An Italian Holiday

by Maeve Haran

  Half an hour later and forty euros poorer for a taxi, Tony found himself in a dingy cul-de-sac in the backstreets of the small town, outside a very unpromising florist full of fluffy toys and hideous chrysanthemum wreaths and crosses.

  Tony was on the point of leaving when a young woman with short-cropped red hair and a flower tattoo emerged from the shop carrying a spray of almond blossom.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ Tony pointed to the branch excitedly, ‘do you speak English?’ he asked the girl.

  ‘Sì, a little, but only from pop records.’

  Tony decided to come clean. ‘I need a wonderful bunch of flowers to win back my wife.’

  ‘“Love Will Find a Way”,’ agreed the assistant.

  ‘Yes? I mean Yes, the band.’ Tony nodded delightedly.

  The girl laughed. ‘Sì, sì. Yes the band. What flowers you like?’

  ‘My wife is very stylish, she only likes dramatic arrangements.’ He held out his arms to signify that Sylvie liked things big.

  The girl nodded. ‘“Whole Lotta Love”.’ She nodded again.

  ‘Led Zeppelin!’

  She disappeared into the back while Tony waited. He suspected these flowers would be hideous and cost an arm and a leg plus the forty euros taxi fare there and another forty back but it was certainly a shopping experience with a difference.

  In a surprisingly short time she was back, but, curiously, holding a wooden stool for him to sit on and a glass of murky-looking liquid which she handed to him. ‘Amaretto di Saronno,’ she announced proudly and patted him on the shoulder. ‘“Love Hurts”,’ she sympathized.

  ‘The Everly Brothers,’ stated Tony, feeling ludicrously cheered. The girl seemed to take forever but when she finally returned he was shocked into silence. They were the most stunning flowers he’d ever seen. Pale pink peonies, bearded irises in cream, purple striped tulips drooping gracefully, almond pink ranunculi, ivy, ferns and two huge sprays of pale pink roses, whose scent filled the room.

  ‘“Ah sweet darlin’”,’ she quoted gleefully as she handed them over, ‘“you get the best of my love!”’

  ‘The Eagles!’

  The assistant bowed and charged him far less than he was expecting.

  He summoned a cab and had to take the greatest care to fit himself and the flower arrangement in without mishap.

  The florist clapped and waved goodbye.

  Tony found he was still grinning by the end of the half-hour journey to Lanzarella. If Sylvie didn’t like these he might as well give up and go home.

  Beatrice answered the door and told Tony that she was very sorry that Signora Sylvie had gone out earlier that morning.

  Tony almost handed them over, then some stubborn determination that would have surprised Sylvie overtook him. ‘Please put these in water. I will stay till she gets back. What time is she expected?’

  ‘I do not know, signore. Only that she go off with young man on motorbike.’

  ‘Did she?’ Tony’s features set in a line of grim disapproval. ‘Where would you like me to wait?’ It was only eleven o’clock so it could be some time.

  ‘On the terrace would be best. Would you like some English tea?’ Beatrice offered proudly.

  Tony loathed tea but he could see that a refusal would disappoint her. ‘That would be absolutely lovely.’

  He had only been seated for five minutes when a sultry-looking young man with a spade started to dig gloomily at the bottom of the terrace steps. When Tony greeted him he stuck his spade into the earth and leaned moodily on it. He was, Tony noted, extraordinarily good-looking. ‘Tell me, signore, is it the custom in your country for four ladies to live without a man? No wonder there are omosessuali and tradimenti!’

  He only had a smattering of Italian but even he could deduce this had something to do with homosexuals and infidelity. On the other hand, his morning so far had been so wonderfully bizarre that nothing would surprise him. He had always thought life in the King’s Road was Bohemian but Italy, from his limited experience, seemed to be a full-scale opera.

  His tea arrived and he duly drank it. Apart from the garden the place seemed empty, so he decided to wander around. What an extraordinary house it was! The position was obviously unique on the top of a hillside hanging over cliffs with the sea far below: completely private. And these incredible gardens with roses, tulips, wisteria and God alone knew what. Tony left the flowery aspects of life to Sylvie; anyway, it was all very scented and somehow he realized the word for it was English.

