He paused, looking down the table. ‘What are the chances of a holiday with old friends turning into a disaster? You don’t like to think about all the stresses involved, working towards chaos. But they’re there.’ He smiled at her, not unkindly, but there was calculation in his eyes too.
Justine, of course, knew immediately what he meant, but she didn’t want to follow him down that path. She changed the subject. ‘So your friend,’ she said, ‘the one you bumped into here. That wasn’t just coincidence?’
‘No,’ said Martin, ‘not really. I knew she would be here.’ He stopped. It had not occurred to Justine that the person with whom Martin had spent the afternoon might be a woman. She wondered suddenly whether he would marry again; she had assumed that he would not, somehow, perhaps because she thought of Evie as quite irreplaceable.
Martin went on. ‘Rossella – that’s her name – she lives here. She’s – she was a friend of Evie’s.’ He turned his fork on his plate.
Justine sat back. ‘You arranged to see her? Before we came?’
Martin nodded, something intent and inward about his expression, as though he was going over something in his mind as he spoke. ‘I always planned – well, – she was Evie’s friend, not mine, I’m not as good as she was at keeping up with people. I couldn’t face finding all their numbers, telling them all what had happened, so I left it, mostly. I thought they’d find out – the papers, you know, bad news travels fast.’
‘So’ – Justine didn’t understand – ‘Did she know, about Evie? You mean she didn’t know? You came to tell her?’
Martin shrugged. ‘I just thought, being here – Evie and Rossella, you see, they were very close for a while. Evie lived with her family for a couple of months, on her year off. Went on writing to her, oh, for years.’
Justine nodded. She had known Evie loved Italy – the house had been full of prints of Renaissance frescoes and engravings; perhaps, it occurred to her, that was why Dido had chosen to learn Italian. Justine remembered a medieval map of Florence – Fiorenza – that had hung in the Elliotts’ hall. She had not known about Rossella but then, Evie’s life had always been full of secret compartments. There just turned out to be more of them than she had thought.
Martin went on. ‘I couldn’t have told her on the telephone, but I thought if I was here, in Florence and I didn’t go and see her, tell her, that would have been inexcusable. But you can see – you can see why she didn’t want to come to dinner. After that.’ There was a kind of stiffness in his voice. Justine nodded.
‘I’m sure you did the right thing,’ she said, but Martin still frowned, as though he was concentrating. Then he looked up.
‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘Yes. I think I did the right thing.’ He looked at her, weighing something up, and Justine thought he was about to ask her a question but they were interrupted by the noisy arrival of more food. A long platter of gleaming buttery pasta, glass bowls of salad then another half dozen bottles of red wine, white wine, water. When she looked back at him across the clatter and the waiters the question was gone from Martin’s eyes, and they turned to their food.
Opposite Justine, Penny was holding her hands palms up towards the food, refusing the pasta because of her wheat intolerance. And a diet that prohibited any combination of protein and carbohydrate.
‘So bloating, gluten,’ she said, patting her flat stomach and lighting up another Silk Cut. ‘Almost toxic, actually, if you ask my allergist.’ She pushed her plate away a little, as if its mere proximity might bring on a reaction, and resumed the animated, if one-sided conversation she had been having with Tom.
‘It used to belong to the count of something or other,’ she said, waving the smoke away imperiously. ‘They’d let it go to rack and ruin, of course, garden full of rabbits, overrun with weeds and the cypresses all seem diseased. But there’s a sweet little man from the village who’s seeing to that for us. We’ve bought a little all-terrain vehicle to keep out here, we just get a taxi from the airport. And we’ve got a charming architect on board. Rather dishy, actually.’
Across the table her husband snorted. Justine knew who he was now; not personally, but from newspaper reports of the money he had made from floating his internet company just before the bubble burst. Penny was still talking.
‘The roads are no good, unfortunately, so it does take a while to get anywhere.’ She made a little face. ‘But we’ve got some lovely neighbours. All English, I think it’s these cheap flights, but rather well-known, some of them. I’m sure there’s a Lord something on the next hill. And did you know,’ she leaned forward, ‘Sting’s got a place down the road. Apparently he’s in our local trattoria all the time.’ She sat back with an air of satisfaction, and inhaled deeply.
