Christmas at Claridge's (33 page)

‘You make me feel old,’ she grumbled, peering at him out of one eye, enjoying the feeling of the sun on her skin.

He nodded, not disputing it. She was old, of course, in his eyes.

Clem propped herself up on her elbow. ‘What do you fancy doing next then? We could swim.’ She motioned towards the green pool, lying like liquid jade several terraces above.

Luca wrinkled his nose. ‘I like the sea.’

‘Well, let’s swim in the sea then.’ She shrugged, sat up and looked out at the horizon. It was pin-sharp, not a crescent of white to be seen anywhere. ‘There are some
rock pools in the cove down here.’

An idea came to her.

‘Or
. . .
do you like boats?’ She knew Stefano was kicking around somewhere as he had been due to take her to Viareggio today, before Chiara had called and she’d been
forced to cancel.

Luca nodded eagerly.

‘Rivas?’ She said the word in a slow teasing voice, like treacle spinning from a jar, knowing it had the same fantasy factor as Ferrari, Ducati, Ronaldo . . . She saw the
anticipation move through him, his little body becoming alert and watchful, waiting for her smile.

She smiled, ideas beginning to tumble one on top of the other as she unlocked the key to the day ahead. ‘Well, OK then. I’ll get some food from the kitchen and some towels. Why
don’t you see if you can get a bucket from one of the workmen?’

‘Why do we need a bucket?’ Luca asked, perplexed.

‘For treasure, Luca.’ She winked. ‘Every pirate has to have their own treasure!’

They were on the water within twenty minutes. She had led a charge through the kitchen, scooping up bread and bottles of water in front of Signora Benuto’s disapproving
eyes, smashed and grabbed from the folly and performed a quick change into her bikini.

Luca had found a grey bucket, decorated inside with pink plaster tidemarks, and brought his ball along for good measure. Stefano, bemused by the drastic change in itinerary, put the boat into
reverse and slid them smoothly out of the cove, turning right at the headland.

Clem hadn’t seen the coastline on this side yet. She was accustomed now to the town-dotted vagaries of the sweeping bay that served as her commute to Viareggio two days a week, but the
only sight she’d had of this side had been sitting up on the cliffs by the lighthouse. It was wilder and more exposed over here, looking out as it did towards open water, with the cliffs
behind rising in vertical straits, huge boulders piled up in some places, in others, jagged and gigantic wedges that had sheared away from the cliffs.

She looked across at Luca. He was sitting beside her, the ball on his lap, his feet in the bucket, his face upturned to the sun. He could have been sleeping, such was the peace on his face. The
wind, as they skimmed across the water, blew the hair back from his face, and she thought he looked younger again, younger than he would want to be seen anyway, with his cheeky grins and cocksure
trickery. He looked happy.

The shoreline began to pull inland sharply like a skirt being hemmed, and Stefano bore the boat towards it, cutting the speed, his eyes scanning the landscape above and checking the depth below.
Clem and Luca both stood up as they motored slowly in, keen to see where they were.

It meant nothing to Clem, of course, she didn’t have a clue, but Luca seemed to recognize it, pointing eagerly to the far left, where a single dead tree stood like a monument alone on the
rocks. It was blackened and charred, with the bare sculptural silhouette that was the calling card of a lightning strike, the boulder it stood on long since cleaved from the cliffs, with a narrow
choppy channel of water between.

Stefano took the boat over to it, catching Clem’s wink and asking Luca to perch on the prow and check for rocks for him. Clem, behind his narrow back, quickly threw the paste jewels and
pearls that she had hurriedly broken up in her bedroom into the water. She winced as they landed with tiny ‘plops’ and sank without trace. This was an expensive game: the pearls –
albeit fake – had been from a long-roped Chanel necklace (bought in a sale, admittedly) and the brightly coloured paste jewels came from a horribly expensive Erickson Beamon bracelet.
She’d bought them both telling herself they were ‘investments’, but if this wasn’t an investment – enchanting a child for a day – what was?

Luca watched, transfixed, as the anchor chain slithered to the seabed. Clem pulled off her T-shirt and stepped onto the bathing deck at the back. ‘Last one in is a—’

But the water was already closing over Luca’s feet.

Dammit. He’d beaten her again.