  He wandered back up the terrace steps and into the house. There was a quiet stillness with only the sound of clocks ticking and muffled voices, perhaps from the kitchen. There was a smell of lavender and beeswax which took him straight back to childhood. A fly buzzed quietly on the window ledge. He rounded a corner and stopped, dodging quietly behind a pillar. Hugo Robertson was standing in front of the fresco of The Annunciation, taking photographs on his phone. It might have been just because he was amazed by it. After all, everyone captured things that interested them on their phones, but there was something about the intensity of his attitude and the detail he seemed to want to capture that made Tony suspicious. What the hell was he up to?

  ‘You seem very interested,’ Tony challenged him. ‘What makes it so special?’

  Hugo jumped and turned round. Tony could see his first reaction was one of intense annoyance, quickly covered by the usual charming smile. ‘Tony, old man, good to see you!’

  Tony could see that it was anything but. He was tempted for a moment to needle him with references to last night but decided against it.

  ‘Are you looking for your wife?’ Hugo asked. ‘Angela said she was out.’

  Angela came skipping down the stairs at that moment. ‘Hello, Tony, we’re off to Capri. Sylvie’s gone off with her friend Alessandro.’

  ‘Ah, I wonder if that would explain your gardener’s curious allusion to homosexuals?’

  Angela laughed. She was looking ten years younger. He very seriously hoped it wasn’t anything to do with the presence of Hugo Robertson. ‘That would be a reference to Constantine, our neighbour. He’s a world-famous painter but to Giovanni he’s just an old homosexual.’

  Tony decided he wouldn’t pursue the accusations of infidelity in case they had any connection to him.

  ‘Did she say what time she’d be back?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m sure Beatrice would rustle you up some lunch, if you want to wait.’

  ‘No, no.’ He could just imagine Sylvie’s reaction if she came back and found him being fed.

  ‘Let me at least get you a drink, then. Fizz all right?’

  He grinned. ‘I haven’t been married to Sylvie for thirty years for nothing. Fizz would be fabulous.’

  She came back carrying a long-stemmed glass. ‘Take it out onto the terrace. By the way,’ she added in a low tone so that Hugo couldn’t hear, ‘the nail varnish was a definite hit. Except that I think she was a bit disappointed you didn’t deliver it in person.’

  ‘Do you think she might forgive me, then?’ Tony replied in an eager whisper.

  ‘I think she might,’ Angela agreed. ‘But for God’s sake be humble. Tell her she’s wonderful. And don’t criticize her. You can do that when you both get home,’ she added with a wink.

  ‘Thanks, Angela.’

  ‘I must admit, I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for Tony,’ Angela confessed to Hugo as they got into his car, round the back of the house.

  ‘After the way he behaved to your friend? Betraying her so publicly?’

  ‘From what she’s told us it was she who made it public,’ pointed out Angela.

  ‘He’s a bit of a shit, if you ask me. When I got back last night he was chatting up the Essex girls on their hen night at the hotel.’ Hugo paused for effect. ‘Not to mention their mothers.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell, was he?’ Angela looked really upset. ‘I thought he’d learned his lesson. I wish I hadn’t given him that glass of fizz, then. I hope S
ylvie doesn’t come back and believe he’s sorry.’

  ‘You can always put her right, can’t you?’ Hugo smiled.

  ‘No, Hugo. I hate sneaks. I have ever since schooldays. I’ll watch out for what happens next.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Hugo shrugged. But Angela got the distinct impression he was annoyed with her. Now why would that be?

  Tony sat drinking his fizz on the terrace thinking that though the place was amazing, it was also a bit unreal. Here they were tucked away in luxury, but what for? Stephen had known Sylvie as a child and had probably wanted to give her respite from what he saw as a shitty situation. She was also, or so she said, meant to give some advice about the villa’s potential as a hotel. Was that because of Hugo Robertson’s offer?

  He thought about Hugo’s hotel where he’d been staying. It was ludicrously expensive, horribly pretentious and yet, as he’d witnessed last night, rather sleazy. Tony found himself hoping two things: that the villa would stay as it was, and that Hugo wasn’t pursuing Angela for his own purposes. And why was he taking photographs of that fresco?

