by Maeve Haran
This led to a heated discussion as to whether the woman should or shouldn’t, with some yeses, a few noes and one suggestion she leave it to the Good Lord.
Tony just smiled uncomprehendingly and handed over his credit card.
‘And now,’ Monica smiled, ‘you need to summon one of those taxis.’ She pointed at the rank over the road.
‘Couldn’t you take it?’ Tony asked, mystified.
‘Of course not! This is private business between you and Sylvie. She would hate to think that I even knew about it. By your age you really ought to understand women.’
Tony smiled, a glimmer of his old self returning. ‘So you know everything about the male sex, I assume, Ms Monica . . . ?’
‘Mathieson,’ supplied Monica, realizing he’d probably collapse if he knew how little she knew of men, apart from Brian.
‘What a lovely name. With a name like that you ought to be famous. What do you do, in fact?’
Fortunately, the taxi arrived with breakneck speed so she didn’t have to admit that, as a matter of fact, she was a retired librarian from Great Missenden.
‘How about dinner tonight?’
Hugo Robertson, Angela had discovered, was flatteringly persistent. He had left various messages and texts and his male ego seemed not a whit dented by the fact that she hadn’t returned any of them.
This might, of course, have been the difference between men and women. Women, when they didn’t get an instant reply – especially after they’d double checked their phone that their message had actually been delivered – immediately imagined rejection, that they were ugly, unattractive and might as well ‘get them to a nunnery’. Men, on the other hand, simply assumed that the woman hadn’t got the message.
‘I know a little place . . .’ he persisted before she could refuse.
‘Hugo, we established that you always know a little place.’ Then she thought, why not? None of those accusations levelled by Luca had been proven in any way. They could just be an unsuccessful businessman’s jealousy of a successful one. ‘All right,’ she agreed eventually. ‘When and where?’
‘I like a woman of decision. The Balcony. Eight p.m.’
Angela couldn’t help laughing as she surveyed her wardrobe. It was all so bloody tasteful. For a mad moment she felt envious of Sylvie. Not that Sylvie didn’t have a style every bit as rigidly defined as her own; it was just that Sylvie’s was joyous and colourful, while her own was neutral and subtle and, dare she say it, a little dull?
What the hell, she’d go and borrow something.
Sylvie was busy with her trusty staple gun, transforming another room from convent to bordello, when Angela knocked on the door. There were bolts of fabric all over the floor, cushion covers in dazzling jewel shades Sylvie had run up on her sewing machine, the very one she had insisted on carting across the desert on a camel. The intrepid Sylvie had ended up redecorating the tent of the headman of some tiny Saharan village in fabric by Designers Guild.
‘Sylvie,’ Angela laughed, ‘I need your help.’
Good God, she was actually a bit shy; Sylvie couldn’t believe it.
‘I’m going out tonight and I’m fed up with being me. Have you got anything I could borrow?’
Sylvie thought about it. ‘Do you want to go the whole hog or just the half-Sylvie?’ She led Angela over to her massive wardrobe. Everything was ranged extraordinarily efficiently in colour tones ranging from dark aubergine to orange to nude pink. ‘A silk top to wear with your own trousers might be a good compromise, so that you aren’t too out of your comfort zone.’
But Angela was already reaching for the black-and-white zebra-pattern silk dress.
‘I love that,’ Angela announced.
‘What size shoes are you?’
‘Seven.’
‘Here you are, then.’ She produced a pair of black patent toe-post sandals. ‘They go perfectly. Only the Italians know how to make sandals that are elegant and sexy at the same time. One problem though. Your date may not recognize you. I don’t suppose we need ask who it is.’
Angela didn’t answer. ‘Thanks, Sylvie. I’ll try not to spill red wine on it.’
Angela had gone by the time Sylvie appeared on the terrace for a pre-dinner drink.
‘Have you seen the sunset?’ Claire was sitting on the wall of the terrace in jeans, with her arms clasping her legs, and by a trick of the light she looked amazingly young. Or maybe it was something else that was transforming her. Sylvie felt a sudden moment of fear for Claire. Her situation would not be easy, whether Luca had a murky past or not. At some point Claire was going to have to remember she had a husband. But surely even she could see this thing with Luca was infatuation. Maybe it was because she was in love with Italy rather than him, temporarily enchanted by a way of life so different to her own.
