All the Fun of the Fair

by Jamie Sinclair

  21 A tale of two sisters

  In the early 1990s, Loriana Cipriani was taking her first steps into the business built by her father. A business built with long, thankless hours, a willingness to do what others would not and a keen eye for an opportunity.

  Loriana was standing in her father’s shop watching as he diligently checked the receipts and the stock book, methodical after so many years in business. Loriana was in her early thirties and inescapably, classically beautiful. Her black hair showed no trace of grey and appeared almost slick when the light caught it in a certain way. Her skin was blessed with Mediterranean colouring, though her full lips, straight nose and large brown eyes would have made her beautiful regardless of her complexion.

  Loriana smiled as she watched her father work. This was a scene she’d witnessed many times in her life. She was proud of her father, loved him deeply and had been thrilled, but by no means overwhelmed, when he’d offered to involve her in the business.

  ‘Come, papa, it is Christmas Eve, that can wait.’

  She knew he wouldn’t come yet, not until he was finished.

  ‘Just a while longer child,’ he replied without looking up. ‘I want to be sure everything is in order.’

  ‘Do you not trust me then, is that it?’ Loriana joked. ‘You said I could run this shop as I chose papa.’

  Mr Cipriani paused and looked at his daughter.

  ‘Loriana, you run this shop perfectly well, as I knew you would, but the business is still mine and soon, when I am gone, you will have greater worries than one small shop.’

  She didn’t like him talking this way. The idea of her taking over everything; the market, the stalls, the ice-cream vans; it scared her to think that one day her father would not be here to guide her. But to be in sole charge did not daunt Loriana. It was the thought of filling her father’s shoes which seemed impossible.

  But Loriana was still young and full of life. She was hard working, determined and confident in her ability, traits she would never lose, but she was also genial and outgoing and, for the first time in her life, deeply in love.

  Pietro, the son of a friend of her fathers, was charismatic, striking and hard working, very much approved of as a future husband. Loriana had known Pietro most of her life and been in a relationship with him for the past five years. Six months earlier, on their anniversary. Pietro had proposed and offered an engagement ring, recherché, enamouring. Loriana, swept off her feet, did not hesitate to accept the proposal and actively set about planning a majestic wedding on a grand scale. Everything was perfect.

  Chiara, Loriana’s younger sister by a couple of years, had always been flirtatious and carefree. Similar in appearance to her older sibling, their characters were however quite opposite. While Loriana possessed a maturity, an assuredness that meant she achieved her goals through hard work and determination, Chiara was far more hedonistic, safe in the knowledge that while her family were doing well, she would always be looked after.

  Always friendly towards Pietro, since she too had known him as a family friend all her life, Chiara could not deny Loriana had done well to become engaged to such a catch, from such a respectable family. As for Pietro, while deeply in love with Loriana, he was still just a man and could not deny that he hadn’t noticed Chiara’s beauty and extrovert manner.

  At last Mr Cipriani was ready to leave the shop to be driven home by Loriana who, ever the dutiful daughter, interrupted her own plans to comply with her father’s wishes. She had been at a restaurant enjoying a festive meal with Pietro, Chiara and a small group of friends. But Loriana left early to meet her father at the shop and escort him home. She’d arranged to meet up with her fiancée and sister later that evening at Pietro’s house.

  After the meal, which had petered out rather quickly owing partly to Loriana’s departure and the prior commitments of their friends, Pietro and Chiara found themselves at an unexpected loose end. They took a taxi to Pietro’s house and, already merry, shared a bottle of red wine. General conversation turned to compliment turned to mutual flattery, until the suggestion of a convivial kiss under the mistletoe.

  ‘Loriana is a lucky woman,’ Chiara said as they embraced.

  Pietro frowned a little; not wishing to be reminded of his betrothed at the same moment as his hand gently caressed the buttocks of her sister.

  ‘She’ll be a while yet, with father.’

  Pietro did not reply because, in his mind, he was already kissing Chiara again.

