Summer at the Lake (51 page)

‘You’re right, he did.’

‘But the important question is, has he unsettled you?’

Floriana blew on her tea and took a sip. ‘Just how much do you know about Adam and me? Has he spoken to you about us?’

‘You know as well as I do how little Adam willingly gives away, but after – and I make no apology for this – but after I applied a degree of pressure, he reluctantly confided in me. But to answer you properly, I’d say I know enough to be aware that for a brief time, despite how discreet you both were, the two of you had realised how you felt about each other, that there was an attraction; something more than mere friendship. Has that changed as a result of Seb’s actions?’

‘In some ways yes,’ Floriana said, ‘I’d be a liar to say anything different, but it was for no more than a blink of an eye. Yet as sudden and short-lived as the shift was, it was sufficient to make me appreciate what Adam means to me and how he makes me feel.’

‘And what does he make you feel?’

‘One word covers it: happy. I feel happy when I’m with him. Which is the opposite of what Seb makes me feel. I never understood until now just what a great weight of sadness I carry around when I’m with Seb.’

‘Did you tell Adam this? Did you reassure him?’

‘I wanted to but I never got the chance, we were never alone long enough to talk properly. Then when we were, when you were waiting to meet Marco, I was about to, but his brother phoned and then nothing else mattered apart from getting Adam back to England as fast as possible.’

Esme thought about Adam travelling home worrying about his father and not knowing where he stood with Floriana. It must have been a tortuous journey for him. ‘You were watching me in San Marco, weren’t you?’ she said.

‘Did you see us?’

Taking the opportunity to cheer Floriana up with a small distraction, she said, ‘Of course I did. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist catching a glimpse of Marco.’

‘I wish I’d taken a photograph of the two of you now; it would have been a lovely keepsake for you to have at home.’

‘A nice idea, but keepsakes at my age are somewhat superfluous. Besides, it’s all in here.’ She tapped the side of her head. But at the same time, her mind’s eye conjured up the keepsake Marco had kept all these years – her much-loved copy of
Room With a View
, which she had read to him when he was ill in bed and subsequently given to him as a parting gift to remember her by when he’d left the lake. Today, when they’d finished their meal, he had stunned her by pulling the book out of his leather briefcase and shown her a faded black and white photograph contained within the yellowed pages – it was a picture her father had taken of the two of them in Venice when they’d first met.

‘Well, anyway, I’m glad lunch went well for you both,’ Floriana said, breaking into Esme’s thoughts, ‘and that I was able to meet Marco. He was charming. And still quite the looker.’

Esme smiled. ‘Yes, I rather thought so too.’

Following their lunch Marco had escorted Esme back to the Danieli and it was there that they found Floriana waiting for her in the foyer of the hotel with the news that Adam had left and they would now be travelling back to the lake by train. Marco had insisted they let him arrange a private water taxi to the station as well as accompany them there.

Saying goodbye to Marco on the crowded platform had been poignantly evocative of the time he’d done it before, when he’d waved Esme and her father
arrivederci
and said he hoped very much to see them again one day. ‘I remember saying that,’ he’d said earlier this evening on the platform when Esme had reminded him of their first parting. ‘And I’m going to say it again because,
cara mia
, this cannot be the end. Not yet. Promise me that.’

‘I promise,’ she’d said, having no idea how such a promise could be kept.

Holding her against him as a group of noisy teenage girls jostled around them, he’d kissed her lightly on the mouth. ‘Write to me. You have my address, yes?’

‘It’s in my handbag,’ she said.

‘And maybe your friends will make a modern woman of you and teach you how to use a computer so you can email me?’

‘They will!’ Floriana had butted in. ‘I’ll personally see to that. Come on, Esme,’ she’d added, ‘the train’s about to go, we need to get a move on, unless you’re planning to stay.’

‘
Arrivederci
,
cara
,’ Marco had said as Esme had passed her case to Floriana and climbed up the steps onto the train.

With the train moving slowing out of the station, she had waved back at Marco until he was lost in the distance and she could no longer see him. Even then she continued waving; her vision blurred with tears. ‘
Arrivederci
,
caro
,’ she’d murmured. ‘
Arrivederci
. . .’

‘It was John Webster,’ Floriana said.

