Christmas at Claridge's (35 page)

With a teasing wink and deliberately not readjusting her bikini bottoms to cover her more modestly, she joined Stella by the poolside, slipping her legs silkily into the water.

‘Do you really have to go tomorrow?’ she asked after a while, when it became apparent Stella couldn’t be distracted from the fashion spread on the new sports luxe.

Stella sighed as she was drawn back into the present. ‘I can’t ask Mercy to cover for me on the stall for longer than this weekend. She’s got a day job, too.’

‘But I’ve missed you so much. I just wish you could stay longer.’

Stella looked around them and laughed. ‘Yeah. Me, too.’

‘Have you thought any more about what we talked about?’

Stella snorted. ‘Like I’ve got
other
things on my mind,’ she quipped sarcastically, before wincing. ‘Sorry I’m so desperate for a ciggie, it’ s
making me a bitch.’

‘It’s OK. You slept well at least.’

‘Honestly? It’s like I fall into a coma every night. I thought you only got that kind of oblivion after half a bottle of vodka.’

Clem smiled. ‘Your colour’s better, too. I bet you’re going to be one of those really annoying people who just looks amazing when they’re pregnant.’

Stella shot her a sharp look.

Clem shrugged. ‘What?’

‘Stop it! I know what you’re doing.’

‘What am I doing?’

‘Selling me this baby.’

Clem bit her lip. ‘I just think you’d be great, that’s all,’ she said after a moment, her voice tiny so that no one, Gabriel included, could overhear. ‘And
I’d get to be an aunty. I’d help you. And Mercy . . . she could be your nanny! She used to be one, you know.’

Stella looked down at the port, shaking her head. ‘Fuck’s sake. And to think I thought you were going to be my ally.’

‘I am
always
your ally,’ Clem said, gripping her arm and squeezing it. ‘I’ll support you no matter what you decide. I just don’t want to see you make a
mistake. A termination is a huge thing. You’ve got to be able to live with it.’

Stella looked across at her, her eyes narrowed. ‘Have you had one then?’

Clem’s hand dropped. ‘N-no.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

Stella held her stare for a moment before looking back at the port.

‘Just speak to Oscar.’

‘Maybe.’

They fell silent, their legs swishing in small kicks, watching as a woman in a white Chanel bikini glided past, the water creasing in smooth ripples around her as if it was liquid gold.

‘Shit, you will come back, won’t you?’ Stella asked, genuine doubt bending her voice. ‘You won’t become one of
them
?’

Clem looked down at her tie-dye bikini and the small gold hoop piercing her belly button. ‘What do you think? I’m just gatecrashing the party.’

Stella laughed, the sound dying in her throat as she saw Gabriel walk to the far end of the pool and raise his arms above his head for a dive. ‘Holy mother . . .’ she mumbled.

They watched him, Clem reminded of his dive off the boat that first night in the cove, fully clothed, swimming towards her in the dark.

‘Promise me you’ll never chuck him,’ Stella said, watching as he sliced sharply through the water and cut up a length in a few, precise strokes. ‘It’s actually good
for my health just looking at him.’

Clem giggled as Gabriel effortlessly touched the far end and turned, his eyes on Clem as he took another breath and slipped underwater, heading towards her like a torpedo.

‘OMFG,’ Stella whispered. ‘How can you stay so calm with
him
coming after you? Do you have no pulse, woman?’

But before Clem could reply, Gabriel’s hand had closed around her ankle and, in one swift move, he’d pulled her into the water. She surfaced with a laugh, accidentally splashing
Chanel woman on her serene way back, as she tried and failed to escape Gabriel’s arms.

‘I’ve got you.’ He grinned.

‘For now, maybe,’ Clem quipped, squealing loudly as he dug his fingers into her waist, tickling her tortuously.

Stella looked on at the playfight, bemused, her keen eyes missing nothing, before picking up her magazine again with a weary sigh.

The lights danced on the water like playful fireflies, the piazzetta’s resident three-legged dog snoozing by one of the small lobster boats that had been pulled up onto
the cobbles.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much taupe cashmere or designer trainers gathered together in one place before,’ Stella hissed, looking around at the diners seated at
the neighbouring tables. She, herself, was obeying no such dogma, wearing a leopard-print chiffon kaftan and turquoise bangles that she’d bartered for one of her tops with a trader friend at
the market.