They dived like dolphins, searching for the jewels until they filled the bucket; and afterwards, when they had no more breath and their ears hurt, they floated like otters, their tummies and
heads bobbing out of the water as Luca told her about school and the worst teachers (Signor Giordano on account of his BO). He told her he wanted to be a painter if he couldn’t be a
professional footballer, that he was allergic to feathers and couldn’t stand butter or girls.

Clem listened, transfixed, grateful for the saltwater bearing her up without any effort on her part. He was fully formed, three-dimensional, a whole person in miniature. Funny, charming,
interesting. Not scary at all.

They climbed out once their skin had wrinkled (Clem won that game, the only one) and dried out on the Tiffany blue-leather deck, feeling the water bead, sizzle and dissipate on their backs. And
when they were dry, she spread Marmite on the focaccia and let him break the foil on her treasured KitKats, just like an English boy.

She slept after a while, worn out by their games, drowsy from the picnic and lulled by the rocking motion. When she awoke, Luca was sitting on the front of the boat, his legs dangling over the
sides, his feet sinking into the water with the gentle swell of the waves. He was gazing up at the tree, his eyes still and dark upon it.

‘What you looking at?’ she asked, crawling over beside him. Stefano was reading a book on the bench seat.

‘That is the wishing tree.’

‘Wishing
tree?’

He looked at her sharply, hearing the doubt in her voice. ‘It is famous here. If you can touch it, your wish will come true.’

‘Oh.’ Clem looked back at it, trying to hide her scepticism. It looked very dead and unprepossessing from where she was sitting. ‘Is that why you wanted to come
here?’

He nodded. ‘I thought it was impossible to reach. The rock is so high and there is nothing to hold.’

‘Mmm.’ The crag rose at least three metres from the water. ‘You’d need ropes to get up it, I’d imagine.’

‘Or swim to the front.’

‘Huh?’

Luca pointed. ‘There is a smaller rock at the front you could climb on. You cannot see it from the land. That is how they did it.’

‘Who?’

‘The people whose wishes came real.’

Clem stared at him. ‘Do you have a wish, Luca?’

He looked at her and nodded, his small face so serious now, the cheeky grin gone for once.

‘Can you tell me?’

‘It will not come real,’ he said, shaking his head gravely.

‘Ah yes, of course,’ she murmured, her eyes resting on him as he looked back at it, his focus intense and unwavering. She envied him his certainty, his belief that getting to the
rock was the only obstacle. She would climb it herself if she thought it would work, but she’d lost her childhood innocence long ago. She no longer inhabited a world where wishes came
true.

It was a stunning sunset, the sky flaming with fiery tendrils that reached from one side of the horizon to the other. Stefano docked with his usual finesse, the boat nudging
the jetty’s fenders gently as Clem and Luca jumped off, carrying the bucket and ball between them.

They trudged up the steps, tired out from the twin efforts of basking and bathing, their skin tight from too much sun. The lights were already on in the garden, the workmen had all gone for the
day and the house was shut up and still, with just one light flickering by an upstairs window.

A silhouetted figure was pacing and Clem felt herself tense as she saw they’d been spotted. Rafa was down the stairs and at the door in the time it took them to cross the lawns, the
makeshift football pitch still there with its wobbly lines and disjointed goals.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded in a low voice that vibrated with anger, his cheeks swarthy with stubble and heat.

‘Out on the boat,’ Clem replied, taken aback by his aggression.

‘It is late. It is dark. Nobody knew where you had gone.’

Clem didn’t know what to say. It hadn’t occurred to her that they had a curfew.

‘I have been here for two hours.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Chiara asked me to look after him.’ She rested her hand on Luca’s shoulder and looked down at him. ‘We had fun.’ So much.

‘Was ire . . .’ He stumbled, struggling with the English. ‘Irresponsible!’

‘Irresponsible,’ she said quietly. ‘I was trying to help.’ She squeezed Luca’s shoulder lightly and took her hand off him. Rafa reached out and took him, his hands
either side of the boy’s face, as though checking for injuries.

The gesture was rude, offensive, but she said nothing, knowing that he was being deliberately provocative. She needed to get him on side.

‘I saw your drawing in the bedroom,’ she said carefully, her eyes flicking up and behind him to the green suite. ‘It’s beautiful. Is it of anywhere in
particular?’

‘Is not supposed to be kept. Or seen,’ he snapped. ‘I just scribbled it in my lunch break.’

