An Italian Holiday

by Maeve Haran

  Piqued at the casual assumption of her acceptance, and unwilling to endure the teasing the invitation would evoke, Angela slipped up the back stairs and put them safely in her bedroom. She thought about whether she wanted to go. She would actually rather like to see the celebrated Positano, the St Tropez of the Italian coastline, and it would be useful to know more about the man’s intentions, not towards her, but towards acquiring the villa. There was also something intriguing about Hugo himself, and no one who found you a corn plaster, then sent you a glass of free champagne, could be all bad. Not to mention the roses.

  She opened the windows to her terrace and felt the fresh and cooling breezes that seemed so characteristic of the Villa Le Sirenuse. If Stephen was serious about the idea of selling and wanted to know what they thought, why hadn’t he told them a few more facts?

  Monica opted to make the most of the sudden activity in the house to walk down the hillside path to Lerini and talk to the lady in the antiques shop. It was a glorious morning and she decided to forgo either the bus or the offers from Giovanni, currently being shouted at by Luigi, who obviously considered all this driving of ladies to be a scam to get him out of digging and weeding.

  Instead she would walk down the thousand steps. She stood, looking down into the deep valley, its terraces already fragrant with orange, peach and almond blossom – and, of course, the universal lemons. Myrtle, broom and holm oak vied with the bright acid-green of euphorbia. Bees buzzed in the blossom, and birdsong echoed from one side of the valley to the other.

  ‘It is the season of love for the birds,’ Giovanni had offered suggestively when she and Angela had sat outside yesterday.

  Angela had shaken her head and asked, in a loud voice, ‘Where does he get the script? Do you think they’re handed it at birth?’

  ‘In a sense he’s right,’ Monica had replied. ‘The birds don’t sing for our delectation, after all, but to attract a mate.’

  As she stood on a small viewing point, about fifteen minutes into her descent, breathing in the verbena and herbs and trying to resist picking the wild anemones and violets, an amazing thought struck her.

  She was not the same Monica who had struggled up the mountain, damp and depressed and convinced that coming to Italy was a stupid mistake. She was someone entirely different. Someone with miraculous hair, who wore shifts and was going to pose for a famous painter.

  And most wonderful of all, she had friends to share it with.

  An hour later, she emerged by the side of the yellow stucco cathedral, sat in the small piazza, and ordered a coffee. Lerini, she decided, was a lovely town, unpretentious and bustling, touristy in summer but still a real place when the tourists packed their bags and departed for their cold climates and sophisticated lifestyles.

  She ordered a ‘caffè’ and sat back to watch the babies and the grannies, and the fat pigeons begging between the tables.

  One man caught her attention. He was sitting alone facing away from her, and while everyone around him fiddled with their various gadgets, he looked around peacefully and tore off pieces of his croissant for the small bird that bravely darted from under his seat, grabbed a crumb and retreated. As soon as a bully-boy pigeon arrived on the scene, he shooed it away and waited for the little one to work up its courage and make for the croissant. Something about his protectiveness touched Monica and she found herself smiling.

  The man turned towards her to look at the clock on the front of the town hall opposite the cathedral. He had a crumpled air – crumpled linen trousers, crumpled shirt, even a slightly crumpled face.

  She realized with a shock that it was Sylvie’s husband, Tony. And he seemed to be not only alone, but also in no expectation of meeting anyone.

  Storing away this interesting information, Monica paid her bill and headed for the antiques shop in the catacombs under the cathedral.

  The lady in the hairdresser’s came out and greeted her like an old friend, then pulled her into the shop to have a free comb-through so that the masterpiece could be viewed to its fullest advantage. ‘Bella, bella!’ she clucked as Monica got up to leave.

  How did Italians have this knack of making you feel good about yourself? she wondered. Was it a national characteristic, were there no self-hating depressives who had fallen through the happiness net?

  The owner of the antiques shop was equally fulsome, congratulating Monica on her fluency in Italian and asking after each object that Sylvie had purchased, right down to the individual bolts of moth-eaten fabric, as if they were old friends, sorely missed but happy they had found a good home.

