by Penny Feeny
‘Do you know where Lily is?’
‘No, do you?’
Lacing and unlacing her fingers, Jess noticed they were stained blue. ‘Well, she did mention going to London from Gatwick, to meet up with her friend Becky.’ Lily’s lifestyle was itinerant. She often took short-term digs, depending on where she was working or what course she was on, though the Whispering Pines was still her base. (And a misnomer since the great storm of last October had brought down both conifers.) ‘I expect she’ll turn up here in a day or so.’
She left Harry to his game and went to scour her hands under the tap, scrubbing away at the lines of blue in the crevices. She didn’t want to overdramatise in front of him or make a meal of the call, but she couldn’t shake off her suspicion that Carlotta Galetti was dangerous. How come, after such a long silence, the woman had re-emerged and then claimed she wasn’t well? To Jess that sounded a lame excuse. She longed to protect and comfort her daughter, but she wasn’t an interfering parent and she presumed, if Lily needed succour, Becky would offer a shoulder to cry on. It would be easy enough to find out. She dried her hands and rang her, but Becky had neither seen nor heard from Lily. ‘I hope nothing awful’s happened,’ she said.
‘So do I,’ said Jess, swallowing her fear. ‘I think it’s more likely she’s upset about something. Gone to ground to lick her wounds. I’ll try the flat.’ She knew Alex was away, hunting a story in Romania, but Lily had a key. There was no reply so she left a message on the answer phone, as cheery and casual as she could make it.
In the morning, when there was still no response, she scoured the itinerary Lily had posted on the cork board on the kitchen wall and the list of pensione numbers to be contacted if any word came from Carlotta. At the bottom of the sheet were the details of the course tutor, Howard Redding: ‘Any last-minute queries, don’t hesitate to call me.’
Jess dialled. Howard answered. ‘Sorry to bother you now the trip’s over,’ she said. ‘I wanted to ask about Lily McKenzie…’
‘Who is this?’
‘I’m her mother.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Well, um, we haven’t heard from her since she left and I was wondering…’
‘Didn’t she tell you she was going to stay on in Rome?’
‘I knew she might,’ said Jess warily.
‘She said she wanted to look up an old family friend, asked if she could change her flight booking. It was against my advice, as a matter of fact. Are you worried about her?’
‘Someone was trying to get hold of her, that’s all. I wanted to make sure… Thanks anyway.’ She put the phone down quickly.
If there was any mystery, she told herself, it had been prompted by Carlotta. She was the person who was searching for Lily and wanted her to get in touch. But that didn’t explain what Lily was doing, all alone in Italy. Unless she wasn’t alone: perhaps she’d made friends with other travellers or been suckered into a holiday romance? She was twenty-one, a free agent. But Jess’s mind was not so easily quieted; she couldn’t stop it leaping to paranoid conclusions.
She went out to the studio, hoping work would soothe her. Usually she could become totally absorbed in the intricacies of design, in the process of stroking colour onto paper or cloth, but she found it impossible to concentrate. She headed back to the house and was only a few yards away when she heard the trill of the phone. She raced through the door and plucked it from its cradle on the wall. ‘Lily?’ Though, really, why did she think it was Lily? It could have been anybody.
It was Dinah.
‘Jessamy,’ she said. ‘You haven’t forgotten it’s Tuesday, have you?’
‘Oh, God, so it is!’
‘Mother’s waiting.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit distracted… I’ll come right away.’
Two years ago, after their father died, Jess had inherited the cottage, the large family home was sold and their mother moved in with Dinah. It was agreed this was the best solution, because Marjorie’s funds could reduce the Winthrops’ expenses and help maintain outward appearances despite Johnnie’s disastrous financial losses. Dinah was praised by her circle for her self-sacrifice and commitment but in fact she had arranged things the way she wanted them: she was in control of the purse strings. Jess was occasional skivvy and errand girl, but her main responsibility was acting once a week as her mother’s secretary. Dinah had appointed her to this role because she had the most legible handwriting.
