“Oh, shut up, Howard,” says Belinda. “She's not that clever.”
“Yes,” agrees Barbara. “Or that pretty.”
“Well, I'm having a lovely time,” says Derek, running his thumbs along his sweaty waistband. “Would you like to dance, Barbara?”
“Ooh, Mr. Hewitt,” she giggles, her shoulders rounding in delight, “I thought you'd never ask.”
“Come along, my little munchkin,” he says, slapping her backside as she trots along ahead of him. “Let's show those youngsters what us oldies can do.”
“Aaah,” says Howard, waving his glass at them. “Ain't that sweet?”
“Oh, stop it, Howard,” snaps Belinda. “You're drunk.”
“And in the words of Sir Winston Churchill,'My lady, you're ugly, but I shall be sober in the morning,' “ slurs Howard, as his elbow slides slowly down the length of the table.
“Urgh,”says Belinda, getting up and brushing down her kaftan. “I'm leaving,” she says, then sets off a little unsteadily in the direction of the house.
“Arrivadeary,” says Howard, as his head hits the table.
With the major's reconnoitering advice ringing in her ears, Belinda begins to snoop around the house. A small pad and pencil in her handbag, she plans to walk around the villa taking notes. The ground floor is relatively easy to recce, open plan and full of other guests. It is simple enough for Belinda to jot down her small and not entirely sober aperçus —the great collection of kitchen gadgets for juicing, slicing, and steaming, the small stack of yoga books, the pile of English newspapers and magazines, with the classified sections marked, the attractive pile of white china.
However, upstairs it is slightly more difficult to pass unnoticed. Belinda tiptoes from room to room, noting the smooth white decor, the natural wooden furniture, and the stunning limestone en-suite bathrooms. There are five spare rooms, plus a beautifully decorated master bedroom with white muslin trailing from the ceiling and a large cream silk chaise longue, a mirrored dressing table, and a couple of large wall mirrors from India. But stalking around dressed as a giant purple Quality Street is perhaps not the best for undercover work. Also, Belinda is rather tight, and she thinks she is more subtle—and, indeed, more invisible—than she actually is. This means that it is not long before someone tells Lauren that a “purple woman” is poking her nose around the place.
Belinda is in the chapel, scratching at the paintwork, trying to pick her way down to the frescos when Lauren walks in. She stands and watches Belinda for a second, then clears her throat. “What are you doing?” she asks. Her voice is more quizzical than accusatory.
“Oh!” Belinda jumps around. Her turban, like a candy wrapper around her head, slides down her face, and the front of her dress is covered in telltale flakes of white paint. “Nothing!” she says, like a child whose face is covered with chocolate and still denies eating sweets. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Well, you're patently doing something,” says Lauren, walking languidly toward Belinda as she pins herself against the wall.
“I was looking for the loo,” says Belinda.
“Oh, really?” says Lauren. “Well, ever since we had a call from the Bell'Arti, I'm afraid we've had to change the layout of the place, and what was supposed to have been the most magnificent bathroom and plunge pool is now the yoga room. So I'm afraid you'll find no facilities in here.”
“A yoga room?” says Belinda. “You're having a yoga room?”
“Yes,” says Lauren, with a little nod. “But, then, you'd know all about that now, wouldn't you?”
“No, I'm afraid you've got me there.” Belinda smiles, walking away from the wall and making as if to pass Lauren. “I know absolutely nothing about yoga. Nothing at all.”
“I suppose that's to be expected from a provincial woman like you, isn't it?” says Lauren. “You know nothing about yoga and everything about furtive phone calls to local bureaucrats.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about,” declares Belinda. “Your domestic DIY problems are of no interest to me.”
“Oh, but they are,” says Lauren. “You seem to be fascinated by what's going on in my house. In fact, you can't leave the goings-on in my house alone. I only have to pop into Gio-vanna's to hear how much you're gossiping about me.”
“Me? Gossiping about you? Don't make me laugh. Ha, ha, ha,” laughs Belinda.
“Well, that's not what I hear,”says Lauren. Her voice is pleasantly controlled. “I hear you're quite upset about my presence in the valley.”
“My valley,” snaps Belinda, her face quite pink with alcohol and anger.