‘Glorious, isn’t it?’ Sylvie smiled. ‘If it wasn’t for that rain when we arrived, I’d almost believe the weather here was enchanted as well as the house.’ They were silent for a moment and Sylvie sensed the subject none of them seemed to want to address hovering between them: how long could this Italian idyll really go on?
Beatrice arrived bearing the usual glasses of fizz and a small package which she handed to Sylvie.
‘This arrive for you, Signora Sylvie. By taxi,’ she added, clearly impressed with the extravagance of ordering a taxi for so small a package.
‘Good heavens.’ Sylvie picked it up just as Monica emerged from her room to join them wearing her new black dress.
‘Wow, Monica,’ Claire commented, impressed. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘The market in Lerini again; would you believe it, all of fifteen euros.’
Behind them, Sylvie let out a sharp cry. She was staring at the bottle of purple nail varnish which she had just removed from its wrappings.
To Claire’s utter amazement, and rather less to Monica’s, she burst into tears and sat down at the table, clutching the nail varnish as if it were a diamond as big as the Ritz.
‘Sylvie,’ Claire jumped off the wall, ‘what on earth’s the matter?’
‘It’s from Tony,’ Sylvie sobbed. ‘I told you this silly thing we used to do. He’d paint my toenails and I’d pretend to be the countess and he was the manservant.’
Claire tried not to giggle at this vision. It obviously meant a lot to Sylvie.
‘He hasn’t gone back to London, then?’ Monica asked innocently.
‘He must still be here,’ Sylvie reasoned with unassailable logic.
‘He must be very sorry,’ Monica suggested.
‘For laying out ten euros on nail varnish?’ Claire asked, surprised at Monica.
‘It isn’t the money, though, is it? He was obviously trying to say something significant.’
‘That he wants to play the butler and paint her toes?’ Claire asked sarcastically.
But this only set Sylvie off again.
Beatrice was back, this time in a flutter. ‘There is a gentleman here to see you. Shall I lay another place?’
Sylvie felt her heart beat as if it might explode. Tony had obviously decided to appear in person to press his advantage. OK, he’d been stupid, but the truth was she still loved him. She stood up, ready to fold him to her ample bosom.
‘Thank you, Beatrice.’ She smoothed her hair down and pulled her tummy in, in the age-old gesture of women who found themselves suddenly needing confidence. ‘Ask the gentleman to come in.’
Monica poured herself a glass of wine. She was surprised that Tony had come to the villa so quickly, but maybe he’d decided to strike while the iron was hot. Good for him.
Beatrice reappeared, carrying a tray of nuts and olives to go with their drinks. ‘Your guest, signorine,’ she said, beaming. A male caller was definitely an event in this strange all-woman environment.
‘Hello, Claire.’ A tall, tired-looking man waved a railway timetable. ‘Not bad going. I left this morning at eight and I’m here in twelve hours, one plane, a train and two buses.’
Claire went suddenly as white as the snowy tablecloth in front of her.
‘Martin!’ she blurted. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Heavens, Claire,’ was his mock-jovial response, ‘anyone’d think you weren’t pleased to see me.’
Claire turned to the other two. ‘This is Martin. My husband.’
Beatrice’s tray of nibbles crashed to the ground, scattering olives all over the priceless carpet.
They all bent down to help gather them up. ‘That woman is always dropping things,’ Sylvie complained in a low voice to Monica.
‘Bit of a shock for the old dear,’ Monica replied softly as they pursued a rogue olive under the drinks table. ‘What with her being auntie to the lovely Luca.’
Claire was still staring at her husband as if he were Marley’s ghost.
‘Hello, Martin,’ Monica shook his hand with a friendly smile, ‘welcome to the Villa Le Sirenuse.’
‘Yes.’ Claire was finally coming to. ‘How’s everything at home? Not any disasters or anything?’
