The Italian Matchmaker (36 page)

Freya hadn’t told her mother about Miles’s affair. She didn’t want to worry her. But she had done as Luca had advised and confronted Miles. Of course he had denied it, accusing her of being paranoid, of not trusting him. But she was certain. The evidence weighed too heavily against him. The telephone calls, the texts she’d read on the sly, the evenings away playing bridge. She knew the woman’s name: Felicity Cranley. One of his regular bridge four. She wasn’t even very pretty. With the plane ticket to Naples in her handbag, she had given him an ultimatum. He had one chance. The next time she’d take the children with her and she wouldn’t come back. Miles had been stunned into silence.

There was something wonderfully liberating about sitting in that boat without her husband and children. Alone with the wind in her hair, the scent of salt and thyme in the air, the anticipation of seeing her old flame, Luca, burning a hole in her stomach. She felt her excitement mount and looked over at her stepfather who had blanched the colour of a stick of celery. She assumed he was seasick, and smiled sympathetically. Rosemary noticed too and rubbed his back. How could he explain what was making him ill? Surely after thirty years . . . ?

When the boat motored around the cliffs and into the bay of Incantellaria, the three passengers stared at the exquisite view without uttering a word. Fitz scanned the sea front for Fiorelli’s but they were still too far away. He was encouraged, however, by the fact that little seemed to have changed. Blue boats were still dragged up on to the stony beach, the buildings were familiar, and above them rose the mosaic dome of the church of San Pasquale. Memories assaulted him like loose pages of a diary carried on the wind. Snippets of his visit, from the moment he saw Alba on the quay to their leaving together, in no particular order, tossed out by his subconscious. He tried to hold on to them, to savour them one by one, but they were already landing and it was Romina, not Alba, who was waving at them from the quay.

As they disembarked to Romina’s enthusiastic welcome, Fitz raised his eyes to where Fiorelli’s had once been. It was still there.

‘You look better,’ said Rosemary. ‘Poor Fitz got so seasick,’ she explained.

‘Oh dear! Was it terribly bumpy out there?’

‘A little,’ said Rosemary. ‘Better now, darling?’

‘Much,’ Fitz replied, feeling restored.

‘Luca’s waiting for you at the
palazzo
,’ said Romina to Freya. ‘He is so excited to see you.’

‘I’m excited to see him,’ said Freya. ‘I’ve been longing to see your place.’

‘You won’t be disappointed. It’s just been photographed for the
Sunday Times
magazine. Panfilo Pallavicini took the photographs himself.’

‘How wonderful,’ Rosemary gushed, not wanting to expose her ignorance. The name meant nothing to her.

‘I booked two taxis. My car is too small to fit us all in and I wasn’t sure how much luggage you had.’ She dropped her eyes to the row of navy Globetrotters. Rosemary travelled heavy. ‘Just as well,’ she added.

‘I hate not having the right thing to wear,’ Rosemary explained. ‘I almost brought the kitchen sink, but assumed you already had one.’

Romina laughed. ‘A few actually.’ Fitz’s gaze lingered on the
trattoria
, imagining Alba as she had been thirty years before with her funny short hair and simple floral print dress, so different from the Londoner she had been in Mary Quant mini skirts and blue suede boots. Her defiance had gone: in its place a serenity, a contentment he had envied. He wondered what she was like now. Whether she had held on to that inner peace or whether she had moved back to a metropolis and her old redoubtable self. He half expected her to run out, arms outstretched, to greet him. But he saw only strangers on the terrace.

‘That’s Fiorelli’s,’ said Romina. ‘Luca spends his entire time in there drinking coffee. We’ll go there if you like, the food is very good. The lady who owns it is married to Panfilo the photographer.’ Fitz wondered whether she was talking about Alba. He wanted to enquire, but Rosemary’s ears were as sharp as a fox terrier’s. He didn’t want to upset her.

‘Well, this is very beautiful,’ Rosemary conceded as they climbed into the car. ‘A quaint little place, but very charming.’

‘It has a fascinating history.’

‘Really? I can’t imagine anything has ever happened here. It looks very sleepy.’

‘I will tell you over lunch. It’s a wonderful story and we, in the
palazzo
, are at the very heart of it.’

