Christmas at Claridge's (41 page)

‘See if you can get an eight,’ she called, watching as he found a perfectly smooth, thin oval stone, expertly running his long fingers over it and feeling for lumps or ridges that
might affect its flight.

‘Eleven? Wow!’ she shrieked as he ran over for a high-five, before doing a series of cartwheels in a circle. She laughed at his celebrations. He was like a baby woodland creature,
all legs, eyes and running instinct. She thought she’d never seen someone so unself-conscious, so free, a little imp who was as at home diving in the water as he was shinning up a tree or
haring around the headland paths. Several times, she had heard him from the folly, playing out there in the early evenings, bouncing his ball in front of him as he ambled back from the lighthouse.
They were so perfectly at ease with each other now, after a summer of Tuesdays and her standing chatting in their kitchen several evenings a week (on the nights when Gabriel couldn’t get
back), a glass of wine in hand while Chiara cooked for them all.

‘Hey! I bet you can’t do a crab,’ she said, lying on her back and pushing herself up onto her hands and feet, forming a bridge with her body.

Luca ran to her side, impressed for once, and tried it himself. Sheer determination got him up, but he wasn’t as supple as she was and his arms wobbled as he looked across at her, and the
two of them giggled upside down, raising the stakes even further by trying to lift a leg in the air.

‘Lock your elbows,’ she said. ‘It’ll help.’

She heard the sound of somebody crunching over the stones, but she couldn’t see who it was from her position, so she slid back down, rubbing her wrists.

Rafa was coming towards them, Luca’s football under his arm from where he’d retrieved it on the lawn on his way down, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Clem scrambled to her
feet, looking for a T-shirt to throw on, but it was still wet and drying on the rocks from when it had been splashed by one of Luca’s spectacular bombs earlier. She stood awkwardly, wrapping
her arms around herself in a way that she never did wandering around in her underwear elsewhere. Even fully dressed she felt exposed under his glare, and she saw him hesitate as he took in her
discomfort.

‘You’re early,’ she said. It came out almost as an accusation, and she realized she was as cross with him for cutting into her time with Luca, as for catching her upside down
in just her bikini.

‘I finished early today.’ His voice was a low growl, as though every word spoken to her pained him. Luca dropped out of his position, certain that Rafa must have noticed his new
skill by now, and sprang up. Clem watched as Rafa handed him the ball and squeezed the boy’s shoulder affectionately.
‘Ciao.’

‘Ciao,’
Luca said casually, leaning against him whilst he spun his football on his index finger.

Clem couldn’t help smiling at the bare, masculine exchange, but when she looked back at Rafa, she caught his eyes on her. They hadn’t seen each other since their tortured
conversation in the green truck last week, and the echoes of it lay strewn between them like bones.

‘What is it you do in Florence?’ she asked finally, struggling to break the silence that seemed so loud with all the words that drifted unsaid between them.

He stared at her and she could tell from his expression that he wasn’t going to answer. He was blanking her as well as avoiding her now.

‘Art school,’ Luca piped up.

Clem looked down at Luca, then back at Rafa in astonishment.

‘Art school?’ She frowned. ‘But I thought . . . I mean, didn’t you do that when—’

‘No.’ His tone alone was enough to shut the conversation down, but Clem looked at him pensively.

‘Well, will you be able to take Luca with you, to Florence?’

‘Why would I?’ Rafa snapped. ‘It’s a long way, and the school is no place for children.’

‘What I mean is, I’m not going to be here for –’ she swallowed, having to take a run-up to the words – ‘I’ll be going back to London . . . at some
point.’ She winced at the cop-out, too cowardly to tell him to his face. He would hear about her leaving from someone else and think she simply hadn’t been bothered to tell him herself.
Not that he would care. ‘Who’ll look after Luca when Chiara’s in Bologna?’

‘Why would she go there?’ Rafa demanded.

‘Well, to care for her aunt, obviously.’

Rafa stared at her as if she was playing a game he didn’t understand. ‘Her aunt is dead.’

Clem gasped. ‘She died?’

‘Nine years ago,’ Rafa said in a low voice, suspicion clamouring in his eyes.

