Christmas at Claridge's

by Karen Swan

  Tom nodded. ‘This I can’t wait to see.’

  ‘It’s lasagne, Tom,’ Clem quipped. ‘Hardly rocket science. Meat and tomato.’

  ‘Yes, but you said there was a secret ingredient.’

  A reluctant smile came to Clem’s face as she remembered Luca putting the chilli powder in instead. ‘Fine. I’ll get the shopping and see you back at Chiara’s in an hour.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’ Tom winked. ‘You? Cooking? I’m texting Dad now. He might well catch the next plane out.’

  She rolled her eyes and stepped back to let the car pull away, watching them disappear around the sharp bend. Portofino was less than ten minutes away from here and she didn’t have long.

  She inhaled deeply and looked around her. It was the first time in the three months she’d been here that she had stopped in Santa Margherita, the town that was the backbone to Portofino’s pretty face. It was here that the locals did all their shopping, laundry, went to school and caught the train, but she’d only ever been driven through it on the way to the docks, her head down as she worked on her iPad or made calls before the connection became too bad in the tunnels.

  The buildings here were in the same palette as the port’s – pink, peach, ochre and sand, all with dark green shutters – but they were much larger and more utilitarian, with lots of 1960s blocks with narrow verandas and football flags tied to the railings. There were some smart, overpriced designer boutiques along the promenade, but Clem preferred to amble past the brocante set up on the pavements, miles-long rows of Vespas bracketing it like a picket fence.

  She drifted alongside the market stalls as if she were a paper bag caught in the wind, smiling absently at the stallholders and admiring, without stopping, the local laces and sugar-dusted pastries. Her heart felt lighter in the market here. It wasn’t a million miles from Portobello . . .

  She sighed, enjoying the time alone. Her days here were so over-scheduled and her nights so short with Gabriel in her bed that it felt almost hedonistic to have some time to herself. It was ironic really that living in the lap of luxury, time and space was what felt most indulgent.

  She turned inland, walking into a large square planted with mature orange trees. There was a launderette and a Gulliver supermarket on the far side, a battered lorry parked half on the pavement and its lights flashing as it made a delivery. She walked along, kicking up small dust clouds around her feet and looking into the cafés and kitchens that were filled with the lunch trade. She watched her own bare legs, lost in thought as she walked; they were nut-brown now and super-toned from so much hill-running along the headland and midnight swims in the cove, not to mention keeping up with Gabriel’s sexual athleticism.

  Not that it was her legs she was seeing – her head was replaying snapshot moments from her time here, the ones that were going to make returning home so unbearable. She flinched as her mind settled on the thought again. The realization she had to go had come to her when she was lying in the dark last night, and it had been the reason sleep had fled for good. But she knew it was the right thing: she wasn’t leaving because she had to go, she was leaving because she couldn’t stay.

  He didn’t realize it, but Tom was a neon sign to any interested party – and to Chiara in particular, who was only a hair’s breadth away from the full undisclosed truth – about what had happened all those years ago, joining up dots that needed to remain in splendid isolation. She knew Gabriel was on the scent, his hostility towards Rafa barely hidden beneath his manners. But if she was honest with herself, it was getting harder for her to hide the truth, too. Every time she was with him, she felt doors she had long ago welded shut being prised open, chinks of light shining through her and burning down her defences, filling her with light and love and laughter. Her worst fears were being realized: the wall was falling. The longer she stayed, the more her feet were taking root where her heart had long since lived, and she wasn’t sure she could trust herself any more.

  She resolved to tell everyone at dinner tonight. She had to get the ball rolling, then the news of her departure would steadily gain its own momentum and she would have to leave, even when she knew her heart would betray her head and plead, beg, bargain for her to stay.

  She turned a corner and heard the sound of children playing; it was coming from the scuola elementare on the other side of the street. A large, hand-painted banner was fastened to the black metal gates, with ‘Scuola Estiva’ – summer school – spelled out in rainbow letters.