“Your valley,” laughs Lauren, her smooth blonde hair swinging about her face.
“Yes, my bloody valley,” insists Belinda. “I was here first!”
“Oh dear,” says Lauren, raising a finely plucked eyebrow as she turns to leave the chapel.
“I was fucking here first,” hisses Belinda, her fists clenched. Every vein in her neck pumped with blood.
“I think I'd really like you to leave my party,” says Lauren. “You're lowering the tone.”
“I am already leaving your ghastly party,” shouts Belinda as she marches past her out of the chapel and onto the side of the terrace. She turns back and shouts, “In fact, it's so bloody ghastly I can't work out why I've stayed so long in the first place.”
“Neither can anyone else, Betina dear,” says Lauren, walking slowly onto the terrace, shaking her head. “Neither can anyone else.”
“My name's bloody Belinda!” screams Belinda at the top of her voice. There's a dramatic pause in the party as everyone falls silent, turns, and stares.
“I know,” says Lauren, with a special smile.
“Mary! Mary! Mary!” Belinda looks frantically around for her daughter. “Maaa-ry!” she yells, her short retroussé nose in the air as she tries to see through the turban, which is now covering her face. “Mary! Hurry up! We're leaving! We're leaving— right now!”
“Arrivadeary,” says Lauren, with a little English wave.
VenerdìFriday
Climafa caldo (hot)
What a night! What a dreadful night! What an absolutely ghastly evening. In fact, last night has to have been one of the worst nights of my life. Honestly, dear readers, I don't mean to crow, but it was truly awful. For as many of you must know by now, there is an art to entertaining. A real art. To be a proper hostess requires flair. It requires panache, dedication, an ability to put the needs of others ahead of one's own. It also requires a little smattering of magic party dust plus a pinch of je ne sais quoi. And, sadly, my poor dear americana neighbor has none of the above. In short, her soirée last night was a disaster.
I mean, where to start? The music was too loud. There was not enough alcohol. The food was very poor. There were too many people, and, actually, if I'm being honest, there were so many Italians one couldn't even hear oneself speak English! Normally we expats out here enjoy tucking up together on a sofa for a sticky and a chat. But because our new resident americana had insisted on inviting the whole valley, there was no room in the house, so we had to spend the evening milling around outside!
Not that we would have wanted to spend much time inside that small house of hers. From what little I saw, she seems to have painted the whole thing white. Quite apart from it being a devil to clean, I can't understand why anyone would want a white house in the middle of the Tuscan countryside. It's so un-Italian. Also, it seems she's planning to make that beautiful fresco-filled chapel next door into some sort of New Age yoga room full of chanting hippies and tantric sex! Really! For the sake of the taste and decency of the valley, I'm beginning to think I shall have to take it upon myself to make sure that her B-and-B closes down as soon as possible! Forgive me if I sound a little upset, but when one's way of life and livelihood is threatened, the British bulldog spirit comes barking out of everyone!
But apart from last night's disaster, everything else is going well. My returnees are settling in. Mrs. Chester w
ent shopping yesterday and came back with the usual leather goods and some suitable outfits for a sojourn in Toscana. It always amazes me what the English wear to go on holiday. Their poor-quality fabrics and unstylishly cut clothes stick out a mile in Tuscany. No Italian would ever mix pale green with cream. Even their skin tone doesn't fit with the color of the stone. As an artist, I find the clashing colors often offend my eye.
Speaking of which, I have so far spent one wonderful morning painting with the major. It is in troubled times like these that one turns to nature to feel its beauty reoxygenate the blood in one's veins. From my window this morning as I am writing, I can feel the height of summer tighten its grip on the valley. The air is warm, the tobacco is high, the Bianchis' sunflowers are in full bloom, as are most of my flowers. Only a couple of stubborn vines resist my little green fingers!
One piece of news that I did hear at last night's party (if one can call it that) is that the sporty girls who all share the Santa Caterina monastery are coming soon. Perhaps I should invite them over for a simple Toscana soirée? In fact, in the light of last night's dreadful evening, perhaps I should invite a few more people over for a simple Toscana soirée? If only to show everyone how it should really be done!
