Love Falls (29 page)

She turned from the mirror and looked over her shoulder. Her dark hair just reached the low back. ‘Ohh,' she sighed with longing, and just then, as if it were an echo, she heard a noise. She spun round and stared into the mirror. It had sounded like the soft thud of a door. She stared at herself. She looked ridiculous. Her face, half made-up, the hat, preposterous, with its scarf floating out. She took it off and slid it back on to its shelf.

And then she heard it again. The snap of a cupboard closing. She tiptoed to the top of the stairs. ‘Hello?' she called, but no one answered. She ran into her room and pressed her face to the front window. There was no car in the drive. There was no one to be seen from the back window either. No one at the pool, or on the steps that ran down from the terrace. ‘Hello?' she called, a little less friendly, and she crept downstairs.

There was no one there. The terrace door had closed, that was all, and the force of it had slammed shut a cupboard. But now she was scared and she couldn't shake it off. She walked round the house. Opening and closing doors. Attempting to take charge of it again. But even when she went outside and sat on a lounger she couldn't get rid of the feeling that she was not alone. She was on a hilltop in Italy, with everyone who should be here ill or dying or gone.

And then from inside the house she heard a gush of water. Her heart knocked against her ribs, her blood seared through her and, without waiting to find out more, she scooped up her plimsolls and ran round the side of the house and out into the drive. Where could she go? She was on the road now and a car screamed past. A man in sunglasses hooting as he sped by, two others leering at her from the open windows, making obscene gestures with their hands and tongues.

She ran the other way, and then finding herself beside the woods she plunged into the lane and sped along the sexy path to Ceccomoro, too frightened of whatever ghosts might be pursuing her even to think of communists or wild boar. She didn't stop until she was in the field. It was baking hot. It must be four o'clock, at least, and there was no sign of the rain that had lashed down the night before.

She rushed on through the maze, scratching her bare arms, catching at the fine material of her bunched-up skirt, only slowing when she was almost at the house. It seemed so long ago that she was here. But she shook this thought away.

There were no shouts from the pool. No murmur from the garden. And so very quietly she stepped on to the terrace. She smoothed her hair down as she went. Wet her fingertips to erase the white scratches on her skin, shook out the pink skirt, and still seeing no one she pulled open the door of the main house.

It was cool and silent. She stopped to listen. But there was nothing. Not a sound. Of course. They were all gone. They had gone to the Palio. Quickly she opened the door into the television room. It was dark. With no disgruntled shadow. No Kip in his jacket waiting for rain. She walked on, peering into a bedroom. Clothes strewn everywhere. The curled line of a roll-top bath through an open door beyond. Lara walked back along a corridor, out of a side door and into the main square. She ran up the street and stepped into the kitchen. All neat and cleared away as if no one would ever be needing supper again. My God! she thought. They've packed up. They've gone back to England.

And then she heard the hoot of a car. ‘Get a move on!' It was Roland. Bellowing. ‘Come on!' and this was followed by another long impatient beep.

Lara ran to a window and looked out. There was Andrew Willoughby's dark car, smoothly reversing out, and beside it the jeep, spilling out with stragglers, the engine revving, black smoke puffing out. Roland had his head through the driver's window and almost as if he were looking straight at her he opened his mouth and yelled, ‘KIIIP!'

Lara raced back along the corridor, skidding over the stone floors until she reached the front door. The door was half open, sunshine falling through like scattered straw. She felt her heart crash. She'd missed him. By moments, she'd missed him. She leant against a wall, and just then Kip appeared from a side room holding a shoe. He opened his eyes wide when he saw her and instinctively she put her finger to her lips.

‘KIP.' The shout came again and they held each other's stare.

‘Wait here,' Kip whispered and he dropped his shoe and hopped outside. ‘Go without me. Go on. I can't be bothered.' She could almost see him shrug his shoulders. ‘Anyway I've lost my shoe.' And without a word of argument the jeep screeched out of the drive and roared away.

Kip stood in the doorway. ‘Hello,' he said and Lara felt a sudden fizz like sherbet prickling inside her nose. Don't cry, she told herself. Don't cry.

