women’s bottoms or Che Guevara’s stupid berets here.
We went into the suite where all the gang was staying.
‘Hello, Ellie, you got here just in time,’ said Grace.
‘Gi’s upset,’ Georgina whispered.
‘Oh, poor Gi,’ I said. ‘I hope she hasn’t got cold feet? Roberto’s absolutely lovely, he’s so sweet, so sexy and so gorgeous—’
‘It’s not that.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘Why don’t you ask?’ Georgina nodded over to the corner of the room.
Giselle was sitting at the vanity table, her skirts a cloud of silken gossamer, her bodice cut to show off her smooth shoulders, curvy bosom and twenty-two-inch waist. I hunkered down, looked up into her lovely face and anxious eyes. ‘Gi, what is it?’
‘I’m so scared,’ she whispered.
‘Gi, you look fantastic, like a goddess. Why would you be scared?’
‘Well…’ quavered Giselle.
‘Listen, Gi, don’t worry. It’s going to be all right. Roberto loves you, he adores you, he thinks you’re sheer perfection. You’ll have your best friends around you, we’ll look after you.’
SUNLOUNGER 2: Beach Read Bliss (Sunlounger Stories) Page 36