  Summer School? Clem wondered if Chiara knew about it. That would solve all her childcare problems during the holidays, especially now that she wasn’t going to have Clem to rely on every Tuesday.

  She walked up to the gates, her cheek resting lightly against the bars. It was break time and the playground was full of children running, skipping, playing football. Two teachers were standing by a wall, talking. Clem watched as a little girl came crying over to them, clutching a grazed elbow, and one of the teachers disappeared inside with her, holding her hand. The remaining teacher cast a bored eye around the playground before digging in to her pocket and retrieving her phone. She made a call, looking around at the buzzing activity, before walking round the wall and out of sight.

  An angry shout caught her attention. In the far corner, she could see a scuffle breaking out – two boys grappling, their heads locked together in a scrum. A crowd quickly gathered as the boys began to pull apart and a flurry of skinny arms and legs began flailing. The children watching began to chant names, picking sides, choosing a victor from the skirmish. ‘Tonio! Tonio!’

  She turned away, pulling her phone from her bag and checking the time. Damn, it was later than she’d thought. Luigi would be back for her in half an hour and she’d bought precisely nothing. She began to walk when . . .

  She wheeled round, her ears straining to hear it again.

  ‘Luca! Luca!’

  Clem ran back to the gates, pressing her face against the bars, trying to see if it was her Luca, Tuesday Luca, the one with devilment in his eyes. There must be hundreds of boys around here called Luca. And yet . . . He was tall for his age, but skinny, and she’d caught sight of the other boy’s bulk, if not his face.

  Her eyes strained to make out the furious bodies that were now rolling on the ground as the other children – not a single child was left playing now – widened into a large circle around them, their chants growing loud with delight at the fight. She ran up to the next set of bars, trying to get a better view, but it was impossible to see anything through the children’s legs. Until a football slowly trickled out through the crowd, forgotten in the melee.

  Then she didn’t need to see the boys’ faces. She knew.

  Clem looked around to see whether one of the teachers had come back, but the children were unattended, left to their own, cruel hierarchical devices. Tonio’s name was the one gathering fans and growing in strength.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted, rattling the gates, but they were locked and at least 200 metres from the children; not that she would have been heard over them if she’d been two metres away, they were that loud. ‘Hey!’

  No one turned.

  She took a step back and looked up at the gates in desperation; they were at least two metres high, she figured. There was only one thing for it. In an instant, she had thrown her bag across her body and was climbing over the gates and jumping down on the other side. She ran across the playground, wading into the waist-height scrum of kids all jostling for a better view, and picked up the child wrestling with Luca. He was twice Luca’s weight and had angry tears silently streaming down his face as he tried to land the punch on Luca that the smaller boy had clearly landed on him. From the looks of things, he was going to have a shiner in the morning. But that was nothing compared to the mess he’d made of Luca. There was an angry graze across his left cheek, where he’d clearly been pushed into the ground, and he was bleeding at both knees and elbows; small mottled patches were already coming up purple, heralding the bruises to c
ome.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, you bully?’ she demanded furiously, holding the bigger boy by the scruff of his T-shirt as Luca scrambled to his feet, more frightened by the sight of Clem in the middle of the playground than of his opponent.

  The children fell silent, beleaguered by her English as much as her sudden, strange appearance.

  ‘Well? Who’s going to explain what’s going on?’ she asked again, still not clocking the language barrier because she was so mad. At least, not until the children took a step back, began to disperse and Clem saw the errant teacher finally coming back round the corner. Clem watched the teacher freeze in alarm as she took in the situation before racing over.

  Good, they could get to the bottom of this now.

  ‘This boy was bullying Luca,’ Clem said furiously, letting the boy drop as the woman reached her.

  But the teacher didn’t appear to be interested in who was bullying who. She was more intent on hurrying the children away and screaming at . . . Clem.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re saying. Please slow down,’ Clem implored. Her Italian had improved enormously from a standing start three months ago, but she still couldn’t keep up if anger or excitement were involved.

