by T A Williams
‘Deborah, hello. Come and let me introduce you to my daughter Claudia. She’s been dying to meet you.’ Flora greeted Debbie with a kiss on each cheek and ushered her into the house and through to the sun lounge. A dark-haired girl got up as she heard Debbie’s footsteps and turned to greet her. Flora made the introductions.
‘Deborah, this is my daughter, Claudia. Claudia, this is my lovely English friend, Deborah.’
The winter sun was shining brightly through the French windows and it was only as Debbie got close enough to shake Claudia’s hand that she realised she had seen her before. This was none other than the same pretty girl who had been clinging onto Dario in the Piazza di Santa Croce.
‘Deborah, hi. It’s good to finally meet you. Mummy and Dario have told me so much about you.’ Claudia’s English, like her brother’s, was impeccable.
Debbie gave her a big smile as she did her best to process what had just happened. The thought rushing through her head was the fact that she was guilty of misjudging Dario and, to make matters worse, she had just told him to take a hike when she would have loved a night at the opera with him. Nevertheless, she kept the smile on her face and did her best to sound cheerful as she replied.
‘Claudia, hello. Wow, you and your brother speak the most amazing English. I’m very impressed and it’s very good to meet you. Your mum’s been telling me all about you. I gather wedding bells are in the air.’ At least, with Claudia here, there should be no difficulty in finding out the name of her fiancé.
Of course, if it turned out to be Pierluigi, as she feared, what then?
The three of them sat down together, the dog as usual lying on his back beside Debbie, and the conversation very rapidly turned to the forthcoming wedding. By the sound of it, Claudia’s father must have finally put his foot down about numbers, as Claudia was soon pleading with her mother to be allowed to invite a few more people. ‘Three hundred and fifty’s not that many, really…’
‘Where do we put them, Claudia? We’ve had a hundred in the house before, with dancing in the ballroom.’ Debbie blinked. She hadn’t realised there was a ballroom in the villa. ‘If we do without dancing, we could fit another fifty to a hundred in there and another hundred or so squeezed in throughout the other rooms, but nobody’s going to be able to move as it is. If all the people you’ve invited so far accept the invitation, we’re already going to be camping on the lawn.’
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lina, the housekeeper. Debbie now knew that Lina was Giacomo’s aunt and she and Lina were on good terms. They smiled at each other as Lina unloaded tea and cakes, including what looked like homemade scones, from the trolley onto the table. From his position on the floor, Byron looked as if he was smiling too, his nose sniffing with considerable interest as the food was laid out.
As Lina left, Flora pointed to the scones. ‘Deborah, these are an experiment. I got an English cookery book for Christmas and I’ve been trying a few of the recipes. As you’re a real English person, I need your opinion of them. Unfortunately, though, I’m afraid I haven’t got any clotted cream. You just can’t find it here in Italy, but I’m hoping butter and jam will do instead.’
Debbie duly sampled the scones and pronounced them excellent. And she meant it. As they drank their tea, the conversation returned to Claudia’s wedding and Debbie risked a direct question.
‘So how come your fiancé’s not here this afternoon? Dario’s gone skiing. Have they maybe gone together?’
Claudia shook her head. ‘No, he’s working this weekend. He’s a doctor, you see.’
‘Ah, so is it a pain, him having to work unsociable hours?’
Claudia rolled her eyes, looking for a second just like her brother. ‘I should say. He spends more time at Careggi than he does with me.’
Debbie’s heart sank as she heard the name of the hospital. It was all beginning to fit together ominously easily.
‘It’s not because he doesn’t love you, darling.’ From the speed with which Flora cut in, the weekend working thing was obviously a well-known source of frustration for her daughter. ‘Piero’s a very caring doctor. It’s only right he takes his turn on all the shifts.’
Piero! Debbie’s heart, which had already dropped like a stone as she heard of his place of work, now sank through the floor. Piero was a very obvious contraction of Pierluigi. Oh, God, she thought to herself miserably, what have I done?
‘I know, Mamma, but it’s no fun being all on my own so much of the time.’ Claudia, Debbie noticed, had a tendency to whine.
‘It won’t be for much longer, darling, and then you’ll have him with you all the time.’ She smiled at Debbie. ‘Then she’ll be complaining that Piero’s home too much.’
Debbie was running through the various different scenarios ahead of her. If she told Claudia about her brief liaison with Pierluigi back in the summer, this would almost certainly result in the wedding being called off. Apart from maybe cheering Lina and the other caterers, this would seriously piss off Claudia, her mother and father and, by extension, her brother. Debbie knew she didn’t want to hurt anybody, most particularly Flora and Dario, so did that mean that her only option was to bite her tongue and say nothing? Certainly, she valued her friendship with Flora and, of course, Dario, and this would almost certainly go by the board if she spoke up. And she would, in all probability, also lose her wonderful apartment. Like it or not, she was the Other Woman and would have to face the consequences. But if she didn’t speak out, she would have to live with her conscience.
She was roused from her reverie by Flora’s voice.
‘You’ve not met, Piero, have you, Deborah?’
