by Romy Sommer
I’d only just brushed away the suspicious leakage from my eyes when Beatrice stepped into the kitchen.
‘Oh good.’ I forced a smile. ‘You can help me carry in the next course.’
In true Italian style, dinner lasted hours and hours, as my guests laughed and chatted through course after course made from the finest local ingredients; pappa al pomodoro soup, a thick tomato soup served with my now Google-famous bruschetta, followed by a simple porcini pasta, and then the grand chef-d’oeuvre, a main course of lamb, slow-cooked in herbs from my own herb garden, with chickpea salad, beans in a lemon and thyme sauce, and potatoes chopped and lightly sautéed in olive oil and rosemary until perfectly crisp.
I tried my best to laugh and chat along with my guests, but it seemed as if the minutes ticked by as slowly as if I were re-sitting a uni exam, praying for the ordeal to be over. My face ached from forcing a smile all evening, and my chest ached with a feeling I’d only ever felt once in my life before, and it hadn’t been the afternoon of Kevin’s birthday when I’d left work early to surprise him with the cake I’d baked – lemon drizzle, his favourite – and found he’d already started celebrating with someone else.
‘If you ever decide to give up banking, you could work as a chef,’ Aurelio joked, dragging me back into the present. I smiled at him, grateful for the distraction. Those weren’t memories I wanted to revisit tonight either.
Dessert was a chocolate torte, served with fresh cream from the Rossi farm. Now that my tastes had adapted to the less sugary diet of Tuscany, I found the chocolate too sickly sweet for anything but the smallest portion. The fruit and cheese platter which followed was almost a relief.
Tommaso insisted on helping me clear away the empty plates and making coffee.
‘You’re very quiet tonight,’ he said, when we were alone in the kitchen.
‘Am I?’ I didn’t need to make an effort to sound distracted. I was. My gaze kept wandering back to his face, to this new Tommaso who was both a stranger, and a memory that refused to be suppressed. ‘It’s probably just the heat.’
There was that excuse again. And he wasn’t buying it now any more than he had last night. He frowned, as if wanting to contradict me, but then the coffee was ready, and he turned away to attend to the pot.
When at last the interminable meal ended, and Fiorella excused herself, saying she needed an early start the next day to finish her work on the fresco before the weekend was over, Tommaso and I walked my guests to their cars and waved goodbye until the last headlights had disappeared from view.
‘Now are you ready to tell me what’s eating you?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’ I wrapped my arms around myself, as if to keep warm, though the hot August night couldn’t have been any more stifling.
‘Why did you move out?’
‘There’s no longer any need for me to stay at the cottage now that the roof has been fixed. I thought you might like your space to yourself again.’
‘Still always running away, Sarah?’ His eyes were dark and guarded, and for a fleeting moment I wondered if he was remembering the time when I had run away.
But it’s not running away. It’s a strategic withdrawal. And with that thought, I withdrew, all the way back to my bedroom in the castello where I lay awake for yet another sleepless night, staring at the new ceiling and re-living the past.
On Sunday, while Fiorella worked in the dining room, I allowed Ettore to distract me with the task of re-painting the wooden shutters a bright forest green. Some were too rotted to be of any use, and had to be replaced entirely, but there were enough to keep me busy all day while Ettore continued his job of re-plastering to the sound of Verdi’s ‘Rigoletto’.
At the end of the day, when Fiorella’s work was done, the frescoed wall had never looked so vibrant, as full of life and colour as it must have been when it was first painted.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I said. Now the painting truly did look festive.
Fiorella smiled, pleased. ‘There’s something else I’d like you to see.’
She led the way into the drawing room, where she peeled back a corner of the hideous burgundy-coloured wallpaper to reveal a layer of pale daffodil-yellow paint beneath. She dabbed a cloth with solvent, then carefully rubbed the cloth in tight circles across a small section of wall. The solvent melted away the paint, and soon other colours emerged through the yellow. Bright colours, forming an indistinguishable pattern.
