by Maeve Haran
Putting on a leather jumpsuit in a small and none-too-fragrant cubicle was a challenge worthy of the Krypton Factor, but after fifteen minutes Sylvie emerged looking like a plus-sized version of Marianne Faithfull in Girl on a Motorcycle. She certainly attracted enough male attention on her way back to Alessandro to satisfy the most sensitive ego.
‘Sylvie, cara mia, whatever stupid Tony thinks, you’ve still got it!’
Sylvie smiled back. The day was definitely getting better.
The bus deposited Claire in the main square, in front of the duomo in Lanzarella, just as Martin said it would. She glanced up at the intricately patterned facade with its black and white tiled arches giving it a distinctly Moorish air with just a touch of the Byzantine. No time for sightseeing now. She wanted to reach the villa and just flop. She wondered what they would be doing about dinner. Would she be cooking? And, if so, she hoped somebody had shopped. Welcome packs tended to be no more than the bare ingredients for breakfast.
A man who was optimistically selling Panama hats from a stall under the trees despite the rain had a friendly face so she decided to ask him for directions.
The man looked intrigued for a moment and pointed up the hill. Claire started in the direction he indicated, conscious of how noisy her wheely suitcase sounded banging along the cobbles in the peaceful piazza. No wonder the local authority in Venice wanted to ban them. A little audience of small boys tagged along for a bit then gave up when she seemed tame prey.
Beatrice was waiting for Angela in a long narrow room facing what seemed to be the front terrace. The doors, which would all be open if it were a nice day, were firmly closed, but since the top half of each was glazed, some light came through. The electric lights were the usual dim foreign wattage – she’d do something about that if she got the chance; there was nothing she loathed more than half-light when you were trying to work or read. Beatrice had at least lit candles in giant silver candelabras.
‘Brutto tempo!’ Beatrice shook her head as if this was something even the Prince of Lerini’s prayers couldn’t solve. ‘I am sorry, signorina. Maybe tomorrow sunshine.’ She held out a glass which she began to fill with fizzy wine.
‘Prosecco?’ enquired Angela, seating herself in a medieval churchy-shaped chair.
Beatrice shook her head. Another faux pas to add to her growing list. ‘No Prosecco. Prosecco too sweet! Is Franciacorta.’
Angela took a glass and sipped. ‘It’s delicious!’ she commented with surprise.
This was definitely the right reaction. ‘Is it from round here?’
‘No.’ Beatrice looked a little sheepish. ‘From Lombardy in the North. Near the Lakes. Not from round here.’
‘What a great discovery. No more Prosecco. I will only drink Franciacorta from now on!’
She was about to have another sip when a great clanging started up.
‘It is doorbell, Signorina Gwilliams. I go and answer.’
Beatrice disappeared into the bowels of the convent, leaving Angela to enjoy her drink alone.
Moments later Beatrice came back with Claire in tow.
‘Is Signora Lambert!’ she announced with such delighted surprise it was as if Claire were the last person she was expecting.
‘Hello, Angela.’ Claire held out a hand shyly.
‘I think we’re beyond shaking hands, don’t you, after you anointed that idiot with boiling coffee. Have a drink?’ Angela poured Claire a Franciacorta. ‘Don’t call it Prosecco, by the way. Extraordinary place, isn’t it?’
Claire stared around in amazement. ‘I don’t know what I was expecting, certainly nothing as grand as this.’
‘I think it’s the word “villa”. Have you met Giovanni yet?’
Claire looked puzzled and shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You wouldn’t forget, believe me. Shall I show you the rooms so you can choose?’
‘I really don’t mind,’ Claire began. ‘Whichever is most convenient.’
‘Hey, what happened to the Boadicea of Brook Street? Can I tell you something, Claire?’ Angela asked in the way that made her very good at business but less so at friendship. ‘Saying you don’t mind is really irritating. It’s actually much less trouble if you just choose.’
‘Oh. Right,’ Claire replied, taken aback at Angela’s directness. A small smile lit up her slightly doughy features. Angela had forgotten how disarming it was. ‘If we’re being direct, I thought it was rude of you not to offer me a lift from the airport. Then I wouldn’t have had to be given this travel pack by my irritating husband.’ She produced Martin’s itinerary and handed it over.
