‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lovely lady, Stefano? She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve seen all day.’ To reinforce the point, the Italian man alongside Mr Burrage brought his thumb and fingers to his mouth and kissed them theatrically. He was probably a few years older than Mr Burrage, maybe in his early or mid-sixties, and he had a strong Tuscan accent, but Debbie would have got the message quite easily even without understanding a word. The glint in his eyes and the fact that he was doing his best to look down her front were a dead giveaway. Her opinion of men was at an all-time low and she had to suppress the urge to fling her Prosecco in his face. Gritting her teeth, she summoned another smile, straightened her back and stood her ground confidently, pleased to see that she was a good few inches taller than him.
‘This is our new Director of Studies: Deborah Waterson.’ Mr Burrage transferred his attention to Debbie. ‘And this is Doctor Montevarchi, Fausto Montevarchi.’
In spite of herself, Debbie’s ears pricked up. ‘Doctor? Do you work at the hospital?’ She had had quite enough of Italian doctors.
For some reason this question struck both men as amusing and Debbie had to wait for Doctor Montevarchi to be distracted by a telephone call before her new employer was able to explain, sotto voce, in English.
‘Everybody’s a doctor over here. It just means he went to university.’ He lowered his voice even more. ‘Or not. It’s often just a general term of respect. Fausto’s a businessman with a finger in a lot of pies. As far as I know, the closest he’s come to the hospital is when he had his prostate checked.’
Debbie found herself with the beginnings of a smile on her face. ‘Ah, I see. So, does that mean that I’m a doctor, too?’
‘Absolutely. You’re not only a female doctor – a dottoressa – but a professoressa as well. It’s a bit of a mouthful, but you can legitimately sign yourself Dott. Prof. Waterson if you like. Now, let’s go and find a seat in the back room where it’s a bit quieter.’
He led her through to a larger room at the back. The tables were set for dinner and a number of customers were already in there. Clearly Mr Burrage was a well-known face, as one of the waiters waved to him and pointed to a table in the corner.
‘Your usual table’s free.’
Mr Burrage led Debbie across the room and glanced at her as they sat down.
‘Have you eaten?’
Food wasn’t high on Debbie’s agenda for now. ‘I’m OK. I’ve just had a slice of cake with Rory.’
‘Ah, yes, our rugby-playing chef. He’s a damn good teacher, too. Shame about the Scottish accent, but you can’t have everything. But you need to eat, you know. We’ve got a busy week ahead of us. If you have time, we could have something to eat while we talk.’
Debbie nodded her agreement, even though she didn’t really feel hungry. Food would, at least, soak up the alcohol he seemed intent upon pressing upon her, although the bottle of Prosecco was by now barely a quarter full and she had only had a single glass. As if to correct the imbalance, as they sat down, Mr Burrage filled her glass to the brim and tipped the remainder into his.
‘We should probably move onto some red with the meal, or would you like to stay on the fizz?’
‘Um, just a little drop of red would be lovely, Mr Burrage. And some water, please. I don’t want to drink too much wine.’
‘Of course you don’t. And call me Steven, will you? Everybody does. Or Stefano, my Italian alter ego. Anyway, tell me, how’s the flat? Is it all right?’
‘It’s fine, thank you, Steven. It’s clean and very tidy. I’m impressed.’ She decided to get onto business matters as soon as possible and, certainly, before the next bottle arrived. ‘So, when do I start? Nine o’clock tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes, or ten o’clock. Not much happens in the mornings and Giancarla’s there from nine to look after things. She’s a mine of information.’
‘Giancarla?’
‘She’s the school secretary. Don’t be fooled by the title. She near enough runs the place. She’s been there for the best part of twenty-five years, even longer than me, and she knows everything that goes on at the school.’
Debbie nodded. It sounded as though her first priority should be to get into Giancarla’s good books. Clearly, she was a lady of great influence and Debbie had no desire to make an enemy of the school’s longest-standing employee. She carried on asking questions about work and noted the replies. Although some lessons had taken place in September, it sounded as though most of the courses would start this week. It looked like she was in for a baptism of fire.
