The Italian Matchmaker(103)

There was something wonderfully liberating about sitting in that boat without her husband and children. Alone with the wind in her hair, the scent of salt and thyme in the air, the anticipation of seeing her old flame, Luca, burning a hole in her stomach. She felt her excitement mount and looked over at her stepfather who had blanched the colour of a stick of celery. She assumed he was seasick, and smiled sympathetically. Rosemary noticed too and rubbed his back. How could he explain what was making him ill? Surely after thirty years . . . ?

When the boat motored around the cliffs and into the bay of Incantellaria, the three passengers stared at the exquisite view without uttering a word. Fitz scanned the sea front for Fiorelli’s but they were still too far away. He was encouraged, however, by the fact that little seemed to have changed. Blue boats were still dragged up on to the stony beach, the buildings were familiar, and above them rose the mosaic dome of the church of San Pasquale. Memories assaulted him like loose pages of a diary carried on the wind. Snippets of his visit, from the moment he saw Alba on the quay to their leaving together, in no particular order, tossed out by his subconscious. He tried to hold on to them, to savour them one by one, but they were already landing and it was Romina, not Alba, who was waving at them from the quay.

As they disembarked to Romina’s enthusiastic welcome, Fitz raised his eyes to where Fiorelli’s had once been. It was still there.

‘You look better,’ said Rosemary. ‘Poor Fitz got so seasick,’ she explained.

‘Oh dear! Was it terribly bumpy out there?’

‘A little,’ said Rosemary. ‘Better now, darling?’

‘Much,’ Fitz replied, feeling restored.

‘Luca’s waiting for you at the palazzo,’ said Romina to Freya. ‘He is so excited to see you.’

‘I’m excited to see him,’ said Freya. ‘I’ve been longing to see your place.’

‘You won’t be disappointed. It’s just been photographed for the Sunday Times magazine. Panfilo Pallavicini took the photographs himself.’

‘How wonderful,’ Rosemary gushed, not wanting to expose her ignorance. The name meant nothing to her.

‘I booked two taxis. My car is too small to fit us all in and I wasn’t sure how much luggage you had.’ She dropped her eyes to the row of navy Globetrotters. Rosemary travelled heavy. ‘Just as well,’ she added.

‘I hate not having the right thing to wear,’ Rosemary explained. ‘I almost brought the kitchen sink, but assumed you already had one.’

Romina laughed. ‘A few actually.’ Fitz’s gaze lingered on the trattoria, imagining Alba as she had been thirty years before with her funny short hair and simple floral print dress, so different from the Londoner she had been in Mary Quant mini skirts and blue suede boots. Her defiance had gone: in its place a serenity, a contentment he had envied. He wondered what she was like now. Whether she had held on to that inner peace or whether she had moved back to a metropolis and her old redoubtable self. He half expected her to run out, arms outstretched, to greet him. But he saw only strangers on the terrace.

‘That’s Fiorelli’s,’ said Romina. ‘Luca spends his entire time in there drinking coffee. We’ll go there if you like, the food is very good. The lady who owns it is married to Panfilo the photographer.’ Fitz wondered whether she was talking about Alba. He wanted to enquire, but Rosemary’s ears were as sharp as a fox terrier’s. He didn’t want to upset her.

‘Well, this is very beautiful,’ Rosemary conceded as they climbed into the car. ‘A quaint little place, but very charming.’

‘It has a fascinating history.’

‘Really? I can’t imagine anything has ever happened here. It looks very sleepy.’

‘I will tell you over lunch. It’s a wonderful story and we, in the palazzo, are at the very heart of it.’

Fitz remembered the town surprisingly well. It was a lot busier than it had been thirty years ago, and the satellite dishes certainly hadn’t been there then, but it was mostly unchanged. He felt a frisson as they drove up the hill. The last time he had seen the palazzo had been with Alba, when they had climbed over the gates and explored the ruin. Nothing had ever held her back from getting what she wanted.

They arrived at the gates, the same gates that he and Alba had scaled, and swept up beneath the cypress trees. There was nothing sinister about the place now. It had been rebuilt and repainted, the gardens brought to heel and tamed. He imagined it looked a lot like it had when it was originally built. Romina and Bill had restored it so cleverly it didn’t look new.