  ‘Ciò è così errata,’ Chiara breathed.

  ‘Very wrong,’ Pietro replied.

  At which point he pulled Chiara close and they kissed again, longer, deeper, more passionately, beyond the familial.

  An hour later, when Loriana arrived, the guilty pair were sitting in the living room sharing a second bottle of wine. The three had a pleasant evening, laughing and drinking, enjoying the festive season. It was not until two, perhaps three days later, as Loriana tidied the bedroom she shared with her future husband, that she found an earring on the floor between the bed and the bedside table. She recognised it instantly for she herself had bought it only a few months earlier; a birthday gift to her sister.

  Shock led to disbelief and gave way to anger. There were questions, doubts, accusations. Loriana was crushed; felt pain and betrayal beyond anything she imagined could exist. Sides were taken, Loriana’s father blamed Pietro, Pietro’s father blamed Chiara, the two families argued, fell apart, the splendid engagement ring was returned and then, after so much hurt, Chiara found she was pregnant.

  All but disowned by her family, Chiara turned to Pietro, himself ostracised, and together they fled to Italy, leaving behind them misery, loss and a guilty relief that two people who could turn on their families so cruelly were gone.

  * * * *

  Now, in Morecambe, a Skoda Octavia pulled up in a smart cul-de-sac and two people stepped out onto the kerb, mother and son. The taxi driver, sensing a tip, also climbed from his car and heaved three expensive looking cases from the boot and placed them gently on the pavement.

  ‘That’ll be sixty five quid please, love.’ He said with a broad smile.

  The woman, perhaps in her late forties, beautiful still with dark eyes and her black hair pulled back tightly revealing streaks of silver, handed over the fare plus an extra twenty pounds and thanked the driver. The cabbie grinned and drove away, already on the radio to spread news of his good fortune.

  The boy, seventeen years old and very handsome, took two of the bags, leaving his mother, dressed smartly in a black designer suit with sunglasses on her head despite the cloudy, cool weather, to wheel the remaining case up the driveway to the large front door where she pressed the bell.

  ‘You!’ Loriana exclaimed when she opened the front door. ‘You have had a wasted journey.’ She slammed the door.

  ‘Cosa è la materia con lei?’ The boy asked.

  ‘She is just surprised to see me, that is all.’

  The woman rang the doorbell a second time and knocked.

  ‘Loriana please, open the door. What sort of welcome is this for your nephew?’

  Nothing happened for several moments and then, just as she was about to knock again, the front door opened.

  ‘Ciao Loriana.’

  ‘Chiara.’

  Loriana stared at her estranged sister with cold eyes. But then she saw her nephew and smiled.

  ‘You must be Mauro, I am your Auntie Loriana.’

  ‘Ciao Zia, felice di venirli a contatto.’ The boy responded.

  ‘I am happy to finally meet you too young man. Now,’ Loriana faced her sister. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘When I read your last letter I came at once, you sounded so upset, so alone.’

  Chiara explained away her journey as if she’d hopped on a bus across town and not flown in from Palermo.

  ‘Why now, why come at all after so long?’ Loriana’s tone was icy, unforgiving.

  ‘We are family, even after everything.’

&n
bsp; ‘True, we are family, but that does not mean we are obliged to see each other.’

  Mauro watched this exchange in embarrassed, and uncomprehending, silence. He’d never met his Aunt Loriana, had seen only occasional photographs and now he found himself standing outside her house observing an old argument he knew nothing of.

  ‘Can we at least come inside; it has been a long journey? Mauro has been so looking forward to finally meeting you.’

  Again Loriana glanced at the boy, annoyed with her sister for using him to gain leverage. But, inevitably, she acquiesced and led them into the house through to the sun lounge.

  ‘Mauro mio tesoro,’ Loriana began, partly to avoid addressing her sister. ‘Whatever must you think? It is indeed a pleasure to meet you at long last, I was not sure if I ever would.’