CHAPTER SEVEN
aving spent the greater part of the morning locked in her bedroom, writing in her journal and brooding over the events of last night, Belinda suddenly appears on the terrace. She exudes all the faux-efficiency of someone resolved to wreak vengeance but is not sure quite which direction the wreaking will take. She announces her arrival to Mary, who is, rather slowly, clearing away Mrs. Chester's breakfast things, and gives the major a passing wave, before deciding to telephone Derek for the full lowdown on last night.
“Pronto, Derek! Pronto! ” she trills when he picks up. “It's the Contessa here.”
“Oh,” says Derek, sounding uncharacteristically flat. “Hello, Belinda.”
“How are you, Derek dear?”
“A little the worse for wear, Belinda, I have to admit.”
“Worse for wear?” she queries. “I wasn't aware it was that sort of party. It seemed a little dull to me.”
“Dull?” coughs Derek. “Do you think so? I thought it was ever such a laugh.”
“Do you really think so?” says Belinda, eyebrows raised in disdain. “Honestly, Derek, if you'd been to as many parties—or, indeed, given as many parties—as I have, you would understand that Lauren doesn't know the first thing about entertaining.”
“Oh,” says Derek.
“I mean, there were far too many Italians there for a start. You couldn't hear yourself speak English.”Derek does not reply. “So,” continues Belinda, talking through the pause and corkscrewing her backside into the arm of her ex-husband's favorite chair, “tell me what happened after I left.”
“We-e-ll,” replies Derek, hesitantly, “after your, um, your … departure, gosh, um, let me see …”
“Don't tell me it's that difficult to think of something! Surely Howard was badly behaved? He normally is.”
“No, no,” corrects Derek. “I was just wondering what I should say first.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, well,” continues Derek, and clears his throat, “Howard was quite badly behaved in the end as he did dance on a table. But, then, quite a few people were dancing on tables.”
“Oh dear,” says Belinda. “I knew something uncouth like that would happen.”
“Lauren was encouraging them.”
“She was?”
“Oh, yes!” Derek starts to laugh. “She really knows how to throw a party, that woman. You should have been there.” He is still chuckling. “What I mean is, I wish you hadn't had to go. Kyle got his saxophone out and started to play with the band, and everyone was dancing. It was amazing, just your scene, ac-tually. Your daughter was the belle of the ball.”
“What Mary? Dancing?” Belinda's head recoils from the telephone.
“Yes,” says Derek. “Ever so well, dear, as it happens.”
“How bizarre—are you sure?”
“Oh, yes,” confirms Derek. “After she'd got back from her tour of the grounds with Kyle and found you'd driven off, she was going to come after you, but Kyle persuaded her to stay and dance with him some more, and she eventually ended up dancing in front of everyone at the party.”
“But Mary can't dance,” persists Belinda.
“Well, she can now.”
“So, what else happened?” asks Belinda, trying to hide her irritation with a singsong cadence.
“Were you there for the fireworks?”
“Fireworks?” Belinda sits bolt upright.
“I forget what time you left exactly,” says Derek.
“You escorted me to my car,” informs Belinda.
“It was early, wasn't it?”
“Not that early,” says Belinda.
“Around ten thirty.”
“Well, that was early for this party,” laughs Derek. “Barb and I didn't get home till gone four!”
“Four!” Belinda cannot control her surprise. “What did you do there till four?”
“We had fun. I can't believe you missed the fireworks. Did you not see them from your side of the valley?”
“No,” says Belinda. “I did hear some rather annoying banging, but fortunately my bedroom window faces the road.”
“Oh,” says Derek. “They spelt ‘Welcome’ right at the end.”
“Welcome? Welcome to whom? Welcome to what? Welcome to where?” quizzes Belinda, firing one question after the other.
“Her house? The valley, I suppose,”says Derek. “I didn't ask.”
“God! How nouveau riche !” spits Belinda.
“Nouveau riche?”
“First-generation rich, Derek. Ghastly.”
“I know what nouveau riche is, Belinda,” says Derek, sounding put out, “but I thought that this was just a bit of fun.”
