by Susan Lewis
The recently appointed chef from Milan had prepared a light supper of baked sea bass and grilled vegetables, which they ate in the small staff dining room. Giovanni joined them and wasted no time in briefing Mark on the current state of affairs, which was fraught with typical Italian chaos, and some gloriously theatrical accounts of the tantrums being thrown by everyone from the landscaper to the interior designer. After a while Allyson left them to it, and followed Chiara, Giovanni’s wife, upstairs to her room. Everywhere there were gorgeous white arches, with rounded or pointed tops, gilt-framed mirrors, huge lustrous green palms and ferns still in their wrappings, ornate marble fountains yet to be filled and expertly restored antiques that ranged from elegant silk-upholstered chaises longues, to Renaissance-style cabinets containing alabaster and bronze sculptures.
Her room was one of the few that was ready, and though small, everything in it, from the all-white tiled bathroom with its gilt and brass fittings, to the pale lemon silk bedspread and dark walnut nightstands, bespoke an elegance of taste that could only have been acquired by hiring the most gifted designers. She was both pleased and disappointed to find she wasn’t sharing with Mark, for despite the yearnings of her body she doubted she’d have appreciated it if he had just assumed she would sleep with him.
Now, hearing a knock on the door, she went to open it and found a maid with a large tray of breakfast. In her broken English the maid said, ‘Mr Reiner say he will be joining you.’
Allyson stood aside and watched her lay the black wrought-iron table on the balcony and brush down the neutral-coloured chair paddings. The sun was bathing the terracotta tiled floor and rose-coloured walls and balustrades in a soft, crystalline light and the air was heavily scented with jasmine. When the maid left Allyson went quickly into the bathroom, brushed her teeth and slipped one of the thick white towelling robes over her pyjamas.
A sudden guilt smothered her tremors of anticipation. Shelley had sworn she didn’t mind, had insisted she come here, but Allyson knew her too well. She was hurting deeply. But when Allyson had tried to say sorry Shelley had backed away, insisting that she’d blown him up in her mind to be something he wasn’t, and that she was quite happy to let go. Allyson didn’t believe it, but she’d come anyway, and now she was wondering what kind of friend that made her.
The phone rang on the wall beside her.
‘Did the maid bring breakfast yet?’ he asked.
As her heart tightened her face broke into a smile, and she turned to the mirror as she said, ‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll be right there.’
She hung up and took a breath to steady her nerves. Then she looked at herself again. She was probably imagining that the wretched lines around her eyes were fading, and the haunted look that had deadened her for months was now lit up with a radiance that made her want to laugh out loud. But who cared if she was imagining it, it was so wonderful to feel this alive again that she wasn’t going to deny it. And the added piquancy of desire, moving deliciously into her senses, was inciting the kind of reckless exuberance that made her skin glow and her heart race along with the fantasies of where the next few days would take them.
When he came he was dressed in casual chinos and a black open-necked polo shirt, and raised a droll eyebrow to find her still in pyjamas.
‘Good morning,’ she said, opening the door wide.
‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘Very.’ It felt so gloriously wicked and tempting being in the same room as him and a bed that it made her want to laugh. ‘Are you ready for coffee?’ she asked. ‘It’s outside.’
‘You pour. I need to make a quick call,’ he answered.
‘How do you take it?’ she asked, going out onto the balcony. For some reason she liked not knowing and having to ask.
‘Black. No sugar.’
She didn’t listen to the call, though guessed it was to his office. It would be absurd to wonder if it was to the mysterious woman who’d been mentioned in France, for he’d hardly be here with her if he was committed to somebody else. So she let that thought drift off towards the hazy horizon, and smiled happily to herself as she closed her eyes and listened to the church clocks all around the valley chiming out the half-hour.
When he joined her at the table he said, ‘I’ve asked the company publicists to fax over the provisional guest list. We can go through it while we’re here.’