  He could hear the sound of a motorbike roaring up the drive and a wave of protective anger came over him. Had Sylvie been speeding around on the back of one of those things on these crazily dangerous roads? Doctors didn’t call owners of motorbikes organ donors for nothing. And yet, it also hit him, he had no right to criticize. He’d sacrificed that back in the stupid flat in Belgravia.

  The sounds of Sylvie’s usual noisy entrance and then the excited tones of the housekeeper told him that Sylvie had been given his flowers.

  A moment later she appeared holding them, her long red hair blown in the wind from the motorbike ride, every inch a diva, and he felt suddenly lost for words.

  ‘Hello, Tony,’ she studied the amazing flowers. ‘Thank you for these.’

  ‘I chose them myself in the florist. I didn’t want anything clichéd.’

  ‘They’re fabulous. You remember Alessandro?’

  Tony noticed the exotic young man for the first time. Alessandro had worked for him briefly, he recalled, and to his relief, he was clearly gay. Yet when he’d played this scene in his head, there hadn’t been anyone else in the room. How stupid. Sylvie was never alone.

  ‘The roses are scented. I know you love scented roses.’

  Sylvie breathed in the glorious scent. ‘They’re wonderful. And so English.’ She studied them for a moment. ‘What a coincidence. We have these roses in the garden. I remember because I liked them so much I looked them up. They’re called Maiden’s Blush.’ She laughed her fruity unmaidenly laugh. ‘And thanks for the nail varnish.’ She pointed at her toes and all three of them studied them carefully.

  ‘You should not wear them with that dress,’ Alessandro tutted. ‘Purple and green together are too strong.’

  ‘What nonsense, remember that room I did in Rome for the Austrian countess? Green and purple!’

  Tony’s words of apology dissipated into the hot air like millions of motes of dust. He couldn’t do it in front of this cool young man. ‘I’m glad you like the flowers.’

  Sylvie held his gaze for a second. Maybe she should send Alessandro away. But Tony was already on his feet.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’

  ‘Yes. Tony?’

  He turned, a look of hopefulness in his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry about the office, but you can’t just walk in like that.’

  ‘It’s my home too. And my business.’

  ‘The lawyers will sort all that.’

  ‘Will they, Sylvie?’ He was angry now at her inflexibility when here he was, apologizing and trying to mend something broken. ‘Will they really?’ He made a decision. ‘I’m going back to London. I’ll let you know where I’m staying.’

  He walked out silently, his body stiff with anger and hurt.

  Sylvie watched him go. When he had left the room, she began to cry quietly.

  Alessandro watched, mystified. ‘You know, Sylvie, you are a strange lady. I would have bet a million euro you wanted him back.’

  Sylvie collapsed onto the velvet chaise longue in the salon. ‘I do,’ she wailed, even forgetting her mascara and how old she looked when it ran. ‘But he’s hurt me so much, he’s made me question myself all the time. He must compare me, my body, my face, my tits, with a twenty-year-old’s. I can’t look in the mirror any more without seeing this old hag. I used to see someone who looked good for her age. Now I see every wrinkle and age spot!’

  ‘Sylvie, Sylvie,’ Alessandro kneeled down beside her and stroked her hair, ‘men aren’t like that. It doesn’t make any difference if they’re straight or gay. They’re opportunists. This girl came along and fancied him, or maybe she had her own reasons, but he thought she fancied him. So he couldn’t resist. Maybe, same as you, every time he look in the mirror he see someone old.’

  ‘Yes, but what the hell do we do about it?’

  ‘We ask your housekeeper for a glass of that nice Franciacorta.’

  Sylvie had to laugh. ‘The universal panacea. At home it’s a cup of tea.’

  Alessandro grimaced. ‘You British. No wonder you’re all so dull and straight. Now you must think carefully. If you were Italian, you would lose three kilos and buy new clothes. On his credit card.’

  ‘I loathe shopping. Dieting means I have to give up everything I love,’ Sylvie sighed.

