A couple of minutes later the covers were lifted back and a figure, smelling strongly of toothpaste, got in and turned off the light. ‘Goodnight, Laura, sleep well.’ He turned over. Within minutes his steady breathing proclaimed that he was asleep.
It was hours before I forgave him for not breaking his word. He might at least have tried.
CHAPTER 7
Stefano was positively effusive in his friendliness when we appeared in the drawing room the next morning. I had a sneaking suspicion that this metaphorical falling on necks had a lot more to do with the other occupants of the room than with our personal charms. Cressida’s elder sister and her husband talked nothing but horse, and the husband’s sister talked endlessly about the self-improvement course she had just been on.
‘All I can say is it didn’t work,’ muttered James sourly after several minutes.
‘At least she’s up,’ I pointed out. He looked as if he thought this a doubtful blessing. Most of the houseguests were still in bed. Cressida’s other sister was reported to be suffering from tired eyes - the type of ailment which involves wearing dark glasses at breakfast - and the rest were suffering from migraines. The two men standing with me idly watching the caterers scurrying backwards and forwards with piles of plates and boxes of glasses were comparatively speaking pictures of health. Admittedly Stefano’s eyes weren’t quite as sparkling white against the darkness of his skin as they had been yesterday and James was displaying a slight tendency to wince at loud noises, but that could have had as much to do with the subject matter as the actual volume of Arabella Featherington-Meade’s voice.
‘You have to decide how you yourself are going to interpret the events that happen in your own life. It is up to you to decide whether they are good or bad things,’ she pontificated.
‘Even if you’re burgled?’ ventured Cressida, with a tiny frown. She’d already been pityingly corrected several times for having no inner understanding.
‘Of course. You can either mourn your lost possessions or look on the sudden freedom from being tied down to material goods as an enriching opportunity for spiritual development.’
‘A welcome opportunity to claim on the insurance, more like,’ muttered James. ‘If I have to listen to any more of this twaddle I’ll gain enough inner certainty to stuff one of those cushions in her mouth.’ Stefano looked at him in a moment of complete empathy. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk outside,’ James said in the voice of a man at the end of his tether, looking without enthusiasm out of one of the floor-length windows. The sky was suspiciously dark and the long grass on the bank halfway down the garden was being flattened by the wind.
‘I have a better idea than walking in the wet,’ said Stefano with a faint air of distaste, glancing at his highly polished loafers. ‘Maybe you would like to look around the house? Nothing we bought with it is very good, of course.’ He sniffed slightly. ‘The best was sold years ago. From what was left behind I do not believe there was ever anything of much taste or quality, but some of the internal features are pleasing.’
I hoped that James realised this was less likely to be an olive branch than an expression of complete boredom. He still accepted with alacrity. ‘And Laura, would you like to come too or do you still prefer zoos?’ Stefano asked with a faint smile.
‘I’d love to.’ I would have been interested anyway, but to get away from the details of the self-help course I’d have jumped at a chance to visit the local sewage farm.
We meanly left Cressida trapped listening to the ten easy steps towards spiritual cleansing and sneaked out like schoolboys ducking morning prayers. In the dining room the two men examined a reputed Adam fireplace in exhaustive detail, getting in the way of the staff who were trying to prepare the room for lunch. The question of its provenance was finally left in amicable doubt when to the staff’s relief Stefano took us to view a pair of dubious Gainsboroughs in the morning room.
It was the first time I’d seen James in anything approaching work-mode and I have to admit I was surprised by how authoritative he was once he dropped the laid-back persona he usually wears like a cape. Stefano’s slightly amused and patronising air faded and vanished as James, face alive with the energy of the true enthusiast, explained kindly but firmly why it was highly unlikely the master had ever laid brush to canvas in either of these portraits, primarily because he would have been about six when they were painted, and he wasn’t that precocious, then moved on to the possibility of tracing furniture made by Simon Harker, a master cabinet maker who had worked locally and might even have been commissioned to make things for the house. The discussion became increasingly technical and though I have a reasonably good eye, nurtured by holiday jobs in the shop spent polishing and dusting, I am in no way an expert so I wandered on ahead taking a butterfly look at everything and daydreaming idly of what it would be like to live somewhere of this size. Horatio would love the space and the opportunity to go out and massacre the local rodents but he might pine if he was taken away from his supply of dustbins. So really it was a good thing I wasn’t being given the choice.
