by Maeve Haran
She could hardly admit she just needed to get away or she’d implode.
Some doves started to coo noisily next to her in the tree.
‘What’s that noise?’
‘Oh, just some birds. Probably sheltering in the tree from the rain.’ She’d better lay off or, knowing Martin, he’d go and look up the weather forecast. ‘Anyway, obviously, I’d love to see you but it just isn’t on. Sorry. How are Evan and Belinda?’ she said, changing the subject abruptly.
‘Going around looking like love’s young dream for some reason. Even they say they’re out when I offer to cook.’
‘Poor Martin. Maybe they’ve had good news about their flat.’
‘I certainly bloody hope so.’
‘Look, love, I’ve got to dash. My battery’s low.’
‘Can’t think why when you never have it on,’ he pointed out grouchily.
‘Bye, love, bye.’ She turned off her phone and gazed out at the glorious vista beneath her. The terraced landscape fell in deep ravines right down to the sea yet every inch seemed to be used for growing something, lemons, figs, olives, grapes. The sun was just beginning to set and it glowed with a soft pink light. In summer it was a busy coastline with traffic jams and crowded bars and restaurants. But not yet. A deep peace unfolded over the sea and the land beneath. The doves cooed as if they had been put there deliberately.
And Claire knew one thing for certain. She didn’t want Martin to come.
For some reason Angela felt like changing before they ate tonight. She slipped on a simple shift dress, one of her own, of course, and softened it with a swirly paisley silk scarf in shades of dusty pink and purple. It somehow seemed to go with the darkening landscape.
Whoa, love, she told herself, don’t say you’re getting all romantic because you’re in Italy. Not your style.
She stood on her terrace. Claire was sitting on a bench at the side of the house looking out to sea. They’d better all get on with what they’d come for. Tomorrow she’d start checking out the other hotels in Lanzarella. Always start with the competition, that had always been her motto in business, and it had worked.
Claire got up and went inside.
Angela breathed in the evening scents. Somehow they were stronger as the sun went down. Stocks, lavender and something else she didn’t recognize, as well as the narcissus she’d picked earlier. She looked round her huge terrace and decided now was the time to offer to change rooms.
She was the first downstairs. The table was laid in the dining room. Beatrice appeared and poured the usual fizzy Franciacorta. ‘Maybe sometimes we could eat outside?’ Angela asked.
Beatrice looked genuinely scandalized, as if she’d been asked to cater for an orgy. ‘But is too cold!’
‘For lunch, perhaps. Or breakfast?’
Beatrice simply shrugged.
Angela, glass in hand, wandered into the salon next door. It was an amazing room with its vaulted ceiling and carved angels. She wondered what the nuns had used it for. Or maybe it was just for the Prince of Lerini?
She wandered over to the mantelpiece where Beatrice had put more red roses. In an automatic gesture, Angela dipped her head to sniff them and as she did so she caught sight of a photograph in a plain silver frame which seemed too modern for this medieval setting.
She lifted it up and looked closer. Her heart jolted. It was Stephen, young and handsome, with a beautiful Italian-looking girl on his arm. She was wearing a wedding dress and smiling up at him, standing under an arch she recognized from the garden. Angela studied it for almost a minute, transported back forty years. It couldn’t have been that long after she and Stephen had parted. He could only be about twenty-two or -three.
The day he’d dropped her home in that mad open-topped car came vividly into her mind. So Stephen hadn’t been so conventional after all. He hadn’t married the ‘girls with pearls’ type she’d assumed he’d fall for. But Italy was still a long way from Nottingham. Maybe his bride had been rich.
Oh stop it, Angela, she told herself angrily. It was all over and done with years ago. Why do you keep picking the scab? Stop behaving like some latter-day Miss Havisham. But if the wedding had been all that time ago, then what had happened to the marriage?
She heard a sound and turned, ridiculously half expecting to see the young couple walk in through the open window from the terrace.
Beatrice was standing behind her with the bottle.
‘E bella, la Signora Carla.’ She shook her head. ‘Molto triste.’
Angela’s summer-school Italian ran to understanding that triste meant sad. ‘Why, what happened?’ she asked softly.
