by Maeve Haran
Eventually they arrived, shaken and speechless, in the main piazza of Lerini.
‘Signorine,’ Giovanni announced with a flourish, ‘ecco Lerini.’
‘Thank God for that,’ announced Sylvie breathlessly. ‘I thought we were going to end up in the cemetery, not the piazza. I need a cappuccino to recover. And personally speaking, I’m going to get a cab back.’
‘The bus is only two euros,’ Claire reminded her, thinking of her own and Monica’s budgets.
‘Yes, but it’s probably driven by Giovanni’s cousin.’
‘I just wonder why they need a car like this at all,’ Angela shrugged, ‘since Stephen never seems to come here.’
‘No,’ contradicted Giovanni, ‘Mr Stefano, he comes sometimes in summer. He like the big heat. That is why we have the car. But usually he drive it himself.’
‘I hope he’s a better driver than you,’ muttered Angela following the others.
Lerini turned out to be a pretty little town, embracing tourism but obviously not entirely dependent on it. Its real charm was that it wasn’t one of those sad places that closed up shop in October and remained shut till May. Lerini clearly had its vibrant local life with the butcher, the baker and probably the candlestick-maker too.
Sylvie had chosen the most expensive-looking cafe right opposite the duomo.
‘It says in Tour Selector that the one over there is better.’ Claire pointed to the cafe opposite.
‘I can’t bear Tour Selector,’ Sylvie announced. ‘It’s only used by overweight Americans with no taste.’
‘Not that I’m ever judgemental,’ commented Claire under her breath.
‘Anyway, the coffees are on me. I’m wondering who might help me find some stuff for my new room afterwards?’
‘I will,’ Monica volunteered.
Sylvie tried to look pleased.
‘And then I’d like to look around the cathedral. There are some famous doom paintings.’
‘Just come to my room and I’ll show you one,’ Claire giggled.
Their coffees arrived. A cappuccino for Claire and Sylvie and espressos for Angela and Monica.
‘Most Brits prefer the frothy stuff,’ Angela commented to Monica.
‘I picked up the habit when I was living here,’ Monica replied. ‘Italians call this “caffé”.’
She smiled but for some reason Angela wasn’t listening any more.
‘Right.’ Angela suddenly stood up, all her bossiness back in spades. ‘Drink up, everyone. I only want to spend an hour down here anyway. Lots to do back in Lanzarella on the hotel front. That’s why we’re here after all.’
Sylvie looked mutinous. Bloody Angela was at it again. ‘I’ll finish my coffee, thank you.’
Then Angela pulled up Monica. Monica looked at her in surprise. Maybe the rutting stags were at it again. Well, let them get on with it. Instead she stared up at the calming yellow facade of the cathedral.
Unexpectedly Angela threaded her arm through Monica’s and began to bodily pull Sylvie out of her chair as if all three were in a chorus line and about to dance the cancan.
‘Could you pay, Claire?’ she asked, a note of insistence in her voice, as she dragged the other two across the square towards the catacombs under the cathedral. ‘I glimpsed a really good antiques shop over here and it’ll probably shut in a minute.’
‘But it’s only eleven o’clock!’ insisted Sylvie irritably. How was she going to bear much more of Angela bloody Williams? Who did she think she was, just because she was on telly?
‘Their hours are very unpredictable. Look, it’s just your kind of thing.’
Some of the eccentric objects in the window – a brass eagle lectern, various stuffed birds, an embroidered silk shawl with a fringe, a five-foot Nubian slave light-holder – did indeed look just up Sylvie’s street.
As if drawn by a magnet, Sylvie forgot her complaints and disappeared inside.
‘What was all that about?’ Claire asked huffily when she caught up with them. She’d only just had enough change to cover the coffees now that she’d lent some to Monica.
Angela gestured discreetly to the other side of the square.
‘Because sitting right over there in the next cafe is Sylvie’s erring husband Tony with the blonde bimbo who was the cause of all the trouble. I recognized him from the infamous photograph she circulated. Someone sent it to me because they thought it was funny.’
‘Oh my God, poor Sylvie!’
The surprising thing, it struck Claire, was how determined Angela had been to protect Sylvie from seeing him.