‘Scribbled? Well, I’d like to keep it,’ she said. ‘I wondered if you would paint it in.’

Rafa fell still, his jaw twitching slightly, like a cornered animal choosing between fight or flight. She could almost see the dilemma prowling through him.

‘Please. We’d pay you obviously.’

His eyes blazed and she sensed she’d said the wrong thing, though whether it was the reference to ‘we’ or payment, she couldn’t be sure.

‘I will think about it,’ he said finally. ‘But I make no promise
.
’ He spoke the words with violence, his eyes flashing, and he turned Luca away, marching the boy
up towards the gate.

Luca turned his head and smiled at her – sadly, apologetically – his small hand raised in a wave.

Clem raised hers back in silent acknowledgement of what had been, for one day at least.

The door was open when Clem got back to the folly, and she knew Signora Benuto would be changing the sheets or bringing coffee.

‘Ciao,
signora,’ she called up the stairs, hearing movement in the bedroom above. ‘It’s just me.’

She placed her salted T-shirt (which had dried stiff) and towel on the small radiator, pulling her hair from the topknot that already had more hair hanging down than up.

‘Heck of a view you’ve got up there, babe.’

Clem whirled round in surprise. Stella was standing on the stairs, looking limp and worn out, wearing an orange gypsy skirt and red T-shirt.

‘Stell!’ Clem cried joyously, bounding up the steps and wrapping her friend in a tight hug. ‘What are you
doing
here?’

Stella couldn’t hold her gaze, looking instead out of the round window that looked back towards the port. ‘Duh! Thought I’d come and check up on you, seeing as you’re so
completely bollocks at calling me these days.’

Clem hung her head in shame to see her friend’s evident hurt. ‘I’ve been pants, I know. I’ll totally understand if you’ve come here to dump me as your best
friend.’

It was supposed to be a joke, but instead Stella jerked her chin in the air. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’ She pouted, staring at her own hand brushing away nonexistent dust
from the windowsill.

Clem narrowed her eyes. Something was up. ‘Drink?’

Stella shook her head. Now Clem knew something was wrong.

‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been here for ages,’ Stella said.

‘Not you, too!’ Clem groaned. ‘I was looking after Luca for Chiara today. Obviously if I’d known you were coming . . .’

‘You? Babysitting? Now that I’d like to see.’ Stella walked down the stairs, her eyes taking in the room as if she’d just walked in.

Clem watched her. ‘Like it? I think they should have little round houses on Portobello. At the very least I’m going to paint the outside of the flat in stripes when we get back.
Start a trend . . .’

Stella didn’t even smile.

‘Babe, what is it?’ Clem sighed. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Are you hungry? I don’t have any crisps or anything I’m afraid, but I’ve—’

‘Me and Oscar broke up.’

Clem gawped at her. Stella had come all the way here because of that? Usually they broke up with a guy every other week and it didn’t even warrant a walk around the block. ‘Stell,
I’m so sorry. What happened?’

Stella looked away again, trailing her hand against the wall as she wandered around the room, aiming – Clem knew – for nonchalance. She shrugged.

‘You got wasted and copped off with someone else?’ Clem offered.

No reply.

‘He did?’

Still nothing.

‘‘Cos, you know, if that’s made you realize how much you like him, well, it’s not insurmountable. I always say—’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ Stella murmured, and then Clem knew.

‘Oh God, you’re pregnant.’

Stella kept her eyes to the ground. ‘Bummer, right?’

‘N-n-n-no,’ Clem managed, her voice cracked, as if it had been split by an axe. ‘It’s a . . . it’s a surprise obviously.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Clem looked across at her. Stella was gnawing on a hangnail, looking out to sea, and Clem could see from how high her shoulders were that she was trying not to cry.

‘Oh, Stell,’ she said, walking towards her friend and hugging her again, making the tears topple. ‘When did you find out?’

‘Ten days ago.’

‘Ten
days
?’ Clem echoed. ‘But why didn’t you tell me the very second you knew?’

‘Because . . . because . . .’ She shrugged haplessly.

‘I would have come straight back.’

‘Yeah, and if I’d seen you, I’d just have wanted to drink vodka and I can’t. I can’t do
anything.
Can’t drink, can’t smoke, can’t eat
prawns, can’t go cycling, can’t—’