The Italian Matchmaker(12)

‘I should hope not. I think it’s only fair that you have them for at least a few weeks over the holidays. John and I want to get away. We’ve been asked to Saint Tropez again by the von Meisters. They’ve invited Elizabeth and Arun, which will be lovely for the girls, Damien is a darling, so after that I’d like to leave them with you so we can have some quiet time together.’

‘Sounds great,’ he said, trying to muster some enthusiasm. As long as their nanny came too it would be fine. His mother adored her granddaughters.

‘I’ll call you on your mobile, shall I?’

‘I’m not answering. I’ll call you with the number of the palazzo.’

‘You really are running away.’

‘Just need a break.’

‘If you had taken a break a few years ago we might have avoided this mess.’ Her voice quivered with bitterness.

‘I doubt it. Ours was a crash waiting to happen.’

‘Easy for you to say. You’ve been married to bloody Turtle Management for so long you can’t imagine life without it.’

‘I’m about to find out.’

‘Three years too late.’

‘How are things with John?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Heaven,’ she replied a little too quickly. ‘He’s everything that you are not. Shall I list all his good qualities or can you work them out for yourself?’

‘I’ll have a good think about it then discuss it with my therapist. With a little professional help I’ll try to become a better person.’ He loathed himself for rising to her bait.

‘Oh, shut up. I hate it when you get sarcastic.’

‘I’ll call you from Italy.’

‘Whatever,’ she snapped.

‘Kiss the girls for me.’

‘Is it fair to raise their hopes when they’re not going to see you for months?’

‘I’ll have them as soon as you’re willing to share them. The ball’s in your court, Claire. As it always is.’

That night he listened to the whirring of his own thoughts, like a constant fan inside his head. Living in a mews was quiet. There was no rumble of traffic, no sirens screaming, dogs barking, people shouting, horns tooting; just the dead sound of sleep. When he had worked in the City he had stayed up so late he had fallen asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Now he lay awake, ill at ease with his new existence. It didn’t feel right having no plans. No goals. He had that nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach as if he had forgotten something important.

A thought popped into his head from nowhere. Darkness is only the absence of light. He wondered what it meant and why he had thought of it. He stared at the dark ceiling, at the streaks of light that entered above the curtain pole from the street lamp outside, slashing through the darkness. With his mind focused on that thought, he drifted into a deep sleep.

By morning a calmness had come over him. He lay dozing in bed until the telephone rang, jolting him out of his trance and thrusting him back to the present. His stomach tightened with nerves and the lightness he had felt was replaced by the familiar heaviness of heart. There was no one he wanted to talk to: not Annabel, the City, the press, his disgruntled friends. Freya was right, he needed to get away. He’d sort out his affairs, then leave everything and everyone. He’d be totally free.





4



Luca sat in the motor boat on his way to Incantellaria. His gaze swept over the rugged red rocks that rose sharply out of the sea and paused on a couple of birds dancing flirtatiously on the breeze. Spring breathed new life into the vegetation that sparkled green against a bright cerulean sky, and little yellow buds were beginning to flower. He inhaled the scent of pine and felt his spirits rise, as if the negativity in his heart was expelled with each outward breath. His mother had told him to come by boat.

‘Incantellaria is best seen from the sea,’ she had explained, her accent more noticeable since they had moved to Italy. ‘You won’t believe the magnificence of it. I’ll pick you up in the car. Darling, I’m so pleased you are coming, finally ! It has been so long I was beginning to wonder whether you’d ever come.’ Her voice was buoyant. She hadn’t asked about Claire or the children, not out of tact – no one was less tactful than Romina – but because the acrimony of their divorce hurt her too and she didn’t want to spoil her day.

The boat motored around the rocks, opening suddenly into a horseshoe bay of such beauty that Luca stood to get a better look. The medieval town basked in the midday sun, the red-tiled roofs shimmering above white and sandy-pink houses. Delicate, wrought iron balconies were decorated with pots of red and white flowers and, rising above them all, was the yellow and turquoise dome of the church. As they approached he could see the pale grey pebbles of the beach and the sky-blue and white fishing boats dragged up out of the water. He recalled Fitz’s account of the red carnations and smiled at the absurdity of it. The south of Italy was full of such ‘miracles’. His mother was Italian but even she dismissed them with a disdainful snort. They reached the quay. A few cars were parked beyond the beach where busy restaurants spilled out on to the road among a couple of chic boutiques and a kiosk selling sweets and postcards. An elderly couple in black sat on a bench, chewing on rotten teeth and fading memories, while a trio of scruffy children took turns to jump off a concrete bollard. Luca noticed his mother immediately. She was wearing over-sized sunglasses, her black hair swept off her face with a bright Pucci scarf, and waving frenziedly. He waved back, hoping to subdue her enthusiasm, but she only waved with more vigour, shrieking ‘Darling, darling, you’re here! You’re here!’ As he prepared to disembark, his eyes were drawn to a dark-haired woman with a little boy, ambling slowly up the beach. He shielded his eyes from the sun so that he could see her better. She was attractive, with long brown curls, skin the colour of toffee and a curvy, feminine body wrapped in a simple black dress. As she walked closer he noticed the serious expression on her face and her downcast eyes. The little boy chattered beside her, but she seemed distracted, her arms folded defensively, her gait slow and melancholy. The child chattered on, undeterred.