‘Bloody hell,' he said. ‘What have you got on?' Lara looked down and saw she was still wearing the dress.

‘It's Caroline's.' A scalding tear rolled down her face. ‘She's dying. And Dad's in hospital with a broken toe.' The sob that was rising spluttered into a laugh. ‘I mean . . .' She covered her face.

‘It's all right.' Kip was beside her. He traced a scratch along her neck. ‘It's just a shame it's today, on the one day of the whole summer when something actually happens.' He slid an arm behind her and began to walk with her along the hall, shuffling his bare foot under her plimsolled one so that they were dancing, round and back and along in a lopsided waltz.

‘You mean the Palio?'

Lara slipped out of his embrace, and hitching up the dress, felt for the pocket of her shorts. Did she still have those tickets? Or had she put them down when she was fooling around in Caroline's room? ‘Look.' She was easing out the crumpled paper, bringing it up to show him. ‘Is this what we need?' and as if the music had ended they came to a trembling halt.

Kip took the tickets and examined them. ‘My God. What else have you got under there?'

‘Nothing.' She wriggled round to undo the zip and let the dress fall to the floor revealing her shorts and T-shirt. ‘They were . . . It was Caroline . . . she . . . left them on  . . .'

‘That's fucking brilliant!'

Kip reached up to take a pinstriped jacket down from a row of pegs. ‘You'll be cold later.' He threw it to her, and he took an identical one for himself. ‘Come on. Let's go.'

There was only one car left. A small white Fiat with the keys in the ignition. ‘Pamela won't mind,' he said, and he swung open the door.

‘Can you drive?' Lara asked.

Kip frowned. ‘Of course.' But the gears jumped and screamed as he tried to find reverse and then, once he found it, he stalled. ‘I'll be all right once we get going,' and he spun the car round so fast it nearly smashed into the wall. ‘Right,' he said, when they were facing the open gates, and very carefully he nosed the car into the drive. But instead of taking the white road that wound down through the valley, he turned left on to an unmade track. ‘Just till I get used to this car,' he said. ‘It'll give me a chance to practise.' At first they bumped along slowly, jolting between craters and rocks, but as Kip became more confident he drove faster and faster. ‘The thing is,' he said, as if quoting from a lesson, ‘is not to brake, just to hit the rocks and let the wheels glance off them.' Lara was silent. She was concentrating too hard to speak. ‘If you touch the brake,' he said happily, ‘you've had it.'

Lara closed her eyes. It seemed dangerous, but the alternative was worse. Eventually they reached the tarmac of the made-up road and, although the smooth feel of it was a relief, now there was the added danger of other cars. They hooted and overtook while Kip swore and laughed and stuck his fingers up as he careered over crossings and screeched to a halt at red lights. But soon the traffic got so thick that it was impossible to go fast, and after several wrong turns, U-turns and reverses, they arrived at the post-office square where he pulled up at the same building that Caroline had stopped at the afternoon before. The same man appeared. But instead of friendly exclamations he shook his head. Scoot, the man seemed to be saying. Scoot.

‘Signor.' Kip put out his hand to him, and ignoring the man's orders for them to be gone, he introduced himself, using his full title and the name of Ceccomoro, and having engaged him in a fluid and passionate conversation, Kip handed him the keys and strode away.

‘I didn't know you spoke Italian.' Lara hurried to keep up.

Kip just shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not really. Not much. Don't tell the others or God knows what they'll make me do.'

There were streams of people walking towards the square. The same ice-cream shops were open, crammed with grown-ups, and as if it were compulsory Kip stopped and bought them both a double-scoop ice cream. They stood in the corner just as she and Caroline had done and ate the soft melting ice.

‘I came into Siena last night,' she told him. ‘To see the trials. With Caroline.' And then it occurred to her that this ice cream, this meringue and crema, may be the last thing that Caroline would ever eat.

