Christmas at Claridge's (40 page)

‘I was just breaking up a fight. Honestly, I don’t know what the big deal is,’ Clem muttered, her eyes on the closed door ten yards ahead of her, behind which voices kept
rising. The only bits she’d snatched before the door had closed had been names: Luca’s and Chiara’s. ‘And stop screaming. You’ve got a condition for God’s
sake.’

‘Clem, I know you’re not a natural with kids, but even you must be able to appreciate that a strange foreign woman vaulting the gates and assaulting a ten-year-old because of a
playground scuffle is cause for concern. They probably thought you were trying to nick one of them!’

‘Hardly,’ Clem snorted, slumping lower in the seat.

‘Well, obviously
I
know you’ve got more maternal instincts for your shoes than kids, but they don’t,’ Stella quipped. ‘Have they called the
police?’

‘Yeah, but they called Chiara to come and get Luca, too. I think she’s in there now, trying to sort it out.’ She sighed, exasperated. ‘I don’t know. They
won’t let me in.’

‘Where’s Gabriel? I bet he’s got scary lawyers who could sort this out.’

‘It’s not going to come to that! Anyway I don’t want him involved in this. Chiara’s the best person to sort this out. She can tell them I do actually know Luca.’
She sighed again, worn out by the debacle. ‘Cheer me up with your news; how are you feeling? Boobs big?’

‘Big?’ Stella screeched. ‘They’ve tripled! Mine are making Mercy’s look like bee stings.’

‘Oscar’s happy though, right?’ Clem guffawed.

‘Yeah.’ Stella laughed down the line. ‘Yeah, he really is.’

‘Well, I’ll be able to see for myself next week.’ She braced herself for the response. Phase One was go!

Stella gasped. ‘What? You mean you’re coming back?’

‘Next few days hopefully. Now Tom’s out here, he can take over the project – we don’t both need to be here – and it’d be better if he stayed here, away from
you-know-who for a while.’ Even to herself, the alibi sounded convincing.

‘And what does Gabriel think? He was the one who lured you out there in the first place.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him about it yet, but why should he object? This whole job was just a ruse to get me alone, and . . . well, he’s got me. It doesn’t matter now if
we’re in Portofino or Portobello.’

‘Mmm,’ Stella murmured, and Clem could hear the distant rustle of a crisp packet. ‘Or maybe you’re just pretending you want to come back ’cos the authorities are
gonna deport you anyway.’

Clem rolled her eyes as Stella cackled wickedly in her ear, her eyes trained on the silhouetted figures behind the glass door. They had come closer.

The handle of the door turned, the murmur of voices low now as the meeting on the other side came to a close. ‘I’d better go. Looks like they’re coming out to tell me my
fate.’

‘Keep me posted about when you’re coming back. I’ll get some fresh milk and bread in for you.’

‘Sure thing.’

She disconnected and put her phone back in her bag, throwing a sulky look across at the male teacher who was watching her closely as if she might make a break for it.

The door opened and she looked up as the local guardia came out, putting his hat back on and coming over to her with a stern expression. The headmaster followed after him and . . . Rafa too.

Her mouth dropped open in shock, then closed again in embarrassment. Their eyes met briefly and she looked away, feeling furious and humiliated by his presence. Where was Chiara?

The guardia said something slowly to her, but she was too thrown to keep up and just looked back at him blankly.

‘He says you are not allowed to come to the school again,’ Rafa said, watching as her cheeks stained a deep, dirty red.

‘Yeah, like I’d want to,’ she muttered, keeping her eyes off him and staring mutinously at the policeman and headmaster instead.

‘They have to hear you say it,’ Rafa continued. ‘I said you would promise. The headmaster wanted to press charges.’

‘For what? I didn’t
do
anything,’ she protested crossly.

‘Trespassing.’

‘
Trespassing
?’ she echoed, incredulous. ‘For Christ’s sake! That boy was bullying Luca.’

Rafa refused to be drawn. ‘Just say it. Then we can go.’

His voice was quiet and had a calm, faintly pleading tone that she hadn’t heard before. She looked back at him. His usual scowl had gone and his eyes were begging her not to be stubborn
– not today, not right now.