The waiter who had recognized Mr Burrage came to take their order. Once again, Debbie put herself in her boss’s hands as far as ordering was concerned, but she added a plea for small portions. She didn’t understand the names of all of the dishes that were discussed, but she agreed with relief that they would just have a starter and a main course, deciding against including a pasta course as well. After a summer of cycling around Cambridge, and the stress of packing and moving house, her jeans didn’t fit too snugly at the moment and she wanted to keep things like that.
She took advantage of his obvious expertise to ask him about Italian food. ‘Do Italians really eat a starter, a pasta dish and then a main course, followed by cheese and dessert, every meal? And if they do, why aren’t they enormous?’
Mr Burrage smiled. ‘You’d be surprised how many Italians still insist upon having pasta at least once, if not twice a day. But no, I would think very few have the full works every meal.’
‘So, it’s all right to come into a restaurant and just order, say, a plate of pasta?’
‘Absolutely. Mind you, you’d probably need a carafe of red to go with it.’
The meal was very good and, to her surprise, Debbie discovered she did, in fact, feel like some food after all. The Chianti Classico arrived and she accepted a glassful, while Mr Burrage, aka Steven, made short work of disposing of the rest. They had crostini along with raw ham and fresh figs, followed by a mixed grill of lamb chops, steak, and sausages, accompanied by a heap of roast potatoes. Not for the first time, Debbie reflected that Tuscany wouldn’t necessarily be the best place for a vegetarian. All the way through the meal, she pumped Steven Burrage for information until she felt slightly more confident as to what would be waiting for her the next morning. Remarkably, in spite of the liver-crippling quantity of wine he consumed, he remained lucid to the last. Clearly, this was a man with an iron constitution.
Finally, after politely declining a dessert or an espresso, Debbie rose to leave, pleading tiredness after her journey. She refused his kind offer to walk home with her and left him happily consuming the two glasses of grappa that had come with the compliments of the management. She made her own way down to the station, past the bulk of the basilica of Santa Maria Novella and through the less populated roads to home, arriving just after half past ten.
She let herself in and climbed the stairs, feeling really quite weary. All was quiet inside, so she used the bathroom and then headed for bed. As she laid her head on the pillow, she was relieved to find that the image that entered her head wasn’t of Pierluigi, but of her rose garden. It felt comforting and familiar as ever. She could feel the touch of the statue’s bronze hand in hers as she drifted off to sleep, wondering what was in store for her in the morning.
Chapter 8
In spite of the news she had received about Pierluigi and his fiancée, Debbie managed to get a pretty good night’s sleep, although she was woken around two o’clock in the morning by the sound of female voices in the corridor outside her room. No doubt Virginia and Claire had returned from their weekend away. As the noise diminished and doors closed, she drifted off to sleep again.
She got up early and breakfasted alone. There were no signs of life from the other rooms and she realised that the three teachers were probably having a long lie-in, as they wouldn’t be on duty until the afternoon or early evening, so she tried not to disturb them.
She left th
e house at eight-fifteen and walked to work. Today the sky was grey and a cool wind was blowing, but at least it was dry. As she walked past the station and up the main street towards the cathedral, she found herself predominantly in the company of other working people, recognisable by their smarter clothes and faster pace than the slower tourists.
She glanced in the shop windows as she walked along, marvelling at the choice of items on display and the astronomical prices on some of the clothes and shoes. Some shops didn’t even show any indication of price, which she thought was decidedly sinister, and she resolved to stay away from these. She might be getting paid a bit more than before, but she wasn’t in the plutocrat bracket by a long way.
The school occupied the second floor of a magnificent Renaissance palazzo in a narrow street directly behind the Duomo. The massive wooden gates that had been closed when she and Alice had done their brief reconnaissance back in the summer were now open. A stone-flagged passage led into a courtyard, which would once have welcomed the horse-drawn coaches of Florentine notables. Doubtless, with her humble background, she would have been lucky to get a job here as a serving wench back in those days. Now the only carriage on display was a Smart car parked in one corner. A door on her left was open and, as she walked past, a head appeared from within.