  Another two teachers ran towards them from the school building, one on a phone, and Clem swallowed hard, getting a sudden sense of how much trouble she was in.

  ‘Now hang on a minute!’ Grabbing her by the elbows, they began to hustle her towards the school. ‘For God’s sake! This isn’t what you . . . Luca! Are you OK?’ she called, trying to catch sight of him over her shoulder, but one of the other teachers, who was attempting to calm the overexcited children, threw an arm over Luca’s shoulder and herded him away from her. ‘For God’s sake, I was just trying to help,’ she protested as she was frogmarched into the shadows. But from the set of their jaws and the accusing looks in their eyes, her pleas were falling on deaf ears.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  ‘You did what?’ Stella screeched, forcing Clem to move the phone away from her ear and making even her companion – or rather, guard (although he was armed with only a biro and a packet of cigarettes) – wince; and he was sitting two chairs up.

  ‘I was just breaking up a fight. Honestly, I don’t know what the big deal is,’ Clem muttered, her eyes on the closed door ten yards ahead of her, behind which voices kept rising. The only bits she’d snatched before the door had closed had been names: Luca’s and Chiara’s. ‘And stop screaming. You’ve got a condition for God’s sake.’

  ‘Clem, I know you’re not a natural with kids, but even you must be able to appreciate that a strange foreign woman vaulting the gates and assaulting a ten-year-old because of a playground scuffle is cause for concern. They probably thought you were trying to nick one of them!’

  ‘Hardly,’ Clem snorted, slumping lower in the seat.

  ‘Well, obviously I know you’ve got more maternal instincts for your shoes than kids, but they don’t,’ Stella quipped. ‘Have they called the police?’

  ‘Yeah, but they called Chiara to come and get Luca, too. I think she’s in there now, trying to sort it out.’ She sighed, exasperated. ‘I don’t know. They won’t let me in.’

  ‘Where’s Gabriel? I bet he’s got scary lawyers who could sort this out.’

  ‘It’s not going to come to that! Anyway I don’t want him involved in this. Chiara’s the best person to sort this out. She can tell them I do actually know Luca.’ She sighed again, worn out by the debacle. ‘Cheer me up with your news; how are you feeling? Boobs big?’

  ‘Big?’ Stella screeched. ‘They’ve tripled! Mine are making Mercy’s look like bee stings.’

  ‘Oscar’s happy though, right?’ Clem guffawed.

  ‘Yeah.’ Stella laughed down the line. ‘Yeah, he really is.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be able to see for myself next week.’ She braced herself for the response. Phase One was go!

  Stella gasped. ‘What? You mean you’re coming back?’

  ‘Next few days hopefully. Now Tom’s out here, he can take over the project – we don’t both need to be here – and it’d be better if he stayed here, away from you-know-who for a while.’ Even to herself, the alibi sounded convincing.

  ‘And what does Gabriel think? He was the one who lured you out there in the first place.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him about it yet, but why should he object? This whole job was just a ruse to get me alone, and . . . well, he’s got me. It doesn’t matter now if we’re in Portofino or Portobello.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Stella murmured, and Clem could hear the distant rustle of a crisp packet. ‘Or maybe you’re just pretending you want to come back ’cos the authorities are gonna deport you anyway.’

  Clem rolled her eyes as Stella cackled wickedly in her ear, her eyes trained on the silhouetted figures behind the glass door. They had come closer.

  The handle of the door turned, the murmur of voices low now as the meeting on the other side came to a close. ‘I’d better go. Looks like they’re coming out to tell me my fate.’

  ‘Keep me posted about when you’re coming back. I’ll get some fresh milk and bread in for you.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  She disconnected and put her phone back in her bag, throwing a sulky look across at the male teacher who was watching her closely as if she might make a break for it.

  The door opened and she looked up as the local guardia came out, putting his hat back on and coming over to her with a stern expression. The headmaster followed after him and . . . Rafa too.

  Her mouth dropped open in shock, then closed again in embarrassment. Their eyes met briefly and she looked away, feeling furious and humiliated by his presence. Where was Chiara?

