101 Pieces of Me (23 page)

Aidan dismissed one of the men and the other set about putting our luggage on his trolley. We emerged from the station into darkness and the exotic presence of Italy. I will never forget the mildness of the air and the scent of pines that greeted me that night. I had to bite back the observation that it was not like Wales. My comparison between Aberystwyth and Brighton had been met with disdain by David; I had learnt a lesson.

But my impression of that old-fashioned two-seater carriage, and the stony road it travelled on under a black sky sprinkled with stars, was no less vivid for not being able to speak of it. It was mid-April; I had no inkling of the intensity of the heat that would rule my existence before the next few weeks were out. I did not know that everything I had brought in my case, and everything that had been sent poste restante from the Thamesbank Hotel, would be too warm to wear. My habitual costume would become that of the Italian girls: a cotton dress, sandals and a light shawl.

Above the squeak of the carriage wheels and the thud of the horses’ shoes, I heard unfamiliar sounds: insects, I supposed, and the chatter of night-time birds. Above me the pines stretched to the sky, scattering the road with their needles. And all around me lay the invisible presence of
newness
.

During that carriage ride, I strained my nerves in an attempt to imprint every sensation on my memory, to relay to those in Haverth, of course, but also to store in my own heart.

The apartment Aidan had rented was on the first floor of an ancient house built around a small, green-tiled courtyard. The key had been left under a chipped plaster model of a cat beside the door. As Aidan fumbled for it in the darkness, I breathed deeply. The scent of flowers was strong. All around me bloomed geraniums, bougainvillea, peonies and many other species I could not name.

Inside, the house was not so fragrant. Its plumbing arrangements were more primitive than I had become accustomed to in London, though the lack of a bath with running water concerned me less than it did Aidan. Unlike in Haverth, the bathroom was inside the building here, and it was not such a trial to bring hot water from the kitchen stove no more than two yards away. The lavatory, which was a lean-to in the courtyard, was shared with the tenants of the flat downstairs. It smelt, rather. I resolved to buy some bleach.

“So…” Aidan opened the door next to the bathroom and peered in. “Yes, this must be your room, the one with the view over the sea. And don’t worry, I won’t be on the sofa. There are two bedrooms.”

“But the other one does not look over the sea?”

“Not according to the landlady. But both my Italian and the telephone line were weak, so don’t bet on it.”

I nearly reached out to touch his hand, but resisted. “Thank you, Aidan. Thank you so much for bringing me to this place. I shall be a good housekeeper, I promise. I will keep both rooms, and the rest of the apartment, perfectly clean.”

“You don’t have to,” he said, smiling.

“But it would make our story more convincing if we do not employ a maid, wouldn’t it?”

“It would.”

“Then I shall be the maid,” I concluded with satisfaction.

C
astiglioncello was as Aidan had described. Fashionable hotels catered for fashionable visitors who walked with their small dogs or small children, or both, by the sea and through the pine-shaded gardens. Flocks of swifts wheeled in the sky and settled on rooftops. Around the bay nestled private villas. Secretive, mostly hidden by greenery, it was only when the sunlight flashed upon their windows that they could be seen. When I asked who lived there, Aidan said simply, “Millionaires.”

“Like the director of your film? What’s his name again?”

“Giovanni Bassini.”

“And how do you know him?”

“Through his son, Stefano. He and I were at school together. They live partly in London and partly in Italy, you see.”

He seemed in a loquacious mood, so I continued my questioning. “So he gave you this part even though you were sacked from
Innocence
?”

“Thanks for reminding me, dearie.”

“A pleasure,
dearie
.” I was learning to speak to Aidan in a way I had never spoken to anyone else. He had the knack of freeing his conversation from polite restraint while remaining inoffensive.

“Well,” he said, “I came out to their place here a couple of years ago for a holiday, and when Giovanni heard I was an actor he said he’d keep me in mind the next time he was casting. I didn’t think anything would come of it, as in this business people promise you things all the time, but I received a telephone call from the casting director just after Christmas, so I did a screen test for Giovanni and you know the rest.”

Aidan himself could have rented a villa or stayed at one of the expensive hotels. But he had taken the modest apartment for the same reason he wished me to attend Italian lessons. Verisimilitude. Not attracting attention. An ordinary actor and his unmarried female cousin with too much time on her hands. We did not eat in well-appointed restaurants or visit the bathing stations. We were not there for a holiday – Aidan did not need to remind me.

Although we were further south than Lerici, Italy’s north-western coast was exactly as the picture in the book had shown. Every day the air was sweeter, the sun higher, the ocean warmer than the day before. Each morning a cheerful driver called Angelo would arrive to collect Aidan, who would climb into the car, his camera swinging on a strap round his neck, and he and Angelo would roar off, spraying dust and small stones behind them. Aidan was never without his camera. When I questioned this, he asked, “How can anyone not wish to capture this enchanting landscape?”