We ended up in Stefano’s office, one of the prettiest rooms in the house. I suppose if you’re going to spend most of the day working you ought to give yourself somewhere nice to do it in. Management tends to believe in this for themselves but not, I fear, for their menials. It was on a corner of the house, and had a superb moulded ceiling in dire need of painting and floor-length shuttered windows on two sides. A huge desk with a well-weathered green leather top was positioned so that he could look out through either window to the garden. I’d have spent most of the day staring out of the window but I expected Stefano was made of sterner stuff than me. A computer terminal and five different telephones were arranged with scary precision on the desk while a printer, fax, copier and espresso machine stood lined up along one wall. Above them, incongruous against all this modem gadgetry, hung a small painting of the Grand Canal in Venice. I drifted over to look at it and my eyes nearly popped out of my head.
I cleared my throat. ‘Stefano,’ I asked, afraid of making a fool of myself, ‘is this a Canaletto by any chance?’
He broke off a fairly amicable discussion with James about whether the restoration of pictures should include repainting and looked up. ‘Yes, but not one of my good ones.’
I had known he was rich; I hadn’t appreciated quite how rich. ‘How many have you got?’ I asked timidly, afraid I was asking a very indelicate question. I gathered from James’s expression that I was.
‘Three.’ I goggled again. ‘My great-grandfather was a collector. He almost bankrupted the family by buying pictures - a lot of our estates had to be sold,’ he said sombrely, then his face lightened. ‘Luckily my father had a head for business so we have been able to keep hold of what Great-Grandfather left us.’
Even I could work out from James’s anguished expression that I was not to ask what line of business Stefano’s father had been in. Something extremely profitable to make so much so quickly, evidently. I found my thoughts drifting uneasily towards the rumours about Stefano’s own business dealings. Surely just because you were Italian and had turned a quick buck it didn’t mean you were automatically in the Mafia? I wished my grandfather had gone in for collecting - well, he had actually, betting slips and ladies of dubious morality, but neither passion had improved the family coffers in the way a few old masters would have done. ‘I think it’s lovely,’ I said, giving the little picture a wistful look, and added hopefully, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any Turners - good or otherwise - have you?’
Stefano laughed. ‘I am afraid not. Much too modern for my great-grandfather, and he did not like the English school of painting. Said it was too solid and heavy, like your meals and your weather. I am afraid to say his visit to England was not a success.’
I wandered along, looking at a couple of pretty little drawings. ‘Do you collect pictures yourself?’
‘Not at today’s prices and anyway I do not like modern art
. Badly executed daubing and too many gimmicks,’ Stefano said flatly. Thank heavens I hadn’t said anything about enjoying the Saatchi Collection. ‘But I amuse myself by collecting some little pieces here and there, nothing particularly important. I’ll show you if you like?’
Inevitably we agreed. The ‘little pieces’ with which Stefano liked to amuse himself included several clocks - just a few of the English ones, mind you, since the French and Italian ones were in Italy. James said they were ‘very nice’ and ‘very attractive’. I was getting used to his shorthand by now and translated this to mean that they were good but not in the top rank, except for an oak longcase clock with a beautifully painted face that he proclaimed ‘super’ and which even to my untutored eyes was in another league. Unbending under our obvious appreciation, Stefano brought out an enchanting set of silver doll’s house furniture which he had started collecting for Cressida. There were tables, chairs, beds, a cot and a minute tea service. ‘The bambini will enjoy playing with them when they come,’ he said in an indulgent tone.
