Christmas at Claridge's (44 page)

She walked up the path, unaware that she had started to tiptoe, the grasses in the garden brushing against her bare knees; she saw a football lying inert by the jasmine hedge, but she
didn’t stop. Her eyes were on the small house. A wind chime hung at one of the windows, revolving slowly, and she could hear the sound of running water coming from within. A shower? So he
hadn’t come home last night; he’d gone on to his girlfriend’s after working at the villa. The realization flattened her, even though she was guilty of the same crime herself.

She pushed open the outer door, which was covered with a mesh mosquito frame, and stepped into the cool, dark few square metres that passed as a kitchen. It was clean and functional, with mainly
grey melamine and rough wood surfaces, clearly patched together on an ‘as needed’ basis. A glass was sitting in the sink and there was a box of Coronas on top of the old white, humming
fridge.

She walked through into the sitting room. It was much the same as the kitchen – spare, bald, impersonal – only a pair of jeans strewn across the sofa gave any indication that someone
actually lived here.

No, that wasn’t quite true. On the windowsill, she saw a single wooden-framed photograph. She walked over to it. Luca was sitting on Rafa’s shoulders, Chiara leaning against him, her
arms around his waist, with one hand on Luca’s leg as she gazed contentedly at the camera.

Clem stared, frozen, at the photo that was testament to the happy family they’d been. From the looks of Luca, the photo could only have been taken in the past year or two, yet she could
see a vivid change in them all now, even Luca. In the photo, they all looked peaceful and unaware of the sadness that was coming their way. Seeing the boy on his father’s shoulders, their
faces stacked together, the resemblance between them was startling: they shared the same liquid chocolate eyes, proud mouths and scruffy hair.

A sound behind her made her turn and she saw Rafa coming out of the bedroom, pulling a clean, faded navy T-shirt over his head. He stopped dead at the sight of her in the house, holding the
photograph. She saw the way his muscles tensed. It was easy to – his skin was damp from the hasty shower and his T-shirt was gripping onto his stomach, in no hurry to fall. She tried really
hard not to look. Really, really hard.

‘I–I didn’t mean to snoop,’ she said in a small voice, putting the photo back down again with nervous hands. ‘It’s a lovely picture.’

She looked up again to find Rafa still immobile, silence the faithful companion that sat between them at all times, like an obedient dog.

‘Rafa, please,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t . . . don’t look at me like that.’

‘You think I hate you,’ he said, echoing her earlier rant at Chad.

‘Yes.’ She shrugged haplessly, before shaking her head lightly. ‘I don’t know . . . I just know you don’t want me here.’

‘I
don’t want
you
here? You were the one who ran when you saw me.’

She remembered her violent reaction to seeing him and Luca that evening on the path.

‘That was shock. I didn’t expect to see you.’

‘How? This is a small village. You knew I lived here.’

‘I knew you
once
lived here. You could have moved away for all I knew.’

‘You knew through Chiara’s letters that I still lived here,’ he argued with almost leisurely certainty, his voice low and calm.

‘Yes, but then you broke up . . .’ she mumbled weakly. He watched her looking around the room, her gaze anxious and flitting, unable to settle on anything, least of all him.
‘Did you . . . did you know I knew her?’ She tried to hold his gaze.

He went perfectly still, and for a second she thought he wasn’t going to answer again. ‘Not until two years ago.’

Two years ago? That was when his relationship with Chiara had begun to unravel ‘And did you tell her you . . . knew me?’

He inhaled sharply, his head tipping back with the movement. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘It was the past. Dead.’ He lobbed the word at her like a grenade, letting it explode between them.

She froze in the blast, her body trembling from the direct hit, and turned to leave.

‘Why did you come back?’

She looked back at him. ‘I had no choice. I was trying to help Tom. I came here for him, not to . . . not to complicate your life.’

He gave a short, bitter snort, planting his hands on his hips and finally, inadvertently, dislodging the T-shirt to hide the rest of his stomach.
‘Now
you worry about complicating
my life . . .’ he muttered, his handsome face juggling pain and pride all at once. ‘Well, thank you for the concern, but my life is very uncomplicated, very simple: I am a single man
and enjoying it.’ The memory of the blonde against the wall shimmered between them like a hologram and Clem looked away. She couldn’t say what she wanted to, so what was the point in
saying anything?