‘How nice,’ said Tom, absently. He had hardly touched his food, although he had a bottle of wine at his elbow that was almost empty. He was looking down the table at Louisa and Lucien as he spoke. ‘Is property a good investment out here, do you think?’
‘Of course, it wasn’t cheap,’ Penny shrugged, as if to indicate that if it had been, she would not have been interested.
‘You can say that again,’ grunted John Truman, forking pasta into his mouth. His expression was of absolute boredom with the conversation. Justine thought perhaps she should be making more of an effort; he was, after all, her neighbour at table and she had not attempted a word so far.
‘Was it difficult?’ she asked, tentatively. ‘I mean, you hear how complicated it is buying property here. All sorts of people to pay.’
Truman looked at her briefly, then returned to his food. Justine was wondering whether perhaps that was how he had made so much money, by not wasting his time on polite conversation, when, with more than a hint of impatience, he replied.
‘Had nothing to do with all that. Paid an agent, paid the notaio chap, he sorted it all out. Now we’ll pay the architect, I suppose. Bunch of criminals, the lot of them. Food’s good though.’ He laughed sourly.
‘Does it have a swimming pool?’ Sam asked, excitedly. Truman frowned, and Justine guessed that he did not like children. Miserable sod, she thought, and then wondered whether it was quite healthy or fair to be judging everyone according to their desire to reproduce.
‘It’s got one. Not big enough, though,’ said Truman. ‘Silly little circular thing, no good for lengths.’ Savagely he sawed at his bread. ‘What do they put in this stuff? It’s hard as a rock.’
‘Can we go and see them, Mum,’ Angus said, pulling at Louisa’s sleeve.
She grimaced apologetically at Penny. ‘No, darling,’ she said, shaking her head at Angus. ‘I’m sure Penny and – John – they’re busy. And you’ve got your own river to swim in, you haven’t even bothered to find it yet.’
‘Oh, by all means…’ said Penny, vaguely, as if she was thinking of something else, and Justine wondered how drunk she was. She was looking at Martin with uninhibited curiosity.
‘You’re not – are you Martin Law?’ She leaned heavily towards him, her elbow slipping on the table.
Martin looked at her, something not quite benign glittering in his dark eyes. He smiled politely. Poor Martin, thought Justine thinking of all the coverage of Evie’s death, knowing that people would still be judging him by what they had read in the papers, inferring his guilt over their breakfasts. Down the table to her left out of the corner of her eye she saw Dido turn her head in their direction.
‘I am, yes.’ He sounded resigned, but the smile stayed on. Penny’s face composed itself into a mask of sympathy.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. Her voice was lowered almost to a whisper. ‘How – how are you? And your daughter?’ Along the line of heads Justine saw Dido’s draw back sharply.
‘Well,’ said Martin, stiffly, ‘well, fine, actually. Thank you.’ His tone was final, but Penny persisted.
‘It must be so difficult to feel – closure. Not knowing.’ Justine saw a muscle twitch in Martin’s cheek, and wondered how long he would allow Penny to go on
. He said nothing. A waitress was moving swiftly around them, clearing plates, and Martin leaned back to allow her past.
‘Is there – did they find anything more out about why she –’
Martin interrupted her. ‘No. Nothing.’ he said. ‘Look,’ his voice was even, but there was an edge to it, ‘do you mind if we don’t talk about it? It upsets my daughter.’
Penny nodded tipsily. ‘Ah… oh yes, of course.’ She looked down the table at Dido.
‘Pretty girl,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Isn’t she? But then your wife was. I suppose it can be a burden, beauty. Attracts the wrong sort of person.’
Martin looked at her sharply, although to Justine she appeared merely to be rambling. He opened his mouth, perhaps to put an end, finally and definitively, to the conversation, but it was at that point that Tom started up, and whatever Martin might have said was lost.
