‘Sorry,’ I squeaked.
‘Please, Signorina,’ the man soothed, ‘no worries.’
In my peripheral vision I was aware of Alison looking surprised and Daisy frowning. I let out a strangled whimper. The man scooped up the menu and once again offered it to me, but I no longer seemed to have the power to raise a hand and take it from him. Instead Alison did the job for me. She almost snatched it from the man.
‘Thank you, Luca,’ she said crisply before nearly shoving the wretched thing up my nose.
‘And Florrie is a Signora,’ said Daisy firmly, ‘not a Signorina.’
‘Florrie,’ the man repeated.
Luca said my name as if savouring it, as one would a fine wine rolling deliciously over appreciative taste buds. My stomach wasn’t so much as filled with butterflies as lottery balls whooshing about in their glass dome before picking a winner. This man was having a profound effect on me.
‘Is that short for Florence?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘A beautiful name. Like the city. Florence is my parents’ birth place. Have you been there?’
‘Once,’ I said hoarsely. ‘It inspired me to paint.’ Talking was difficult. My vocal chords simply weren’t behaving properly.
‘You are an artist?’
I nodded, momentarily incapable of any further speech.
‘And an absolutely brilliant artist she is too,’ Daisy chimed in. ‘You won’t have heard of her…yet. Our Florrie is on the threshold of having her first show.’
I made a strangled noise. Dear Lord, what was my daft neighbour up to?
‘She has a very well-known London art gallery pursuing her,’ Daisy continued. ‘The private art portfolio and gallery manager is preparing a contract as we speak.’
‘I would love to buy one of your paintings,’ Luca smiled at me. He gestured to the restaurant walls. ‘Everywhere is bare. I need to bring the outside in. You understand? To give a better ambience and mood.’
‘All her paintings are reserved for the art gallery,’ Daisy said. ‘And I doubt you would be able to afford them,’ she added. ‘The gallery is starting them at three thousand pounds.’
‘Daisy,’ I muttered, my face now magenta with embarrassment, ‘I know you mean well, but–’
‘Florrie does proper art, you know,’ Daisy nodded sagely. ‘None of this abstract nonsense. You won’t find three square canvasses in Florrie’s studio block-coloured in red, green and blue. She paints landscapes.’
‘That’s true,’ Alison nodded. ‘Whopping great big ones.’
‘I like…whopping great big ones,’ I added quietly.
‘Do you now?’ Luca raised an eyebrow. ‘Please, Florrie, for now order your lunch and afterwards – if your companions don’t mind and you don’t have to rush off – you can stay behind. We will talk business.’
And that was how Luca Serafino entered my life.
Chapter Six
After Alison and Daisy had, very reluctantly, gone home without me, Luca had led me to a door at the back of the restaurant. It was marked “Private”. Pushing it open, I’d found myself in a narrow hallway with a staircase leading upwards.
‘Please,’ he’d extended a hand, inviting me to walk ahead of him.
Feeling incredibly self-conscious, I’d made my way up the staircase. Every part of me had been on red alert. I’d felt as though his eyes had been boring twin holes in my back, sizzling right through the skin, muscle and soft tissue, beyond my very bones and into the depths of my soul.
At the top of the stairs a landing had issued straight into an open plan kitchen with dining area and lounge. With its high ceilings and large sash windows, it was wonderfully light and airy. I’d immediately thought it a perfect place to paint. To one side, a couple of doors had been evident, presumably leading to a bathroom and bedroom.
‘Please, Florrie. Sit down.’ He’d gestured to one of the large, squashy sofas at the far end of the room. ‘What would you like to drink. Tea? Coffee? Or wine?’
A glass of robust red to steady the inexplicable nerves had been quite appealing. However, I’d declined on the grounds of needing to drive home later.
‘I’ll just have water, thanks.’
At least I could keep my vocal cords lubricated if my voice decided to peter out.
Luca had immediately busied himself fetching crystal tumblers. He’d poured chilled sparkling mineral water for us both and finished it off with ice and a slice. The cubes had tinkled against the glasses as he’d brought them over. Placing the tumblers on the coffee table, he’d sat down opposite me and, for a moment, regarded me thoughtfully.