Maybe she was beginning to do women friends after all.
Six
‘Oh my God, do you think she saw him?’
Claire couldn’t keep her eyes from the older man and the young woman who seemed to consist mainly of hair and high heels.
Angela shook her head. ‘No, because she would have exploded if she had. But she still might if we’re not careful. I wonder if he’s staying in Lerini. Why don’t you go and keep Sylvie and Monica busy? Make sure they don’t go back to the piazza and I’ll try and find out what they’re doing here. Maybe they’re just on a day trip. Explain to Monica if you can do it discreetly. I never thought I’d ever say this but we need Giovanni to drive us all back pretty damn quick.’
‘That’s good because he’s lounging on the car over there watching the schoolgirls coming out for their lunch break.’
‘One thing you have to say for Giovanni,’ Angela conceded, ‘is that he doesn’t practise age discrimination.’
Claire couldn’t suppress a giggle. ‘Too true. When do you think we should try and go?’
‘Can you head off Sylvie for fifteen minutes?’ Angela asked.
‘I hope so.’
‘That should give me time to strike up an intimate acquaintance.’
‘Right. I’ll tell Giovanni now.’
By the time Claire approached Giovanni he had stopped eyeing the junior talent and was in the middle of a heated exchange which, weirdly enough, seemed to be on the subject of zucchini. A man in a chef’s uniform was slitting open a zucchini and had cut out a chunk which he then threw on the ground, shouting ‘Ecco! È marcio!’
Giovanni was waving his arms and shouting in return. As soon as he saw Claire approaching his smile appeared as swiftly as a rainbow after a shower.
‘Chiara! Ciao! Are you ready to go back now?’
‘In ten minutes. But can we go from somewhere other than here?’
Giovanni looked as if nothing would delight him more. He gave the chunk of zucchini back to the chef and waved his arms again. ‘The street at the end of this one.’ He pointed towards the back of the town, repelling all further attempts to have vegetables stuffed into his arms.
Claire headed off towards the antiques shop in search of Sylvie and Monica. The catacombs were amazing. A whole hidden city of white-painted tunnels away from the heat of the day with a hairdresser’s and several wine bars with murky interiors, where old men sat reading papers and drinking red wine and young men drank cold beers and argued about football and cars; there were even restaurants hidden away underground.
Claire found Sylvie and Monica smiling delightedly at the old lady who ran the antiques shop.
‘Claire,’ Sylvie greeted her, ‘Monica’s been absolutely brilliant. Not only have we haggled for all those goodies there – she pointed to a pile of their spoils – but this wonderful lady is selling us these.’
She picked up one of several rolls of taffeta and silks, which frankly looked a bit moth-eaten to Claire but which were certainly in the wonderful jewel-like colours she knew Sylvie specialized in. She couldn’t help wondering why Sylvie was going to all this trouble for such a short stay. Unless she was trying to persuade Stephen that he really ought to turn the house into a hotel with herself as the designer.
‘The signora here was saving them for when they moved to a palazzo in Rome but Monica discovered they’ll never be going because her husband has had
a stroke. Isn’t that lucky?’ Claire couldn’t help feeling that it was not so lucky for the husband in question. ‘So she’ll sell them to us instead. They couldn’t be more perfect. I can make a silk canopy to go over my bed and there’ll be plenty left over for the other rooms. I can’t tell you what a fun morning we’ve been having.’
‘You don’t think Stephen will mind?’ Claire tried to imagine how she’d feel if Belinda decided to completely redecorate the spare room in magenta and orange while she was in Italy.
‘It’s all just for show. I could take the lot down in a couple of hours if he objected. Besides, nobody seems to have even been in the wings for years.’
Claire racked her brains, wondering how to get Sylvie away without going to the piazza. ‘Fantastic! By the way, I saw a design shop you’d love in that road away from the square. I’m dying to show it to you.’
‘What about all this stuff? Would you be able to deliver, signora?’
The old lady nodded her head. ‘Yes. Yes, my nephew bring. He has – how do you say? Pickup truck.’
‘Perfect vehicle for an Italian,’ Monica murmured. ‘Seeing as they spend most of their time trying to do just that.’
