Beautiful People (44 page)

    Spotting Christian Harlow and Belle Murphy had only been the start of it too. Halfway through his appetizer, Ken had realised who the big, dark-haired man with the booming voice at the table opposite was and why he had looked familiar.

    Politicians weren't Ken's usual beat, but Hugh Faugh was colourful, high profile, and self-publicising enough to stray into his patch from time to time. Were those two startlingly unpleasantlooking boys with big hair and huge teeth his sons? Bad enough to get one like that, Ken thought. But two?

    And that vampire-like woman was Faugh's wife, presumably the boys' mother. Ken did not recognise the other man and woman, who looked harmless enough, if slightly crushed, or the other boy, who was quite amazingly good looking. Ken stared for a good few minutes. Was he a model? Ought to be if he wasn't. Film star, even. Oh, listen to me, Ken thought, half indulgent. You can take the boy away from the paparazzi, but you couldn't take the paparazzo out of the boy.

    Leaving the church behind, Ken found himself opposite the entrance to the children's playground over which the balcony from his room looked.

    Nice playground, Ken thought, with those cypresses all around it stretching up into the pure blue sky, a soft breeze ruffling the leaves and making them glitter in the light. He stood at the edge, outside the gate, watching for a while.

    He had already gathered, from his balcony, that the playground was a rallying point for nannies in charge of holidaying British infants from miles around.

    Now, between the plants and bushes that the playground was plentifully supplied with, he could see glimpses of the children. Yes, definitely British, definitely upmarket; he knew the look. He had, until recently, seen it several times a day with its wealthy parents disappearing through the revolving door of various five-star hotels.

    The nannies, too, were of the typical smart-family kind: more or less alike with long, glossy hair all shades from blonde to black, vast sunglasses, and miniskirts exposing long thin brown legs and feet in glittery flip-flops. They were, Ken noticed, all standing together, smoking, talking, gesturing, shrieking with laughter, answering their mobiles. The children they were nominally in charge of seemed more or less forgotten, although from time to time one of them would turn round to yell at their charges in throaty upmarket voices. "Don't do that, Cosmo!" and "No, Hero! No!"

    He recognised that voice, Ken thought as he turned away. The Rolodex in his head whirred. Where had he heard it before? Those names too. Hero and Cosmo. Somewhere very recently.

    He turned back round, frowning. His eye caught a small blond boy and a white-blonde girl, about four and three respectively, charging about after each other. Of course. That boy from the airport. The one with the train. And, Ken remembered, the horrid nanny.

    Yes, there she was. In the midst of the chattering nannies, that long-legged, heavily highlighted, thoroughly unpleasant blonde. What had the kids called her? Titty? Totty?

    Ken lingered protectively, watching the children for some minutes. He felt strangely reluctant to leave them with her. Totty, Ken now noticed, seemed to be looking for someone. Not the kids though. They were walking up one of the slides now, a strategy certain to end in an accident of some sort. Totty was oblivious, however. She kept casting glances towards the gate, where he stood himself, as if someone was expected there. Not wishing to be seen by her, Ken slowly, reluctantly, moved away.

    In doing so, he narrowly avoided bumping into two grubbylooking men in baseball caps and leather jackets who seemed to be heading for the playground. Fathers going for their children, Ken supposed. As they passed him, Ken felt the strong, hard pull of a scent he recognised tugging at his nose. Strong tobacco. A few minutes later, back in the square, he realised it was cannabis.

    Now, the next morning, she was starving again. The egg-white omelette Mara had banged down before her for breakfast had not even taken the edge off it.

    But, of course, they could not continue, these little gastronomic stop-offs at Marco's. He had mentioned cheese, which would be death to her diet. Today she would have to scurry past and hope he didn't see her.

    She must concentrate on other things, such as the text that had come late last night from Christian, a mere two sentences in which the actor explained that he was involved in a complicated scene at the moment but would see her soon.

    Darcy, now heading towards the gate for her run, felt almost cheerful as walked past Emma and Morning on the terrace.

    "I'll see you later," she called gaily.

    She reached over to chuck Morning under the chin. He really was sweet. She had not, until now, realised babies could be such fun, so well-behaved and so responsive. Morning was also so appreciative of her every effort to entertain, from waggling her fingers over his face to tickling him. He always smelt delicious, powdery, warm, and with a slight milky undertone. Emma kept him wonderfully clean and happy.

    Especially now, after talking to her, it seemed to Darcy more and more mysterious why such a woman worked for Belle. It couldn't be that she was dazzled by celebrity; Emma just did not seem the type. Belle, however, hadn't been back to the villa for days, nor had she even been in touch. Perhaps Emma just felt sorry for the child. But surely she could not put her life and career on hold because of someone else's selfishness. There would be other nannies for Morning.

    "You know," said Darcy, watching Emma using the sugar lumps on the table to play a counting game with the baby, "you're really good. You could get a much better job. Why bother with the Evil One?"

    Emma looked at her in alarm. "Evil One?"

    "Belle's name in the film," Darcy assured her, smiling. "What all the good characters, like mine, call her. Belle's character is a beautiful but evil man-eating female monster who wants to destroy the universe. Typecasting or what?" She raised her eyebrows and snorted.

    "You can't like working for her," Darcy pressed. Suddenly, she felt determined to get to the bottom of the mystery.