  This satisfactorily negotiated, Monica was able to bring the conversation round to the Villa Le Sirenuse.

  ‘I wondered, signora, why it was you described it as “the wedding house”?’

  The owner looked at her as if the answer were self-evident. ‘Because of the wonderful weddings there. My niece, she have her wedding feast at the villa last primavera.’

  She went into raptures of remembrance. ‘She look so beautiful under the glicine – how do you say in English?’

  ‘Wisteria.’

  ‘There are candles everywhere and tables to sit at in the gardens.’

  ‘But wasn’t it very expensive, molto caro?’ Monica slipped in slyly.

  ‘No, no, is not expensive. If the owner come home, must be cancelled, so is very cheap.’

  So Stephen hadn’t given his permission. The weddings were happening behind his back.

  Monica had a sudden inspiration. ‘Do you have any photographs?’

  The old lady rooted about amongst phone books and files of receipts and finally cried ‘Here it is!’

  It was a photograph of a smiling young couple standing under a flower-covered pergola. And it was definitely the Villa Le Sirenuse. Now, whatever had been going on, Monica had firm evidence for it.

  Ten

  Angela dressed carefully for the trip to Positano. It wasn’t an easy brief. Combining visiting a chichi resort with a fairly strenuous walk in sensible shoes was at least going to involve some kind of change – if only of footwear. She went out onto the terrace to look at the weather. It was funny how she no longer simply enjoyed the pure luxury of having her own terrace but felt a twinge of guilt. ‘Angela,’ she had said to herself when it first happened, ‘stop this. What’s happening to you?’ She grinned. Maybe it was something to do with taking off the metaphorical suit.

  The day was cloudless and blue. Still, they’d be going on the ferry or hydrofoil, so it might be cooler.

  Her final solution was a pair of grey Fabric linen shorts teamed with one of their dusty-pink sleeveless tops. She wished her legs were browner or she’d had a spray tan, but the only alternative was trousers and they didn’t seem right for walking.

  She was taken aback at her reaction to seeing the Fabric label as she pulled the top over her head.

  She had pushed the whole business so successfully out of her mind since she’d been here – if the offer had been due to kindness on Stephen’s part, it had certainly worked – now she couldn’t help wondering how it was all going. She knew Drew would contact her if it was really necessary, and, equally, that he would protect her from intrusion if it wasn’t.

  The thought occurred to her that two different men were trying to shield Angela the ball breaker, but instead of finding it funny, or being angry about it, she felt oddly touched. Maybe after all this time her feminine side was emerging. How surprising would that be? Would the next stop be a fluffy dog in her handbag?

  She stuffed a pair of trainers and socks into the basket she’d picked up in Lerini market and went down to face the others. As far as she knew, they were unaware of today’s invitation from Hugo and since it had nothing whatsoever to do with hotel research, she would have to make up some excuse for a day’s absence. Not an easy task. The Lanzarella Women’s Cooperative always seemed to know what the other parts were doing. Somehow Claire had managed to escape with Luca without too much comment, but possibly his connecti
on with Beatrice gave her some cover.

  Angela decided she might as well come clean and say where she was going. After all, she could pick up some useful information about how serious Hugo was about acquiring the villa at the same time.

  The other three were all installed on the sun-drenched terrace consuming bowls of tempting fruit salad prepared by Immaculata. ‘You have to try this, Angela,’ Sylvie insisted. ‘It’s the food of the gods.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ Angela replied lightly, ‘I’m going for a stroll on the Path of the Gods, maybe I’d better propitiate them with some of the divine fruit salad. A little libation.’

  ‘Libation is drink, isn’t it, Monica?’ Claire asked.

  Monica nodded. ‘I don’t think there’s a word for food offerings.’

  Angela sat down, grateful this diversion into mythology might have averted any awkward questions.

  She was wrong.

  ‘So what time’s old smoothy-chops Hugo coming to pick you up, then?’ Sylvie smiled blandly.

  Angela decided to ignore this. ‘Actually, I’m going down to the ferry in Lerini. By bus,’ she added firmly.

