‘That’s awfully sweet of you,’ she says as she sits down.
‘Has Fred stopped wailing yet? I can’t hear him any more,’ I say, trying to keep the conversation neutral. I can sense she is in a state about something.
‘Yes. He gave up eventually and fell asleep. My goodness, that child can scream,’ she sighs. ‘Are you okay, darling?’
‘I should be asking you that.’
‘I was just upset to see Sadie go, that’s all.’
‘You’ll see her in England, won’t you?’
‘Yes. I suppose it was the fact it felt like the holiday is coming to an end.’
‘Just what I was thinking. But it’s not.’
‘No.’ She looks at me. ‘Sure you’re okay?’
‘Yep. I’ll miss Chloë, mind you.’
‘You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?’
I nod, then pick up my pen and pretend to carry on marking Rupes’ essay.
‘Fabio, my old dancing partner, is coming to stay tomorrow,’ she says out of the blue. ‘I have to pick him up from Paphos airport at lunchtime. He’s huge fun, or at least, he was eleven years ago. You probably can’t remember him. You were only two last time he saw you.’
I think back into the grey fuzz of faces and images. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘He gave you Bee, your bunny.’ She smiles in remembrance.
I gulp. ‘He did?’
‘Yes. He visited us in hospital after you were born and put the bunny in your cot next to you.’
‘But . . . I thought . . .’
‘MUM-MEE! I need yooou!’
‘Come out here, Immy. I’m on the terrace with Alex.’
‘Can’t. My toe’s bleeding again. HELP!’
My mother rises from her seat.
‘Mum!’ I call out to her in protest.
‘Sorry, Alex, be back in a moment.’
Damn Immy! I must not let this moment pass. I grab her arm as she floats past. ‘I thought my fath—’
‘MUM-MEE!’
‘Two ticks, darling.’
And she is gone, inside. And I know she won’t return for ages. Her ‘two ticks’ means sympathy, more plasters, a glass of milk and probably a story. Knowing Immy, the Complete Works of Hans Christian Andersen, volumes one to sixty.
Crap! Shit! Bugger!
I give Rupes one tick, then ten crosses, out of sheer frustration.
I was so nearly there just now. I am almost certain she told me before that the bunny came from my father. Which is why I have almost died trying to save its furless backside.
So, if I’m right, then the missing piece of my personal jigsaw is arriving back in my life in a few hours’ time: Fabio. It’s a poncey name, but at least he’s not called Archibald, or Bert.
There is a photo on the wall at home of him dancing in some ballet with Mum. She has a leg wrapped round his back and a knee against his groin. They were certainly intimate, although he has more make-up on than she does, so it’s a bit difficult to see his features, not that I’ve ever looked that closely.
Rest assured, I will tomorrow.
But the question remains: if Fabio is my Daddio, why has she never told me?
κα
Twenty-one
Helena was up at half past five the following morning, full of nervous energy and apprehension. Fabio had called late last night to say he would be arriving from Milan into Paphos at lunchtime. She was going to pick him up. Once again, she had hardly slept, wondering what had possessed her to agree to him coming here to Pandora.
The fact they had lost touch over the years was directly down to her. Even though she could have searched him out through the New York City Ballet, she hadn’t. Simply because it was too dangerous. She’d wanted to leave her past behind when she’d left Vienna. And that, sadly, had meant Fabio too, because he simply knew too much.
However, he was coming, and Helena was torn between terror and excitement.
She decided she must take him for lunch first. She had so much to tell him, facts that he must know before he met her family. One slip of the tongue from him and . . . she shuddered . . . the consequences would be too dreadful to contemplate.
Yes, it was a risk; but the truth was, she wanted to see him so desperately – the one person who had stood by her and supported her when she’d needed him. She knew he would struggle to believe what had happened since they’d lost touch. She struggled to believe it herself.
As she walked downstairs, she heard the back door close and the crunch of gravel from outside. Entering the kitchen, to her surprise she saw Chloë, quietly crying on a chair.
She looked out of the window and saw Michel running away up the hill.
Helena sighed, then went to switch the kettle on. ‘Tea?’ she asked.