‘Fine,’ she said finally. She looked back at the headmaster. ‘I promise not to come near the school again.’ She felt ridiculous and made her feelings plain, enunciating
the words with exaggerated, sarcastic care.

The teacher and policeman both narrowed their eyes at her tone – which translated perfectly – but before either could react, Rafa quickly spoke to them both in quiet, conciliatory
tones, whilst grabbing her by the arm and marching her through the door, out of sight and out of trouble.

Without a word, he part-led, part-dragged her across the playground, and several times she had to jog to keep up with him. His hand was still on her arm, the fingers pressing hard into her
flesh, as they had that afternoon two days ago when she’d startled him in the garden suite, and she wondered whether he knew he was hurting her.

He marched her through the gates – now unlocked – and stopped in front of a miniature green three-wheeled truck that looked like the love child of a Reliant Robin and a Piaggio.

‘Get in.’

She wanted to laugh; he couldn’t possibly be serious. But one look at his face told her that he was – deadly so – and she falteringly opened the door and peered in. An empty
hand-crushed can of Coke was sitting on the seat, along with an old copy of
La Repubblica
that had notes written in red biro up the sides. Rafa threw himself into his seat and waited, with
an impatient expression, for her to get in; the scowl was coming back as habit won out.

Clem bit her lip and climbed in; her thighs lifted clear off the seat there was so little room to stretch them out. She could actually feel his body heat radiating towards her in the tiny cab,
his shoulder just an inch from hers, and she leaned slightly towards the window, away from him. Rafa turned on the ignition and pulled away with a squeal of tyres, not bothering to indicate or use
his mirrors. Clem’s hand automatically reached for the handle overhead, trying to balance and keep her body from being pressed against his as they swung around the bended, narrow roads out of
town and back towards Portofino.

She looked out of the window, trying to concentrate on the rugged majesty of the coastline, but her mind wasn’t on the scenery. Every part of her – mind, body and soul – was
trapped in this tiny cab with him, his musky smell covering her like invisible smoke, the silence like a bloodied, beating heart throbbing between them.

His driving calmed as they moved further away from Santa Margherita, partly because the twists were too perilous to take at any speed, much less in a vehicle with all the traction and finesse of
a shopping trolley. She dropped her hand from the handle and clamped both of them between her knees instead; Rafa looked across at her a couple of times, their eyes meeting fleetingly in looks that
neither of them held.

They passed through the little tunnel, past the striped water-lapped folly, then the red-coloured beach huts and sandy beach of Paraggio, which neighboured Chiara’s bay – she rolled
her lips, anxious to get there and out of the truck. The silence between them felt oppressive, airless and draining, pushing her further when she’d already been pushed enough today. She was
at the limits of her emotional endurance and felt ready to snap. She had to see Chiara, Tom . . . friendly faces.

The little yellow hotel hove into view as they rounded the sharp bend and a sigh of relief escaped her, prompting Rafa to glance across at her again. He parked with vehement carelessness astride
three spaces in the small car park, and she quickly unbuckled the seat belt, rushing to get out.

She turned to open the door when she felt his hot hand on her arm. She stalled at his touch, but the heavy silence between them remained. She twisted back to face him, though she wouldn’t
meet his eyes.

‘Thank you for your help,’ she said quietly, obediently, politely.

But it wasn’t gratitude that he wanted. The pressure in his hand increased and she looked up at him, bewildered.

His eyes were shining with barely suppressed emotion, all the defiance and pride he usually wore like a mask was gone. ‘You never said why . . .’ His voice was thick, every word an
agony to get out, and she felt her heart begin to pound like a boxer’s fist, the blood pooling to her feet.

‘I . . . I couldn’t,’ she managed, her voice no longer husked but raspy, as if it had been sandpapered. ‘I can’t.’

‘Even
now?
All this time later?’ There was anger and disbelief behind his words, the muscles in his arms solid with tension, the tendons in his forearms straining beneath
the self-control this conversation required.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, her voice too broken to do the job.

He dropped her arm with a look of disgust, his other arm stretched over the steering wheel as he stared out through the windscreen.

‘I–I wanted t—’ she tried.

‘Just get out.’ The words were like bullets, coated with a contempt that was designed to wound, but it was the sight of him, so closed, that pulled the sob from her like a
reflex.