‘I won’t be able to get another weekend away from Rome for a while,’ she said. ‘But I would really like to return and see what is under this wallpaper. Look at those colours! I am almost sorry I must leave.’
Fresco or no fresco, I wasn’t sorry to say goodbye, though I had to admit Fiorella had been nothing but friendly and professional. I was the one with the irrational jealousy eating a hole inside me, and I prayed it would go away as soon as Tommaso returned to work at the cellar and stopped hanging around the house.
Chapter 24
L’uva cattiva non fa buon vino
(Bad grapes can’t make good wine)
But of course life never runs that smoothly, does it?
I’d thought by moving back into the big house I’d see less of Tommaso. Instead, he seemed to be around more than ever. When the stucco work was finished, he helped Ettore re-hang the shutters. I would have been grateful for the help, because at least on the outside the house looked ready for its new owners, but since I suspected he was only helping to get the house done and me gone quicker, my gratitude was not exactly effusive.
When the shutters were done, and Ettore began the task of stripping the peeling wallpaper inside, Tommaso mowed the lawn, repaired the pump for the fountain, and refilled the cistern from the old garden well, so that the fountain splashed its musical melody once again.
And having him around, in my space every day, was not helping me resist temptation very well. I hid myself in the kitchen, blending new flavours, finding innovative ways to present the seasonal produce, rolling out delicate flaky pastry, stewing summer fruits, and icing an elaborate birthday cake for Beatrice. At least those were things I could control.
‘Don’t you have work to be doing at the vineyard?’ I asked grumpily one day, when Tommaso came into the kitchen to re-fill his pitcher of lemonade.
He only shrugged, which made his shirt pull tight across his shoulders. My fingers itched to reach out and touch, and I had to stick them away in the back pockets of my jeans to keep them from straying.
The next Sunday, Tommaso offered to rebuild the trellis over the terrace, and I accepted gratefully. Since I’d chopped away the wisteria and relegated it to the composter, no further progress had been made, as Ettore had had far more pressing tasks, and my carpentry skills were non-existent. Yes, I’ll admit it: sometimes I can’t do everything on my own.
Though Yusuf had assured me he would take the garden in hand once they took ownership, I found an excuse to work in the front garden so I could watch Tommaso work. The garden was still a mess of tangled beds separated by paved paths, yet it had its own wild beauty, a lush green backdrop splashed with bold colours. Along the brick wall that hid the swimming pool from the rest of the garden, a bank of sunflowers bowed their heads in the midday heat, and there were silvery-green sage bushes, climbing roses, wild jasmine and irises.
Kneeling on the paving to pull the nettles that had pushed up between the slabs, I was able to steal glances at Tommaso from behind my sunglasses. Each time, my pulse raced and my mouth turned dry.
I sighed. I had it so bad. As bad as any hormonal teenager, though thankfully without the skin breakouts and insecurities.
Tommaso wore low-slung jeans that hung on his lean hips, and a wife-beater vest. I’d always hated those vests – the uniform of plumbers and other men with hairy butt cracks. But now the sight made my mouth water. His muscled biceps flexed and rippled as he moved, the pecs outlined through the tight white fabric … yup, my hormones were having a field day.
When I cou
ld no longer hide that I was staring, I moved away, to the furthest end of the garden, where the slope dropped away to an endless view of the countryside. Here, in my youth, the view had been framed by a neat box hedge of lavender, maintained by a young man who’d come in once a week from Montalcino. Tired of having me and Tommy constantly beneath his feet, he’d often given us work to do, taught us which seedlings were flowers and which were weeds, which were edible, and which weren’t. Fleetingly, as I removed my thick gardening gloves and set to work trimming back the riot of bushy lavender, I wondered where that gardener was now.
The air was rich with the scents of summer, lavender and roses and earth baking in the sun. Birds hummed and bees sang. I closed my eyes to breathe it all in, to save up the memories for autumn, when I’d be back in London with the smell of petrol fumes and blocked drains.