‘Yes, I came in too.' Kip leant forward and took a bite of her ice cream. She'd forgotten about it and it was dripping down on to her hand. ‘I was with Roland. We were right in the middle of the Campo. With sixty thousand other lunatics. Couldn't see a thing.' Lara looked round for a bin. ‘Or twenty thousand. I can never remember.' He took the ice cream from her and demolished it in two huge bites. ‘All I'm saying is . . .' He leant forward and whispered. ‘Unlike you. I didn't have a ticket. But don't worry. I won't call the
carabinieri
to find out where you really got these tickets. I'll just use my information in other ways. Remember' – his hair was tickling her face – ‘from now on you are in my power.'

Lara laughed. She wanted to feel happy but the thought of Caroline had unsettled her. Where was she anyway? Were she and Lambert in a hospital in Siena? They might be anywhere. They might be just around a corner, listening to the crowds making their way to the square. She should have asked. Should have insisted that she visit.

‘Come on,' Kip said. ‘Let's go and watch the procession.'

‘What if we see the others?'

‘The others are squeezed on to a balcony with some rich toff Italians. We might see them. But they'll never see us.'

They walked out into the street and Kip took hold of her hand. His palm felt warm and sure and silky smooth from sun. He hadn't asked her why she'd stayed away, and if he hadn't asked by now there was a chance he never would. She felt a surge of gratitude and leant against his arm. It was like being a child again, this licence to hold someone else's hand, and she realised how much she'd missed being able to sit curled into her mother's lap, to share her bed, her bath, her body as if it were her own. It hadn't seemed possible these last few years. Since they'd returned from India. Since her body had begun to change. Maybe after a year of travelling, of sleeping side by side, of sitting week after week on the Budget Bus in the tented compartment of their seats, maybe after that they'd both needed to retreat. But now she felt so hungry for Kip's closeness that it hurt. She squeezed his arm and smiled, and when he looked round she tried not to let it show – the certainty that she'd never ever have enough.

‘We've got one spare ticket,' Kip remembered as they neared the barrier.

‘Keep it,' Lara told him. ‘Just in case,' and she had a vision of Caroline rising up out of unconsciousness at the sound of Il Nicchio's name.

‘The moment of truth,' Kip said, and he showed their tickets, and they were through.

The Campo was a multicoloured mass of people. The centre, a dense storm of colour, the seats around without a single space. Lara resisted looking up to where each window and balcony was hung with red tapestries, spectators leaning out over the edge. The procession had already started, the Palazzo bell was tolling, and they were ushered along the track of earth until they came to the starting point opposite the little starting cannon. And there were their seats. In the best possible position. A gate was opened for them and they climbed up to the second row and sat behind a family all wearing dark-red T-shirts from the
contrada
of the Tower.

‘Who do you want to win?' Lara whispered, and he said he was hoping that it would be Dragon because Dragon was the winner the year he was born.

‘Dragon won the year after, too, the year you were born,' he said. ‘We can both be honorary Dragons.'

He knows when I was born! she thought. ‘Caroline has a horse running for Il Nicchio,' she told him. ‘She wanted . . . wants him to win so badly.'

‘Oh God. Don't let Il Nicchio win. For some reason my father has pledged a fortune if Il Nicchio wins. He says if it does he'll be ruined.'

The procession was moving now. The drums were rolling, and men in medieval costume were walking along before their horse. There was a drummer, two men holding banners, a man in full gleaming armour and several others holding swords and flags. They were all dressed in bright yellow and green and the two horses that followed were draped in the same colours. ‘Il Bruco,' Kip hissed, and Lara remembered that it was the Caterpillar that never had any luck.

Il Bruco stopped directly in front of them. God, they must be hot, Lara thought, as she craned forward to see their costumes, the tights and capes and heavy hats. The jerkins and belts, the double velvet sleeves. And then the banner wavers began to dance. They threw up their banners, caught them, tossed them to each other, stepped over them, leapt and danced and twirled. Their banners matched their costumes, a dazzle of green and gold, with a caterpillar crawling on a twig, a gold crown above it, a red rose by its side. The drum rolled, the banner wavers leapt, one over the other, and the crowd applauded. And then the little group moved on.