‘Buongiorno signorina.’ The owner of the head emerged to reveal a man, maybe in his fifties, with meticulously combed grey hair. He was wearing a dark green apron on top of a freshly-ironed white shirt and impeccable black trousers.
‘Good morning.’ Debbie glanced at her watch. It was still only twenty to nine, so she paused to chat. ‘My name’s Debbie Waterson and I’m starting work today up at the school.’
The porter smiled in recognition. ‘My name’s Nando. I’m the porter here. I’m very pleased to meet you. Signor Burrage told me you’d be coming. You’re going to be the new Director, I believe.’
‘Director of Studies, yes.’
‘Angela was a very nice girl.’ He caught her eye and explained. ‘Your predecessor. I liked her.’
‘Was she here long?’
He shook his head. ‘Sadly, no. She only started around this time last year and she left this Easter. All very sudden, her departure.’
Debbie wondered what had caused the previous DoS to leave in a hurry and resolved to check with Steven next time she saw him. After a short chat about everyday things, she gave Nando a cheery wave and walked across to the stairs. There was a small, fairly antiquated-looking lift alongside, but she decided to walk up. The stairs themselves were wide enough and tall enough for a rider on horseback to have ridden up them and, for a moment, she found herself wondering if this had ever happened in the dim and distant past. Certainly, she reflected as she climbed steadily upwards, this place was very different from the little terrace house where she had grown up.
As she reached the second-floor landing, she found a pair of arched wooden doors set in the wall in front of her, emblazoned with a highly-polished brass plate bearing the name Florence Institute of English Studies. Alongside the doors was an equally shiny brass doorbell. She walked over and pressed it, hearing a dim echo of the bell on the other side of the door. There was no answer so, after a decent wait, she pressed it again. This time, she got a response. There was a jingling of keys and the right hand half of the door opened a crack. A woman’s face appeared.
‘The school’s closed, I’m afraid. The secretary will be here at nine.’ The lady’s Italian was fluent, but her accent was definitely foreign. She had black hair, dark brown eyes and she was wearing yellow rubber gloves.
‘Hello, my name’s Debbie Waterson. I’m the new Director of Studies. I wonder if I could come in.’
The woman looked a bit dubious, so Debbie was quick to list her credentials.
‘I’ve been employed by Mr Burrage and I’m here to see Giancarla.’
An expression of comprehension and relief crossed the cleaner’s face. She stepped back and ushered Debbie in, first through the wooden door, and then through an internal glass door.
‘Of course, Professoressa, do come in. I’m Bella.’ As Debbie walked in, Bella pushed the door closed behind her. ‘I’m just finishing doing the classrooms. Is it all right to leave you here?’
‘Of course, do carry on, please.’
As the cleaner disappeared through a doorway in the left corner, Debbie took a good look around. Her first impression was very positive. The reception area was enormous, with a long counter running along the right-hand side. The ceiling was immensely high, with a massive chandelier suspended in the centre of the room, but the star of the show was an obviously ancient fresco on the wall opposite the entrance. This depicted a group of men on horseback, some carrying hawks on their gloved hands, with a gaggle of servants on foot around them, all clearly engaged in a hunt. A pair of unfortunate rabbits could be seen hanging from the hands of one of the servants while another little grey bunny was running for its life, chased by massive hounds. It was quite stunning and Debbie stood in silent contemplation, knowing she was going to enjoy working in such a historic setting.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock and she turned to see the door open. A woman around the same age as the porter downstairs appeared through the door and stopped dead in surprise.
‘Buongiorno.’ Her tone was deeply suspicious. ‘And you are?’ She was a stern-looking woman with grey hair tied tightly into a bun, and her expression was as wary as her tone.
Debbie launched into a major charm offensive. ‘Good morning. My name’s Debbie Waterson. I’m the new Director of Studies. You must be Giancarla.’