    Emma looked down. She longed to unburden herself. She could imagine how she must seem in Darcy's eyes: Belle's slave and vassal, tolerating the routine contempt with which the actress treated almost everyone, when she bothered to notice them at all. But she could not possibly tell the actress the circumstances in which she had arrived in Belle's employment. Once made, such a confession could not be retracted and, if it got out, could be disastrous. Ending up penniless and unemployed in Italy was not something she could risk.

    "But wouldn't you rather do something else? Like—I don't know—run your own place. Your own nursery. Be your own boss?"

    As it happened, Emma had thought often since, and longingly, of the idea she had aired in the Florence square with Orlando.

    "Former nanny to the stars," Darcy teased. "You could put that on your sign as well. Might as well get something out of your time slaving for the Evil One. You'll be turning people away."

    Emma smiled.

    "You could even have a Mediterranean menu," Darcy suggested excitedly. "Loads of pasta and olive oil. That'd get the aspirational parents beating down your door!"

    Emma agreed that it would, indeed.

    "So what's stopping you?" Darcy urged. "If it's money, I've got some. You set up a business, I'll invest in it!"

    She was disappointed to see Emma looked doubtful. She had credited her with more get up and go.

    "I really think you ought to look into it, you know, like now," Darcy enthused. "Strike while the iron's hot, find out what you need to do, what certificates you need and all that…"

    Certificates. Official approval. That, in a nutshell, was the issue, Emma knew. She had all the skills, all the qualifications, all the energy required for the nursery project. She longed to tell Darcy the truth, that there was nothing she would like more. But then Darcy would obviously ask what the problem was, and that was something Emma could not tell her.

    The problem was that she lacked a clear name. Should Vanessa ever find out about her plans—and it was unlikely she wouldn't if the nursery was, as Emma intended, in London—there was no doubt that the relevant authorities would be informed in short order about the cocaine in the handbag. And that would be that.

    "Oh well. Let me know if you change your mind," Darcy said, disappointed that her grand gesture had unexpectedly missed its mark. Reluctantly, she set out finally on her run.

Orlando was dawdling through Rocolo. He had no particular reason for going there, apart from the wish to get away from the aubergo. The Faughs had gone up another level on the smug-ometer, and his father had descended even further into depression while his mother, distracted at having lost her precious pink Gucci wallet, was turning the villa upside down in search of it. It had, apparently, vanished without trace. The imminent arrival, into this volatile situation, of his A-level results would be, Orlando felt, like tossing a match into a barrel of petrol.

    It was a sunny day and, despite his circumstances, the picturesque Italian village, its golden stone shining in the sun, lifted his spirits. He had walked up past the restaurant and was entering the arcaded square at the top when something made him stop. Right in front of him, on the cobbled surface of the square, a small, blond boy of about five years of age lay on the ground, unmoving.

    Orlando looked about him. There seemed no one around who was in charge of this child at all.

    Orlando bent over him. The boy was breathing—a relief—but very still. Had he fainted? Fallen and broken something? "Are you alright?" he asked. "What are you doing?" He felt instinctively that the boy was British.

    To Orlando's great relief, the child lifted his tousled, sandyblond head and looked round with unconcerned blue eyes. "Looking at a caterpillar," he said in a matter-of-fact treble, sticking a small plump digit out in front of him to where a small, plump grub slowly progressed up and over one of the cobblestones.

    "That's quite a nice one." Orlando squatted on his haunches. "Fat and furry." He grinned at the child. "What's his name?"

    Still lying on the ground, the boy propped himself up on his elbows. He frowned at Orlando. "Don't be silly. He's a caterpillar. Caterpillars don't have names."

    "Who are you?"

    At the imperious little voice behind him, Orlando turned to find a pair of solemn blue eyes beneath a fringe of perfect white blondeness. A girl of about four, dressed identically to the boy, had materialised apparently from nowhere and was looking at him with an unnerving stare. She was, he thought, an enchanting little thing, silver fair, with white skin and flaxen hair and naughty, dancing blue eyes.

    "I'm Hero."

    "How do you do, Hero," said Orlando gravely.

    "And I'm Cosmo." The blond boy had scrambled to his feet, red impressions on his small knees from the cobblestones. "Do you know Thomas?" he asked.

    "Thomas who?"

    "The Tank Engine," expostulated the boy, as if the question were ridiculous, which, Orlando realised, it probably was when you were five.

    He folded his arms and put a finger to his lips. "Now let me see," Orlando said, in comic-pompous tones that had their origins in Hugh. "That's the one with Percy in, isn't it?"

    "And Harvey the Breakdown Train," Cosmo returned eagerly.

    "Harvey the Breakdown Train?" Orlando raised his eyebrows. "I see you like the most obscure ones."

    "Cranky, Mavis, Troublesome Trucks, Sir Handel," chanted Cosmo, in a tone Orlando realised was a challenge.

    He picked up the gauntlet unhesitatingly. "Rheneas, Skarloey, Lady, Neville…"

    "Salty, Bulstrode, Culdee…" hit back Cosmo.

    "Catherine the Mountain Coach…" Orlando continued with ease. He hadn't watched Thomas the Tank Engine every morning on Nickleodeon for nothing. He could go on for ever if Cosmo wanted.

    Looking down, he saw Cosmo's small, serious face was flushed with pleasure. "You know a lot about Thomas," he admitted.

    "Doesn't everyone?" Orlando sounded mock-shocked.