  The guardia said something slowly to her, but she was too thrown to keep up and just looked back at him blankly.

  ‘He says you are not allowed to come to the school again,’ Rafa said, watching as her cheeks stained a deep, dirty red.

  ‘Yeah, like I’d want to,’ she muttered, keeping her eyes off him and staring mutinously at the policeman and headmaster instead.

  ‘They have to hear you say it,’ Rafa continued. ‘I said you would promise. The headmaster wanted to press charges.’

  ‘For what? I didn’t do anything,’ she protested crossly.

  ‘Trespassing.’

  ‘Trespassing?’ she echoed, incredulous. ‘For Christ’s sake! That boy was bullying Luca.’

  Rafa refused to be drawn. ‘Just say it. Then we can go.’

  His voice was quiet and had a calm, faintly pleading tone that she hadn’t heard before. She looked back at him. His usual scowl had gone and his eyes were begging her not to be stubborn – not today, not right now.

  ‘Fine,’ she said finally. She looked back at the headmaster. ‘I promise not to come near the school again.’ She felt ridiculous and made her feelings plain, enunciating the words with exaggerated, sarcastic care.

  The teacher and policeman both narrowed their eyes at her tone – which translated perfectly – but before either could react, Rafa quickly spoke to them both in quiet, conciliatory tones, whilst grabbing her by the arm and marching her through the door, out of sight and out of trouble.

  Without a word, he part-led, part-dragged her across the playground, and several times she had to jog to keep up with him. His hand was still on her arm, the fingers pressing hard into her flesh, as they had that afternoon two days ago when she’d startled him in the garden suite, and she wondered whether he knew he was hurting her.

  He marched her through the gates – now unlocked – and stopped in front of a miniature green three-wheeled truck that looked like the love child of a Reliant Robin and a Piaggio.

  ‘Get in.’

  She wanted to laugh; he couldn’t possibly be serious. But one look at his face told her that he was – deadly so – and she falteringly opened the door and peered in. An empty hand-crushed can of Coke was sitting on the seat, along w
ith an old copy of La Repubblica that had notes written in red biro up the sides. Rafa threw himself into his seat and waited, with an impatient expression, for her to get in; the scowl was coming back as habit won out.

  Clem bit her lip and climbed in; her thighs lifted clear off the seat there was so little room to stretch them out. She could actually feel his body heat radiating towards her in the tiny cab, his shoulder just an inch from hers, and she leaned slightly towards the window, away from him. Rafa turned on the ignition and pulled away with a squeal of tyres, not bothering to indicate or use his mirrors. Clem’s hand automatically reached for the handle overhead, trying to balance and keep her body from being pressed against his as they swung around the bended, narrow roads out of town and back towards Portofino.

  She looked out of the window, trying to concentrate on the rugged majesty of the coastline, but her mind wasn’t on the scenery. Every part of her – mind, body and soul – was trapped in this tiny cab with him, his musky smell covering her like invisible smoke, the silence like a bloodied, beating heart throbbing between them.

  His driving calmed as they moved further away from Santa Margherita, partly because the twists were too perilous to take at any speed, much less in a vehicle with all the traction and finesse of a shopping trolley. She dropped her hand from the handle and clamped both of them between her knees instead; Rafa looked across at her a couple of times, their eyes meeting fleetingly in looks that neither of them held.

  They passed through the little tunnel, past the striped water-lapped folly, then the red-coloured beach huts and sandy beach of Paraggio, which neighboured Chiara’s bay – she rolled her lips, anxious to get there and out of the truck. The silence between them felt oppressive, airless and draining, pushing her further when she’d already been pushed enough today. She was at the limits of her emotional endurance and felt ready to snap. She had to see Chiara, Tom . . . friendly faces.

  The little yellow hotel hove into view as they rounded the sharp bend and a sigh of relief escaped her, prompting Rafa to glance across at her again. He parked with vehement carelessness astride three spaces in the small car park, and she quickly unbuckled the seat belt, rushing to get out.