‘She was a beautiful bride. It was la Signora Carla who fell in love with this house. She was Italian,’ Beatrice stated proudly. ‘But from Sicily.’ This was clearly a point against the beautiful Carla. Like the French were to the English, the Sicilians were the traditional enemy here.
‘But why here, why not Sicily?’
‘Because of her family. She had many uncles, aunts, her parents, grandparents and, if she lived in Sicilia, they would want her to have babies. Many babies. And Carla, she wanted to enjoy life. To be young and happy and live here with Stefano.’ Beatrice looked fondly at the photograph and sighed. ‘The house here was abbandonata, empty, very cheap. That was why they could afford to buy it.’
‘So what happened?’
‘They were very happy. Immaculata and I would hear them laughing and smile. And then she died. From bleeding in the brain. It happened in her family before. They were there.’ She pointed to the terrace. ‘Stefano, he would speak to no one. After the funeral he go back to England.’
Angela stared at the photograph again. Poor Stephen. No wonder he came here so rarely. She wondered why he’d held on to it at all. Perhaps it held happy memories. Or perhaps it was one property among many. Now it seemed he’d decided to sell it or convert it into a hotel. She couldn’t blame him, no matter how lovely it was.
One of the things about Beatrice’s revelations had struck her forcibly. Beatrice and Immaculata had worked here all the time. Perhaps Luigi too. No wonder Beatrice had dropped a plate when she’d mentioned the hotel. It looked very much as though Stephen had forgotten to tell them.
‘Hello, Angela, you look nice.’
Monica had just come into the room.
Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of her. In Angela’s view Monica looked like a sack of ferrets tied in the middle. One of these days she was going to have to do something about Monica and her clothes.
‘I wanted to show you something interesting in the garden, but you’d probably get that nice frock torn. Maybe tomorrow, then.’
‘Some Franciacorta, Signorina Monica?’ Beatrice offered.
‘Thank you and I think we can forget the signorina.’
‘In Italy it is . . . how do you say?’
‘La cortesia,’ supplied Monica, ‘good manners. Capisco perfettamente.’
Beatrice gave her a long hard look as if she had no idea Monica could speak and understand Italian this well and was wondering what secrets or indiscretions she might have already picked up.
Seven
When Claire joined Monica and Angela in the salon, she decided not to even mention Martin’s call. She knew how they’d react, at least how Angela would. Husbands were not invited.
For no reason she could think of, Claire had dressed up too. Well, she had added a necklace her son Evan had given her for her birthday. The thought made her smile and as she joined them it struck Angela again how pretty she was when she did.
Angela had planned to tell them about Stephen and his marriage as soon as they were all assembled but suddenly she didn’t want to. It was ridiculous but she had to have it to herself for a little while, not as some childish secret to give her an advantage, but because she needed to deal with it in her own way. Tomorrow she’d tell them. For tonight it was just hers.
‘I just wanted to mention before she comes that it’s Sylvie’s bi
rthday,’ Monica half whispered. ‘She only had one card. From Gwen.’ She and Angela exchanged a look of mutual understanding.
‘Gosh, this Gwen,’ Claire commented. ‘She sounds like an amazing old lady.’
They both grinned. ‘Don’t ever say that to Gwen. She doesn’t think eighty-five is even middle-aged.’
‘We’ll have a celebration for Sylvie. I can make my famous lemon tart,’ Claire offered.
‘Let’s hope she doesn’t find out about Tony being here with the brainless bimbo,’ Angela said in a low voice. ‘Thank God they’re staying at the Belvedere Grand in Lerini and not here in Lanzarella. I got the impression it’s bad luck he’s here rather than deliberately malicious. Apparently, Kimberley booked it but doesn’t appreciate all the over-fifties!’
‘She’d better get used to them from now on,’ Claire commented with satisfaction.
‘Time I started to do some work tomorrow,’ Angela announced decisively. ‘I’m going to check out the hotels. You’d better take Sylvie off somewhere just in case.’
‘How about Pompeii?’ Monica asked hopefully. She’d been longing to get there as soon as she could.