Angela took a sip and studied it. ‘Wow.’ Angela smiled, handing it back. ‘And I thought I was controlling.’
‘Please don’t be. Not here. I came here to get away from all that. Sunshine. Freedom. A change of scenery.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Angela agreed. ‘No promises though. Especially about the sunshine.’
‘Signora Lambert, shall I show you the rooms?’ offered Beatrice.
‘Thank you.’ Claire stood back to let Beatrice lead. To her surprise Angela followed.
‘I’m afraid I bagged the best one,’ Angela remarked unapologetically. ‘But this one’s good too.’ She pointed to the next room down the corridor. It was almost as huge as Angela’s. This time the bed canopy was purple silk instead of velvet.
‘Oh my God,’ Claire’s hand flew to her mouth, ‘look at that!’
‘It’s not a mouse?’ To Claire’s amusement, as someone who’d grown up in the country, ball-breaker Angela looked genuinely scared.
‘On that wall opposite the bed. The painting.’
Claire pointed to a huge picture of three women stretched naked across what looked like a giant barbecue full of hot coals with a horrible-looking demon fanning the flames, a look of lust mixed with disapproval on its nasty face.
‘Oh that.’ Angela studied it ‘They’re called doom paintings. They’re supposed to keep the faithful on the straight and narrow. Funny place to hang it though, they’re usually in church. No deviant sex for you in that bed.’
They were both giggling like schoolgirls when the door opened and the divine Giovanni emerged with Claire’s bag. He glanced uneasily from the two women to the painting and made the sign of the cross.
Claire thanked him and he put her bag on the suitcase stand, backing out of the room as soon as he could.
‘That’s Giovanni. Amazing, isn’t he? He works in the garden, I think. I wouldn’t try seducing him in this room. Something tells me it wouldn’t come off under that picture. Though I suppose that was the idea. Medieval aversion therapy.’
The rest of the room was simply luxurious: a deep velvet sofa in leafy green with cushions to match the canopy; a writing desk; two more comfortable chairs; decadently generous purple curtains. And this time the flowers hadn’t been forgotten. There was a vast arrangement of dark blue anemones, irises and Canterbury bells.
‘Beatrice just told me the owner was very particular.’ Angela shrugged. ‘Flowers in all the rooms.’
‘Amazing. Bouquets and naked women tied to giant barbecues? The owner seems to have pretty weird tastes.’
‘I don’t think that was him. It used to be a convent, so maybe he inherited the art. I know what you mean though. It is a bit unsettling.’
Claire wasn’t the type to need to unpack her bag. ‘Why don’t we have a look around? Especially the kitchen. Maybe we’ll find clues.’
‘In the kitchen?’
‘No, but I want to see what facilities they’ve got. Judging by this painting it’ll be cooking on an open fire with a spit dog to turn the meat. Do you know they used to put hot oil on the dog’s feet to make it run faster, poor little thing?’
Angela shuddered. ‘I’m quite glad I live now, actually.’
They both laughed and made their way downstairs. Now that she was sticking up for herself, Angela thought, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to have Claire around.
‘What time would you like dinner, ladies? Immaculata, she asks if half past eight is convenient?’
‘Oh gosh, they have a cook!’ Claire sounded almost upset. ‘I sort of thought I would be doing the cooking.’
‘You can relax. Don’t worry, I’m sure you can still inspect the facilities and see what would be needed if the owner does decide to open a hotel.’
Behind them Beatrice suddenly missed the glass she was filling and poured the wine onto the ancient carpet.
Angela and Claire glanced at her, taken aback. She seemed so calm and efficient.
‘Is a pity the other ladies have not arrived yet,’ Beatrice announced, mopping up the floor, ‘but perhaps you eat anyway?’
Claire and Angela were suddenly riveted. ‘What other ladies?’ Angela demanded.
‘Two more English ladies,’ Beatrice replied. ‘Signora Sutton and Signora Mathieson.’
‘Good God!’ Angela downed her wine in irritation. ‘I didn’t sign up for this. It’s like a bloody nunnery. I mean, who are these women? And why the hell are they coming? I think I’m going to ring Drew and find out what this friend of his is up to.’