A muffled bang outside made them both turn and Clem’s eyes widened with horror; the sound was unmistakeable. Rafa, paralysed for a moment, sprinted through the kitchen and out into the
garden. By the time Clem caught up with him on the pavement, he had sunk to sitting on his heels, his hands in his hair.

A hundred yards down the hill, black smoke was puffing in plumes into the blue sky from the crumpled bonnet of the green comedy truck, the stoic tree it was resting against marginally less
upright than it had been for the last fifty years. Paint was streaked all over the back from upturned pots so that it looked more like a Pollock than a Piaggio.

‘Oh
shit
,’ she whispered. ‘Handbrake.’

‘Gorgeous!’ Clem smiled as soon as Stella picked up. ‘Got your looks for sure.’

‘You got it then,’ Stella chuckled. ‘She looks like a jelly-bean, doesn’t she? I don’t know how those people can tell jack-shit from looking on those scans. Oscar
thought her leg was a willy.’

‘Her? Does that mean you found out the sex?’

‘Nah. Oscar’s convinced it’s a boy but I’m betting it’s a pink one.’

‘Well, as long as it’s one
or
the other, I won’t mind either way. How are you feeling?’

Stella yawned. ‘Knackered. Not getting much sleep. She’s really beginning to kick now.’

‘Still taking your folic acid I hope?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ Stella replied. ‘Anyway what are you doing? You sound like you’re shovelling bricks.’

‘Thanks! I’m actually just walking over to Chiara’s for supper. Gabriel’s away tonight.’

There was a short pause and then the sound of humming down the line. ‘Happy Birthday’?

‘You know full well it’s not my birthday till November,’ Clem pouted.

‘Not that, you daft nana! It’s your three-month birthday. You and Hot Lips.’

What?

‘Stop that! I can hear you panicking from here. It’s fine. It’s good. You can do this,’ Stella instructed bossily, rustling open some crisps. ‘If I can have a baby,
you can go past your twelve-week rule. I’m not going to be a grown-up on my own. You’re doing it with me.’

Clem gave a small, indistinct sound that Stella decided to take as concurrence.

‘Next week, you and me are going on some sort of adulthood course. I need to get my shit together before this baby comes.’

‘About that . . .’

Stella stopped munching.

‘I’m afraid it’s going to be another few weeks before I can come home after all.’

‘Oh Cl–e–m!’ Stella whined. ‘I knew this would happen! Why’d you get my hopes up like that? I’m an emotional wreck as it is! My hormones are all over the
place.’

‘I’m sorry. I thought that with Tom being here I could get away.’

‘So why can’t you then?’

Clem remembered Chiara’s face in the gelateria. ‘There’s just stuff that I need to finish before I go.’

Stella tutted. ‘Well, just so long as you’re bloody well back before Christmas. You do know you’re my birth partner, right?’

‘What?
But what about Oscar?’

‘Ozzie?’ Stella laughed. ‘Listen, I love him to pieces, I really do, but the boy has a phobia about jelly, for Christ’s sake. He’ll be as much comfort to me in
there as . . . as your mother!’

Both women shuddered. ‘Talking of which, have you seen my folks recently? They’re
never
at home when I try calling.’

‘Hmm, come to think of it, I haven’t. And I did pass the house last night on my way to preggers yoga. The place looked empty – all the lights were off and it was after nine by
then.’

‘Probably playing bridge,’ Clem replied, knowing her parents’ social diary by heart, just as something knocked against the back of her knees suddenly, causing them to give. She
yelped before turning in alarm. Luca was grinning back at her from the steps above, his football rolling by her feet.

‘You monkey!’ she shrieked, picking it up. ‘Stell, I’ve gotta go. I’m under attack.’

‘Huh?’ It was the best sound she could manage with a mouth full of crisps.

‘Nothing to worry about. I’ll call tomorrow.’

She pressed disconnect and held the ball out as Luca jumped down the steps three at a time towards her. ‘You’ve been up at the lighthouse again.’ She grinned, taking in his
wind-tangled hair. The same thing happened to hers up there, too. ‘Why do you like it up there so much? It’s a pretty long walk.’

