Summer at the Lake (36 page)

Uncomfortably aware that she was still straining to reach the middle of her back with sun cream, he forced himself to say: ‘You’re going to dislocate your shoulder if you carry on like that, how about I do it for you.’

‘That’s OK,’ she said, ‘you don’t want to get your hands all greasy when you’re trying to work.’

He hesitated. Was that her polite way of saying
touch me and you’re dead?

No, that was paranoia kicking in. ‘It’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘But Esme’s right, you are looking a bit pink already.’

‘Really?’ She twisted round to try and get a better look over her shoulder.

Dispensing with his laptop, he put his hand out for the tube of sun cream.

He’d barely touched her when alarmingly she let out a long sigh. ‘It’s such a beautiful place, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I may never want to leave. I can quite understand how Esme fell in love here. How romantic it must have been for her, especially when you think how young she was.’

‘Not that romantic,’ he said, his hands moving slowly over her sun-warmed skin – pale skin not often exposed to the sun, he reflected. ‘They parted before they really got to know each other, after all.’

‘That doesn’t mean it wasn’t romantic the short time they were together.’

‘Define romantic,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘That’s like asking me to define intelligence, strictly speaking it can’t be done as there’s no empirical cast-iron test.’

‘OK then, which is more romantic in your opinion: a happy or a tragic ending?’

‘Hmm . . . good question. But if you think I’m going to cite Romeo and Juliet as the ultimate romantic couple, think again. I’ve always thought they were ridiculously ill-matched.’

‘Hold your hair up a bit more,’ he said, not wanting to dwell on that last comment. She did as he asked and it took all of his will power not to kiss the nape of her neck. Just one small kiss. Then maybe one of her right shoulder, and then her left and . . .

‘Oh, look,’ she said, stopping dead his thoughts and making him realise his hands had stopped moving and he’d leant in perilously close. ‘Esme’s chatting to Domenico. What a dark horse she’s been, knowing how to speak Italian so well and not letting on. There’s such a lot she hasn’t told us. For instance, we don’t even know for sure that she and Marco slept together.’

‘I think we can take it as a given that they did,’ Adam said. ‘What we have no real idea about is what happened afterwards. We’re assuming Marco went off to become a priest while Esme and her father returned to England and moved to Oxford.’

‘What else could have happened?’

‘That,’ said Adam, ‘is the million-dollar question. There, that’s you done.’

He passed Floriana the tube of sun cream and went to cool off in the pool. And not because he was too hot.

Floriana was worried that the heat was proving too much for Esme. It wasn’t like her to be so quiet and withdrawn. Although it would be quite understandable if it was nervous anticipation that was causing her to be so pensive.

They were driving along the lake road to Hotel Margherita, or Villa Margherita as it was now. From the back of the car, Floriana observed Esme carefully, taking in how still and tense she was as she stared intently out of the window. During lunch, which they’d decided to have at the villa seeing as they had a fridge full of food care of Domenico and his sister Renata, Esme’s sole contribution to the conversation had been to say that she had spoken to Domenico about the Bassani family. Apparently the name meant nothing to him, but then he had only moved to the lake twenty years ago when his wife had died. He’d promised to ask around. More than anything, Floriana hoped he came up with a lead for them. It would be so wonderful to know what had happened to Esme’s first love.

So preoccupied with her elderly friend’s happiness, Floriana had barely given her own a second thought since arriving here yesterday afternoon. By rights, the thought of Seb and Imogen’s impending wedding on Saturday should fill her with dread, but it didn’t. Mostly that was due to knowing she would have Adam at her side. Having him there would ensure she would get through the day with her dignity fully intact. There would be no yelling
It should have been me!
No drinking too much and disgracing herself. And no blubbing. Absolutely no blubbing. She would be a model of sobriety and self-control. She would be a noble and shining example of magnanimous goodwill. Well, that was the plan.

Admiring the passing scenery of lakeside villages, she had to admit that she was looking forward to showing Adam off as her plus-one – Imogen certainly wouldn’t expect her to show up with anyone so attractive and so obviously out of her league. She’d expect a hairy-toed hobbit to be more Floriana’s level! A small laugh escaped from her at the thought.