“But in photographs everything looks
grey
,” I protested.

He gave me an exaggeratedly exasperated look. “Spoken like a true philistine, who cannot see art when it is under her nose.”

I tried to remonstrate, but his next words silenced me. “What do you think the art director, the cinematographer and the lighting designer do while a film is being made? Sit and eat chocolates? And do you think you are any less riotously beautiful on the screen because you appear in tones of
grey
, as you say?”

And then there was the language school itself. Its proprietor was nothing like Signor Lingo; Signora Carro turned out to be a petite, unassumingly charming woman of about forty who spoke English and French well – she had studied in Paris and London, she said. I was assigned to the beginners’ conversation class, which took place each morning at eleven o’clock. My fellow students were well-to-do ladies of several nationalities. The wives, I concluded, of the millionaires. We sat in a circle and, guided by Signora Carro and our textbook, began very soon to communicate with one another in almost-recognizable Italian. It was so interesting that I was sorry I would not be there long enough to learn the language properly. But when I asked Aidan how long we
would
be here, he shrugged, smiled sunnily and said, “How long is a piece of string?”

In truth, I did not care. A feeling of predestination had descended upon me in Castiglioncello. Whatever happened would happen. Aidan, Giovanni Bassini, his son Stefano, my dear mam and da, Frank and his framed cells, Florence and her perceptiveness – everyone who had shaped the events of the past few months must play their roles. Italy, I knew without question, would provide a dramatic, perhaps even the
most
dramatic, scene in the story of us all.

“W
hat if David doesn’t come?” I asked Aidan after three weeks had passed with no sign of him.

“He will.”

“But what if he
doesn’t
? I mean, supposing he’s ill, or working on another film, or—”

“Clara, will you stop worrying about things that have not happened, and may never happen?”

“But that is what worrying is! Once something’s happened, there’s no point.”

He looked at me in exasperation. We were dawdling along the main street, our arms full of loaves of bread and tomatoes and cheese from the market. It was past one o’clock; the sun was getting strong. I had on the hat from which I refused to be separated, and a thin dress. My legs were already so tanned I had no need for stockings. Mam, who was of the generation that favoured pale skin on legs and everywhere else, would stare when she saw them. But Florence and Mary would be delighted. Mary always looked much better when her face caught the sun and her freckles emerged, and she knew it.
She
never wore a sunhat.

“Why are you dreading David’s arrival?” asked Aidan accusingly. “Everything will be perfectly all right!”

“Will it? Supposing he doesn’t go along with what I suggest? Supposing he’s contrite, and falls to his knees or something? You can’t predict what he’ll do.”

“Clara,
stop worrying
!” We had reached the courtyard. Aidan shifted his packages and fumbled in the pocket of his trousers for the key. “Don’t think about what David will or won’t do, or whether he’ll even arrive in the first place. Think about what
you
are going to do, which is much more important. You always show more concern for other people than yourself.”

“Yes,” I said with a sigh as we began to climb the stairs. “I have been told that I have a tendency to do that.”

“Look.” He put the shopping down and reached for his cigarettes. “After lunch we’ll do a proper rehearsal, all right?” He searched his pockets for his lighter. “Just like we used to do on
Innocence
. I’ll be David, and we’ll try to cover every eventuality. Does that make you feel better?”

I did not answer.

“Where the devil’s that blessed lighter? Oh, these’ll do.” He took the kitchen matches from the shelf, lit his cigarette and threw the spent match into the sink. He caught sight of my face and his expression changed. “What’s the matter? You’re not going to get cold feet at the last minute, are you?”

I
was not going to get cold feet. My gratitude to Aidan would not allow it. Into my darkest bewilderment he had shone a light. But his words about being David had struck me. “No, I don’t think so. It’s just…”

“What
is
it, Clara?” He was not impatient, but his breath had shortened and he was watching my face nervously.

“It’s stupid,” I confessed. “You’ll laugh at me.”

“I will not.”

“Um … well, you said that you would be David, but that just seems, you know, odd. You being David. I mean
playing
David.”

He went on looking at me, his eyes expressionless. I swallowed and went on.

“You see, I had never known any man before David. No one had ever taken notice of me, and courted me, and bought me things, and so on. And” – embarrassed, I began to slice bread and unwrap cheese – “well, you are a man, Aidan, but you are not David.”

I did not look at him. When he spoke, his voice was stifled. “So you are saying that it is difficult for you to imagine me as David.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Because you are in love with him and you are not in love with me?”

A thick silence fell in the small, old-fashioned kitchen. My heart beat fast. I laid the bread knife on the board, afraid that my hands were trembling too much to cut another slice. I raised my eyes to his. The blank look had been replaced by one so intense I could almost imagine the camera was rolling. Yet it was not Aidan’s “acting” look. Something darted through me from my head to my toes, as suddenly as a bullet. Something that warmed me and made my cheeks blaze.