‘Great.’ She passed him a coffee. ‘I’ve been having some thoughts on it, and I’ve left Justie and Zac making tentative enquiries to find out who’s free.’ Her eyes were drawn back to the spectacular view of mountains and sea. ‘I’ve got such a good feeling about this place,’ she said.
He was watching her with dark, humorous eyes, which made her laugh when she looked back at him.
‘Let’s just hope the paparazzi don’t find out we’re here,’ she said, ‘because the last thing we need is them chasing us about the place on those dangerous motorbikes, or climbing trees with their long lenses.’
‘We’ll only be here a couple of days,’ he said, breaking open a crusty roll, ‘so we should be safe. What’s on your agenda? I’ve arranged for a car and driver to take you around, by the way. Someone who knows the area and can give you all the information you need.’
‘You mean you won’t be coming with me?’ she protested.
He laughed. ‘Not every time. There are things here I have to attend to, designers to see, more staff to hire, papers to be signed, inspections to be completed. We’re about on schedule though, and Giovanni seems to have everything well in hand.’
‘So I can count on you for Pompeii and Capri?’
‘You can count on me,’ he grinned, then groaned as his cellphone rang.
It was Corinne, his assistant, with the messages that had come in overnight, then to take down his instructions on how to deal with them. He hadn’t finished the call before the phone rang inside the room. It was Chiara letting Allyson know that Domingo, her driver for the day, was ready when she was, and that there was a fax just coming through for Señor Reiner, which she’d send up to Allyson’s room.
An hour later, after a quick jacuzzi shower that did nothing to pummel any sobriety into her simmering state of excitement, she was walking along the cobbled lane with Mark to where the car was parked, in a small piazza in front of the church. He was going over the last-minute details on what she should see that morning, and where she should go, before meeting him down in the village’s main piazza for lunch – after which, if he could manage it, they’d go to Pompeii together.
‘What time shall we meet?’ she said, getting into the back of the Mercedes, and taking her straw hat and bag as he passed it in.
‘One. Did you remember your camera?’
‘It’s in my bag. By the way, do you speak Italian?’
‘Un peu,’ he answered, making her laugh. ‘How about you?’
She pulled a face.
‘Domingo’ll take care of you.’
He closed the door, then after a few words with the rotundly cheerful Domingo, he stood aside for them to begin the dangerous reverse back to the main road.
They began with a tour of the surrounding countryside, so that Allyson could search out some vantage points that would offer the best exterior shots of the hotel, and the ancient hilltop village that overlooked so much staggering beauty. She clicked away happily with her camera, hoping that the weather was going to be this gracious when they came to shoot, for though there was no great heat to the sun, its quality was so mistily beautiful as it streamed through the orange and lemon groves and bathed the ancient village walls in a glistening treacle of light that she could almost feel the cameraman’s excitement.
They returned to the small church piazza around eleven, and walked along past the hotel, down through the narrow, steeply sloping streets that led to the main square where tables and chairs were set up outside the cafés, and small tourist shops spilled their wares out onto the street. The magnificent duomo with its wi
de sweeping steps and decorated façade dominated the piazza, and the ancient stone arch and clock tower set at an angle beside it looked so inviting that she couldn’t decide whether to go and explore what was beyond straight away, or to wait for Mark to go with her.
In the end she got caught up in browsing through the garishly painted ceramics for sale, and the cleverly shaped lemon liqueur bottles that ranged from stars, to trumpets, to cottagey houses and thin, elegant pyramids. All the time she was scribbling notes, taking more photographs and then finally she drifted in through the arch under the clock tower, which turned out to be the entrance to the magnificent Rufolo gardens with their historic villa and glorious flowers and fountains. After taking her time to look around, she parked herself on a bench overlooking the sea, and, surrounded by vividly blooming flowers and exotic shrubs, she began working out a schedule for the programme. Happy Hour she’d already decided would be in the hotel’s piano bar. The filmed insert would be either Pompeii or Capri, she’d know once she’d done the recces. And the Night Cap could be done in the gorgeous little alcove she’d discovered here in the gardens which had a small fountain at the centre, lush green plants all around it and ancient circular stone walls protecting it. Would that give enough exposure to the hotel? She thought so, since the locale was every bit as important when it came to appeal, and stunning though the hotel was, and packed with facilities, no-one came on holiday without wanting to visit the historical sites or beaches nearby.