In retrospect, the evening was almost guaranteed to end badly. They had all drunk too much, they were all tired by a long day and they should never have invited Penny and John Truman. Justine wondered, later, what had possessed Tom to insist they came, too; it could only have been to annoy Lucien. Why did they dislike each other so intensely now, when once – at Tom’s parties, Penny’s launches – they’d seemed to get along perfectly well? Getting away from it all, she concluded, didn’t always bring out the best in people. Or perhaps they hadn’t got away from anything.
Restaurant dinners on holiday were often bad-tempered, in Justine’s experience; you went because no one wanted to cook any more, the children would fidget and their mothers would snap and there was always a row over the bill. But the suddenness with which the fight flared up could not, she thought, have been predicted. It came out of nowhere, or so it seemed, and later Justine found herself wondering what Martin made of this particular random event, because at no point did it seem to take him, at least, by surprise.
The conversation with Penny had been interrupted by Tom calling, too loudly, down the table to Lucien. His tone was boisterous and aggressive, cutting through the pleasant murmur of the other diners around them. One or two heads turned in his direction. He is drunk, thought Justine, and wondered who would be driving home. She could see Louisa’s face as she looked at her husband, impatience giving way to mortification and beside her Lucien, his lips compressed with anger, waiting.
‘What do you think, Lucien?’ he called. ‘With your famously refined tastebuds? What shall I say in my piece?’
‘Leave him alone, Tom,’ said Louisa, looking at her husband sharply. ‘He doesn’t have to sing for his supper.’
‘No,’ said Tom, ‘I’d like to know. After all, I’m sure Lucien thinks he could do my job.’
Lucien snorted. ‘It’s hardly surprising you can’t taste the food any more, Tom,’ he said, openly hostile now. ‘Just give up, why don’t you? You’re pathetic.’
‘Hold on,’ protested Louisa. I think that’s a bit –’ She was interrupted by the sound of Tom’s chair as he stood and it was pushed back. The restaurant fell silent, and some of the diners looked down at their food, although still more looked across to see what the matter was.
Now even the boys were beginning to look uncomfortable, Angus holding tight on to his mother’s arm and Sam sitting stiffly upright in his chair, his face pale and anxious. Dido was looking down, her hair screening her face from view, but her shoulders were hunched.
‘Darling,’ Louisa turned to look up at Tom, pleading with him silently, but he didn’t even look at her. Beside Justine John Truman raised his eyes to heaven, his look of impassive boredom barely dented, but opposite them Penny was looking eagerly down the table, a spectator waiting for the next move.
‘It’s pathetic to support your family, is it?’ Tom asked, savagely, his face ruddy with anger. ‘We can’t all indulge our higher selves, can we? We can’t all rely on women to keep us. Some of us have to work for a living.’
Lucien made a movement in his chair as if to leap across the table, and Justine knew that if this went on their holiday would be over, there and then. But into the silence Martin spoke, and his calm voice held a warning.
‘Sit down, Tom,’ he said. ‘Stop it, you’re upsetting the children.’
Tom looked at Martin, frowning, then at his sons, and with a defeated look he sat back down in his seat. He pushed away the untouched plate of congealing pasta that sat in front of him and put his head between his hands.
Martin held up a hand and beckoned the waiter. He asked for strong coffee, and the bill, fixing the man with a determined smile until, uncertainly, he nodded and turned away.
‘I’m going to get the car,’ said Lucien, shoving his chair back abruptly and standing up. ‘I’ll be outside in ten minutes.’ And without looking at Justine he left. Tom grunted as if to say something, but Louisa shook her head at him fiercely. The waiter returned with a trayful of coffee cups and cantuccini, and then Tom seemed to gather himself, reaching decisively for the bill and thanking the man with scrupulous politeness.
Martin drained his coffee, and stood up; almost immediately Dido, looking pale, sprang up too. ‘Have some more coffee, before you go,’ he said to Tom, not an invitation but an instruction. ‘We’ll see you back at the house. Let us know what we owe, won’t you?’