‘Something amusing you?’ Adam asked, raising his glance to her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Don’t ask, it involves hobbits and hairy feet.’

‘Of course it does,’ he said with a smile, ‘doesn’t it always?’

A short while later, he turned off the main road and drew to a stop in front of the closed wrought-iron gates of their destination. His window down, he leant out to press a button on the intercom when a car appeared on the other side of the gates. Reversing out of the way, the gates slowly swung open. The other car drew alongside and, lowering his window, the driver gave them an enquiring look.

They had decided earlier that Floriana would be the one to try and talk their way into Villa Margherita, that – in Adam’s words – with her bubbling enthusiasm and colourful imagination she would be able to plead their case like no other. So stepping out of the car and dispensing with any attempt to stumble over the limited Italian words and phrases she’d learnt, she asked if the man spoke English.

‘Of course,’ he replied in a manner that implied she was mad to think he didn’t. ‘How can I help you?’ He spoke with an impressively flawless English accent.

Working on the basis he could be the owner, she launched into the explanation for their visit, indicating Esme at the appropriate moment, who right on cue bestowed one of her most charming and regal smiles on the stranger, and then finishing up with an entreaty into which she hoped she poured sufficient heart and soul that would guarantee that only the most hard-hearted of souls would refuse to show them round their home.

‘I see,’ he said, when she’d brought her petition to a close, ‘but I’m very sorry to tell you, the owner is not here.’

Floriana’s heart sank. All that effort and he wasn’t even the owner!

‘But,’ he went on, a smile beginning to work its way over his face, ‘there is a way you could see the villa. It’s for sale and I’m the estate agent selling it. Now if you were to say you were interested in buying it, then I could personally show you round.’

Floriana could have kissed him! She turned delightedly to Esme and Adam. ‘Oh yes, we’re very interested in buying the villa, aren’t we?’ To the man, she said, ‘Would it be possible to see it now?’

He checked his watch. ‘I was on my way back to the office in Menaggio, I only came to collect the mail, but . . .’

‘We could come back another time if it would be more convenient to you,’ Esme called from the car. ‘Would tomorrow be better?’

Still looking at his watch, as if struggling to make out what time it was, he came to a decision with a nod. ‘No, now is better, I can make the call I need to later. Follow me down.’

With both cars parked, the agent – a tall angular man with curly black hair and an immaculately trimmed beard – introduced himself as Giovanni Zazzaroni and took them round to the main entrance that overlooked the lake. Standing on the gravel pathway and looking down the incline of lawn, Esme felt as if she had taken a step back in time. Little had changed. Or so it seemed.

Behind her, Adam was talking to the agent about property prices and how stable the market was in this part of Italy. Next to her, Floriana was silently taking in the view. ‘Is it how you remembered it?’ she asked eventually.

‘It’s entirely the same. I feel as though any minute I’ll spot my father with his easel in a shady corner, and there –’ she pointed beyond the stone fountain that wasn’t working – ‘will be the Kelly-Webbs holding hands, and then Elizabeth will come rushing across the terrace to tell me some snippet of gossip, and if I listen carefully I’ll hear Elena scolding Alberto in the vegetable garden for some terrible crime he’s committed.’

‘And what about Angelo and Marco, are they here?’

Esme swallowed and her gaze travelled the length of the lawn to the stone steps flanked by two magnificent cypress trees. ‘Yes,’ she said simply, but not elaborating further.

Adam approached. ‘He’s unlocking the house for us now.’

She turned to see the agent taking a large bunch of keys out of the leather bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Keep him talking at all times so I can take some photos,’ Floriana whispered to Adam.

‘Oh, I don’t think we should do that,’ Esme said anxiously, ‘it seems too rude, let’s not forget this is somebody’s home.’

‘I promise I’ll be discreet,’ Floriana said, ‘and it’s not like the photos will be for public consumption, only yours.’

The house was markedly cooler inside and as the hallway with its polished floor and heavy gilt-framed paintings stretched out before Esme, her bare arms prickled with gooseflesh. The doors leading off from the hall were all closed, adding further to the gloom. In front of her was the wide staircase and she remembered how she had stood at the top and witnessed Marco’s arrival from Venice with his aunt Giulia.