‘Where do you stay?’
‘At the Villa Le Sirenuse,’ Monica told her. ‘Do you know it?’
‘Ah yes, the wedding house.’ Monica looked at Claire and shrugged. It seemed an odd description but maybe Stephen had lent it to his friends in the past to get married in. That would create lots of work and be very popular. ‘Very beautiful. My nephew will bring tonight. Or maybe my second cousin.’
‘I love Italy,’ Monica whispered. ‘They always have a nephew or a second cousin.’
Sylvie, who knew her business, left her credit cards in her wallet and got out a roll of cash, even managing to negotiate her usual designer’s discount.
‘Right,’ she waved to the old lady, who beamed away. In this wonderfully satisfactory transaction both parties seemed to think they had achieved the coup of the century.
In fact, Sylvie was still so delighted with her finds that she didn’t notice the absence of the promised design shop until they came upon Giovanni smiling and holding open the door of the Mini Moke.
‘Where was this shop you thought I’d like, then?’ she asked Claire, eyeing Giovanni warily.
‘We must have walked past it. But do you know, I’m not feeling very well. Do you think, just this once, we could hop back into the car with Giovanni? Only it’d be so much quicker than looking for a cab.’
‘I’m not sure being driven by Giovanni is the best prescription if you’re off colour, but whatever you like.’
Angela, meanwhile, had found a table next to Tony and Kimberley.
Kimberley, an avid reader of style supplements, instantly recognized her from the television.
‘Look,’ she announced to Tony in a loud voice, ‘it’s that woman from Done Deal. Angela something. The one who’s just been sacked.’
Tony had the grace to look embarrassed.
Angela pretended not to hear and smiled. ‘Espresso please,’ she requested from the waiter, then turned to Tony and Kimberley. ‘Lovely town, isn’t it?’
Tony looked like someone who had lost a lot of weight, yet somehow it didn’t add to his attractiveness. Like Nigel Lawson, he just looked like a thin person in someone else’s skin. Poor Tony, she began to feel, I bet she’s put him on a diet.
‘Are you Angela . . . ?’ Kimberley began.
‘Williams. Are you staying here in Lerini?’
Kimberley nodded. ‘Yes. For a few days.’
‘The cathedral’s supposed to be wonderful,’ Angela insisted. ‘There’s a world-famous mural of Jonah and the whale.’
Kimberley looked blank. Tony, on the other hand, looked weary.
Too much sex perhaps.
‘The shops are crap.’ Kimberley pouted. ‘I’ve never heard of any of them.’
So much for independent retailing. Angela thought fast. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Belvedere Grand.’ Tony pointed towards the seafront.
‘Any good?’
‘Dull. Dull. Dull,’ Kimberley replied. ‘Everyone’s over fifty.’
‘You booked it,’ Tony snapped. ‘You said it was an amazing deal.’
‘We may move on to Positano soon,’ Kimberley announced.
‘Except that we’ve already paid for three days,’ Tony pointed out gloomily.
‘Still,’ Angela encouraged, ‘more of a waste if you don’t like it. I hear Positano’s fabulous. Full of the beautiful people.’
It was also at least an hour away along the winding hairpin corniche.
‘Come on, darling.’ Kimberley snuggled into his shoulder, and looked up at him. ‘Let’s go tomorrow.’
Angela drank her espresso and, mission accomplished, said goodbye and headed for the meeting point at the back of the town.
‘Look, there’s Angela,’ Sylvie pointed out. ‘I hope she hasn’t spoiled your morning by going off on her own. Everything seems to be beneath Angela’s touch.’
Claire just smiled and held the door open for Angela. This time she climbed into the back.
Any thoughts of errant husbands were forgotten in the journey back up the mountain. If they had hoped it might be less scary going upwards they were wrong. This time Giovanni entertained them by turning round and asking them if they had enjoyed their morning just as a tourist bus appeared round the blind corner with a thousand-foot ravine beneath them to their right. Claire and Angela screamed.