  ‘Then you have to ask yourself if you can live with this stupid looking in the mirror. Sit up.’ Sylvie pulled herself into a sitting position. ‘Say after me. I am Sylvie Sutton and I am beautiful in every way!’

  Sylvie burst out laughing. ‘Alessandro, I love you!’

  Alessandro smiled naughtily. ‘Now that would add an interesting dimension to your problem.’

  Monica and Martin were sitting in the sunny piazza with the guidebook between them. Monica actually found his obsession with guidebooks rather restful because she didn’t have to think what to do, but he said it annoyed the hell out of Claire.

  First on his list was the famous mosaic of Jonah and the Whale. Apart from the argument with the ticket office that he couldn’t have a senior ticket because he had no proof of identity, which threatened to turn into an international incident until Monica stepped in and paid herself, their expedition had been restful.

  Now they both stood in front of the huge mosaic and studied it carefully. It was exactly the same as Constantine’s copy. Jonah was depicted as a very lifelike man in his fifties, anxious and balding, with an almost hipster beard, with his hand stretched out, perhaps hoping someone would catch it and pull him out.

  ‘He looks as if he’s saying “Goodbye, cruel world. See you in ten days”, or whatever,’ said Martin.

  They looked at the other end of the mosaic and realized this section was actually Jonah coming out rather than being swallowed.

  ‘I love the whale.’ Monica studied it. ‘It has wings and feet like a demon.’

  Martin laughed suddenly. ‘He reminds me of the demon last night.’

  Monica grinned and had to look the other way, remembering Martin’s reaction.

  ‘Belief was so literal then, wasn’t it?’ Martin studied Jonah again.

  ‘If you were bad, demons came and barbecued you on red hot coals.’

  ‘Only on the Day of Judgement,’ Monica reminded him. ‘You could have a bloody good time first.’

  For some reason this made them both giggle until an irate official emerged and berated them. ‘This is the house of God, please leave!’

  They ambled out, still giggling.

  Martin turned to Monica at the top of the flight of steps back down to the piazza. ‘I feel like Adam expelled from the Garden of Eden.’

  ‘Well, I don’t feel like Eve,’ she insisted, still laughing. ‘Let’s go and have lunch.’

  They found a trattoria in the back streets away from the cathedral crowds and ordered burrata grilled between lemon leaves, just as Monica had had at almost their first lunch here. What a long time
ago it seemed, yet it wasn’t much more than a moment.

  ‘They seem to use lemons with everything around here,’ Monica pointed out.

  The observation made her think of Claire and what a horrible situation she and Martin were in. She wondered for a moment what she would do if she were Claire, but found it hard to imagine. She’d only had one serious relationship in her life and that had been with Brian and they’d been so content with their small and happy life that neither of them would ever have thought about falling for someone else. And then he’d died.

  Martin was still busy looking at the wine list and comparing it with the wines recommended in his guidebook when Monica almost choked on her water.

  Down the street, about fifty yards away from their trattoria, Claire and Luca were walking towards them, looking ludicrously happy and holding hands.

  Thirteen

  ‘Excuse me a minute, Martin!’ Monica jumped up. ‘But I think I left something in the cathedral. Won’t be a moment. You go ahead and order the wine.’

  ‘All right,’ Martin agreed, ‘but Monica,’ he shouted, making the other customers glance at him in disapproval, ‘you’re going the wrong way!’

  Martin shrugged. The wine arrived and he took an exploratory sip. It was quite good for the price. He got out a small black book from his rucksack and busied himself with writing down the name of the wine, the year, and where he had drunk it.

  Five minutes later, Monica reappeared looking flushed from running. She’d just managed to head Claire off, thank God.

  ‘I tried to tell you,’ Martin explained, looking concerned. ‘The cathedral’s the other way.’

  ‘I always did have a lousy sense of direction,’ Monica lied. She’d actually been a star at orienteering, much to her mother’s disgust. ‘Fortunately, I found a short cut.’

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

  Monica racked her brains for what it was she’d lost. ‘My wallet. And it was in my bag all along!’

  ‘I’ve got a special section in my rucksack so I can just pat it and know my wallet’s there. You should do the same.’

  ‘What happens if someone steals your rucksack?’