‘Must I?’ The woman’s tone was glacial.
Debbie hesitated. ‘Aren’t you Giancarla? Steven told me you run the place.’
The woman’s stern expression softened fractionally. ‘Yes, my name is Giancarla and yes, I run the school.’ With an effort, the secretary walked across, set her handbag and today’s post down on the counter and held out her hand, somewhat reluctantly, towards Debbie. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. What did you say your name was? I was told it was Deborah.’
‘Yes, it is, but my friends call me Debbie, or Debs.’ She shook hands, realising as she did so that, daunting as the other woman was, she was quite tiny, her head barely reaching up to Debbie’s shoulder. However, clearly she compensated for her lack of physical stature by having the coiled aggression of a cobra.
‘I shall call you Deborah.’
‘As you wish.’ Debbie registered the put-down and felt her hackles begin to rise. Nevertheless, swallowing hard, she plastered a broad smile across her face. ‘So, Giancarla, Steven told me you would show me round.’ Steven hadn’t said any such thing, but Debbie was keen to see what effect their boss’s name would have. It didn’t take long to discover.
‘He can show you round himself. I’ve got far too much to do.’ To reinforce the message, Giancarla marched round the end of the counter and back to her desk, where she began to sift through the letters she had brought in with her. A few moments later, as Debbie was leafing through a pile of textbooks on display, an old grandfather clock against the end wall struck nine and Giancarla strutted across and unlocked the main entrance doors. She pushed them open, back against the outside wall, leaving just the internal glass door. Debbie noticed that this had FIES etched on it in red, white and blue.
‘Is it all right if I take a look round, Giancarla?’
‘Help yourself, but stay away from my desk. I don’t want my things messed up.’
‘Of course.’ Debbie repeated her friendly smile, albeit while gritting her teeth, and went over to a door alongside the fresco, marked Principal. She glanced inside, but immediately heard a disapproving tut-tutting sound from Giancarla behind her and decided to leave Steven’s office for another time.
She followed the route taken by Bella the cleaner though the doorway to the left and found herself in another charming, huge room, with doors leading off on all sides. She wandered rou
nd, counting six classrooms, all well-equipped, a little leisure area with a coffee machine and water fountain, and a door with Staffroom on it. Inside, there was a pretty comprehensive library of books and teaching manuals, as well as audio materials. There was also an electric kettle and mugs on a tray, freshly washed by Bella, from the look of them.
She stopped for a brief chat with Bella at the staffroom door, and learnt that she was Romanian. Like so many of her compatriots, she spoke very good Italian and Debbie remembered that Romanian was, of course, a Latin-based language and a close cousin of Italian. As Bella seemed happy to chat, Debbie took the opportunity to ask what had happened to the previous DoS. She saw Bella’s eyes dart anxiously towards the reception area.
‘She had a problem with another member of staff.’ She kept her voice low and rolled her eyes in the direction of the front door. Debbie wasn’t surprised.
‘She and Giancarla didn’t get on?’
Bella nodded. ‘Ask Signor Stefano. He will tell you better.’
Debbie nodded. ‘Thank you, Bella. I will ask him.’ Sensing Bella’s discomfort, she changed the subject and saw relief on the cleaner’s face.
‘And have you worked here long?’
‘Four years. Signor Stefano is a very nice boss.’
‘Well, you keep the place looking very good. Congratulations.’
Beyond the staffroom, at the end of the corridor, there was a door with Director of Studies written on it. Debbie opened it and went in. It was smaller than the staffroom, but pleasantly light. Inside stood a desk, three chairs and a bookcase filled with reference books. She walked over to the window and looked out. There, towering right in front, was the massive domed roof of the cathedral, and she took a deep breath. Not many offices could boast a close-up view of the Duomo, and she found herself smiling. However much of a cow Giancarla might turn out to be, this was a pretty amazing place to work. She pulled out her phone and took a photo to send to her mother and Alice.
Dreaming of Florence Page 9