Blinded by tears, she reached for the door, grappling with the handle and having to kick it with her feet to force it open. She ran towards the back door, already able to see Tom and Chiara
through the glazed window, both sitting by the table, their heads bowed together as Tom patted Chiara’s shoulder, her head dropped disconsolately. Clem burst in, turning to push the door shut
as if she were trying to keep an intruder out.

But he hadn’t followed. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was still sitting in the car, his elbows on the steering wheel and his face in his hands.

‘Clem! What the hell happened? What did they do to you?’ Tom asked in alarm as he took in her blotchy skin and juddering breaths as she struggled to compose herself in front of
them.

‘It’s f–fine,’ she managed. ‘Just a s-storm in a teacup.’

‘It doesn’t look it,’ Tom said, coming over and placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘We only just got the message. Rafa took the call; Chiara and I were on the terraces over
the road when the school rang. He just left a note on the table and raced off. We had to wait here for Luca to be dropped back.’

She swallowed. ‘Where is he? Where’s Luca now?’

As if in answer, a grubby little face emerged from under the table, his dusty, bloodied cheeks streaked clean with tear tracks. His doe eyes blinked at her, just as they had that first day, with
the broken window lying smashed on the ground between them.

‘Sorry,’ he said in a tiny voice. ‘I did not want you to be trouble.’

Clem laughed at the comment – no one ever did! – though she understood his sentiment. ‘It’s OK, Luca. I’m a toughie. Your teachers don’t scare me. I’d
do it all over again.’ She crouched down to his level. ‘Are
you
OK? Did you get your ball back?’

He swallowed and nodded.

‘It looked like you landed some big thumps on him.’ She pulled a fist with her own hand, to show him what she meant, and he nodded again, his eyes still enormous with apprehension.
‘Good.’ She smiled and straightened up, holding her hand out for a high-five.

His smile, by return, split his face with relief – a flash of devilment returning – and he dashed out from under the table, ignoring her hand altogether and throwing his arms around
her waist.

‘Thank you,’ he said in a small voice, so that it rumbled against her tummy.

‘Any time,’ she whispered, roughing his hair lightly with her hand.

Clem looked across at Chiara, who was still sitting at the table, watching them. ‘I’m afraid everything that happened meant I didn’t actually get round to doing the
shopping,’ she said apologetically.

‘You call getting arrested an
excuse
?’ Chiara dead-panned before an infectious smile gave her away. ‘Is OK. I have chicken. We can have Milanese.’

‘Get in!’ Tom rejoiced, prompting a delighted smile from Chiara as she moved over to the cupboard and began rifling through the contents for the ingredients. Clem noticed Tom looking
at Chiara’s suntanned legs below her orange printed sundress as Luca scooted back across the kitchen to get his ball.

Clem walked over to the sink and let the water run cold before splashing it on her face a few times. She always looked hellish when she cried. She patted her skin dry and saw through the window
that the little green truck had gone. She could guess where to.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t. This time next week she’d be home and today would be just another memory that she would hide from the light, letting the colours, sounds and smells
fade like an old photograph, until nothing remained but a vague, indistinct ache.

It was Tuesday – ‘the new Friday night’ in her book – and, as usual, she’d got nothing done. Luca had spent the morning trying to teach her
football tricks – nutmegs, round-the-worlds and rainbow flicks – although Clem had only come out of it with bruised shins that matched his, and the afternoon session of doing bombs off
the rocks had left them both with red bottoms.

‘You’ve broken me. I hope you don’t abuse all your babysitters in this way,’ Clem teased, sitting down on the small shingly beach as he skimmed stones across the water,
using the legendary Alderton method her father had taught her as a girl.

Luca laughed, before scoring a six on the water. He cheered, jumping up and down on the spot, and she rested her chin on her knees to watch him. She could have sworn he’d grown just in the
time she’d been out here; his hair was longer and flopped in his eyes, his skin two tones darker after a summer of racing around in shorts and bare feet.

As was hers. She fiddled with her top. She was wearing a yellow bandeau bikini today, trying to even out her tan lines, and she’d tied her hair into a scruffy topknot to get it off her
shoulders.