Jess grabbed the car keys, skidded down the drive and arrived, breathless and apologetic, at her sister’s house. Marjorie’s sitting room was always overheated; even in summer she kept at least one bar of the electric fire glowing. She had also drawn the curtains to keep the sun out of her eyes. Jess took up her place at the bureau, armed with her favourite Italic nib and a pile of Queens’ Velvet notepaper, ready for dictation. Marjorie suffered from arthritis and holding a pen was painful. She regarded handwritten letters as essential; anything less would be bad manners and an insult to the recipient. She might have lived through two world wars but chaos was never allowed to interrupt her routine.
Jess sat in the gloom writing two formal responses to invitations, a letter of complaint and another of condolence. When she had finished, she passed over the letters so her mother could scrawl her signature. Dinah poked her head around the door. ‘Come on, stir yourself, Ma,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we sit in the garden? It’s a nice enough day.’
‘I’d never get out of a deckchair,’ said Marjorie.
‘And I ought to be going,’ said Jess.
‘Nonsense,’ said Dinah. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
They ended up in the kitchen, drinking weak Earl Grey out of Marjorie’s fine china teacups.
‘You’re very twitchy today, Jess,’ said her sister. ‘What is it?’
‘Oh, I have a deadline to get some work finished. And I want to go home in case Lily’s been in touch.’
‘How is Lily?’ asked Marjorie, as if she’d suddenly recollected her existence.
‘Actually, I’m not sure. She didn’t come back from Italy with the rest of the group.’
Marjorie had breezed indifferently through her three daughters’ lives; she’d been more interested in her dogs. ‘You’re not worried, are you? She didn’t get left behind by mistake?’
‘No, it was her choice, apparently.’
‘She should have let you know,’ said Dinah.
Jess was defensive. ‘It’s not easy to make long-distance calls when you’re abroad. It’s expensive too. That’s why I’m assuming she’s still there. She would have rung if she was back in England. It’s just that the person she stayed on to see phoned yesterday to find out where she was.’
‘What person?’
‘The woman I told you about, the one we think might be her mother. I’m sorry now that we encouraged Lily to contact her.’
Dinah said, ‘Your job’s done, Jess. The girl’s twenty-one. Focus on Harry.’
‘That doesn’t stop me wanting her to be happy. Why should my hopes for her be any different than yours for Amanda?’
‘What I’m hoping for Amanda,’ said Dinah, ‘is that she makes a better marriage than I did. Or you, for that matter.’
‘Alex?’ said Jess. ‘Why pick on Alex?’
‘You threw him out, didn’t you?’
‘No, we agreed to separate.’
‘What’s the difference? I can’t think why you don’t get divorced.’
‘Because I’ve no plans to marry again and we share Harry’s parenting. It might be different next year when he’s eighteen. Anyway, I could say the same to you.’
Dinah twisted her emerald and diamond engagement ring. ‘That’s easy,’ she said. ‘I want his bloody pension. Johnnie’s two years off retirement and I’m not letting him walk away with anything.’ Marjorie’s cup rattled on its saucer. Dinah added, ‘However, while he’s still working he can have his uses.’ Her expression was unusually coy.
‘What are you g
etting at?’
‘It’s a bit of a puzzle, isn’t it, Lily disappearing in Italy?’
‘She hasn’t disappeared,’ protested Jess. ‘But I think she’s still abroad.’
‘She could have been mugged. Or kidnapped for the white slave trade.’
‘Are you deliberately trying to wind me up?’
‘No,’ said Dinah. ‘But you can’t rule out anything… People have to present their ID when they’re staying in continental hotels, don’t they?’
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I could ring the hotel in Rome where she spent last Friday night. Is that what you mean? In case she stayed on there.’
Dinah said, ‘She shouldn’t make you wait around on tenterhooks. Johnnie has contacts in the Home Office. I’m sure they could flush her out easily enough.’
‘It would be peace of mind for you, Jessamy,’ said Marjorie, curling her arthritic fingers around Jess’s wrist in sympathy.
‘What if she doesn’t want to be flushed out?’
‘Jess,’ said Dinah sternly. ‘Stop being so bloody wet.’