  Mauro, handsome in a typically Italian way – black hair, tanned olive skin and pronounced, well defined features - shrugged, unsure how to respond to this woman who, although apparently family, was a complete stranger.

  ‘Pietro is not with you?’ Loriana asked, failing to sound casual.

  There was a pause during which, unnoticed by the boy, the sisters made brief eye contact.

  ‘No, no.’ Chiara replied. ‘My husband had business to attend to, he could not get away.’

  ‘Your husband.’ Loriana said quietly, musing over the words.

  ‘Would you like tea?’ She asked finally.

  Mauro said he would.

  ‘Water for me please,’ Chiara answered. ‘Mineral with lemon if you have it.’

  In the kitchen Loriana, her face flushed, fumbled with the kettle and required two attempts to place it on the base unit; such was the trembling of her hands. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to remain in control and maintain her usually unflappable, assured demeanour. But it was so difficult, perhaps impossible, not to be angry after what had happened, even after so long apart, living in separate countries. The hurt had resurfaced as instantly and unexpectedly as Chiara.

  When the kettle boiled, Loriana took a bottle of milk from the right hand door of the voluminous fridge, purposely ignoring the large bottle of mineral water on the top shelf and made the tea.

  ‘I only had tap water, so sorry.’ Loriana placed the drinks on the table and sat down opposite her sister and nephew. ‘So, Mauro, you are here for a holiday perhaps?’

  ‘Sì zia, auntie. Madre thought it would be good for me to see England.’

  ‘Indeed, so good of her to bring you along, so clever of her.’ Again the siblings exchanged glances before Loriana continued. ‘Your photographs do you a disservice Mauro.’

  ‘People say I look like padre, but I don’t see it.’

  ‘Ah yes, your father.’ Loriana smiled at the memory. ‘He was indeed a very handsome man.’

  It was decided that the three family members should go to dinner. Loriana booked a table at a Thai restaurant in town and, that evening, the Cipriani sisters dined together for the first time in almost twenty years, for the first time since the night Chiara betrayed her sister and bedded Pietro.

  The restaurant, little more than half full and with a welcoming, relaxed atmosphere, was ordinarily worthy of discussion because of two factors. One was the highly decorative and brightly coloured silk uniforms worn by the waitresses. The second was the open kitchen which allowed patrons to see their food being prepared and cooked. Tonight these things became utterly insignificant and went unnoticed by the two sisters.

  Conversation between Loriana and Chiara was unsurprisingly stilted but several glasses of red wine and a barrage of unrelenting questions from Mauro gradually rendered them more animated and they talked superficially about the business, Morecambe and what an Italian teenager could do to entertain himself in a quiet seaside town.

  Finally, between a main course of Yam Nuea and Phat Thai and dessert, Mauro excused himself to go to the toilet and the sisters had a moment alone.

  ‘I do not want you here Chiara, I want you to leave!’

  ‘I am here for you, sister.’ Chiara sounded calm.

  ‘I do not need you, not now, not ever.’

  ‘Really, then why pour out your heart in a letter, why waste ink telling me of the break-up of your marriage, of this new man, Alfredo, why?’

  ‘A letter?’ Loriana laughed. ‘That’s all there has been between us since you left for Italy, letters.’

  ‘Only because you would not speak to me or return my calls.’

  ‘I could not bear to hear your lying voice. Lo ha reso ammalato, still makes me sick.’

  ‘What was I to do…?’

  ‘You…ah, Mauro, there you are, and here is dessert.’

  They smiled genially and Loriana poured them each a generous glass of wine.

  Early the following morning as the black of night faded into blue and daylight gradually began to filter into the sun lounge, Loriana sat drinking coffee, turning over in her head the events that had torn apart her relationship with her sister.

  For more than half a dozen years, following the affair with Pietro, the pregnancy and the departure to Italy, there had been no contact of any kind, the sisters who had been so close simply ceased their relationship.