She opened the door to the terrace in the faint hope her phone might work there. No chance. She came back in, looking livid. ‘No signal, naturally. And it’s still bloody raining.’
‘Giovanni,’ offered Beatrice, ‘he say best place for phone is down by bed of asparagi.’
Angela shook her head. ‘And I bet asparagus beds aren’t the only beds he knows all about,’ she said sourly. ‘Where is the wretched bed of asparagus anyway?’
Beatrice opened the door and pointed to the lower layer of terracing and handed Angela an umbrella.
Angela made her way down the gravel path so angrily that she hardly even looked around her. She hated being with other women! She was prepared to put up with Claire because Claire had done her a favour, but two more women she didn’t even know were going to turn up and intrude on their peace, yattering on about God knew what. And she still couldn’t get a signal!
She made her way back to the villa, noting that her favourite orange suede shoes were probably ruined, when the roar of a motorbike deafened her. It was coming up their drive too.
She couldn’t resist going back into the house and announcing it to the others.
‘There’s a motorbike coming up the drive. Is it Giovanni?’
Beatrice shook her head. ‘Giovanni has motorino. All the people here have motorini.’
Angela grabbed a glass and they all trooped out to the back entrance just in time to see a spectacular arrival. A handsome young man, though not as handsome as Giovanni, stopped the motorbike ten yards from the back door and they watched as his black leather-clad passenger climbed off, removed her helmet and shook out a cloud of curly dark red hair. In what seemed to be one fluid gesture she undid her zip and pulled off the leather jumpsuit, revealing a colourful silk top and jeans.
She stepped forward, as if she naturally assumed they were all waiting for her, a hand held out. ‘Hello, there,’ she explained, ‘I’m Sylvie Sutton and this is my friend Alessandro.’
Before Angela could say a word, a small bedraggled figure with an enormous backpack, making Claire think of an ant carrying twice its weight back to the colony, appeared from a path between two rhododendron bushes.
They all turned, amazed.
‘Hello, everyone,’ announced the latest arrival, and even her voice sounded as if it needed to be wrung out, ‘I’m Monica Mathieson. This is Villa Le Sirenuse?’ Her pronunciation of the Italian words was perfect. ‘Only I’ve just had my money belt stolen. That’s why I had to walk up from Lerini.’
‘Signora Mathieson?’ Beatrice ran out, her kind heart touched by Monica’s wet and exhausted condition. ‘Che cosa terribile! There is no honesty left in this country! You must come in by the fire. Giovanni! Giovanni! Come and help the signora!’
Giovanni also appeared from the bushes and lifted off Monica’s backpack.
Claire watched, quietly amused by Alessandro’s sudden interest in Giovanni and Sylvie’s obvious irritation at having her dramatic arrival upstaged by this small wet person. Claire also knew at once that she would like Monica and that Sylvie and Angela would be rivals, the female equivalent of rutting stags. It was just a question of when.
She didn’t have long to wait.
‘You must go and change from your wet clothes and then we will serve dinner,’ Beatrice clucked. ‘Giovanni, take the signora’s suitcase up to the second floor.’
‘Go with Giovanni, signora. He will show you.’
‘And where will I be staying?’ Sylvie asked, droplets of rain glistening in her hair like silver balls on a Christmas tree.
‘Signora Sutton, of course.’ To Claire’s sharp ears there was a hint of irritation in Beatrice’s reply. ‘I will take you up myself. Will your friend be staying for dinner?’
Now that Giovanni had gone inside, Alessandro seemed to have lost interest. ‘No. I return to Napoli. Now before the darkness comes.’
‘Can we offer you some wine before you go?’
He shook his handsome head. Giovanni’s looks, it seemed to Claire, were those of the sexy pin-up, whereas Alessandro could have posed for one of the classical statues that seemed to dot the gardens.
‘By the way, cara mia, you have a famous neighbour, though you will never get to meet him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Constantine O is a world-famous painter but also a recluse.’
At least that was one extra person she wouldn’t have to be friendly to, Angela thought with relief.