Jess rose, pushing her cup aside. ‘Okay, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get on with the calls. I’ll see you both next week.’
She fled the house with a sense of relief, but it didn’t last. She rang the Roman hotel and established that Lily had checked out as expected. Since there was still no answer from the Highbury flat and she couldn’t think who else to try, she decided to consult Toby. Their affair had run its course. It never really developed into a full-time commitment and had fizzled out the previous year, but he was still a touchstone.
Unlike Dinah, he advised her not to intervene. The problem with Toby was that his approach to time and motion wasn’t the same as most people’s. He had no sense of urgency. His brain was occupied with a world that was at least three thousand years old, so why would he care about a few missing days?
‘You think I should drop it?’ said Jess. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. What does Alex say?’
‘I can’t get hold of him. He’s in Romania. It’s because Communism’s tottering and there are stories about to break. Did you know women there are forced to have five children each? But they can’t feed them so they dump them in orphanages. That’s what he’s trying to look into.’
‘Ah,’ said Toby. ‘Alex and his orphanages. Anyway, I’m sure there’s no need to panic over Lily. Think back to when you were her age. Don’t tell me you never had a lost weekend. Give her a bit longer.’
He was right. Jess put the finishing touches to her designs and posted them off. She and Harry cleared away a patch of brambles at the bottom of the garden and he helped her replace some rotten fence panels. She chauffeured him to friends’ houses and booked him a course of driving lessons. On Friday morning a postcard popped through the letterbox onto the doormat.
Guess where I am!!!!
30
Eva had cut out the gold silk panels of the actual wedding dress and run up a prototype in cheap cotton to perfect the fit. Carlotta stepped out of her clothes and Eva threw it over her head, but when she tugged at the edges of the central back seam they wouldn’t meet. ‘You’ve put on weight!’ she said accusingly.
‘I can’t have done,’ said Carlotta, staring at her gaunt face in the mirror while Eva hovered at her elbow. The sickness from the food poisoning had eased at the start of the week but was now worsening again. ‘I’ve hardly been eating. In fact I thought you were going to yell at me for getting too thin, after what you said last time. Are you sure your measurements are right?’
Eva whisked her tape measure around Carlotta’s bust. She compared the figures in her notebook. ‘Two centimetres more,’ she said.
‘In two weeks? That’s ridiculous! You’re exaggerating. You must have written them down wrong.’
Eva denied this. ‘Well, thank goodness I allowed plenty of width for the seams. I’ll be able to let them out. There isn’t much point in continuing this fitting today. We need to wait until nearer the time or I’ll have to alter it again.’
‘Are you asking me to go on a diet?’ said Carlotta.
Anyone would seem plump beside scrawny Eva. As usual she was swamped in an oversized man’s shirt studded with pins, and wearing tight jeans that accentuated her stick-insect legs, but she didn’t care what she looked like. All her efforts were on behalf of her clients and they had to do what they were told. She pulled the white cotton from Carlotta’s shoulders. ‘Now take off your bra,’ she said.
Carlotta frowned, but obeyed.
‘Look!’ exclaimed Eva.
‘I’ve always had full breasts.’
‘You don’t think the nipples are darker?’
‘I can’t tell.’
With an air of exasperation, Eva reached forwards. She squeezed one of the exposed breasts between thumb and forefinger. Carlotta yelped with pain. ‘And can you tell if they are always so sensitive? Porca Madonna, didn’t I warn you not to do anything foolish before your wedding day?’
‘But I didn’t!’
‘Carli, I can’t believe you’re so ignorant!’
To be accused of ignorance was one of Carlotta’s greatest fears. She knew how to cajole to get what she wanted and how to present a self-assured face to the world, but that didn’t make up for the lack of knowledge in her head. She was aware that her schooling had been sketchy; lessons had been less of a priority than getting the chores done, helping her mother with the laundry. Nowadays she would often sit with Luca while he did his homework, on the basis that she could learn alongside him. Nicolo’s level of education was so much higher than hers she was anxious to minimise her deficiencies. ‘An accident of birth,’ he’d said generously, referring to the fact that they might as well have come from two different nations.