Luckily, Flora didn’t wait for a response. She stood up and disappeared back into the sitting room, returning a few moments later with a photograph in a handsome silver frame. She handed it to Debbie.
‘This was taken on the day they announced their engagement. Don’t they look lovely?’ Flora sounded like a very proud mum, and Debbie’s heart dropped another few feet. Taking the photo from Flora’s hand, she braced herself and looked at it.
She studied it very closely. The happy couple were standing on the front lawn of the villa, with the house in the background, and a slightly younger Byron lying at their feet. Claudia looked stunning in a little red dress that shrieked class and style and, beside her, wearing an equally stylish grey suit was… somebody Debbie had never seen before. She blinked twice and, had she been alone, she probably would have smacked her forehead.
It wasn’t him.
Piero was not Pierluigi.
She hadn’t gone to bed with the groom-to-be.
She wasn’t the Other Woman after all.
She fought hard to suppress a squawk of delight. It was all right. She was in the clear. Finally mastering her elation, she looked up from the photo, directly at Claudia.
‘You both look fabulous.’
Claudia nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you, Deborah. I think he’s rather gorgeous. I know! How would you like to come round to our house for dinner one night? That way you can meet him. And Dario could come too, so he’ll show you the way.’
‘Or Giacomo can pick both of them up.’ Flora clearly approved of the idea. ‘When’s Piero’s next free evening?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll check with him and then could I give you a call, or text you, Deborah?’
Debbie agreed happily and they exchanged phone numbers. She was absolutely delighted that everything was all right after all – and, as a bonus, she would be having dinner with Dario in a few days’ time.
Chapter 17
The first thing Debbie did once Giacomo had dropped her off outside her flat around five o’clock was to text Dario.
Hi, Dario, sorry I was a bit abrupt this morning. Woke up with a headache. Would love to go to the opera if you’re around. If not, would you come for dinner here tomorrow? Debbie
She very nearly added a little x, but decided against it. She wasn’t very happy with the headache e
xcuse either – it was something of a cliché, after all – but it was all she could think of on the spur of the moment.
His reply arrived only a minute later, just as she let herself into her flat. She pulled out her phone and read his message.
Great. We’re at Abetone. Just finished skiing. Should be home by seven, eight latest. Opera starts at nine. I’ll call when I get home. Dario
Debbie heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t taken umbrage at her tone earlier. The relief was immediately followed by a wave of anxiety. She now had a date with him for this evening, but what did that mean to her? She had worked out, after her reaction at the sight of him with someone she had assumed to be his girlfriend, that she had developed feelings for him. But just how deep were these feelings? Should she be plunging into a hot bath and digging out her very best underwear, or was this more of a slow burn thing?
She immediately knew that she was going to need to take it slow. Yes, she liked him – liked him a lot – but only a few days earlier his touch on her arm had made her jump. Apart from anything else, although she felt pretty sure he was keen on her, she had yet to discover the depth of the feelings, if any, he held for her. Slow was definitely the order of the day for both of them.
Practical considerations kicked in. If he was coming back from skiing he would be hungry, probably ravenous. She would prepare something for them both to eat before the opera. It wouldn’t do for either of them to spoil the performance with their rumbling stomachs. She headed for the fridge.
At just after seven-thirty, she heard the doorbell. She ran to open it and felt a strangely powerful urge to throw her arms around Dario’s neck and kiss him, but of course she didn’t. Instead, all she gave him was a smile.
‘Welcome back. How was the snow?’
‘Terrific, thanks. And Abetone’s less than two hours away, even with Saturday traffic. You’ll have to come with me some time.’
‘I’ll come as a spectator. Like I told you, I’m not sure I’m made for skiing.’ She checked him out. He was still wearing his ski clothes and he was carrying a heavy-looking bag, probably containing his boots. Presumably he had left his skis downstairs in the little cellar. He leant against the doorframe and told her about the opera.
‘I’d better explain about tonight. There are no big names involved, and it’s in a church, rather than an opera house, so the scenery’s going to be pretty minimal. But it’s a touring opera company I’ve seen before and I promise they’re good. Is that all right?’
‘Of course it’s all right. Do we need to book tickets?’
‘To be honest, I booked two tickets last night in the hope that you’d be able to come.’
‘Oh dear, so my grumpy text this morning must have been extra annoying.’
‘It was fine. I knew I could always bully my sister into coming with me. Her husband works shifts at the hospital and she and I often go out together.’
‘I met her this afternoon and we’re both invited to her house some time next week for dinner.’ However, she didn’t mention that she had seen the two of them together earlier in the week and drawn her own – erroneous – conclusions. That was already filed away in the closed compartment in her brain that handled embarrassing mistakes.
She glanced at her watch. ‘Listen, Dario, why don’t you go and get changed and then come back over here for a quick something to eat before we go out? I’ve got some homemade lasagne left over from last week.’ She gave him a grin. ‘That sounds a bit grim, but it’s just because I made a big one and then cut it into portions to freeze it.’
‘It doesn’t sound grim at all. It sounds great. By the way, thanks a lot for the invitation to dinner tomorrow. Under normal circumstances I’d really have liked that, but I won’t be here. I’m on the six thirty train to Milan for a two day symposium on Botticelli and I’ll be there until Wednesday.’ Debbie immediately felt a twinge of disappointment, but did her best to hide it.
