The Italian Matchmaker (11 page)

 

Luca sat alone on the beach, gazing out to sea. He enjoyed the solitude and the new sense of freedom Incantellaria offered him. Everything about the place pleased him, from the clamour of birds to the sweet scents of fertility that rose up from the earth with the medicinal smells of the wild herbs that grew among the long grasses. He took pleasure from the coming and going of the little blue boats as the fishermen went about their business. His skin soaked up the sun’s rays by the pool and he lost his city pallor. He slept more than he had in twenty years and his dreams grew less troubled until he no longer dreamed at all. He took twilight walks on the stony beach reached by a path that meandered down the hill from the
palazzo.
Crickets chirped in the undergrowth and the rustle of grass gave away the odd rabbit or snake. It felt good to be alone, blanketed by the night.

He thought of Freya with a yearning for the comfortable and familiar, regret for what he had been too young and foolish to hold on to. He thought of Annabel and their soulless coupling, and the dull stream of similar meaningless encounters that blurred into a grey fog of pointlessness. He thought of Claire and the girls and how he had let them down.

When he hadn’t been working, his life had been like a merry-go-round of glamorous parties, dinners in expensive restaurants, knocking back cocktails in fashionable clubs, weekends in Saint Tropez, waterskiing off fully-staffed yachts, skiing in the Swiss Alps, forging relationships on the fragile foundations of wealth and status. The merry-go-round had got faster and faster, louder and louder, until his divorce had brought it to a sudden, mortifying halt. In the quiet that followed he was at last able to stand back and examine his life. The extravagance and waste disgusted him. His friends had separated into two camps, those supporting Claire and those supporting him, but most just blew away to the next party like pretty petals on the wind. Picking up the children from school once a week was like running the gauntlet through a crowd of disapproving mothers and, to his shame, he recognised himself reflected in their eyes. Here in the silence of Incantellaria, he realised he didn’t want to be that man any more.

It was early morning when he returned to his senses. He blinked and stood up stiffly. He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. He stretched and felt the blood rush to his muscles. He stood, watching the sunrise. Its beauty filled his spirit with longing. He felt a tremendous desire to dig the soil with his hands, plant a seed and watch it grow – to create something tangible. Yet, he didn’t know how or where to start.

When he returned to the palazzo his mother was doing yoga on the terrace. ‘What on earth are you doing up at this hour?’ she asked, without moving from the lotus position. She was dressed in a long white shirt and white linen trousers, her feet bare, her scarlet toenails shocking against the serenity of her clothes.

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘I do yoga every morning before anyone gets up. It clears my head and settles my spirit. Ready for the day ahead.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in that rubbish.’

‘It’s a form of exercise like any other.’

‘Not if you start levitating.’

‘I don’t think I’m likely to defy the force of gravity. I’m too earthly minded.’

He laughed. ‘I’ve been down on the beach.’

‘Isn’t it beautiful!’ she gushed. ‘Incantellaria is so magical. I never want to go back to dreary grey London.’

‘I can see why. You live in paradise, Mother.’

‘And it’s being photographed by the
Sunday Times
.’ She beamed with pride. ‘Leyton Hughes came for the weekend and fell in love. And you know what?’ Too distracted to continue her yoga she stood up, tossed the mat against the wall and took the chair next to her son. ‘Guess who’s going to photograph it?’

‘I don’t know, who?’

She took a breath, articulating each syllable with relish. ‘Panfilo Pallavicini.’ Luca looked blank. ‘Darling, you don’t know who he is?’ She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘He’s the most famous interiors photographer in the whole of Italy. There’s no one who even comes close. He’s devastatingly attractive too! Leyton has promised me.’

‘I hope you won’t be disappointed.’

‘I trust Leyton absolutely. I gave him the best bedroom overlooking the sea. He adores me! And his wife adores Porci. She played with him all weekened and he followed her around like a lapdog.’

‘When is all this happening?’

‘It’s scheduled for June to come out in the September issue. They plan so far ahead, they’re working on Christmas in the summer. Must be very hard to muster up Christmas spirit in the heat! The journalist is coming in a few weeks. She’s going to stay for the weekend so she really gets a feel for the place. Perhaps you and Caradoc can help with her research. Have you found anything out yet?’

