“Hallo! Hallo! Is that the Villa Crespi?”
“Sì, signor, sì, Villa Crespi is here.”
“Can I speak to Signor Crespi, please?”
“Signor Crespi not here, sir.”
“OK. Signora Crespi then.”
“The signora is also not here.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, is my wife there? Mrs. Shaw? Surely she must be there; it’s—”
“One moment, signor, please.”
What the fuck was going on? Where were they all? Pretty bloody rude leaving Eliza on her own. And she was obviously there; she wouldn’t have left Emmie at night, surely; it was eleven thirty Italian time … Bloody wops.
“Signor, good evening. Is Sebastiano here, butler to the Crespis. Can I help you?”
“Well, I hope so,” said Matt. “I’m calling from England; I want to speak to my wife, Mrs. Shaw …”
“Oh, I am so sorry, signor. They are all away in Milan.”
“Away? What do you mean?”
“At the opera, signor. At La Scala.”
“Oh … right.” He did remember hearing something about La Scala. “Will you ask my wife to call as soon as they get back?”
“They will not be back tonight, signor. I am sorry.”
“Not back? Why the hell not?”
“Well, sir, there is a very bad fog here tonight, signor. It is very, very dangerous to try to drive, to travel.”
“Well … well …” Matt felt himself held in a fog of his own, a dangerous, bewildering, angry fog. “Well … is my daughter with them? Because if she is—”
“No, signor, your daughter is quite safe with us. We are all taking great care of her; you must not worry; she is asleep; Anna-Maria is with her all the time, and she is very, very happy. What a dear little girl she is, so beautiful, so talented, so intelligent—”
Sebastiano’s musings upon Emmie’s virtues and beauty were interrupted.
“Well, she’d better be bloody well safe,” said Matt, “and the moment—the moment—my wife gets back, you get her to ring me, all right? When will that be?”
“Signor, it is impossible to say. The fog sometimes lasts for a day, sometimes two. But I will get a message to Signor Crespi first thing in the morning—”
“You bloody well get a message to him tonight,” said Matt. “I want to know my wife is safe and when she’ll be back with my daughter; is that clear?”
“Sì, signor.”
Sebastiano put the phone down disdainfully, feeling it had assumed the persona of the ill-mannered foreigner who had been berating him, and, after a few minutes’ thought, dialled the number of the Hotel Grande and asked to be put through to Signor Crespi.
On hearing he was not there, but out at dinner, Sebastiano decided there was no more he could do. He left a message at the Hotel Grande asking Giovanni to call him when he came back, if it was convenient, as Mr. Shaw had been asking for his wife, and left it at that.
When Giovanni got back to the hotel and was told there was a message from Sebastiano, and that Matt had been asking for Eliza, he decided that at one in the morning, he had no stomach for trying to make complex phone calls. It had been a wonderful evening, though there was a little anxiety like the mildest dyspepsia somewhere within him—he knew not why—and he wanted to be alone with his Mariella and try to sleep. The morning would take care of itself.
“Matt? Is that you? Is everything all right?”
“Yes. How about with you?”
“Oh, absolutely fine, yes. Everything’s great. Emmie’s having a lovely time, and so am I, and we’re both looking forward to—”
“To what? What are you both looking forward to? A reunion?”
“What, with you? Yes, that’s what I was going to say; we—”
“So you’re together, are you?”
“Well … not this minute, no. I’m in Milan. But we’re on our way back, just leaving in a few minutes.”
“Which is where, exactly, if I might ask?”
“Well … in an apartment. Belonging to friends of Mariella and Giovanni—”
“And why are you there?”
His tone was quite easy; he sounded almost cheerful. Careful, Eliza; steady; it might be all right yet.
“Well, you see … last night—”
“Ah, last night. And where were you last night? Exactly? Without Emmie?”
So he knew. He’d found out somehow.
“The thing is, Matt, we were in Milan, at the opera. You know I told you about that. And we got completely cut off by the fog. We just couldn’t get back. It was impossible, dangerous. I’m staying, like I said, with … with friends of Mariella and—”
“You were staying with people you don’t know. And leaving Emmie with people she didn’t know. It all sounds rather messy.”