But as happened too frequently these days, the moment I stopped moving, the moment my mind stilled for even a second, the replays started. Only I was no longer sure if it was a memory, or wishful thinking, as I temporarily lost myself in the vision of Tommaso’s strong hands splayed on my waist, his sun-warmed lips against mine, the scratch of his cheek beneath my mouth.
‘Hey, Sarah!’ I spun as the unexpected voice broke through my daydream, raising the gardening shears defensively as I turned.
‘Ooph!’ Tommaso doubled over, holding his ribs.
‘Oh my gosh! I am so sorry! Are you okay? Are you bleeding?’
He straightened up, still clutching his side. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he wheezed. ‘Probably just a broken rib. You are determined to kill me, aren’t you?’
‘Well, it’s your fault for sneaking up on me,’ I bit back.
‘I thought you might want to take a break for some lemonade. You’re going to get sunburned if you stay out here too long.’
He’d fetched a jug of lemonade from the kitchen, complete with ice and a sprig of mint. I joined him on the terrace and he poured the ice-cold drink into two glasses, and held one out to me.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ I asked again.
‘Certo! I’ll live.’
He stood so close I could smell the warm, male smell of sweat and sun on him. I watched in fascination as he emptied his glass, the taut muscles of his throat working. Without the facial hair, he looked younger and leaner, and the five o’clock stubble starting to appear was just about the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. I shifted my gaze, staring up instead at the finished trellis. ‘You’ve done a great job. Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘Without the wisteria, though, it’s not going to provide much shade. We should plant something new, something that won’t grow so heavy. A vine, maybe?’
I shook my head, trying not to let the way he said we go to my head. ‘I was thinking of a bougainvillea, like the one with bright orange blossoms you have growing in the courtyard at the cellar. And morning glories winding up the posts for contrasting colour.’
He grinned. ‘I’ll take care of the bougainvillea, if you take care of the morning glories, whatever they are.’
I rolled my eyes, but I laughed. It felt good to laugh again. I hadn’t laughed much all week.
‘Have dinner with me tonight.’
My laughter died. ‘What?’
‘Have dinner with me tonight. I’ll make one of Nonna’s special stews, and perhaps I can teach you to play briscola.’
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I looked away. ‘I can’t…’
‘You have other plans?’
I nodded. I did now, even if I didn’t yet know what they were.
I drove into town with no real plan for the evening, but when I arrived and parked in the usual spot where Beatrice parked on market days, I discovered the parking lot almost full. Streams of people were heading to the fortezza, so I trailed after them. A jazz concert was in progress within the high, ruined walls of the fortress. I wasn’t a big jazz fan, but in the warm twilight, as the stars started to come out overhead, I thought I might become a convert.
Wandering through the crowds, I stopped here and there to chat with people I knew. I was no longer ‘John Langdon’s daughter’ but Sarah Wells, neighbour and member of the community.
What I loved most about Wanstead was its village-y, community feeling. When I first moved there, I’d loved sitting in the little park that edged the high street, listening to the church bells and the children’s shrieks from the playground. But this was even better. Here in Montalcino I not only saw that community feeling, but I was a part of it.
Bernardo and his wife invited me to sit on the picnic blanket they had spread out, and I joined them for a glass of vino rosato.
‘Where is Tommaso this evening?’ Bernardo asked.
I shrugged, pleased that I was learning to speak with my shoulders like a true Italian. It saved me from having to give a real answer.
When my glass was empty, I said farewell to Bernardo and his family, and resumed my ramble through the crowd. On the far side of the fortezza’s open air space, a bar had been set up. I made my way towards it, still pausing to greet acquaintances, including one of Ettore’s friends who looked more intimidating than ever in his biker leathers.
Around the edges of the gathering, a little apart from the families, there were couples, some holding hands, some with heads bent close together, one in a very intimate embrace, the woman straddled across the man’s lap as they kissed. The woman looked very much like the Monica Bellucci lookalike estate agent. I recognised the fire engine red dress. And…
‘Luca?’