‘Have you met Sylvie?’ asked Claire. ‘I don’t think Pompeii’s up her street.’
‘Capri! She said she wanted to go to Capri!’
‘OK, why don’t you persuade her to go on a day trip. I gather it’s quite easy from Lerini.’ With any luck Tony and Kimberley would have moved on to Positano, despite their three-day package.
‘By the way,’ Angela grinned, ‘it didn’t strike me that all was entirely well with the lovebirds.’
She didn’t have time to elaborate as they saw Sylvie arriving.
‘Evening, girls!’ Instead of her usual palette of vermilion through to aubergine, Sylvie was wearing jeans and a paint-stained top. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know we were dressing for dinner, but the good news is, I’ve finished! Tours will be available from tomorrow morning when the paint’s dried.’
‘Actually,’ Claire grabbed a glass and filled it with fizz, ‘Monica and I thought of going to Capri tomorrow and wondered if you’d come?’
Sylvie contemplated them. A few days ago she would have seen it as being picked for the losers’ team, but now they were a cooperative. Yet she still couldn’t help wondering why Angela wasn’t coming. ‘What about Angela?’
Angela saw the trap. If she said she was going to look at hotels, Sylvie would insist on joining her. She’d be safer in the care of Claire and Monica on Capri.
‘Actually,’ lied Angela, ‘I thought I’d ask Beatrice to show me how the housekeeping works.’
Sylvie looked at her in astonishment. ‘Well, count me out, then. The only thing I want to know about cooking is what time’s dinner? I’d better go to Capri, then. As long as it isn’t too early.’
Monica kept her mouth shut. She’d been about to suggest eight o’clock so that they could fit in Emperor Tiberius’s villa before the crowds.
‘How about ten o’clock?’ Claire suggested.
Sylvie agreed, looking pained at such an early start.
‘We’ll check out the ferry times. I suppose a bus down to Lerini’s out of the question?’
Sylvie’s expressive eyebrows answered that one. ‘It’ll have to be Giovanni in the Mini Moke, then,’ suggested Claire innocently.
‘There has to be some form of transport that doesn’t threaten life and limb. How about a cab?’
‘They’re meant to be worse than anything. They all think they’re Emerson Fittipaldi.’
‘Perhaps Luigi’s got a mule.’ Monica grinned.
‘I do hope you’re joking.’
‘I am,’ conceded Monica.
Beatrice announced dinner. ‘Thank God,’ insisted Sylvie. ‘I could eat a wild boar. Whole.’
Monica was virtually certain Angela had had no intention of asking Beatrice about the housekeeping. Which was just as well, because if Monica’s suspicions were right, Beatrice would have some pretty tricky questions to answer.
As usual, Claire was up the next morning long before the others. It was a time she treasured. But she certainly wasn’t going to take any more dips in the hidden grotto. All the same, she looked again at the nymph, smiling to herself at Giovanni’s outrageous Italian audacity.
In her quiet way she had been observing Italian men since she’d arrived and had come to her own conclusions. They were individualistic, charming, aggressive, warm-hearted, self-important, hedonistic, industrious, impatient, sexist, happy, as well as suicidal drivers and, most importantly, complete football fanatics. And good luck to any woman who fell in love with one. If this was contradictory, so, as far as she could tell, were they.
But they certainly made a change from Twickenham.
She decided to go and see if Immaculata was up and about. She came across Beatrice laying the breakfast table on the terrace with much tutting and looking up at the cloudless blue sky for signs of rain.
Immaculata was making coffee in those ridiculously tiny coffee pots with the comical little man on the side. The idea of making one large one for four people was clearly not something to be contemplated.
‘Buongiorno, Immaculata.’
‘Buongiorno, Signora Chiara.’ Rather like their nosy neighbour when Claire was growing up who counted the number of sheets on the line whenever her boyfriend had been to stay, Immaculata had immediately sussed the signoras from the signorinas, and stuck stubbornly to it.
‘Would you mind if I used your kitchen to make a lemon tart?’
Immaculata studied her with a gimlet eye. ‘You do not want my torta al limone? I can cook tonight for you, is very good!’