‘Are you there as a spectator or a performer?’
He chuckled. ‘I’m performing. I’m giving a paper on Monday and chairing a seminar on Tuesday.’ He checked his watch. ‘Anyway, something to eat now would be great. Can you give me fifteen minutes? I’ll come back just before eight?’
‘Perfect.’
While he was getting ready, Debbie dug out the lasagne and heated it up. She quickly made a mixed salad and toasted a few bits of bread and goats’ cheese to go with it as well. She was just opening the other bottle of red wine he had brought last Sunday when he returned; clean, fresh and very handsome. He also smelt rather good.
The opera took place in a little church not far from where they lived. It had a very bland exterior, in comparison to the majestic beauty of so many Florentine churches, but inside it was what Dario described to her as a Renaissance gem, and she had to agree. The roof soared high above, supported by sculpted columns, and side chapels containing representations of the lives of the saints dotted the walls. The decoration throughout was quite beautiful in its geometric simplicity. Debbie had walked past it quite a few times, but had never been inside.
They got there at just before nine. The place was packed and, unusually for a church, it was lovely and warm. Dario had managed to get really good seats in the middle of the auditorium, near the front, and they had a spectacular view.
Ten minutes later the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up.
By the end of the opera, Debbie, along with half the audience, was in tears. The tragic death of Violetta had touched her, as it had done countless others over the century and a half since the opera’s first performance. But there was something else. Somehow she felt a link with the courtesan, Violetta, being hounded out of the family for bringing down its good name. Although no courtesan herself, here she was, daring to consider getting together with a member of the aristocracy. Would she also be hounded out? Somehow, she feared her own love affair might also end in crying.
As they made their way out of the church into the cold January air, she did her best to banish these negative thoughts and dried her eyes. Beside her, Dario could see her distress, and he gave her arm a little squeeze.
‘You’ve got to hand it to Verdi. La Traviata’s a real tear-jerker.’
Debbie caught hold of his arm with both her hands and drew strength from him as they walked back home through the streets of Florence.
When they arrived on the top floor of their building, she reluctantly released her hold on his arm and checked the time. It was already midnight. She was about to invite him in for a coffee when he surprised her.
He caught hold of one of her hands, leant towards her, kissed her gently on the cheeks and then turned away. As he reached the door to his flat, he looked back with a little smile.
‘Goodnight, my friend.’
And he disappeared from sight.
Debbie let herself into her flat and slipped off her coat. Absently, she put the kettle on and dug out a camomile teabag. As she filled the mug with boiling water, two things were going through her head.
First, he was obviously a man of his word and that was a very good thing. She had told him she just wanted to be good friends with him and that was what he was doing.
Second, and more annoyingly, the opera they had just seen kept intruding into her thoughts. Was she totally crazy even to consider entering into a liaison with Dario, the future Count Dario? Would it all end in tears?
* * *
Next morning, as Debbie was doing the week’s ironing and keeping a watchful eye on the shepherd’s pie in the oven, she got a text message.
I’m going to my place in the hills to do some decorating. If you’d like to come, I’d be very happy to show you round… PS Are you any good at painting and decorating? D
She phoned him straight back.
‘So you’re looking for some unpaid help, are you?’
‘Who says it’s going to be unpaid?’
‘My rates are pretty high, you know.’
‘Let’s see how good you are
first. Then we can settle on appropriate remuneration.’
‘Deal. I’d love to see your place. What time do you want to go there?’
‘How about leaving here at noon? The car’s in a garage round the corner. I’ll bring some bread and cheese and I can do a few sausages on the barbecue for lunch if that appeals.’
‘Absolutely. There’s salad left over from last night. I’ll throw another few leaves in and bring it.’
‘Terrific. But please don’t wear anything smart. Of course you don’t need to help with the painting, but I’d enjoy your company. I just wouldn’t want to mess your clothes up, or your gorgeous hair.’
Debbie rather liked his use of the word gorgeous.
‘I’ve done a fair bit of painting in my time, and I’d enjoy giving you a hand.’ In fact, she and her dad had redecorated their house from top to bottom during one summer vacation from university so she knew what she was doing all right. ‘And don’t worry – I’ll wear my scruffiest clothes. You won’t recognize me.’
‘I would recognize you in a rubbish sack.’
‘I’ll see if I can find one that fits. See you.’
The car was in an underground garage a couple of blocks away. As they walked down the ramp and past an array of mostly flashy cars, she remembered that Dario’s sister’s car was a Porsche. She was just wondering what sort of car he drove when he stopped and pointed.
‘Here she is. Let’s hope she starts. Polly doesn’t like the cold.’
Polly was a very battered old Fiat. Fortunately it was a sort of rust colour, as this masked most of the real rust – and there was a lot of that. It was so small, the roof barely came up to Debbie’s chest, and when she glanced inside, she saw that the back seat was missing and the boot was a clutter of buckets, paint pots and tools. She whistled admiringly.
‘This is one fancy-looking motor.’