‘The Sunday Times.’
‘The Sunday Times!’ She pulled away. ‘You know that means some pretty in-depth reporting.’
‘What does it matter? If I don’t do it, someone else will.’
She brought her hand to her throat. ‘Oh God! They’ll dig up everything. They might even find out that Falco didn’t act alone in killing the Marchese.’
‘There’s no proof that Falco even killed him, let alone whether or not he had an accomplice. Don’t worry, your father’s quite safe. I promise.’
Rosa hoped that the handsome Luca would return to the trattoria but, in spite of her pretty red dress and the Yves Saint Laurent perfume Eugenio had given her the previous Christmas, he did not come back. She was surprised her face hadn’t managed to lure him. After all, she was a local beauty and constantly compared to her grandmother, the legendary Valentina. She even worked extra hours in the hope of seeing him. A little flirting was a healthy thing, she told herself. Having got away with one affair, however, she wasn’t going to risk her marriage a second time just for the thrill of taking a bite of the forbidden fruit.
Since her children had been blamed for a crime they did not commit, Rosa had barely spoken to Cosima. The two women breakfasted under the vine on the terrace with Alba, Panfilo, Eugenio and the children, and each managed to behave as if the other didn’t exist. Rosa was fed up of tiptoeing around her cousin, aware that the very existence of her children must cause Cosima pain. Wasn’t it time she put on a pretty dress, tied her hair up, applied a little blusher and lipstick, and threw herself out into the world again? If she left it much longer no man would want her. Francesco was dead; mourning him wasn’t going to bring him back.
Alba seemed not to notice the growing rift between the two young women. She was wound up like a clockwork mouse over Panfilo’s commission up at the palazzo, but Panfilo just teased her, knowing he would get his way in the end. Why her mother cared so much about that place Rosa couldn’t imagine. Thirty years was a lifetime ago. She was amazed Alba’s memory stretched back that far.
Rosa had told Eugenio she wanted to move out, knowing that it was impossible. They hadn’t the money to buy a big house of their own – and only a big house would satisfy Rosa. Eugenio had told her how insensitive she was and she had accused him of being disloyal and of not loving her any more. It had developed into a full-blown row. If she had feared her marriage was becoming dull she certainly revived it with their making up, pleased that the passion was still there to be reawakened when necessary. She didn’t consider what it cost her husband to have to reassure her of his devotion time and again. She didn’t realise that she wore him down with each tantrum and each reunion . His policeman’s salary was small. He was aware of her love of fine things, like a magpie always attracted to shiny baubles and glitter, and he was only too aware of his inability to satisfy her.
8
Luca sat alone on the beach, gazing out to sea. He enjoyed the solitude and the new sense of freedom Incantellaria offered him. Everything about the place pleased him, from the clamour of birds to the sweet scents of fertility that rose up from the earth with the medicinal smells of the wild herbs that grew among the long grasses. He took pleasure from the coming and going of the little blue boats as the fishermen went about their business. His skin soaked up the sun’s rays by the pool and he lost his city pallor. He slept more than he had in twenty years and his dreams grew less troubled until he no longer dreamed at all. He took twilight walks on the stony beach reached by a path that meandered down the hill from the palazzo. Crickets chirped in the undergrowth and the rustle of grass gave away the odd rabbit or snake. It felt good to be alone, blanketed by the night.
He thought of Freya with a yearning for the comfortable and familiar, regret for what he had been too young and foolish to hold on to. He thought of Annabel and their soulless coupling, and the dull stream of similar meaningless encounters that blurred into a grey fog of pointlessness. He thought of Claire and the girls and how he had let them down.
When he hadn’t been working, his life had been like a merry-go-round of glamorous parties, dinners in expensive restaurants, knocking back cocktails in fashionable clubs, weekends in Saint Tropez, waterskiing off fully-staffed yachts, skiing in the Swiss Alps, forging relationships on the fragile foundations of wealth and status. The merry-go-round had got faster and faster, louder and louder, until his divorce had brought it to a sudden, mortifying halt. In the quiet that followed he was at last able to stand back and examine his life. The extravagance and waste disgusted him. His friends had separated into two camps, those supporting Claire and those supporting him, but most just blew away to the next party like pretty petals on the wind. Picking up the children from school once a week was like running the gauntlet through a crowd of disapproving mothers and, to his shame, he recognised himself reflected in their eyes. Here in the silence of Incantellaria, he realised he didn’t want to be that man any more.