Sign of the Times

by Susan Buchanan

  The day of the wedding was a glorious one. The sun was the colour of primroses, the sky couldn’t have been bluer and the birdsong couldn’t have been more melodic. The ceremony was at two o’clock. The whole village bustled around in the morning, collecting flowers for button holes, having their hair styled, nipping into each others houses to see if one approved of the other’s outfit or makeup. Many of the villagers had been invited to the wedding.

  It had been agreed that they would congregate in the villa reception at one thirty and Guido would drive them across. They could then return by taxi later, or if they were feeling brave, walk back.

  Both Guido and Emilio gasped when Holly entered the room, in her magnificent dress, her hair up in a French roll and delicate, loose tendrils framing her heart shaped face. The new shoes added a few extra inches in height. The boys thought she was a knockout. ”Wow!” said Guido. “You look amazing.”

  Holly smiled and said “Thanks.” She gave up not accepting compliments graciously a long time ago. Plus she knew she looked good.

  As Guido drove up the windy, scenic route to Il Castagno, named after the many chestnut trees in the area, Holly took in her surroundings. Rows of wild flowers blossomed along the hillside, but they were so uniform that it seemed they had been specially planted for the wedding. She drank in the smells, too, of cut grass and the fresh flowers she had spotted on the ascent, assailed her senses. Guido expertly negotiated the car to the buzzer in front of the gate and pressed it.

  “Pronto?” came a voice

  “Siamo noi,” shouted Guido and the gates opened.

  Guido opened the car door for her. It was a simple gesture, but polite and Holly appreciated it. She looked in awe at the villa, which was about five times the size of the Tagliaferris’. The signora cut into her thoughts, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Holly replied, “How long has it been here?”

  “It has been in the family for at least nine generations.”

  “That’s a lot of history.”

  “Hollee,” shouted Emilio. “Andiamo?”

  Holly followed the brothers through the house to the garden, where the ceremony would be held. As she passed through the villa, she was reminded of Dario’s house, although this was much more rustic and relaxed. Although equally grand, it was less formidable. She gasped when they entered the garden. It was enormous, lined on both sides by acacia trees and dotted with flowers in an astonishing array of colours. She was marvelling over the beauty of it all, when she caught sight of the vast marquee where the meal would be held. Its flaps were closed, but adjacent to it, she could see several hundred chairs and a raised wooden dais. She walked towards the seating area, to admire the archway, which was made of wrought iron, but painted white, completely wound around with carnations, peonies and white lilies. Holly thought how lucky the bride and groom were, to be married in such a place, on such a glorious day.

  She stood lost in thought, until a hand touched her arm. Without turning around, she said,

  “Arrivo subito,” assuming it was Emilio come to look for her. When he didn’t answer, she turned around and found herself face to face with Dario.

  “Jesus!” gasped Holly. “Wh-wh-what are you doing here?” she stammered, flushing scarlet. Measuredly, as if trying to find the right words, he said,

  “I’m a guest at the wedding. Alessandro is a very good friend.”

  “I’m a guest too,” floundered Holly. “I came with Guido and Emilio,” she prattled. “They live in the villa across the valley.”

  Dario’s amused expression didn’t falter, but his voice altered slightly. “Guido and Emilio?”

  “They are my landlady’s sons. There she is!” and with that waved at a surprised Sig.a Tagliaferri. Her stomach had what she’d always termed ‘flutterbies’ in it. She wasn’t much enjoying feeling like a gauche, sixteen year old. Pulling herself together, she chastised him,

  “You didn’t say goodbye.”

  Just then Emilio appeared,

  “Scusatemi, but Guido wants to introduce you to someone,” he apologised to Dario for stealing her away.

  “Certo,” Dario shrugged. “Speak to you later,” he said to Holly, as she was dragged away.

  After making the necessary polite chit-chat with Guido’s friends, Holly let her gaze return to where she had left Dario. He was standing watching her. When he saw her look over, his eyes held her gaze and a frisson of excitement shot through her. Smiling to herself, she turned back to reply to a question about her book.

