The Italian Matchmaker (27 page)

After lunch at the
palazzo
, Coco and Juno said goodbye to their grandparents who embraced them fondly.

‘You’ll come again soon, my darlings?’ said Romina, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’ve grown used to your voices ringing out from the swimming pool. I shall miss you both terribly.’

Bill patted their heads as if they were dogs, but his gaze was full of affection. ‘When you come back I will have completed my grotto,’ he said proudly.

Coco tried to look excited although she didn’t know what a grotto was.

‘I shall miss Greedy,’ said Caradoc, stroking the caterpillar.

‘You can’t have him!’ Juno cried, snatching him away and nuzzling him.

‘Divorce is a great sadness,’ said Romina, as the girls walked away.

‘It’s better than the alternative,’ said Caradoc. ‘Unhappiness, rows, uncertainty. At least this way they are cherished by both parents without having to watch the two people they love most at each other’s throats.’

‘But I hardly ever see them.’

‘You will see more of them, mark my words. Look at your son. When they arrived he didn’t know what to do with them. Now he’s a doting father. They’ll be back.’

Luca climbed into the car with Sammy and waved as he motored down the drive. They chatted for a while, then fell silent. He could tell from their faces that all three were sad to leave. He tried to cheer them up, but soon he too withdrew into his thoughts, surprised how close they had grown in just a week. Sammy turned on the radio and listened to Italian pop songs. He glanced at the girls in the mirror. Italy had done them good. They looked radiant and healthy, their eyes shining, their cheeks rosy. Coco caught him watching her.

‘Remember to telephone me every evening before bed, won’t you, Coco?’ She nodded, her eyes reassuringly responsive.

He turned his attention back to the road again but felt his heart swell with triumph. Their strengthened relationship had opened her up like a spring bud. Even though her eyes still betrayed too much knowledge of the adult world, she smiled with the innocence of a little girl. At the airport, the two girls stepped reluctantly out of the car. Juno took her father’s hand, clutching Greedy against her chest. Coco walked beside him, carrying her pink bag with great importance.

‘What have you got in there, darling?’

‘Lots of things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, sandwiches that Ventura made us. Biscuits. Pencils and paper. I’m going to draw you a picture on the plane.’

‘I’d like that,’ he said.

‘I’m going to draw you one too!’ Juno added, not to be outdone.

‘I’m going to draw the
palazzo
with Granny and Grandpa waving goodbye.’

‘I’m going to draw you as the naughty crocodile!’ Juno giggled. ‘With big white teeth and a long scaly tail.’

‘Get Mummy to send them out. I’ll put them up in my bedroom.’

‘Can we come back soon?’ Coco asked.

‘As soon as you break up for the holidays.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’ He drew her into his arms. ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

 

Luca waved until the children were out of sight then walked slowly back to the car, a heaviness descending on him like cloud. He had grown accustomed to the sound of their voices, the feel of their small hands in his, their arms winding around his legs, their expectant faces smiling up at him. He fought off a wave of homesickness with thoughts of Cosima. He parked in the city and set about buying her a mobile telephone. This was a suitable distraction and soon his spirits lifted as her gentle expression broke through the cloud like sunshine. On his way back to the car he passed a jewellery shop and went inside.

At the sound of the taxi scrunching to a halt on the gravel outside, Romina swept through the grand entrance of the
palazzo
to greet the journalist. Porci, ignorant of the significance of this monumental event, trotted past her to sniff the tyres. If he were a dog he would have cocked his leg to show supremacy but, as he was only a little pig, he simply grunted and trotted on to roll down the grassy slope beyond.

The journalist did a double take at the sight of him, clad in his white nappy, and leaned closer to the window to get a better look. Romina couldn’t contain her impatience. ‘Don’t be alarmed by Porci. He doesn’t bite,’ she said, smiling into the car.

‘Extraordinary,’ said the woman, gathering her enormous black leather handbag and shuffling across the seat. She had a chiselled, pale face with a deep red bob, square-cut like a spade. ‘Wow, this is quite a palace!’ As she stepped out of the car, Romina’s eyes fell on her red fishnet tights, short denim skirt and black leather boots, and she recoiled.