‘Who’s John Webster?’ Esme asked, reluctantly letting go of the lingering memory of waving goodbye to Marco.

‘Seb’s quote about caged birds not singing, but crying. It’s from a seventeenth-century play called
The White Devil
by John Webster, the English playwright. It’s a revenge tragedy. Did you tell Marco about the baby?’

‘No,’ Esme said, thinking she was far too tired to keep up with the flow of Floriana’s thought process. ‘Why lay something as immense as that on his conscience?’

‘You’ve had to carry it alone for a lifetime, shouldn’t he be allowed to share some of the responsibility? Doesn’t he have a right to know? And wouldn’t sharing it with him bring you two closer together?’

Three questions for which Esme had no answer.

Back in Oxford and with Esme safely installed at Trinity House and reunited with her beloved Euridice, Floriana wheeled her suitcase the short distance down Latimer Street in the warm evening sunshine. After the intense heat of Italy, the gentle warmth of an Oxford summer accompanied by the familiar and wholly English sound of a chirruping blackbird was a pleasant welcome home. She had been away for less than a week yet it felt so much longer.

No sooner had she unlocked her front door and pushed it open, than a sixth sense kicked in and she knew something was wrong: there was an intruder in her house.

Adrenalin pumping through her, she stood very still on the doorstep, her every sense on full alert. Somebody was speaking. No, strike that,
several
people were speaking. There was laughter too. What was going on? At the sound of clapping she realised it was the television she could hear. No way had she left that on. The next noise she heard was the unmistakable sound of the toilet flushing upstairs. Who the hell was here and making themselves so at home? A burglar who’d taken a liking to her house? Squatters?

Furious indignant anger outweighed her fear now and she stepped over the threshold ready to confront whoever it was who had the brass neck to break in. But then in open-mouthed disbelief, she saw her sister coming nonchalantly down the stairs and looking as comfortably at home as Goldilocks.

‘Of course I don’t mind that you came here,’ Floriana said, trying to sound like she meant it.

Actually, she did mind. She minded very much that Ann had taken it upon herself to use her just-in-case key without Floriana’s permission. It was an obsession of Mum’s that they all had a just-in-case key to one another’s houses in case of an emergency, but did Ann leaving Paul constitute an emergency? Perhaps it did.

‘You can’t stay here indefinitely,’ she said as kindly as she could, ‘you’ll have to go home at some point.’

In a passable imitation of seven-year-old Thomas when he was in one of his sullen moods, Ann said, ‘Who says I’ll ever go home?’

‘But the children, they must be missing you terribly. And it’s not really fair to leave them in the dark like this, is it?’

‘They’re not in the dark; I speak to both Thomas and Clare every day. It’s not as if I’ve abandoned them on the street in their slippers and pyjamas. They’re with their father, for heaven’s sake! And doubtless Paul’s mother has stepped in and is in her element, cooking and washing and bitching about me, claiming I drove her precious son into the arms of another woman.’

‘Forget about Gillian,’ Floriana said firmly, ‘she bad-mouths everyone. What do the children think you’re doing?’

‘I’ve told them I’m having a holiday, that I needed a rest. And you know what, I did! I’m so tired. Tired of everything! It’s all right for you; you have your commitment-free life just skipping along any old how. You do exactly what you want, when and how you want. Look how you’ve just been swanning off on an all-expenses paid holiday to Italy. What wouldn’t I give to be able to do that! But every second of my day is accounted for. I have no free time. Not a single minute. I do nothing that isn’t for Paul or the children. Or those lazy ingrates at work. What do I ever do that’s entirely for me? I’ll tell you what, a big fat nothing!’

‘But I thought you loved being busy and on the go all the time,’ Floriana said, although what she really wanted to say was –
I thought you loved being in charge and bossing everyone about.

‘I do, mostly, but it would be nice, just once, if someone showed they appreciated the hard work I put in!’

Until now, Ann had been prowling about like a seriously agitated tiger looking for something to eat. Now she came and stood in the archway between the kitchen and sitting room. With her arms crossed in front of her chest, she looked on grimly as Floriana resorted to filling the kettle to make some tea to combat the shock of finding her sister here. Well, she would make some tea if she could find the teabags. ‘Where’ve the teabags gone?’ she asked, hunting through the cupboard above the kettle.