  The string quartet announced the imminent start to the proceedings. The guests began to make their way to their seats. The incessant chattering died down to a hush. The groom and the best man took their seats, whilst the string quartet played Monteverdi. Eventually, Holly glimpsed the bride, on her father’s arm at the end of the little path with the floral archway. The musicians began playing and all the guests stood up. The bride’s dress was a virginal, white satin, fussy, meringue affair, which wasn’t to Holly’s taste, but it wasn’t her wedding and she didn’t have to wear it. It was a shame, she thought, as the bride was beautiful, although un-Italian looking, with her flowing golden tresses. The groom stood at the platform, waiting to receive his bride. He was dressed simply in a well cut, black suit, as befitted tradition. The beam from his smile would have given the sun a run for its money, as he took in the sight of his bride-to-be walking towards him. Holly felt a lump form in her throat. She spotted Dario in one of the front rows on the groom’s side. As she watched him, she saw something glistening on his cheek. Were those tears? No, don’t be silly, she admonished herself. Men don’t cry. As the bride and groom exchanged their vows and rings, Holly risked another glance in Dario’s direction. His face was definitely wet. No-one had noticed except Holly. All eyes were quite rightly on the bride.

  Everyone stood again, as the newlyweds made their way along the path, to have their photos taken. Meanwhile the guests were invited to drink aperitifs. Holly had just raised her glass to her mouth, when Dario materialised, in front of her.

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao,” Holly replied.

  “We never did get to finish that conversation.”

  “No,” Holly agreed.

  “I wanted to say goodbye you know. It was just…” he searched around for the word, “difficult.” He looked so sincere and regretful, that Holly didn’t feel she could chide him any longer.

  “I know,” Holly reassured him, “The problem is, I didn’t want to say goodbye.”

  Dario looked at her carefully, to see if he had heard properly.

  “Do you mean what I think you mean?” he asked her.

  Holly laughed, “It depends what you think I mean. All I know is I enjoyed spending time in your company.”

  “Do you spend time in Emilio and Guido’s company?”

  “Yes,” replied Holly, knowing where this was leading.

  “And do you like spending time with them, in the same way you enjoyed spending time with me?”

  “No,” replied Holly. “It’s different.”

  Dario smiled, content that she felt more than just friendship for him. He wanted to jump up and down with glee. He changed the subject and they were soon talking about the merits of Dante’s Divina Commedia and whether Sciascia could be considered as the greatest Italian detective writer. They paused only when they were summoned through to for dinner.

  Three hours and seven courses later, the speeches started. Dario and Holly had been placed at tables at opposite ends of the room. Their only occasion for conversation was when they bumped into each other returning from the toilet.

  The speeches finally drew to a close. Then the music started and the bride and groom rose to dance their first dance as husband and wife. They were joined by two elderly couples and gradually the other guests joined them.

  Out of breath after dancing for what seemed like hours, Holly begged her current dance partner to show some mercy and let her get a drink. She hadn’t
noticed Dario dancing. In fact she was sure he wasn’t on the dance floor. Glancing over to where he’d been sitting during the meal, she saw his table was empty. She got herself a glass of wine and sat for ten minutes before realising he wasn’t coming back any time soon. Where was he?

  She asked herself this again at two thirty when she left to return to the villa with the Tagliaferri. Dario hadn’t returned all evening. What was with that man? To leave her once without so much as a by-your-leave was charmless, twice was downright rude. Maybe she was already with the right man after all. Pushing Dario from her thoughts, she fell into step with the two brothers.

  Chapter Six

  Tom - CAPRICORN

  Capricorn - responsible, disciplined, practical, methodical, cautious, serious, sometimes pessimistic. Believe anything worth having is worth working hard for. Shy and sometimes awkward. Need security, especially financial.