“She did know them, Matt; of course she did. Anna-Maria has looked after her before, and she’s spent lots of time with Bruno—that’s Giovanni’s valet—”
“You left Emmie alone with a man. A strange man, a bloody foreigner—”
“Matt, don’t be ridiculous. He’s not a stranger and she loves him; he always plays with her when we’re here and—”
Janey appeared at her bedroom door; she looked flustered.
“Eliza … Mariella’s—”
“Sorry, Janey, can you just give me a minute? Matt, the thing is—”
“I don’t want to hear what the fucking thing is,” said Matt. “I want you home, both of you, tonight; is that clear? So you just get out of that apartment with your smart friends and back to Emmie and then straight on to the airport. And I don’t want to hear about any fucking fog holding you up. I’m sure Giovanni can find a way out of it. In his private plane, perhaps. I remember him talking about that rather a lot at dinner. I’m going to the office now, and I’ll want to hear from you pretty bloody soon about your arrangements.”
“Matt—”
The phone went dead; Eliza sat staring at it, a crawling fear invading her stomach.
“Eliza.” Mariella pushed past Janey into the room. “Eliza, it seems Matt phoned the villa last night. Sebastiano called to tell us. For some reason the messages did not reach us.”
“Really?” This seemed unlikely.
“Yes, really.” Mariella’s eyes were wide with innocence. “I am so sorry—”
“Yes, it’s a pity,” Eliza said, driven past courtesy. “Matt is absolutely furious with me, especially, of course, leaving Emmie behind—”
“Cara—”
“No, let me finish. And he’s ordered us both back tonight. So maybe you can help me find a flight—otherwise he’ll divorce me, I should think.”
“Of course, of course he won’t,” said Mariella. “He is just annoyed that you are enjoying yourself and he is not—”
“Mariella, he’s really angry and I’m scared! I’ve got to get back. So—”
“Cara, there are no planes. Not today. Not tomorrow, I think, either.”
“No planes! But—”
“Eliza, look out of the window. No plane can fly in this. We must stay; it is the only safe thing to do.”
“No, no, I must get back to Emmie, at least. She’s only five; I know she was all right last night, but she needs me. Please, Mariella, can we try, at least?”
“I will call Giovanni, see what he says.”
Giovanni said they might be able to leave at lunchtime. “But he also says no plane will leave Milan today, or even tomorrow. I am sorry, cara; it is just one of those things. Matt will understand, I am sure. Perhaps Giovanni could speak to him.”
“I’d rather he didn’t,” said Eliza, and burst into tears; Mariella left in a huff to return to the Hotel Grande, and Janey was left trying to comfort Eliza.
“I’ll ask Tim, see if he thinks it would be possible to get back to the villa.”
Tim was reluctant; he knew the dangers too well and he didn’t know the road.
Eliza spoke to Emmie, who sounded happy, but told her she wanted her t
o come back.
“Darling, the minute I can I will. Is it foggy there?”
“Terribly,” said Emmie. “We can’t see the garden even.”
Shaking, Eliza rang Matt at midday; mercifully he was out at a site meeting. Mandy, Jenny’s replacement, sweet and helpful, asked whether she could give him a message.
“Tell him I rang and I’ll ring later. When is he back, do you think?”
“I would think about four hours, Mrs. Shaw.”
So she had four hours. To get back to the villa. She began literally to pace the floor.
Shortly after one, the phone rang; she heard Janey answer it.
“Oh, hallo, Jeremy. Yes, she’s here. Hold on.”
“Eliza! Hallo, darling. I hear you’re in a bit of a pickle. Look, the fog’s thinning out a bit, and Tim and I are prepared to get a car from the company’s fleet, man with local knowledge, and see what we can do.”
“Oh, Jeremy,” said Eliza, bursting into tears. “You are marvellous!”
“Not really. I like a challenge. Especially when there’s a lady in distress involved. Now, then, you sit tight and I’ll call you the minute I’ve got some news.”
Why hadn’t she married him? Why, why, why?