  It had been Chiara who, at last, had initiated contact; a letter and three photographs of Mauro, pictures from a birthday party, the letter introducing the boy, tentatively suggesting that Loriana reply. Loriana had dismissed the letter but treasured the photographs of the nephew who could so easily have been her son. Finally, shortly before her ill-fated marriage to Lee Etchman, Loriana wrote to Chiara and, slowly at first, they began to correspond, to fill in the gaps created by distance and years.

  After so long it was as much as Loriana wanted or hoped for, it was enough. She could control what was said and there was distance enough to manage the resentment she still felt towards her adulterous sister. But now Chiara was here and everything had been brought to the fore, problems that lay buried for years now had to be faced and dealt with.

  ‘Good morning zia.’

  Loriana looked up from her reverie.

  ‘Mauro, buona mattina my dear. What have you planned for today, something with your mother?’

  ‘I thought I might walk into town, see the sights.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, that might not take too long, Morecambe is quite run down these days, although the promenade offers a remarkable view of the bay and…’ She paused and considered the boys age. ‘But then perhaps a young man like yourself would rather do something else.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just going to get my bearings and see what catches my eye. I’ll see you later.’

  For twenty minutes Loriana remained on a stool in the kitchen, nursing a mug of coffee, waiting patiently. Finally, she heard movement on the stairs and then Chiara appeared.

  ‘Coffee?’ Loriana offered curtly.

  ‘You have not slept, you look tired.’

  ‘I have a lot on my mind.’

  ‘We should talk, we have to…’

  ‘No,’ Loriana interrupted angrily. ‘We do not have to do anything. You should not have come, there was no need.’

  ‘You do not look very different, I don’t know what I expected but…you do not look so different.’ Chiara ventured.

  ‘Older, but no wiser. You look well.’ Loriana admitted awkwardly.

  ‘That is why I am here.’

  ‘For compliments?’

  ‘You told me in your letter about your husband, about his affair, how you threw him out at last. Now you are alone again, so I came.’

  ‘To gloat, to remind me of what you took from me?’

  ‘No, because now I know how you felt back then, I know how it feels to lose.’

  ‘What? What do you know?’

  ‘Pietro has left me, left Mauro, weeks ago.’

  Loriana gasped, stunned.

  ‘Where has he gone?’ She asked finally.

  ‘I do not know or care. I knew he was having an affair but I chose to ignore it to keep the life
I had. A younger woman of course, what else? I met her once, a very obvious beauty, the kind that requires a good deal of effort. It will not last.’ She sounded certain.

  ‘I…I’m sorry.’

  ‘I think perhaps I deserved it, for what I did to you. Although perhaps Pietro is not the man we both imagined him to be.’

  And so they talked, at length; united by the hurt and pain of loss they had both experienced at the will of the same man.

  ‘Tell me about Alfredo,’ Chiara asked eventually. ‘Is he different, will he hurt you too?’

  Loriana’s eyes shone as she spoke of Alfie. She was unable to hide a smile and her words were filled with love, admiration and genuine affection.

  ‘Then where is he, why is he not here?’

  Loriana sighed. ‘Because I sent him away.’

  The sisters went to each other and hugged with tears in their eyes.

  ‘Li ho mancati così tanto.’ Chiara cried.

  ‘I have missed you too, a great deal. It has been a long time.’

  ‘Can you forgive me; is there any chance, after so long, that you can forgive what I did?’

  ‘How can I forgive you, after such betrayal, how?’ Loriana asked.

  ‘Because Pietro cheated on me, left me, the same way he left you.’

  Loriana shook her head. ‘This is true and I know exactly how much it hurts, but it is not the same. You, Chiara, are my sister, family, we are blood and yet you took him from me, my Pietro, you did this to me.’

  ‘No Loriana, don’t be this way. It was him, Pietro; he has proved his nature, revealed his true colours at last.’

  ‘Maybe, but he is just a man, weak. The woman he chose over you, nobody, a pretty face, a younger model. You weren’t just taking Pietro from a stranger; you took him from me, knowing the damage it would do.’