‘What?’ Clem whispered, confused by all this conflicting information. ‘But then . . .?’

Her eyes fell to Luca who was staring up at her, and she tried to smile at him as comprehension began to dawn and she realized what Chiara had really been doing with her Tuesdays.

She hugged her arms tighter around herself as a sea breeze brushed over her and her skin goosebumped. She gave a small shiver. The wind was warm but she felt cold suddenly. ‘Uh, Luca
hasn’t had dinner yet I’m afraid,’ she said finally. ‘Signora Benuto usually feeds him in half an hour.’

‘I will take care of it,’ Rafa muttered, his eyes on her chilled skin. ‘What do you say Luca?’

The boy looked up.
‘Grazie,
Clem.’

‘In English,’ Rafa insisted.

‘Thank you.’ He sighed, tired out at last. ‘It was a good day again.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled, her voice cracking at the understatement. She wanted to crouch down and hug him to her but she couldn’t. ‘It was. You practise those crabs, OK? You
can’t let me be better than you at something.’

Luca looked puzzled, not quite able to keep up, and Rafa translated quickly. Clem listened, rapt at the difference in his voice – when he spoke English it was surly and truculent, but in
Italian he sounded animated, teasing, colourful. Then again, it wasn’t a language thing. It was just the difference between him talking to her and anyone else, because the discrepancy
wasn’t just in his voice; it was in his eyes, too. She saw the switch clearly as he looked from Luca back to her, all expression deadening before her eyes. She blinked as he stared at her
vacantly for a moment more, before he turned and led the boy up the path on the far side of the beach – the one that would go past her folly and out through the second gate.

She didn’t watch them go. It was beyond her. Neither of them knew it, but that was the end of it, this awkward weekly ritual – their last Tuesday was done. She wouldn’t see him
– either one of them – again. She walked past the jetty and up the steps without a backward glance, holding her breath and counting to ten.

The next morning, Clem came out of the
pasticceria,
clutching the brown paper bag she had spent the past twenty minutes queuing for. It was just before lunch and the
queue snaked all the way down the lane to the Gucci boutique. She knew better than to come at this time of course; it had been one of Chad’s first pieces of local advice to her, and she had
spent the summer only ever shopping there first thing in the morning, when the smell of their famous freshly baked olive focaccia drifted down the street. But she was on her farewell lap, doing the
‘lasts’ of everything that had made her so happy here; she didn’t mind joining the tourists today.

It was really happening now. She was leaving here and the more people she told, the more real it became. She had set everything in motion for her departure now, speaking to Gabriel last night
– as she had suspected, he was only too happy for them to decamp back to London, saying the commute had become ‘draining’ – and she had told Chad this morning, who would in
turn tell the workmen, who would in turn tell . . .

She pulled out a corner of warm focaccia and began nibbling it. The last person to tell, and the most important, was Chiara. She couldn’t afford to let her learn it from someone else, but
she felt sick with nerves. She didn’t fool herself that it was going to be anything other than a difficult conversation, especially now that she knew what her friend had been doing every
Tuesday.

Tourists were everywhere, filling the narrow Via Roma as they swarmed around the smudge-free glass windows of the designer boutiques – Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Pucci, Dior, Missoni,
Gucci – cooing at the handbags that cost as much as cars.

Clem, not in the mood for waltzing with strangers, dodged left up a tiny, metre-wide lane. Isolotto it was called, on account of its being so isolated from the bustle of the square and in every
other way. On the other side of the buildings that flanked it were the most prestigious brands in the world, but here at the back was a warren of narrow footpaths, as small as capillaries, feeding
off the port’s famous public face and leading to the homes of the families who had lived here for generations. They had to have done. Even a broom cupboard here would be far out of reach of
local wages on the open market.

Lines of washing reached from one side of the lane to the other, and rugs were hanging over the sides of the balconies, airing in the sun. A woman was throwing a bucket of soapy water down the
drains and two elderly men were sitting at a table in companionable silence.

Clem nodded as she walked past, an intruder in their private den. Not a tourist, but not quite a local either. The sound of shouting made her look up, and she could just see a girl in one of the
dark apartments, her back to Clem, gesticulating vigorously to someone further out of sight.