Fitz remembered the town surprisingly well. It was a lot busier than it had been thirty years ago, and the satellite dishes certainly hadn’t been there then, but it was mostly unchanged. He felt a frisson as they drove up the hill. The last time he had seen the
palazzo
had been with Alba, when they had climbed over the gates and explored the ruin. Nothing had ever held her back from getting what she wanted.

They arrived at the gates, the same gates that he and Alba had scaled, and swept up beneath the cypress trees. There was nothing sinister about the place now. It had been rebuilt and repainted, the gardens brought to heel and tamed. He imagined it looked a lot like it had when it was originally built. Romina and Bill had restored it so cleverly it didn’t look new.

Freya was enchanted by Incantellaria and the
palazzo
. She could see why Luca hadn’t wanted to return to London. Surrounded by such harmony she would be the same. She wished she had been able to bring her children with her. How they would love the fairytale palace and the pretty town.

When Luca heard the cars on the gravel he went to the front to greet the new arrivals.

‘Luca!’ Freya climbed out of the car and rushed over, arms wide. Romina smiled. The boy didn’t know what was good for him. ‘You look so well!’ Freya gushed. ‘You’re brown and relaxed! The rest has done you the world of good.’

‘It will do you the power of good too. A little sunbathing by the pool, walks along the beach, time to think . . .’ He didn’t want to spoil her arrival by telling her about Cosima. He’d find the right moment. He was sure she’d be happy for him.

‘I’m so pleased you encouraged me to come out,’ she said, linking her arm through his. ‘Miles couldn’t believe it. I think he’s still in shock.’

‘He deserves more than shock.’

‘A few days away is just what I need to get my head straight. I’ve had a ghastly time of it, I really have.’

‘Let’s go and have something to drink. I want to introduce you to two very dear friends of mine.’

‘Oh?’ She looked up at him, forgetting all about her children and her philandering husband in the warmth of his attention.

‘Then I’ll show you around.’

Outside, Ma, Nanni and Caradoc sat chatting on the terrace while Porci slept on the tiles in the sunshine, his belly round in spite of his apparent lack of appetite. The men stood up politely for Freya, but Ma remained in her seat, too sleepy and fat to move.

‘This is the in-crowd of Incantellaria. Here’s where it’s all at,’ said Luca, grinning broadly. ‘My uncle Nanni, eccentric bringer of the pig: Professor Caradoc Macausland, the wisest man in Christendom; and Ma Hemple, possibly the grumpiest woman this side of Naples.’

Ma extended her hand. ‘He’s so wrong about me. I’m by far the most good-natured person here. He just doesn’t understand my sense of humour. Too many years working in a bank with Sloanosauruses’

Freya giggled. ‘I can tell he’s wrong about you, Ma.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet another pretty girl,’ said Caradoc.

‘The professor has a keen eye for the ladies,’ Luca explained.

‘I have a lovely girl down at the
trattoria
. She’s called Rosa and she’s as lovely as a spring rose.’

‘She’s a tart,’ Ma corrected. ‘Caradoc can’t tell the difference.’

‘At our age we don’t really care,’ said Nanni, recalling Fiyona’s white flesh and red pubic hair. ‘We’ll take what we’re given.’

‘Look who’s here!’ Romina called to her husband.

‘What a stunning place you have, Bill,’ said Rosemary, marching over to kiss him.

‘We’ve done our best.’

‘You’ve done better than your best,’ Fitz corrected, remembering what it had been like as a ruin. Most of the balustrade had collapsed and the tiles had been so covered with moss and weeds as to be entirely hidden. A putrid stench had poisoned the air; now he felt the garden restore him. It smelt sweet, of cut grass, pine and gardenia. He inhaled, expanding his chest like a peacock, taking pleasure from stepping back into the past.

Ventura and a butler brought out wine and
crostini
and they sat chatting. Ma took an instant dislike to Rosemary, which wasn’t a surprise; Ma disliked pretentiousness. Rosemary was out of her comfort zone and felt inadequate. She was better on home soil and among her own sort. Foreigners made her feel uneasy, as did people who felt happy around them. Although Fitz hadn’t mentioned Incantellaria in thirty years, and had barely raised an eyebrow when Bill and Romina had invited them to stay, there was something about his silence, as if he were hiding in it. She wasn’t jealous of Alba; after all Rosemary was his wife, but Incantellaria was a part of Fitz’s past that she had no claim on, so she was automatically suspicious of the place. But Fitz had wanted to come, he was keen to see what Romina and Bill had done to their home, and she couldn’t let him walk down memory lane on his own.