‘Will you tell Daddy, Helena?’ Chloë looked up at her anxiously.
‘About Michel still being here at dawn? Well, as far as I’m concerned, I haven’t seen him.’ Helena pulled some mugs out of the dishwasher.
‘God, thanks, Helena. I’ve . . . we’ve never done that before, but it was our last night together, so Michel pretended to leave last night, parked his moped at the top of the hill in the vines, then came back when—’
‘I’d really prefer not to know, Chloë.’
‘Oh Helena, he’s gone. He’s gone and I don’t know when I’m going to see him again.’ Chloë wrung her hands in despair. ‘How can I live without him? I love him. I love him so much.’
Leaving the half-made tea, Helena put her arms around Chloë, who sobbed into her chest as she stroked the girl’s long, silky hair.
‘I don’t want to go to France. I don’t want to go back to England. I want to stay here with Michel,’ she cried. ‘Don’t make me go, please!’
‘I know, darling, I really know. First love is always the worst.’
‘No, it’s the best and it’s for always, I know it is!’
‘Well, if it is, then surely out of a lifetime, you can cope with a few days apart?’ Helena pulled a chair out so she could sit down next to Chloë.
‘But what about after the summer? I have to go back to school, like . . . forever.’
‘There are holidays, and I’m sure Michel will be able to come and see you in England.’
‘Mum won’t ever let him stay with us! She’ll think he’s some Cypriot peasant. She wants me to marry Mr Goldman, or Mr Sachs or someone with lots of money!’ Chloë looked at Helena. ‘Would Dad and you let him stay at your house if he came over to see me?’
‘I don’t see why not. After all, Michel’s been virtually living with us here.’
Chloë reached for Helena’s hands and grasped them tightly. ‘Thanks, Helena. Oh God!’ She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘How am I going to deal with this?’
‘You are going to remember that Michel is feeling as awful as you. And that if it’s meant to be, it will happen.’
‘Do you really think he’s feeling awful?’
‘Absolutely. I promise you, Chloë, the one who’s left behind always feels the worst. Now, how about that cup of tea?’ She made to stand, but Chloë clung on to her. ‘God, I wish you were my mother, Helena. I think you’re legend. I really do.’
‘Oh Chloë.’ Helena put her arms around her stepdaughter and hugged her tightly. ‘I wish you were my daughter too.’
An hour later, Helena took William a cup of tea.
‘You’re leaving for the airport in forty-five minutes. Chloë’s taking a shower.’
‘Thanks, darling. So, as I’ll be at the airport, would you like me to hang around and pick up Fabio?’
‘No thanks. I’ve got some shopping to do in Paphos anyway, and it might be nice for Fabio and me to catch up over lunch before we come back home.’
‘Okay. At least you’ll get some peace for a couple of hours before you leave. All the kids want to come with me to say goodbye. Even Alex. I think he has a crush on Chloë. What do you think?’
‘Yes, he does,’ Helena agreed, refraining from making any kind
of derogatory ‘it’s only taken you how many weeks to notice?’ type of remark. ‘It’s great they all want to say goodbye to her. She’s a lovely girl.’
At the airport, William checked in his subdued daughter, accompanied by her equally miserable band of step- and half-siblings.
‘Well, I guess this is it.’ Chloë knelt down and hugged Fred.
‘Don’t go, Cowee, stay here, wiv us. We love you!’
‘And I love you too, li’l bruv. Wish I could stay.’
‘Who’ll watch Disney films with us now?’ said Immy plaintively.
‘Alex will, won’t you?’ Chloë turned to him.
‘Er, okay. I’ll . . . er, give it a go.’
‘Thanks. Bye, Alex. I’ll miss you.’
‘Will you?’ he said in surprise.
‘Course I will. You are sooo cool and cute and clever.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes!’ Chloë gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘You know you are.’ She then turned her attention to William and hugged him. ‘Bye, Daddy. It’s been awesome. Thanks for everything.’
‘Bye, darling. We’ll all miss you, won’t we?’
‘YES!’ they chorused.