‘Immaculata, I am a cook too. I would like to make this as a present to my friend Sylvie.’
‘Sì, la Signora Sutton.’ She nodded her head vigorously. Thank heavens Sylvie was the other signora. ‘I see. But if you want lemons, you must go and see Beatrice’s nephew Luca. He grows the best lemons in Lerini.’
Claire was hoping just to pinch a few from the garden but could see this was the price Immaculata was going to extract for trespassing on her territory.
‘Can I go tomorrow?’
‘I will ask my nephew to see. He or my second cousin will go and ask Luca when is free.’
Claire could see that etiquette demanded this procedure rather than the more conventional one of ringing him up, which was odd since every Italian under eighty seemed to have a mobile phone permanently attached to their ear. She supposed at least it ensured full employment for the nephews and second cousins.
‘Thank you. We are going to Capri today so perhaps you could let me know when I get back, and maybe I will visit him tomorrow for the lemons?’
‘Sì, sì. Va bene.’
She went to sit on the terrace, poured herself coffee from one of the tiny coffee pots, and glanced down at the sapphire sea. It was calm, thank heavens.
Looking around her she felt such a sense of well-being here, almost like being part of a family. But instead of a family that made constant demands, this was one that seemed to want to nurture you. As if to underline this, Immaculata arrived with a tasty-looking pastry filled with ricotta that looked like a shell, informing her that she must try it as it was the local delicacy. The only clouds looming were the thought of calls from Martin and the much worse threat of Sylvie discovering that Tony and Kimberley were on their doorstep.
‘Just get straight onto the hydrofoil and steer clear of the hotel on the point, the Belvedere,’ Angela whispered to Monica. ‘Giovanni’s going to drop you right by the waterfront, so it should be quite straightforward.’
‘Right, OK.’
‘With luck, little Miss Kimberley will have dragged him off to Positano. Much more her style anyway.’
‘You don’t think she booked round here to rub it in for Sylvie?’
‘There’re plenty of posh hotels in Lanzarella, if she did. I think it’s just bad luck.’
Claire arrived, holding a guidebook to Capri. �
��Where’s Sylvie?’ Monica looked at her watch anxiously. ‘I certainly don’t want to experience Giovanni hurrying for a hydrofoil.’
They both shuddered as Sylvie appeared in sunglasses and a straw hat, looking like a celebrity trying to avoid the paparazzi.
‘Come on, Sylvie.’ Monica looked like a little brown hen next to a showy rooster. ‘Giovanni’s waiting.’
‘Oh goody.’ Sylvie clambered into the back, under the mistaken impression that it was safer there. ‘Surely,’ she announced, ‘Stephen must have some vehicle other than this death-trap?’
‘I thought it made you think of Mykonos?’ Claire suggested naughtily.
‘I had a crap time in Mykonos, now that I remember. Nobody told me it was as gay as San Francisco.’
Claire and Monica giggled and tried to concentrate on the spectacular scenery. It was as though nature was trying to make the most of all the heavy rain of the other day and you could almost hear things growing. Claire half expected to see the bright yellow lemons in the groves that surrounded them spring straight out of the blossom as in slow-motion photography. Everything was exaggerated. The sky bluer. The sun more brilliant. The sea even more sparkling than before.
All was going well and they were chatting away about what they might do on Capri until the final stretch of corniche down three hairpin bends into Lerini when they found themselves behind a battered pickup loaded down with vegetables, driven extremely slowly by a tiny old man who could barely see over the steering wheel.
Every time Giovanni attempted to overtake he miraculously moved into the middle of the road.
Monica was impressed at the moderation of Giovanni’s responses given the range of Italian insult possible until he said, ‘Mi fa cagare!’
‘What’s he saying?’
‘That it makes him want to shit.’
‘Well, no shitting in the car please!’ Sylvie commanded just as the old man braked and two boxes of cucumbers somersaulted onto the road ahead of them.
Rather than stop and help, Giovanni took this opportunity to overtake, adding another stream of tender insults.
Just as they rounded the final bend, Monica watched the old man climb from his pickup, yell, ‘Borsanerista!’ and spit on the ground.