  Tom plonked his half empty glass down on the table, missing the beer mat. Frowning, he glanced at his watch and saw Mike was now forty-five minutes late. Tom wouldn’t have minded, but it was Mike who had wanted to go for a drink. Sighing, he leant forward in his seat, so the barmaid might have a chance of seeing him, buried in the darkest corner of the room. Naturally shy, Tom always sat in the deepest recesses of the pub, behind the pool table and the fruit machines.

  Annoyed with Mike for being late, especially when he’d had to rush off site to meet him, Tom checked his watch again and decided to get another drink. Mike could get his own. Gesticulating to the barmaid to bring him the same again, he took out his mobile. With everything else in his life not exactly going according to plan at the moment, it comforted him that at least he had Holly. Or, rather he did, when she was here. She was often away, doing research for her books. He was immensely proud of her and never passed up an opportunity to let people know his fiancée was the renowned travel writer. With these thoughts uppermost in his mind, he called Holly. After ten rings, her voicemail kicked in. Frustrated, he replaced his phone in the pocket of his yellow builder’s jacket and gratefully took his Guinness from the barmaid.

  As he drank, he mulled over the day’s events. He had lost another two tenders, big ones. O’Reilly’s had managed to undercut him again. He didn’t know how they did it. He was beginning to suspect foul play. No-one could quote such cheap prices. He sketched some figures again on the notepad he always carried with him. Even allowing ten percent less margin, he simply couldn’t get near O’Reilly’s price. Stumped, Tom put his notepad away and was relieved to see Mike approaching.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Mike sank into a chair. “Been here long?”

  Tom happily welcomed the distraction of talking to Mike about ice hockey, the Grand Prix and their upcoming hill walking expedition, rather than think about the continuing slide of his business. He hoped his business would still be going months from now. Last year he had expected the business to continue to thrive, but this year, there was nothing but failure. He had his fingers crossed that things would turn themselves around, but he didn’t quite know how. Fortunately Holly wasn’t around often enough to notice.

  Over the ensuing hours, they downed their fill of beer and shorts. Tom managed to convince Mike it really was time to hit the road. After a few failed attempts to pour Mike into the cab, they shared a taxi as far as Tom’s farmhouse. Swaying slightly, as, although he was over six feet and built like an ox, he had downed a fair amount, Tom weaved his way up the path. After much ado, he found the right key and slotted it into the lock.

  Walking through to the bedroom he’d converted into an office, he flicked on his computer to check his email. He hadn’t had much chance today, as he’d spent the day troubleshooting. It was high time he promoted one of his assistant managers, as he couldn’t oversee everything.

  Even if they were losing more and more tenders, that didn’t mean he had any less work, au contraire. There were two major tenders, a new build site they were in for and a government bid, a new secondary school. If he got those, he’d be laughing.

  As the blurb came up on screen, Tom helped himself to a Glenmorangie. He tapped in his password and as his email started downloading, raised his glass to his lips, letting the malt glide down his throat. It burned slightly. He checked his work email; a few new enquiries, but nothing of note; a memo from his bank manager. He then logged onto Hotmail. That should cheer him up. Maybe Holly would have emailed. She was in Arezzo. He had never been to Italy. Strange, that, Tom mused, as he poured another glass. Here was his fiancée, a highly successful travel writer writing her third book about Italy and he’d never set foot in the place. Then again, it’s not as if Holly had ever invited him to accompany her. Slightly miffed by this thought, Tom reflected that it wasn’t Holly’s fault if he never showed any interest in visiting new places. That was her department. Tom was happier with a two week beach holiday. He worked so hard that on the rare occasion he did take a holiday, all he wanted to do was lounge around, do a bit of swimming and have a few drinks.

  Tom stared at the screen. His eyes were tired. There was an email from Simon giving him the details of the ridge walk they planned to do in a few weeks. Tom loved the outdoors. It would be nice to kick back for a bit.

