The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  ‘Welcome to the Villa San Michele. We hope to make your honeymoon a very special and memorable one.’ It was signed Luca di Campo, Manager, San Michele.

  Oh no! she thought. We have been given their champagne and now their fruit, and it’s all a mistake. She called down to reception to correct the error.

  ‘I think you have mixed us up with some other guests,’ she said.

  ‘Oh no, Madame, we have had you booked in here since you came in May,’ said the lady at the end of the line. ‘I specifically remembered your husband when I saw him coming out of the elevator, so I do know that you are our special honeymoon guests, and I welcome you back to Villa San Michele. I look forward to greeting you again in person at dinner. We have your favourite Martini on ice already.’

  The receptionist was pleased with herself – she would get high praise for her attention to detail. When she had arrived for the evening shift, she found that Luca, usually such a stickler, had left the note he would normally deliver himself while checking a guest’s room was prepared to his satisfaction behind the desk. She had hurried upstairs, really not in her job description, and placed it in the room. It was then she saw Mr Smith walk down the corridor, talking on his phone.

  Liberty’s legs started shaking and she felt instantly sick. She replaced the phone in its cradle without replying. She sat down on the sofa and gazed around her. She saw Percy’s briefcase by the armchair, and walked over to it. Hesitating only for an instant she placed it on the sofa and opened it, not caring about snooping, something she would abhor in any other situation. She rummaged about until she found his diary. He was sufficiently old-fashioned still to use a paper one, and also had a secretary who entered his appointments in it. Although he also put things in his smartphone, he didn’t yet know exactly how to retrieve them, so this was his backup.

  Sure enough: ‘September 1st–4th, Florence – send money for undies.’ All through June, July and August until the shooting season started a little tick appeared on certain days, and then on 12th August, when he had been in Derbyshire, ‘make sure G invited’.

  Liberty’s entire body now began to convulse. Percy had made some excuse to her, telling her that it would not be a good idea for her to go to Derbyshire this year, saying the men were shooting without their wives this time, and ‘anyway, darling, you wont feel like it after taking all those medical hormone things’.

  She almost smiled when she thought of old fusty Mary, Percy’s personal assistant, trotting out to Agent Provocateur to pick out underwear. God, Percy had never bought underwear in his entire life, whether for himself or anyone else.

  As she sat there, twisting her hands together, everything began slowly to slot into place. Percy was trying to make himself unattractive to her, because he wanted her to become fed up with him. That bloody necklace, the horrid thing, must be G’s taste. She felt very sick, and then howled as a terrible pain tore through her gut. She ran into the bathroom, feeling the familiar hot sensation as the tiny life left her body and blood trickled down her leg. She crawled along the floor, grabbed her pashmina that was hanging over the towel rail and wrapped it around herself, suddenly freezing cold. She could hear gut-wrenching sobs escaping her body. It was a known sensation; she had experienced it twice before. She had been so sure, almost felt she knew the little soul that was now leaving her body. She sent a prayer up, raising her face towards the God she hoped was doing this for a greater purpose, allowing the tears streaming from her eyes to escape down her temples and trickle down and cool her neck. She tucked herself under the vanity table, trying to curl up and hide. She hoped God would listen and take care of the tiny entity. Why am I so useless? I can’t hold a man or a baby.

  She lay there on the marble floor for a while, unable to think of what to do next. What was there in life? No baby, no husband, no nothing. She sobbed. She had allowed her life to float by, not caring about anything; she had nothing of her own of any significance. She had achieved nothing meaningful, she had let others tell her what she should do. Had she no thought of her own? What was the point of life, anyway? She felt pain and horror and grief washing over her in waves like an ocean trying to wash her away. She wanted to be carried away, to disappear out of the world.

  Someone was hammering at the bedroom door, and she crawled over to let the bastard in.