‘We seem to have been rubbing along quite well – after we worked out where the bin liners are kept.’
Monica smiled at this rather feeble attempt at a joke, but Claire was still suffering from acute shock.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Monica offered. ‘The sparkling wine’s very good.’
‘Can’t bear fizzy wine.’ Martin screwed up his face in distaste. ‘Do you have a beer?’
‘I’ll go and ask Beatrice,’ Claire offered and dashed out towards the kitchen.
Beatrice was quietly weeping, being comforted by Immaculata, with Giovanni hovering in the background, his eyes pools of burning reproach.
‘You are a bad woman, Chiara,’ he accused in a loud and angry voice.
Claire looked at the door nervously. Fortunately, Martin wouldn’t connect Chiara and Claire.
‘You encourage the nephew of Beatrice. He is a sad man until he meet you and now he is happy because he thinks he fall in love with you. And never do you tell him you have a husband!’
The fact that he’d never asked didn’t seem an adequate response. ‘I’m so, so sorry—’ Claire began, just as the door opened and Martin appeared.
‘Look,’ he interrupted, ‘it really isn’t that important. Claire, you know how I hate making a fuss.’
Beatrice and Giovanni stared at him incredulously. What kind of man was this who could announce that his wife’s infidelity was not important? They had heard of the stiff upper lip but this was scandalous.
Fortunately, Monica was right behind him. ‘Beatrice, è ora di mangiare,’ she announced firmly in her fluent Italian. ‘It’s time to eat.’
This had a miraculous effect. Passion, betrayal, jealousy, none of this counted in the face of dinner.
Beatrice began to chivvy Immaculata to prepare the pasta and shooed Giovanni out of the kitchen.
Monica grabbed Claire and Martin and pulled them back to the salon.
‘So Martin,’ Monica attempted normal conversation, ‘what’s the weather like in England?’
‘Bloody awful. That’s why I thought I’d pop over here.’
Through all the drama Sylvie had been sitting apart from them, staring at her purple nail varnish, thinking about Tony, lacerated with disappointment that the unexpected guest had been this insignificant little man whom Claire clearly didn’t even want to see anyway instead of her errant husband.
She had already begun rehearsing speeches of magnanimous forgiveness in her head, and maybe even a sexy reconciliation featuring the nail varnish.
For a moment she considered tossing it out onto the terrace and watching it shatter in a pool of purple rejection, but actually she quite liked the shade. While the others were conversing, she dropped it into her handbag and poured herself a large glass of wine.
‘What would you like to do while you’re here?’ Monica asked, desperately trying to keep up the flow of chat.
Martin visibly cheered and got out a Lonely Planet guide to Naples, Pompeii and the Amalfi Coast, thick with Post-it stickers. ‘A whole day at Pompeii and Herculaneum, obviously; another for Vesuvius, especially the crater. Have you read Robert Harris’s book?’ He reached into his backpack, surprisingly small since it seemed to be all he had with him. ‘I can lend it to you, if you like.’ He pressed the book into Monica’s hands. ‘Walking the coastal trails, obviously.’ He delved into the backpack again and recovered a guide to walking the coastal paths. ‘And of course the Greek temples at Paestum; I wouldn’t want to miss those.’
‘Goodness,’ Monica commented, surprised that these were exactly the things she’d wanted to do herself.
‘Bloody hell,’ Sylvie muttered into her wine. ‘How long’s the man planning to stay?’
‘Depends how long my wife can put up with me,’ Martin joked with an attempt at a jaunty smile. There was a forlorn tone to his voice that rather upset Monica, but Claire, preoccupied with what she would tell Luca, didn’t even seem to notice.
They were rescued by the arrival of the first course, a subtle pasta with seafood and saffron.
‘Fantastic.’ Martin grabbed a piece of bread to accompany it. ‘I could murder a spaghetti.’
Almost as soon as they’d finished, Claire announced she was shattered and was going up to bed. She didn’t offer an invitation to Martin, Monica noticed. Surely she wasn’t going to make him sleep on the sofa or in one of Sylvie’s stapled room sets?
Martin, full of red wine and plans for excursions, had got his second wind and hardly seemed to notice.