‘It is a thing,’ Clem nodded, trying to look over the specials while her eyes scanned the small square. Chiara was joining them for dinner and Clem felt inexplicably bound up with
nerves at the thought of introducing the two women who knew her best in the world.

Stella leaned closer, her eyes darting over to Gabriel quickly, but he was scanning the wine list. ‘Gatecrasher are you?’ she murmured, her eyes pointedly moving over Clem’s
beige lace shorts and ivory silk blouse. ‘Hmm, not so much methinks.’

Clem gasped, as though insulted that her Portobello-ness should be questioned, and swung out a leg, showing off her perilously high, pale pink suede heels with studded ankle straps. Then she
rattled the punky pyramid-coned leather cuff that Gabriel had given her ‘as a small gift’ for good measure.

‘That’s
Hermès,’
Stella replied with an arched eyebrow and a wicked smile on her lips, and Clem knew her friend was accusing her of being assimilated into the
good taste crowd.

‘Oh crap, that’s her. I just know it is. Why didn’t you say she’s like a freaking mermaid?’ Stella murmured, pushing her hair back and taking a deep breath. Clem
followed her gaze over to Chiara, who looked stunning in a strapless beige maxi dress embellished with blue mosaic swirls.

‘Hey,
ciao.’
Clem smiled, standing up to greet her and kissing her warmly on each cheek.

‘Ciao.’
Chiara smiled, pushing her hair back off her shoulder.

‘Chiara, this is Gabriel,’ Clem said, touching Gabriel’s arm lightly. They shook hands and she was relieved to see Gabriel was polite but seemingly unmoved by Chiara’s
tender beauty.

‘It is a pleasure.’ Chiara smiled, equally as polite back.

‘And this is Stella, my partner in all crimes.’

‘Totally
love
your dress,’ Stella said by way of introduction. ‘Who’s it by?’

Chiara laughed, somewhat taken aback by the unorthodox greeting, and shrugged. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘D’you mind if I . . .?’ Stella asked, indicating to look at the label in the back.

Clem rolled her eyes as Chiara turned – astonishment on her face – for Stella.

Stella nodded wisely as she saw the label. ‘Yup, I know them. Brazilian. Coming through quickly. Harvey Nics and Selfridges are stocking them now.’

Clem shook her head and indicated for them all to sit. ‘You’ll get used to it. Every event is catalogued in Stella’s memory according to what people wear. Trust me, this is a
great compliment.’

The waiter came over to take their wine order, squeezing Chiara’s shoulder in friendly recognition as he passed. Gabriel ordered as the girls leaned in to chat.

‘So, what’s it like living in paradise then?’ Stella asked.

Chiara smiled. ‘It doesn’t seem like paradise when you live here all the time. It is just normal.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so pretty. All these distressed colours and cute balconies.’

‘It is so small, though. Only five hundred and thirty people live here full-time.’

‘Really
?’ Stella grimaced. ‘God that’s . . . that’s probably fewer than live on the Portobello Road, don’t you think, Clem?’

Clem shrugged. ‘Maybe, I don’t know.’

‘Tch, you’d go mad, babes. Way too small for you. I mean, if you estimate that only half of those are men and half of them are either under twenty or over sixty.’ She shook her
head. ‘With your twelve-week rule, you wouldn’t get past more than a few years before running out.’

Clem looked nervously at Gabriel, who was still talking to the wine waiter about the top notes of a merlot, then she glared back at Stella to shut up.

‘What is the twelve-week rule?’ Chiara asked.

‘Nothing,’ Stella said quickly, realizing she’d overstepped the mark. ‘Ignore me. I’m . . . I’m trying to quit smoking and it’s making me
ratty.’

Chiara placed her hand on Clem’s. ‘By the way, I want to say thank you for looking after Luca yesterday. He had such a good time. He could not stop talking about the games you
played. And you took him to the wishing tree on the boat? It is his favourite place!’

‘Yeah? That was more luck than judgement,’ Clem said modestly, aware that Gabriel had rejoined the conversation and that it would only add weight to his comments last night.

‘Well, he loved it.’

Clem nodded non-committally, but Chiara continued to stare. ‘So, I wanted to ask . . . maybe you would think to have him again. My aunt is very sick; she had a – how you say? –
a strike?’

‘A stroke? Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘She is eighty-three.’ Chiara shrugged. ‘But my family, we think we can look after her at home.’

‘Well, that’s wonderful.’