Luca gave a little shrug. ‘Bianca gives me ice cream that must be finished by the end of the day.’

‘Oh, does she?’ Clem grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll start going up there myself then.’

‘No!’ Luca looked worried. ‘She say it for the local children only.’

‘Oh fine then.’ Clem winked at him. ‘Well, I was actually just on my way to your house; maybe there’s some ice cream over there,’ she said, putting her arm over his
shoulder and squeezing it. ‘You can be my bodyguard.’

They started down the steps together, walking into the shade of the park and following the dusty winding tracks that would lead down to the fishing boats. But where they would usually be joking
around, Luca seemed quiet and distracted. She frowned, glancing down at him frequently as they shuffled along in silence.

‘Is everything OK, Luca?’ she asked, resting a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged.

‘You just seem a bit quiet today, that’s all.’

He shrugged again, and she bit her lip, nervous about pushing him on it. Was it that bully at school again?

‘All right, but just remember I got in trouble with the
police
for you! I’m always on your side, OK? You can tell me anything.’

He looked up at her, a more interested smile on his face, and she grinned back, ruffling his hair as they walked across the crowded piazzetta.

On the footpath on the far side of the port, she finally managed to engage him in a fierce competition of racing back to the hotel without stepping on the cracks, and they hopped and skittered
along like crazy people, barging each other with their elbows until he finally dazzled her with his elfin smile again. Clem thought she might burst with pride that she had turned his mood around.
She
had!

Luca got to the finish line first, entering the passcode on the guest entrance as Clem caught up, disputing his win.

‘I saw you cheat.’ She grinned. ‘You definitely ran over the last four.’

‘No! Was only two!’ Luca contradicted as he skipped down the stairs, before realizing he’d just dropped himself in it. They both laughed, throwing the ball between them, like
basketball players, down the corridor. Clem dummied a bounce pass before doing an overhead shot that sailed over him into the kitchen.

Luca ran after it.

Clem followed him a moment later and almost tripped straight over him. Luca was standing stock-still, only inches into the room, the ball still bouncing lightly by the fridge on the far
wall.

‘H–hi!’ Tom managed, straightening up from the kitchen table.

Clem blinked in shock as she watched Chiara slide off the table beneath him, smoothing her hair and rumpled dress, her lips the colour of crushed raspberries.

‘Ciao,
Luca,’ she murmured.

The boy didn’t reply. Clem automatically placed a hand to his shoulder. His small body felt rigid and tight.

Tom cleared his throat. ‘Good day at school, buddy?’ he asked, summoning up one of his gap-toothed grins. Usually Tom could charm the devil, but there was a heavy silence as Luca
stayed quiet. Clem couldn’t see his face, but she could feel, beneath her hand, that he was holding his breath, that every muscle in his body had set as hard as concrete. Then he turned and
fled the room in a movement so fluid and quick that he was gone before she could even react.

‘Luca!’ Clem cried, spinning around.

‘Leave him,’ Chiara said calmly.

‘Shit!’ Tom said under his breath, raking a hand through his hair and looking back at Chiara worriedly.

Clem glared at him and he shrugged, helplessly. ‘It wasn’t on purpose, sis. We just lost . . . track of time.’

Clem rolled her eyes, but she knew it could have been worse. A lot worse.

She looked across at Chiara, who had her back to them and was smoothing her hair with her hands. Clem saw the way Tom watched her, worried about her reaction, worried she might call it all a
mistake.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured, walking up behind her and sliding his hands up her arms. ‘It was all my fault.’

Chiara sank back into his chest. ‘No.’ She wrapped her arms around herself till her hands found his. ‘He had to find out at some point.’

‘Yes, but of all the ways to introduce me as your new boyfriend to your son, that wasn’t ideal.’

Chiara turned and stared up at him. ‘But Luca is not my son, Tom.’

Tom took a half step back in surprise, his hands dropping hers.
‘What?’

Clem almost keeled over with shock.

‘Luca is not my son,’ Chiara said in a quiet voice.

Only the almost-empty bottle of wine in the middle of the table stopped the scene from looking like a council of war – fingers threading, knuckles blanched, expressions
tense and anxious all at once, as Chiara and Tom looked at one another reassuringly while they waited for Rafa to arrive.