  ‘Signora?’ said Luca, gazing down at her with consternation written all over his face. She looked up at him in a daze and he seemed to disappear, at which point she realised she was not really there herself . . . a few moments later an elderly lady stood before her, and managed somehow to persuade Liberty to her feet and into bed. Gently, gently she was undressed, while the strange but oh-so-kind lady chatted away all the while in Italian, not one word of which Liberty understood in her semi-comatose condition, but she gathered comfort from the attention given to her by this remarkable woman. It all seemed like a hazy dream, or nightmare, and somewhere far away she could hear Percy’s voice, some shouting, some rather soft Italian voice, but she couldn’t bring herself to care what was going on, she couldn’t think what was happening, she was just full of sadness. She must have fallen asleep, as the next thing she knew it was dark outside, the shutters had been opened to let in the cool night air and several lamps had been lit in the room. She sat up, and her first thought was, Oh God, the blood! She threw back the exquisite sheet, horrified at the thought that Luca had put her to bed and seen all the mess. It might be a five-star hotel, but there are limits!

  She suddenly felt amazingly calm. Sad and forlorn, yes, but it was as though her face wouldn’t move or show any emotion ever again. She was set in this calm mode for ever. She worried she was just a shell with nothing left inside.

  She was amazed to find herself in her negligee with a towel beneath her. She went into the bathroom, and noticed that all evidence of the pregnancy tests had been removed along with her IVF notes and folder, and the horrid mess. After splashing her face with cold water, she also saw that although her toiletries and make-up had been neatly placed on the table beside one of the basins, she was positive she hadn’t done that. There was nothing, nothing at all of Percy’s. No shaving gear, no toothbrush, no toiletries. She returned to the bedroom. No bag, no briefcase, no half empty bottle of champagne, just something else. What was it? An aroma. A heavenly aroma of rosemary, a little garlic, and the heady scent of decent chicken being cooked with a touch of nutmeg. The memory of smell must be strong. For the first time in twenty years Liberty salivated. She was starving. She looked around her, but there was nothing to eat in the room; the fruit must have been cleared away. She didn’t want to leave the room for the time being and have to face anyone, but she could certainly eat a horse, and of course if she asked for one that would probably be brought to her, as she was in Italy, she thought ruefully.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. What to do? At that moment there was a gentle tap at the door, followed by the appearance of the woman who had so wonderfully cared for her earlier. Liberty blushed at the memory. The woman was in her late sixties and had a large knot of grey hair elegantly pulled back from her kind, wizened face to the nape of her neck. She wore a black, simply fashioned dress and black shoes, and was essentially a typical wealthy Italian matron. But what really caught Liberty’s attention was the tray she was carrying.

  On the tray was a basket overflowing with different freshly baked rolls, some crusty, pointy and white, some knobbly with walnuts and sultanas. There was a bowl of tiny olives like shiny black pearls, a dish of walnuts so fresh they gleamed, and another filled with a puree of red peppers and anchovies. Yet another was filled with the new season’s olive oil, green and succulent, with tiny specks of chilli and chopped herbs. And then, pièce de résistance, a tureen of chicken broth.

  As the woman removed the lid and ladled some into a shallow dish, Liberty couldn’t help but lean over, almost drooling with anticipation. Fresh vegetables, gleaming like coloured jewels, swam happily among handmade tortellini filled, she was to dis
cover, with the lightest chicken liver mousse, gently seasoned with nutmeg and parsley, which had been poached in the broth.

  ‘Come, my child, sit.’ Liberty allowed herself to be led by the hand to a chair, have a napkin tied around her neck like a child might and, even more amazingly, let herself be fed, slowly; a spoonful of soup, bread with some puree, a torn shred of bread dipped in oil with one or two walnuts perched on the top. The flavours exploded in her mouth. The rosemary in the oil was healing her body, she could feel it infusing her very soul; very subtle, not overpowering. The oil was so fresh and green; it was rehydrating her. The calming, restorative flavours seemed to flood her whole body and pulse through her veins, the very opposite of the anaesthetic that forced its way through her when the tiny embryos had been implanted only ten days ago. All that horror seemed light years ago now. The chicken broth, so sweet from the carrots and pea pods, but savoury with parmesan and fresh chervil; the pasta, so light, and the mousse it contained danced lightly on her tongue, before slipping down like the best medicine. With each mouthful, she could feel herself growing stronger.