I was turning the tiny spindle on a miniature spinning wheel with one finger while Stefano went to check a fax that had just come in, when the door opened and Cressida poked her head around it. ‘There you are, I was wondering where you’d gone.’
‘Are you much improved?’ asked James.
She came in and shut the door. ‘Actually Arabella had some very interesting things to say,’ she said earnestly. ‘Oh, you may laugh, James, you never take anything like that seriously, but Arabella’s quite right. If we took more responsibility for our own actions and found out what it was that we really wanted to do, we’d all be much happier.’
‘And you need to go on a course and pay several hundred quid to work that out?’ asked James. ‘Money for old rope. All I can say, Cressy, is that if you’re intending to go and throw your money away on one of those things, don’t tell Stefano what you’re doing. He strikes me as the sort of person who thinks of seminars as sheer self-indulgence for the terminally spoiled.’
‘You are quite right, James,’ said Stefano, the fax in his hand. ‘I do not hold with all this looking at your belly button. Find out what you want and go and get it, that is the secret of happiness. For instance, I saw Cressida, I wanted her...’ he reached over and picked up his wife’s hand to kiss it ‘... and I got her.’ He couldn’t have given a more pointed reminder of who had won and who had lost in the romantic stakes if he’d got on top of his dunghill and crowed. I glanced at James; his face was completely, unnaturally, expressionless.
Stefano dropped Cressida’s hand and looked at his watch. ‘We’ve disturbed you long enough,’ I said, taking the clear hint. ‘Thank you, I enjoyed that.’
‘Have you seen the china yet?’ asked Cressida.
‘It will have to be later, cara,' said Stefano, ‘I have something that should be attended to.’
‘It’s all right, I’ll show them,’ she said blithely, and without waiting for an answer headed for a concealed door in the panelling, opening it on to a small room that could only be entered from the office, furnished with a leather sofa facing a miniature fireplace, two battered old armchairs and a table covered with newspapers and journals in English and Italian. It was a perfect masculine retreat from the outside world, an upmarket version of a garden shed. ‘This is Stefano’s own domain. Even the staff are only allowed in once a week under supervision to clean,’ Cressida said with a conspiratorial grin. ‘He’s terrified one of them will flick a duster over those,’ she gestured towards the figurines and china boxes arranged on shelves in two alcoves to either side of the fireplace, ‘and knock about six of them off. They’re nice, aren’t they?’
‘They are,’ agreed James in heartfelt tones. Stefano had followed us in and was hovering in an agitated manner. I imagined he was worried lest we touch something and couldn’t blame him. The little lady sitting at her tea table being waited on by a blackamoor page looked so fragile she might crack if we so much as breathed on her. James was standing back at a respectful distance making admiring noises as he looked at Chelsea ware bonbonnieres and patch boxes, while I was eaten up with covetous desire for a tiny enamel box covered in paintings of exotic birds.
‘Stefano gave me that one,’ said Cressida, pointing to an inch-high Cupid nestling dangerously close to a tiger. ‘He says men used to give presents like that to their lady love so it was fitting. The inscription says, “Love conquers all” in Latin. Isn’t that sweet? I think I’ll take it up to my bedroom and have it on my dressing table.’
James looked horrified. ‘You can’t put anything like that where it might get knocked over, it’s irreplaceable. And,’ he added firmly as she looked as if she didn’t find this a completely convincing argument, ‘it’s putting unfair temptation in the way of whoever cleans your bedroom. It’s worth more than he or she will earn in half a lifetime.’
‘I didn’t realise it was so valuable,’ said Cressida wonderingly. ‘Oh, well, I’ll leave it here. Could I have these in my room then or are they worth too much as well?’ She looked questioningly at James while she pointed to a few of the boxes and a couple of figurines.
He shrugged. ‘I should think so, but Stefano will know more than I do. It isn’t really my field.’
She touched one of the figurines gently with the tip of her finger. ‘Isn’t it funny that while Stefano doesn’t think I should have any decent jewellery because it has to be locked away, he’s quite content to collect china that’s too valuable to go on public display?’