Ma took to Fitz on sight. It wasn’t just that he was handsome; he was genuine. There was no pretence in Fitz. He pulled Porci on to his lap and nuzzled him. The little pig grunted with pleasure, exposing his tummy which Fitz duly scratched. He was enthusiastic about everything, even Ma’s sense of humour, which was rare so soon after meeting her, and she didn’t mind that he gently teased her. In fact, she rather liked it.

As for Freya, Ma watched her with Luca. Romina had told her they were very old friends and that Freya suspected her husband of having an affair. Ma couldn’t understand why people got married in the first place; it wasn’t in a man’s nature to remain faithful. That Freya was enamoured of Luca was plain to see. Luca was clearly fond of her. But love? If Romina were a dog, she’d be barking up the wrong tree. The object of Luca’s desire was in an entirely different forest. Ma sat back to watch events unfold. Love was the best spectator sport.

During lunch Romina enlightened her new guests with the bloody history of the
palazzo
. Fitz’s face was a mask, giving nothing away. Rosemary and Freya were gripped, hanging on her every word. ‘And guess what, Valentina’s family still live here in Incantellaria,’ she said when she had finished the story. Fitz’s mask slipped a moment and he went pink. ‘Valentina’s daughter owns the
trattoria
. It’s still the family business.’

Rosemary gritted her teeth and retained her composure. She had hoped Fitz’s great love would have moved away, or died. ‘Alba’s married, presumably,’ she said.

‘Yes, to Panfilo!’ Romina reminded them.

‘The photographer,’ Rosemary recalled. Freya remembered her stepfather going very quiet when they had mentioned Incantellaria.

‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you, Fitz?’ said Romina.

‘A long time ago.’

‘Did you come here, to the
palazzo
?’

‘It was a ruin.’

Romina rubbed her hands together gleefully. ‘What was it like?’

Rosemary sat up straight as Fitz told the table of the eerie cold, the rotten smell, the overgrown garden and the crumbling palace. ‘We were exploring,’ he explained.

‘We?’ said Ma.

‘An old friend.’

His evasiveness aroused Ma’s interest. ‘An old friend. How very mysterious.’

‘Not at all,’ said Fitz, coolly. ‘It was Alba. I haven’t seen her in thirty years.’

The table fell silent. Rosemary was appalled that he had mentioned Alba by name; he had somehow insulted her by bringing up his old love. Freya was astonished that the woman Fitz had nearly married was so closely tied to the story Romina had told them of the murder in the
palazzo
. The men looked at Fitz with admiration – Alba was a beauty.

‘Well, aren’t you a dark horse!’ said Bill, passing around the wine. ‘What will Alba think when you turn up at the
trattoria
?’

‘I shouldn’t think she will even remember me. It was thirty years ago.’

‘You don’t have to go to the
trattoria
,’ said Rosemary with a strained smile. ‘We can stay here. I can’t think of anywhere nicer.’

‘Of course you should go.’ Ma saw through Rosemary’s silly ploy. ‘You can’t come all the way out here and not see her.’

‘I’d be very curious to see an old flame!’ agreed Romina.

‘Don’t get too excited.’ Fitz tried to make light of it. He could sense Rosemary’s discomfort as if she had suddenly grown a skin of prickles.

‘I won’t miss this,’ said Ma. ‘It reminds me of a Shakespeare play.’

‘Which one?’ asked Caradoc.

‘Ah, that depends how things pan out!’

Rosemary felt as though she were drowning. ‘It’ll be fun,’ she said, wanting to add ‘
at my expense’
. She checked herself. She was being unreasonable. After all, it was thirty years ago.

While the oldies slept off their lunch, Luca gave Freya a guided tour of the property. He knew he should tell her about Cosima, but he didn’t want to put her in an awkward position. She had come to seek refuge from her troubled marriage. The last thing she needed to hear was that he was on the point of asking Cosima to marry him. It wasn’t fair that his joy should detract from the purpose of her visit.

He felt bad at having flirted with her, and wanted to take back everything he had said that had been inappropriate. She had been right; while he had felt insecure, she had been a calm, familiar harbour. But he was a man for the high seas and, now he had regained his strength, he no longer wanted that safety. He hoped she wasn’t thinking of leaving Miles.