She turned to their guide. ‘Who is the present owner? Are you allowed to tell us that?’

‘It’s two sisters from Milan. Your friend –’ he indicated Floriana – ‘said earlier that the time you stayed here back in 1950 when the house was run as a hotel, it was owned by a Signora Bassani. I have heard of this name, but I know nothing about the family, other than the last remaining member of the family sold it in the late 1950s and then it was sold again in the 70s to a Signor Farella in Milan. On his death, his two sisters inherited the villa and now they themselves are too old to benefit from it so want to sell it. They’ve already sold some of the more valuable pieces of furniture and paintings.’

‘How much do they want for the house?’ asked Floriana. She gave a little laugh. ‘Just out of curiosity.’

The agent smiled back at her and Esme couldn’t fail to notice how with an Italian instinct born of old, he eyed Floriana from top to toe in a single sweep of his roguish eyes. ‘It’s on the market for ten million,’ he said. ‘That’s euros. But,’ he added with a teasing lilt to his voice, ‘an offer would be considered.’

Floriana whistled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘And now, allow me to open the doors so you can have a proper look round.’ He led the way into what Esme remembered as the drawing room. Opening the shutters, his voice echoing in the large semi-furnished room, he said, ‘Forgive me if I don’t open the shutters in all of the rooms, it would take too long; I have another appointment in an hour.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ Esme said, ‘I’m just so very grateful you’ve allowed me this opportunity to have a look.’

The ringing of his mobile had him apologising and excusing himself to take the call out in the hall. In his absence, Adam finished the job of opening windows and pushing back the shutters. With dust motes dancing in the sunlight now streaming into the room, Esme again had the profoundest sensation of stepping back in time. So much so, the hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

‘It’s quite extraordinary,’ she said with a shiver, going over to the black marble fireplace, ‘the furniture and furnishings are not that different from what I remember, though it has to have changed.’

Looking about him at the ornately decorated ceiling and intricate cornice picked out in gold, Adam said, ‘Maybe the previous owner . . . what was his name?’

‘Signor Farella,’ Floriana supplied, standing behind the open door and taking a photograph with her mobile phone.

‘Maybe Signor Farella wanted to preserve the original look,’ Adam continued. ‘How old do you think the place is?’

‘I believe it was built in the 1830s.’

‘The
signora
is correct,’ Giovanni Zazzaroni said, coming back into the room, the soft rubber soles of his shoes squeaking on the marble floor.

Behind him, and out of view, Floriana hastily pocketed her mobile.

‘May we see the dining room, please?’ Esme asked, flashing a warning look at Floriana.

‘Certainly.’

‘If it will help, Floriana and I will close the shutters here and catch the two of you up,’ Adam said. The agent nodded his thanks and Esme walked on ahead with him, guessing that left alone with Adam, Floriana would use the opportunity to take more photographs.

The dining room was as grand as Esme remembered. The glorious
trompe l’oeil
effect of a vaulted ceiling was perfectly preserved – she had been worried it would have been painted over by some ghastly modernist philistine. To the contrary, it appeared to have been very carefully restored; the paintwork looked to be in pristine order.

‘It’s very fine, is it not?’ the agent commented, after he’d opened the last of the windows and shutters and the room was flooded with sunlight.

‘Indeed it is,’ she murmured. ‘I’m glad it has been so well looked after.’

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you know the Bassani family well?’

‘I . . .’ She paused, wondering how much to tell this stranger. ‘It was Giulia Bassani’s nephew I knew best, Marco Bassani. But we lost touch when . . . when he went on to become a priest. I must admit to being curious to know what happened to him.’

‘Would you like me to try and find somebody who might know something? If you gave me some other names of the people who worked here at the time, there’s a strong chance they’ll be local and can help give you some answers.’

‘I wouldn’t like to put you to any trouble.’

‘It would be a pleasure,’ he said. ‘I like to have a problem to solve.’

She gazed about her at the Wedgwood-blue walls and the marble floor. ‘Do you think it will be a problem selling this house? It’s very expensive.’