But she knew. As she had at La Scala. It would have been wonderful, easy, luxurious, and fun. And … emotionally dull.
However hateful Matt was, however critical and bad tempered and difficult, he still brought her alive—in every possible way. Jeremy had never, ever been able to do that.
At two he rang again.
“It’s now or never. Ready?”
“Of course!”
She rang Matt again, knowing he would still be out, but she wanted to show she was trying.
“Tell him I rang again, will you, Mandy, and that I’m on my way back to the villa.”
They reached the villa at six; it was a long and hazardous journey; twice they skidded and once nearly hit a tree, but the driver was skilful and the fog was less dense the nearer they got to Como. By the time they arrived, they could actually see the lights of the house from the gates. Eliza, who had been sitting in the back, silent and tense, next to Jeremy, reached for his hand and squeezed it and then leaned forward and kissed the back of Tim Fordyce’s rather thick neck.
“I’ll never forget this, either of you,” she said, “never, as long as I live.”
An hour later they were sitting with Emmie in the kitchen, all four of them drinking hot chocolate; Emmie was actually on Jeremy’s knee, squealing with delight as he opened and shut his legs endlessly, pretending to drop her. She had taken a great fancy to him, and he rather had to her. And what would Matt have to say, confronted by this scene? Eliza thought.
The driver had decided to stay the night as well, which meant Tim and Jeremy would have to; Tim had agreed with a worried Janey that a return journey in darkness was not wise.
“It’s going to be better tomorrow,” she said, “or so the forecast says. I’d much rather you came back then.”
They dined rather well, the adults on osso buco prepared by the cook, and Emmie on pasta, served to the four of them in the small dining room. Emmie was high on excitement and pleasure. “After this,” she said, “can we play a game?”
“Emmie, no,” said Eliza, “it’s nearly nine o’clock and I must ring Daddy one more time.”
“Well, after that, then?”
“Emmie, I said no.”
“But you’ve been away from me.” The voice became querulous, rising in volume.
“That’s true,” said Jeremy. “I’ll play with you, Emmie, even if your mother won’t. What did you have in mind?”
“Hide-and-seek,” said Emmie.
“Sounds fun. But we’ll have to do it in pairs; we’ll get really lost in this great big house if we’re not careful.”
“Oh, God,” said Eliza, and then giggled. And then, in a rush of amusement and relief upon at least having Emmie back: “Talk about a compromising situation.”
“What’s compromising?” asked Emmie.
“Fun,” said Jeremy, his face deadpan and winking at Eliza.
She had called Matt, both in the office and at home, every hour since they had got back. Mandy said he had come back and she had given him the messages but that he hadn’t asked her to try to ring Eliza back. Even now, at eleven o’clock—ten in England—there was no reply.
“He’s clearly worried to death,” said Eliza, sharply angry herself, and refilled her glass with the very nice Chianti they had all been drinking, and went off with Timothy Fordyce to look for Jeremy and Emmie. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. And so would Matt.
Matt received the news from Mandy at five, just after he got back to the office: Eliza wouldn’t be back that night, and possibly not the next.
“But she said she was on her way back to the villa and would be with Emmie tonight,” said Mandy. “Shall I try to get a line through to her, Mr. Shaw?”
“No, thanks,” said Matt, “no point. Make me some coffee, please. And I don’t want—” He stopped. No need to reject biscuits; with Jenny’s departure the biscuit tin had left as well. On the whole it was a relief.
“Yes, Mr. Shaw.”
He sat at his desk, sipping the coffee, contemplating yet another solitary evening. It was not a nice prospect. He was rummaging in his wallet for the card of a potential client, whom he’d sat next to at a lunch that day, and who had said he was looking for new, larger premises for his company, when Gina’s fell out. Matt turned it over, looked at it thoughtfully, half smiling as he read the words on the back in her rather childish writing. “Don’t forget! Lots to show you.”
No, Matt, don’t even think about it. She’s trouble, and you don’t need it. Not that sort. You’ve got enough.