Both heads turned my way, and then Luca unceremoniously dumped the woman out of his lap and jumped up. ‘Sarah! I did not expect to see you here tonight!’ He managed to sound as delighted and cheerful to see me as he always did, as if I hadn’t just seen him with his tongue down another woman’s throat, and his hand caressing her breast.
It was not unlike watching Kevin dump Geraldine out of his lap all those long, long months ago. Except that Luca and the estate agent were clothed.
‘Clearly not,’ I said drily.
He spread his hands. ‘Ah, Sarah,’ his voice was soft and coaxing now. ‘We never made any promises to each other. You understand…’
‘Yes, I understand completely. We never discussed being exclusive.’
‘Exactly!’ Pleased that I understood, he reached out and took both my hands in his. ‘I am so glad you are here!’ His smile was the same warm, seductive, dimpling grin that had always made me feel so special. Now, it made my stomach turn, and not in a good way. ‘Because now I can invite you to join me for a little party at my parents’ winery on the weekend. Will you come?’
‘As a neighbour, or as your date?’
‘My date, of course.’ He cast a glance towards the estate agent, as if belatedly remembering her. ‘She won’t mind. She understands too.’
‘I’m sure she does.’
His thumb brushed my palm, an intimate promise of pleasure he’d used on me before, and his smile turned to a seductive pout. ‘You never told me you had a buyer for the castello.’
‘Fiorella told you?’
‘Of course.’
I had to resist a snort. Did Fiorella understand as well? I hoped not. She deserved far better than Luca. She deserved someone like Tommaso.
Gently, I extricated my hands from Luca’s. ‘We might never have talked about exclusivity, but if any man is trying to get me into his bed, I’m afraid I sort of expect it of him. Because I deserve nothing less than a man who’ll stay faithful to me; a man who’ll put my happiness before everything else.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘And that man clearly isn’t you.’ And how had I ever thought it might be?
I’d have liked to think I made a grand exit, leaving Luca looking after me open-mouthed and full of regret for what he’d lost, but when I finally risked looking back he had already re-joined the estate agent on their picnic blanket, and she was melting into his grin in the same way I used to do.
‘She’s the one with the spring?’ I heard th
e woman ask.
I had no idea what she meant, and I didn’t care to know. I felt ill. Not because of Luca, but because of that very old sense of betrayal, duller now, but still there, like a sore tooth that was tender to the touch.
‘I need a drink,’ I said to the bartender when I reached the bar.
‘Brunello, Sangiovese, or vino rosato?’ the bartender asked.
‘She’ll have a Malfy.’ I looked up into the tanned face and laughing eyes of Daniele Rossi. ‘It’s an Italian gin; they call it the grown-up cousin to limoncello. It’ll help you put him behind you very quickly.’
‘You saw that?’ Thankfully, the low lighting of the bar hid my blush.
‘Sì. It’s men like Luciano Fioravanti who give all Italian men a bad name. I hope you know we’re not all like that?’
I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure if I did know. It wasn’t only Italian men who were cheating, self-serving pricks after a good time.
Daniele’s brows drew down in concern. ‘You aren’t in love with him?’
‘Good heavens, no!’
‘Good. I am surprised Tommaso didn’t warn you about Luca.’
‘He did. I didn’t believe him.’ I’d thought he was just jealous, but he’d been right, damn him.
Luca had only been using me. Whether for a fun time or for the vineyard, it didn’t matter. Like everyone else, he hadn’t wanted me enough. And maybe that was why I felt like I either wanted to throw up or hit someone. Why couldn’t I ever be enough?
The barman slid the ice-cold glass, misted with condensation, across the bar towards me, and I raised it to Daniele. ‘Salute!’ Then I downed the gin.
Chapter 25
Non c’è amore come il primo amore
(There is no love like the first love)
Beatrice’s thirtieth birthday fell on the Feast of the Assumption in mid-August, giving the Rossis an excuse to throw a great big party. Beatrice and I went shopping at the big outlet mall on the way to Arezzo for new dresses for the occasion.
‘I don’t care how classic a Little Black Dress is, you are not wearing black to my party!’ Beatrice insisted, when I chose a sedate black number from the rack.