Nicolo didn’t believe she was shallow or stupid, so to have her best friend belittling her was the last straw in a bad week. Eyes brimming, she hustled herself into her clothes – it was unbearable to be humiliated when you were nearly naked and the other person fully dressed – and snatched up a large pair of scissors.
‘Carli!’ cried Eva in alarm. ‘What are you doing?’
The prototype dress had fallen onto the floor. Carlotta grabbed it with one hand and sliced the scissor blades towards it with the other. ‘You’ve wasted your efforts,’ she said as the tears spilled over. ‘This isn’t going to be any use for someone as fat and foolish as me.’ She cut into the cotton.
Eva wrested the scissors away from her. She took Carlotta’s face tenderly between her hands and kissed both cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘To have stirred such a passion in you. I didn’t mean to insult you, but I can’t believe you haven’t realised that you’re pregnant.’
If Eva hadn’t been supporting her, Carlotta would have collapsed to the floor. The door of the changing cubicle was open and, in the room beyond, she was sure she could see the mannequins coming alive, swishing their silks and satins, mincing and strutting.
‘You know that’s not possible,’ she said.
‘Why not? You don’t sleep with Nicolo?’
‘Of course I do, but…’
‘You’re in shock. Let me make you a coffee.’
In the back room where she had two Calor gas rings Eva lit the flame beneath an espresso pot. Carlotta slumped onto a chair, picked up a magazine and fanned herself.
‘Come and sit more comfortably,’ insisted Eva, leading her to the couch and moving a pile of pattern books so they could sit down together. She poured out the coffee.
Taking the cup, Carlotta said, ‘I can see why you think what you do.’
‘You’ve been sick, yes? Your breasts are swollen and sore. I bet you’ve missed your period.’
‘My periods are irregular.’
Eva rolled her eyes. ‘What more evidence do you need?’
‘The doctor said…’
‘Didn’t I always tell you the doctor could be wrong? You know what you should do now? You should go to the pharmacy an
d buy a pregnancy kit. Use it when you get home and as soon as you find out you must call me.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Carlotta as a wave of nausea hit her again. Could it be the coffee? How dreadful if she couldn’t drink coffee! ‘They’ll both be there. Nicolo’s on a late shift. And I need to know for definite before I tell him.’
‘Why? How d’you think he’ll react?’
‘I’ve no idea, that’s the trouble. We weren’t expecting anything like this to happen. We have Luca and we’re perfectly settled, the three of us. He wants to focus on his career and so do I – we’re not so young any more. Besides, I don’t want to look like an idiot if it’s a false alarm.’ (She could hear voices from her past: silly Concetta, why do you always get everything wrong?)
‘It’s not a false alarm,’ said Eva. ‘But I appreciate that you need to be sure. Give me some money and I’ll pop round to the pharmacy while you finish your coffee. I’ll explain that it’s for one of my clients. It won’t be the first time. I hear more confessions than the priest!’
Once Eva had spurted through the door, a petite energetic whirlwind, Carlotta abandoned her coffee and gulped a glass of tap water. Pregnancy. A baby. Her mind kept swooping back to the first time, to the bundle of creased flesh she had loved so fiercely. Serafina had been an enchanting, gurgling infant, sunny-natured, responsive, a mischievous smile, a throaty giggle. She tried to recall the heft of her, snuggled on her hip, a plump starfish hand clawing at the front of Carlotta’s dress to get at her dinner. The speed of her little knees, the waggle of her bottom when she put her down to crawl. She used to pull herself upright with a triumphant beam, wobble and move around the furniture. ‘Soon she’ll be taking her first steps unaided,’ Carlotta was told, but she had never seen her walk.
When Eva came back with the testing kit, Carlotta took it into the cramped lavatory that had been created from a cupboard. Together, nervously, they waited for the result. Eva was the first to declare, ‘You see! I was right!’
Carlotta waited a while longer until there could be no mistake. ‘Honestly, I was convinced I could never conceive.’