Alessandro waved them all goodbye and disappeared back down the drive.
‘But where are your baggages, Signora Sutton?’
‘Alessandro’s assistant is bringing his car to drop them off. Let’s go and look at those bedrooms.’
Beatrice led the way up the wide stone staircase. Sylvie followed, taking in every detail. The room she had been allocated was so awful she couldn’t bring herself to speak. ‘How did you select our rooms, Beatrice?’
‘It was chi prima arriva, meglio alloggia. First come, first served, I think in English.’
‘Signorina Williams arrived first?’
‘Signorina Gwilliams was first to arrive, sí.’
‘Very smart of her. Tell me, are there any other bedrooms? We saw several wings when we were round the back.’
‘Sí, there are rooms but they are not used.’
‘Good. I will stay in this room tonight but tomorrow I will look at the rooms in the wings.’
‘Bene, signora.’ Beatrice looked at Sylvie as if she were mad. No one had slept in the wings for years, but then everyone accepted the English were mad. It was a known fact.
Meanwhile, Monica had changed out of her wet clothes and was standing looking lost on the landing. Sylvie tried not to focus on what she was wearing. It was too appalling.
‘What’s your room like?’ Sylvie quizzed her.
‘Wonderful,’ enthused Monica. ‘I’ve got my own bathroom and little bottles of toiletries just like you get in a hotel!’
‘Right.’ Sylvie attempted a smile. She couldn’t imagine a universe in which you didn’t have your own bathroom. ‘Well, I think it’s outrageous that just because this Angela got here first she grabbed far and away the best room. I mean, anyone halfway decent would have waited so we could draw straws or something.’
‘You wouldn’t have chosen that room if you’d arrived first, then?’ Monica asked innocently.
Sylvie stared at her, searching for signs of irony, but the question seemed perfectly genuine. ‘No, of course I wouldn’t,’ Sylvie lied. ‘I would have waited till we were all here.’
‘But Claire says they didn’t know you and I were coming.’
Sylvie stared at her even harder. ‘Yes. Well, so she says.’
Sylvie made a business out of fiddling with the tassel on her top. ‘Anyway. Whatever. I’m going to explore the wings tomorrow. Come on, we’d better go down to dinner or they’ll have eaten that too.’
As she followed Monica down the wide stone staircase Sylvie wondered how soon she could make her escape and fly straight back to London. Staying here was clearly going to be a complete disaster.
Monica, on the other hand, seemed to be getting happier by the moment. ‘Well, I’m absolutely thrilled to be here. Hundreds of miles away from my mother.’ She glanced at Sylvie. ‘Does that sound awful?’
Sylvie thought of her own mother, bitter and complaining in her very expensive care home. ‘No, not at all. Very sensible.’
‘With Pompeii and Herculaneum on our doorstep.’
‘I prefer the sound of Capri.’
‘Isn’t that all rich people and expensive boutiques?’
‘Exactly.’ It was the one thought that was stopping Sylvie calling Alessandro and making a bolt for it tonight.
Five
Stephen Charlesworth sat looking out at the Thames from his house on Bankside, a stone’s throw from the Globe Theatre. One of the contradictions of his personality, and he knew there were many, was that his business was mostly developing luxury high-rise housing, yet he lived in a four-hundred-year-old house on the banks of the river. He loved the feel of old London you got from this small row of houses, and especially the fact that three doors down had once been a famous brothel or ‘stew-house’, as they were then known, called the Cardinal’s Cap, frequented by Ben Jonson and other literary luminaries.
He was wondering, as he looked out at the peaceful river, whether he ought to call Beatrice and make sure everything was all right for his new guests, yet he also knew the staff would take wonderful care of them and he wanted to be a host with the lightest of touches, so that they could enjoy themselves without having to feel beholden. The offer he’d been made to buy the villa from a local hotel chain was a generous one and made perfect logical sense, given the amount of time he spent there. And were it not for his complicated feelings about the place he ought to accept it at once. But, as his mother said, it was a unique home. Some sensible independent advice would be genuinely useful. The idea of turning it into a hotel himself was a bit of a fantasy given how busy he was, but again it would be interesting to hear what Sylvie and Angela would propose.