‘Well, Florrie, I’m absolutely delighted to properly meet you,’ he’d smiled disarmingly.
‘Thank you.’
My voice had almost sounded normal. Hooray. I’d been very aware of my heart thudding away. It had banged against my ribcage with a loud thwack-thwack-thwack. I’d picked up my glass of water for something to do and my hand had trembled alarmingly as the glass wobbled towards my mouth. Get a grip, Florrie. I’d slurped noisily, dribbling some water down my chin, and banged the glass back down on the coffee table. Geez. Since when had crystal tumblers got so heavy?
‘So!’ Thus lubricated, my vocal cords had produced the word like a pistol shot causing Luca to jump slightly.
‘So, you paint. And, if your friends are to be believed, your work is exceptional.’
I’d flushed with embarrassment. Whatever Daisy and Alison thought of my paintings was one thing. What a prospective client thought was quite another.’
‘Listen, Luca–’
‘I’m all ears,’ he’d smiled encouragingly.
‘Don’t believe everything Daisy said. I don’t have anything being exhibited–’
‘Yet.’
‘Y-yet,’ I’d agreed. Careful, Florrie. Don’t talk yourself out of this fantastic little business opportunity. ‘But Daisy was a little out on the pricing.’
‘Oh? Not three thousand pounds then?’
‘N-no, it’s less than that. Much less. More like two–’ I’d been about to say two hundred pounds when Luca had cut me off.
‘Two thousand is fine, Florrie. Shall I pay you now?’
I’d recoiled, horrified. ‘Good heavens, no.’
My vocal chords had started to die again. Quickly I’d reached for the tumbler. At that point my nerves had been well and truly getting the better of me. I’d felt like a major fraud. Grabbing the tumbler, I’d used both hands to lift it to my lips. Luca had regarded me quizzically. An artist with the shakes. For a second I’d caught the doubt on his face about my brushwork.
‘Pay me when the painting is finished. If you don’t like it,’ I’d gabbled, ‘then you don’t have to pay me.’
‘I’m sure I will love it.’
‘But you haven’t seen any of my work,’ I’d protested and fidgeted uneasily.
I’d had no portfolio to offer Luca. Everything I’d ever painted had been for pleasure and either given away to family or gifted to close friends. The very occasional painting I’d sold had been for little more than the cost of the canvas and oils. I didn’t even have a painting hanging in my own home for fear it might seem big-headed. I could just imagine one of Alison’s Darwin Prep cronies coming round to mine for coffee and looking down her aristocratic nose at a leafy scene hanging over the fireplace. Annabelle Farquhar-Jones was the worst of them. A divorcée with pots of settlement money, I could almost hear her voice now. “Fancy putting one’s own artwork on one’s wall. Seems fritefly up oneself.”
‘Wait!’ A lightbulb had gone off in my brain. ‘I have photographs of my work on my mobile phone.’ A tiny egotistical part of me had digitally recorded what I’d painted so I could be privately proud without seeming like a show-off. I’d rummaged in my handbag for my mobile phone. Touching the icon for photo streaming, I’d flicked back through the catalogue of photographs. ‘Ah, here we are.’ I’d been on the verge of passing the mobile to Luca
when instead he’d moved from his seat and sat down next to me. Instantly the room had seemed to shrink. I’d shifted on the sofa, trying and failing to put an extra couple of inches between us. His thigh had brushed against mine and my thumping had heart had gone into overdrive.
‘That’s…electrifying,’ he’d murmured.
‘Mmmm,’ I’d nodded in agreement, not quite trusting myself to speak.
Leaning slightly over me, he’d slid a finger across the mobile’s screen and viewed the next image. Part of his hand had momentarily touched mine and I’d nearly rocketed off the sofa. Breathing had become a major effort. I’d suddenly seemed to have far too much air in my lungs. Exhaling quietly had been a struggle.
‘I like this one,’ he’d pointed to a summery scene of fresh blue skies and yellow sunflowers.
‘Good,’ I’d panted as perspiration started to bead my upper lip.
‘And this is lovely too,’ he’d indicated an autumn scene with a tree-lined path littered with red and gold leaf fall. I’d had a great time using a palette knife for that one.
‘Excellent,’ I’d gasped. It was no good. There had been an urgent need to exhale and draw breath properly.