  Both women were surprised when they realised she had consumed everything on the tray, except for the glass of Chianti, which she now raised to her lips. Only then did she feel able to speak.

  ‘Molte grazie, signora,’ Liberty sighed, ‘molte grazie.’

  ‘My child,’ replied the woman, ‘you are safe here. Luca is my son. He has, er, removed Signore Radley. You need rest and to heal, yes? I regret to say, Luca had no idea, when you arrived, of the matter. He would not have interfered, but mamas understand these things.’

  ‘Where is Percy?’ asked Liberty.

  ‘Gone, Signora. You must stay as long as you need to. Don’t think about anything but rest at the moment. You are safe here,’ she stressed. ‘Sleep now, my child.’

  Liberty did indeed feel overwhelmingly tired.

  ‘Do you need to see a doctor? I have arranged for someone to visit you in the morning, but if you need someone now, he will of course come. You know your body, of course, better than anyone else.’

  ‘No, thank you, I think I had just best return home.’

  ‘Not yet. Wait a few days. You need Tuscany to restore you. Alora, we can speak about it in the morning. Now sleep.’

  Liberty allowed herself to be put back into the bed, and tucked in. ‘Thank you. Grazie,’ she managed to whisper again, unable to put into words the utter gratitude and relief she felt, before the restorative haven of sleep enveloped her.

  Liberty awoke feeling alive again. Not alive in the sense of ‘OK I am breathing, and can see and hear’ but alive in the sense of being full of energy, vitality and excitement. What can I achieve today, tomorrow and for the rest of my life? she thought. I have been reborn, she decided. Now. Today. The rest of my life begins at this moment. She felt physically drained, exhausted, despite her long sleep, which, unknown to her, had lasted almost thirty-six hours. Signora di Campo had checked on her and slept outside the door in a chair, placed there by her bewildered son.

  ‘How could he do anything to hurt that exquisite creature?’ he asked his mama.

  ‘Life is one long trail of confusion, hate, love and experience,’ she responded. ‘We must not judge, but she needs care, and you men have no clue at times like these.’ She enjoyed the feeling of being needed again, after spending eighteen years as a widow and watching her son in the arms of his wife. Her heart had gone out to the girl, who had allowed herself to be mothered. The screams that had filled the air while she slept had torn at the heart of the elderly woman, who thought she had seen it all, but she was pleased her son had called; he didn’t always have the answer, capable as he was, and he still needed his mama!

  Liberty stretched, got out of bed and staggered to the shutters. As she flung them open, she realised she felt nothing of the grief that had enveloped her two days earlier. Percy and the horror of the miscarriage seemed to have been swept away in her dreams. She had no memory of being held tightly by Signora di Campo as shouts and screams ripped from her body and filled the room while she slept.

  I am going to live, to really live, to feel alive, to experience new things, she decided. She felt able to make things right somehow; her skin seemed to zing with newly found nerves, as though the sensation of air was massaging her soul, sending thousands of messages to her wretched body, to stop wasting life, stop dwelling on what had gone by and start thinking of the future. My life can start now; I can make people happy, myself happy! She knew it sounded strange, even to herself, but she felt it was remarkable that out of such horror, such positive change could come.

  She leapt about like a child, gathering clothes, running to the bathroom to splash her face, to look in the mirror, expecting a different reflection to the one she had seen in recent years to peer back at her. No, still me. But to the outsider, a new determination and gleam would be seen, filling the green eyes, behind which a new beginning was slowly unfolding.

  This baby’s tiny life would not be wasted. Liberty would not sit and mourn, for what would that achieve? Starting from now, everyone will be seen through new eyes. Life is so short and I will not just coast through it any longer.

  She had a long, hot shower, followed by a cold blast, dressed quickly, combed her hair and made up her face. She looked herself straight in the eyes in the mirror. She saw a woman in a navy wrap dress, cheeks glowing, and smiled. This was her life. Let’s go, girl, she said to her image.