But Claire hadn’t gone to bed. She was just outside the door to the salon frantically signalling to Monica, who got up as subtly as she could.
‘Monica, could you do me the most amazing favour?’ Claire whispered. ‘Take Martin to Pompeii or somewhere tomorrow so I can go and talk to Luca before Beatrice publicly brands me a two-timing tart?’
Monica nodded. ‘But what on earth are you going to do about Luca?’
Claire sighed, as if her whole soul were in torment. ‘God knows. I think I’m falling in love with him, Monica.’
‘Oh, God, Claire.’ She looked over at Martin, happily thumbing through his guidebooks, swigging back red wine, and jotting down bus timetables while Sylvie stared moodily into the distance, as if completely unaware of his existence, which she probably was. ‘Poor old Martin.’
Angela walked down the cobbled street from the villa towards the main square, enjoying the feeling of the almost-transparent silk fluttering round her in the evening breeze.
The Balcony was right at the bottom of the town, even beyond the bus stop, hanging over the opposite side of the bay from the villa. To her surprise it was French.
Hugo was already sitting at a table looking out over the sea, immaculate as usual.
‘A French bistro in the middle of Lanzarella?’ Angela smiled at him. ‘That’s a surprise.’
‘Makes a change from all the pasta. Besides, in London you have Chinese, Indian, Italian, every nationality under the sun.’
‘True,’ she conceded with a smile. She studied the menu and opted for duck paté, followed by monkfish.
Hugo ordered steamed mussels and mixed fish from the Gulf of Salerno.
‘Well,’ Angela teased, ‘you’re full of surprises. To think I had you down as a red meat man.’
‘Maybe you should challenge your prejudices a bit more,’ he replied, raising an eyebrow. He really was a very attractive man.
This was the moment, she decided, to be direct.
‘Speaking of prejudices, I heard a rumour that you cheated the previous owners of the degli Dei on the purchase price.’ There was no point not being direct in Angela’s view.
‘What is cheating and what is good business?’ Hugo replied levelly. ‘Besides, no doubt this rumour is emanating from Luca Mangiani. The man’s got a positive obsession with me.’
‘He said everyone in Lanzarella knew.’
‘People don’t like c
hange, Angela. You must have encountered that in business. Especially in small places like this. They want to keep everything little and local, but the world’s changed. It’s big and global.’
‘Funny that,’ Angela teased. ‘The world being global.’
‘The Oxford undergrad will out.’ There was an edge of unmistakable sarcasm in his tone.
‘You mean I’m trying to be intellectually superior? I gave that up when I started working in a bank in Filey.’
They had both finished their meal. An unfamiliar silence descended.
‘Come on, let’s have a mocha espresso and share a tarte tatin, then I’ll walk you home.’
‘Very chivalrous,’ Angela replied, surprised, since it was barely ten o’clock. Maybe he really had taken offence.
‘So,’ Hugo enquired as they walked back through the town, ‘any word from your absentee landlord? Will he be putting in an appearance?’
‘Stephen? No, I don’t think so. Too busy being global in London.’
When they got to the villa gates, at the moment when he might have leaned over and kissed her, he smiled enigmatically.
‘A delightful evening. I greatly enjoy your company, Angela.’
Angela couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Me too.’
She watched him stroll back down the hill towards the hotel.
Was he offended? If so, she was surprised at how much she minded.
Twelve
Tony Sutton sat gloomily in the bar of the Grand Hotel degli Dei, nursing a margarita and feeling stupid.
Why had he listened to that woman and sent Sylvie some nail varnish which she’d probably already thrown in the rubbish instead of a grand bunch of flowers?
What’s more, the hotel seemed to be full of posh hen parties, not to mention prospective brides, their mothers and the odd hangdog bridegroom-to-be who seemed to view the whole process with all the joyousness of someone awaiting the tumbril.
‘Can I get you another? On the house?’ asked a well-dressed man in an immaculate camel-coloured suit, who had suddenly appeared at Tony’s elbow. ‘Hugo Robertson, my family own this place.’ He held out his hand.