‘I’ll be back if Mum lets me, but I doubt it,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘Bye, everyone.’ With a final wave, she disappeared through the doors into security.
‘Want Cowee to come back,’ wailed Fred. Immy was crying too, and Alex wiped a hand surreptitiously across his cheeks.
‘Okay, chaps.’ William’s voice was gruff with emotion. ‘How about we head for the nearest McDonald’s to cheer ourselves up?’
An hour later, Helena was also at the airport, waiting on tenterhooks for Fabio to appear.
‘Bella! Helena!’
‘Fabio!’ Helena ran towards him and he caught her by the waist and twirled her round, much to the fascination of passers-by. Laughing as he set her down, he embraced her.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ Helena said, his familiar smell evoking so clearly another time in her life that she found tears in her eyes.
‘It is wonderful to see you too, truly.’ Fabio’s dark brown eyes appraised her. ‘And you look wonderful, cara, a little heavier than when I threw you around the stage all those years ago, but, pouf!’ He shrugged. ‘We are both getting old. Can we eat now? I am very hungry. I have had nothing since I left Milan at seven this morning. You know I cannot eat the plane food.’
They drove into Paphos town and found a restaurant at the quieter end of the bustling harbour-front, where they secured an outdoor table with a lovely view of the sparkling sea through the palm trees that lined the harbour wall. Fabio ordered half a bottle of Chianti and a Coke for Helena, then took out a pair of reading glasses and spent an age debating what he would eat. ‘I hate this Cypriot food! They do not know how to cook,’ he complained loudly.
‘Then have a salad. They really can’t go wrong with that.’
‘You would be surprised. So! I have decided.’ He clicked his fingers for a waiter, then explained to him in great detail exactly what he wanted.
Helena watched him with amusement, remembering his eccentricities, not all of which were endearing. He looked well, still toned and fit from daily classes, but his hairline – always a source of worry to him in the old days – had receded considerably.
‘Why do you stare at the top of my head?’ he asked her as the confused waiter was finally released. ‘You notice I have lost my hair?’
‘Well, maybe a little. Sorry.’
‘I have. I hate it! I am the paranoid middle-aged man and I am having the transplant next year.’
‘Honestly Fabio, it’s not that bad. You look fantastic.’
‘It is like the tide going out, but never coming back in. So, I fix myself. See?’ He bared his teeth. ‘I have new ones last year in LA. They are good, yes?’
‘They are . . . impressively white,’ nodded Helena, trying not to giggle.
‘Also, my forehead.’ Fabio pointed to it. ‘It is smooth, si?’
‘Very.’
‘Botox. You must have some, Helena.’
‘Why? Do I need it?’
‘You must start before others notice.’
‘Right,’ she agreed with mock-seriousness. ‘I’d forgotten just how incredibly vain you are.’
‘Well, it is much worse if you were beautiful boy, like me, to grow old. Every time I look in the mirror, it hurts. So, now, cara, I will drink some wine and we will tell each other of our years apart.’
Helena put her hand across the table and rested it on his. ‘Fabio, before we spend the next two hours reminiscing and going off at tangents, I need you to listen to me.’
He looked at her and frowned. ‘Your expression tells me it is serious. You are not ill?’
‘No, I’m not, but because you’re about to meet my family, there is something you really have to know.’
‘Will I need to drink?’
‘Oh yes.’ Helena nodded with feeling. ‘And I would too if I wasn’t driving. I’m warning you, you will not believe it.’
Fabio took a large gulp of his Chianti. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I am prepared.’
William lay by the pool whilst the little ones watched a Disney film inside. The heat was intense, and he felt relaxed and sleepy.
The past three weeks had been wonderful, after the hurricane of the Chandlers and Helena’s revelation. Which, although so difficult for her to admit, had in fact – to him, at least – seemed milder than the other scenarios his imagination had conjured up.