I’d leant forward on the pretext of reaching for my drink, and attempted puffing out gallons of accumulated carbon dioxide before sipping water. I’d been in such a state I’d accidentally inhaled my drink. As I’d sucked in a mixture of air and sparkling water, bubbles had shot up my nose and I’d begun to choke. My eyes had bulged as I’d frantically willed my lungs to accept aqua con gas. For an awful moment I’d thought I might die. I’d had a mental picture of Daisy reading about my death in the newspaper.
Woman Drowns Sitting on a Sofa.
“That’s just so typical of Florrie,” Daisy would say. “She can’t even die without making a spectacle of herself.”
“I know,” Alison would agree. “Thank goodness she didn’t do it at Harriet Montgomery’s May Ball. I’d never have lived it down.”
Suddenly the glass had been whisked out of my hand and I’d been thumped hard on the back.
‘Are you okay, Florrie?’ Luca had asked in alarm.
I’d shaken my head and spluttered as water had shot out of my mouth.
Dear God in heaven, this is beyond embarrassing. Just get me out of here – now. Forget the painting. In fact, what on earth was I even thinking of? Daisy’s preposterous charade of making me out to be a sought after artist is beyond ridiculous. The moment I’ve finished either drowning or choking to death, I’m going to have several noisy words with my neighbour.
I’d briefly wondered what Jeremy Kyle might have had to say about it all.
Chapter Seven
Needless to say Luca had gone on to commission me. I’d produced a massive landscape of the Chianti Valley which had graced the immediate wall to the walk-in area of his restaurant. Underneath, in neat calligraphy, Luca had framed a tiny sign which proclaimed: Florentine Gold by Florrie Milligan. For commissions enquire within. There had been a smattering of enquiries. There had also been a lot of gasping when Luca had told them my fee. To date he remained my sole client, albeit a very lucrative one. Luca kept me busy. A second and third painting had swiftly followed and now I was working on my fourth, another landscape called Florence Rooftops. Unsurprisingly it was a view of some rooftops in Florence painted with umber edges. I was just deepening the pigment when my husband appeared in the doorway. I jumped, as if guilty of something.
‘You startled me.’
‘Sorry.’ Marcus lingered, his face inscrutable.
I looked at him uncertainly. ‘Have I forgotten the time or are you home early?’
‘I’m early.’
‘Oh dear. I haven’t prepared any dinner.’ I nodded at the canvas by way of explanation.
‘That’s okay.’ Marcus shrugged noncommittally and leant against the doorframe. ‘How’s my pregnant wife?’
‘Fine,’ I nodded my head up and down. ‘Yes, absolutely fine. In truth I’ve been so busy, I’d forgotten all about the pregnancy test.’ That was a lie. With each stroke of my brush I’d thought of nothing else.
‘Really?’ Marcus looked at me, as if considering something, and then echoed exactly what I’d been thinking. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else.’ He moved across the room and peered at the work in progress. ‘Another painting for Luca Serafino?’
‘Yes. You know he likes my work.’
‘Mmm. He’s the only one who does though, eh?’ He paused to examine my effort. ‘The guy must be absolutely loaded to pay two grand a pop for all these blobs.’
‘They’re not blobs,’ I said indignantly.
‘What’s this then?’ Marcus pointed to a large blob towering over the surrounding roofs.
‘It’s the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore,’ I said with a flourish.
‘Excellent accent,’ said Marcus mockingly. ‘Is Luca teaching you Italian as well?’
I flushed. ‘No. Of course not. He told me about the Cathedral. He loves Florence.’
I felt myself go hot as I recalled Luca gazing at the last finished painting, a look of delight spreading across his face. He’d turned to me, his face animated and his eyes full of …what? I blocked out the memory. Something. Just something.
‘Beautiful,’ Luca had murmured, nodding his approval. ‘Utterly beautiful. You know I’m totally in love with Florence.’
Anybody listening would have wondered which Florence he was talking about. Marcus’s voice yanked my concentration back to the present.
‘You certainly seem to spend ages painting a lot of blobs.’
If Alison could hear my husband right now she’d tell him not to speak to me so condescendingly. However, where art was concerned I knew Marcus was just plain ignorant.