He pushed it aside and found the card he’d been looking for and dialled the number. It was a direct line, and his lunchtime companion, the CEO of a large insurance company, was clearly pleased to hear from him.
Matt told him he had a short list of available premises for him. “I’ll bike it over tomorrow.”
“Great. Or …” There was a pause. “I’m actually free and on my own in town tonight; we could meet for a drink.”
The drink led to hands shaken on a deal, then dinner, and Matt arrived home after midnight.
Next morning he spoke to Eliza; she was very sorry, she said, but although the fog was lifting, there were no flights until the following day.
“But I’m with Emmie, at the villa; it was a bit hairy, the drive, but we made it, and she’s fine, and we will be back tomorrow.”
“That’s extremely good of you. Don’t rush on my account.”
“Matt—”
“Sorry, Eliza; I’ve got to go. In your own time. Bye.”
He arrived in the office tense with rage. How could she? How could she just sit there in that fucking palace and tell him she was sorry but she had to stay there another day? And expect him to be impressed that she had made an effort to get back to her own child? How could she; how dare she …
He roared for coffee, pulling out his diary. And saw, tucked into yesterday’s page, where he had discarded it, Gina’s card.
He arrived at Scott’s in Piccadilly, as she had suggested, just after six. He went over to the bar, looked at the menu, pulled out his cigarettes. He had a pleasant sense of playing truant, breaking rules. Which was ridiculous, of course. He was only having a drink with her, for God’s sake. He ordered a large gin and tonic, carried it over to a table in the corner, settled down behind his Evening Standard. She was late; but then, she always had been.
He enjoyed it all for about five minutes, then began to get irritable. He couldn’t stand people who were late; it was so bloody arrogant, wasting other people’s time. Five more and he was ready to leave; he’d just go to the gents’ and then leave a message with the barman … He was washing his hands when he heard the door open; he didn’t even look up. He was trying to decide whether to go out for a meal or find so
mething in the fridge. He’d—
“Fuck off, will you!”
Someone was goosing him. No two ways about it. Some poof, he supposed.
He swung round. Someone was indeed goosing him. But it wasn’t a poof.
“Hallo, Matt. I won’t, if you don’t mind. I’m quite enjoying myself; I’d forgotten what a neat little arse you had …”
It was Gina. Looking ravishing, laughing, reaching up to kiss him.
He’d forgotten how outrageous she was, how sexy. He’d forgotten what outrageous and sexy felt like.
“Gina,” he said, kissing her hastily back, “you’ll get us arrested.”
“For what?”
“Indecent behaviour in a public toilet?”
“Matt, it’s not public. And I’m not being indecent, not anymore. Pity, but … I just walked in by mistake, thought it was the ladies’. Who’s going to arrest me for that?”
“There might have been someone else in here.”
“There might. But there wasn’t. Anyway, let’s go and get a drink; I’m desperate. Now, how long have you got? Because I’ve got the whole evening …”
They had, of course, gone out to dinner. There didn’t seem much reason not to, as Gina pointed out.
“So, where shall we go? San Frediano? It’s such fun there.”
“Gina, I don’t think that’s a very good idea. Someone might see us. Someone who knows us.”
“So what? Eliza’s in Milan, for God’s sake. What are you supposed to do, sit at home eating bread and milk? And then sort out the laundry?”
She made that sound slightly insulting, reduced him to wimpish domesticity.
“No, of course not,” he said. “No, let’s go there, good idea.”
Someone was there who knew them: not a friend of Gina’s nor a friend of Matt’s. But a friend of Eliza’s, Jerome Blake, the photographer whose studio was in the same building as Maddy Brown’s. He watched them, saw Matt tense at first, slowly relaxing into laughing, talking ease; watched the girl, sex on legs, with her low-cut clinging dress, her smoky come-to-bed eyes, teasing him, flirting with him, whispering in his ear, and then, as the evening went on, picking up his hand and playing with the fingers, resting her head briefly on his shoulder, and then as they left, in their coats, putting her arm round his neck and pulling him down to kiss him quickly on the mouth. And then a taxi pulled up and whether both of them got into it or only one, he was unable to tell.
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