‘My dear, you’re going to get very hot in those!’

‘It was cold in London. I’ve got lighter clothes in my case.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it. I’m Romina, your hostess.’ She extended her hand formally.

‘Fiyona Pritchett,’ Fiyona replied, her scarlet lips curling into a smile. ‘Fiyona with a “y”.’

‘Hello Fiyona with a “y”. At last! Well, let’s not stand out here dying of thirst.’ Fiyona lifted her suitcase. ‘No, no! Let the men do some work. I’ll tell Ventura to get one of the boys to take it to your room.’

‘Is it okay out here?’

‘Well, I don’t think Porci’s going to run off with it!’

Fiyona followed her through the house to the terrace, gazing around her in fascination. ‘This really is a stunning place,’ she said.

‘I know. Aren’t we the luckiest people in the whole world? It was nothing but a ruin when we found it. Grass growing in the rooms, ivy climbing up the walls, animals making their homes in the pieces of furniture left behind. It was a terrible mess.’

‘Has it been photographed yet?’

‘No. Monday.’

‘Good. I gather it has a bloody history.’

‘A very dark history.’

‘I’d like to talk to some of the locals.’

‘Do you speak Italian?’

‘Yes, that’s why they sent me. I read French and Italian at university. Long time ago now, but I practise whenever I can.’

‘My son will take you into town. He is the one mingling with the locals.’ She raised her eyebrows suggestively. ‘Recently divorced, I think he’s making up for lost time.’

‘He’s just quit the City too, hasn’t he?’

Romina was surprised. ‘You know about Luca?’

‘I’ve done my research.’

Outside, Caradoc, Nanni, Dennis and Ma were engrossed in a game of bridge. Romina introduced them before taking Fiyona to the table to offer her refreshment.

‘I have Earl Grey or coffee,’ she said.

‘Coffee please, strong.’

Romina watched her with a growing sense of disappointment. Fiyona wasn’t at all what she had expected. She was tough – clearly from a lower social stratum – and she wasn’t pretty, though she was undoubtedly striking; her skin was translucent and her eyes an unlikely shade of green. Romina suspected she wore tinted contact lenses.

‘Do you burn easily in the sun?’

‘Yes. Can’t go into it. I languish in the shade like an orchid.’

‘You are very pale.’

‘At least I don’t have to worry about tanning. There’s no point. Anyway, I think Nicole Kidman and Madonna have made it fashionable to be white.’

‘You will certainly look younger for longer,’ said Romina, determined to be kind.

‘Not with my lifestyle. It’s an uphill battle. I drink and I smoke and I like to stay up late. I’ll always look older than I am.’

‘So, how long have you written for the
Sunday Times
?’

‘I’ve been a freelance journalist for twenty years.’

‘Gracious, you must have started young!’

‘I suppose I did. I get turned on by facts.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I like mysteries.’

‘You’ll find plenty of those here.’

‘Oh, I already know about the
Marchese
, the girl he murdered, Valentina, and her long-suffering
fiancé
Thomas Arbuckle. Sadly, he won’t talk. He’s in his eighties now, bless! There’s only so much you can pester people and I draw the line at harassment.’

‘And you know that Valentina’s brother murdered the
Marchese
?’

‘No, that I didn’t know. An act of revenge. That’s logical.’

‘People don’t like to talk about the past. My son and the professor discovered that piece of information by talking to an old man in town.’

‘None of this has ever been written anywhere?’

‘Folklore.’

‘And the people who really know aren’t talking?’

‘They don’t want to dig up the past.’

‘But I do. Digging up pasts is what I do best!’

Romina felt her disappointment melt away. After all, she didn’t have to
like
the woman. The object was to write an article on the magnificence of the
palazzo
and its incredible transformation at the hands of two brilliantly talented people. The chances were that after she left, they’d never cross paths again.

‘The truth is, I’d rather focus my attention on the present. Who lives here now? What happened to the previous owners? How does one build on such grim foundations? Can one ever really escape the past?’