Of course, he was under no illusions that she had told him everything. When he’d first met her eleven years ago in Vienna, she’d had an air of mystery about her. What, he’d wondered at the time, was this beautiful, elegant woman – who spoke in a clipped British accent that betrayed her privileged background – doing working as a waitress in a café? He’d been enchanted from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Then they’d begun to chat and on impulse, he’d invited her to have a drink with him after she’d finished her shift. She had refused, as he’d expected her to, but as always with him, perseverance had won the day. From then on, he’d ignored taking in the wonderful Vienna sights, instead sitting in the café with a book when he knew she was on duty. And eventually, she had agreed to the drink.
She’d told him then that she was an ex-ballerina, and had stopped dancing three years ago when she’d become pregnant. She had a son, apparently, and from the way her eyes shone as she talked about him, William could tell that little Alex was the centre of her universe.
He’d tried to probe more deeply, but it had been obvious from the start that Helena was closed on the subject of her past, and Alex’s father. Even as their relationship had deepened and, step by tiny step, William had pursued her with grim determination (a scenario that had involved months of exhausting weekend commutes from London to Vienna), Helena had remained reluctant to discuss the details. Finally, after nine months, he had persuaded her to accompany him back to England, and installed her and little Alex in the poky Hampshire cottage that he’d rented in haste after his divorce.
He remembered her on their wedding day, looking exquisite in ivory satin – the perfect bride, as everyone had commented. Yet, when she had arrived next to him at the altar, and – formalities completed – he had lifted her veil to kiss her, rather than the anticipated joy in her eyes, he could have sworn he’d seen a flash of fear . . .
William heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel, and pulled himself back from his thoughts.
‘Mummy’s back, Daddy!’ shouted Immy from the terrace. William shrugged on his shirt and went to join her.
‘Daddee, he’s got pink shorts on and a scarf thing round his neck and he walks like a girl,’ Immy whispered as she peered round the corner at the man getting out of the car.
‘That’s because he’s a ballet dancer, Immy. Now shush,’ William ordered, as Fabio walked towards them.
‘Ciao, Willi
am! After all these years I finally meet you. It is a pleasure.’ Fabio gave William a neat bow of respect.
‘And for me, Fabio.’
‘Hello, leetle one,’ Fabio bent down to kiss Immy on both cheeks. ‘You are miniature version of your mamma, yes? I am Fabio. And this must be signor Frederick. Helena has told me a lot about you both.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Fabio. Were you and Mummy famous?’ asked Immy, gazing up at him with wide blue eyes.
‘Once, we were unstoppable, were we not, Helena? The next Fonteyn and Nureyev . . . aah, well,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Your mamma has done something more worthwhile with her life than chasing a dream. She has a beautiful family.’ Fabio looked around. ‘Where is Alex? I have not seen him since he was a toddler.’
‘In the house somewhere. I’ll call him. Cup of tea, Fabio?’ William asked him.
‘Coffee would be good, but I take only decaf.’
‘I think we have some somewhere. Tea, darling?’ William smiled at Helena, whom he thought looked strained and rather tired.
‘Yes please. Hello, monster.’ She smiled as she picked Fred up. ‘Come and sit down, Fabio, and enjoy the view.’
‘It is stunning,’ he pronounced as he seated himself gracefully in a chair. ‘William is a handsome man. I hate him. He has more hair than me,’ he whispered loudly to her.
Immy sidled up to him. ‘Are you really a dancer, Mr Fabio?’ she asked him shyly.
‘Yes, I am. I have been dancing all my life.’
‘Did you dance with Mummy in Vienna when she met the Prince?’
‘Ahh, the Prince.’ He smiled at Helena. ‘Yes, I did. We were dancing Giselle, Helena?’
‘La Sylphide, actually,’ she corrected him.
‘You are right,’ Fabio said, before turning his attention back to Immy. ‘And then one night, your mamma had bouquet from him.’
‘What’s a bouquet?’ enquired Immy.
‘They are flowers given to beautiful ladies who dance the leading roles, but this bouquet has inside it a diamond necklace. Am I right, Mamma?’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘And then, he invites her to a ball at a real palace.’
Immy was enraptured. ‘Ooh,’ she breathed, ‘just like in Cinderella.’ Then she turned to Helena and put her hands on her hips accusingly. ‘So why aren’t you married to him now?’
The Olive Tree Page 27