‘My day is Tuesday.’

‘That’s cool, I’ll have him for you next Tuesday. No worries,’ Clem replied, emboldened by yesterday’s success.

‘No, I mean . . . it is all the Tuesdays.’

Clem blinked. ‘You mean you’re going to Bologna every Tuesday? And you want me to . . .?’

Chiara nodded. ‘Please, Clem. There is no one else I can ask and I cannot afford the nanny. Rafa is away and it would not be good for Luca to see her so sick.’

‘No, no of course not,’ Clem said quickly, wanting to ask where it was that Rafa was disappearing to every Tuesday.

‘He really likes you,’ Chiara said quietly.

Clem met her gaze. ‘I really like him.’

‘So that is a yes?’ she asked, her big brown eyes wide with hope.

Clem shrugged. What else could she say? ‘Sure. Why not?’

She saw Stella smirk and sit back in her seat, satisfied that if the lack of a party scene didn’t send her screaming back to London, a summer of babysitting would.

The waiter came over with the wine and began pouring, but Stella put her hand over her glass.

‘I promise, it is very good this wine,’ Chiara said encouragingly. ‘The vineyard is only thirty miles from here.’

‘It’s not that; I just can’t drink anything for a while,’ Stella said, looking over at Clem with a delighted smile. ‘Y’see, I’m having a
baby.’

Clem stood at the window, watching Luca show off his ‘keepy-uppy’ skills to the workmen, who were taking a break. He was past fifty already, trying to break his
record of eighty-four, his tongue poking through his bright-white teeth in concentration.

She smiled to see him hold the group of grown men in his thrall. She wasn’t scared of him any more. He was no longer
A Child
; he was Luca, footballer and trickster extraordinaire,
and they had quickly forged a bond based precisely on those attributes. She had even begun to look forward to their Tuesday adventures now – they had had four more since Stella had returned
home – having diving competitions in the cove and shootouts with the plasterers at lunch; he took her up the mud tracks that ran through the steep woods at the back of the port, showing her
the best olive trees to scrump, the best place to sit and watch the dolphins (after which the Romans had named the port), the massive water tank with its rotten, rusted, half-broken lid, where the
local children liked to throw stones. He had, at her bidding, acquired a taste for marmalade; while she had, at his, acquired a taste for black olive spread; and they both had an addiction for the
almond cornetti from the bakery on the back street. Their days were long and too often they lost track of time, but Rafa said nothing now when she returned Luca, exhausted, to him at the hotel. His
scowl said enough.

A collective, consoling moan brought her attention back to the antics in the garden. Seventy-six. The men were patting Luca on the back and scruffing his hair. Rafa wasn’t among them. He
couldn’t afford to stop for breaks, not now that he’d agreed to work on the mural in the green room, or rather the garden suite as it had become known.

Liaising only with Chad, who knew better than to ask why he was being used as a go-between, he had agreed to paint it in as a spring garden, with pale mists and tight buds and lone songbirds
hidden in the leaves. Clem messaged back, through Chad, that she didn’t want anything too bright or ripe, she wanted a scheme that had a wispy, tentative, almost melancholy beauty, a mood
that was about promise and suggestion; a room like an early morning.

In the evenings, before Gabriel came home, Clem would stand in the room alone and try to decipher where he’d worked, her eyes searching for some new added depth and shade or layered light,
as he slowly brought the pencil sketch into a three-dimensional dreamscape.

It was slow going as he was still reinstating the trompe l’oeils on the exterior – a huge job in itself and too specialized to delegate: the pitfall, as well as the advantage, of
being a one-man band – but Clem had noticed the colour washes only built up on the days when she was safely out of the house in Viareggio. Another slight directed at her.

She walked back to her desk, trying to push it out of her mind. She had bigger concerns than that to dwell upon today. She flicked through the iPad once more, chewing on her lip nervously as she
swotted up – again – on the technical details. The library was ready and waiting to be clad in its new skins, the first shipment of which – the leather shelf-sleeves – had
just arrived and Chad was out on the drive, checking through the inventory.

Adrenaline shot through her in cold, chilling bursts. This was it, the first day in this warped, inverted summer where everything came back to Alderton Hide. It was the nub of why she was
officially here, everything else that was swirling around her – Gabriel, the house, the boat, the small matter of walking among her own ghosts – peripheral to the one simple fact that
this was all for Tom.