  ‘Oh, goody.’ Sylvie smiled. ‘I’ll come with you. I want to have a look round the market. Beatrice says they have a kind of Italian boot fair on Tuesdays. Just up my street. I thought I might crack on with one of the other rooms. Give me something to do.’

  ‘Don’t you ever sit still?’ Monica asked admiringly. She’d never encountered a force like Sylvie before.

  ‘Not if I can help it. The idea of sunbathing on holiday would be like Guantanamo Bay to me.’

  ‘Sylvie,’ Monica looked horrified, ‘that’s an awful thing to say.’

  ‘Don’t come to me for political correctness.’ Sylvie shook out her orange and purple dress. ‘I came out of the womb tactless. Anyone else fancy the market?’

  Angela held her breath. She could just envisage the entire cooperative watching her departure.

  ‘I do,’ Monica offered.

  ‘Goody. You can bargain for me in Italian, so they don’t think I’m some stupid tourist in a silly frock.’

  ‘Actually,’ Monica said firmly, ‘I want to see if there are any old books.’

  ‘Have you run out? I can lend you a Jackie Collins. It’s quite sexy in parts.’

  Monica hid her face under her shiny new hair, thinking of Brian and how they hadn’t needed any racy novels to get them going. Brian’s ashes! She suddenly remembered how she had brought them. How ridiculous of her. She’d better try and think of a suitable scattering place. That made her wonder exactly how long they would all be staying and she instantly knew she didn’t want to raise the question.

  It might break the spell, and there was something magical here. She didn’t know if it was the sunshine, the beauty of the place, the friendly acceptance of the Italians, or being part of this unlikely little group, but she was happy and she no longer felt like a failure. How had that happened?

  ‘I was thinking of old books.’

  ‘Oh, Monica, you’re so wonderful!’ Sylvie decreed affectionately. ‘Only you would come to a resort in the Med and look for old books! I bet you’re still itching to get us all to Pompeii!’

  The idea of Sylvie in her four-inch sandals trailing around one of the most famous historical sites in the world was so funny Monica had to laugh.

  ‘She thinks we’re lightweights,’ Sylvie announced mournfully. ‘Come on, less of this weighing up of our intellectual calibre; if we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss the bus and have to risk Giovanni. And not the usual terrifyingly casual Giovanni either, this is the brooding jealous Giovanni because his nymph’s gone off with a lemon grower!’

  Claire shook her head in embarrassment.

  To their huge amusement it was an open-topped bus that arrived, and they all made for the back as if it was some middle-aged school trip.

  ‘Don’t let Sylvie sing,’ whispered Angela to Monica. ‘I don’t think I could bear the mortification.’

  But there was greater mortification to come when they arrived in Lerini.

  After they had alighted, Sylvie dragged Monica down to the quayside to wave her off, only to find that there was no sign of Hugo in the queue for either the ferry or hydrofoil. ‘I expect he’s a bit late, why don’t you two go off shopping?’ Angela encouraged.

  ‘I may be wrong,’ Sylvie declared innocently, ‘but I think someone’s waving to you from that speedboat.’

  And indeed, at the bottom of the steps to the waterside, Hugo was standing up in a small powerboat shouting to attract her attention, plus that of the entire quayside, who watched Angela’s progress down the slippery steps to the boat with great interest.

  ‘And all because,’ Monica commented just loud enough for Angela to hear, ‘the lady loves Milk Tray.’

  Monica and Sylvie both spent a happy hour at the market, which to Sylvie’s delight turned out to be more antiques market than boot fair. She hunted away through the assorted tables, happy as a robin digging for worms, and twice as colourful. Monica watched her negotiating for the gold cherub she had decided was just what was needed in her new room. She certainly didn’t need Monica’s help; there was clearly a streak of market trader somewhere back in Sylvie’s DNA. Monica felt quite sorry for the poor antiques dealer.