She popped another morsel of focaccia in her mouth and exited the lane a few moments later, stepping back into the bright sunlight and bustle of the piazzetta. The three-legged dog was chasing
some ducks on the cobbles and every table along the waterfront was occupied. The port was at capacity, full to overflowing, like the azure blue water that lapped quietly just an inch or so below
the pavements.

Clem hooked a left, but she didn’t take her usual shortcut up the steps to the footpath above the road. Instead she followed the contours of the port, walking slowly, trying to take
everything in and commit it to memory. This would be the food that would sustain her.

She passed the jeweller’s, which glowed like an ice cave, mineral-white walls interspersed with rough floating shelves and glittering with treasures. She passed the bar with low-slung
leather banquettes and rich young hipsters defying convention – eating mussels and drinking beer. She passed the gelateria with the grand chandelier and the antique mirrors, where coffee was
served in tiny cups, sculpted like shells, and the ice cream cones were dipped in chocolate.

A group of school children were crowded around the glass counter, marvelling at the myriad favours, and she looked at them, a vague smile on her face as she passed.

She stopped and retraced her steps.

Through the glass, she could see Chiara sitting at one of the tables. She was in profile to Clem, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail that curved into the nape of her neck and wearing one of
the dolce vita sundresses that looked so good on her and positively ridiculous on Clem: it was pink with a red paisley print, and it had a square-fronted halterneck that emphasized both her soft
cleavage and smooth back.

Clem took a deep breath. Serendipity. It was now or never.

She pushed her way through the school group and was emerging when a man set two ice creams in glass bowls on the table before sitting down; Chiara’s smile grew further, her beauty
increasing tenfold. Clem stopped, stunned, as she watched how their legs angled together, though not touching, their foreheads only centimetres apart on the table as they leaned in to eat off
long-handled spoons, eyes connecting briefly before being torn away modestly, only for the sequence to be repeated seconds later. It was stunningly obvious what was happening.

Clem didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who her companion was. She would know the back of her brother’s head anywhere.

‘Clem!’ Chiara cried happily, catching sight of her reflection in the mirrors.

Clem raised her hand mutely.

‘Join us!’ Chiara said, rising slightly from the table, and Clem could see from the way Tom moved that all he actually wanted to do was dive into her cleavage.

Clem wandered over. ‘Hi.’

‘Hey!’ Tom said, draping an arm over the back of his chair as he twisted to face her. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Yes, fancy. Why are you hiding away in here?’

‘Have you seen the crowds?’ He pulled back a chair for her to sit down. ‘Join us. Want some?’ he asked, holding out his spoon.

‘No, thanks. I’m good,’ she said, rustling her bag of bread. ‘So what are you doing
here!’

‘I’m afraid I’m still in full tourist mode.’ Tom shrugged. ‘And it was too gorgeous to spend the day in the kitchen looking over floor plans. I’d forgotten
how beautiful it is here.’

‘Ah, you wouldn’t feel so sure in January, when the wind is strong and the rain is like ice. It can be bitter here,’ Chiara said.

‘That’s nothing. You should see London,’ Tom replied.

‘I’d love to.’ She sighed. ‘It has been so long since I visited.’

‘Yeah?’ Tom asked, forgetting to eat. ‘You should come over.’

‘I would like that.’ Chiara nodded, her big eyes on his. ‘I love big cities. I think it’s a reaction to living here all my life.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So
small.’

‘Why haven’t you left then?’ Tom’s tone was earnest, his gaze intent, and Clem wondered whether they even remembered she was there.

Chiara smiled. ‘There’s a certain little boy who calls this home.’

‘Don’t you think Luca would like London?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Clem spluttered, interrupting before Chiara could answer. ‘He’s a wild little thing, clambering over rocks and swimming in the sea. You
couldn’t take him away from all this and put him in a
city.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting he live in a favela,’ Tom said wryly.

Clem sat back again, embarrassed, and watched a waiter set down two ice creams at the next table. She was overreacting, but they were talking about London. This was her in. She took a deep
breath. ‘Well, while we’re on the topic, I thought you both should know I’m going back later this week,’ Clem said casually, twisting a paper napkin in her hands, out of
sight.