  Once out of her room, she felt a little more uncertain and alone. Oh, come on girly! She mentally kicked herself, and reminded herself of her quest. She wandered downstairs. Luca was at the reception desk. He came forward with a genuine smile, not unbearably sympathetic, and led her through to the vaulted dining room which had been laid for breakfast, although most of the guests had chosen to dine on the terrace.

  Along one wall of the room were two tables covered with heavy cloths, groaning with plates of cold meats, smoked cheese, fresh ricotta, smoked salmon, Prosecco for a breakfast mimosa. Luca was describing the selection of breakfast dishes as though none of the horrible events had happened.

  ‘Signora, I have set a table for you in the garden. Shall I prepare a plate of food for you?’ Fabulous.

  ‘Grazie, and do please make sure there is plenty of that wonderful bread,’ she replied, pointing to baskets of walnut and sultana sourdough and rye. ‘Ooh, and some of that, too,’ she added as she spied a huge leg of Parma ham being sliced by a waiter.

  ‘And a Bellini or a mimosa?’

  ‘Bellini, I think, and a strong coffee. And thank you,’ she said as she looked at him earnestly. ‘Your mother has taken great care of me, and I am both humbled and incredibly grateful. How can I thank you?’

  Luca looked serious. His facade as manager slipped for a second as he said, ‘The happiness and well-being of my guests is of utmost importance to me, but sometimes I need a little help. The only person who knows better than me is my mama, so it was to her I turned.’

  Understanding he would be uncomfortable to talk any more, Liberty allowed him to lead her past the other guests, who were restricted to the loggia, and sat alone in the garden, blissful in isolation, away from the stares she felt might be forthcoming, although, of course, no one else had any idea what had happened.

  As she sat in the morning sun and dunked yet another piece of butter lemon cake into her coffee, Liberty emailed her godmother and invited herself to stay. Much as she loved the hotel, she felt in need of a home, but was unable to return to her own. Unwilling to force herself on either of her parents, she would escape for a while, maybe take a course in baking, and help in Paloma’s restaurant. A change of scenery was just what she needed most. There followed a brief email exchange:

  P: Of course, darling, how long for? Is Percy coming too?

  L: No, will explain later, will come tomorrow if I can get a flight. Can I stay for a while?

  P: Let me know your arrival time and I will send Claude to the airport for yo
u. Love you.

  Liberty leaned back in her seat and breathed in the scent of the pine trees, the aromas from the kitchens where lunch was already being prepared, the lemon bushes in their tubs. She even thought she could smell the grass growing. What had she been missing all this time? Her tongue was alive with taste, and she almost felt it was asking her ‘What next?’.

  Like a child with its first mash of solid food, her taste buds were tingling with excitement, her skin was twitching with pleasure and she understood the importance of good food and its setting for the first time. All those silly magazines were there to help one to diet and to reject food. But food was there to help one to live. Respect food, respect your body, respect life. It was like a new mantra for her.

  The energy that her breakfast gave her was now coursing through her body. She got up from the table, happily replete, and walked through to the hall that served as the reception area. A black-haired woman glanced at her and immediately looked sheepish.

  ‘Good morning, signora. What may I do for you?’

  Liberty recognised the voice as belonging to the receptionist on the phone from the day she arrived, welcoming her back and insisting she had been there before. She smiled warmly at her to show there were no hard feelings, because, after all, it was hardly the woman’s fault that Liberty’s husband was a shit and a liar. Golly, odd to even think of him! She found herself pushing his memory to a nook in the back of her mind, something she would deal with later.

  ‘I need to book a flight to Nice for tomorrow, please, to arrive mid afternoon, if possible.’

  ‘Business class? Yes, I will arrange, and a car to transport you to the airport? Meanwhile, shall I reserve a table on the terrace for you for dinner this evening, or will you eat in town?’

  ‘A table at eight thirty would be lovely. I shall go into Florence now. Can you recommend somewhere for lunch?’

  ‘I will reserve a table at Buca Lapi, here is the card. They will expect you. I can get the driver to take you, or will you find your own way?’