‘How long a painting takes depends on the individual artist,’ I replied, adding a few more blobs. ‘It hinges on technical skills, and what the artist visualises the painting to be. Equally, if you fuss with a painting for too long, you run the risk of overworking it. If in doubt, it’s better to create a series on the subject.’
‘Which is what you’re doing?’
‘Yes.’
‘At this rate, this Luca chappie will surely run out of walls to display your work upon. Still,’ Marcus added lightly, ‘if he’s got a pile of money to spend on blobs, you might as well make the most of it. After all, nobody else is exactly banging the door down for your work.’
I bit my tongue. Marcus had just crossed the line from talking out of ignorance to talking condescendingly. I counted to five before replying.
‘Actually,’ I murmured, working the blush on a tiny section of brickwork, ‘Alison is going to mention me to Harriet Montgomery.’ I paused, allowing the name to register with Marcus. He visibly straightened. Ah, that had his attention! ‘Yes, apparently Harriet,’ I rattled off her name as if she was one of my closest chums, ‘is looking to commission an artist. She wants to surprise her husband with a painting of herself for their forthcoming anniversary.’ I glanced up. Marcus’s jaw had been overcome by gravity.
‘How do you know this?’
‘I had coffee with Daisy and Alison this morning, remember?’ Marcus looked at me blankly. ‘Harriet’s name came up. It transpires Harriet is good friends with Alison.’ I saw a look of relief cross Marcus’s face. ‘You didn’t really think she was my new best friend did you?’ I chuckled.
‘Well I’m pretty damn sure Ali isn’t Harriet Montgomery’s best friend either,’ Marcus laughed, breaking the strange mood between us.
‘Not for want of trying,’ I added. I smiled, signalling I was happy to move on from the odd atmosphere. ‘Anyway, apparently Harriet Montgomery has been a busy bee. She and Martin Murray-Wells are hosting the May Ball. It’s a big fundraising affair. Some of the yummy mummies from Darwin Prep are part of the committee. Alison’s practically orgasmic to be rubbing shoulders with an ex-movie star. Actually,’ I paused and considered, ‘I’m not sure if she has a girl-crush on Harriet,
or whether she has a woman-crush on Harriet’s husband.’
‘Surely the former,’ Marcus spluttered. ‘After all, Martin Murray-Wells must be nearly eighty.’
‘Seventy-seven apparently. Alison said he’s very debonair. Anyway, she’s insisting we support the event.’
Marcus immediately pulled a face. ‘Oh no. No, no, no. That’s not my cup of tea at all.’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘Maybe not, but isn’t there a part of you that’s curious to have a nosy around the mansion of an ex-movie star and her business tycoon husband?’
‘Not particularly. Anyway, I’m sure the whole place will be cordoned off from the public. Everybody will be shepherded into a tent in the garden.’
Marcus, I’d hardly call some big flash marquee in their extensive grounds a tent.’
‘Marquee or otherwise, I suspect the whole event will be boring as hell. I can’t stand luvvy types.’
‘I’m sure Martin Murray-Wells isn’t luvvy at all.’
‘I’ll bet his wife is. She’s meant to have been a massive diva in her heyday.’
‘She’s a school mum now,’ I reminded Marcus, ‘albeit an impossibly glamourous one. Anyway, you’ll have Tom and Henry to talk to.’
‘Oh God,’ Marcus raked a hand through his hair. ‘Tired-old-Tom and Hooray-Henry? Florrie, whilst you might be best pals with Daisy and Alison, unfortunately I don’t have the same rapport with your friends’ husbands.’
‘It’s only for a few hours.’ I paused to consider if a rooftop awning needed more warmth. My hand reached for gold ochre. ‘Apart from anything else, I could use your help.’
‘For what?’
‘Alison is convinced Henry is having an affair.’
Marcus gave me an incredulous look. ‘Don’t be daft. The man works from dawn to dusk. When has he got time for a mistress?’
‘Well clearly it’s not all work. Alison is positive extra-marital games are going on.’ I arched an eyebrow at Marcus. ‘Henry has apparently bought another woman an expensive bracelet engraved with a gushing endearment.’
The Corner Shop of Whispers Page 4