The Italian Matchmaker(27)

‘It’s in my cupboard,’ said Cosima.

‘Don’t you think you’ve worn black for long enough?’

Cosima’s face hardened. ‘I will never wear colour again. It’s an insult to Francesco’s memory. I will never stop mourning him.’

Cosima scattered the ground around her with eggshells so no one knew where to tread any more. Everything caused offence. Beata was right: she had been allowed to grow self-indulgent and it had to stop or she’d drive the family apart.

It was fortunate that just then Panfilo’s truck drew up under the eucalyptus tree to stop Alba from speaking her mind. They heard the motor behind the house and the barking of his dog, Garibaldi. ‘How nice,’ said Alba, getting up. ‘I wasn’t expecting him until later.’ She left Cosima and Beata on the terrace and walked around the house to greet her husband.

Garibaldi jumped out of the back and galloped down the path as fast as his short legs could carry him. His stumpy tail wagged furiously. Alba bent down and patted her knees, calling his name. The dog flew into her with a yelp and she laughed as he ran rings around her. ‘Hello, wife!’ exclaimed Panfilo, striding down the path towards her with Toto. ‘Look who I picked up on the road!’

‘Hi, Toto,’ she called, waving. Then she rested her eyes on her husband and felt the warm glow of love spread across her body as if seeing him for the first time. At sixty-seven he was still ruggedly handsome with shoulder-length silver hair, a broad forehead creased with lines and a long Roman nose above a large, sensual mouth. His eyes were turquoise, deep set, with crow’s feet that fanned out into his temples, reflecting the laughter within them. He was tall and broad, his skin brown and weathered, his hands large and tender. She grinned as he approached, his camera bag slung over his shoulder. He wound his free arm around her waist and kissed her, lingering on her skin for as long as he was able to.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he murmured, running his eyes over her face.

‘Work is work,’ she replied, casually. ‘I’ve missed you too.’

‘How’s everything?’ He meant Cosima.

‘Same.’ She pulled a face which said more than words ever could.

‘What’s happened to your car, Toto?’ Alba asked as her cousin joined them.

‘It’s with Gianni. The brake’s gone again.’

‘It’s important to get that mended,’ she said with a laugh. ‘We don’t want you driving it off the cliffs.’

‘I gather those people from the palazzo came for coffee?’ said Toto. ‘Rosa was full of it.’

‘She’s a great deal more excited about it than I am,’ replied Alba. ‘If you ask me they are nothing but trouble.’

‘Aren’t you even a little curious to see what they’ve done?’ Panfilo teased, squeezing her waist playfully.

‘Why would I be? My own uncle committed a murder in there. It should have been destroyed, not rebuilt and redecorated by people with too much money and no tact.’

‘They probably don’t know the history,’ said Toto.

‘Then someone should have told them.’

‘I’m very curious,’ said Panfilo.

‘That’s because interiors is your job,’ said Alba. ‘I suppose you’re going to photograph it now.’ Panfilo remained silent. Alba turned and stared at him. ‘Panfilo?’

He shrugged guiltily. ‘Work is work.’

‘You’re not. Over my dead body!’

‘You don’t have to come with me. I thought you’d be pleased that I was taking a job close to home instead of travelling all over the world.’

‘But it’s the palazzo!’ she gasped.

‘It’s not the place you knew thirty years ago, my love. You don’t even know whether Nero had anything to do with the sale. He might have died a long time ago, or moved away. It’s all buried in the past.’

‘But you’re going to dig it all up again.’

‘I’m taking photographs, that’s all.’

‘Then who’s writing the article to go with the photographs?’

‘What difference does it make? It’ll be a story of design.’

‘So, it’s House and Gardens.’

Panfilo looked bashful. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘You know it’s not just an article on decoration, don’t you?’

‘It’s none of my business. I just take the photographs.’

‘What’s the magazine?’

Panfilo glanced at Toto who grinned mischievously and shook his head, then thrust his hands into his pockets and walked tactfully on ahead, leaving them alone.