‘Did you know,’ she said to Mark later, as a waiter set two chilled glasses of local wine on the pink tablecloth between them, ‘that Wagner got his inspiration to write the music for Parsifal here, in Ravello? And there’s a Wagner festival every July? Do you like opera?’
‘Occasionally,’ he answered, taking the menus from the waiter.
‘We should use some extracts from Parsifal in the programme,’ she decided, giving a little wave to an elderly couple as they came into the umbrella-ed shade of the terrace. ‘So what have you been doing this morning?’
He grimaced. ‘Definitely not having as much fun as you,’ he responded. ‘We’ve just fired the chef and I had to wake Nick up in the middle of the night to tell him some of the rooms are too small.’
Her eyes rounded. ‘The chef first,’ she said.
‘What we had last night wasn’t up to standard,’ he explained.
‘But it was only a snack.’
He merely looked at her, allowing his silence to state the standards of excellence.
‘OK,’ she laughed. ‘So why did you have to wake Nick up? Couldn’t it have waited until he’d had breakfast?’
‘Sure, but waking him up presses home the importance. There’s nothing to be done now, but next winter there’ll have to be some major renovation, which will leave us with less rooms, but enough space for the average American giant to get in through the bathroom door. And believe me, at the prices we’ll be charging, we’re going to need to accommodate the Americans.’
Laughing again, she opened the menu and took a sip of wine. ‘What are you going to eat?’ she asked a few minutes later.
‘Spinach ravioli,’ he answered. ‘You?’
‘Parma ham and mozzarella.’
After they’d ordered they carried on discussing the hotel, then moved on to the programme, concentrating mainly on the logistics, as well as the cost, of getting so many names over to Italy.
‘The best answer,’ he said, as their food arrived, ‘is to charter a plane. And before you start reminding me about your budget, I’ll get the company publicists to cover travel expenses with theirs. I guess the crew will fly out a day early to get everything set up?’
She nodded, and ordered two more glasses of wine before the waiter went away. ‘You’d better organize for the interior designers to be on hand while they’re doing that, just to make sure everyone’s aware of what is and isn’t valuable. I’ll check out the storage and recording space while I’m here. Did you find out if Nick and Claudia are going to be able to come?’
‘It’s not looking likely, but things could change.’
As they ate their conversation meandered away from the programme, moving easily from one subject to another as they made each other laugh with all manner of stories, and, for Allyson, this journey of discovery into his character was so fascinating and exhilarating she could have continued it all day. It had been over twenty years since she’d last got to know a man this way, and there was so much she wanted to know about Mark Reiner that, in the end, he laughingly held up his hands, saying, ‘I refuse to believe I’m as interesting as you’re making me feel, so stop before it goes to my head.’
Laughing, she finished up her salad and reached for her empty glass.
‘More wine?’ he offered.
‘Oh God, I’d love more wine, but if I do I’ll never make it through the rest of the day.’
A teasing light came into his eyes. ‘This is Italy, siestas are permissible,’ he reminded her.
‘Permissible?’ she said, tilting her head to one side, and feeling glad that was the only response he could see. ‘I thought they were obligatory.’
The way he looked at her then caused her heart to float in the dizzying flirtation, while all kinds of sensations started igniting elsewhere in her body.
‘Nothing’s obligatory,’ he said.
She smiled and was trying desperately to think of a suitable double entendre when his cellphone abruptly rang, and rescued her from the brink of potential disaster.
She watched him as he listened to the voice at the other end. ‘That’s great,’ he said, starting to laugh. ‘Do it.’ He paused again and looked out across the square, giving Allyson the impression he was avoiding her eyes. ‘OK, I’ll see you when I get back,’ he said. ‘Mmm. Me too,’ and he rang off.
