The Italian Matchmaker(11)

Reluctantly, she let him see the children. He had bought a mews house in Chelsea, hiring an interior decorator to do it up for him so that the girls had bedrooms of their own and a playroom full of toys. It didn’t feel like home to him; he was pretty sure it didn’t feel like home to them either. The weekends he had them he relied on his friends who had children the same age. Coco, although only seven, was a precocious little girl one would almost expect to see smoking Marlboro Lights over a cappuccino in Starbucks. Dressed in clothes from Bonpoint and Marie Chantal, she was pretty and slim with dark hair and blue eyes like her father, but her face was joyless, as if she had seen and done everything already, so nothing excited her anymore. Juno, four and a half, was less blessed in the looks department, but she was effervescent and smiley, caring more about her toy caterpillars than her own wardrobe of beautiful clothes. Since Luca had stopped working he had begun to get to know his daughters. He realised there was not an awful lot to like in Coco. Juno was more malleable: with her there was still potential.

He considered Freya’s advice. The thought of leaving London was a very tempting one. His parents’ palazzo would offer just the sort of tranquillity he needed to search for the point in his now pointless existence. He’d find a corner away from his mother and her friends, take a suitcase full of books he had always wanted to read, and spend time on his own. He’d swim in the sea, go for long walks, unwind the years of tension that had slowly begun to choke him like a noose around his neck. There was something unsatisfying about his life but he wasn’t sure what it was. He had money, children, women whenever he wanted them, but there was an emptiness that, since leaving the frenetic world of banking, he had begun to feel more acutely; a silence in his heart as loud as clashing cymbals.

He arrived in Chelsea just before lunch time. His house looked like a hotel, beautiful but impersonal. The housekeeper had cleaned it, tidying away any signs of life. Only the neat pile of post on the kitchen table indicated that somebody lived there. The light on his telephone winked at him, displaying messages. He pressed the delete button without even listening to the complaints of friends accusing him of not having confided his plans.

He opened the fridge. It was empty but for a couple of bottles of Chablis and some pâté from Lidgates. He left his suitcase in the hall and walked round the corner to Vingt Quatre where he read the papers over smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Opposite, there was a table of children supervised by two mothers who sat gossiping while the children flicked food at each other and got up and down from the table to play hide-and-seek. The mothers were both pretty, late thirties, blonde, with expensive highlights, designer handbags and manicured nails. One of them noticed him watching and began to flick her hair self-consciously. She said something to her friend, who turned around to look. She smiled flirtatiously before telling her children off for making a din. So this is the road ahead? he thought bleakly. Catching the eyes of good-looking mothers with small children? He felt his stomach plummet.

That evening he was in the bath when the telephone rang. He listened to it ring and ring without any intention of getting out to answer it. He soaked in fragrant bubbles, thinking about nothing, heavy with apathy. When he finally got out, he wrapped a towel around his hips and listened to the message. His heart sank when he heard Annabel’s chirpy voice. Surely Freya wouldn’t have given her this number? ‘Darling Luca,’ she said. ‘Last night was lovely. How about another round? I’ll come over and make you dinner if you like. Call me.’ She left her number. He had no intention of calling her. The thought of Italy became even more enticing. There was an awful lot in London he wanted to run away from. Shame he couldn’t run from himself. The one telephone call he couldn’t avoid was to his ex-wife. If he was going to disappear to Italy she needed to know. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s talking about you. Your ears must be on fire!’

‘I’m going to Italy to visit my parents,’ he said.

‘You sound like you’ve murdered someone.’

‘Not yet.’

‘How long are you away for? I can’t imagine you’re calling me if it’s a mere weekend abroad.’

He chuckled. Claire had always been as sharp as a dart. ‘I don’t know. I’m heading out for the summer.’

‘We’re only in April.’

‘It’s going to be a long summer.’

‘Are you telling me that you’re going to leave me with the children for four months?’

‘Of course not.’ The truth was he hadn’t given them more than a passing thought.