“Oh, Derek, now you're being silly,”says Belinda placatingly. “There are ways of spending money that is not flash or nouveau riche … um, your cypresses, for example. I know you told me a few times they cost ten thousand euros to plant, but they aren't nouveau riche at all.”
“Right,” says Derek, sounding confused. “How about my mosaic swimming pool?”
“No-o-o,” insists Belinda.
“My barn conversion?”
“No-o-o.”
“My chandelier from Harrods?” asks Derek, going through the list of his largest financial outlays.
“Derek, seriously now, I don't know what you're talking about,” bluffs Belinda.
“Anyway,I was only calling to invite you and Barbara around to mine for a party. I sort of think that I should reply for the valley, as it were, and welcome Lauren to the area, after her little do, don't you think?”
“Oh, that would be ever so nice of you,” says Derek.
“I know,” says Belinda, running her hands through her hair.
“You're right,” says Derek. “I mean, the only person I know who could possibly entertain like Lauren is you.”
“I know,” says Belinda again.
“Absolutely,” agrees Derek.
“You're right,”says Belinda, agreeing with herself and Derek. “There really is no one else.” She turns around to try to catch an admiring glimpse of herself in the mirror and instead comes face-to-face with Giulia, who is waiting patiently for Belinda to finish her conversation. “Jesus Christ!” she says in surprise, shooting off the arm of her ex-husband's chair.
“What?” says Derek.
“No! Not you,” says Belinda. “Listen, Derek, I'm afraid I have to go. I have staff standing next to me awaiting instruction.”
“Righty-ho!” says Derek.
“Arrivadeary,” says Belinda.
“Arrivadeary,” replies Derek.
“Giulia,” says Belinda, fanning herself, “I had no idea you were there. You gave me a terrible fright.” She pats her bosom dramatically. “You nearly killed me.”
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br /> “Buongiorno, signora,” says Giulia, smiling through Belinda's admonishment.
“Yes, yes,” says Belinda, taking hold of Giulia's shoulders. “Hurry up now, come along …”
Belinda ushers Giulia toward the cupboard under the sink where she keeps her yellow bucket of cleaning sprays and polishes, plus her extra-small candy-pink pair of rubber gloves.
“Right, today we have molto, molto laboro, ”says Belinda, handing over the bucket and adding a couple more canisters of Pledge. “Molto laboro.”
“Molto laboro.” Giulia nods. The mother of two little boys, Giulia is in her early thirties but looks younger. Neat and thin, with large dark eyes, her long dark hair is always scraped back into a ponytail. She is a good worker with a sunny disposition. Belinda much prefers her to her last domestic, Marta, the surly Slav she had in Tilling who used to breathe tragedy wherever she went and always wore black as if she were in mourning for her life. But despite all of Giulia's charm and diligence, Belinda still feels compelled to follow her throughout the house, just in case she misses anything. Somehow, and Belinda has been known to share this, no one quite has her eye for dust, detail, and detritus. Perhaps it is the artist in her. Or even the hostess. Either way whenever Giulia comes to clean the house, so does Belinda. Although it should be pointed out that Belinda doesn't actually touch anything when she cleans, so much as stand right next to Giulia while she scrubs and points out when she misses something. At first Giulia found her hygiene stalker unusual and a little irritating, but she has since got used to Belinda breathing down her neck.
“Guests' bathrooms primo. ” Belinda leads the way downstairs and into the guests' quarters. “Hello.” She coughs as she comes downstairs. “Only me!” she announces. “Anyone there?” She knocks loudly on the door. “I don't want to catch anyone out,” she says, laughing lightly before opening the bathroom door. “Anyone there?”
The room is empty. White and slightly airless, designed with function and practicality entirely in mind, it is small and smells of damp towels and toothpaste. Belinda directs Giulia to go in, and suggests in sign language where she might start and where she might finish, indicating areas, like the basin and the bath, that may need special attention. Giulia gets to work. She hitches up her black skirt and fills her yellow bucket with warm water. Spilling some over her feet, she bends down to dry off her brown plastic flip-flops and maroon-painted toenails. She covers the white tiles with Cif and scrubs. All the while Belinda leans in the doorway, her arms folded, watching to see if Giulia makes a mistake.
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