‘Please don’t tell me that you believe in ghosts?’

Fiyona revealed two long eye-teeth, like a wolf. ‘No, but hey, if there are any lurking around, I’d be only too delighted to meet them!’

Luca returned as the bridge game drew to a close with the four players going over the game in a heated post-mortem. Luca went over to introduce himself to the journalist.

‘So, you’re the famous Luca Chancellor. You’re not at all what I expected.’

‘Neither are you!’

‘You look like a man who’s been relaxing in the Italian sun for months.’

‘I assume that’s a good thing?’

‘For someone who isn’t intending to go back to the office.’

‘I have no intention of doing anything for the moment.’

‘Lucky you!’

He sat down and tapped a cigarette out of its packet. ‘Have you shown Fiyona around, yet?’ he asked his mother.

‘She’s only just arrived. How were the children?’

‘Sad to leave, I think. They adored their stay.’

Romina beamed. ‘I’m so pleased. I hope they’ll come back soon.’ She turned to Fiyona. ‘My granddaughters. Delightful little girls. As pretty as my son is handsome.’

Fiyona watched him light up. ‘I’m glad I’m not the only smoker.’

‘Everyone smokes in Europe. It’s only England and America where political correctness has gone crazy,’ said Romina. ‘Let’s all have one, then we can be politically incorrect together.’

When Ventura appeared with a tray of cakes and fresh tea, the bridge players were drawn to the table like hungry dogs. Nanni pulled out the chair beside Fiyona, catching a glimpse of her red fishnet tights. She glanced up at his beetroot face and grinned.

‘Fun, aren’t they? Not really appropriate for the Italian countryside, but I was in the city this morning.’

‘They’re very colourful,’ he said, the sweat gathering on his forehead as he recalled the racy paintings of Toulouse-Lautrec. ‘It is very hot today, don’t you think?’

‘I love the heat. As long as I’m not in direct sunlight.’

He noticed her pearly skin and ruby lips. ‘You’re born into the wrong century. Now brown is considered beautiful.’

She fixed him with her emerald eyes and blew a smoke-ring. ‘Beauty’s in the eyes of the beholder.’

‘
Brava!
You’re absolutely right.’

After tea Romina showed Fiyona around the
palazzo
, explaining all the rooms and what she and Bill had done to them. Fiyona was suitably impressed, but seemed more interested in the human story. ‘Do you know in which room the murder took place?’

‘No, I’m hoping you’re going to find out and tell me!’

‘I’ll do my best. Someone, somewhere knows and I’ll find him. I’m good at that. I did a piece recently on Eva Peron. You wouldn’t believe the people who crawled out of the woodwork for that story. It was sensational.’

‘How do you extract the information?’

‘There are many ways. Some just want to tell their story, others are flattered I’m interested. There are those who need to offload and those who have just never been asked. Half the battle is finding the right people, the ones that history has swallowed with no trace, those who were right there during world historic events, of whom there are no records. Men without trace. Those are the ones I’m interested in.’

After the house they went to the folly. ‘If you’re interested in the history, this will enchant you,’ Romina said proudly. ‘Though I cannot boast any artistic input at all. I left it as I found it.’ She turned the key and pushed open the door. Dennis had reported no evidence of ghosts or ghouls but she swept her eyes swiftly over the bed all the same. It was a great relief to find it as smooth as if she had made it herself.

Fiyona took in every detail with her acute powers of observation. ‘This was built for Valentina?’ she asked, lightly touching the silver brush and crystal pot of face cream in front of the Queen Anne mirror on the dressing-table. ‘She was playing a dangerous game. As she sat here brushing her hair, I can’t imagine she ever thought she’d be murdered by her lover. It’s a room dedicated to sensual pleasure. Can you feel it?’

Romina looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, running her hand down the silk curtains of the four-poster bed.

‘That’s what it is. The magic one feels in here is sex.’ Fiyona grew more animated. ‘I love it!’

‘I should probably have changed it. What am I going to do with a house dedicated to the perverse desires of an old marquis?’