‘They’re over here,’ Ann said, ‘above the fridge, which is a much more sensible place to keep them. I tidied your cupboards, by the way; they were in a dreadful mess, no order to them whatsoever. I also cleaned out the fridge. Or should I say, I mucked it out. You had stuff in there that was hopelessly past its sell-by date. It’s a wonder you haven’t died of food poisoning before now. Don’t forget to make me a decaf.’

Much more of this and dying from botulism would be a mercy, Floriana thought. ‘Let’s sit in the garden,’ she said brightly, when she’d made the tea, ‘and then we can talk about how we’re going to get you and Paul sorted.’

Ignoring her sister’s snort of derision, she gritted her teeth and resolved that her number-one priority was to get her sister and brother-in-law back together again, and as soon as possible. There wasn’t a chance in hell of Floriana living in peace and harmony with Ann for more than twenty-four hours. If that long! Just as soon as Ann’s back was turned, she would ring Mum and Dad and get them onside.

‘And don’t even think about speaking to Mum and Dad about me being here,’ Ann said in a spooky bit of mind-reading. ‘Do that and I’ll never speak to you again.’

‘So what’s your plan?’ Floriana asked, when they were settled in the postage-stamp-sized garden – how different it was to the garden at Villa Sofia with its panoramic view of the lake. ‘If you’re not going to speak to Mum and Dad, or Paul, then who are you going to talk to? What about someone objective who could mediate between the two of you? Have you thought of marriage counselling?’

‘No!’ Ann said vehemently. ‘What I need is for everyone to leave me alone. And how can you even suggest marriage counselling when I have no marriage – Paul saw to that!’

‘He made a mistake,’ Floriana said, aware that she was risking her sister’s wrath. ‘A considerable mistake, I’ll grant you, but you should at least give him the chance to explain why he did what he—’

Ann held up a hand. ‘Don’t even think about saying it takes two for a marriage to go wrong.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Oh, so suddenly you’re an expert!’ Ann exploded, her eyes flashing contemptuously. ‘Not a husband or family in sight, but you think you can advise me? That takes some doing!’

Very slowly, Floriana mentally counted to ten. This is not going to work, she thought with growing consternation. Her sister just simply wasn’t going to listen to anyone but her own hurt and outrage. But then how would she feel if the man she loved betrayed her? What possible justification on his part would enable her to forgive him?

‘Ann,’ she said with great patience, ‘I’m absolutely no expert when it comes to relationships, my track record speaks for itself, but tell me what it is you want to happen. Do you want to find a way to forgive Paul? Do you think that would be at all possible? Do you still love him?’

To Floriana’s alarm, her words made the inconceivable happen: the implacable and wholly indignant expression on her sister’s face disintegrated. Gone was the assertive defiance Floriana knew of old and in place – just as when her niece was about to cry – was a wobbly lip as Ann battled to stay in control. But then her body went slack and the battle was lost to choking sobs. Floriana couldn’t remember the last time she saw her sister cry, it just never happened. Ann never showed weakness. She never showed she was anything other than ruthlessly capable. Poor Ann, so resolute in her belief that she and she alone was in charge of controlling the universe, and now here she was heartbroken and vulnerably exposed to the very worst kind of betrayal.

Holding her sister tightly, Floriana did her best to soothe the pain away. She was rubbing Ann’s back when she recalled something Esme had said last year, that maybe Ann was jealous of her, for her seemingly carefree lifestyle. But who really lived a carefree existence? She didn’t, for sure. The truth was, everyone had their burden of commitment and anxiety, and despite what we all thought at some time or other, the grass was never greener than one’s own patch. It was just a different type of grass with its own inherent problems.

When her tears had finally subsided, Ann shook herself free from Floriana’s embrace. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, embarrassment coming off her in a wave of awkwardness as she searched her skirt pockets for a tissue, finding only a folded shopping list. Her face blotched and her eyes red and swollen, she said, ‘It’s tiredness, that’s all, I haven’t been sleeping well.’

‘That’s hardly a surprise,’ Floriana said gently, ‘but there’s really no need to apologise.’ Up on her feet, she went to fetch the tissue box in the kitchen. She eventually located it hidden out of sight inside a cupboard and not on the shelf above the toaster where she normally kept it. There was a pile of post there too. Oh, Ann, she thought with sadness, what was the point in hiding everything?