He had barely got out of the door before Penny leaned across the table towards Justine, almost knocking over a glass. Justine could smell her perfume, the wine and cigarettes on her breath as the other woman stifled a hiccup.
‘Well,’ she breathed, excitedly, ‘quite sexy, isn’t he. In a scary sort of way.’
Next to Justine John Truman made an exasperated noise.
‘Get your coat, Penny,’ he said. She did not move, still leaning on her elbows across the table.
‘Are you talking about Martin?’ Justine frowned at her. She did not flatter herself she was confided in for any other reason than she was the only one left within range.
‘Mmm,’ said Penny, slurring a fraction. ‘You can see why she married him. Although of course Lucien’s gorgeous, too, always had a thing for him. But the husband, well. You know what they say, though, don’t you? They all say he did it.’
Justine recoiled. Beside her John Truman was standing now. ‘Did what?’ she said, although she knew.
‘Pushed her. Off that boat.’
Justine heard a sharp intake of breath from Louisa. Tom was staring into his glass.
Penny Truman went on. ‘You know, did she fall, or was she… And who wouldn’t? She must have driven him mad, the way she behaved. With men, I mean. All right, all right, I’m coming,’ she said, swaying a little as she stood, shaking off her husband’s arm on her shoulder. And when she had gone, none of them left at the wreckage of the table felt like saying a word.
The journey home in the dark seemed much longer than it had that morning, in the other direction. In the car Justine was silent all the way along the superstrada, brightly lit and still busy, the cars flashing silently past in the night. Lucien seemed distracted. On their way past Siena they got caught up in a great tangle of by-passes and ring-roads, bridges and filter lanes. The thought of all this superstructure constructed around the pristine little city left Justine faintly depressed, all of it there to deal with people like them. Tourists.
Lucien was tense, she could see his hands clenched on the steering wheel and heard him snort angrily when another car cut him up at a particularly indecipherable conjunction of lanes. Then suddenly they were out of it, on a narrow, fast minor road, unlit, pitch black and absolutely foreign. A truck stop flashed by, and then nothing, just the black hills rising up on either side and a line of tail-lights in front of them. The evening air through the open window was warm and it seemed as though, at last, it was just them, anonymous in the darkness, going home.
‘Wouldn’t it be lovely,’ she said, turning to Lucien, ‘if we could stay here, just us? Get away from – from it all?’ She was thinking of the restaurant table, the litter of food and crockery, the rais
ed voices, ragged with anger long suppressed, the history between them all. Evie. Perhaps it was each other they needed to get away from; the circle of friends.
Lucien said nothing, his eyes on the road, and for a moment she wondered whether he had heard. But then, he shook his head a little. ‘I don’t think that would work,’ he said wearily, as if he didn’t know what she meant at all. And Justine said nothing after that.
Paolo heard the cars go past, down the hill to Il Vignacce, still awake although it must have been after midnight. He was sitting as he had been for an hour or more, since his mother had gone to bed, and watching the fire burn down in the stove, listening to the dying sound of the cicadas in the umbrella pines on the ridge. On the table by his side his book lay open.
At the crunch of tyres outside he thought, they are driving too fast, and wondered, briefly, where they’d been. He wondered whether the woman he’d seen swimming was in one of the cars, driving perhaps, or just sitting in the dark, beside a husband, or a lover, or between her children, if she had them, in the back, one asleep with his head on her knee. They’ll be gone soon, he thought, this week, next week.
Paolo felt weariness settle on him like a blanket, and not just because of the late hour. It was the thought of staying there, deep in the woods, sitting every evening beside the fire and listening to the sounds of the world going on without him, the insects, the animals, the passers-by.
He had been reading too long, he thought; his book was a history of political activity following the war, a story of struggle and idealism that had left him feeling weary and inadequate, ready to abdicate all responsibility to his fellow man. What difference could he make in the world, after all, patching up drunks and teenagers night after night? He closed his eyes and thought of the forest, the trees standing silently around the house, empty and peaceful. It would be so easy, here, going back to his family’s home. He didn’t need to prove himself to a father he’d never known.
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