  At the other end of the row there were several bookstalls, mainly selling dog-eared paperbacks, old maps, and the occasional copy of Elena Ferrante, whose Neapolitan quartet Monica had already read. She moved on to the next stall. There was a rather funny cartoon about golf, which her mother might quite enjoy. In some ways, she didn’t think Mariella really deserved a gift from her but she decided that was small-minded and bought it anyway. Then, to her delight, she suddenly noticed a hardback book with a bright orange cover on which a wonderful stylized beast, just like something from a medieval painting, illustrated one of Italy’s most famous novels, The Leopard by Giuseppe di Lampedusa. There was something about its bold yet simple lines she knew instinctively that Constantine would enjoy. She would take it with her if she really did go to his studio.

  She glanced round and saw Sylvie approaching loaded with moth-eaten velvet cushions, antique fabric and a small statue of a 1920s flapper which, on close inspection, turned out to be a lamp.

  ‘Monica, I’m disappointed,’ Sylvie began, taking the book out of Monica’s hands. ‘It isn’t even in Italian.’ She stopped as if frozen, a momentary look of pain flashing across her face before the customary sarcasm returned. ‘So, the gym bunny can read,’ she suddenly lashed out.

  Monica looked up and saw that Tony was standing on the other side of the table, an old copy of an Agatha Christie in his hand. Under his suntan he looked rather tired and old.

  ‘Are you sure that isn’t too advanced for her?’

  Tony stood still, accepting the bitter irony as if it were only his due. ‘Kim’s gone home. She decided I was a disappointment in every department but one.’ He paused then added, ‘I give good massages.’

  ‘I’m sure we’re delighted to hear that. Maybe you should do it for a living. So what are you doing here, then?’

  Tony looked Sylvie in the eye. ‘I was rather hoping I might bump into you.’

  ‘Well, now you have, so you can get the next flight out of Naples.’

  ‘Sylvie, please . . . I deserved to be humiliated and you very successfully turned me into a laughing stock. Can you accept that I did something hurtful and I would very much like to make amends?’

  Monica found that she was hoping Sylvie would say yes. Maybe it was the little bird he’d been feeding in the piazza but she couldn’t help feeling that there was something kind in Tony and kindness was a quality not to be wasted.

  ‘Absolutely not. You made your bed, as my mother would say.’

  ‘As you are the first to admit, your mother is a bitter old woman. You aren’t the easiest person to live with, you know.’

  Monica couldn’t help feeling that this line of defence was a mistake. Shu
t up, Tony! Tell her you miss her! she wanted to shout.

  ‘You have to dominate every room you enter,’ he went on. ‘You never acknowledge other people’s opinions. You are entirely convinced you’re right.’

  Sylvie stood impassively, stony faced as a sphinx in a kaftan. Monica thought he might turn and go away.

  ‘And I miss you like hell.’ He stepped towards her but she held up the flapper girl as if it were some kind of offensive weapon.

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘Where did you find that thing?’

  ‘Back there in the market.’

  ‘Knowing you, it’ll turn out to be a hidden masterpiece. I am just about to buy this paperback.’ He waved the Agatha Christie. ‘To give me something to do in the evenings. I am not taking the next flight to Naples, despite your kind suggestion. Should you want to get in touch with me, I’m still staying at the hotel.’

  ‘Ridiculous place.’

  ‘I paid for the room in advance.’

  ‘You always were a mean sod.’

  ‘And you have no idea of the value of money.’

  Monica sighed. The small window of reconciliation seemed to be closing.

  Tony finally noticed Monica’s book. ‘I’ve tried to read that three times. Too deep for me, but the cover’s great. Goodbye, Sylvie.’ He paid for the book and walked off back towards the piazza.

  ‘I didn’t know he’d ever read that book,’ Sylvie said.

  ‘Maybe there’s lots you don’t know about him. Did you know he feeds little birds with croissants and shoos off the big ones?’

  Sylvie looked at her as if she was mad, but Monica noticed that her eyes were following her husband’s back until he turned down a small alley and disappeared out of sight.

  ‘This is all a bit flash,’ Angela commented, arranging herself on the boat’s leather seating.

  ‘Actually, the hotel keeps it for visitors who want day trips away from the hoi polloi. And don’t correct me that it should be hoi polloi, not “the” hoi polloi. You look like an Oxbridge type to me,’ he stated provocatively.