Resisting the urge to ask who it was, Allyson ordered a cappuccino and picked up her notes. ‘You know, I was thinking,’ she said, ‘this is going to be a pretty special kind of programme, and it seems, well, a bit exclusive and not very generous to keep it to ourselves. So maybe we should invite everyone else on the programme too. Obviously they’re not all going to be able to come, and they’re not all going to be able to stay at the hotel, but they do work incredibly hard and this could be a way of, well,’ she shrugged, ‘showing them they’re appreciated.’
He was nodding as he mulled it over. Then finishing his wine he said, ‘I’ll leave that one with you and your budget. Oh God, here come the roses,’ he groaned, as a pretty little gypsy girl came waltzing towards them with a basket of blooms.
‘I’ll take six,’ Allyson said, smiling at the girl.
The girl looked confused.
‘Sei,’ Mark translated, digging into his pocket.
‘I’ll get lunch,’ Allyson offered, ‘but you’ll have to lend me the money, because I didn’t find a bank on my morning travels.’
Laughing, he handed the gypsy girl a wad of lire, then signalled the waiter for the bill. When they were ready they walked back up to the hotel, dropped off the roses, then he drove them himself to Pompeii.
By the time they got there Allyson could have wished he’d dropped off his cellphone too, but she wasn’t going to let the constant interruptions spoil the experience, for she’d long wanted to visit this historical site and as they left the car and began walking towards the crumbling walls and damaged pillars that edged the tragic town, she could almost hear the silent echoes of terror that seemed to reverberate down through the centuries.
A gentle breeze carried the rank, earthy smell to her senses as they strolled along the worn cobbled roads and walkways, tramping the journey that nineteen centuries ago had been so carelessly and routinely taken by a people that were to meet such a terrible end. They walked through the ruined basilica, the central baths, the Samnite gymnasium and stopped at what had once been the majestic Temple of Apollo, where she allowed her eyes to travel slowly over the devastated majesty. A bronze statue of the god himself, now green with age, stood in
front of an amazingly preserved portico and faced a bust of Diana across the weeded and dusty forum that had probably once been covered by marble or limestone. Worn steps rose from a travertine stone altar to aged marble pillars that now supported nothing, and a dais that was currently home to a museum glass case containing the grisly, fossilized remains of a human being whose bared, two-thousand-year-old teeth were in immaculate condition, and showed the agony of fear in his dying moments. It was moving in the extreme, and made her shudder with revulsion and horror at the way the hot ash had so well preserved such a private and perilous hour.
After a while they walked on, down what had once been a busy market street that still bore evidence of the trading and even the graffiti and advertising that were splashed in perspex-covered colour on the decaying walls. From there they wandered into the narrow residential streets where the remnants of two- and three-storey houses, all carefully dug from the smothering debris of the volcano’s eruption, stood deserted and shell-like, seeming somehow bewildered by the loss of enlivening crowds.
‘Look here,’ Mark said, drawing her over to a comparatively vivid wall painting. In the fading colours they managed to make out two children playing, some ancient script, and what seemed to be the feet of a galloping horse. Allyson looked around the dusty, dark room and stairway and tried to picture the family that had once lived there. Had they escaped, she wondered, or had they perished while attempting to flee the savage outpouring of molten lava and flaming rock?
They walked on, along the narrow streets with their raised stone crossings and deeply etched grooves that had once kept wooden carts on track. It was so peaceful and redolent of the burial ground it actually was. Yet it was somehow sinister too, in its reminder of the frailty and impermanence of human life.
‘You know, I had a past-life regression once,’ Allyson said, as she stopped to get a shot of the fearsome slopes of Vesuvius that towered over the town. Clouds of grey smoke puffed idly from its crater, a deceptively benign show from the madly boiling depths of the interior. ‘I did it for the programme.’