James looked as if he agreed with Stefano that any spare dosh was better spent on antique china than jewels.
‘Men can always justify spending money on their own pet obsessions,’ I said. ‘Think how many of them swear blind it’s absolutely necessary to have a Porsche as a town runabout.’
Cressida smiled faintly. ‘Stefano has a Ferrari.’ And added, ‘I still don’t think it’s very fair.’
‘But, cara, I have promised you that after the first bambino I will take you shopping at Garrard’s and you may choose whatever you like,’ said Stefano indulgently. ‘Within reason,’ he added quickly.
She pouted, ‘So I’m not allowed Marie-Antoinette’s diamonds?’ then laughed, her good mood completely restored as she saw that for a moment Stefano had taken her seriously. Bits of her hair had come loose and were waving in tendrils around her face. With an impatient sigh she reached behind her head and reknotted the thick mass of hair into a casual bun. I observed with a certain amount of cynical interest that both men studied with keen attention the way her small breasts were pushed out as she performed this manoeuvre.
‘I think you should return to the others, they will be ready for their pre-lunch drinks,’ said Stefano, moving towards the door and holding it open.
Cressida nodded obediently, pulling her crossover top back into place. That manoeuvre didn’t go unobserved either.
He waved the fax he still held in his hand. ‘Go ahead, I have to reply to this. I’ll join you in about five minutes.’
We headed for the door in a group. James suddenly stopped dead and I bumped into his back. ‘Look at this!’ he breathed. ‘It’s one of the most perfect things I’ve ever seen.’ I peered around his elbow to see a little statuette standing in a curved niche on the other side of the door, softly back-lit by two low-wattage lights. It was a dancing faun, about nine inches tall, seemingly ready to break into movement at any moment, one furry leg lifted in a minuet, a pipe held to his smiling lips, eyes slanted and mischievous under winged brows. ‘What is it? Fifteenth century?’
‘Sadly not,’ said Stefano, standing very still and watching James intently. ‘An eighteenth-century copy.’
‘Really?’ asked James. ‘The copyist must have been incredibly skilled. I’d give my eye teeth to have something like this ... it sends shivers down my spine.’
‘You have taste. It is a special favourite of mine too. It was my father’s, he found it in Milan after the war,’ said Stefano, edging f
orwards.
James bent to look at it more closely, Stefano rustled the paper in his hand and looked pointedly at his watch. James took no notice so I pulled on his sleeve and practically dragged him backwards out of the little room. He was still musing aloud on the statue’s perfection when the three of us found ourselves on the other side of the office door.
‘I’m sure I’ve seen a photograph of that somewhere,’ he muttered.
‘You probably have,’ said Cressida. ‘The original’s quite famous. It was looted from the Orezia Palace near Florence during the war with a whole lot of other stuff which then vanished without trace - just like the Amber Room. It’s probably in a vault somewhere in Russia. Stefano told me all about it once - naturally he’s curious about the story because of ours.’
‘Interesting,’ said James thoughtfully and muttered, ‘I’d be prepared to bet the contents of the shop that’s no ordinary copy,’ as we went into the drawing room. It was fuller by now, though most of the occupants looked rather wan and the conversation was definitely on the muted side. Even Cressida’s horsy sister had lowered her voice in deference to the prevailing headache level. There was a perceptible lightening of the atmosphere as Cressida asked who would like a drink. I almost expected a forest of raised hands. She began doling out Bloody Marys from a huge cut glass jug while James handed them round. Refills were requested before he had finished the first round.
I was talking desultorily with Arabella and her boyfriend, an ashen-faced banker who barely had the strength to string two words together and looked as if he would have loved the courage to wear dark glasses indoors, when Stefano materialised at our side. ‘Oh, hello,’ I said, ‘I didn’t see you come in.’
‘You keep watch?’ he demanded in a low voice. Both Arabella and her boyfriend’s head jerked in surprise. So venomous was his tone that they melted away almost immediately like snowflakes on a windowpane.
‘Why, no. What do you mean?’
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