Luca shrugged. ‘Nothing that you don’t already know.’

‘You are useless. What did you do? Spend all afternoon drinking coffee?’

‘Something like that. The professor’s good company.’

‘Didn’t I tell you! You might be a grown-up but sometimes your mother knows best! Well, the journalist can dig around for herself. After all, that’s what she’s being paid to do. Let her earn her salary.’

‘Maybe she’ll discover who’s been sleeping in the folly.’

‘Don’t mention that place! It’s your father, of course. He just won’t admit it. He doesn’t want to acknowledge he’s getting old and in need of naps.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll catch him at it and then he’ll feel very ashamed of lying.’

‘Maybe it’s the ghost!’ he teased.

‘Not you too! Dizzy says she saw a man walk across the garden in the middle of the night and that silly girl Ventura complains the whole time that the
palazzo
is haunted.’

‘And you don’t believe in ghosts?’

‘Of course I don’t. I don’t want to. Your grandmother . . .’ She hesitated a moment. ‘Oh, let’s not talk about her. If anyone was going to come back as a ghost it would be my mother and I haven’t heard a squeak since she died. Believe me, if she was squeaking on the other side the whole of Italy would hear her. It’s for simple-minded people with nothing better to do.’ Her face hardened and Luca felt his stomach clench as he remembered when she had dismissed his childhood fears so brutally.

He got up. ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded. She had hoped to share an early coffee.

‘To bed,’ he replied with a yawn.

‘You mean, you haven’t gone to bed yet? What on earth were you doing on the beach?’

‘Meditating.’

Romina laughed incredulously. ‘Is that what bankers do in their spare time?’

‘I’m not a banker any more.’

She shook her head and went to retrieve her yoga mat. ‘You can take a man out of the bank, but not a banker out of the man!’

There was a snuffling noise as Porci trotted out on to the terrace. Romina was distracted and Luca slipped away, leaving her with her precious pig in her lap. He retreated to his bedroom and climbed into bed. No sooner had his head touched the pillow than he was asleep.

When he awoke it was midday. Ma’s strident voice rose from the terrace with Dizzy’s high-pitched giggling, punctuated by the professor’s wise interruptions. He lay a while enjoying the warm breeze that slipped through the gap in the shutters. It was good not to have to get up at dawn to go to work. He didn’t miss the carbon fumes, the rumbling engines and tooting horns, the frantic heartbeat of the City. He felt years younger. In the quiet of his new existence he was beginning to sense parts of himself he had forgotten existed.

He thought of Cosima, and pictured her storming into the
trattoria
, her face tear-stained and furious. He felt himself drawn into her drama by the compelling magnetism of her mourning and her obvious rage. She was too young to be wearing black all the time and much too attractive to ignore the men around her. Her rejection when he had tried to talk to her had left him with a strong feeling of desire. He wasn’t used to being rebuffed.

He got up and showered, then went to find his mother.

‘Can I borrow your car? I want to go into town for coffee.’

‘You don’t need to go into town, darling. I’ll make you coffee myself.’ Romina couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to leave the
palazzo
.

‘I like it there by the sea.’

She gave him a knowing look. ‘Pretty girls,’ she said, winking at Ventura. ‘Men are all the same! Go on then. You can fill the car up with petrol while you’re down there.’

She watched him go and her heart swelled with pride. He was so tall and handsome, with his wide shoulders and straight back. What he needed was a nice Italian girl to love and look after him. Claire had become an avaricious creature who expected everything to be done for her. She was selfish and ungrateful.

‘Now, Ventura,’ she said, brushing Claire out of her mind. ‘You have to get over your fear of going upstairs. Ghosts don’t exist. They are all in your imagination. Control it or find another job. I don’t want you frightening the maids and I cannot carry excess baggage around this place. Pull your weight or leave.’

Ventura looked at her in astonishment. ‘But I
know
there is someone up there.’

‘The house is full of guests. It is hardly a surprise that you hear footsteps.’