Smiling with pleasure – this was the way ladies should be in Giovanni’s view: terrified yet in his more than capable hands – he edged inside the bus with only millimetres to spare, pushing the bus with its forty occupants towards the outside edge, and somehow managing to ease past. ‘Foreign driver!’ He shrugged dismissively.
Angela glanced at the back of the bus. It was from Salerno, forty miles away. But maybe round here that was foreign.
Sylvie, blissfully unaware of all danger, was mentally decorating her room, while Monica tried to read the guidebook so she didn’t have to look. Angela studied the landscape to distract herself and discourage further conversation from Giovanni.
It was truly an amazing place. She had rarely seen such a dramatic outlook except in the Alps. It was as if a mountain range had been sharply concertinaed into high peaks with vertiginous ravines that cut off dramatically when they came to the sea, making Beachy Head look tame by comparison. Small towns like Lerini had squeezed themselves into narrow inlets then expanded up the hillside and down to the beach. The houses that clung perilously to the hillside made Angela think of pink and white limpets clinging to a bare rock.
‘È bella, no?’ Giovanni turned again at the sharp hairpin just beneath Lanzarella. Angela had the feeling he had practised this before to give maximum scare factor.
‘Sí, è bella,’ Angela replied flatly, gazing determinedly at the distant prospect rather than the near one of Giovanni.
‘OK,’ he turned back sulkily, ‘all want to go to the villa?’
‘Yes,’ insisted Angela assertively. They were going to need a plan if they were going to keep Sylvie from encountering Tony.
When they got to the villa, Beatrice and Immaculata were waiting eagerly on the steps. ‘There was phone call for Signora Lambert,’ Beatrice explained excitedly. ‘Her husband ring. Want her to call soon as possible.’
Claire’s heart thudded. Had something happened at home? And why the hell couldn’t Martin just call her on her phone? She knew Martin had a thing about mobiles, but really. Had something happened to Evan? Don’t be so stupid, Claire told herself. Evan is a grown man, he would call himself. It was probably just that Martin couldn’t find the TV remote. She’d call him after lunch.
Meanwhile, Giovanni was jabbering away to the housekeeper and cook in machine-gun Italian, with much waving of arms.
‘What are they saying, Monica?’ Claire asked, fascinated at this sudden outbreak o
f emotion.
‘It’s all in dialect. I can’t follow a word except maybe zucchini. Giovanni was having one of those quiet Italian chats with someone when we were in Lerini. That was about zucchini too. Or at least I think it was.’
‘Don’t talk about food,’ Sylvie suddenly burst out. ‘I’m starving!’
Lunch was already laid out when they went into the dining room. A salad of tomatoes, fresh basil, and on top of the sliced tomatoes there was a round little parcel of something white tied up at the top, and a bottle of pale white wine.
‘It looks like something my granny would have used for her wash,’ Claire giggled.
‘It’s called burrata.’ Monica sniffed hers. ‘That means buttered. It’s mozzarella on the outside and inside it’s all oozy and creamy and divine.’ They all sat down and studied their plates. ‘The version from round here comes wrapped in a lemon leaf and only stays fresh for two or three days. After that it’s rubbery and no good.’
‘Imagine a cheese you have to eat in two days.’ Sylvie cut into hers carefully. ‘In my house we have cheese you have to eat in two months. Occasionally two years. I’m not very strong on sell-by dates. Two days! What a country! Hey, this is divine!’
They had hardly finished when Immaculata arrived with a dish of home-made ravioli stuffed with cinghiale, Italy’s famous wild boar.
‘Immaculata, your cooking is wonderful!’ The little white-haired cook broke out into a dazzling smile. ‘Is nothing. What you give men working outside.’
‘Not the men in my life,’ Sylvie laughed. ‘They’re lucky to get a sandwich from Boots.’
‘Is all OK at home?’ Immaculata asked Claire as she served her pasta.
The others looked at her too.
‘I haven’t rung yet.’
‘Putting it off?’ Sylvie winked. ‘Not overwhelmed with excitement at the thought of a phone call from your darling hubby?’ She suddenly seemed to sag at the thought of husbands and, despite the colourful clothes and wild hair, looked suddenly old and deflated. ‘Take my advice and hang on to him.’
Claire and Angela tried not to catch each other’s eye.