  He was just about to close down his Hotmail, when he saw a familiar banner, MSN Chat. Still pretty awake, he decided to have a quick look to see what this chat room nonsense was all about and go to bed. Rubbing his hands in glee, like a naughty schoolboy, he started tapping a few keys. It was more complicated than he thought. First of all, he had to register. He hated that, felt as if Big Brother really was always watching. Not that he had anything to hide, but it annoyed him. However, he decided to throw caution to the wind and input his data.

  After what seemed an eternity of inputting his preferences in magazines, travel and sports, Tom was able to access the site. Wishing to remain anonymous, he called himself farmboy35, as would you believe it, but farmboy up until 34 had been taken. Initially, navigating the site was rather daunting. Eventually he stumbled across something useful. A menu.

  By this time, totally game, Tom went into the 31-40 section, where Sarah36, said “Hi Farmboy, how r u 2day?”

  He typed back, “Fine thanks. You?”

  “Gr8. Wot u do?” Expressing himself in text messaging lingo was something he’d never bought into. He wasn’t capable of differentiating between real jargon and what he’d be making up as he went along, so decided the best option was to steer clear of it altogether. But, what to say to this woman? Unless, she was really a man. You could be chatting to anyone on the internet. He’d read enough articles, to know you had to be wary, so simply put, “Own business. You?”

  The answer came back swiftly.

  “H/dresser, p/t. Wer u from?”

  At least he could understand her abbreviations so far. Not wanting to divulge too much, he simply typed “the North”.

  Several smiley faces appeared on screen, followed by “me 2. Leeds. U married?”

  Slightly taken aback by such a personal question, Tom replied frankly, “No.” It didn’t occur to him to explain he had a fiancée. They exchanged pleasantries for a while, Tom even becoming accustomed to the strange language Sarah used. When, twenty minutes later, Sarah wrote “got 2 go. Hope 2 c u soon x,” he was disappointed. Mechanically, he switched everything off and went to bed.

  *

  “What’s your problem?” a voice yelled.

  “You just ran into my car!”

  Tom groaned, pulling the covers tighter around him. His head was thumping. It felt as if it had been hit full on by a wrecking ball. He should never have drunk so much. Whisky really didn’t agree with him. He curled his body into the foetal position, wanting to die.

  OK, he’d got the message. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep. Sitting up, he shielded his eyes against the sunlight spilling into his bedroom. Bloody motorists. What time of day was this to be having a confrontation? He looked at the clock. Shit. It’s half nine. He’d overslept. Jumping out o
f bed and then quickly sitting back down, as he felt sick, Tom’s brain started to kick into action. He was meant to be seeing the executives about the new build deal this morning.

  Just managing to avoid knocking over the leafy arrangement positioned outside the lift, Tom sprinted along to his office. His secretary told him the executives were already waiting for him. Tom tensed. Shit. He was late. That was not going to look good. Sweeping into the boardroom, Tom firmly shook the hands of the two executives.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Tom enquired, feeling a little abashed when they looked pointedly at the table to show they’d already been taken care of. Trying not to appear flustered, he set up his charts and handed out copies of his calculations. He really was rough today. He had better get a grip on himself.

  Fortunately, Tom was excellent at presenting. Favouring the more personal approach, he never adopted airs and graces and many companies liked that. He was very well thought of and it was known that the standard of work from Matthews Construction was second to none. They always used the best of materials and left an excellent job. They also had a no quibble guarantee, which mattered a lot to customers, particularly when there were so many cowboys around. Slipping comfortably into his presentation giving persona, Tom rattled through the details, asking at intervals if they had any questions. In concluding, he felt confident he had given as good a presentation as possible. He only hoped it didn’t go against him that he hadn’t been there when they arrived. Hopefully his secretary had said he was busy elsewhere and he would come across as, in demand, as opposed to, late and hung-over. Certainly when he was showing them out, they appeared enthusiastic, even volunteering that they would let Tom know within the next six weeks.