‘They say it is haunted.’

‘Who says?’

‘Everyone.’

‘Gossip. This place hasn’t been occupied for years. Really, Ventura, you can’t believe the idle chit-chat of peasants who have nothing more to do than spread rumours.’ Ventura made to speak, but Romina silenced her with the wave of her hand. ‘Enough. Now, you go and make up the rooms. I don’t want to hear another word about ghosts.’
It’s all I ever heard as a child, and I won’t listen to any more
!

Luca parked the car in the
piazza
. The little square was busy. The
caffè
where he had met Maria was full of customers sitting at round tables beneath green parasols. Waiters in black and white took orders and poured wine into large glasses. A few elderly tourists emerged from the hotel, and children played on the grass while their mothers and grandmothers chatted on benches. The town had a festive air and Luca wondered what was going on.

The narrow street down to the quay was blocked by cars and scooters, tooting their horns in fury at the car in front that had stalled on the incline. On the sea front, children ran about looking at the boats and chatting to those tending them. The restaurants were filling up, especially on the terraces as everyone wanted to be outside. He saw a large boat arrive, laden with tourists, and decided to grab a table at the
trattoria
before they were all taken.

Rosa was taking an order when Luca appeared. She shouted to Toto, her voice quivering with excitement. ‘Show Luca to a nice table. He’s a very special customer.’ She winked at him flirtatiously. Luca smiled; Rosa’s ebullience was contagious. Toto showed him to a table on the edge of the terrace, beside a large stone container of red geraniums.

‘From here you can watch the world go by,’ said Toto.

‘What’s going on today?’ Luca asked. ‘Is there some sort of festival?’

Toto shrugged. ‘Nothing unusual for a Saturday.’

‘Of course, it’s the weekend. I’m on another planet!’ He sat down, amused that he had lost track of time. While he had nothing to do, all the days were the same.

‘You’re not from here?’ Toto asked. The younger man’s Italian accent was not familiar.

‘From London,’ Luca replied.

‘But you speak Italian so well.’

‘My mother’s Italian. She lives up at the
palazzo
.’

‘Palazzo Montelimone.’ Toto gave a slow whistle. ‘That’s quite a place.’ Toto was caught off guard. He rummaged around for something else to say but only managed, ‘What will you have?’

Rosa appeared in a flash of crimson. ‘I’ll take the order,’ she said, dismissing him with a gentle nudge of her hips. Toto withdrew to seat a group who had just disembarked from Sorrento. ‘So, what will you have? I can recommend the red mullet, it’s fresh today.’

‘I wasn’t planning on having lunch, just coffee,’ he replied.

‘You can’t come here and not eat! A growing man like you. Besides, Fiorelli’s is famous for its cooking. My great-grandmother passed her recipes to my mother and she has passed them to me. We guard them possessively. Why don’t you let me choose something for you? Go on! Live a little.’

Luca was won over. Besides, he had nothing else to do. ‘All right,’ he said, handing back the menu. ‘You choose. I’ll have some wine, too. A glass of Greco di Tufo, chilled.’

‘Right away,’ she replied with a long, lingering look.

Luca sat back in his chair. He enjoyed people watching. It was something he had never had time to do. Now he noticed everyone around him, from what they were wearing to the small gestures that passed between them. He tried to work out relationships, dynamics and moods. Rosa brought him wine. He took a sip.

‘You like it?’ she asked.

‘Perfect,’ he said, taking off his sunglasses. His blue eyes were the colour of the little fishing boats on the beach. ‘Are you still in trouble?’ he asked, angling for news of her mysterious cousin.

‘I’m always in trouble with Cosima.’

‘How long has she been in mourning?’

‘Too long. Three years. It’s time she put on a pretty dress and found a husband.’ She gave a little sniff. ‘You know, she can be quite pretty when she makes the effort.’

Luca was amused by her unguarded malice. ‘What does she do?’

‘Very little, because my mother feels sorry for her. She’s meant to keep the books. Of course, she used to work here full-time, but she became a drag. This is a pretty place – we don’t need a black widow spinning misery.’